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September 30, 2006

WTF Were They Thinking ?


PRODUCED BY - Stories straight out of Hollywood - where there is no I in fuck you Saturdays, by Jay

So kids, ya came back to read more. Right on then. I was talking to a pal of mine the other day, and we got on this whole deal about how the industry could fuck up a grilled cheese sandwich. See if you took the bullshit we call a “pitch meeting’ and applied it to real life, it would go like this…sorta…


Writer: So I was going to make a grilled cheese sandwich.

Studio Monkey: Hey, grilled cheese sounds great. You just never see anyone make a real grilled cheese anymore.

Writer: Yeah, that’s why I am going to make one.

Studio Monkey: Ya know what, instead of making just a grilled cheese, how about you put some peanut butter on it? You know, like that other place does, but they use jelly instead of cheese.

Writer: That’s because Jelly goes well with peanut butter. I think a grilled Cheese would be good, and simple. Bread, some butter and cheese, grill it just so and bingo, a light, but satisfying snack. Everyone can relate to it, it’s a staple of our childhood. Nobody ever puts peanut butter on a grilled cheese, cause, well its kinda gross and wouldn’t taste good.

Studio Monkey: Yeah, but this other guy I know, he put salsa on his grilled cheese once, and said it was awesome. So we should put peanut butter and salsa, and then it would be a really hip and cool sandwich, it would have pizzazz.

Writer: I don’t really follow what you are saying, it doesn’t make sense. That sandwich would suck, nobody would eat it, because it sounds awful It doesn’t even sound like food anymore.

Studio Monkey: Yeah, but think about it, we would make this super cool sandwich, and marketing could create a buzz about how cool peanut butter, salsa and cheese is.

Writer: Look, I am making a grilled cheese sandwich, because I like grilled cheese sandwiches. I don’t like that other thing you suggested, and don’t know anyone who would.

Studio Monkey: You must not be a very good writer.

Writer: Fuck off.

That’s kinda how it goes. I mean you hear stories, like Kevin Smith talking about the nightmare that was his Superman reborn deal, and you can help but think Who the fuck are these dildos. They are called Studio Execs. They, for the most part, ruin everything.

Guess what else. Most of them never made a film, most of them don’t know fuck all about filmmaking, they likely listen to Britney Spears and think shes cool. In fact, Most Studio Execs are the K-Feds of the industry. They just kinda suck the life outta ya, and glom onto what once might have been a great thing, but now is a worthless can of bum vomit. They make you hate them for being stupid. Its like in the ol days when villages had idiots. Well, all those idiots became Studio Execs. Why do you think we have so much ass and cabbage on the screen? Yup, cause these asstards think they know whats cool. They think they know what we want to see. Oh please, could we have another fucking movie with that no talent hack of a prick tease, Jessica Simpson? Fucking get real. I really wanna punch the dickhead who thought that was a good move. Prolly the same guy who said “Hey, lets put those two asswads from American Idol in a film. Well unless that film is “Super Ass Gang Bang 7”, nobody wants to see those two in anything but a volcano. Just sayin.
So some examples. Dragonheart was meant to be Henry IV with a dragon, I know this because I know the guy who wrote it and he’s fucking brilliant. They ended up making that Dennis Quaid (Randy’s dumbass brother) and Barney film. What a fucking waste.

Speaking of dragons. Reign of Fire, that shitfest of fuckall wasted film time, yeah, was a lot like Aliens in this kids, Matt Greenbergs first draft. It was fucking great and I wanted to see that movie. What did the Studio do, yup, make a grilled cheese, salsa and peanut butter sandwich. This is why every fucking exec should be required to go to film school, see every great film like Touch of Evil, Lawrence of Arabia, To Kill a Mockingbird etc. They should read a fucking book written by people who know how to tell a fucking story, they should always be over 35, and have been in the industry for a minimum of 10 years, and produced at least 3 films, all indies. Then they should have to get certified, like a real pass or fail thing, by Kevin Smith, Steven Spielberg (fuck off, he’s still got it and will always be great) Steven Soderberg , Ridley Scott and because he’s fucking smart, Steve Buscemi. That what I think. I also think Renny Harlin should be run outta town like the lame ass lousy bad filmmaker he is. He gets a pass because he made Long Kiss Goodnight, but how could anyone fuck up a Shane Black script. Its not possible. Fuck, I’m sure Roger Corman watches Renny’s films and thinks, “WTF is wrong with this douchbag”? I mean, the cocktard made a bad pirate movie. HOW DO THEY LET HIM WORK EVER AGAIN?

And by the way, if you have not seen it, see the film noir, Brick. Abso-fuckin-lutly brilliant filmmaking. No bullshit, this was so well written, and directed, and Joseph Gordon Levitt ( the kid on 3rd rock from the sun) knocks it outta the park. This gives me hope, that the kid who made this will not get sucked up into a shit spewing system like the studios and make great films his whole lifetime.

Ok, that’s my thing for this week. Next week, I’ll continue with the script, and talk about Porn. Now I am going to go make a Grilled Cheese and drink a beer. As always, send hate mail, boobies or whatever to me, and if it is hate mail, say so in the subject, cause I read that first. Unless it says Boobies. Then I read that first. Oh, and where the fuck is that chickie with my cup of joe.

Release the Hounds!

POP CULTURISTA - Dishing on celebrties: their lives, their escapades, their clothes, their self absorption. Saturdays, by Pop Culturista

What ho, it's Saturday once again, time again to laugh at the trained monkeys....

I would like someone to explain to me what happened to Matthew McConnaughey, please. He ordinarily is a beautiful, beautiful man, and it has sorely pained me these years that he and genetically perfect Sandra Bullock have not bred for the good of The Program. But when I see documented these Grizzly Adams moments, I can hardly blame her for eschewing the inevitable skin burn. Matty. Shave. Now.


Another inexplicable transformation is that of Adam Ant, who despite his freely advertised proclivities, was a seminal part of my adolescent sexual awakening. To this day, military style jackets with beaucoup gold braid still make me sit up and pay attention. But from attitudinal bad boy to someone's maiden auntie in 20 years or less. That gravity, she's a bitch ain't she.


Another to whom gravity has exacted tribute, the "I wish I were iconic" Sharon Stone. Of course, her absurd fashion choices don't do very much to disguise the fact that she has half a century under her belt. So to speak.



Victoria Beckham returns to plague us this week, though we at least give her credit for variety. This first number makes me want to head the farmers market though, to try and do something about this dreadful cantaloupe craving...


This second ensemble is a nice example of "missed it by that much." If the pants had actually come anywhere close to fitting her bony ass, this would have been a cute look. Vicky, eat a sandwich. Or nine.






Now tell me seriously here, people...am I the only one who has noticed that this slitch has a lazy eye? That's totally why she always squinks her eyes for the paparazzoids, isn't it. You can tell me, I can take it.







Here's another subject on which I would appreciate a little enlightenment... Kate Moss, while dreadfully underfed, is a rather attractive bird. She has a pleasing arrangement of facial features, nice skin, and I'm told has some sort of career that keeps her rather well supplied with folding money. So why, friends and neighbors, does she choose to keep company with that bastion of British pansy-ness Pete Doughtery? He's pasty, he's squidgy, he's slightly less talented than the average teapot...is it as simple that he's her high-buddy? It very nearly has to be, because the union otherwise defies all logic. And good taste.


And now, to offset the above nausea, a soupçon of luciousness... The voluptuous Jessica Beil, somehow preventing the Hollywood whipcrackers from convincing her to starve herself into a parenthesis of a woman. Of course that's landing her roles in dreck like Blade: Trinity, but, ya gotta have principles.




The fashion recap will be non-existent this week, Mommy's tired, so kindly go amuse yourself with the BBC's London Fashion Week recap.

Until next time...

Ms. Culturista lives in the wacky land of Florida, where she watches celebrities and scopes out the fashion trends so you don't have to.

FTTW Photography


FILM AND DEVELOPER - Shooting in black and white film.
Every other Saturday, by Shawna



Year: 1988
Class: Advanced Black and White Photography
Assignment: Portraiture
Subject: Felicia

The one subject that I have always been praised for by various photography instructors and observers of my work is portraiture. I have shot many portraits over the years. The most recent are of my kids and you’ll be seeing many more of them in the future.

Today, though, I will tell you what I love about this shot of Felicia. She was my friend, Jerry’s girlfriend; very pretty girl. She had long curly blonde hair, beautiful eyes and perfect skin. And I had an assignment. I asked her if she’d let me photograph her and she agreed. The idea for this shoot had already been composed in my mind. I knew I would take the shots in the dining room of the apartment that I shared with my sister, using one floodlight as my light source and a white sheet tacked to the wall as the backdrop. I also knew that she’d be wearing a black lace shirt that I owned, lost somewhere in the back of my closet. I knew that my Grandfather’s antique chair would be involved, the same chair that is still floating around the family somewhere.

I experienced my first photography class when I was a freshman in high school. That was a long time ago, twenty-four years to be exact. My first “real” camera was a Canon that my father bought me. I wore that Canon out throughout high school. When I started my college photography classes, I decided it was time for a new camera. I bought a Nikon FM, a completely manual model, on the recommendation of my instructor. I have always shot by manually setting the f-stop and shutter speed based on the lighting conditions. I got very good at judging light. To this day I don’t own nor do I know how to use a light meter.

It wasn’t long after I started my second semester of photography classes at the local community college that I got the bug for a square negative. I’d read articles, talked to my instructors and paid attention to what the other students were using. I found a Hasselblad for sale in the paper, called the guy and made my purchase about three days later. I was now the proud owner of a medium format camera.

I used the Hasselblad when I photographed Felicia. I attached the camera to the tri-pod, set up the floodlight and filled that square to best of my ability. I shot one roll of 12-exposure t-max 100. When I was ready to take the picture, I composed it in the viewfinder, filling the entire square. As I was taking this picture, I knew I wanted to print it without losing any of the image in the neg. I knew that if my negative carrier were slightly larger than the negative, the result would be a ragged black border around the perimeter of the picture. Those black lines worked perfectly with my subject and composition. The composition turned out exactly as I had hoped. The lighting was as perfect as the exposure itself. As the image came to life in the tray of developer, even under the red light of the darkroom, I knew the shot was exactly as I had envisioned.

This is Felicia. She is one of my better portraits. [click for larger image]

Shawna writes and shows off her photography at My Opinions are Free

Film and Developer appears every other Saturday. On alternating Saturdays, we feature:

FTTW PHOTOGRAPHY - Digital photography. How we do it. Why we do it. Photo sharing. Every other Saturday, various artists

September 29, 2006

Crawling From the Wreckage


A few nights ago we wrote about car breakdowns. Tonight, we've got more bad car stories.

Car wrecks. Most of us have had one. Or two. Or three. Hey, they weren't my fault. I wasn't even driving in the first one.

Car accidents suck. That sound of metal being scraped and crushed stays with you for a long time. But sometimes, if you're lucky, you get a good story out of it.

Like ours.

Michele spins her tires:

I've been in quite a few car wrecks in my time, but this one is still fresh in my mind. Let's go back to March 2006 (inster wavy lines here).

It is a Friday. The last day of the most stressful week of my entire life. No exaggeration there. I am frazzled, on edge and probably within inches of beating a random person just for the hell of it. Hell week, as it were. And it ends like this:

I'm driving home from work, headed east on a four lane road. I have ODB on the stereo and I'm a little jacked up on caffeine and sleepless nights and stress. My senses are heightened. Ever tweak? That's what this feels like. My hair is standing up on end. I'm ready to jump out of my skin. There's something in the air. Something's gonna happen. I can taste the electricity on my tongue. It tastes like battery acid.

I do a little ass shaking in my seat as Baby I Got Your Money ends. I change XM stations and ODB morphs into Black Flag as I drive across a main intersection. Up in front of me, a school bus has stopped. It's facing against me. Westbound.sch_bus_stopped.jpg It's got flashing lights going and its stop sign is moved out from the bus like a long arm of the law. And you listen to that arm. It says that traffic going in all directions must make a full stop and wait for the bus driver to turn the lights off and retract that long arm before proceeding. That's the law.

The car in front of me stops.

I stop.

The car behind me stops.

I glance in my rear view mirror. The utility truck coming across the intersection? It's not gonna stop.

I know what's going to happen before it actually does. I watch an ugly scene unfold in my mirror. The truck plows into the car behind me.

And then I brace myself for the inevitable. I know what's coming. I remember that you are supposed to go slack at a time like this. Don't tense up. You'll suffer less damage that way. Well, hell. I'm already tensed up. There is no chance of my body - having been in fight mode all week long - going slack, not even with the knowledge of what's coming. I see the car coming at me, the truck pushing it forward like Mr. Plow pushes snow. Slack is not an option here. I'm stiffer than...well, I'm stiff.

I watch. I wait. I know that car behind me is going to be plunged forward. I know it's gonna smash right into me. I do a brief mental check. No holes in my underwear. I shaved my legs this morning. I figure I'm going to go through the windshield (yes, I was wearing a seatbelt and yes, I was being over dramatic). This all has taken place in about ten seconds, by the way. It's amazing what your mind can conjure up when you think you are about to become airborne through some glass. Or killed. Or crushed.

And then it happens. Basically, the car behind me fucks my car up the ass. That's what I am thinking as I lurch forward on impact. Automobile butt sex. That's going to be my dying thought. Thank Christ no one but me knows that.

I'm not even close to going through the window, though. Really, the whole crash part of the incident is kind of anti-climatic. My car moves about two feet forward. Stops. Still running. Rollins still singing on the stereo. I sit there and take stock of what's happened. I'm more pissed than hurt. All the fear seeps out of me and is replaced with renewed stress, anger, annoyance, desire to kill random people, etc. The whole damn week comes rushing back at me and I decide that this guy driving the truck - and not some random, innocent hobo - is going to suffer the consequences of it all.

I get out of the car. The lady in the car behind me is holding her neck and moaning. Typical post-accident stance. I go see if she's ok, she says she's fine, but she's sure something bad happened to her neck or back. She's laying it on pretty thick and looking around to make sure any available witnesses hear her moans and cries. Some guy is calling 911.

So here comes the jackass truck driver. I look at him and just shake my head like you do at a kid who disappointed you by sticking bugs in the microwave.

He says: "What? You came to a stop in the middle of the fucking road!" I hear Turtle's voice in my head. Calm Michele. Remain calm.

I say, very slowly: "There was a school bus stopped here."

He says: "Where?"

Ok, this is going well. I explain to him that there was a stopped school bus. He looks confused. I explain again, using my best "you must be retarded" voice, that you must stop for a school bus when the lights are flashing. That confused look on his face again. He insists there were no flashing lights. Then he says he was distracted by the sound of a horn beeping. Then he says it's not his fault. Then he starts blaming everything but his own stupidity. Sun glare. Cross traffic. Global warming. Aliens. As he's blabbering about who else is to blame for his mistake, it dawns on me that he has the look and mannerisms of what Beavis would be like grown up. As he talks, I just see Beavis. He's making another excuse, something about the space time continuum, I think. I walk away from him because I'm about ready to kick him in the nuts. I call Turtle because I need my nerves calmed.

The cops arrive and we all pull our vehicles over to the side of the road. We're standing outside of our cars, just waiting for the cops to finish talking to the drama queen with the alleged broken neck, spine, legs and uterus. I swear that's what she said.

Beavis comes over to me, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his dirty jeans. He looks like a chagrined child who just realized that maybe putting ants in the microwave to see if god would save them was not a good idea. See, god doesn't save them. And god doesn't save idiots from themselves.

"I guess you're kind of mad at me?" he says.

I stare at him. "Mad? I get mad at people I know. I don't know you. I just think you're an idiot."

He comes closer, looks at the ID I'm wearing on a chain around my neck. "Oh you work at the court, huh?" I say nothing.

He stares down my shirt. I move over about five feet. He follows me.

"So it's Friday. You headed home or what?" That Beavis look on his face. Still staring blatantly stares down my shirt.

I'm thinking "What the fuck?" but not saying a word.beavis.JPG I zipper up my jacket and go over to inspect the damage to my car. Beavis follows, starts to say something to me, but the cop comes over and asks for his license, registration and insurance. Beavis chooses D: none of the above. The cop is obviously annoyed by this. I think of Beavis singing. Breakin the Law, breakin the law!

I go sit in my car for twenty minutes while paperwork is filled out. I wait, I wait, I wait. Beavis paces back and forth by my car, glancing in and giving me strange looks. Then the cops call in his info, all the time shaking their head or calling him back to yell at him. He has no answers to their questions. He seems to not know a hell of a lot more than he knows. He keeps walking past my car and looking in, smiling. Weird smile. Like "I just fucked with your head and I am really enjoying that." Creepy.

The cops finally give me back my license. I can go home now. End this fucking day. End this fucking week. There is a bottle of Jack Daniels at home with my name on it and I am planning on bathing in it when I walk in the door.

I start my car and I see Beavis is sitting in the squad car. The policemen are going through his work truck. Searching it with purpose and determination. Beavis's weird grin is gone.

I drive past the squad car, roll down my window and give Beavis - and the whole damn week, by extension - the finger. -M

Car Wrecks

turtle hits the wall

I've been in a lot. I have no idea why but these kinda things happened to me like once a fucking year. Seriously, I really get tired of these. Yeah, the Valentines Curse I had was funny to look at but really, all those kinda things really sucked. But, this one, this one really sucked.

My brother was in town. Don't ask me why. I stopped asking questions a long time ago about things like this.ford.03.jpg But for some reason, he met me out of town. He was going to a show and really needed me to drive his girlfriends car into town cause he was scared to drive in the city. Ok. This is when it gets weird. He stole his girlfriends car from a town about an hour and half away and drove to meet me in the pouring rain. I took the car on the outside of town while him and my friend slammed back cheap beer in the back seat.

See, that wasn’t that hard to get. Anyways, we drove thru the bay bridge and everything was fine. I only had a few beers in me, so it was all cool, but I was going to get drunk before all this started. They needed to know that by the end of the show, someone else would have to drive the car back. The rain started coming down harder as the radio blasted "I'm only happy when it rains." Don't ask me who sings that. I'll I knew was to keep driving. We hit the city and ran inside to see to the show. Well, not really. We sat in this old as car and drank the rest of our beer and wandered in. I met some of my friends inside and the show went off.

No big deal, but I was fucking drunk as fuck. I handed the keys to my friend who was drunker than me. Well fuck. This isn't going to work. My brother trembled at the site of the city so it looked like it was up to me.

Before we go any farther I want to say I do not condone drunk driving, nor do I think it is funny in anyway. I think people who do it are incredibly selfish. I, myself, have had three DUI's and those were only the times I have been caught. Anytime I talk about breaking the law, remember there were always consequences for my actions.

*Insert the evils of drugs and alcohol here*

I started the car with my friend passed out in the back. My brother happy as a motherfucker that he was in a city and me closing one eye to find the bridge. I had asked my friend to follow us home in is car, you know, stay behind us so he could cover me. His little red car followed. I had this made. I hit the pass and on the bride. realbridge.jpg"I'm only happy when it rains." That fucking song again. I know a lot of you are probably familiar with the Bay Bridge, but if you aren't, it is a two-tiered bridge that spans the bay. Designed by two different guys. The first part of the bridge stops in the middle when it hits Yuerba Buena Island. Then you go thru a tunnel on the island to get to the second part of the bridge. When you get off the second part, depending on which way you are going, you either hit Oakland, San Francisco or Berkeley.

Well that really has nothing to do with the story so lets move on. That song kept playing as I hit the first part of the bridge. Ok. We can do this. And when I say "We" I mean "I". One eye closed with someone screaming in my ear about how cool the show was, another one in the back snoring and my ears being blasted with this one song. The first part of the bridge was ending. The rain was pouring. My friend who was following me, I guess, decided it was time to pass me.

We hit the island underpass and it was flooded. The car I was in started to hydroplane. I could feel it happening. No one else knew what was happening. My lungs took a deep breath as I looked over to make sure everyone was belted down.

Don't get me wrong. This wasn't like a long gaze. This was an "Oh fuck!" gaze.

Everyone was belted as it happened.

We started to spin.

Oh just fucking great.

We slammed the wall. My friends’ head nailed the side of the door. 90 mile per hour spin in the middle of the busiest fucking bridge in Northern California. Shitfaced drunk and blocking traffic. Three drunks in a smashed up old Ford with empty 40's of King Cobra lying on the seats.

tunnel.jpgSee, this kinda shit is when I work my best. This isn't like light a cigarette and survey the situation type shit. This is when you need to think, and think fucking fast.

My friend’s car stopped in front of us. He came running back. I flipped the ignition. No bueno. I tried it again. It is going to work. I know it. Dammit. Calm down. Think this thru. Cars pulling up behind me. My friend asks me if we are all ok. "We are good enough for now. Take these empties and throw them off the bridge." My little fat friend grabbed all the bottles he could hold and ran for the bridge.

Situation one was taken care of.

Ok, now we gotta get this piece of shit of the road before a cop comes. More cars backed up. Ok turtle. You need to think. Another quarter mile of pushing this car to the off ramp of Yerba Buena Island or another DUI. I tried to push the car, but it wasn't working. The axel was totally bent. Well, not totally, but there was no way I could push this. My friend in the back screaming he had a concussion while still laughing about the whole thing. My brother leaving with my other friend. Oh. well. fuck.

Gotta keep moving.

Just then some guy open up his door. Some Limo guy running up to us. Some totally wasted out of his mind cocaine dude. Came up and looked at the car. "You guys need to get this out of here." Well fucking thanks for the update J. Edgar, we kinda know this. He got in the car and tried to start it. Then flipped the trunk. Pulled off the fuzzy thing that covers it, pushed a button (thank you to the loud pedal's bob for providing me information on what the hell he pushed) and the car started. Well, started is not really a good description of it. But, it was rolling.

I did manage to get it to the center island turn off and parked it. Sparks were flying as I did it, but it happened. We made it. Grabbing my friend and the rest of the empties, we abandoned the car and ran up a hill. Just to sit and think about our next step. We were in the middle of the fucking bay with a car that was shooting sparks.

Ok. Hold on.

Let me savor the moment of crisis number two being over before we start on number three.

exit sign.jpgWell, I had about a minute before crisis number three hit me. Getting off the bridge and staying out of jail. We both drank our 40's so if a cop came, we could say we just started drinking right when we got here cause of the stress. I do not know if that gets you out of a DUI. I really think that might be an urban legend. So don't quote me on that one cause I don't really fucking know. But, our big problem now, getting out of the middle of a fucking bay.

A tow truck driver came by and asked us if we needed help.

No, we just like the island and decided to crash our car here to look at the new homes.

So, he picked us up and drove us back to our starting ground. Well, my starting ground. Remember this wasn't my brother’s car. He had stolen it from his girlfriend. He lived another hour or so away. We had to get it back there.

Welcome to crisis number four.

Ok, I needed some sleep bad, but the sun was coming up. No car at her house in the morning equals bad things. This has to be done now. I called in a favor to a friend (you will see him referenced a lot when I talk about cars) and had it towed to his place. But I was doing bad. Really, the wreck might have actually done damage to me, but I just didn't care. Something else was happening to me now. Sobering up. Really, the alcohol makes your teeth chatter as it goes thru you and away from your body. You can really feel it leave you as you start to sober up. This had been along night and I was about to go into seizure mode. I can feel when they are coming on. I needed a beer bad or a drink or something. I was seeing those little white circles so I popped Librium so I wouldn't end up in the ER looking up at mom crying over me. I needed a drink but it wasn't 6 yet.

So Librium will have to do. Don't get me wrong, Librium doesn’t get you high. Not at all. It is for when your body is just about at the seizure state. You can not detox without them. Well, you can, but chances are you will be in the hospital and dah dah dah...

So I needed a drink and I needed to fix this car. We got to the shop and my friend was drinking. He handed me a bottle of Captain Morgan’s and I took a long pull as he checked out the car. Axel. Bent. Money. Bottle. What happened?

Just give me a second til the hits me. Please?

The liquor entered my blood stream as I felt my senses coming back. He wanted to know how good of friends I was with the owner of the car.

What?

How good of friends was I with her?

blowtorch.jpgIdunno. Why?

He could get this fucker running back to where I needed to get it.

Ok hero. How you going to do that?

He pulled out a torch and a crowbar and twisted the metal back into place. Hey dude. Don't ask me what he did. I had to go out to ask other people just to tell me what the button was the coked guy pushed to get the car started was So don't ask me what the fuck he was doing.

Well, anyways. I dropped the car back off to my brother and just told him good fucking riddance. You know those sad eyes when you steal your chick’s car and her brother wrecks it and then fixes it with a blowtorch and a crowbar? You guys all know those looks?

Well, I don't blame you.

I just gave him the keys and went inside. Turning on the stereo, I let my mind wander.

Just as I was about to fall asleep....

"I'm only happy when it rains..."

God, I hate that song. - T

Amie, Volume 1, Issue 3


AMIE - Serialized graphic novel. Humor, mutants and government secrets.
by J.W. Carbonell


click image for this week's strip

The really odd couple

SPORTS RUMORS- A little bit of everything. Hockey, boxing, wrestling and stream of consciousness rambling.
by Michael


Since there weren't any real fights of interest this past week, I'll focus on some other stuff. Once again Oscar DeLaHoya proves why he was bestowedwith the moniker,

odd2.jpg"De La Chicken" he has continued to call out Felix "Tito" Trinidad, though Tito retired two years ago, Oscar does this when he thinks he hasn't been in the news often enough. This time Trinidad shocked Oscar and answered his challenge, of course this rematch will never, ever happen, for those who do not know or remember, Felix and Oscar, yes the very odd couple, fought back in 1999 at 147 lbs., Oscar was giving Felix a boxing lesson, winning most of the rounds thru the sixth, then Trinidad landed a huge right hand and Oscar began running a marathon, a marathon that took him to all four corners of the ring for the next 6 rounds, avoiding any and all contact with Trinidad, when the verdict was announced Trinidad had won by split decision, and Oscar has been whining ever since. Now Trinidad has answered Oscar's challenge, but not to Oscar's liking, Oscar wants to fight at 154 lbs, Felix at 160, now you say so what's seven pounds? It's not really just seven pounds, in reality it's more like 20 pounds, here's why.

Hold on, high school math is comin' at ya. If Felix walks around at a street weight of 195 lbs, he has to lose 35 lbs to get to the middle-weight weight limit of 160 lbs, most of that 35 lbs is lost in training thru exercise and diet, and by the night before the weight-in Felix would weight just about 160 to maybe 162, the overage is water weight, a little sauna and bang, Felix is 160 lbs for about 30 minutes, then boom, he starts putting on weight throughout the day, so by fight-night, generally 18 hours later, Felix is almost 175 lbs, more likely somewhere around 169 to 173 lbs. Oscar who is smaller than Felix, needs to eat to even get up to a 175 lbs, only has to loose 15 to 20 lbs to make weight, but Oscar being the naturally smaller man, can't add all that much weight back before the fight, so maybe he comes in at fight time at somewhere between 155 and 158, because Oscar has probably weighed in at 154 to 157, his body just doesn't hold 160 lbs very well, it's not a natural weight for him, remember these are true athletes, they have been training their bodies to hold certain weights most of their lives. So what we are now looking at is Felix Trinidad walking into the ring on fight-night weighing 12 to 16 lbs more than Oscar DeLaHoya, if you don't think it makes a difference it does. If Trinidad had to weight in at the Jr. middle-weight limit of 154, oddleft.jpghe would be depleted of power and stamina, where Oscar would be fresh as a daisy, able to move and punch in flurries throughout the fight, Oscar would probably win an easy decision or maybe even stop Tito at 154, but take this fight to 160 lbs. and Trinidad knocks Oscar out, probably within 8 rounds. Trinidad at 160 has his power and stamina, while Oscar at 160 is a slow, edgy, boxer without enough stamina to last 12 hard rounds because of all the extra weight he is carrying. This is why you will never see this rematch, that and no way will DeLaHoya split a purse 50/50 with anyone, even if he did loose to them once before, of all things, boxing is and always will be a business.

In other boxing news, the WBC, has ordered a Sam Peter/James Toney rematch, maybe they'll get some judges who can actually see above the ring apron this time and will get the scoring right.

OMG, what else can happen to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, now we are without our "Golden Child" QB, Chris Simms, this mutha is one tough son of a bitch, sometime during the game he managed to rupture his spleen, no one knows just how long he played with a ruptured spleen, it could have been for almost the whole game, hey I quit playing Madden when I get an hangnail and this MF is out on the field in damn near 100 degree temps, getting beaten upon, by a very good defense, and even comes close to winning the game, with a ruptured F'n spleen. Honey, I need a band-aid.

Okay, I have to say two things before I go, The Yankees are good, they are very good, and will go as far as their geriatric pitching staff will take them. The New England Patriots. Not So Much, the cracks are starting to show, we saw it last weekend against Denver, the better teams will make NE look what they are, a well coached team will little to no talent at the skill receiver positions, not a good sign. And is it just me or is Tom Brady starting to look a little frustrated, or dare I say disgruntled.

Hey, they're my opinions and I'm stickin to'em.

Track Day

THE LOUD PEDAL-
Fast cars. Fast music. Bob digs under the hood while kicking it old school. Garage punk!


I'm a road race guy, and for those of you who aren't familiar with motorsports, that doesn't mean Cannonball Run style ripping across the countryside on public roads killing innocent pedestrians. It means I race cars on a purpose built race track with curves. I turn left and right, not racing around in circles. This ain't NASCAR.

There are many of these purpose built race courses across the country located in areas that no one else wanted. Kinda like the way they build porno movie shops near the airport: the land wasn't worth anything anyhow with airplanes flying overhead all day long. Might as well build a race track there. No neighbors to bitch about the noise.

dirt-track.jpg
Back East, these courses are generally setup in The Middle of Nowhere farmland USA. There was one course that was pretty close to where I was living, and a group of friends and I would rent the track on a weekday to go out and have some fun. This is a "test and tune" day. People with real race cars could test out their cars, make changes and see if they work without having the pressure of an important race weekend. People with street cars could go out and run them as fast as possible without going to jail. Cars range from extremely aggressive all out race cars pulled in on a trailer to factory stock street cars with floormats and Motley Crue in the CD player.

The group was recruited on a "know someone" basis. In other words, I would organize the event, and told people I knew that were experienced. I felt, on a good day, that these people probably wouldn't do something that would kill me on the race course. Anyone else had to have someone vouch for them, kinda like the Mafia. When we had enough people, it cost about the same for the entire day as an expensive dinner for two.

That means, about ten people with a 2 mile long closed course for an ENTIRE DAY! Nothing to do but drive the car as hard as possible and try to show up your buddy. Everyone gets tired and needs a drink of water, so we were never all out there at the same time. It was fantastic.

So, I'm the HMFIC (Head Mother Fucker In Charge) at this particular event, booked it, took money, organized it all and run it. We're having our driver's meeting, first thing in the morning.

If you haven't hung out with racers, they tend to be...a little competitive. I had guys that worked in a machine shop. I had engineers. I had doctors. I had college students. They came from all over the map in terms of demographics but they all shared one thing: If they were racing, they'd knock their dear old grandmum down the stairs to get in front. Never look back.

For those with purpose-built race cars complete with roll cages and a trailer to tow the remains home, that's one thing, but lots of us were driving our regular street car, myself included. It was a mildly built street car; some suspension work, exhaust system and such, but with race tires.

I hold the driver's meeting before anyone drives. I lecture everyone about how we're here to have fun, don't fuck around, be careful, there's no money and no glory at stake, we're all buddies, and so on. I say "This is the car I have to drive to work tomorrow, so I can't afford to crash it. Don't fuck around. K?" I say that "This is my only car" thing like four times. I wave my arms. I say "Behave yourself kids." I give them The Look. (that Look your Mom gives you) They all nod and groan. "Yesssss Bob. Weeeeee'll be good. We prooooomise."

A good friend of mine asked if he could ride shotgun with me in my car for a few laps. He hadn't driven this course for a number of years and wanted a refresher. I'm thinking "Sure feeble one. I, big strong racer man will show you."

It's a crisp morning, still a little bit of dew on the infield grass, sun warming things up. We both strap on our helmets, hop in my car and go. I'm the first one out. I work my way out of the pit lane, warm the car up a little. It's faster and harder than you'd drive on the street, but I'd say I'm at about 60% of the car's capabilities.

I work my way down to turn 3, an off camber (tilted) right hander that typically has the car sliding sideways, bouncing down the course, but I'm in pretty quietly, didn't build up much speed yet. It's planted pretty solid. Swing around and enter The Carosel. The Carosel is a big half-circle, a full 180 degrees. It's a "steady as she goes" kinda turn, you enter, set it, and just drive it around. Nothing fancy. crash.jpgThe car slips and comes way out sideways, I (over)correct and it slides the other direction, and then I'm off in the wet grass, sliding sideways at speed on racing slicks, just along for the ride. WHUMP! I paste the car high up on the the tire wall at the edge of the course and a big wall of muddy water breaks over the windshield like a big brown surf wave. Ugh.

We're both ok, but my friend is covered in muck. (you keep the windows down when you're doing silly things like this to avoid breaking glass ) I'm stuck, back wheels off the ground. Nowhere to go.

So, to recap, I lecture The Boys about being nice and careful and I crash off the course, perched high on a wall of used tires, covered in mud at 8:30 in the morning after completing ONE HALF OF A LAP. AAAarrrgh. The Boys were amused. Very amused.

The good news, if there is any, is that a team of racers and a BMW 5 series with a tow rope was able to extract my trusty steed from its rubber and mud cocoon and I was able to drive the wheels off it for the rest of the day. It was muddy and it was bent, but it was mechanically sound. When you crash first thing, it makes you much more aggressive the rest of the day knowing you have little to lose.

At the end of the day, I called my wife and let her know I "bent the car". She didn't seem to respond. I said it was ok, and I would eat hamburgers and drink beer at a friends house for a while and then drive it home. She seemed strangely calm. I wasn't expecting this.

Upon arriving home, she took one look at the mangled muddy mess and shook her head. Apparently, she didn't understand "bent". A racer defines the terms as follows,
bent: ugly, but can be driven
broken: cannot be driven, call a tow truck.

Ahh well. It gave me a chance to learn body repair. For those of you who've never done body repair, it's dirty, stinky and in no way straightforward. Seems simple. Isn't.


Bob enjoys lying on his back in puddles of stinking used motor oil and getting rust particles in his eyes. He writes for the New York Times under the name of Ann Landers.

September 28, 2006

This Means Meatwad is Sleeping With the Fishes

This is when it gets tricky. This is when we really have to think which, as many of you know, we don't like to do. We are like Nancy Reagan when it comes to thinking. "Just say no." But, since we were put in this situation, let's see how we can get out of it.

Sometimes you see a character on TV and stare at him or her. Not cause you think they are hot, but because you identify with them. That's what good shows revolve around. I mean hell, right now I am screaming at someone over a late pizza delievery.

"You have run out of time!!!"EverybodyLovesPizzaMed.jpg


Hey dude. 25 percent off if they are late on my pizza. Jack Bauer did that to me.

So anyways. TV characters.

They effect you. We know it. Be it Barney Rubble or Barney Miller. Tell us.

Who are your favorite TV characters?

turtle gets on the wagon

Oh, sure. You all think you know me. You say "Oh crap. Here he goes." But, I thought I might surprise you with my pick for tonight’s edition. Sometimes a character comes on TV that not only is able to have fun but entertain you. And at the same time you learn about interesting stuff. Things you never thought of before. Ways and means of getting out of situations that make you think that maybe you don't have to do this alone. Maybe you have to rely on your friends every once in awhile.

Maybe the Captain wasn't really the leader. Maybe he was just a part of the crew with a funny hat. Without him, the ship would continue, but it would sail a hell of a lot better if he took control. The plot lines vary so much. Like the color of your coffee in the morning, lines were blurred here.

Who was really running the ship here?

Charles Ingalls

Oh, don't act so fucking shocked. You knew this was going to happen sometime sooner then later. It's easier to get this out now. Yeah yeah yeah. I bullshitted up there earlier. I didn't lie to you. I bullshitted. Big difference there.

I can seriously say he was the greatest character ever on TV. Jim Rockford came in a close second cause hey, he lived on a beach. Plus he never answered his phone. He always let it hit his answering machine. Rockford was the pinnacle of "not caring anymore". But, since that is neither here nor there, let's talk about Charles.

Charles had the persona of some things that I really admire in people.tree.gif When something goes wrong, who is there? Charles. Calmly thinking things thru. Figuring out what the next step is before moving on to the next. And when he hit a wall, someone stepped up and took the lead stride. Cause he did it for them. It was their turn to take the lead.

The guy had ability to look at all sides of a situation and try to think. Crying kids around him. Some fucking new situation. Ok. He can get thru this. He just needs five minutes to figure this whole thing out, and then he can move. Action not words. Just give him five fucking minutes and he will get you thru this. And if it's really bad, give him one, but don't expect him to be happy about it.

This is the funny thing about the character. Anytime on the show you see him smoking a pipe, he was content. You will notice that if you attend a "Little House" Convention at your local hotel. The "Charles Ingalls" walking around are smoking pipes. They are content. See dude, the subtleness in the character was amazing. When he was smoking his pipe, he didn't give a fuck. I call those "Smokin’ Time" episodes. Basically it means Charles, or Chucky as I like to call wouldn't have to deal with anything this week.

When he's not smoking, gah, a tree prolly fell on someone and he had to go get him.

Or another one of the kids went blind.

Or he adopted another kid.

That guy went thru more shit then a rat in New York City. I mean fuck.galante.jpg All he wanted to do was raise an army of blind children to take over a city by city while incorporating more into his "family" by adopting them or killing them by dropping trees on them. Make no mistake. You would be blind, in his family or crushed by a tree. Don Ingalls was back and he wanted it all. Notice how when new characters came on the show, he would ask them if they would "light his pipe?"

That was a code word. Like the red shirts on Star Trek, you would be dead in 48 minutes. Be blind or take a walk with him in the forest. Light his pipe and join him.

The only problem was the other family in town. The Olsen Family. Make no mistake. When Nels and Charles met, it was never nice. When they counted out grain, that was not grain that they were talking about. They were talking about splitting up the gambling and prostitution racket in the town. They both had to work there, so they might as well do it together. A family war was not needed at this time.

See Godfather Ingalls worked thru all these issues and somehow raised his "family" to new heights. Sure some things get lost, but cleaning out the bad blood in the family was needed. Acceptable loss. No one ever saw what happened to Nellie. She started selling drugs and that was against The Godfather's policy. Sure, killing her was the incident that started "The Walnut Grove War", but sometimes that needs to happen. Don Olsen was shot three times in his head by "Half Pint" while getting a shave one day. Many lives were lost in those years, but in the end, the Ingalls’ owned three towns and moved on to bigger things.

See Don Ingalls ruled with an iron fist. But, he had his place. A school filled with blind kids and a town of adopted kids.

All willing to die for The Godfather.

Light his pipe. - T

michele shakes it up

There were so many ways I could have went here. I mean, I’m a tv addict. I always have been. Things ran through my mind when we came up with this subject. George Costanza. Barney Miller. Homer Simpson. Les Nessman. The dummy from Soap. But in the end, I turned to the one character who has both infuriated and entertained me. The one dude who can make me laugh out loud while kind of cringing at his antics. The character whose sarcasm rivals my own, who has uttered lines like: Plaque is a figment of the liberal media and the dental industry to scare you into buying useless appliances and pastes.

mshake.jpgMaster Shake Zula

My name is…
Shake Zula. The mic-rula, The old schoola, Ya wanna trip? I’ll bring it to ya.

Oh yea. Master Shake of Aqua Teen Hunger Force. The greatest character to grace a tv screen. A milkshake. A mean spirited, abusive, egotistical sadistic milkshake. Does it get any better than that?

Don’t answer. That was rhetorical.

Honestly, my favorite character on the show is Meatwad. But best and favorite are not always mutually exclusive. Or inclusive. Whatever. . Meatwad - a shape shifting ball of meat - has a bit of a droopy personality. While he’s adorable and all (it’s been said I have a crush on him), he’s not a great character. Master Shake, for all his flaws (including heaping abuse on Meatwad) has depth. He’s like an onion. A rotted, putrid, smelly, moldy onion. But if you peel back the mold, you will see there are so many layers to this...shake. He’s lazy. Violent. Passive aggressive. Impulsive. Mean. See? There’s so much to this...shake. You can’t even begin to understand what makes him tick until you’ve watched so many episodes of ATHF that you dream about floating dead in Carl’s pool.

Some people like characters because they identify with them. Like Turtle. I know damn well that right now he is busy writing about Charles Ingalls and how calm he is in certain situations. Like the turtle. Well, it’s kind of the same for me here. I identify with Master Shake. The way he has an answer for everything. The way he fucks up but never admits it. His way of using sarcasm as a defensive tool. The way he always has two straws sticking out of his body.

Wait. That’s not me. Those aren’t straws.

Anyhow, the great thing about Master Shake is his complete lack of ability to do anything right. He thinks he is the leader of the gang. But not only does he not have any real powers to speak of (think of him as the Aquaman of ATFH), but he fucks up everything he does. He comes up with all these amazing ideas (and by amazing, I mean illegal, immoral and destructive) but he rarely makes any of them work. Thing is, I don’t think he even cares. For Shake, the fun is probably in coming up with these diabolical plans at all. Even when things go all fucked up on them, Shake is kind of apathetic about it. This is not a shake that cares about consequences. Not someone who learns valuable lessons from his mistakes.

Wow. He is more like me than I thought. Damn. I am Master Shake. Minus the whole shake thing.

Plus, the dude dies or gets massively injured all the time. You would think a...shake would realize after a while that half the shit he attempts backfires, but no. Shake just keeps on keeping on. Goes back for more. He has bathed in toxic waste. He has lost use of his limbs. Had his brain taken over by some tentacle ting. Been blown up. Hit by a tractor trailer. Yet he keeps going back for more. Keeps thinking up schemes and doing impulsive shit without thinking of what’s going to happen to him, or without remembering what happened the last time. It’s like they took the brain of every single ADHD kid in the world and melded them together to make Master Shake. How stupid is he? He once killed himself just so he could haunt Meatwad’s Ouija board.

ATHFdanzig.jpgWait, is that stupid or genius? It’s hard to tell sometimes. I mean, the...shake has hung out with Zakk Wylde and Ted Nugent. Been chased by Geddy Lee. My favorite Master Shake moment is this exchange with Danzig:

Danzig: Now look, listen to me as hard as you fucking can. The fucking robot came with the fucking house and now he's fucking gone. If you see that mother--
Master Shake: Yeah, uhh, yeah we'll tell him...
Danzig: You fucking better. If I find out he's over here I'm gonna be eatin' my cereal out of the bottom of your fucking skull. Verst lich?

Even when faced with Danzig wrath, he remains apathetic.

Looking at all this now, I can see why my brain immediately went to thoughts of Shake when we picked this theme. It was telling me something. I have a kindred spirit. Yea, he’s a milkshake. So what. I’ve figured this whole thing out now and I’m just gonna go with it.

My name is…
Shake Zula.
-M

Those are our favorite characters, for better or worse. The ones we associate ourselves with. The ones who we think delivered the best lines or had the best scenes or just made us think a little bit. Who are yours?

Damn, I just realized I forgot all about Mr. Belvedere.

The Living Room Part I


The door closed behind me with a satisfying thunk, the security bolt slipping into place behind me. I stood there for a second, surveying the street and fumbling in my pockets for my lighter. “At least I got out of there in one piece,” I thought to myself. I found my lighter and lit a cigarette, watching a handful of people come out of the pub that, until recently, had been my “living room”. The place in question was up near the Art Museum (you know, the steps that Rocky ran up ? That’s the Art Museum…) about three blocks off the main drag. I’d been dating a girl that lived above the pub for a few weeks. She had a coke problem I’d been ignoring most of the time we’d been seeing each other and once she had a few lines in her, she got crazy moody. Combine that with her love for the booze and she was a real handful. Tonight, she’d come after me with a baseball bat that she’d kept under her bed. Two swings, two misses and I wasn’t giving her the chance to strike out or knock one out of the park. So I took the bat away from her as she screamed at me to give it back and told her I’d see her around. I left the bat in the stairwell and headed out.

TattooMoms.jpgWe started seeing each other right before Christmas. I’d been in my usual Friday night haunt, covering the bar for the bartender while he went downstairs to get some change and a pack of smokes from the vending machine. Since it was early, I had my feet up on the stool next to me and I was reading something. One of the thicker Murakami books. Usually when he had to “go get change”, it meant that the bartender had a dime bag or so in his pocket and he wanted to sneak a few lines in before the crowd hit. He and I had known each other for years and it wasn’t the first time I’d covered for him. Hell, I could work the register and mix a couple of drinks at this point, so I was better off than the first time he’d asked me.


I caught someone coming up to the bar out of the corner of my eye and looked up just as she looked over at me. “Is there a waitress ?” she asked. I started giggling, almost uncontrollably. One look at the graffiti strewn walls and sad sack pool table in the far corner should have told her it was a beer and shot joint. Dag Nasty playing through one speaker with a blown out woofer and a well worn bar. This place had seen better days, but even on its best day, I was pretty sure there’d never been a waitress. “Sorry sweetheart,” I chuckled, “you’ve only got me tonight.”

“Just for tonight ?” she said to me and smiled. And, because I’m a sucker, I was up off my stool and behind the bar. We flirted back and forth as I grabbed a handful of beers for her and I helped her carry them back to her table. I bid her and her friends farewell after I dropped off the beer and went back to my seat. Right about then, the bartender came back up, sniffing and rubbing his nose. I told him I’d just bought a round for a group of girls in the back and asked him to put it on my tab. She came back a couple more time during the course of the night, each time stopping to chat me up a bit more. Finally, around midnight, I decided that I was just drunk enough to make an ass of myself and went looking for her.

I found her in the back, rocking the Kiss pinball machine and racking up quite the score. She stood there, transfixed on the table, hip checking the machine without tilting it and never knocking over the pint glass on top of it. I stood behind her for a full minute or so before she finally noticed I was there. She turned around and gave me that smile again. We hung out and played pinball until closing, goofing around and flirting with each other. When the bouncer finally came round to give us the boot, I walked her out and asked her for her number. She gave it to me and kissed me on the cheek. Then she sauntered off down the sidewalk and into the night.collar.jpg

I called her a couple of days later and she told me to meet her at a pub not far from where she lived. I got there early, grabbed a spot at the bar where I could see the door and ordered a pint. After about ten minutes she came up behind me and tried to tickle me. “Sorry kid,” I said, “I’m not ticklish. But where’d you come from ?” I had been watching the door most of the time I’d been there and hadn’t seen her come in. “There’s a back door,” she said and she promised to show it to me later. I laughed and pulled out her chair. We sat and talked and drank for a few hours before she grabbed my hand and told me to come up to her place. She told the bartender to keep the tab open and he just nodded, like it was something she’d said a hundred times before.

The back door was through the kitchen and it led to a couple of flights of stairs. She had the apartment on the top floor. We headed in and she showed me around a little bit. The she stuck her tongue down my throat and we’ll stop there…

We started seeing each other more often and we always ended the beginning of the night downstairs at the pub. We called it “The Living Room”. Usually, we’d have a drink or two and then we’d head upstairs. Tonight, however, she’d come out swinging. And now here I was, standing in the cold on a February night and desperately in need of a new “living room”. I smoked my cigarette as I walked the couple blocks to a nearby hotel, reflecting on the night, beginning with where it had all gone wrong. I grabbed a cab and headed to Old City.

Retail Therapy

by Anastasia

Greetings, my fellow consumers. Before we get started spending our hard-earned yen, we'd like to take a moment and plug our new favorite website, 100 Words. A theme is posted in the morning, then the regular contributors write 100 words on it. The variety is endless, and it's fascinating to see what they come up with each day...it's like reading an entire book of short stories in 20 minutes or less. Readers are encouraged to contribute, too. They can add their stories in the comment section of the theme post, and the contributors sometimes pluck out a worthy contributor and post them on the main page. So, after you savor the goodies detailed below, head on over there and check out 100 Words.

Well, we hope you all had a good week. We Factoid-ers spent the majority of yesterday trapped in dial-up hell, so we need a little retail therapy and you're bloody well coming along for the ride.


First, to assist in blowing off a little AOL-inspired steam, your very own duckie shooting gallery. We don't know about you, but the slaughter of virtual waterfowl always brings a smile back to our face. Well, a superior sort of smirk, anyway.


Whilst we would never recommend purchasing a gong, chime, or bell without first hearing its tones, this Metalwork Bell from (strangely enough) The Republic of Tea looks like it might be a winner. We have a similar one purchased many moons ago, that has a tone that sails directly through your sternum. Highly recommended for morning wake-ups.



While you're at the RoT site, pick up some Mango Ceylon Black Tea and Tea of Inquiry green tea with toasted rice. No replacement for our beloved Gevalia coffee, but still damned tasty.



Speaking of tasty (and extraordinarily girly), for a quick pick-me-up, we believe this Chocolate Lip Balm will do quite nicely. Just don't scoop it out with your finger and eat it, ok? That's just unseemly.



Back to our Zen sort of swing, here's a Twig Duvet Cover that makes us a little weak at the knees. Simple, clean, sharp...we like our decor like we like our steak knives. And our men, strangely enough.





And now, to our most expensive habit...photography equipment. First, we'll hit you with something easy:

Lacking in technical detail from the company, we're going to bet this little wooden camera by Olympus is utterly impractical for anything other than snaps of grandma in front of Niagara Falls. But that's hardly the point, is it? It's wood. Polished, sculpted wood. And it takes pictures. We predict they sell a billion of them.



And now, the coup de grace...

From Seitz, a new panoramic digital camera. A ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY MILLION PIXEL panoramic digital camera. Removable backs, a touchscreen controller that's bigger than some people's home computer monitors, and a dedicated image storage device more complex than most personal computers. It takes pictures that look like this, is rumored to cost around 30K, and is big enough to actually have sex with. Weep with me, won't you?






That's all for this week, poppets. Happy 401K plundering!

Anastasia does her shopping from her gadget-filled home in Florida

the guest star



i always say that i've only had one threesome in my life. but that's kind of a lie. ok, it's an out and out lie. truth is, i've only had one successful threesome in my life. successful in that everyone got what they wanted and no one was pissed at anyone else after it was over.

that's fucking hard to do. i mean unless you're living inside the plot of a porno… unless you live in that world where 25 year old girls with fake titties are on high school cheerleading teams and have lingerie sleepovers complete with pillow fights…

uh… *beat*… uh. ok, back now, sorry.

ok, so the point is that threesomes are a lot harder than they sound. in theory? perfect! in practice? something always gets fucked up.

cases in point:

my first threesome experiment was in the shower at my parent's house when i was somewhere around 17. me and my best friend at the time and another guy (i think he was my boyfriend's friend) were trashed and just decided to go for it. in the bathroom, then in the shower, lots of wasted kissing and rubbing but no real penetration. i mean who could concentrate with my boyfriend knocking on the door asking what was going on? bummer.

the second attempt was much closer but still not good. shower.JPG i was at the local show house and there was an out of town band roster. (read: just another night in the 90's) the lead singer in one of the bands was a real hottie. i mean, whatever, i thought he was cute. and they were from hawaii. dude. hawaii. and he had those clear blue eyes. mmmmmmmmmmmmm. also at the time they were a three piece. and three pieces are hot. it means the singer has to do something besides stand there and look pretty. and generally they're a lot tighter. heh.

so after the set, i was chatting him up. and so was this other tramp. now, normally i would just walk away. chicks like me do NOT fight over guys. fuck that. there are PLENTY to go around and i'm not bruising my fragile ego by NOT GETTING CHOSEN. but this guy was really good at keeping us both on the line. i mean, i think he'd done this before. so at some point it is suggested that the three of us go back to "her place." and by then it is pretty clear what's about to happen. i'm wasted, she's not horrible looking, but a little fatter than me which is perfect. so fuck it, i go "all in." so i drive us all back to her house. and they're all over each other on the way there. it's not very far, but i'm definitely the driver and she's the winner.

we get to her pad and head for the shower. he's sweaty, just played a set. shower's always fun. and damn is it ever fun. me kissing her, him kissing us. lots of touching, actual penetration, the whole nine. fun fun fun til daddy takes the t-bird away.

problem is that at some point i brat out. no one's paying enough attention to me. HELLO??? ME. over HERE?!?

what i mean to say is that the dude was the "guest star." not me. and i didn't like that. so i left. right in the middle of the whole thing i left. i made some excuse about having to go do something and i left the shower got my clothes and rolled.

who knows if they even noticed. who knows if dude got back to his band. though it looks like he did because they seem pretty successful these days.

(i spent all night last night trying to remember the name of the band. it came to me this morning and sure enough. he's definitely hot)so that's how i learned the three piece lesson. years later kim cattrall would nail it on sex and the city. threesomes are only good if you're the "guest star." you fly in, get all the attention, then leave them to sort out the wreck.

years later i would have the PERFECT threesome. but that is, perhaps, a story for another day…

Kali writes daily at Kalipornia Sux

September 27, 2006

Breaking Down is Hard to Do


Breakdown. You know the feeling. All of a sudden your car just doesn't want to do what it's supposed to do. Panic sets in. You're screwed. But hey, you're gonna have a good story to tell about this one when it's all over.

These are ours.

turtle takes the wheel

Let's keep our story straight cause it's way too late.

The car died when the LSD was just getting us back into town. Some fucking bright idea. I was burning hard off acid with a shaking hand. Stared at the ground. We had made it off the freeway before it had broke down. Just an overpass. Crashed it in the side rail and walked.

That's what you do. At five in the morning when your BAC is over the legal limit, it's usually a good idea to leave the car and keep walking. You don't want to pass out in the car unless you throw your keys 25 feet from the car. Hell if I know. We have some weird laws in this country. I leaned out and remembered the night before. Something about some bands, some party, some barn, loud music and a ton of people. My friend got up singing for the band. I pulled him down. People on ATVs almost running me over while someone was cranking Funkadelic.

One of those questions that you have to ask yourself "why was I there?"atv.jpg

What happened last night?

You know there are some times where your body tells your mind that this might be too much. You might want to think about this a little bit harder before you keep going. But, as usual, I did a line of cocaine and shot back a few hits of acid. What the hell? I had no fucking clue where I was at but I kept drinking. Somewhere in California. About two hours out of fucking nowhere with a lot of cows. Well, that didn't help me.

Bam!

Another fucking ATV. How many of these fuckers were there?

The hill was climbing with ATVs, guys and girls racked out on LSD and cocaine. Oh, they were drinking too. Body tells mind "Lets leave, turtle." Well, now wait a second. The last band hadn't even started yet, so let's just slow down there body. The drugs had fully kicked by the time the barn caught on fire. See dude, that's one of those things that tell you that you need to leave. It doesn't matter if you know where to go, but you have to go.

I smoked a cigarette and turned on the engine. Waited for a minute before the hillside was on fire to find my friends. Hmmmm. No one was getting this. We need to leave now. My body started talking to my brain again.

Mind: We need to leave

Body: Well I told you that 3 fucking hours ago

Mind: Why can't you just give me a break?

Body: Cause you never fucking listen

Mind: OK. I'm with you now. Put the keys in my hand.

Body: We can't leave anyone behind.

Grabbing everyone I saw. Throwing them in the car. I jumped in as the place burned down behind me and just drove. People packed in the car. Slamming a beer, telling everyone to hold on. ATV people going by me. One of my good friends on the back of a Jeep screaming and waving at me as he pulled by me going about 120.

Me, dropping the clutch and pushing the car to places I never knew it could go.

The sun came up as we pulled back into town. I was dry heaving with a foot on my chest. Everything was coming down. My car wasn't working right. But, that was just the drugs. Must be just the drugs. But, it wasn't. You know that cold sweat that comes down on you when your car fucks up? Well, that had been there since the night before. The car was pushed to the overpass and I lit a smoke. sun rising.jpgThrew off my shirt and watched the sun come up as I wondered what to do. No one had a phone. But, we needed to walk. I gave everyone my AAA number and told them to not come back to the car until they found a phone and had a time the tow truck driver was going to be there. And no matter what the fuck was going on, they weren't the driver of the car. They were just passengers and the driver had long since gone. You never know what is going to happen, so staying as far away from the car is usually a good thing.

It was a good plan and it worked. Cops came by me when I was walking back. Asked me if I was the driver. Looked at the car. I said no. I had gotten the time of the tow truck driver. We were cool. "The driver went home. Yeah, it's my car but the driver left. Prove I was driving it then we can talk"

One crisis averted. Let's move to the next one.

Getting the car to the shop. Did that. It was all cool. I was in my friend's shop at seven in the morning splitting a fifth of Captain Morgan’s wondering what the hell was wrong with the car now. He started it. Looked at the engine. Put a gallon of gas in it. It started.

Dude.

You don't know the feeling of shame when you get that "You just ran out of gas, dude" look.

It almost rips your heart out. - T

Michele gets into gear:

Road trip! I don’t know how this came about.baltimore.jpg Maybe we were just bored. But my sister and I decided that we were going to Baltimore. See the Orioles. Check out the Harbor. See the Edgar Allen Poe house. Do whatever it is people do when they are in Baltimore for the weekend.

This was...hmm...I need to do some math here. Maybe 1987. Which means I was 25, my sister was 18. Sounds about right.

We were taking my sister’s car. She had this Buick Regal with a killer stereo in it. I mention that because it’s the reason we didn’t take my more reliable, dependable Mustang. Because the Mustang had a tape stuck in the cassette player and we’d have to listen to Appetite For Destruction the entire way there. Not gonna happen. So we took her somewhat unstable Regal with the kick ass speakers and working cassette player and hit the road running. Freedom. Just two young girls on the road with no definite plans except to see a baseball game and have some fun. Popped Van Halen I into the cassette player. The opening notes of Runnin’ With the Devil hit and we were on the road. Life was good.

Until we hit Jersey, that is. The second we got off the George Washington Bridge, my sister said what were to be the most infamous words ever passed between us: “Do you smell pancakes?”

I sniffed the air. “Smells like Christmas.” By that I meant Christmas morning. Pancakes, indeed.

Maybe it’s just us, but when a car overheats, it smells like walking into an IHOP on a Saturday morning. Syrup. Pancakes.

We didn’t make the connection right away. At least not until steam started to spew from the hood.

Well, fuck. Barely out of New York and we’re in trouble already? What should we do? This was before the age of cell phones. We were kind of in a jam here. Lots of traffic and we were in unfamiliar land. All I knew was that if we kept driving two things would happen: 1) We would be on the Turnpike and it might be days until the next exit. That’s the way it works in Jersey; and 2) The car would die on us. I mean, I was no mechanic by any stretch of the imagination, but even I knew that driving a car that had become enveloped in a thin, white smoke was probably not a good idea.

So we pulled off the road, drove a few feet and ran right into an auto repair place. Ok, good luck might have not abandoned us. We told them our problem. They said it was..umm..something or other. Something simple. They’d fix it for us in just a few minutes and we’d have no problem getting to Baltimore and back. So simple.

About half an hour later we parted with some of our vacation money and went on our way. Ok, so we got waylaid. No big deal. We were back on the road and adventure awaited us.

We made it to Baltimore. Well, there were a few tense moments when we got lost on some loopy highway, but we got there. Those guys at the place we stopped were gods to us. Fixed the car for pretty cheap and we could now enjoy the weekend without worrying about breaking down again.

I don’t remember much of the weekend except that the Brewers beat the Orioles, we never got to Edgar’s house, the aquarium was pretty cool and our taxi driver was not, as we thought, planning on taking us into a back alley and killing us, but just taking us on a shortcut to the Stadium.

pancakes.jpgCut to the ride home. All is going pretty well. But it’s Sunday. Anyone who has ever driven back into New York from anywhere on a Sunday will tell you, it’s fucking hell. You either leave real early in the morning or real late at night because anything else in between means you’ll be sitting in a parking lot of traffic for a long time.

Our timing was off. We thought we left early enough. But by the time we got within wishing distance of New York we hit a wall. Standstill traffic. Not even crawling. Not even inching our way toward the toll booths. Just standing still. It was hot and sticky and we were tired of all our cassettes. I almost longed for Guns n Roses. So we just sat in traffic, both of us feeling a bit anxious about getting home. Plus, I had to pee. Bad. We ran out of bad jokes to tell each other and sat in silence for a little bit, the only sound my legs crossing and uncrossing as I did the pee-pee dance in the driver’s seat.

And then. A small, scared voice. My sister, barely getting the words out.

“Do you smell........”
“Pancakes.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck fuck fuck.”

There it was. Christmas morning. IHOP. Syrup. Pancakes. Steam.

You could see the small wisps of smoke coming from the engine. We knew soon they would be big puffs of smoke. My sister turned the heat on. Apparently that’s supposed to cool down the engine. We were both kind of panicky and we just watched the temperature needle, begging it move back toward C.

Traffic started moving. Cars ahead of us were inching up. Shit. What to do? Drive it like this again? The smoke was starting to come on strong and I really couldn’t see much ahead of me. Then the beeping started behind us. People in our lane were leaning on their horns, cursing out their windows. "Fucking MOVE IT!" Shit. Shit. I was panicking already. I didn’t need these people to add to my stress.

The syrup smell was in full force. It was like a fucking Kiwanis Pancake Breakfast was taking place under the Regal’s hood. Smoke pouring out. We could hear the hissing sound over the strains of David Lee Roth. I started talking to myself. Remain calm. Remain calm. It will be ok. Calm the fuck down. I looked at my sister. She was crying. Great. I started crying.

Two girls sitting in a broken down, overheating car in Sunday traffic on the Jersey Turnpike with a thousand mad New Yorkers behind them, threatening to do stuff to us that I only read about in the Time Life series on serial killers. Of course we were crying. I drove the car up on a small median but this was a huge ass car and I wasn’t really in my best mode here and that just made things worse because the way the car was angled, I was now blocking two lanes of traffic. Old men were threatening to kill us. Some woman in a Volvo called us some names that I still don’t know what they mean. A ten year old kid made a slashing motion across his throat at us. The horns blared. The curses rang out. I had to pee so fucking bad my back teeth were floating.

And then, like a knight on a steed coming out of the darkness, a tow truck appeared. Driving up on the median, it pulled up behind us. Two young men got out of the truck and offered to help us damsels in distress. Now, these guys looked like someone I had seen before. In a movie. Maybe a movie about prison. Murderers. Rapists. That kind of look. But they were gonna get us the fuck out of there. We had to take the chance. It was either go with the prison dudes or get killed by the maddening Turnpike crowd. We let the dudes hook us up. They told us to ride in the car while they towed it to their station.

The whole way there, my sister and I held hands so tight I probably still have fingernail marks in my palm. We were terrified. These guys didn’t want to fix our car. They wanted to kill us. Maybe torture us first. We had chosen the lesser of two deaths, I guess.

They finally pulled into a service station.towtruck.jpg It was closed. Dark. Not near any sign of civilization. Just this station sitting off on the wayside. They pulled into an alley next to the building and got of the car. This is it, I thought. I heard my sister whimper.

One of the dudes opened the door.

“This is my station. We’re closed now, but leave your car here and have someone drive you to get it tomorrow. We’ll fix it up for you. And we’ll open the place up while you call a friend or a cab to get you home.” Then he offered to lend us money to get a taxi.

My sister and I just looked at each other. These guys were sincere. They really just wanted to help us. We went into the station where I finally got to pee. Then we called a cab. Getting a cab from Jersey to Long Island is not a cheap deal. We didn’t take the money from the dudes, though. We paid for it when we got home by dipping into my parent’s secret stash of vacation money. Good thing they weren’t home.


The next day our cousin drove us back to get the car. The dudes had fixed it. We thanked them profously and went on our way, vowing to never go back to Jersey, let alone Baltimore, for a long, long time.

And to this day, the smell of pancakes and syrup can send me into a small panic.

Or make me hungry. It’s easy to forget the whole car thing if I’m hungry enough. -M

We're pretty sure you have a story like this. Breaking down at the wrong place, wrong time. Is there ever really a right time, though?

Entertain and Be Entertained



One of the things I love about playing in crummy little bars, and I'm a people watcher so this is just perfect for me, is the crowd out on the floor. I'm there to make them dance. They are there to make me laugh. Fine guy alerts. Drunk chick alerts. Angry venue owner alerts. Someone's getting busted outside alerts. All that. Then the one night when one of the bikers in the local club came in to tell us one of theirs was just killed a block away in a wreck. That's altogether something else. "This next set's for Frankie! Goodbye, my friend!"

club2.jpgOnward, though, the crowd. There's the White People Dancing thing, of course, especially out here in the Whitebread State. You know, some days you're out and about and you see a not-white person, and you go "Holy Shit! I just saw a black dude!" not in a fearful way, but because the damn town is
so white it's almost a shock to see someone who Isn't White.

You're onstage and you just get to see people get hammered. Some women start practicing for the stripper career they'll fortunately never have. Some men dance like wooden marionettes. Some folks line dance to everything, including Metallica and Aretha Franklin. Some folks just cut loose and spazz out on the floor, and those people I always went out of my way to thank, because it was fun to watch.

proof.jpg I've gotten to see people piss their pants and face plant, walk into columns and drop like a ton of bricks. Little blonde chickies take out dudes three times their size. I have been so trashed myself on more than one occasion that all that saved me was that there was a giant speaker to lean on. Our drummer fell into his own set a few times. Going outside and puking between sets, and having more drinks sitting on the stage for us when we came back in. Those drunk lesbians that had to go halfway through the night that stopped at the stage for a kiss from the bass player.

Not very many pictures of our band were taken, but I got plenty of the people who were at our shows. I swear I was just as happy to stand up there and watch the craziness as the crazies were to be drunk and stupid.

Choose Your Own Adventure


Things have been running a little tight in the Finn household the last few days. A bunch of bad news and old memories has left the whole Finn family in a generalized malaise that seems to be affecting my creative processes. So, instead of my usual tales of drunkenness and loutish exploits, I ask you, the readers, for assistance. I was able to start several stories, each more thrilling than the last. But, after having written myself into a corner in all of them, I couldn’t finish what I’d started.

cyoa.jpgHere’s what I’ll propose instead. I’ll give you the set ups, you tell me how it ended. You can finish the entire story in your own unique fashion, or you can just give me the ending. You can wax poetic about the beauty of the rising sun on a summer morn, or just say that she lied about being pregnant. Anything you want, any direction you want to go. So here, in no particular order, are the best of what I was able to start….

--- As a kid, having a back yard was the best toy you could hope for. It was a place you could run for days, at least until the sun went down and you heard your mom calling for you. A place you could roll in the grass and watch the stars come out. Maybe you had a tire swing, maybe not. What mattered was that you had room to explore and be a kid and do stupid things.

--- In case you can’t tell by now, I used to spend a lot of time in bars. And by a lot of time, what I mean is most of my waking hours if I wasn’t at work. It wasn’t a necessarily healthy thing, but more good times were had than bad. As a matter of fact, this one time….

--- There’s few things worse than waking up after having your ass handed to you. Blinking, trying to see through the swollen eye. Checking the swelling on your knuckles and the bruises on your torso. Staring at yourself in the mirror, making sure that all the bones are where they were when you went out for the night. Testing the knees and elbows and wondering where that long ass scrape came from that’s currently running down your side. Oh yeah… I went out last night.Who knows where we'll end up?

--- It’s four a.m. and “Strobe Light” by the B-52’s is blaring from my headphones as I dance around in my back yard. Spinning and waving my arms about like some drunken maniac. The concrete feels a little rough on my bare feet and the air is too cool for even my tastes, but she insisted. Who am I to say no to her ?

--- What is it about certain songs that make you want run naked through department stores and scream obscenities at any passer by ? The ones that make you feel like you could only sing them through gritted teeth and while on fire, because that’s the only impetus that could make you sing a sentence like “I’m bringing sexy back, Them other fuckers don’t know how to act” with a straight face.

So, that’s what I was able to come up with. They're not the best beginnings to anything I've ever written, nor are they the worst. But for some reason, they just wouldn't go anywhere. How about it ? Where do you think they go ?

Blame My School

I grew up in a really old city and went to a pretty old school. It was over 150 years old and run by the Catholic Church, so most of the teachers were Christian Brothers. It wasn’t exactly like you’d see in a horror movie but there were definite similarities. The principal was an evil, decrepit old despot who used the strap on a regular basis – now those were good times. church.jpgThe school itself was just like you’d expect an old Catholic school to look like: all hardwood from floor to ceiling, huge pillars, massive arches with windows, some of those windows with stained glass frames depicting assorted scenes of biblical cruelty. The whole place was darkly beautiful – I know, but what else would you call it? It was beautiful like the face of God beaming through stained glass, but it was dark as Hell. It’s hard to describe the Old School Catholic experience and now isn’t the time, but growing up in that environment made me the person I am, for better and worse. Maybe I believe in God and maybe I don’t, it’s not the time for that either, but what I will tell you is that I believe in good and evil. A youthful fear of God made those movies with demons and vampires seem that much more unholy, and therefore cooler.

I saw my older brother break his arm in two places one day on the playground of that school. That was fucked. It was a warm sunny Saturday and my Grandparents lived nearby, so we went to climb some of the big chestnut trees in the schoolyard. He spilled from about twelve feet… And a six inch portion of his arm was just jutting out, like he’d grown two new jagged elbows in his forearm. His hand spastically twitching in the dirt while the blood drained from his face and he screamed at me to go get help right now. I was six and I was fucking terrified like you wouldn’t believe. fence.jpgI ran across the soccer field to the monastery and got one of the cleaning ladies to call an ambulance. Mom came to take me home before my brother got taken to the hospital, but I had seen the action. I heard the bone break and saw the terror in my brother’s eyes.

Then he came home with a cast and some fried chicken and I thought, “That was so fucked up, but look at that. He got chicken. Prick.” Girls, real girls signed his cast and everything. He was cool for being smart enough to fall out of a tree. Fuck’s sake.

Not only that, but in light of it all he was pretty lucky to have come out with just a broken arm. These trees, you see, they were probably there as long as the school; most of them were pretty damn big. To make it fun there was a big wrought iron fence going around the whole place, and it came pretty close to the trees. You weren’t allowed to climb the trees like at any other school, but these trees had iron spikes underneath them. My brother and I should have known better, and we were lucky that neither of us had been impaled on the fence. As scared as I was when I ran across the field to get help, I still knew we were lucky that my brother only fucked up his arm. The next guy I know of who went climbing trees was not so lucky.

It happened a year or two later and it made the news. This kid was eleven years old and went up a tree on school grounds one Sunday morning, probably skipping Church. He fell out of the tree and landed on the wrought iron fence. The top spikes on the fence were about six inches long and spaced apart about four inches. The first one went in right underneath his chin, and the wounds continued through his neck and the top of his torso.

They didn’t really give that much detail in the news piece, but everyone around knew how he had been nailed by that fence. Everyone could see the damage when he came back to school and showed off his scars. He lived through it…. He was lucky as hell, managed to do no serious damage when he fell ten or twelve feet out of the tree and landed on top of the spiked wrought iron fence. Holy shit. Now, is that proof of the existence of God, or is it just proof that he will fuck with you for skipping Church? If it’s neither, then it’s just funny. All I remember is thinking back to when my brother had fallen out of the tree a few years before and wishing I had been there to witness the trauma of the guy who landed on that fence. Then wondering if it was weird to want to see something like that.

With every Catholic school there is a Church. The Church around the corner from my school was as old as the school itself, give or take. Every year the whole class would go down for a tour of the Church, the same tour every year. pew.jpg The one cool part was when they showed us the burial crypts for all these old priests and bishops from 150 years ago. You can’t help but wonder what some of those guys were thinking, taking a bunch of primary school kids underground to see where they kept the corpses. Worked for me though. Anytime I was in that Church and they weren’t talking to me about hell (because that’s good stuff) and my mind would wander and I’d get bored, I could always think about the corpses. Wondering if those men of God had lived lives as good as those they promoted, and if they were in the heaven they promised or if their all too human past had caught up with them. Wondering if priests in hell have it worse than the other sinners, like bad (worse than usual, I mean) cops in prison or something.

Then I’d look at the girl a few rows ahead of me and start thinking about tits. Those tits, those holy tits made by God that I’m not supposed to look at or else I’ll go to hell.

Be a good boy and don’t go to hell. Don’t question God’s mysteries either. Growing up in an environment like that, where simple cause & effect goes hand in hand with the supernatural and the unexplained, can lead to some pretty twisted logic in a kid. It can make a kid want to see things that he knows are bad.

Of course bad horror movies are good. For fuck’s sake, I’m Catholic.

September 26, 2006

It's Not a Bug, It's a Feature

Quirks

Everyone has them. We all have weird personal rules and regulations that must be followed. Things about us that people look at us and say "WTF? Why the hell do you have count the stairs all the time? Why can't you step on the sidewalk crack? How come you have to sit in the aisle seat all the time?" You know you've got them. Strange little habits. Odd aversions. The little things that make you tick, but make others look at you kinda strange like. Here's ours.

Michele sits in the chair

More than one person has said to me “I need a rule book to keep up with your quirks.” I’ve got so many of them that sometimes I wonder what’s normal about me.

You might not want to go out to eat with me. Because when we get seated I have to do this ritual. Oh, first. I have to sit in a booth, or at a table that’s up against a wall or window. I can’t sit at a regular table that’s just placed in the middle of the restaurant floor. Too open. Can’t eat like that. I’m uncomfortable and twitchy and nervous, like Steve Irwin in a....nevermind. I just don't like sitting there like a wide open target. Like zombies are gonna invade the restaurant and start picking out dinner. Or I'm going to get caught in some Don Corleone crossfire. god.bmpAt Chili's. Mexican Mafia. So it’s huddled in a booth or secure against a wall. But. That’s not enough. I have to stand there for five minutes determining which side of the booth I want to sit in. Or which chair against the wall/window I want to sit in. I’ll choose one. Sit down. If it doesn’t feel right I’ll get up and ask you to change seats with me. It's like musical chairs. Without the music or the ending where the little girl in the pigtails and party dress is pointed at and laughed at because there's no chair for her. Anyhow, as I was saying. It’s what I do. My friends and family are kind of used to it. “Ok, let’s let Michele choose her place before we even attempt to sit down.” Then they all stare at me, just waiting. Sometimes I drag it out, just to watch them squirm while the hostess shoots us all an annoyed look. Is that a quirk? Or just being an asshole?

I have a seating quirk in the movie theater, too. I have to sit in the last four rows or so. Middle section (if there are three sections). Aisle seat. I have to have that aisle seat. Because you never know when a fire will break out. Or a stampede will occur. Or zombies will bash down the back door of the theater and we have to make a run for it. Or maybe I’ll just have to pee. Because I always have to pee. I have the world’s smallest bladder. Every half hour or so, I’m in the bathroom. Though I don’t know if that’s a quirk or a malfunction.

I hoard food. Kind of. I go to those big warehouse type grocery places and buy things I don’t need in bulk. I have two cases of chicken broth in my closet. Because god forbid there’s ever a chicken broth shortage, I will be a fucking hero in my hometown. I will never run out of toilet paper, tissues or tampons. calvin-burp.jpgI get a sense of security knowing that I have an economy size case of Apples and Cinnamon oatmeal in my closet. When the zombie Armageddon comes and everyone else is scrounging around for food and supplies, I’m gonna be eating healthy and building a fort out of tampons.


My biggest quirk? I can’t burp. Just can’t do it. I think the last burp I let out was in 1963 when my mother forced it out of me with a back slap. My sisters have tried to teach me the art of burping. No bueno. Can not do it. I can fart the fucking Canadian National Anthem at you, but I can’t burp.

What? Girls fart?

Oh, yea. My farts smell like roses. And I shit rainbows.

But those aren’t quirks so much as features. -M

turtle gets weird on you

So basically the question is why I am weird?

That's kinda like asking a blind man why he can't see. Jesus, I have tons. I mean, there are things about me that only a few people know, but what do I do? I have a few. I could talk for hours about how I am colorblind, but that just gets old. Don't ask me why I see things different than you. Don't ask me why I can say something is blue while you ask me "I thought you were colorblind?" colorblind.jpg Maybe that's more of a pet peeve. Just remember, I can't see what you see, but I see what you can't. Even trying to make a rational explanation of that kinda gives me a headache. That's what the internet is for. Look it up yourself. Just remember; I see things in black and white. So don't fucking hand me a pic and ask me what I see. I really fucking hate that. I feel like I am a piñata at some Mexican kids birthday party.

Let's not even go into my hearing.

But actual quirks?

In can tell you easy ones, like when I get up in the morning, I fire a cigar and hit the stereo and sit in a groggy haze. Sit back and wonder where I am. Sometimes with my shoes still on. After all these years, sometimes that still comes back to me. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I passed out the night before. I was just too damn tired to take them off. Sometimes I'm up late working on things and from where I see it, just taking my clothes off is good enough. Wait, why was I wearing clothes again? Why was I wearing shoes? I must have done something last night. I mean really, two days ago I answered the door naked to a bunch of Mormons and asked them in to talk about their ideas, so you can see, I don't like clothes. I must have wanted some M&M's or something. The basic rule around my house is to follow the roach the nearest piece of candy on the floor. That's when the Sherlock Holmes comes out.

Oh. I guess I went for a Butterfinger last night.

Follow the roaches. They are my Dr Watson.

The hell was I at?

Oh.

The big quirk I always have to go with is food. It one of those things that I never got why it is so instilled in me, but it is. water.jpgMaybe it was from my dad. You see someone who came from nothing and you hear it everyday, maybe that's why it stuck with me. I eat anything. I might not like it, but I do. It just happens to be something I do. If someone took the time to make you food, you eat it. You don't take more than you can eat. You always thank whoever made it for you. That is one of my hardest rules. If someone does something for you, totally unasked for, you show him or her the respect of eating it. Fuck, they went out of their way to do this for you. You don't fuck them off. If you do, I get kinda pissed. Dude, they didn't have to make you food. They could have just let you have dry heaves the entire night while you are trying to get cups of water in you to stop throwing up bile. So dude, you better fucking appreciate what they did for you. And don't think picking at what you took works. Just eating a bite or two. No bueno. You grabbed it. You eat it. You take what you can eat. You leave the rest for others. That's the way it goes around me.

Or else, here's a glass of water. See if that will stop your stomach from hurting.

And try to keep the bile in the toilet. - T

So those are just a few of our quirks. Everyone has them. Just things you have to ask yourself "Why?"

But they happen and you know what? They make you who you are. They are part of you and they will never leave you until the end. Get used to them and get over them.

We have them.

So do you.

What are yours?

Fictional Universe Week 2


Welcome to the fast-paced and exciting world of the Fictional Universe, where ALL of the characters from fiction coexist with each another and share a common history For more info, please visit the very amusing FAQ here.

Click the image to go to the full strip.

This Month in Metal


DISHFUL OF METAL- Food talk, savory recipes and....metal reviews. Hey, it works. by DJ Baby Huey



It's finally that time. After tens of days of waiting, it's the end of the month. That means many, many things to many, many people. palassard.jpgTo me, it means payday is 3 short days away (can I get a fuck yeah from the congregation?). To you... well, frankly I don't give a shit what YOU think it means to you. To you, it means you get not only a mouthwatering recipe, but you also get my monthly metal review. These reviews are strictly my opinion and are gleaned from what I've received this month at the radio station. I'll post the recipe first, because I'm quite sure you don't really give a shit WHAT I think about metal.

I will preface this recipe by saying it is untested. It is an approximation of the huevos rancheros recipe from Elmo's Diner in Durham, NC. I haven't tried it, but I'm pretty good at getting these things pretty close. Trust me on this -- 6 or 7 gin and tonics on a Friday night, and nothing will ever taste as good as those huevos will.

Stay tuned for next month's recipes as well -- since it's October, every recipe will feature pumpkin in a prominent role, both savory and sweet.

Huevos Rancheros

2 12" flour tortilla
1 14 oz can black beans, drained and rinsed. 1 1/2 c salsa roja, recipe follows
1/2 c shredded cheddar cheese
4 eggs
1 tomato, diced
4 green onions, chopped

Put a tortilla on the plate. Place half of the sauce on each and spread it out like you're making a pizza. Top that with the black beans that you have seasoned with salt and pepper (again, half on each tortilla). Split the cheese between each, and put under the broiler until the cheese is melted.

Top that with 2 eggs each, cooked however you like 'em (the diner defaults to scrambled, but I prefer mine fried over easy. Top with the tomatoes and green onions and soak up all that evil demon alcohol.

Salsa Roja
1 14 oz jar medium salsa
1 6 oz can tomato paste
1 c tomato juice

Throw all of that in a pot and cook it down till it's about the consistency of pizza sauce.

And now, on to the monthly metal wrap-up. This is obviously just a glimpse into what I've reviewed in the last month or so.

Favorite album:
Unearth - III: In the Eyes of Fire
Metal Blade Records

These guys are part that whole New England hardcore/thrash blend that really doesn't get my motor running. However, these guys have something here. Since frontman Trevor
Phipps started Ironclad Records last year, I expected this album to be kinda phoned in. I was wrong though. The riffs on this record are worth the purchase price alone. In particular, check out "Sanctity of Brothers" -- the riff was stuck in my head for a goddamned week.

log.jpgAlbum to play if you need to start a fight:
Lamb of God - Sacrament
Epic Records

In 2003, Lamb of God came out with As the Palaces Burn. I was not impressed. Gotta admit. It was middling metal, guys with potential but that hadn't really found their sound. All my friends had hardons for these guys -- especially their live show. I didn't buy it, and didn't give them much of a second thought.

Then, in 2004, Ashes of the Wake came out and things, as they say, took a turn. They have an incredibly unique tone on their guitars, and like them or not, I've never met someone who didn't appreciate that. Randy Blythe's vocals were aggressive, the drums perfect.

Sacrament came out earlier this month (or late in August, so what if I don't remember, bite me). Kind of a logical progression. The guitars are still there. The drumming is still there. The big change is Randy's vocals -- it's as if he is a man possessed by Phil Anselmo himself (minus the whole racist douchebag thing Anselmo has going on). The first single, "Redneck" makes me want beat the crap out of someone.

Album I wouldn't have listened if I didn't have to but still enjoyed:

Ankla - Steep Trails
Bieler Brothers Records

These guys, formerly of Puya, remind me quite a bit of mid-to-late 90s Sepultura. Except, you know, they sing in Spanish, not Portuguese. It's kind of got that bombastic percussive feel you get from Latin music which I really like. The songs are heavy, and yet they still groove, which is fuggin awesome. I'm not going to write anything else about this, because I'm a computer guy, not a writer, dammit.

Pleasant surprise of the month:

Mötörhead - Kiss of Death
Sanctuary Records

This album was such a great surprise. Think about some of the greats of old metal still putting out records. Iron Maiden? Still got it, but they've lost a step or two. Judas Priest? Definitely not at the top of their game. Motorhead, however, is still kicking ass, and Kiss of Death is proof positive of this. Lemmy's voice sounds exactly the same as it did on Ace of Spades. The riffs are still fun, fast, and angry. I don't know how much more I can say other than "it's Motorhead. It's Lemmy. Just listen" so I'll finish with that.

Baby Huey's radio show, "Dead of the NIght" can be heard Tuesday evenings on WXDU, 88.7 FM, Durham, NC

Donald Duck and the Column With No Name

[Note. The Action is Go will now be an occasional column instead of weekly. In its place is this. The column with no name. I'll be writing each week on, well, whatever I feel like. Maybe I'll tell you why The Wall is overrated. Maybe I'll tell you a story about the time we tried to have a rumble. Maybe I'll just write about Donald Duck. Maybe one of you can come up with a title for this column. Cause I sure as hell don't have one -Michele]

So I'll just start off with Donald Duck. Yes, Donald Duck.

I look at Donald in the same way some people look at Crispin Glover. There's just a wrongness about him that makes my skin crawl.

The dude does not wear pants.

But we’ll get to that later.

See, it’s not just the no pants thing that bothers me. And that bothers me a lot. Donald’s got a personality problem. In a word, it sucks. He's selfish. Obnoxious. A bad role model for his nephews. He's got a worse temper than Tommy Lasorda. You have to wonder what goes on that we don't see with those kids. Ten to one he's hit them more than once. Probably with a belt buckle or a shoe. Or, if he’s anything like mother, a spatula. I wonder if CPS has a file on this guy?

And nothing is ever Donald's fault. He’s content to just sit around and bitch about Mickey and Goofy and how easy they have it. Not once does he try to better himself or his life. Instead, he complains that life isn't fair. donalddick.jpgThe dude has a huge chip on his shoulder. I mean, he’s obviously jealous of Mickey’s good looks and luck with the ladies, even though he has a girlfriend. Although Daisy isn’t much of a bargain. She’s kind of an enabler. Every time something goes wrong for Donald (through his own idiocy) she’ll try to soothe his frail ego instead of telling him where he went wrong. She caters to him and he treats her like shit. She takes whatever he gives her. I’m willing to be their sex includes a lot of "I said turn over, bitch!"

Donald Duck is in serious need of some medication. Zoloft. Or Prozac. Something to help those mood swings and control his passive aggressiveness.

But you know what Donald really needs?

A pair of pants.


I keep looking for his duck dong. Not because I want to see it but because it's pretty damn obvious that if Donald is wearing no pants, his dick should swaying around. Do the folks at Disney think we're that stupid, that we are supposed to believe that ducks have no dicks? Then again, that could be why Donald is so angry all the time.

This is really the thing I wanted to talk about.

See, I have a thing against cartoon animals that wear some kind of clothing but no pants. It's got to be either all or nothing. Once you put one piece of clothing on, you become partially humanized. That means your genitals should not be showing. Should not even be hinted at showing. Or even showing the place where the genitals would go if kid’s cartoons had genitals. You can’t see Donald’s package, but you know it’s there. So don't pretend like it's not.

This is why I've always had a problem with both Donald Duck and Porky Pig, but not Bugs Bunny. Donald wears a ridiculous sailor suit. Sans pants. Porky wears a jacket and tie, but no shirt or pants. Sometimes he even wears a hat. But still no pants. Daisy, that hobag, walks around wearing a shirt and big ass bow, but no pants or skirt. Easy access for Donald, maybe? Slut. Wally Gator wears a freaking collar. No pants. A collar! WHY? Maybe he’s got some BSDM thing going on. See, Magilla Gorilla not only wore pants, wally.jpgbut suspenders as well, so when he was chasing that little girl around like a funny uncle, his shorts didn't fall down and reveal his monkey meat. I thank Hana Barbera for that. Wile E. Coyote? Completely unclothed, like a good animal should be. And Bugs, too. He wears nothing. Well, unless he’s in drag. But even then he has the sense to cover up his privates. But wearing nothing is fine, because that says to me that he is a rabbit. Rabbits generally don't wear clothes. His nakedness is natural. But slap a hat or necktie on him and you've got to have pants.

Do you see what I'm saying here? If you give a cartoon animal a human trait, such as wearing chaps, YOU HAVE GOT TO COVER THEIR HOO-HAS AND WEENIES! Even if you can't see the private parts, you know they are there, hidden under the fur or reptile skin or whatever. The cartoonists are stating the obvious by NOT stating the obvious. Why go halfway? Why dress a pig or a duck in half an outfit? It's only going to call attention the fact that the other half strong isn't dressed. So either dress them up all the way or draw some genitals on them.

It’s pretty easy.

Vest...hat....DICK.

-M

September 25, 2006

FTTW Fight Club

So tonight we were inspired. All of us. We thought of an idea and before we talked about it Uber snagged it. This one is all uber's idea. So blame him if this all goes to hell.

We do know alot of you guys missed out on this because this was spur of the moment, but hey hell, it's FTTW.

What was the idea? Take one actor. Take two roles he played. Put them in a fight.

Who would win?

The Loud Pedal's Bob comes in.

David Hasselhoff

Baywatch vs. Knight Rider

This is a tough one.
A person might say that Michael Knight would be nothing without K.I.T.T., his trusty Trans Am sidekick, but what about Mitch Buchannon? He's got some issues with his hiring practices. Apparently, his staff is chosen on the basis of their flotation ability. I'm gonna have to go with Mitch. He surrounded himself with beautiful women and solved the crime before the authorities showed up. He was a surf bum. Michael Knight slept with his car and talked to his watch.

It's done. Mitch.

Baby Huey (Dishful of Metal) comes out punchingstreet_fight.jpg

Ed Norton

Derek Vinyard in American History X vs. The Narrator/Tyler Durden in Fight Club.

Come on dude. This a battle fucking royale for the ages. It's so hard I can't even call it. I'm giving the strength edge to Derek. However, The Narrator is balls-out batshit crazy, so I've got him winning this fight.

Uber is next on the card

Alan Rickman is an overall badass. However, he is the ultimate badass in four different films which would provide two great matchups.

1. Hans Gruber (Die Hard) vs. the Sheriff of Nottingham (Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves): Both heartless, both bent on death and power, both Alan Rickman. Gruber, though he was a mastermind of fiendish plots and had no sympathy for anyone, would lose in this matchup to the sadistic Sheriff's psychopathic need to cause pain. When someone wants to carve out your heart with a spoon to bring on the most pain possible, you know they are an ass kicking machine.

2. Metatron (Dogma) vs. Professor Severus Snape (Harry Potter): Though Snape is a badass who doesn't give a shit who he hurts or how he does it, Metatron, being an angel, wins by default, what with the whole God on his side thing (not to mention he could drink Snape under the table (I mean come on, tequila vs. butterbeer? Give me a break)). But you can bet, there would be a lot of sneering and eyebrow raising before things got really serious.

Ernie of The End Zone hits back

Michael Biehn

Corporal Duane Hicks (Aliens) vs Kyle Reese (The Terminator)

This is a tough matchup because both Corporal Hicks and Kyle Reese are two characters that are known to kick a lot of ass. Corporal Hicks went toe to toe with a whole space-station full of alien zenomorphs, but in the end he needed the rest of his space-marines, Ripley and an android to bail him out. Kyle Reese on the other hand does battle with a T-900, pretty much single-handedly, using nothing but a shotgun and some home-made explosives. Plus he had to drag a very naive and un-tough Sarah Connor around with him and protect her. Not an easy task. Yeah, Reese did not make it through the end of the film, but he still has it over Corporal Hicks in a fight.

Cullen (All about the guitar) puts his chin out

Lou Ferrigno

street2.jpg"The Hulk" vs. Lou Ferrigno circa "The King of Queens."

Do we really need to play this out? We all know Hulk Ferrigno would get
his ass handed to him. I mean, come one, it's a guy wearing make up.

The Pop Culturista ties the tape next

Pierce Brosnan

Remington Steele vs. The Matador, effete poseur vs. emotionally fractured contract killer.

Gee, hm. Who. Would. Win. RS wore three piece suits, even while chasing the bad guys. The Matador strolled nonchalantly through a hotel in a speedo, before taking a dip in the shark tank (sure, because he was blitzed but who's counting?). RS punched people, then grimaced prettily and shook his widdle hand. The Matador perforated marks with a high powered rifle, then decompressed in Tenderloin sex clubs. Sure, The Matador lost it in the end, had to be helped with his final job by everyman Greg Kinnear, but he got the job done, dammit, with style, flair and humor. RS spent multiple television years sniffing after Stephanie Zimbawhatsis until we all wanted to kill ourselves. Vive el Matador!

kali (screaming like a banshee) comes out kicking

milla jovavich

the fifth element versus joan of arc.

because, well, no matter who wins it'll be as hot as the ed norton fight. i do have to say, however, that especially being a french gal, her fashion sensibilities leave a little to be desired in the messenger. (i mean that hair!?!)

bitch can wield a weapon, though. and as long as she doesn't have too much plot-furthering dialogue i think she could take leeloo. unless joan's a dyke. in which case leeloo's gauze covered breasts could make her falter. just sayin'

that being said, alice could take 'em both out.

turtle burns down the house

Charles Ingalls vs. That angel guy on Highway to Heaven

So ok. Let's get this straight. Both of these shows basically had the same cast. I mean fuck, almost the same theory and motive behind it. Someone out teaching someone else how to do something right in their lives. So pitting them against each other is kinda like kicking drunken bums on the street. Just something to do when you are bored. But really dude. These two need to go at it. They need to fight. Lets's look at them both.

Charles Ingalls - Well, first of all he hasn't had sex in years. See that's a motivating factor in fighting. The less you get your knob gobbled, the angrier you get. So I give him that. And that's not a bad thing to have. Sexual frustartion works in so many ways.

The angel dude from Highway to Heaven - Well, this is a tough one. First of all he doesn't need sex. Second of all, we really don't know how he died. He could have went down with a bullet in his head after taking out an entire elementary school on some crazed PCP fueled, gun fired up freak out. So he might be in there.

As a professional sports writer, I am going to have to stick with my guts here. Charles Ingels in the third round. Charles will come out and see everyone cheering for him, confused and not in for a fight. The angel packed with more PCP then jesus will start swinging at him. But, the sex drive, or loss of will keep him down. Angels with no sex drive. No bueno. Plus they got that whole "turn the other cheek" shit going on.

I'm going to have to say the angel hits the mat in under nine minutes as Charles stands above the crowd still wondering why he was here and if he will ever get a blow job again.

Michele steps on the mat next

Clint Eastwood

Dirty Harry v. Philo Beddoe (Any Which Way But Loose)

Is it even a contest here? Seriously. The pre-fight conversation would go like this:street3.jpg

You are hanging around with fucking monkey? A primate? After all I went through to make us badass, you turn around and making a fucking buddy movie with an animal? A FUCKING MONKEY?

He's not a monkey. He's an orangutang. He's my buddy.

And then Dirty Harry takes out his .44 and points it at Philo. But first, he kills the god damn monkey. Orangutang. Whatever. Primate blood and brains everywhere. And then Dirty Harry kicks Philo's ass. Right before he blows a bullet through his head.

God, I hated those stupid monkey movies.

Shawna (FTTW Photography) puts on the foil

John Travolta

Vincent Vega (Pulp Fiction) verses Tony Manero (Saturday Night Fever)

Vincent may be a hit man who has no qualms about killing people for his boss, but Tony would win this fight. That disco dancing, along with "some" of that disco music, can kill off the best of them.

And there you go. The best that "Shawna, Who Never Watches Movies" can do.

_____

So some of the writers of FTTW have picked their fights. Time to pick yours. What actor will you pit up against himself? First rule of FTTW Fight Club is....you talk about it. So tell us, who is gonna kick their own ass?

Hurtin' your feelings edition – Chet Atkins

There are guitarists out there that just make you feel bad. That is, they are just so damn good that any accomplishment you have made pales in comparison to their skill, talent, dedication and achievements. chet.jpgThere are Wes Montgomery's cascading notes, Les Paul's killer tone and tasteful licks, Dave Gilmour's economically chosen notes, and many others. Chet Atkins is a leader among these guitarists. A man of such talent and such good taste, we'll be talking about his playing for decades to come.

I hate to admit it, but I only got into Atkins recently. Being a young punk and metal head, it has taken me a long time to appreciate certain forms of music. There was always country or Christian music playing in my house when I was growing up. That's the music my parents listened to. I don't feel any angst about it (any more), but at the time my music was as much a rebellion against theirs as it was the music I enjoyed.

So, years later, as I mellowed and matured, so did my musical appreciation. New
musicians pop up that make you rethink the ones that you've been listening to. "Hey that lick sounds just like something Jaco Pastorious played!" "Man, I don't know why they have to play so many notes right there."

chet 2.jpgChet Atkins does this to you. You hear him play something – his style was unique – and think you've heard it before. But of course you have; so many of today's guitarists are hybrids of so many different styles. You can hear some Chet in Mark Knopfler's solos. You can hear some Chet in most
rockabilly guitarists. Mostly though, you hear Chet's influence in countryguitarists. Country guitarists that care about playing music, mind you. Not the pop crap on the radio that passes for country.

Anyone who plays guitar knows how difficult finger picking can be. Atkins developed a style influenced by Merle Travis. While Travis used his thumb for bass notes and his index finger for high end, Atkins added his middle and ring fingers giving more depth to his sound. This style is considered one of the hardest styles of playing to pick up on.

While generally considered a country guitarist, Atkins always maintained that he was just a guitarist. And if you look through his catalog of albums, you can see a lot of variety. Growing up in rural Georgia in the late '20s through the '30s, country/hillbilly music was certainly an influence. There's plenty of jazz in his music also, but mainly it's just Mr. Guitar. His sound. His gift to us.

Cullen writes daily at Half a Pica Distance

I Sold Vacuum Cleaners for Two Days Part II



Below continues the story of how Ted Rhobe Rae sold vacuums for two days.

Please note: we at fasterthantheworld.com do not condone doing any drugs while on the job. Especially mescaline.

On we drove. I was still high from my first sale, as well as some mescaline I popped when the Jesus lovers weren't looking. My boss was saying something to me, but so was the air conditioning vent in the car, and I couldn't pay attention to them both. So I listened to the air conditioner.


"I blow out cold air," said the vent.

"I appreciate it," I replied.

"THANK YOU!" screamed the vent. "That's all I ever wanted to hear."mescaline.jpg

"Who the hell are you talking to!" shouted my boss. I came to and looked at him. I'd never noticed how his nose moved around his face, and thought it must be a pretty inconvenient thing to happen, especially if he had bad allergies.

"Boy, don't let that first sale go to your head," he said. "You have a lot to learn, you understand?"

I nodded. All of a sudden, his nose leapt from his face, in what I could only assume was a desperate attempt to quiet the air conditioning vent once and for all. I caught the flying proboscis in mid air and handed it back to him. For someone who had almost lost a very important appendage, he wasn't very pleased.

"Boy, what the hell is wrong with you? You on drugs or something?"

"I sure hope so," I said.

He smiled as we pulled up in front of a nice two story house. "Humor--I like that. A good sense of humor goes a long way in this business. Now listen--you take this street. I'm going to go one street down. I'll swing around soon and see where you are."

As he drove off, I stood on the moving sidewalk and waited to be taken to the front door of the house. After a couple of minutes, I realized that the moving sidewalk was broken, so took the more traditional route and walked up to the door. It was a very nice door. The doorbell, however, did not share the same amiable personage.

"Wash your hands!" it yelled when I went to ring it.

"What?"

"Wash your hands, you filthy bastard! You stink, and I don't know where your hands
have been..."

I had been insulted before, but never by a doorbell, and despite what some people have called my impeccable work ethic, I felt no need to expose myself to such insults for the sake of a sale. I crossed the lawn to the next house, but it was melting, and I figured that with that problem, the occupants would have no desire to buy a vacuum. The third house and the fourth house were arguing with each other about whether TJ Hooker could beat up Captain Kirk, but the fifth house was relatively quiet. I walked up to the front door and knocked.

"Hola," said the older woman who answered.

"Hello," I said, "I am a representative of the Wei Raleigh Sook corporation, and..."

"No habla ingles," she said.

"No, I don't," I answered, curious why the woman wanted to know if I had shingles.

Just then, my boss pulled up in his van. "Don't bother coming up here if you have shingles," I shouted as he got out. "They won't let you in."

"Hola!" he shouted as he approached the woman. "Como esta?"

"Muy bien, gracias, y tu?"

They began to speak in what I could only assume was some exotic language. I looked at my hand, which seemed to be the only interesting thing to do at the time. My fingers were firmly rooted in my wrists, which meant that the mescaline was wearing off. Suddenly, my boss and the woman quit talking, and my boss tapped me on the back.

"Now, the folks here don't speak English, but that's ok, because you speak the international language of unwanted particulate matter. Now you just go in there and show them what this baby can do, and I'll be back to help you close the deal."

jesus candle.jpgHe shuffled off back to the van, leaving me to stand there, looking at the woman, who eventually moved inside the house and motioned for me to follow her.

There were five other people there, and they were all very nice, which was a relief for me after being dressed down by a doorbell. But all of them spoke the language I'd never heard before. I looked around to make sure there weren't any shotguns or posters of Jesus. There weren't any shotguns, but there were lots of statues of the Virgin Mary and there was a candle that had Jesus on the front.

I started to take out the Sook 2000x to show them just what four hundred cubic pounds of suction could do. Each of them paid close attention through the entire presentation, and before I knew it, my boss showed up again and began talking to them. They decided not to buy the vacuum, so my boss led me out of the house. I had picked up enough of the language to say goodbye, at the least, so on our way out I shouted, "Cayetay man tequila."

My boss stopped and stared at me. The woman and her family were silent for a second, and then one of the younger guys started running toward me. "He must want to give me a hug," I thought, "for my attempt at assimilating with he and his family," but before I could embrace my new friend, my boss had me by the collar and was dragging me toward the van.

"Boy, do you even know what you said to those people?!?" he asked.

"Well, I intended to say, 'It was nice to be in your home.' "

"What you intended to say don't make a shit bit of difference. What you did say was,"Shut up, butter."

I sighed--languages were never my thing, but you couldn't blame me for trying. I was tired--after being threatened by a Jesus freak, insulted by a doorbell, and making new friends, I just wanted to go home and find the bottom of a whiskey bottle and curl up on the couch with my dog Francis. But my boss had other plans.

"Alright, we still have more work today. I have one more stop I need to make."

As we drove through the suburbs, I watched the sun go down, and wondered where this glorious adventure would take me next.

It was nine 'o' clock. I had been at work for thirteen hours.

Cheers,

Ted Rhobe Rae

we have a date with the underground, chapter 22





Ok. So I know lately that I have been talking about a lot of the bad parts of touring and recording and probably giving you guys a feeling that I was just a drug influenced kid looking for an excuse to get high. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. One day I'll try and figure out a timeline on my life, but for right now let's have some fun.

Egos and intellects are really respected on the road. If you can get us out of a jam, you are the man. We look to you to do this kind of stuff. Unwritten law. There are certain people you go to when there is a situation that needs to be taken of. You always have an "idea man" in there. An "I can fix this man" somewhere around. And you also have a "PR man".

Welcome to the underground.

There are certain things that a lot of people don't get. Things that you look at on paper and just can't put together. Well, this is one of those situations. Something that I get to tell you about. Certain bands get clout when they tour. I really could care a fuck less about it unless they were on tour with us. I could give a fuck less if you want more drink tickets cause we have a guarantee, so we get cash at the end of the night. Do what you want to do cause I stopped caring about a week ago.

But, there is one thing that always bugged me. Guarantee or not, the slow nights, the top slot band would take the second slot. See this is when it gets tricky. Just trust me on this one.

You want the second slot.

It’s kind of hard to believe, but even if you are headlining, you want the second slot. That's when the most people are there, sober, and still have cash to buy your shit. That's what you want. The headliner. Meh. The crowd is drunk and broke by that time. So you can kinda see why being in that second slot works to your advantage.

Unfortunately, there is another side of this. Bands who tour as the headliner then flip you at the last moment making you the headliner. God, that's confusing. Let's try that again. Bigger bands would take you on tour, then flip you at show time to take the second slot thereby killing the crowd by the time you got onstage. Hm. That's even kinda confusing. Try to stick with me.Hendrix_Burn.gif

Back in the day, an incident happened at Monterey Pop Festival. Jimi Hendrix was set on a bad slot because of a bad bet by Pete Townsend. Jimi walked off the stage looking at Pete saying "Follow that." If he was gonna be buried, he was going to make you remember him. And we did. Does anyone remember The Who playing at that show?

No.

Well, this was kind of in reverse, but it was still the same thing. We would get to a show and get our slots then be told it was something different. Go kill four more hours before you play. You aren't on til 12. Crap. Remember though, this was early. When we were all fighting to get up there fast and lean and mean. I just got tired of it. As Michele knows, I have a very "sick of this shit" look. And you know what? I was the PR man in the band. My best friend was the idea man. You put us two together and you will lose. Fuck the other band. You are causing us issues. We will take you out. It's been fun and all, but we are tired of being stepped on.

That is over.

We sat hearing the news of the next show at about five in the afternoon. OK. They did it to us again. We need to do something about this. We played the show that night, but we weren't very happy. "They did it again" was going over and over in my mind. This is the last time that band was going to pull this shit on us. I want a "fuck you" moment in the next town. I needed it. I don't like this happening ever night. I wanted to throw down my bass and walk off thinking that no matter how bad they were trying to derail us, we beat them. My heart was filled with anger. I would sit at night talking.

Something needed to be done.

It's a feeling of helplessness, hope and anger. There is something you can do, but what? What can you do? Two ideas were formed and a plan was in place. A forward from the label and things were bought. But this wasn't all we needed. We took this shit for three weeks.Three weeks of being told things that were lies. We need to blow them out. We need to blow them out now. Everyone in the band needs to know this. We have tomorrow to blow them fucking out. Too far from home to have anything of our own. The idea man told us what to do.

He had the plan to do this.

We wait until the dead of night.

Then we nail everything in sight.

His idea was simple, but it worked perfectly.

inflatable.jpgMy hands clawed a side rail of a cover ladder. The ones at fast food joints or cheap apartments. You guys know them. The "you can't get up here ladders" that scale to the roof. Razor blade in my teeth as I climbed to the top. All I knew was that I trusted this idea man with my life, so he must know what he was talking about. Fuck if I knew. We stole all the "99 cent" type of flags from around town. Any fucking plastic sign, we stole.The razor blade cut the rope. The sign was ours. But, what to do next? There has to be something else we can do.

That inflatable guy on the roof. We needed him. A razor in my mouth again as I climbed the ladder. I cut him right below the right eye so we could, well I could, remember where to put the tape to fill him back up. He fell down and was deflated on the ground. Thrown in the van.

That was it.

The idea man was done. He had done his job.

Now it was my turn.

The label fronted us cash to get a lighting system. When I say lighting system, I mean a few cop lights.You know the spinner fuckers that you can buy for forty bucks. I unloaded all of the gear and let the others take care of it. Setting up was not my goal tonight. Fucking up was. I was on a mission to destroy. We all were. We were tired of it.

I took the plastic signs and put them up on stage. Covering the stage. But, I flipped them in half so you couldn't see them. Held by a nail. The other band knew we were doing something but still told us we were headlining. I couldn't get their thinking. They saw we were doing something different, but really didn't care. They really didn't know.

We were stealing the show.

I told the band that we need to help these guys break down and get up within ten minutes. Right when they get done, get their shit off stage. Let's take this over. Be ready, cause this shit is over tonight.

They played. Meh.

They ended. Meh.

The house lights were killed. We moved them off and on us like a fucking butterfly moves. So slick. I put my foot on the pedal and the sirens came on. The red lights covered the heads of the audience. This wasn't under the control of the lighting guys. This was me with my foot on the octopi getting something going. We had people unflagging the plastic signs, dropping down to show the world our love of "Del Taco" and other fast food and liquor. The crowd was confused. The singer walked up to me, still totally dark except for red lights and gave me that look. You know that "Let's fucking do this" look? That's what was in his eyes.

I just stared back at him. Same dead look.

Let's fucking do this.

I hit the first note in the intro and the guitarist started. He touched his forehead to mine and looked out on the crowd. The next thing I heard was the drummer kick in and a scream as the singer was hanging from a bar above the crowd. Just screaming as we played the intro. Crowd going crazy as the inflatable dolls started to rise. Still no lights. Someone screaming above them.

Just screaming. Shadows. Intro music going. I couldn't see the strings as I felt poeple getting up on stage. Screaming. Pushing.

Just try to hold the intro.

Then it happened.

The lights hit. The singer was in the crowd and we were fucking going. All the signs were hanging down now and the dolls were inflated. This thing was fucking going. People on stage. Scene going nuts. smoke_crowd.jpgThe dolls were torn up and passed around by the crowd and the signs were ripped down, but it had worked. We had made this show complete chaos. That's what we wanted and that is what we fucking got. Crowd screaming, no singer to be seen. Somewhere singing in the crowd. This is what we wanted.

I looked over at the idea man and he was smiling. This had worked. We weren't the forgotten band that night. We were the ones they remembered.

I walked off at the end of the night with a bass on the ground. I just dropped it. Stepped over it and kept walking. The crowd screamed and the house lights came on.

I walked out of the show half drunk and full of cash.

I walked past the singer of the other band and just looked at him.

A smile escaped my lips as I said those magical words while looking directly at him in the eyes.

"Follow that." - T

September 24, 2006

Young kid memories

Wow!

What the hell is that?

A strange book falls in your lap from years earlier. In the back of your closet. Barely remembering the words or the title of the book but the feelings burned into the back of your mind come out when the book hits your knee. Something before you open the first page. The dust of the book is in you. Fills your nostrils and reminds you of something. Something you forgot.

There was something about this book that pulled you back. Pulled you into memories, pasts, different lives, and things yet to be done. This was a book that held you. Kept you close. Made you defend it when others would say how stupid it was.

You know what I’m talking about.

What's your favorite childhood book?

turtle picks up an apple

There was a time on a website we used to frequent that I asked a simple question. Just an easy one to help me out for some volunteer work I was doing. I asked the simple question. I was bombed with one answer and it almost made me cry. It was the book I had in mind. It was a book I had forgotten about.

See, this is this thing. Some things happened in America's past that really affected me. I knew that I couldn't really do anything about it, so when something like that happened in the UK, I was forced by my conscience to do something about it.

Confused yet? Think about it.

My only friends were cut off from cell phones as I watched the TV. My decision was made three days later.

Volunteer.

But to do something about this, I needed to go back in past. To think of that one book I loved as a kid. Then ask others about their favorite book.

The answer kept coming back.

The Giving Treestump.gif

This book always makes me cry. Something about love and wanting to see the best for someone even thou you are going down. Something about forgetting your past but your past never forgets you. Maybe it was about love that was never returned. Forgotten about ideals as both realized they reached their end. Both friends. Both realizing it was over. Both being happy.

Or maybe it was just about a fucking tree.

I have no idea and I have no clue. All I know is that when I open this book now, I am flooded not only with the past, the present but also the future. It's a weird feeling in your gut when you can look at a certain page and know, deep down, that is where your life is right now. You are on page fourteen. The next page is building a boat from his trunk and moving away.

You have to think to yourself that this book is a progression of everything that happens in your life. Well, a small part of your life. I'm not gonna go crazy and say this story is about me, but sometimes, it does get a little weird.

Anyways. I bought a bunch of these books, all of the suggestions included and took them to where I was volunteering. I had one copy of that one and everyone loved it. It was all the kids’ favorite. After about six months, I really couldn't take what I was doing anymore and quit. I really was one of the kids favorite people there, but it was just too hard. Yeah, turtle, someone who can take it all. You think you know me? It was hard. Hard on me. But, you know what? When I left at night, I always felt a little better. That I tried to help someone. That some how they wouldn't think this world is so fucked up. That they could see things would change just by looking at me. Of course I never told them about my past and I never told them about anything drug wise, but I had a way of talking to kids that seemed to work.

Fuck if I know. They loved me.

When I did leave those books back at the place, like I was going to take them with me, I really wanted to snag The Giving Tree but I really couldn't. That book molded me into what I was. In a small way. I mean fuck, how much could you really learn from six lines on a page with bad one line drawings?

Evidently a lot. I wouldn't be here if not for a lot of those lessons in that book and I sure as fuck wouldn't be in a burn unit reading these books to kids. I just wouldn't be me. So I left the books behind. Forgot about them. Never actually thought about the book till Michele and I were talking about books a little while ago. I told her my story and she didn't say anything. I told her I kinda missed that book.

When I landed in New York, she gave me a gift.

It was that book.

That's kind of a nice thing.

Or maybe it's just an apple tree. - T

michele reads a chapter:


I was one of those kids. Books were my friends. I stayed in and read instead of playing outside. It’s what I did. Every book I read as a child touched me in some way. I swear to you, I remember every single thing I read. And when I worked for a few years in the children’s department of our local library, I read almost all those books again. Recapture the magic. It works. To sit in the stacks reading through Half Magic - the same exact copy of Half Magic I borrowed from the library when I was a child - brought me back to my childhood. Books can do that. They can take you anywhere you want them to.

When I had my first kid, I couldn’t wait to sit on the couch and read to her passing my love of books on to her like my mother did me. I was so eager to get started with this that I began reading to her when she was just an infant. The first book I read was one I remember vividly from my childhood.

Sylvester and the Magic Pebble by William Steig

Mrs. Chow, Children’s Librarian. I loved that lady. Small, soft spoken and so kind. Every Tuesday we would gather in the library and sit cross legged on the floor while Mrs. Chow went over some suggested reading. The books were propped open on top of her desk and she would point to each one, telling us a little about it, why we might enjoy it. Her voice was so calming. So soothing to this kid who hated being in school, hated not being home, hated sitting alone in the back of the room. Sometimes Mrs. Chow would look directly at me when she spoke. She said to me one day - this was in third grade and I remember it exactly - that I was her favorite student because I was the only one who understood the magic of books.

One day Mrs. Chow informed us she was leaving our school. She was moving to the city and taking a job there. I held in my tears. I didn’t want anyone to see me so upset over the school librarian leaving. But she was the only one who took the time to notice me. And the only one who knew why I loved books more than people.

Mrs. Chow’s last read-aloud book was Sylvester and the Magic Pebble. I hung on every word. Sylvester finding the beautiful pebble. Realizing it’s magic. Having to wish he was a rock to get out of danger. And then staying a rock. Snow covering him. Wondering if he would ever get back to being a donkey again. I felt his loneliness, his isolation. My eight year old mind was letting me experience empathy for the first time. Poor Sylvester. I know how he feels. And then his poor parents. Wondering where their Sylvester went off to. Pining for him. I knew the story would have a happy ending because Mrs. Chow would not want to leave us on a sad note. But still, I felt so many emotions that day that I ended up crying myself to sleep that night, just to let go of some of what the book made me feel.

When library time was over, I went to say goodbye to Mrs. Chow. She handed me a tote bag, a canvas thing that she used to carry her books in every day. I want you to have this, she said. Inside the tote bag was a copy of Sylvester and the Magic Pebble. She knew that I would love this book. She knew me. I said my farewell to Mrs. Chow and went back to class feeling sick and lonely, but also happy. Weird mix of feelings for a kid.

Unfortunately, I don’t know what happened to the copy of the book Mrs. Chow gave me. But it was the first book I bought to read to my daughter and the first book I read out loud to her.

I sat her next to me on the couch in her little infant seat. Opened the book.

Sylvester Duncan lived with his mother and father at Acorn road in Oatsdale.

I thought of Mrs. Chow and smiled. My baby smiled back at me. Really, she smiled. Don’t even tell me it was gas.

I read on and got to the part where Sylvester says “I wish I were a rock.” I knew what would happen, of course. I knew that I would turn the pages and see Sylvester the rock, lonely and heartbroken and wanting only to get back to his parents. I knew those feelings would come back. That empathy was still there, having not changed much from that loner eight year old I was.

What I didn’t expect was for my mind to see the book in a different way. From a parent’s point of view. To look at Sylvester’s mom crying in her chair, his father staring longingly out the window, both of them wondering what happened to their child that he never came home made me feel this overwhelming sense of sadness. I looked at the child sitting next to me. My child. My Sylvester. How would I feel if my child walked out the door and never came back? I kept staring at the picture of Sylvester’s mother. That poor woman. Not knowing where her child was. It was like I was reading the book for the first time. Or reading it a completely different way than I did when I had the copy Mrs. Chow gave me and I empathized with Sylvester. Now I saw it through the parents’ eyes.

So not only did I not outgrow this book, it grew with me. Pretty cool.

And thank you, Mrs. Chow, wherever you are. -M

And now you know a little bit more about Michele and Turtle. What about you? What books from your childhooded affected your life in some way? Any special books you still have a copy of or still read once in a while? Tell us what books made you tick.

The Back Forty

By Nick Krohn

"There was a beast in Puerto Rico that preyed on the goats that grazed the countryside. It sucked the blood from the goats and puzzled the goatherds. When that got boring he moved into David's house."

Click for bigger image

The Meeting

They stood huddled around the coffee maker that sat on the cafeteria table by the wall when the moderator called a start to the meeting. As they made their way across the threadbare carpet toward the steel foldout chairs a latecomer stopped in the doorway and looked around. The moderator had seen the worried, reluctant look on the latecomer's face many times before, so he went over, took the latecomers hand, and
brought him to a chair toward the back of the group.


The moderator opened the meeting and then invited anyone who wanted to speak - especially any newcomers - to do so. The latecomer hesitated, looked down at his hands, then stood up and said, "Hello, my name is Jesus and I'm an alcoholic."

Before anyone could say anything Jesus continued quickly, "It all started at an early age. I was at a wedding celebration with my parents and the hosts had run out of wine. My mom asked me to turn the water into wine so I did. I was a big hit."

"In high school I wasn't very popular until some friends dragged me to a party where they ran out of alcohol. LastSupper.jpg When I did my little trick, well, needless to say, everyone accepted me."

"After that things started going down hill fast - instead of just making wine I started drinking it. The drinking got so bad near the end that I started doing really stupid things like turning entire city water supplies into wine and, on a drunken bet, turning the Red Sea into white wine."

"I've tried nearly everything to get off the bottle but I just can't do it so some friends suggested I try it here. I was hoping to learn a little more about your program."

Jesus sat down and looked at the moderator expectantly.

"Well," began the moderator, "the first step is to admit that you are powerless over your addiction."

Jesus nodded his head. "That's true enough."

"Then you have to believe that a power greater than yourself can restore you to sanity."

"Hmm, I'm not so sure about that one, I'm a pretty powerful guy. What's the next one?"

"You have to turn your will and your life over to the care of God as you understand God."

Jesus leapt from his chair, "Are you serious! You know what happened to me the last time I did what That Guy told me to do? I ended up nailed to a damned tree!"

Jesus strode from the room. After the door stopped shaking in its frame the moderator went around to all the members of the group, took their cups from them and said, "Perhaps we should stop drinking the coffee and Kool-Aid, just for tonight."

Bob, who may or may not be an alcoholic, writes at Tiny Dead Bunny

NFL Week 3: Remain calm. All is well.

Ok fooseball fanz, welcome to what we refer to on the NFL schedule as, Week 3!

At this point, your team is either 2-0, 1-1 or (gulp!) 0-2. What does all that mean? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! So relax. (Don't do it. When you want to go to it. Oops. Sorry. Went to the 80's there for a sec.)


Maybe your team has won the first few games, or maybe your team is down in a little 0-2 hole right now. Either way, just remember, it's not even October yet. There's still a ton of football left to be played, and a lot of things can happen over the course of the next few weeks.

For you Miami and Carolina fans, not to mention you folks who are rooting for the nine other teams currently sitting at 0-2, I can understand why there might be some hand-wringing going on for you guys, but take it easy, things are going to be ok.

Well, unless you are rooting for Detroit that is.

The Lions could be in trouble again this year with players like receiver Roy Williams coming out with gems like this:relax.JPG

Quoth Roy:

"I celebrate first downs all the time. I'm not gonna stop that. I'm an exciting player. If I do something exciting, I'm going to show my actions."

Reporter Mitch Albom's response: "But, you were down 10-0."

"What does that mean?" Williams replied. "That means nothing to me.
The score means nothing."

Ok then.

The Lions were eventually annihilated by the Chicago Bears by a final score of 37-7, so maybe it's a good thing that the score means nothing to Roy Williams.

Sorry Lions fans. I feel for ya. It's been a downward spiral ever since Barry Sanders left...

Moving right along... Where were we? Oh yes, looking at the standings.

So, I'm sure you 0-2 guys are looking at me, Mr. High-and-Mighty Pats fan, thinking, 'Hey it's easy for you to tell people to relax, your team is sitting pretty at 2-0.'

Well that is true. A 2-0 record is certainly better than being 0-2, especially when those wins are against two of your divisional rivals, but the fact is, being 2-0 right now doesn't mean you should book your reservations to the Superbowl next week.

If your team is 2-0 or even 1-1, that's nice, but I know better than to get too excited about the record at this point.

There have been plenty of times when I've watched my team come flying out of the gates at the beginning of the season, on fire, looking unstoppable... I start to get all delusional and begin to think they're going to go 19-0, only to watch in horror as they implode, going on to finish out the season at a miserable 5-11. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.

afc1.gifThe point I am trying to make here is simply this: if your team is down right now, it's not the end of the season, and if your team is up right now, it's not the end of the season. Over the next few weeks, things will begin to take shape. There will be unexpected wins, there will be unexpected losses. Towards the end of October, when the leaves
are all off of the trees, that's when things will start to take on a lot more meaning. Right now teams are just jockeying for the early positions in the race.

Until then, there's a lot of fun to be had and the first few games of this season have already given us some nice surprises.

In Week 1, Buffalo put up a good fight in what turned out to be an eventual loss to New England. Most people thought that this game was going to be a cakewalk win for The Pats, but they wound up barely hanging on and getting the win by a measly two point margin (I predicted a 3 point game, but, whatev.)afcsucks.gif

Then last week, The Bills went on to beat Superbowl favorite Miami in their own house, holding the Fish to only 6 points in a 16-6 victory over Dan Marino's favorite team. I generally dislike all of my AFC East opponents, but the one I dislike the least is the Bills and the one I dislike the most is The Fish, so that was nice to see from my perspective.

Baltimore shut down Tampa Bay in Week 1 by a score of 27-0, then they followed that up last week by laying the smack down on the Oakland Raiders, beating them by a wonderfully embarrassing score of 28-6. Anytime The Raiders get beat, I am happy, but I take particular joy in watching them get their asses handed to them by an embarrassing
margin.

How about Minnesota? The downtrodden Vikes defeated the supposed Superbowl favorite Carolina Panthers 16-13, and on Monday night, The Jacksonville Jaguars handed Pittsburgh their first loss of the year, beating them 9-0 in front of a national audience. (Heh.)

I don't know about you, but I think it's good to get that first Steelers loss out of the way and over with early in the season. The Steelers are obnoxious enough as it is and after winning the Superbowl last year, it feels like they've actually gotten worse. If they had gone on a little early season run, I don't know if I could have taken it.

Indy beat Houston 43-24 last week. Yawn... It's too bad for the Colts they don't give out trophies for the best regular season...

Now let's take a quick look at this weeks games. How about I pull some predictions out of my ass and then I'll let you tell me how wrong I am in the comments. Sound fun? Here we go!

Tennessee Titans at Miami Fish - Miami is reeling a little bit, sitting at 0-2. I don't think a lot of people (read: football 'experts') expected them to lose their first two games. Miami will be extra motivated to win this one. Pick: Miami.

Chicago Bears at Minnesota Vikings - Chicago is the better team, on paper anyway, but Minnesota did defeat Carolina last week, so that just goes to show you how worthless that whole 'better on paper' concept is. I'll still pick Chicago.

Carolina Panthers at Tampa Bay Bucs - A divisional battle between 0-2 teams. Sombebody's gonna get their first win. I'm picking Carolina.

Washington Redskins at Houston Texans - I have zero interest in either of these teams so I'm just going to flip a coin. Heads it's Washington, tails Houston. It's tails.

NY J-E-T-S at Buffalo Bills - Oooo. Now this one could be a good fuckin game. I really hope the local affiliates will carry this one. This is a tough pick here though, very tough... bengal-tiger.jpgMmmmmmmmmmmmBuffalo! The better Defense wins this one.

Cincinnati Bengals at Pittsburgh Steelers - How sweet would it be for Cincy to win this one and put The Champs at 1-2 to start the season? Visualize a positive outcome and pick the Bengal Tigers.

Jacksonville Jags at Indianapolis Colts - This is a game between divisional rivals and Jacksonville always seems to give Indianapolis a good game. My head tells me Jacksonville gets the upset, but my heart tells me that Indy gets the win, which I hate.

Baltimore Ravens at Cleveland Browns - Old Browns vs. New Browns. The Ravens are kicking ass so far this year and The Browns are not that good. I'll take Baltimore.

Philadelphia Eagles at San Francisco 49ers - Eeenie, Meenie, Minie Mo... Philly.

NY Giants at Seattle Seahawks - A tough one. I'll pick The Seahawks. What's up with all the bird mascots in the NFL anyway?

St. Louis Rams at Arizona Cardinals - Another bird mascot! I hope Arizona wins. I usually root for The Cards, because I tend to like the underdog teams, (except when they're playing The Pats that is,) but I have a feeling St Louis gets the win.

Denver at New England - I believe it was Khan Noonien Singh who once reminded us of the old Klingon proverb that tells us, revenge is a dish that is best served cold. I'll be hoping that it will be nice and chilly in New England that night.

Atlanta at New Orleans - Atlanta. Just because. Besides, I'm all out of quips.

Last week I made football shaped meatballs for the game.

This week I'm thinking chili. Can't go wrong with chili.

Clutch - Far Country

Enjoy the games everyone!

Ernie writes daily about football and other stuff at Mr. B and W. You should check it out.

September 23, 2006

Did someone say boobies?

boobiethon.jpg



We interrupt our programming to bring you an annoucement, which I will bring you again during the week. I'm a big believer in the "beating you over the head with a hammer" theory of begging for charity.

I got the annual email from my dear friend Robyn:

The fifth annual blogger "Boobie-Thon" launches on Sunday, October 1, 2006. It will run through 11:59 p.m. EDT on Saturday, October 7, 2006. This yearly event features bloggers showing their (covered and uncovered) breasts in order to raise money for charity during Breast Cancer Awareness Month. (Please click here for the 2005 site). Watch this space in the upcoming days for more information and updates, and go here for information on how to submit your photograph!

Yes. It's a boobiethon. And this boobiethon, during the years of its existence, has raised over $26,000 for the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. So you get to see boobs and feel good about it. Well, you probably would feel good about it anyhow, but this is a different kind of good.

Go over to the site and read more about the history of the boobiethon, where the money goes to and how you - looking at you, girls - can submit your boobs and how everyone else can donate to the cause (Please note the main page is always SFW).

And yes, my boobs will be there, as they have been every year. You want to see them? Gotta donate.

Boobies. If you got em, send em.

Chased by a Lion



Now for a little story that went down a few years back,

Here is the true story: I used to be an editor for TV spots at a production company. Our office was at the Santa Monica Airport, which is a very cool place to work. Anyhoohaw. I'm outside near the tarmac smoking, like I always do. About 200 feet away is this corner that leads to some hangers. So, I'm by myself, smoking, and I see a LION. Yes, a fucking huge ginaormous African Lion turning the corner, full stride, running at me. Pissed off too. I just stand there.


So, see, my brain doesn’t process this fast enough, and I just stare, still taking a drag. Now 3 feet behind me is 2 double doors i could just walk through, lion keychain.jpgbut back to me not thinking. So, the lobby full of people is watching, I don’t see this, I just stand there with this WTF look, trying to figure it out. The lion, who's dragging a chain behind itself, is just, well, headed right for me. So, I, for no reason, flick my cigarette and think, is that really a lion? Everyone else seemed to think I was going to throw down, or something. So, he's less than 15-20 feet from me and WHAM, he hits the ground.

The trainers got a hold of the chain and dropped him. So there I am still trying to figure it out, and then I just turn around, see about 40 people looking at me, and I, get this, shrug. Yup. They just stare at me, and I go back to my office. Then it hits me and I couldn’t walk for about an hour, I was just stunned. Buttttttt.. I was forever known as the guy who stared down a lion. Cause nobody knew I was just too stupid to run, or stunned. Now talk about fear, have a scared, pissed off lion come at you, with nothing but open space between it and you and see what happens.

Turns out they were shooting something in one of the hangers, and the lion was spooked by a jet and bolted. How nice for me. But, I didn’t run. Only because I was a deer in the headlights, it just worked out that nobody could see, and I looked cool standing there with a smoke…..

Naughty Monkeys




Happy Saturday, my little limpkins*! Let's see what foolish celebrities we can pick on this week...

While not technically a celebrity, other than the fact that the entire world knows his name (and to never be caught on a dark street with him), OJ Simpson simply must kick off this week's rundown (hah, see what I did there) due to this spectacular meme courtesy of College Humor. College kids take candid photos with OJ Simpson and post them to this site. A classic quote:

"He ran off pretty quickly as soon as my friend's mom yelled, 'You took a picture with a murderer!"

This proves there's justice in the world. It's just slow, and kind of stupid.


Oh hello GIRLS. Damn, Babs, I know you have more money than the Pope, but seriously, can't you rein those bitches in? Here, have a Vicky's Secret coupon. View this image large only if you do not value the structural integrity of your retinas.


Speaking of things that need support...Miss Tara "Dear God Whatever Did We See In Her" Reid continues to pretend that she's not looking at the backside of 30, AND that she's immune to gravity. See above, re: coupon.



For another kind of freakish we turn to those crazy kids Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz. I am told that in this image she's restraining him from physically attacking a paparazoid, but rumor has it that she's actually just trying to keep him from leaving her.



And here's my very favorite celebrity couple, Gwen Stefani and Gavin Rossdale. They're usually so chipper. She's always smiling graciously at the freaks with cameras, and he's usually got it under British control...however this time Señor Rossdale is, quite rightly, insisting on a bit of bloody family time, albeit with his middle finger. Might be a bit too subtle for them, Gavy.


And finally, even though we despise Janis Joplin and all her evil works, the news that toothsome Zooey Deschanel will play her in the upcoming biopic (one of them anyway), makes us kind of tingly. Though, areek as we are of brutal honesty, we think she has FAR too much personality for the part...they should have cast Pink instead.


And now to the week in fashion. To be honest, we're far too exhausted after the giddy joy of Olympus Fashion Week to be very thorough here (perhaps we need a bit of blow?), but we simply cannot let the horror that is ANKLE BOOTS pass unmolested. People, did we learn nothing from the 80s? Can skinny ties, shoulder pads and mandatory Aqua-Net wings be far behind? I tell you, the resurgence of this particular fad simply cannot be condoned. We owe it to our sanity to beat the ever-loving shit out of anyone caught wearing these monstrosities. The 80s WILL NOT rise again!!!

* A limpkin is a bird that digs through mud for sustenance. Appropriate, no?

The Pop Culturista lives in Florida, where she watches a lot of E! and Project Runway.

Doing it in Digital

I picked up photography as a hobby some time in the early 80's. I had a nice Pentax camera and I saved up for some lenses to go with it. I was pretty damn proud of the pictures I took and thought about taking some photography courses at the local community college.

And then some bastard stole my camera bag. At work. Never did find out who did it, but he should know that I still think about him all the time and wish very painful things upon his soul.

Many years later, I got bit by the photo bug again. I bought a Minolta and started shooting in black and white. I was really enjoying myself, but then things happened that killed my creativity. Life just gets in the way sometimes.

About four years ago I once again caught the bug. I had given the Minolta to my daughter, who was (and still is) taking photography courses in school. I decided that if I was going to get back into this hobby, I would give digital a try. I went through a series of digital cameras before I settled on one I really liked; the Nikon Coolpix 5700.


I dove into this hobby pretty hard. I was shooting about 100-200 pictures a day, taking my camera with me wherever I went. Work, baseball, grocery store, wherever I was, I had my Nikon. Have camera, will travel. It's a funny thing about having photography as a hobby. You tend to see the world and everything in it a bit differently. Everything is a potential picture. Nothing is just an object. You notice colors and shades of colors and light and symmetry. Tiny little objects that may have gone unseen to your eye before suddenly shot out at you. The way the water glass sits on the edge of the desk. The light coming off the corner of the picture frame. An abandoned umbrella laying in the street. They are all potential shots. My eyes changed. My line of vision changed. I can look at the same tree one hundred times and see a different photograph each time. The pictures may not always come out like I see them in my camera-focused eye, but at least the experience of taking the picture makes me see things in the world around me in a whole new light.

And therein lies the beauty of digital photography. I can take 100 shots of that one tree without feeling like I’m wasting film or that it will cost me a small fortune to get these things developed. I can experiment. I can change the light, change the focus, change the view. I’m not a skilled photographer. I’m not into the technical aspects of it. I just get something in my mind’s eye, think it will make a great shot and I shoot it. If it comes out like I crap, I hit delete and look at the next one I took or try again.

The ability to shoot, trash, shoot, trash, etc., got me these results:

down in a hole guitar i've got a heart on

It was hard work getting these shots just the way I wanted them, the way my mind first envisioned them, but getting these final results - well, it sure feels good to finally get other people to see the vision you had in your head.

I also love digital for doing people shots. Sometimes you just want to keep shooting because you know that kid is going to make just the right face or look at you from just the right angle. I could never do that with film because I needed each click to be the most perfect picture it could be. Not so here. Each of these were the results of patience, lots of clicking, and a little stealth on my part:

they're coming to get you, barbara pout into the drink

I didn't really talk about the technical aspects of digital photography here; I'll leave that to the experts. I'm just about experimenting and having fun. -M

FTTW Photography appears every Saturday. This general column appears bi-weekly and Life in Black in White - a column about shooting in b/w film, appears every other week.

If you are interested in writing an article for the general photography column, contact us at submissions@fasterthantheworld.com

This week's column was written by Michele


September 22, 2006

BOXING DAY

What a weekend, I laughed, I cried, I passed out on the couch in the fetal position. First, what a great card of boxing on Saturday night, four bouts, well really 3 and a half, one was a 4 round showcase for Jorge Paez, Jr, who damn near lost, who should have lost, who did loose, but by the grace of his last name and two blind judges, was able to eek out a split decision victory, even though he was out on his feet at the end of the fourth round, after being hurt in all four rounds by the intended victim, Derrick Campos; The second bout featured Jorge Barrios, a colorful slugger from Argentina and Joan Guzman, a slick boxer-puncher from the Dominican Republic,for the vacant WBO Jr. Lightweight Belt.

This fight started the day before during the weigh-in, where Barrios apparently came in a reported 7 pounds over the 130 lb. weight limit, he was forced to abdicate his championship on the scales, so in essence he was fighting for nothing more than pride and a paycheck, a lighter paycheck at that because he had to pay about $20,000 in fines and bad-faith money to the Nevada State Athletic Commission and Joan Guzman, since he would be unable to claim the belt if he won, only Guzman could walk out of the ring a champion on Saturday night. The fight started out fast, fast, fast, Guzman came out slugging, showing he was more than just the slick boxer-puncher he was at 126 lbs, he carried some pop at 130 and Barrios felt it early, but Barrios is no slouch in the chin and power departments, he recovered quickly from the initial onslaught from Guzman, and was able to land some shots of his own throughout the bout, but as the rounds wore on, it was apparent who the better fighter was, Guzman, he was fast, slick, and came from all angles, Barrios, though, gave it his all and by the 12th round there was new found mutual respect from both fighters as they hugged before the start of the final round.ali.jpg I had it 116-111 for Guzman, but once again, I must watch different fights than the judges, because they had it 115-112 & 114-113 for Guzman, 114-113 for Barrios, Guzman by split decision, incredible!

The next fight, was just that, a fight, Israel Vasquez versus Jhonny (yes it is spelled correctly) Gonzalez for Vasquez' 126 lb. belt, the fight started as expected, with Gonzalez using his superior height and reach advantange to keep the smaller but more powerful Vasquez on the outside, the plan was working beautifully, with Gonzalez easily controlling the fight and knocking the champ down twice, once in the fouth and again in the seventh, but stranglely after the second knockdonw Gonzalez decided to trade with Vasquez on the inside, this was a very bad idea, in the ninth frame, Vasquez blasted Gonzalez with a three punch combo that put the challenger down, but he was able to get up and continue, in the tenth Gonzalez once again decided to stand on the inside and slug with the harder punching Vasquez, this time the decision proved fatal, with another three punch combo Gonzalez was down; looking at Gonzalez while he was taking the count you knew he wasn't right, the look in his eye had gone from "Winning fighter" to "Where am I" his corner saw the same look and threw in the towel, giving Vasquez the victory and his belt. Israel Vasquez has quickly become my favorite fighter below 140 lbs, this guy can flat out bang, and has more heart than fighters twice his size, if Vasquez is fighting, I will be watching, and I'm sure I am not alone after Saturday night's performance. The main event between Marco Antonio Barrera and Rocky Juarez proved once again why you don't fight M.A. Barrera twice, the first time you may look good, even might win, the second time you will loose and you will not look good while doing it, while in the first fight Barrera was willing to stand and slug with Juarez, the rematch was a boxing lesson administered by the smartest fighter in the sport today, Barrera refused to stand and trade, he didn't need to, he was able to control the strong and aggresive Juarez from the outside, using a pinpoint jab to close Rocky's right eye early and easily dominate Juarez through-out the twelve easy rounds for the 130 lb. champion; Barrera by Unanimous Decision.

That was the good part of the weekend, Sunday everything fell apart, by beloved Buccaneers feel to Oklahoma State, oh I mean the Atlanta Falcons, you could have fooled me though, I haven't seen the option run from scrimmage so many times since Air Force with it's wish-bone offense played Texas and it's sweep option, I think this was the final admission by everyone involved with the Falcons that Michael Vick cannot run an NFL (ie: Professional) style offense, and that they have to resort to a hybrid gimmick offense inorder for him to be effective, the Steeler's had the same problem with Kordell Stewart, but did Cower resort to the "Option" offense, hell no, this is the N-Fuckin'-F-L, we don't run the Option here, we run NFL style offenses, and we run it with men who can run N-F-L offenses, I say it again, Mike Vick is a gimmick, move him to the slot and let him create havok on the edges, sure Atlanta run for 500 plus yards in it's first 2 games, bet you New Orleans, who they play on Monday night brings 9 in the box and says okay Mr. Vick or Mr. Mexico, whatever your name is this week, you're gonna have to throw to win Monday night, New Orleans 17 - Atlanta 10.

Friday on my Mind

It's the weekend! Fuck yeah! Here we go! Well, for most of us, but for the rest, this is the time when you go out and have fun! Yeah, I know sometimes life isn't fun and the bed seems like a better place than anything else. Waking up to find promises not fulfilled and is not something we like to do on a Friday morning. I missed Little House for this, god dammit and that pisses me off.

But, in a five minute brainstorm we came up with an idea. My allergies killing me as the cigar was being lit. There must be something we can do. Michele, being three time zones away has the thoughts in the morning. She has the advantage. I don't. I wake up and sit here for about an hour before my brain actually starts functioning. But, once it does, it really starts firing. So what do we do today? We slow down and think about what is really important. What we need to do. First things first. But, it's Friday....

Ok then. Here was an idea.

When the weekend is here and you think ofall of the rest and relaxation and maybe partying coming up, what is the song that most makes you get the feel of Friday?


turtle burns the track.

Hellacopters Fire Fire Fire

This is the ultimate weekend song. This song, there was just something to it. Something in the lyrics. Set it for a six pack and a fast car! Oh yeah! Dude, those are lyrics to tear out of a drag strip riot from. You can feel the energy in that song coming out of your speakers.

There were a few years where I would get home from work with a six pack of King Cobras, a few pills and a bag of dope.bunk_36.gif I knew I had to slow down or the night was over. I had to get some kind of rest to kill the dreaded hours of 6 till 9. If you don't know why these are the dreaded hours, you aren't a seasoned alcoholic. These are the hours that will make or break your night. In these three short hours a decision would be made. To get high and drunk and forget about this world or to take a nap and then do them before you went out. Those were hard hours. Hours when I would get naked and hit the bed with only the sound of sirens passing by as I buried my head in the blanket and tried to dream the sleep of all cowards. I knew I would sleep. But, I also knew the phone would ring. See, I am someone like that. If the phone rings when I am asleep, I will stir, but not wake up. It's just one of my things.

So after the phone rings about 11 times, I got up. Fuck, It’s only 8. I still have another hour before I can start to drink.

Vivarin comes out. Cheap speed. Pop a few in and crack a beer. Hellacopters goes on. Another beer went back. Knock out a line of dope. Another beer goes back.

Ever notice that people always come over when you are breaking out drugs? But, anyways, my hands would shake as I put the beer to my lips. More friends would come in and the song would play again. I had nothing really to go for except getting higher. Fire fire fire! What the fuck. It's Friday.

So in the end it's kind of a sad thing. I hear one of my favorite songs now and I remember a place I was in.

But, you know what?

I still crank that fucker up when it comes on.

To hell I will be damned. - T

michele pumps up the volume:

A Friday song. You hit the parking lot running after work, get in your car and pump up the volume. Put this on:

Fu Manchu The Action is Go

Take off the work ID. Kick off the shoes. Well, maybe that’s just me. I like to drive home in my socks sometimes. Something about taking off those hellacious heels I wear to work that feels good. Think about getting home to my Converse.con5 And If I’m feeling really in “Fuck You, It’s Friday” mode, I take the bra off, too. Throw it on the floor of the car next the shoes and the ID and peel out of the parking lot without looking back. It’s Friday. Fast food night. No cooking. No cleaning. Time to go home and put on the weekend outfit. Jeans. Wife beater. Zip up sweatshirt. Converse. Just thinking about that on the way home, about getting out of these damn work clothes and getting rid of this week. Playing the same song again and again. The bass shaking the rear view mirror and vibrating my ass. Come back to life I see... Hell yea. Dead at work all week, but when Friday comes it’s new life. Re energize and face the weekend. I mean, it’s not like I go out and party. I barely leave my house. It’s just the point. Home. Sneakers. I don’t even have to shower if I don’t want to. And I don’t have to wear the stupid heels. I hate shoes. Hate em. Sneakers = weekend. Sneakers = sleeping late, goofing off, being lazy, feet up on the coffee table playing video games. I play the song again when I get in the house, as I undress, get into the weekend clothes and the Converse. Kick back. Come back to life.

Like I said, like I said, like I said..........

So what's your weekend song? What do you put on when you want to get work out of your mind and get started on your Friday night? And don't say Workin' For the Weekend. Or we'll laugh at you.

Amie, Volume 1, Issue 2



What do you get when you put a socially inept geek, a genetically engineered mutant, and a green furball in the same story? You get - Amie! by J. W. Carbonell.

Click image for this week's strip.



last week's strip

Where the Rubber Meets the Road



When we last visited, I discussed the pleasure of assembling a motor vehicle with my own two hands. It was late at night, but it was complete. A job well done.

*****

Morning comes.
I hate to say this, but I am actually a morning person. I like the morning quiet right around dawn, a steaming cup of coffee and a cool mist hanging over the horizon waiting to be burned off by the summer sun.

Roll the door up and take a look. It's still looking good, but sometimes things get missed. It's nice to at least wave a wrench at the beast to make sure some critical pieces don't fall off, just in case. Like the wheels for instance. Sometimes I'm completely freaked out when find that I missed a simple detail, other times I find out that everything was done right last night. Either way, it provides confidence that I might not die in the first ten minutes.


Some folks build things like a ship in a bottle that sits on a shelf and looks nice. Some people build cars the same way; loads of time and effort and money and then they sit under a car cover to only emerge for two weekends a year, perhaps for an odd car show or something. Everyone has to do their own thing, but that's not for me.

I belong to the "trial by fire" school. Cars are meant to be driven, and driven hard. I build road race cars. I certainly want things to be nice and clean and attractive, but it's function that drives the overall look. If it is right, it looks right.

Bill Cosby, in an old stand up routine about getting frustrated with his children, says "I brought you into this world, and I can TAKE YOU OUT!". nirvana2.JPGI feel the same way about cars. For me, the car is most alive when it's being twisted to redline on the exit of a particularly tight corner, just on the edge of spinning the tires. Huge kick in the ass and things surge forward, eating up road faster and faster and howling and SHIFT and faster and faster and SHIFT. yeah. That's the spot.

But anyway, we were standing in the garage early one morning...

Hit the key and things rumble to life. It's a fantastic feeling to go from dead quiet morning to the sound of eight cylinders of coughing death. Wow. A little lumpy at idle until it warms up, but it's all there, alive. I grin, half happy because it hasn't spewed mechanical guts all over the driveway and half amazed that it actually works.

Warmed up, look underneath and make sure there's not a steady flow of some sorta fluid (pick one) leaking out. Nope. Cool. Do it.

Slot into gear and slide down the street. The thing is built to be capable of 150mph, but it's not too wise to do that in the first couple of minutes. Let all the parts get warmed up and cozy and make sure it doesn't vomit at 35mph, then lean on it hard. The smells waft out, fresh motor. The smell of sealant curing, spray paint drying as the engine block comes up to temperature, gasoline and a tinge of oil smoke. It's all working together. This is one of the best feelings ever. Like putting together a great song or painting a canvas, it's all my work.

Work up to it. Get on the gas hard and the let off a bit....seems ok. Alright, here we go! Stomp the gas WFO (Wide Fucking Open) and bang and shift, pulling so hard ripping across the pavement and bang another shift, then another. Whoa. It works! This piece of shit actually works! Yeah!

Wanna go for a ride?

V8 Chevy
Ministry - Jesus Built My Hotrod

September 21, 2006

mom, what's a blow job?

So it seems to be sex day on FTTW. I have no idea how it got here, but it happened. So, really, this made it kind of easy for us to think of a topic. People writing in and posting about first periods and first sex really, gave us an opputunity to take this easy tonight. We talked on the way to get shitty Mexican food and a decision was made. Tonight we will talk about sex. Ya know, keep with the theme.

So we want to know. Remember when you were young? The days you would wake up and see the sunshine and smell the fresh air and wonder why she had an inney and you had an outty?

That's right folks.

Tonight is how did you first learn about sex night


turtle blows his wad first.

Learning about sex. Well, that's not as easy a subject that you think it would be. Seeing two dogs go at it or a squirrel hump your leg isn't quite the same thing we are talking about. It's a process. Like lighting a cigarette on the wrong end. Eating day old food. That’s not right. Kind of like sex. It's always a learning process. I am not naive enough that someone is going to tell me they learned about sex the first time they had sex. Unless this was like a Jerry Springer show or something. And we don't throw beads unless you send us topless pics of you.

So how did I learn about sex?

Easy. I have two stories.

One I won’t go into because having your dad pay for a prostitute is not the kind of thing you want to put on the internet. She only had one leg. A mighty hooker was she. I'll tell that story one day, but for now, the first time I learned about sex?

I was about seven. My grandpa had died and I watched my father cry for the first time ever, and the last time he ever cried. See, that's the way he was. Someone had to set the mast and sail the ship. It was his job and he knew it. So no matter what was going on, he always had to sit and calmly think about any situation and get thru it while taking his crew with him. Sure, they could cry, but he never could. He had to keep going.

But one night he couldn't take it anymore. I asked him why we were in this shitty town in this fucking hotel and he told me, "My dad has died. We are burying him tomorrow."behind_the_green_door_dvd-713617.jpg

The look in his eyes was something I have only seen a few times in my life with other people. It's that "I just need five minutes to 24 hours to be on my own" look. It's a desparete look off someone who had hit the end. I've seen it before. I can hear it in people’s voices. You can just tell when the ship is sinking and the Captain needs a break before he goes back to fixing the ship.

Anyways, he wandered off, presumable to a bar, and we were just left in a crappy hotel in the middle of no mans land with just a TV. That's it. Well, we had a phone with us.

Pay per view porn’s.

The fuck if I knew what "Behind the Green Door" was. Shit. Sounds like a horror flick. So we ordered it. Two kids waiting for what seems like something scary to come on. All alone watching this movie.

Well, there's a chick. I'll bet she gets taken out pretty quick. Well, she is taking off her clothes. She is definitely dead now. Wonder what that thing is?

I was no stranger to naked ladies. My grandpa’s house was filled with porn, but it was like soft core porn. So I got the whole vagina thing but really never put it together. I knew I had an outty and girls had innies, but from then on it was like a drunk playing pool. There was a hole. The stick goes to it, but after that I was lost.

The girl took her clothes off and a massive penis entered her.

No. This wasn't shock on my face. This was the ending of the puzzle. I got it now. That's how it works. I get it. I thought it worked that way but was never really sure.

I'm really sad to say that I learned about sex from a death in the family and some porno from the 70's but you see, sometimes things happen in life.

Sometimes you take those lessons where you go because you learned them well.

And sometimes you forget that not all girls like anal sex, but hey, it was in the movie.

Like teaching a first grader how to bounce a ball, I learned that night about positions. I was the karma fucking sutra of the elementary school. I had seen it all. Kids would want me to tell them stories about sex and all I could say were things like, "You don't wanna know" or "they looked like they were in pain". Scary stories that would actually make 4-square courts turn into 2-square as the boys wandered away from the girls. Pain is a motivating factor in a lot of kid’s decisions. Me, telling them they looked like they were in pain while having sex with this...woman...didn't help.

I had seen it.

They hadn't.

The horror. - T

michele comes next:

Back in my day no one learned about sex from their parents. And certainly not from teachers. Sure, parents tried to have that “birds and bees” talk with you, but they would be so clinical and dry about it that you lost interest after “vas deferens” and you let them off the hook by saying, don’t worry, you knew all about this already. They looked at you with a mixture of relief and worry. But the relief was greater. So they shoved you out the door. And then you realized you don’t know shit. And you have to find it out.

But sometimes it turns out your parents teach you more than you want to. Case in point. My parents were having one of those 1970's era cocktail parties. Lots of young, drunk suburban couples sitting around an olive green living room sipping drinks that had umbrellas in them. Me and my friend Lori crouched down in the kitchen, trying to listen in on the adult conversation, maybe get some juicy curse words, before someone saw us and sent us back outside.

They were telling jokes.

The punchline to one was something like “......and then she had an orgasm!” Repeated again. Everyone saying it over and over. Orgasm! Hahaha! ORGASM! Oh my GOD ORGASM!

I turn to Lori. “What’s an orgasm?” She shrugs. We run out the door, across the street to Lori’s house and break out the dictionary. O. Orgasm. There it is....the high point of sexual activity. Something like that. We asked Lori’s much older stepsister about it. She described it a little more...intimately. In great detail. With sound effects.

And thus began the Age of Sexual Exploration. bandb.jpgMe, Lori and the unspoken knowledge that we weren’t lesbians or anything, we were just on a quest to figure out what the fuck an orgasm felt like.

We gave up the ghost before we got our answer. Lori started dating this boy and I barely saw her anymore. I started masturbating. Furiously.

Ahhh. So that’s an orgasm. Sweeeeet.

I don’t remember how I learned about the rest of the sex facts. The important stuff like “can I get pregnant if I leave my clothes on” and “can I catch VD from a toilet seat.” All I know is that one day when I was in high school, I managed to be in the studio audience of some talk show and they were asking all the teens in the audience how they learned about sex. They pointed the mic in my face. “Umm...I learned it on the street.” Something to that effect. Immediately, my parents’ phone started ringing. “Was that your daughter I just saw on that show?? What did she say? On the STREET?” Mom was rightfully mortified.

But hey, it was her fault for not giving me the whole talk when she started it. And it could have been worse. I could have told the Art Linkletter audience all about Lori. And the orgasm party.

Which brings me full circle. Because really, I’m no better when it comes to talking to my own kids about sex. An example, from when my son was 8 (about five years ago).


The boy comes out of the bathroom and says he has a Very Important Question. Ok this usually means something about Derek Jeter's batting stance or how CatDog goes to the bathroom. So I expect something innocuous.

"Mom, what are my balls for?”

Silence on my part.

“I'm not trying to be disgusting or anything, but what are they for?"

Well fuck. It’s 7:40 am and I gotta get to work and he has to get to school and the daughter is about to miss her bus. He has to ask this now?

I explain, however briefly, about seeds and fertilization and babies.

My kid thinks along straight lines, and he needs proof and written explanations of how everything works. So there is no lying to him about anything. He takes in everything I just told him and realizes I left out key parts.

"So, how does the stuff a guy has down there get into the woman?"

Shit. 7:45.

"Ummm, the guy puts it in there."

I know. Bad answer.

Kid contemplates this. Stares at me. Thinks. Ponders. I can almost see his wheels turning.

His face scrunches up in a look of horror as his innocent little mind comes up with the only possible way that seed could get where it has to go.

"IN HER MOUTH?? HE PUTS IT IN HER MOUTH??"

The color drains from his face.

I try really hard not to laugh. The kid is 8 at this point , knows basically nothing about the human anatomy that does not involve his own little area that he is constantly adjusting.

Damn it. 7:50. Gotta go.

I do my best to quickly explain to him how the sperm gets into the woman.

His jaw drops. His mouth hangs open. He sits in stunned silence for a moment.

"No, really. Don't make up stuff to me. Tell me the truth."
"Really.”
"Really?"
"Yes."
"It would have been better if you just said God made babies. I would have believed you."

Hell, I’m just glad I cleared up the mouth issue. That could have caused problems for him later on in life.

And let’s just say I’m pretty thankful the school handles this stuff now. I’m apparently not that good at it.

You should hear the story behind the title of this post -M

And that concludes a sex-drenched Thursday. How did you learn about the deed? Your parents? Teacher? Trial and error? Some creepy guy that reminds you of Milkman Dan? Or are you a little behind the times and you just learned from us how babies are made ?

Sorry for the spoiler.

No matter what you do, I will win

I'm writing this because I want to. I swear. It's not because I've been coerced into trying to find something, anything witty to write by the good people at f.t.t.w. Really, I'm here on my own accord. If that's the case, why the fuck can't I think of anything clever to write? On any given day, I’m running my mouth either to myself (it happens!) or to anyone who’ll listen. But when it comes to writing stuff down, sometimes I’m better left to coming up with clever one-line rejoinders. Write a whole page of something? For other people to read and judge me on? NEVER. This is when my wit will fail and all semblance of intelligence will leak out of my head like the wax does when it’s really hot and I’m asleep but I’m woken by what I swear is wax oozing out of my ears but turns out it’s just drool from my 6 year-old daughter who’s decided to shack up on my head for the night.


Maybe I’ll just write about my favorite past-time and what sometime becomes a sport of sorts….passive aggressiveness. In this particular case, lousy bed partners. No, I’m not talking lousy-in-the-sack partners, but people who just don’t know proper sleep etiquette when sleeping with someone else in the same damn bed. How do people go through life blissfully unaware that they simply suck as a sleep partner?

There’s the guy whose core body temperature stayed pretty high, so I couldn’t snuggle up to him. Fine. Be that way. Does that give you an excuse to sleep like a got damn octopus and push me out of my own bed? NO. You’re not going to let me squish all up against you AND you’re pushing me out of my bed?danger of death.jpg Oh hell no. I realized his quite obvious attempt at staying away from me at night time by trying to feed me some “basal body temperature” crap. Of course he can do something about his body temperature, sheesh. A little give and take here for crying out loud. I’m willing to sleep next to a Duraflame for the night; can’t you at least let me touch you at all?

This is a situation where clearly a little bit of passive aggressiveness is called for.

I make sure and drink a good bit of water before bedtime, so I’ll be up off and on during the night. Each time I get up, upon returning to the bed, I snuggle up really tightly next to his angelic, sleeping form. Immediately, he pushes a little bit away from me to get this warm body off him. A little while later, I do it again. Later, again. Now who’s getting pushed nearly off the bed? WHO’S YOUR SANDMAN NOW, MISTER?

By mid-early-morning, he’s now not had much sleep either because he has to keep moving himself in an anti-snug position so his body doesn’t spontaneously combust from the additional heat of another human body or he’s struggling to even stay on the bed because he’s so close to the edge. My plan is working. He will feel my pain. He will be as frustrated as I am. I’m dead tired, but I don’t even care.

By morning, he’s huddled in the fetal position in the far right corner of the bed and so close to being broken that he’s sucking his thumb. Mission accomplished.

What’s that? Talk to him about it? PUH-LEASE. Why talk when being passive aggressive is so much more fun?

-- DR is a free lance dater from down Georgia way

Leopard Spots


I was leaving the shop way too late. I had to meet my soon to be ex-wife for a drink so she could drop off some paperwork that I needed to sign before her lawyers could finish financially raping me. I was supposed to be there in 10 minutes and since I was halfway across town, there was no way that was going happen. Even if, by some miracle, I could grab a cab, there was no way I was going to be on time. So I jumped into the elevator, pulled out my discman and headed out of the lobby. On my way out, I passed two women who worked in the office, huddled close together and obviously conferring with each other. “His pants were around his ankles and she was on top of the copier,” one of them said as I passed by, fumbling to get my headphones on. The other woman gasped and the last thing I heard before I finally got my headphones on, was the first woman saying “You can’t change a leopard’s spots.”


leopard.jpgI got through the revolving doors and was out onto the street, headed for the El. Elvis Costello was singing about ”This Year’s Girl” and I was bobbing my head. But I couldn’t get what that woman had said out of my head. “You can’t change a leopard’s spots,” kept repeating itself, over and over to me. And that’s when I realized it was true. I had spent years in a marriage, molding myself into something that I wasn’t. Going to restaurants, not because I liked the food, but because they were popular. Glad handing people I couldn’t stand because it made sense politically. Sipping single malt whiskey and smoking cigars because that’s what the people my wife worked with were doing. I had spent years as a sleeper agent, someone pretending to be something I just wasn’t. It was time to wake up.

When I met my ex-wife, I was a scrawny, hardcore kid with hair down to my ass and a chip on my shoulder. My housemate and lifelong friend, Jonny D., had just gotten a job at a new bookstore that was opening up in the suburbs. Big place, literally thousands of books, owned by two brothers from Wisconsin. He had heard from our mutual friend Stiv, that they were looking for people and had been hired on the spot. I had been out of work for about a month, living on toast and Ramen noodles. So, Jonny, after being picked up right then and there, called me to tell me about a position they had in the espresso bar. He gave me the manager’s name and her number and told me he’d just finished talking me up to her. That I’d been a barista before and that I knew my way around a coffee joint.

I called her up, and after talking to her for a few minutes, she asked me to come in for an interview later that day. It was then that I decided to tell her that the only thing I knew about espresso was how to spell it and that I’d never been a barista. I knew how to make a killer cup of coffee, but that was about it. She said she’d show me what I need to know and to come in anyway. So I jumped on the bus, looked her in the eyes when she was talking to me and smiled at her an awful lot. I aced the interview and got the job.

It was easy to look her in the eye and smile. She was very easy on the eyes. And she and I seemed to get along more and more the longer we worked together. We came from radically different backgrounds but seemed to click on all the right things. And after about six months of fighting it, one night when were both closing the place up, I asked her for a ride home. And then I invited her into my place. We talked all night long. And, as she was leaving in the morning, I gave her a hug that lasted a little too long. I walked her out to her car and kissed her, softly, on the lips. A week later we were dating.

A few months after that, we were living together. Gradually, I began to change. I quit staying up all night listening to records and playing video games. I quit buying clothes, because she’d buy them for me. They weren’t anything I’d normally wear, but they were free. I stopped doing computer work for my friends because she convinced me that I could get paid for it instead. I took a shirt and tie job, bought a car and moved northeast, away from my beloved D.C. and everyone I knew. Weeks and months became years. And one day, I looked in the mirror and I didn’t see that snot nosed little punk kid there anymore. And I was okay with that.

yuppie.jpgBy the time Elvis had started “Little Triggers”, I was off the El and headed to the hip little bar where my almost ex was waiting. I opened the door with one hand, saw her sitting at a table and sat myself down. She started in with some small talk, but we both knew why I was there. I told her to just give me the paperwork, so we could finish our drinks and I could get the hell out of there. She looked at me, a little puzzled, and reached into her bag. She pulled out a manila envelope and started to hand it to me. “This is the last bit, Finn,” she said, “after this we’re through. Are you sure that’s what you want ?”


“More than you’ll ever fucking know, “ I said. I took the envelope and left her with the check.

It took ten years of being molded into something else for me to realize that I’m not a shirt and tie guy. I’m not the guy who’ll tell you about my night at Restaurant X and how much I dropped on a meal. I won’t brag about the quality of my cigars and bitch about domestic beer. I won’t even smile and pretend to like you as we pass each other in the hall, because if I don’t like you, you know. I wear concert shirts and jeans and Doc Martens. I like my whiskey reasonably cheap and my cigarettes en masse. I like my music all kinds of loud and I like to dance with my wife when no one’s looking. I adore my son and do whatever I can to spend more time with him. I don’t wear color or eat red meat.

My name is the Finn. And these are my spots.

How about you ?

Buy Me Something!


Greetings, fellow consumers. As I think we all agree, money does not buy happiness, but the spending of it on widgets, gadgets, geegaws and toys, surely does make existence a bit more enjoyable. Let's see what's out there this week to add to our general sense of well-being...


For the home, we have these gorgeous mixed-size aluminum mirrors, perfect for those who really don't care if their tie matches their suit, or for those who enjoy that little flash of fear from catching an unexpected glimpse of movement out of the corner of their eye. Fun for the whole family!





Almost unutterably cool is this new product from designer Robert Stadler, an SMS-enabled mirror:

+336+ is able to receive SMS sent from a mobile phone. The messages appear as luminous text, running on the mirrors’ surface when one gets close to the mirror.

We've no idea when it might be in production, but you can just get your butts to the back of the line, because we saw it first!





For those of you too chicken-shite to suck it up and learn how to shoot, we offer the "Safe Bedside Table":

It is reported that 50% of people in London are worried about security and sleep with some form of self-defence to hand, for use against intruders. The 'Safe Bedside Table' has a removable leg that acts as a club and a top that doubles as a shield for self-defence. This is for people who are willing to take on an intruder, providing an extra sense of security whilst in bed.

So, let us get this straight... You're asleep. You hear glass breaking. You drag yourself from the blissful depths of sleep (something that typically takes both a shower, and the oral equivalent of a coffee enema) determine the sanctity of your domicile is in danger, and start dismantling your bedside table. Should the perpetrator of the aforesaid glass break come upon you during the dismantling process, odds are good he would be perplexed enough to allow you to smash the entire apparatus over his head. Or he might offer to lend a hand, seeing as how he now has all your tools. Either way, this is a ridiculous solution. And is making this face at your perpetrator really going to engender fear? Fear of wetting their pants during their ensuing giggling fit, perhaps...




Harman/Kardon have finally figured out that we care about what our speakers look like, and that we have the disposable income to do something about it. Their Soundsticks are slick, stylish, and certain to match any case...y'know, seeing as how they're CLEAR.




This next widget actually made us drop our copy of "Outdoor Photography" and bolt for our computers to hit Google. Big zoom lenses are frickin' heavy, Mr. Bigglesworth, and the Bush Hawk BH-240 Shoulder Mount takes some of the weight of that lens off our wrists and transfers it to our shoulders...where it can cause lower back pain later, but that's another story. Other options, including a reallyverytacky camo model, available here.




On the fashion front, and we have to admit to blisteringly expensive taste in this arena, here are a pair of heels that have us rather conflicted. These Hollywould Red Avas make us feel kind of dirty, but we know we'd wear them anyway. And just take lots of showers.





Handbags are our ultimate downfall. Something that carries all your shit around...how can that possibly be bad? And lots of somethings that carry your shit around are better than just one, definitely. This pebbled leather Tylie Mailbu Benatar bag serves the basic purpose of shit-carrying, then as an extra-added bonus, includes a silver studded skull on the front, furthering our already well documented pirate fixation, and emphasizing our general attitude of "fuck you"-ness. This bronze color is delightful, it's also available in black and white (though good luck finding the latter). We have it in black....avast!!


There, that should damage your personal bank account balances/credit limits sufficiently for one week. Savings...we don't need no steenking savings!

five (not so) glorious moments in the otherwise extremely glamorous sex life of a cyber vixen



it hasn't always been wine and song in my bedroom. sometimes it's been in bunk beds and garages… and sometimes it was mad dog 20/20.

*one* -- i'll spare this website the hits of disgusting letches looking for the "v" word by saying that the moment i'm talking about here was when i first started *swimming*, so to speak.kalimd.jpg

i was in a classmate's "pool house" during a party with a guy who i just *knew* was in love with me. and when i say pool house, you should remember that this was before i got kicked out of public school. so what i really mean is a shed with a concrete floor. (hey don't be sad, he really liked me, i'm sure he put his towel down for us to lay on.)

quote of the evening? "baby can you drive this train?" said while putting his, uh,
noodle,
in my hand.

*two* --when i was about 21 i was bartending at the local bar on the corner of my college campus. we had a regular crowd, nothing spectacular as this was a state school and most students lived off campus.

but across the street was a house in which a bunch of guys that belonged to the same fraternity lived. ("frat houses" had been outlawed due to hazing practices.) the boys used to come over and i'd get them wasted on keg beer for pennies as long as they tipped well.

one night they invited me over to the house after closing. (to be honest, a lot of nights they asked – i HATEd frat boys, but this night i caved – i'm sure drugs were promised.) so needless to say i get shitfaced drunk and end up fucking with the president in the top bunk of a bunk bed and then passing out.

i woke up in the middle of the night feeling something wet. it didn't take me long to realize that it was me pissing the bed. so what'd i do? i did what any good alcoholic would do… i finished!! and then hightailed it out of there and never went back to that job again. heh.

*three* - once when i was in seventh grade i was huffing gas in my friend stephanie's garage. her little brother was out there watching us for some reason. she went to go get something and i finished huffing and just turned around and started making out with him. she was not happy when she walked back in and caught us. he was in 5th grade. i was the talk of the middle school let me tell you…

kali920.jpg*four* - when i was in my senior year of high school this new boy transferred in and he was kinda cute and he played football and lacrosse and he had a crush on me. this was news because everyone knew by my senior year that i was

a. crazy

b. a drunk cheating slut

and so no popular boys really wanted anything to do with me. so before any of the other boys had a chance to warn him about me, this guy asked me out. one night we're fooling around on the couch while my parents were downstairs sleeping/watching tv and it gets pretty heavy and he's fingering me and i'm moaning and it's hot.

then he pulls his hand out of my pants and it's covered in blood. oops sorry mr popular football guy looks like i got my period. horror shame embarrassment i'm not going to school on monday. but turns out he was cool about it and didn't tell anyone and we went to homecoming together.

then at homecoming i got drunk and left with someone else and THEN on monday everyone was calling me BLOODY MARY. ha! high school what fun.

years later i run into the guy in annapolis and he's going to the naval academy and i'm wasted and he comes up to apologize for being such a dick in high school and of course i accept and sneak back to the naval academy and have sex on his roommate's bed with him and when i get up to leave at 4 in the morning while he's still sleeping (pro move) i realize that i got my period during the night and the whole bed is covered in blood. bloody mary strikes again.

*five* - wow. hard to follow that last one there. lessee… oh, here's one. one time i go home with a guy from a bar. (this one i happened to know.) we do the whole falling in the bedroom door ripping each other's clothes off thing. screw each other's brains out then pass out in his bed.

in the morning i'm doing the follow the clothing trail to get dressed thing while he rubs his eyes trying to figure out who i am. i hear rustling from the other corner of the room. i hug the clothes to my chest and crane my neck over the bed to see a playpen. with a toddler in it.

"what the fuck is that?" i ask.

"that's my daughter."



Kali writes daily at Kalipornia Sux

September 20, 2006

hockey balls

Funny day.

You ever had a day when you felt like you where in a hole then all of a sudden everything started falling into place?

New columnists, new topics, new looks, new everything about FTTW.

It's kinda cool.

And hours earlier you were pushing your car to the gas station. Have one of those days? Where you can sit covered in sweat shaking, talking to someone about how bad their day has been going and all of a sudden, within seconds, things change.

It's kinda cool.

But that’s just our day. We need to move on. We are getting a few new sports writers. Oh, you damn well knew it was only a matter of time before I got a female roller derby player in here and a hockey player.


rollerderby.jpgHey dude, it's what we do. We see what we want and we grab it.

So in the spirit of that we pose a simple question to you.

What's your favorite sport and why?

turtle goes all meg on you

Well, this is a tough one. I love watching roller derby. Dude, chicks beating each other up covered in tattoos blasting punk rock in the back. But, really, is that really a sport? I mean I kinda get it, but not really. So, I guess I can't say women beating each other up is my favorite sport, but fuck yeah, it comes close to the top three. Seeing some girl scream for air while her moans for help being masked by the Ramones playing in your ears is incredible.

But I really think the sport that will always hold me tight is this one. Soccer. Fuck you guys who call it football. I fucking hate saying American Style Football. That sounds lame. That's part of the reason I won't talk sports on other sites with people from "across the pond." Which even saying that "pond" thing is lame.

You wanna know why I call it soccer? Cause we won all the World God Damn Wars. That gives us the right to name anything. I'll rename your son to "The Mustard Boy" if you have an accent. Wanna know why? D-Day. That's why.That's right Mr. Mustard Man. That's why.

Keep talking to me and I'll have your whole family named after some food condiment.

Sure, soccer. I like it. I played it. It was fun. I will give you that it isn't a very newbie type of game. You can't really see what is going on when you look at it except, well nothing, but if you really watch the plays that are happening and the skill that are used, it is incredible.spice_girls_150d.JPG I am the type of person who never bags on anyone else's gig. If you like football, that's fine. I don't care. Just don't bag on my favorite or I will tell 20 ways to one how bad yours sucks.

I love Euro. I love our division. I die for World Cup. I love watching everything except that god damn Beckham and his stupid wife. Meh, go to Spain. Go to fucking Pampalounius for all I care. Poncho de Via and all that shit. You’re not in our league, so I could give a fuck less. I mean really dude. You are nailing a Spice Girl. I mean that may be cool and all, but you know you get made fun of in the papers. Don't try to fool any of us. You get mocked.

I got off track again.

Soccer is fun because watching it is more like a soap opera. I guess you really have to play it to get it. Run around for 90 minutes coughing all your air out and then the ball hits you again. What the hell? Can I have five minutes rest? Two? Nope. Keep going. Kind of the same attitude I developed over my lifetime. Always realize that this game is going to go on till the extra time is out and untill then, you have to keep fucking running till that final whistle blows.

Until then..

You keep running. - T

michele takes two minutes in the box:

Like the man said, it's been one of those days. Just when I was feeling kind of pessimstic and all angsty about things, life changed in a flash. Things are happening. Things are moving fast. I'm not really good about change (insert bitching about having to move my office to another floor today), but some changes, they are the ones you have been laying awake at night wondering how you can make them happen. And then they do. Life kicks ass sometimes. And speaking of kicking ass (see how I did that?).....I'm supposed to be talking about my favorite sport.

Hockey. That’s my game. Yea, I love baseball and football. Gave up on basketball a long time ago. But hockey gets me going.

Well, I’ll be truthful here. I’m partial to old time hockey. Very partial. The NHL is just a shadow of what it used to be. Back when men were men and helmets weren’t required.

Old time hockey. Back in the time of bench clearing brawls. Remember those? Started with a trip or a high stick and ended up with everyone, including the goalies, pairing off and punching out, sticks and gloves scattered all over the ice. If you were lucky, a goon or two would climb over the penalty box and into the stands.

Makes me want to grit my teeth and growl.

I mean that in a good way.

Yea, I'm a barbarian. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just that I was raised to believe that a hockey game wasn't complete until someone got a game misconduct. If two or three or even four people got a misconduct, all the better.oldtimehockey.jpg My mama raised me right. We’d sit in front of the tv watching an Islander/Flyer and taking bets on who was going to get the first penalty. Who would drop the gloves first. Who would go down in a heap of bleed and teeth.

Oh yea, the game. Of course I like the skating, the finesse, the hat tricks and assists and icing everything that makes hockey a beautiful sport. But fuck. You want beautiful hockey? Go watch Miracle. You want raw power and blood and flying teeth? Buy a best of hockey fights tape. Because you damn sure aren't going to see any good, old-fashioned type brawls in today's NHL.

The late 70's and early 80's were the golden age of hockey fights. Tiger Williams, Dave Semenko, Bobby Clark, Terry O'Reilly, Clark Gillies, Marty McSorely, Willie Plett, just to name a few. It was a time when the word "enforcer" meant something. Someone who protected the forwards. Someone who could throw a hip check with such devasting force that the boards rattled. Someone who intimidated the opposing team into playing like pansies. Now, you get guys like Tie Domi, who are nothing more than 200 pounds of testosterone wrapped around a low-functioning brain. Yesterday's enforcers could play and score; today's goons are cheap-shot artists with all the skills of Happy Gilmore.


My favorite hockey fight moment ever: Clark Gilles of the Islanders and Ed Hospodar of the Rangers, squaring off. Dancing around the ice with gloves off and fists raised. Eyeing each other, waiting to see who was going to go for the jersey pull first. Gillies throws a punch. Lands it but good. Hospodar goes down with a broken jaw. And that is how he got the nickname “One Punch Hospodar” in my family.

I miss those days. I miss the aggression and and the bone crushing checks. I miss the dropping of gloves and the Flyers climbing into the stands and players jumping out of the penalty box to join a brawl. Call me barbaric or whatever it is you call people who find violence between consenting adults who get paid to do such a thing exciting and fun. I don’t care. That’s why I loved hockey.

I still love it, even with all the ridiculous rule changes, even with the way Bettman has destroyed the league. Even with the way Charles Wang has fucked with the Islanders.

The Islanders. My love of hockey was born with them.isles.jpg I watched them grow from a team of cellar dwelling losers to Stanley Cup champions. Four years in a row I drove my car up and down Hempstead Turnpike with thousands of other people celebrating a championship. One year I was there. Inside the Coliseum. Islanders v. North Stars and the Isles clinched the cup. I stood there watching them circle the ice with Lord Stanley’s cup held high and damn if that wasn’t one of the greatest moments of my life. People who don’t watch sports don’t understand that, but if you are a sports fan, any sport, you know.

Every September I get hopeful again. I get all optimistic about the upcoming seasons. I look forward to the daily fights with my kid (he’s a damn Ranger fan). I know from experience that I’ll be let down. It’s always a “building” year with these guys. Hell, they could have built the fucking pyramids by now. One of these days. They’ll get back on track and I’ll get to feel that rush of adrenaline that comes when it’s game 7 and nearing overtime and the cup is on the line. That’s a rush. Man, I miss those days. Hell, I can still tell you the jersey number of every member of the 80-81 team.

For now, I settle for watching a pretty mediocre team that’s being crushed by crappy management. But I always have my hockey fight tapes to soothe me. Fisticuffs. Gloves scattered on the ice. Hair flying. A few loose teeth.

Old time hockey. Eddie Shore. -M


So that's our day and these are our sports. What's your favorite? And hey, if you hate sports and think they are lame and stupid and a they are a metaphor for the barren wasteland of our patriarchal society, we don't want to hear it. Don't be that guy.

Just tell us what sports you like. Without saying the Yankees suck. Because I will hurt your face if you say that.

Supersuckers Fisticuffs
Hanson Brothers The Hockey Song
The Business Maradona
The Business England 5 - Germany 1

The Tavern



It's hard to figure out what to write for this. It's something that has to be experienced and the experiences are sometimes hard to put on paper.

So I asked my Smart Half what I should write for the next one, and he immediately said "the Tavern".

The tavern was 12 miles up a winding road on the banks of the Coos-Millicoma river. It was the gathering spot for the local community, and every Wednesday the place would fill up, packed wall to wall with the locals, and everyone who could play was packed into a corner. The floors were plank, it was heated by a woodstove. It was built in the late 1920s. People would spill out onto the highway and drink and smoke. The only ventilation was "open the doors and windows and maybe we can catch a breeze". Some folks would arrive on their boats, and tie up at the dock. You'd be dripping sweat after one or two songs, in the middle of December, with all the doors and windows open just to let the smoke and steam out.


My first experience at the place was one warm summer night when I got hauled up there by some people up the river I knew. It was packed when we arrived. sugar_shack.jpgIt was already rockin, and by rockin, I mean the floor was vibrating and the shit on the walls was swinging. There was no having a conversation. If you wanted one, you took your beer and went outside, and even then you'd probably have to holler. There was no room inside, so you danced out on the highway, just moved off to the side when you saw the lights of a car or logging truck barreling down the road.

I was invited up to play a few times, and near the end of the night I was playing "A Pirate Looks at 50" with the Wall o'Guitars and caught a sniff. I looked at one of the guitar players and yelled, "Damn, someone has some good weed outside!". He yelled back, "It ain't outside!" and nodded toward the bar. There was one of the patrons with a tampon-sized joint, taking it to each of the people playing, holding it for them as they took a hit, and going on to the next one. I decided right then that this was a place I would probably frequent pretty often.

And I did. Every Wednesday for two years, I cut my teeth on my bass there. I learned how to play with other people, and I learned how to jam. Jam in the manner of "I've never heard that song. What key is it in? Ok, let's rip". It changed owners at one point, and the party kept rolling. And when it finally closed down, when we played til far past closing time, it was a real bummer to lose it. The Tavern had been in existence under one owner or another for sixty-some years.

No more drunken canoe races on the river. No more falling down the embankment. No more Spike and the Nubtones. No more cramming 120 people into a space with a posted seating capacity of 50. No more riverdawgs (beer simmered sausages served with whatever was in the fridge as toppings). No more Wednesday night musical anarchy with people who's musical tastes ranged from Jimmy Buffet to the Misfits to Deep Purple.

Everything falls apart eventually, and you just move on to the next period of weirdness that comes along. At least you do when the city you live in is 150 miles from the nearest interstate.

Blow Up


Before I go any further, I need to put the disclaimer up. But, I’ll tease you with this. Jonny D. and I blew up the back yard.
And now, The Disclaimer.


Summertime was the best. No school, nowhere to be and for the most part, my parents let me alone and allowed me to run free. So, most days were spent out of the house and tearing around with my best friend, Jonny D. Both of his parents worked, so during the summer, if we were up to something nefarious, we’d go to Jonny’s. And if we wanted something to eat, we’d go to my place. Mom was always about and made a damn fine grilled cheese, which was just what we needed after almost blowing ourselves up. Which was more often than we would ever admit to our parents. Jonny and I would blow something up at least once a week, more if we had firecrackers.


His parents had split up before I met him and his father was always buying him stuff. Partially because he was trying to cover for being a sloppy drunk and partially because he wanted his boy happy. Apparently firecrackers made him happy. Jonny and I would concoct elaborate battlefields in his back yard with plastic soldiers and lady fingers. Trenches and paths and small bits of coiled wire and lots and lots of lady fingers, buried about three quarters of the way into the dirt. They served as mortar fire, and as mines as our little plastic soldiers marched on to their demise. When we ran out of plastic soldiers, we’d use his little brother’s G.I. Joes. We’d have bottle rocket battles with the other kids in the neighborhood, usually in the woods behind Jonny’s house. We’d take the bolt action rifle cap guns that every military brat seemed to have and rip the crappy plastic bolt out of them, leaving us a clear channel for the bottle rocket. You could slide it right in and the fuse would peek out of the place where the bolt used to be. Jonny could hit a kid at fifty paces, while the target was moving.firecrackers.jpg

Not long after we started our adventures in pyromania Jonny’s mom found herself a new beau. Naturally, we didn’t like him. Jonny’s dad was a bear of a man, all hair and spectacles. He followed boxing. He smoked cigars and drank gin straight. Jonny’s dad had more records than either of us had ever seen. He knew jazz inside and out and would tell us stories while the records played. This is a man who let us listen to “SuperNigger” and “Is It Something I Said” for Christ’s sake. Who’s going to compete with this guy ?

What was that ? New Guy hunts ? Big deal. Any animal with a bone can kill something. I’m sorry ? He hand loads his own shells and keeps a pound of gunpowder in the basement ? Sorry, cigar smoking-jazz man. You just lost out.

It didn’t take too terribly long for Jonny’s mom and her new boy to move in together and once they did, we immediately started the sucking up. We’d hang out and talk to him for a while after he got home from work. Asking him about the best way to gut a turkey and how to hang a deer before you dressed it. He’d have a few beers and take us down to the basement, where’d he’s show off his collection of guns and bows. And, after a few weeks, he showed us the hand loader and the gunpowder.

Let me be clear here. Jonny and I had no interest whatsoever in how to make a bullet. We just wanted to make a bigger bomb than we’d ever made before. We’d made several in the past, mostly film canister sized stuff, but we’d had to take apart what seemed like hundreds of firecrackers before we had enough gunpowder to even partially fill the canisters. Sitting out on the back porch with our little folding knives, carefully cutting each one apart and dumping the contents into an old mason jar. Which, when combined with a paper funnel, we’d use to fill the canisters. It was slow work, and we were kids. Our attention span was thirty minutes, tops, unless something blew up. But it still seemed like drudgery. schematic.gif

We’d done the research at the local library. Basic guides for almost anything were still available at the library when I was a kid. We didn’t have the Intarweb or The Anarchist’s Cookbook. But we had old bomb schematics and basic chemistry manuals. And stuff you’d find around the house. It’s kind of scary how easy it was. And we put together, in our heads at least, the makings of a decent bomb. Eight ounces of gunpowder, distributed evenly and tamped down across the bottom of a coffee can. Cotton wadding, to compress the gunpowder, comprised mostly of shredded cotton balls. A piece of twine, rolled in glue and then in gunpowder for a fuse. Melted candle wax would seal the whole thing tight. All we needed was the gunpowder. And there it was. Waiting for us.

Over the next few weeks, Jonny’d take a little bit of gunpowder and add it to the mason jar. And every day we’d weigh the mason jar on a food scale and subtract the weight of the jar. Hoping, that we’d finally hit the magical eight ounces. It took quite a bit longer than we’d originally anticipated. We were paranoid that he’d notice a fair amount of the gunpowder missing and bust us. So we moved slowly. And finally, a week after school started, we had enough.

After school, every day, we’d run like hell over to Jonny’s house and do a little more work on the bomb. And after a week, we were fairly satisfied with the job we’d done. All we needed was the opportunity. That weekend, Jonny’s dad was going away and since he and his brother were staying at his mother’s house... Well, you can see where this is heading. The night before, I stayed over at Jonny’s and we set the alarm for six. It’d take us a couple of hours to walk over to his dad’s place and get everything set up.

It was unusually cold that morning. Not that it mattered to me, but Jonny had a jacket. And the leaves were changing. The air was a little crisp and we could see our breath. This beautiful fall morning to spend and all we wanted to do was blow shit up. It was a good walk, but we got to Jonny’s dad’s place a little earlier than expected. We had a foldable shovel with us that we’d found at an Army Surplus store a few months before and we dug a small hole in the back yard to bury the bomb in. We lit the fuse, and ran like hell.

We figured, by the length of the fuse, that we had about fifteen seconds to get away. We had a little more (the twine burned kinda slow) but it was still tight. We ducked behind the big tree in his back yard just in time. “Boom” really doesn’t cover it. “Blam” isn’t even close. A roar unlike anything we’d heard erupted from the yard. Dirt and sticks and other debris flew into the air, just as the sound hit and bounced off the house. Jonny and I peeked from around the tree to see a gaping hole in the ground with smoke pouring out of it. crater.jpg

And that’s when we noticed the wadding. The cotton wadding that we’d used to pack the gunpowder down, that apparently wasn’t packed tight enough. Or maybe it was, and we’d just used entirely too much of it. But a whole lot of it had flown into the air, on fire, to gently drift to the ground. Onto the leaves that had fallen from the trees and a semi dry lawn. Within thirty seconds, there were a dozen small fires in Jonny’s back yard.

We barely got a chance appreciate our handiwork before we were running around and putting out the fires. Stamping on them in our ‘Chucks, watching the cheap rubber melt as we ran around, trying to keep the yard from fully going up. We were scared as hell that the lawn would catch fire and elated at what we’d created at the same time. After we were satisfied that they were all out and that our shoes hadn't caught fire as well, we covered them with whatever leaves hadn’t caught fire and prayed that Jonny’s dad wouldn’t rake the lawn. We’d left a hole about eight inches deep and about a foot wide right in the middle of the yard. It was still smoking a little and there was nothing left of the coffee can. We gaped at it, completely amazed that it’d worked. And it had nearly burned the house down.

We hung around the house for a little while, just to make sure that no one in the neighborhood called the cops. And after a few hours, we headed back to Jonny’s other house. As we were walking down the street, he pulled two cigarettes out of his bag. A celebratory measure. He handed one to me along with his pack of matches and grinned. You see, he had this idea for a bigger bomb….

FTTW Photo "Contest"

Last Saturday we introduced our Saturday Photography column. Every other week Shawna will write about film photography and every other week will be something else; sometimes someone writing about digital photography, sometimes a reader photo thread, sometimes a little of both.

This Saturday we will have a column on digital photography as well as a an opportunity for FTTW readers and contributors to submit their own photos. We are going to present a theme every time we do this.

This week's theme is Seasons. That's really open to interpretation, but anything that depicts a specific season would fit the theme.

To enter this week's theme, just send your photo to submissions@fasterthantheworld.com with "photo" in the header. You can attach the photo or just send a link to your image online. We will post them on Saturday morning along with the photography column and we'll have a little voting just for fun to make it interesting.

Questions? Leave them in the comments and we'll get to them.

Let's see what you've got!

That Must Hurt

Today I’m thinking about those things that make you squirm with discomfort in yours eat. Every now and then you’ll come across a good scene that you can almost feel just from watching – empathetic and sadistic at once, your mind tells you not to look but you find yourself looking closer. We’re all desensitized from years of watching violence, but every now and then we’ll catch a gem that makes the most jaded of us think, “That’s fucked up”. Or maybe even, “That’s fucked up. That must really hurt. That must be so fucking agonizing…….”

So here are a few notable scenes of unbearable pain I’ve enjoyed watching over the years.


tendon.jpgPet Sematary

This is one of the better examples of Stephen King books that have been put to film. It’s about a guy whose kid gets run over by a transport truck, so he resurrects him by burying him in the local magic Indian burial ground (these are actually surprisingly commmon in New England but you need to know who to ask). Of course the ground is tainted, and what comes back to you isn’t what you knew before. The guy’s kid comes back as a little fucking menace, and that kid stirs up some shit to remind us all that bringing the dead back to life is hardly ever a good idea.

The best part is when he goes after the nice old man across the road. He lures the old guy (played by Fred Gwynne, that’s Herman Munster to you younguns) up to the bedroom and hides under the bed. Fred Munster gets on his hands and knees to look for the kid, and said kid comes up behind him and slices through the Achilles tendon on the old man’s leg. The Achilles tendon is the one at the back of your leg, right on top of the heel. That semi-soft, flexible ropey thing right on top of your heelbone. Reach down and feel for it. Got it? Keeping it attached to your heel is essential if you want to walk and/or avoid excruciating pain. Think about it for a second. Give that tendon a squeeze. If you squeeze it laterally, it doesn’t take much pressure before it feels pretty uncomfortable. It feels like it’s under a certain amount of tension too, doesn’t it? If you were to sever that thing, it seems that that tendon might just whip back into your calf and give the tissue on the inside of your leg a nice little towel snap. That wouldn’t be pleasant at all and you’re well advised to avoid such things.

Not in the cards for the old man though. Scalpel into the back of his foot. Nice and slow - although it’s all relative, I suppose. The little fucker didn’t slash right through it, but he took a second or two and did it right. The look on the old man’s face is just classic too. It’s one of those “oh shit” looks, but he was probably in too much pain to see, feel or think anything except for a blinding, overwhelming and hyper-real sense of pain that was overloading his brain. Good times.


hellbox.jpg Hellraiser

My first exposure to the genius of Clive Barker was when I read one of his earliest books, The Damnation Game. One part of that book sticks with me today and it really belongs on film. A few dead guard dogs were Raised From The Dead to defend their owner. But they were halfway rotted, and being dogs, they smelled (their own rotting) meat wherever they went. They didn’t feel pain when they ate the rotten flesh hanging off their own bodies… corpses. One of the dogs had a large wound in his neck, so when he ate pieces of himself, the chewed up pieces fell out of the neckhole and onto the ground. So he picked them up and ate them again. Now that’s cool.

But what about Hellraiser?

“The box.”

“Take it, it’s yours…….. it always was.”

There are too many good parts in this movie so I’ll stick mostly with the beginning, when the box is first opened by Frank Cotton. See, Frank was a bit of a dirty boy and he wanted to experience every sensual pleasure that life had to offer. So he bought a magic box purported to show you exactly that. He opens the box, and a multitude of hooks start pulling him open. I’ve had regular old fishhooks stuck in me lots of times, more often in the back of the neck than anywhere else. It’s never that bad but it’s not comfortable. The thing about those hooks is that they’re just the beginning for anyone who feels them. They’re just a tiny indication of the approaching experience’s intensity. Besides, if you open that box on purpose then you asked for it, didn’t you? You wanted a sensual experience, didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU??? Of course you did. Now your soul is going to get torn apart. You should have just stayed home and beat off.

What about the process where Frank has to rebuild his body from the corpses of others in order to escape the Cenobites and return to this dimension? That process took a while, and he spent a lot of time in various stages of, um, disrepair. Crawling around the attic with his organs dragging on the ground, probably picking up dust and dead spiders and shit. Eventually he has enough muscle tissue formed that he can stand up and walk around, but the he still has no skin. Nobody likes an open wound but this guy’s entire body was skinless. Think about how it would feel to be skinned alive, and then think of it in reverse. Think about how a scab itches, and then think about your whole body itching like that. Well at least it’s healing.

mday.jpgMother’s Day

Mother’s Day is a Troma Video masterpiece and I’ll have to give it more space at another time. If you’re not familiar, Troma is an independent video company that mainly makes cheap horror movies. More than a few of them suck ass, but some of them are great and I’m glad Troma exists to make the good ones. Like this one!

Three girls go camping in the woods and are kidnapped by a couple of crazy backwoods dullards and their crazy Mom (not before they go skinny dipping though, don’t worry). There’s this escape scene where one of the girls is lowering her friend out of a second storey window in a sleeping bag attached to a rope. When one of the captors walks by, she has to keep her friend suspended in the bag for a minute or so. That rope’s been digging into her hand already, and the longer that fucking guy stands there, the more the rope is slowly spinning and digging its way into the flesh of her hand. But if she makes a sound their chances are shot, and by the time the guy finally moves away, there’s no flesh left for the rope to dig into. That minute takes an eternity. This movie is low budget but those guys knew what they were doing with their money. That rope scene looks fucking excruciating.

So come on, these aren’t all of my favorites and I know I missed a lot of yours. Those little bits and pieces that you love not being able to turn away from. What are they?

Ramones - Pet Sematary

September 19, 2006

Yo Ho Hos!

Talk like a pirate day.

Honestly, after a couple of years of doing this, it got tiresome. There’s only so many times you can tell the pirate movie joke. Only so many times you can say ‘arrrrrrrrrr’ before someone shoves their fist in your face. Only so many times you can dress like a wench to try to earn some extra cash. Five. Five times before they catch on that you’re not a real wench, in case you were wondering.

But still, we’re gonna talk about pirates. Why? Because someone asked us to. And we give you what you want. Within reason. Don’t ask for something like six extra inches on your penis, because everyone knows that you can only get that through email.

michele walks the plank:

Pirates. I was trying to think of what to write here. Pirate movies! But you know, there just aren’t a lot of good pirate movies. Sure, there’s Ice Pirates but I happen to know that Turtle is going to mention it, so I don’t want to do that.

Oh! Speaking of pirates and movies! Once I had this idea. To make the perfect movie. To take all the elements of every cool movie and throw them together in one glorious cinematic experience. And it all started with pirates. See, pirates are the ultimate in cool. They get to say things like “booty” and drink rum all day long and have loose women with big tits serve them beer and make people walk the plank. Yo ho ho, it’s a pirate’s life for me!


But what would make a movie about hedonisticpiratezombie.jpg pirates even better? Why, ninjas, of course! Pirates and ninjas, together at last! While the pirates are all boisterous and brazen, the ninjas are stealth masters. It’s like peanut butter and chocolate. Michele and Turtle. Made to be together. Maybe the ninjas are hiding in the rum barrels and they surprise the pirates one night.

And maybe, just maybe there are also zombies. Because you can’t have a cool movie without zombies. The zombies appear after the ninjas jump out of the rum barrels, right while the pirates are doing their moonlight dance of debauchery on the poop deck. And just when you think it couldn’t get any crazier, the aliens land.

So we have pirates, ninjas, zombies and aliens. What else do we need?

Mimes! We need mimes! Because the pirates and ninjas and zombies and aliens all need a common enemy so they can join forces and eventually have a big ceremony at the end where they thank each other for their help in overcoming the intergalactic, transnational problem of mimes. They have lots of rum and beer and brain sandwiches served by wenches and sing songs of the seven seas that the pirates teach everyone. Because they’d like to teach the world to sing. In perfect harmony. See, pirates aren’t so bad after all.


Actually, I know first hand about them. Really. Something not too many people know about me: I’ve been on a pirate adventure. That’s right.

It all started with this dude named Scott.

Scott sends me to a flat in London.

What a bloody mess.piratadv.jpg Smashed rum bottles, cracker crumbs, a shelf with a slew of books. I pull a book out at random. It’s dirty with blood. The cover says something about the magic word being "Yoohoo!" Oh. Wait. Yoho. Not Yoohoo.

Pirates. I should have known. Damn you, Scott.

Against my better judgment, I say it. Cause it’s like watching Candyman and the knowing that you are damn well gonna go look in the mirror after and start chanting his name. So I say it. What the hell? I’m on a beach and, shit. There’s a pirate ship. Well fuck me.

I know that somewhere between the stinking pirates and buried treasure there’s going to be a dark cave.

I’m likely to be eaten by a grue.

Fucking pirates. -M

turtle sails the high seas!!!

Really? International Talk Like A Pirate Day? What the hell is this?

Really, I have as much experience in this as I do inserting tampons. Into girls that is. I can do it to myself with a pen and some lube but for girls? Hell, why do you think I subscribe to "Menstruation Monthly?" If I have a fetish, I need a fix.

I always hate chicks saying, "Oh, I'm so horny" when they are bleeding. Sure. I'll fuck you. But, the next time I want chocolate cookies at night, you know I'm gonna pull this out of the "Turtle Favor Bag."

"Man, I could go for some cookies."

"Well, it is getting late."

"Really. That late? Blood. Covering my cock. Girl. Having an orgasm. Remember that? Looks like you have a date with the Pillsbury Doughboy."

Pretty straight forward when it comes to that. Hell, girls on their period save me money on lube, so why the fuck should I care? More money in the turtles’ pocket means extra peppers on that next slice of pizza.

And bloody sex is a small trade off for extra peppers.

Where was I at.....

Pirates! Arg and all that shit. Honestly we kinda let this one go as we felt like tonight. Last time I saw a pirate was some bad LSD trip, but I also saw a giant penis walking around with a string on it that said "pull me" so who the fuck knows what I saw that night. All I was know there were pirates. I've discussed Captain Saber Tooth before, and if you haven't read those stories, refer to the Underground. But, pirates, or Pirates...do I capitalize that? It's like spitting or swallowing. I don't really care whet you so as long as you don't try to kiss me after my man mustard is dribbling out of your mouth. Wear a fucking eye patch for all I care.

I'll board your ship and make you walk my plank.gay sailor.jpg

So I guess this post has more turned into sex and pirates. I mean really. Think about it. The cabin boy wasn't around for nothing. No. The cabin boy was boarded at all times, matey! Avast ye matey! In fact my running theory is that all pirates were homosexuals with swords. Which is a pretty scary thing if you think about it. Richard Simmons running down the street with an eye patch and a sword.

Fucking nightmare scenario right there.

So let's see where we are at.

Gay pirates and menstruation.

I think there is a Gay Pirate convention this week.

If the Trekkies can have one...

The gay pirates who are menstruating can have one too.

After all.

It's a free country.

arggg! - T

So as you can see, there is not really a whole lot to talk about here. Pirates and talkng like them. But really, if you think about it, weren't most of them like Spanish or something?

Wouldn't that be "Yo quiero gold, matey?"

So this is the deal.

Tell us about your best pirate experience, and yes, we will even allow in Star Trek Convention experiences?

*Cue the ladies with the Johnny Depp things......

Vandals - Pirate's Life

The Fictional Universe: Week 1


Today brings you another new feature at FTTW: The Fictional Universe.

Welcome to the fast-paced and exciting world of the Fictional Universe, where
ALL of the characters from fiction coexist with each another and share a
common history
For more info, please visit the very amusing FAQ here.

fuvweek1.jpg

Click the image to go to the full strip.

Criminis and shiitakes. Whatever tickles your pickle



One of the best parts of cooking is that so many recipes are excellent chameleons. Learn a few simple recipes, and you will impress the shit out of friends and family.

Ok, enough chit-chat. I'm tired and running late getting this in. Less talk, MORE ROCK.


Mushroom-Cream Ragout
12 oz sliced mushrooms (I prefer a 50-50 combination of criminis and
shiitakes, but whatever tickles your pickle)
1 large onion, sliced into very thin half-moons
4 cloves garlic
4 Tbsp UNSALTED butter
2 Tbsp olive oil
salt and pepper.
1/2 cup alcohol (I used sherry, but it would be equally awesome with cognac,
brandy, or bourbon).
1/2 cup beef stock
1/4 cup heavy cream
Any combination of fresh parsley, tarragon, thyme, and chives. Seriously,
your call.

In a large skillet, heat 2 Tbsp of the butter over medium heat. After the water in the butter has evaporated, add the onions and garlic and 1/4 tsp salt. Sweat them over medium heat for about 5 minutes. Add the mushrooms and olive oil and crank up the heat a notch or two. DO NOT ADD SALT.salt.jpg I swear to god if you add salt right now, I will find out where you live and cut your face. Salt pulls the liquid out of the mushrooms. It will make them tough and the sauce will be too soupy. Cook till the mushrooms are nice and brown.

Once the mushrooms are brown, NOW you may add salt and pepper, and you should do so liberally. Play it safe, tiger, and pull the pan off the heat. Add the booze and put it back over high heat. When the booze is boiling good and hard, add the stock. When this has reduced to about 1/2 cup of total liquid in the pan, add the cream and stir to combine. Reseason with salt and pepper. Once you get the sauce to the consistency you want, add the butter and the herbs.

This sauce is unbelievably versatile. Here are some service suggestions:

- toss with pasta

- serve over steak or pork chops

- add 1/2 c grated parmesean cheese. Spoon into cleaned portobello mushroom caps. Sprinkle with bread crumbs and put in a 400 degree oven for about 20 minutes.

- double the alcohol, change the cream to 1 cup, and up the stock to 3 cups. Simmer for 20 minutes. Toss in the blender if you want. Boom. Kickass mushroom soup.

As always, nothing washes dinner better than a healthy dose of metal. So tune in to "Dead of the Night" at 10pm Eastern, every Tuesday night on WXDU.

ms. pac-man is a whore

Sure, I’m a big fan of the home console. But I come from a time when the only way to play video games was to get a fistful of quarters and head to an arcade or a bar. I wasn’t really big on arcades; too many little kids, too many people pushing for the same machines. But I was real big on bars. A live band, a bunch of shots and people who were willing to run to the bar for me for quarters and more shots.

Really, I hated bars. I’m not a very social person. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like gatherings. I don’t like any social event that involves more than, say, three people and takes place outside my home. I prefer not to leave my house at all. Ever. But back then, my friends would drag me out. Literally. They would come to my house and kind of push me out the door and into the car. They’d hit me up with a drink as soon as I got in the car to loosen me up and maybe by the time we got to whatever hole in the wall we were headed to, I’d be a bit more social.

But once video games started appearing in all these little bars and clubs, everything changed. They no longer had to force me out. I would be at the door waiting for them. Because I knew that once we got to the bar I would fuck them off. While they sat at their table listening to another drunken cover band and arguing about some Lord of the Rings plot point, galaga1.jpg I would head straight for the bar. Three shots. Can I have the change in quarters, please? And then I’d spend the rest of the night in front of the machine, mashing buttons and killing bugs and driving the Rally X car into walls. My friends were happy I got out of the house, and I managed to have a life that existed outside my bedroom. Win win situation. Except for when I played Galaga..


We hit a different place every weekend. There was the sleazy neighborhood bar where I memorized the Pac-Man pattern that I can still follow today. The other local joint where the bartender threatened to turn the sound off of Bezerk because he was sick of hearing “Intruder Alert” all night long. The club where the Doors cover band played and I knocked back kamikaze shots until the placed closed while trying to get that damn Rally X car to drive straight. Each game had its own drink, its own bar. Asteroids and tequila. Centipede was some shot that mixed Amaretto and Southern Comfort and to this day every time I think of Centipede I taste that putrid sweetness in the back of my throat. Because shots like that might be ok going down, but they kind of suck coming up. But every game called for some kind of shot. See, I didn’t really drink. Not in the sipping a drink kind of way. I did shots. You keep a constant buzz that way and I didn’t have to be bothered balancing a drink on the console. Throw back the shot, stick the shot glass in my back pocket. What? I wasn’t going to leave the machine and let someone else take over. When I was ready for another shot and another handful of quarters there was always some guy perfectly willing to be my bar runner.

Yea, I spent a lot of time playing Pac-Man. Come on, who didn't in the 80's? It may seem lame to you now, but that game was the shit back in the day. Do you know how hard it is to chase a god damn apple when you are drunk? Fuck Inky and Clyde and the rest of the damn ghosts. I wanted that fruit. That blessed, elusive fruit. How many times I put myself in the sites of Pac-Man just because I was greedy and had to have that orange or grape or whatever fruity round I was on. Some nights you would find me banging my fists on the screen, yelling, "Damn you, apple! Damn you to hell!" At which point someone would bring me another shot and ask if it was maybe time to just put the quarters down.

And then Ms. Pac-Man came. At first I fell for her wiley ways. She was new, exciting, and she had pretzels, dude. Pretzels! No more chasing around just fruit. There was a pretzel to be had. But see, the Ms. Pac-Man machine was right next to her male counterpart and I would turn and look at Pac-Man every once in a while sitting there all alone while everyone lined up to stroke and caress Ms. Pac-Man and well, I took pity on the poor guy. I gave up the hunt for the pretzel and went back to chasing strawberries and apples. mspacmanwasawhore.jpg Ms. Pac-Man was a whore, anyhow. Come on, like you never thought that before. Look at her, all made up like a hooker at a MaryKay convention. She's probably hot for QBert. And dude. She's naked. She's sitting up on top of the game in that cheescake pin-up pose and she is NAKED. Do you think she is anatomically correct? Well, I guess those Pac-kids had to come from somewhere.

Anyhow.

One of my favorite bars had this crappy Led Zeppelin cover band and dollar shots on Friday nights. And they had Galaga. I had a love/hate relationship with that game. I just couldn’t get into a flow with it. I tried switching drinks. Tequila. Some imported beer. 151 rum. I even tried playing sober. You ever listen to a bad Led Zeppelin cover band while sober? It’s painful. So one night my friend decides that if I’m going to beat Galaga, I need to rethink my options. Drinking obviously wasn’t doing it for me. And I wasn’t going to attempt this straight, not when a screeching version of "When The Levee Breaks" was playing in the background. So we went with two tabs of mescaline.

Yea, that was a good idea. I was mesmerized by the colors. The patterns. The tractor beam. That god damn tractor beam. See, when I was drunk and playing, I at least knew to stay away from that. But tripping, it was kind of like....gee, I wonder what it’s like to get sucked into the tractor beam. I bet it would be cool. I wonder if it would make a sound like in Yar’s Revenge. I wonder if they have Fritos in space. I could sure go for some Fritos. Hey, Kevin, can you get me a shot of Jack and some Fritos? Well, I can’t get it myself cause the mothership is here and I’m gonna let myself get sucked into the tractor beam and....hey...is that "Going to California"? I love that song, man. That dude can sing.

And then I was sitting at the table arguing with someone about tractor beams and space vacuums.

And the whole point of this story is that video games made me social.

And that Ms. Pac-Man is whore who is now shacking up with Galaga.

Told ya.

So what’s your deal with coin-op games? Did you have a favorite? Play those table top games (I hated them)?

Go to the extended entry below to take my “guess the arcade game” quiz.






[click for bigger]

September 18, 2006

I Got You, Babe

We orginally started this out saying we were going to write about our own worst attributes. The thing we liked the least about ourselves. But, meh. That’s depressing. Then we were going to write about our best attribute. But all I could come up with was that I have nice tits. That’s depressing. So we got on the phone to brainstorm and turtle said, what if we switch it around. Talk about each other’s best attributes. Well, hell. I could do that all night. Probably well into tomorrow. And because we have a lot of new readers on board lately (readers who may not have witnessed the utter emo-ness of the random posts we used to leave for each other on this site) it may give all of you a better of idea of what your hosts are made of. So here we go.

Michele gives you a glimpse of the turtle:

This is easy. Ask my friends. My sisters. I’m always going on about what a great guy Turtle is. But there are things about him that maybe all you - knowing a lot about his past from reading his stories here - can appreciate more than others.

Where he’s been is no secret. Read anything from his Underground stories. Read the Late Night Typing. You will get a glimpse of a past that isn’t very pretty.

I know other people like him. People who have been alcoholics or drug addicts. But they are people who let their past determine their present and future. People who use the rocks life threw at them as a crutch. People who blame everything that happened to them on anyone but themselves and refuse to pick themselves up off the ground and move forward.

Not Turtle. He moved on. He overcame. He stopped everything he was doing and cut ties with the people he was doing it with, even though that meant losing good friends and cutting himself off from the only career he ever knew. He moved away, got clean and stayed that way. He went back to school and got a degree. Became a productive member of society. A career. A home. A life.

But he didn’t just forget his past. He learned from it. And he took all those lessons he learned and put them to good use. He counseled kids that were like him; young punks killing themselves with drugs and alcohol. He literally opened his door to them. There would be people crashing at his house at all hours on any day. His door was really always open. And they would come and seek the advice of someone who had been there and someone who was willing to listen to them or counsel them or just sit with them while they went through a bad time.

People respond to him. The way he talks, his mannerisms, the way he is so bluntly honest about everything, never sugar coating, but always speaking in way that makes you feel comfortable and secure, even when he’s telling you that you fucked up bad.

This is what he does. He helps people. He never hesitates to stop what he is doing to give advice to someone who asks, to help someone who puts out his hand, to take the time to listen to someone who is struggling to be heard. He puts himself out there day after day and sometimes the situations get ugly and he knows this will happen but it doesn’t stop him from giving of himself whenever its asked.

This is The Turtle. The most unselfish person I have ever known. A huge heart and an amazing soul. He will give you his last penny, the shirt off his back and all those other proverbial things. And he will never ask for anything in return. If you are his friend, he will stand up for you no matter what. He will always have your back. If a hail of bullets came your way, he would step in front of them so you could live. He will make you laugh when all you feel like is crying. He will make you smile when you think the world is ending. He will take your hand and lead you down roads you thought were closed off to you. He is incredibly honest and straightfoward. He is a guy who knows what he wants and will persevere until he gets it. Never gives up. Ever. Maybe in his past life he gave up, but this is not that life. This is the turtle that evolved from what he used to be and learned that you never, ever give up because there are always bigger and better things ahead. You just have to get there. Not only does he know how to get there, he’s willing to take anyone along who wants to come.

That’s the turtle.

Plus, he has great legs! -M

turtle explains Michele to herself. Slowly.

This question is easy. For some who don't know, Michele was panicky person who would easily fly off the handle at everything and everything. She would cry a lot about the smallest things.

Fuck if I knew why.

Like cry anytime a coin would drop. I'm not saying that's a bad thing, but it happened always. Panicked and crying. About what? Dude. You need to calm down.

So what's her best attribute?

Her mind.

She has this ability to take things from people and incorporate them into her life. Trivial things seemed not to matter so much anymore to her. She learned to breathe when things seemed to go so wrong in her life. She learned that if you only take things one step at a time, things would get done. But, if you overwhelmed yourself, there would be nothing but a set of tears on a table. Nothing. Her mind learned to walk her thru these things. And if any of you don't know, FTTW was a big project we took on.

She has the ability, even thru the tears, to keep going. Something that she learned. It was amazing to watch this. No matter how bad or good it gets, there can always be a flipside to it and no matter what, you have to keep going. She got that. Finally. But she got it. You have to keep going. Her ability to adapt was killed by a lot of things in her past, but now it was back. And it was back hard. Her mind was on fire again. Something changed. And she could fucking handle it. And she fucking did. And she fucking did well. That is Michele.

Michele can take any situation and make it better or worse depending on the situation. She can adapt and mold things. She will take her kids anywhere, do anything for them and keep up a steady pace of work, being a mom, and staying sane.

She can do that.

People ask us why the site keeps changing. Why more writers? Why the new format? (which isn't done yet, just wait....) Why the new shirts? clicktoentereverybodyover.jpgThat's cause there is a girl in Long Island who has thought this out. Step by step. She has learned that you can get what you want by only looking at the next step and placing your foot on it before you look at the next one.

This is a girl who has a mind on fire again.

Look at all you guys. A lot of you writers and artists have told us that you want in on FTTW because it inspired you. Made you want to actually become part of something bigger. That wasn't me. That was Michele's mind working. She adapted. She became whole again.

Wanna know why I call her the bird?

Because she rose from the ashes like a phoenix on fire.

The new Michele was reborn and she kept flying.

You can't stop a phoenix with an idea.

If you do, all you will get is burned and left in the dust.

Plus she has great tits! - T

So that's what we came up with. The best attributes of your SO. Sure, there are many, but really, since we were in that kinda mode tonight, we wanted to think about the best part of the person you love was. Be it yourself, your dogs, your mailman, we don't care.

What is it?

My Stuff Bag

cullen1.jpgThis is my stuff bag. Sure, I got it free when I joined the Book of the Month club, but it doesn't really matter what king of freakin' bag it is. Just that the bag works for you. I don't care how nice that guitar case or gig bag is. If you play outside your home, you have a guitar stuff bag. Something you use to throw your cables and other gear into.

I have two guitar cases and two gig bags and one of those gig bags never sees any use. I have my stuff bag.

cullen2.jpgMy wife joined a Book of the Month Club ages and ages ago and I claimed the bag. Before that, I tried to find ways to stuff all this crud into my case and fumbled with whatever I couldn't fit into my bag. In my first band, I was a vocalist and was in high school. The guitarist hadn't yet learned the value of a stuff bag. He constantly was leaving crap at other people's homes.

This came up years later, when in another band, our guitarist was this highly organized type. He had color-coded cords, a big tackle box like thing to keep all his picks and cords separated and one of those flexible file folder things that kept his string sizes separate.

In my outside pocket I keep things like tabs, notes, lyrics, lessons, writing utensils, and, normally, picks.

1. This is the coolest guitar stand. It folds down to this itty bitty size and expands out to a very stable stand. It's cheap too.

2. Cables. 16', I think. I need to get a couple of more to throw in there. You can never have too many cables.

3. Strings and picks. Musicians Friend guitar strings. I just got these actually. They were so cheap I couldn't pass them up. I usually keep the picks in my outside pocket (and after taking this picture, moved them).

4. My very cheap, but very decent, tuner and a cheap cable I use specifically for connecting the tuner to the amp.

5. My Sure mic. I keep it in the bag so I can play vocalist also.

6. This is a 1/4" to 1/8" adapter. I almost always have two 1/8" to 1/4" converters in there also. It will now drive me mad until I find them and get them back in my bag. You have no idea how hand these little adapters are. I am actually also missing some male-to-male 1/8" cords, a male-to-male RCA cable, and female-to-female versions of those same cords. Over time I have ransacked my stuff bag for my computer and home electronics needs.

7. Tools. Screwdrivers. Absolutely essential. Allen wrenches - again, completely essential. I'm not sure why I have the files in there, but I'm sure there was a good reason at the time. I am missing a wrench and a standard screwdriver. I also have a multi-tool I normally keep in here, but it's in my car right now.

How about you guys?

What do you keep in your bag. Do you have a special bag or just any old thing? This one friend of mine from a couple of years ago used a military backpack. That was pretty cool.

I Sold Vacuum Cleaners for Two Days Part I



by Ted Rhobe Rae

Back when I was in my late twenties, I decided I was ready to have a child. So I paid Dave, my Costa Rican drug dealer, to find out what the going rate for a healthy baby boy was on the black market. He came back and asked me what kind of baby I wanted. It wasn't a question I was prepared for, so I told Dave I'd think about it. After drinking steadily for a couple of weeks, I decided I wanted an Asian baby, but Dave said that the premium on Asian babies had gone up. After thinking some more, I finally gave him the money for my baby, but on the way to retrieve my bundle of joy from the whorehouse he went to on Wednesdays, he was arrested because he forgot to pay his ticket for public indecency, which was weird, because I could have sworn I watched him mail the check in the same envelope as the checks for public urination and public defecation (it had been a weird weekend). I had no idea when I'd see Dave again, and it looked like my life's savings, which he was supposed to use to purchase me a mathematically-proficient infant, was gone for good. So, I decided I needed to get a job.


The first ad I saw said that with hard work and a go-getter attitude, I could make a grand a week. So I figured that hungover and grumpy would net me at least two hundred bucks a month, and I could work with that. I never heard of the company, Wei Raleigh Sook Incoporated, and had no clue what kind of job it was. I deciding that being overdressed is always better than being underdressed, so I put on my official United States Post Office buttonup and my tie that has the lyrics to "Don't Mess With My Toot-Toot" on it. I went to the interview as sober as possible and tried to make it sound like I meant to slur my words. Before I knew it, I had accepted the job, so I decided it would help to know what the company did.

We sell personal home appliances designed to aid in the removal of dust, dirt, and other unwanted matter," said the interview guy.

I was confused. "You mean vacuum cleaners?"vaccuumfront.jpg

"Vacuums are involved, yes," he replied.

It was a door to door sales job. I could deal with that. I was quite at ease with knocking on a stranger's door and asking to be let inside without really telling them what I planned on doing inside. And since the last time I did that, it resulted in a lengthy dispute resolved by a nasty restraining order, I was pleased to be on the legitimate side of the cold calling business.

We trained for three days, and by the end of it, I knew that vacuum up and down. This thing was fucking amazing. It did EVERYTHING. It had a fucking massage attachment. Hell, I would have bought one if I wasn't so worried that I'd be halfway through a bottle of whiskey one night and try to have sex with it. Can you imagine going to the emergency room with a two-thousand dollar vacuum stuck to your cock? If you can imagine that, it means it hasn't actually happened to you, and you should consider yourself lucky.

My first day in the field was on Saturday, the day I usually went to my Bible study class at the methodone clinic (I could recite the 23rd psalm in the original Hebrew, and that was vocal panty remover for the chicks at the meeting) but I was going to a bris on Sunday, and I could play Hava Nagila with wine glasses, so I figured everything would be fine. Plus, we wouldn't usually work Saturdays, but this Saturday was special. Every single Wei Raleigh Sook dealership in the world would be open. There were dealerships everywhere: all over Europe, South America, Asia, and even one in Baghdad. I asked my boss why there was a dealership in Baghdad, and I'll never forget his reply.

"Think of all that unwanted sand, blowing everywhere--into houses, buildings, wells," he said, a steely look in his eyes. "Unwanted particulate matter is our gold, son, and that motherfucker's a gold mine."

Fair enough, I thought to myself. I could tell right then and there that I was going to have to adapt my train of thought to match that of the master vacuum salesman if I ever wanted to make it in this job like my boss did.

After a rousing pep rally that lasted about two fucking hours, we got into our teams and loaded up in beasts of vans with all of our gear. We were pumped, we were primed, and we were ready to go sell some fucking vacuums. I looked out the window and watched the city roll by, wondering what inferior cleaning appliances were being used in each house I saw, cringing at leaf-covered porches that could easily be cleaned with the Sook 2000x leaf-blower attachment, when the voice of my boss awoke me from my daydream.

"Now son, I noticed you out there smoking with them other boys before you left," my boss said, his drawl thicker than the tobacco stains on my teeth.

"Yeah, you know, talking strategy. Jerry--you know Jerry right?--well he had this idea about using the vacuum cleaner, a bottle of Vaseline, and a tube of salami to, well, I wasn't really paying attention, but..."

"I don't think you should be hanging out with that crowd," he said with finality. "Those are The Drags. The Drags are the folks that drag the rest of us down, you see? They do as little as they can to get by. You don't want to be like them now, do you?"

"On the contrary..."

"Good," he said, not paying attention. We pulled up in front of a nice two-story house with a picket fence. "Now, today I want you to walk up to your first house, hold your head up high, and sell that vacuum son!"

"Yes sir!" I shouted as I leapt from the van.

I did as he told me. I held my head up high, walked up to the front door, knocked firmly, and waited. In seconds, a man the size of my Aunt Marge (notable only because she broke three cranes, a wench, and a construction forman named Chevy Chase (no relation to that one (or that one either)) when she was being removed from her trailer after her death) opened the door, took one look at me, and said, "See you later ASSHOLE!"

Well, he obviously didn't want to be bothered. So I started walking down the sidewalk. Just as I got to the curb, the door opened and he ran outside, holding a bottle of peppermint schnapps and yelling, "Hey! Wait a second?"

I turned around and he said, "Maybe I was too harsh a second ago. What are you doing?"

"Well sir," I said, walking toward him, "I sell a lifestyle. A clean lifestyle. A lifestyle without dirt and grime. A lifestyle where Mr. Clean is a pussy ass crybaby, and only the power of suction reigns supreme."

He must have been impressed, because he took a long pull from the peppermint schnapps and sighed. "Ok, come on in," he said.

The inside of his house was nice, and there was a nice-looking lady sitting in front of the TV. He introduced her as his wife and then left the room.

So I started my spiel. Halfway through the part about the microdust filters and rat feces, the husband walked back out into the living room, carrying a shotgun and polishing it. I looked at him, smiled, and went back to talking, this time, taking notice of my surroundings.

I was in a house of the lord. There were pictures of Jesus EVERYWHERE. There was one of Jesus preaching to a group of people. There was a creepy one of Jesus talking to a bunch of little kids who were all hugging him. There was an art deco one of Jesus high-fiving kids at an ice cream stand.

"...and ma'am, I don't have to tell you that next to cleaning out the stall of a pig who's had butt worms, cleaning out the lines in your vacuum cleaner is the worst task a homemaker can face. And with the Sook two-thou..."_Dental_.jpg

"Do you believe in Jesus Christ the Lord Almighty who died a bloody death on the cross to save us from our sins and grant us eternal salvation as long as we let His words and His spirit into our hearts?" shouted the husband abruptly.

Now I don't know much about Christianity--I'm an atheist--but I didn't think this was the type of ministry Jesus would give a thumbs up to. But before replying, I spotted the only poster I hadn't seen yet.

It was a picture of a wooden cross with a crown of thorns draped over the top. In simple text above the cross, this was written:

"One day, I asked Jesus how much he loved me..."

and below the cross:

"...and he stretched his arms out as wide as he could and said, "I love you this much."

I looked from the poster to the shotgun and said, "Yes sir. Yes I do. Amen."

The husband nodded and walked back out of the room, leaving the shotgun on a table--I can only assume he intended to clean it further after purchasing the Sook 2000x. I turned back to his wife, and within five minutes, she was telling me how they couldn't possibly afford the vacuum. After another ten, I had convinced her she was wrong.

"Woohoo--way to go boy!" said my boss as we drove away from their house. "Sold a Sook 2000x on your first knock to someone who couldn't even afford it! You could sell a Twinkie to an anorexic chick!"

I probably could, I thought to myself. Victorious, I held my head a little higher as we raced through the suburban streets to the next house.

It was 2 o'clock. I had been at work for 6 hours.

Cheers,

Ted Rhobe Rae

Next week--I Sold Vacuum Cleaners for Two Days Part II

September 17, 2006

we have a date with the underground, chapter 21






This one might be a bit bumpy. So hang on. I generally don't like to talk about the end of any band, but this story must be told.

Read the disclaimer before diving into this one.

Ready?

The end of an era. Kind of a feeling in your stomach. You know it's over. The band knows it's over. Alliances had been formed. New bands were being formed behind the others' backs. Everyone knew about what was happening but no one talked about it. I knew some people were moving to different states to join other bands. I knew I was joining a bigger band. We all knew that we hated each other.

You will also see another band ending story later in this series that was more like a soap opera then this one. But that's later.

This is a different one.

By the time I woke up, I knew I was late. I had to be at someone's apartment 15 minutes ago to get shit in the van. Why does this always happen to me? I can't make a ten minute drive to be on time?

Crap.

I slammed back a beer and put some speed in me. Ok. Shower time. That kind of shower where you don't want to get your face wet cause the water might make the dope run down the side of your face and onto your chest. So you hold your head high while the drugs kick in. Just clean enough to know this was still your home but still dirty enough that you know you have to play a show. Weird feeling. Hopefully this will be the last one with this group. I was too chickenshit to break it off then with the band because it was a three day festival and we had a good slot. I figured we play the show then end it all. We all move on to our different bands.

All I had to do was be on time.

I got to the bands' therapist's place 20 minutes later than the 15 I was already running. And if you ask me what I mean by group therapist, I'll tell you. freud.1929.jpgHe is the one in the van who was "the cooler". He was the one who smoothed things out. He was the one who could restring your bass, guitar, set up the drums, take anyone’s place in the band if they were too drunk and most of all he was my best friend.

Every band has a therapist. I'm not talking about a roadie. I'm talking about someone who could sit people down and slowly make them realize that the drummer wasn't that big of an asshole and you still have three more weeks on this tour so it might not be a very good idea to punch the singer out. The therapist. Also the one who was going to another part of the state at the end of this festival.

So our glue was leaving us. This was then going to be the last show with this group. All of us were playing in different bands by then anyways. It's what happens. Starting a band out kills you, so everyone starts to hate each other. The band gets bigger and more people notice you. You start to hate each other more. Then other bands pull out the parts of your band they like. Then people move on. It's just a matter of time before the part time gigs with the other bands turns into full time gigs. So being on time tonight was not really a big fucking priority. I was already set with another gig.

When I did finally reach the apartment, it was almost empty. His girlfriend's stuff was gone. She had left for New York and I had missed saying good-bye. His stuff was shipped to where he was moving. The only thing left in the house was a sofa and some equipment that was for sale. Just my best friend, a sofa, a bottle of whiskey and a somber look on his face.

"You know our guitarist got hired away to become a full time producer don't you?"

"Yes, I know."

"You know our singer got snagged by another band, don't you?"

"Yes, I know."

"You know legal papers have been served to retain the legal band name, don't you?"

"Yes, I know."

"Then why are we playing this show?"

"Because we said we would."

The dying words of a once great band. Something you hate saying because you know it is the end of something that was great. I sat on the sofa with him and took a big slug of whiskey. The burning feeling went down my throat as I put my head back.

"You know we are never going to see these guys again."cheapwhiskey.jpg

"Yes, I know."

"Then let's go out with style."

"I agree."

Polished off the bottle while talking about the bands we were going into. I thought, really, I would never see him again after this weekend. Any of the guys. But one thing about this business. Never say never about anything. Cause I've played and seen all these guys at least once in different bands, in studios and backstages many years after we stopped playing together.

Never say never.

Remember that.

Someone can always help you or hurt you in the future depending on how you treat them now. Things can always end nice or hard. It's all how you want to do it. And those other people in those first bands you were in can help you. A lot.

But, since we were on a mission to destroy, we knocked on his friend's door. Some rich Australian guy saying something you to my friend. What did he say? Fuck, I had enough booze in me to kill a small African country but I remember looking at him saying, "The fuck is a snapper and why do I want one?"

Ok. This is when it gets tricky. The table was filled with about a grand (?) or so of cocaine. Just a huge bag right in the middle of the table. Unopened. About 20 lines cut out on the glass blue table in front of it. Penthouse view and beers on tap. "Snappers" meant cocaine lines to him. They were some kinda fish to me.

I guess.

Fuck if I know.

So damn well knowing we were going to be late, I did the responsible thing. I poured a beer and did about six lines of coke. "Crikey! You do alot of snappers!" Oh hell yeah. We didn't have to be anywhere for three more hours. We will put a hurtin' on that bag of dope. Needless to say, we were late. Very late. Like no sound check late. That late. The show was already going when I got backstage. From the rest of there, it was a haze.

We played.

We didn't talk.

Meh.

It was over. All that was left was to see the other bands in the festival. We went back to the building and went back upstairs. "Snappers!" We got high again. And drunk again. I had a half cellophane bag of cocaine left from the show, so we went all out. Apparently, this guy was some kinda computer guy who did something, but really, I didn't fucking know and I didn't fucking care. All I knew was that was the last, so I thought, I would ever see of the band so now I can go home and throw out my silk screens, sell everything that is left tomorrow and be done with these guys. Remember thou...never say never. But, that's another story for another day.

Honestly, the second day was more of a haze. I didn't sleep. I didn't do shit except a lot of cocaine and beer. Cocaine fucks with you in that way.lines.jpeg Meth makes you out of it after four or five days, but a cocaine binge is like one night and you are seeing things. So, I wasn’t doing so hot. The shirts. That's money! They had been sold and the money stolen by someone in the band further licking the seal on this being over. I sat and drank with my friend backstage just doing more lines of cocaine. We caught a taxi back to his house and went back upstairs for more "Snappers!"

Second day in a row my car hadn't moved from its spot. By going up to this door, it was almost assured that it would still be there for a third day. As we knocked we noticed something different. Voices. Someone was talking. He had friends? All this time I thought he was some weirdo recluse in a penthouse apartment with a raging cocaine addiction and he had friends?

Well crickey!

He did!

A bunch of people greeted us as my mind was thinking about Twinkies and sex in space. How would an anti-gravitational orgasm feel? Or was the name of the new band I was in? As you can see, my cylinders were not firing. More lines of coke. Beautiful Australian chicks all around.

Meh. Blur. That's all I can remember from that night.

The last night of the show I was still coked up and drunk. By this time my best friend had busted into his moving money and we were trading a bottle of whiskey back and forth just to keep coherent. But, we had to go. Last night. We had to be there. Took the bus to the show. Walking up the stairs, I saw him sit down. He needed a rest. I kept walking. The show went on and I looked for him, but could never find him. He had to be somewhere.

As the show ended, I stumbled out of the doors. Out of cocaine. Totally broke. Seeing ex-band members. Waiting for my best friend. Nothing.

The show had cleared out as I surveyed my options. Either he was at the airport and I was totally fucked cause my keys were at his house, I could walk three miles to my building and try to break in, walk to his house or sleep in the street. For all I knew, this was it. Never seeing anyone again. And I couldn't even walk straight.

nightTaxi.jpgI hailed down a taxi asking them if they could give me a ride to my friend’s house. If my friend didn't have cash, "Crocodile Dundee" would. After about six "Fuck yous" from drivers, I finally found one who agreed to do it. He would take me for a huge tip. When I got to my friend's building. It was all dark. No one answered the door. I ran up to "Crocodile Dundee's" door and banged. The sounds were dead.

The place was black. The horn was blaring from the taxi. I wandered back to my friend’s house and banged on the screen. A light turned on. He opened the door looking like death. I explained the situation and he used more of his moving money to take care of the cab. Everything was ok now.

Inside the apartment was nothing. This was a dead zone. The sofa had been sold and the equipment was gone. A blanket, a passed out Irishman, my car keys and some change on the floor. This was really over. He was sleeping in the middle of the floor. I wrapped up in my jacket and hit the corner to pass out.

The next morning I woke up with a foot on my chest. I had to take him to the airport. I owed it to him. Ever been sober after a three day coke binge run? It hurts. I pulled out the change from my car and got us both a 40 of King Cobra as we went there. Slamming them back and not really talking. Him explaining to a me that he passed out where he fell the night before and was taken outside and someone took him home. Me, thinking that was a hell of a weekend.

It didn't matter. The airport was coming up. One last swig of the beer and we walked up to the gates. I lit a cigarette and we both stared at the ground feeling more dead than alive. Just thinking thoughts out loud, I guess. Just saying words or sentences as we thought about how it all had ended. We did something big. We came from nowhere and did this all. We had a hell of a run there.

"We took something from nothing and made it big."

"You know, when you look back on it all, it wasn't always shitty."

"I wonder if there is going to be a lawsuit over the name rights?" empty club.jpg

"I stopped caring about that band since my new gig."

"I did too"

"So you gonna be ok?"

"I'll be fine. I'm already in two more bands."

I turned my back and walked away thinking that there goes my best friend as thoughts of the first tour I ever went on flashed in my head. The empty halls. The bitching with everyone. The fights. The late nights. Promoting for what seemed like nothing.

I flicked my last cigarette thinking that no matter what, that was a hell of an ending.

It was just too bad I would never see any one of these guys again.

But, like I said, in the music business......

Never say never….

Cause you never know......

settling a bet

As per this post, and the New York Jets crushing loss to the Pats today in a very exciting game, I hereby fulfill my end of the wager I had with Ernie, with a four stanza poem in which I declare my love for the New England Patriots.

Except I don't do exactly that. But I did the best I could under the circumstances. Duress and all that. Making me think of how much I hate Blesdoe. Making me get that bitter taste of Parcells in my mouth again. This was the best I could do and damn it, that's good enough.

Ode to the New England Patriots

I’m supposed to be nice in this poem
but that’s kinda hard, you know
when I have to write about a team
whose past includes blesdoe

and not to mention also
the various forms of hells
that I would have to think about
in order to mention parcells

plus the fact that its’s new england
which includes boston in its place
which makes me think of the red sox
which makes me want to stab your face

so I’m trying hard to be nice here
and use language like a lady
but the only thing I can come up with
is “do you have naked pics of tom brady?”

-M

candy-o

So what can I say?

This is the end of the first week and we are exhausted.

We want to thank all of who keep contributing, keep joining on, keep reading and most of all, those of you who have kept having fun.

But, since it is really not over yet, Michele and I started talking about things today. Mostly about football and someone having to write a poem, but you will all see that later, but mostly about fall and what it brings memories to us. We had an idea for a huge story, but we really didn't want to write those out till the actual time came a little closer.

So tonight what we are talking about is something that we all hated when we were kids.

Shitty candy and Halloween

Turtle looks in his bag.

When I was a kid, Halloween was a big deal. Kids going out in unsafe costumes at late hours. Knocking on stranger’s doors. A KISS costume here and there, although I have no idea why they would still be around, they still were. KISS costumes.kiss.jpg I'm not that old...hmmmm. Never thought about that before. Strange how sometimes these stories make me think about things like that. Why did they have those costumes around? Were KISS still around? Fuck. I guess I have to do late night research. But back then, there was no real scare about letting kids go out at night. They would go out alone till late then come back. My family never really looked at my candy. Just let me eat till I threw up and then laughed.

They believed that the best lessons in life were learned first hand.

But, really we would snag the good ones and toss the rest. Like I want some "Sweet Tarts." What kind of cheap bastard would give those out? I mean "Sweet Tarts" are basically a way of saying, "Fuck you" to little kids. Something like "Well, hell. The rest of the neighborhood is doing this so I guess I have to also."

Jeez. Put a little effort into it for christ’s sake.

I think the worst of all were the people handing out fruits and vegetables. I know they were poor. I know they understood Halloween as much as we understood Cinco de Mayo. I think Cinco de Mayo was about a battle. Somewhere in Mexico. Or Texas. Or Puerto Rico. Fuck man, maybe even Canada. I don't know. But, the bottom line is I still really don't get Halloween but I don't want to walk around with a bag full of fucking carrots and apples. I mean hell, I could go down to the local vendor cart and get an apple for free as protection money from all of the "accidents" that could happen to his cart. I sure as fuck don't want one as a Trick or Treat thing.

One of the best things was the look in the eyes of the person when they handed you an apple. They had this sad look in their eyes. Like "We are sorry. We are poor."

Well fuck them. They think it is that hard to get a bag of Snickers or at least do us the favor of turning out the porch lights so we don't all walk around looking like those orange vendors at the Tijuana border?

Christ. All I needed was a hair net and a cardboard sign and I'd fit in.

But there was one lady. A rich lady who lived at the top of the hill. She kept her porch lights off until she was ready. The night was dark and all the little produce boys and produce girls would have the corner of their eye waiting for that light to turn on.

It hit.

"The Candy Lady!"

A cry had went out.

It was on.

Bags of apples, oranges, pears and grapes cover the street as kids ran towards the door of this house. So much produce on the dirty streets it would make Carmen Miranda cry. Pushing and shoving. Getting other kids out of the way. Just to get ahead.

You see she had full candy bars. And not many of them.

You had to get there first.ticket.jpg

I will admit to you that I have probably trampled about three kids to death in my time trying to get to her house first. Like The Who show in Cincinnati, many lives were lost trying to get closer. To the full candy bar. So many kids were pushed down and trampled I am surprised she didn't stop "General Admission" after these tragic candy related kid crushings occurred.

The Who did it. Why couldn't she?

But, in the end, seeing the bodies of your fallen comrades who were just too slow, you had to keep going. Ignore the carnage and keep looking ahead. I ignored their whimpers and pleads for help. Stepping over them, I looked at what their deaths had accomplished.

I got a full size Butterfinger. - T

michele looks in her bag:

Halloween treat suckage. Oh, you’ve been there. The old bat that throws handful of candy corn in your bag and when you toss one in your mouth you realize it’s probably from the 19th century. The dentist who hands out travel toothbrushes. The bastard who keeps his door shut and his lights off and stands at his window with his arms crossed just daring you to knock on his door. Which is all well and good because he’s probably the kind of guy who would hand out chocolate laxatives to five year olds.


You know what’s worse than a guy who would purposely poison little kids? candycorn.jpgThe woman who hands out healthy food on Halloween. That should be against the law. One time I was talking to my neighbor on Halloween. Standing on his porch, eyeing the cache of goodie bags he had ready the kids. I was jonesing for a mini Snickers bar and I knew there had to be one in there. So I opened one of the bags. They were stuffed with carrot and celery sticks. Yes. Carrots. Celery. For a Halloween treat. I slowly backed away from the porch and then ran down the sidewalk toward the safety of my home. That man was pure, uncut evil. What kind of sick bastard hands out celery to trick or treaters?

I had my share of Halloween grinches growing up. There was Spider Lady. She handed out pennies. Two. Freaking. Pennies. And she cackled while she dropped those suckers in our bags. Wrong move, lady. You just fucked with a gang of fourteen year old kids in search of a sugar rush. We were the crack whores of our time. We stole the costumes of our little sisters and brothers just so we could go knock down a few old ladies to get our hands on some Sugar Daddies. And this bitch was giving us two cents?

Oh, here’s a quick physics lesson: when thrown by a sugar-deprived teenager, a penny will make a dent in aluminum siding. Lots of pennies = lots of dents. Ok, not the best revenge, but we were going for irony.


Besides, we had to do something with the tricks we got to go along with our treats. Ten year old candy corn? Sprinkle a little water on it and it will stick to the windshield of Mr. "Keep Your Ball Out of My Yard" Brown's brand new Lincoln Continental! Wax vampire teeth? If you warm those things up in the palm of your hand they become like putty in your hands. Perfect for covering the windshield wipers on Officer Goldberg's parked patrol car.

Don't look at me like that. We were destined to be juvenile delinquents. Haven't you ever seen Over the Edge?

And the apples. Yes, even with the great urban legend of the razor blade in the apple running rampant, people still gave out that damn fruit on Halloween. First of all, I don’t want your god damn fruit. Especially one that weighs down my bag like that. Give me an apple, there’s a good chance that it’s going to end up impaled on your fence post. Besides, everyone knows that any parent who sees that fruit in their kids' bag will immediately take out a machete and hack the damn thing to death in search of that elusive razor blade.

Personally, I think there were some parents that actually wanted to find the blade in the apple. It was a prize. A brass ring. Man, a find like that would propel the average Stepford housewife to fame.

Just picture it. Mrs. Smith, holding the rusted razor blade up like Charlie holding his golden ticket. The local paper is at her house in a second, followed by Nancy Grace asking her all kinds of intimidating questions. Mrs. Smith says there is a madman on the loose and calls him the bin Laden of suburbia. Then she gets the other housewives on the block to form a posse. They come out at night bearing pitchforks and torches, hell bent on finding out who put that razor blade in little Billy's Macintosh, thereby ruining Halloween for every kid in America. Forever.

Of course, in the end it turns out that it was Mrs. Smith herself who stuck the razor blade in that apple, and it becomes a sad social commentary on the boredom in suburbs and feminists claim that if Mrs. Smith had a career this wouldn’t have happened and the candy industry sues Mrs. Smith for fucking up Halloween for them and Nancy Grace airs an expose on Mrs. Smith on CNN later in the week, and poor Mrs. Smith checks herself into a clinic to overcome her addiction to mother's little helper.

Uh..where was I? I was talking about Halloween candy, right?

Razor blades and used candy corn aside, what was the worst thing you got in your Halloween bag? What did your neighbors do to fuck you over when all you wanted was a god damn peanut butter cup?

Oh and as a bonus, there’s a candy puzzle kind of thing in the extended entry.





candypuzzle.jpg

Guess the candy. Bigger size here.

The Back Forty

Introducing - The Back Forty:

"There was a beast in Puerto Rico that preyed on the goats that grazed the countryside. It sucked the blood from the goats and puzzled the goatherds. When that got boring he moved into David's house."

[click for bigger]

My Life As A Minimum Wage Slave Vampire

bob.jpg

I used to think being a vampire would be great - strange power of attraction over women, super-human strength, the ability to fly - hell, I thought I'd be Super Man, only a bit bitey every now and then.

So I did it. I tracked down a vampire, explained the situation, and asked him to make me like him. He laughed, shrugged his shoulders and bit me - the last thing I remember before passing out was him humming the part of the tune that goes "Regrets, I've had a few" over and over.

That was three years ago.


I dropped out of law school because even the night classes start while it is still light out and the only job I could find was at a convenience store, a third-shift clerk position, which, let me tell you, sucks when you have $127,000 in student loans to pay back.

And to get the job in the first place I had to use my strange power of attraction over women on the manager - only the manager was a guy who's now taken to wearing tight, pink tank tops. He's left his family - a wife of fifteen years and three kids.nosferatu.jpg

He puts a flower on my cash register before every shift I work. It plays havoc with my hay fever.

You'd think that gas prices being what they are the ability to fly to work would be great, but every time I fly so many people call up the Department of Homeland Security complaining about terrorist activity that the DHS now permanently patrols the sky around here.

The DHS can't kill me of course, at least not without a stake, but standing in front of my manager trying to come up with an explanation for my lateness and tattered clothing other than 'I was shot at by an Apache attack helicopter while on my way to work' while said manager sports an erection at my lack of clothing gets a might old after a while.

My eyes are up here, boss…up here.

My landlord finally kicked me out of the apartment after having to replace countless doorknobs, doors, toilet seats, cabinet doors and drawers. When he told me I got so upset I put my fist through a wall - which meant I didn't get my deposit back.

Because of all this I've been a bit absentminded at work and when I get absent minded I lose control over my strange power of attraction over women, so lately, when my shift starts, there are a handful of female customers from the previous day kneeling naked on the floor swaying slowly back and forth with their arms raised chanting my name.

The incense and candles they burn set off the sprinkler system which ticks off the fire department - at least until they see the naked, chanting women, then they don't mind so much.

But my boss does.

He's been so upset over my "little groupie bitches", as he calls them, that he's threatening to withhold my annual $.15 raise.

Bob, who may or may not be a vampire, writes at Tiny Dead Bunny

The Church of Football: Some Kinda Hate

Most hard-core football fans believe in the presence of a higher power, an omniscient, un-earthly force that watches over the game, it's players and it's fans.fbg1.jpg

I am talking of course about the magnificent and all-powerful, Football Gods. At times they can be benevolent, other times, they can be cruel. They can make you jump for joy or they can lay the smack down on you and watch you squirm. They are wise, they are mighty, and chicks dig them in their old-school throwback football jerseys.

[The Football Gods like to be buttered up, but they don't like a kiss-ass.]

And with that, I bring you this weeks NFL post here at The End Zone.

As with most deities, the Football Gods demand some kind of appeasement and sacrifice. Here are a few tips to help make The Football Gods happy and keep you in their good graces.

- The Football Gods appreciate a good tail-gate. If you can't get to the game, do it at home. The Football Gods like to see lots and lots of meat being cooked on a large fire. The presence of alcohol, cigars and buffalo chicken wings pleases them. The Football Gods do not like to see too many vegetables, fruit or other healthy stuff at a tailgate, unless it's being used as a topping for your sausage sammitch or your triple-double bypass cheeze-a-ma-burger.

- The Football Gods expect you to dress the part. The more team related clothing you can get on your body on game day, the better. Underwear, socks, t-shirts, team jerseys, you name it. The Football Gods especially like to see the old-school players jerseys represented with honor on people's backs. Loyalty will be rewarded, but don't wear
it if you don't mean it. The Football Gods know a fake when they see one.

- The Football Gods do not like a 'know it all' football fan, spewing predictions and making pronouncements about who's going to do what during the game. There is a difference between being knowledgeable and being obnoxious. Like pornography, you can't define it, but the Football Gods know it when they see it.

- Anything can happen during a football game. That ball is made to bounce in all kinds of funny ways on purpose, so don't even think about making a guarantee about the outcome or a 'can't miss' prediction about something that you think might happen during the game, because if you do, you're almost guaranteed to get bitch-slapped by the Football Gods, just out of spite, because the Football Gods are like that. They are spiteful.

Finally, The Football Gods will not tolerate any whining about the outcome of the game. They will generally grant you one or two days to get over a loss and let you get any bitching about it out of your system. After that, if your team lost, you deal with it, suck it up and look forward to next week. What's done is done. The Football Gods hate whiners.

In the end, we are all just playthings to the Football Gods and we are at their mercy. They like to wind us up and see what we will do, but if you follow these tips, there's a good chance you'll keep the Football Gods happy with you, and they will look upon you favorably.

Of course, all that being said, there are some things that are simply out of your control. If your team's head coach makes a bone-head decision during a game or if you wind up with Terrell Owens on your team, what are you going to do? At that point you're pretty much fucked because the Football Gods don't like bone-heads and they obviously hate T.O.

Sorry Cowboys fans.

Last but not least, The Football Gods are known to have a preference for whiskey over bourbon. At least that's been my experience. If you don't know the difference, well I hope you're a Jets fan...

Now lets look at a few of this weeks games:

Week 2 is the week of hate. Week 2 is the week of rivalries. We've got Buffalo at Miami, Cleveland at Cincy, the NY Giants at Philly, New England at The J-E-T-S, Kansas City at Denver... I'm rubbing my palms together in anticipation.

There's some kinda love, and there's some kinda hate going on this week my friends.

Are you psyched?fbg2.jpg Don't tell me you're not looking at those match-ups and feeling the adrenaline pump into your veins. We're looking at some of the classic rivalries of the NFL this week and that makes for the best games. All of these teams know and hate each other so well. If you are a fan, these are the games that you have a circle around on
the schedule with red ink.

These are the teams that you love to play against because you hate them so bad. These are the teams you especially want want to see your guys crush and destroy, but, at the same time, you love those guys because you hate them.

Let's face it, without them, this shit would not be half as fun.

Come on Philly fans, you gonna try and tell me you don't look forward to playing the Giants twice a year? Phhht. Yeah, sure. And I'm not hoping to see The Jets QB Chad Pennington curled up in a ball crying on the sidelines this afternoon because The Patriots all-pro defensive lineman, Richard Seymour, 'just won't leave him alone.'

You might as well throw the records and the predictions out the window today because these games are going to be more like fights, not football games.

It's rivalry weekend and I cant fucking wait till 1:00. Bring it on motherfuckers!

The Football Gods like enthusiasm. Oh, and have a chili-dog, I've got jalapenos for ya!

Misfits Some Kind of Hate

Ernie writes daily about football and other stuff at Mr. B and W. You should check it out.

UPDATE. A wager has been made between Ernie and Michele on the Pats/Jets game. The loser of the wager will have to write a four stanza poem on their love of the other team. The opposite team. Written with praise, not sarcasm. After the game is over, they shall write their poems, well really whenever they want to get around to it cause someone is gonna be crying and writing at the same time, and post it. Not in these comments, but in both FTTW and Mr. B and W as main submissions.

I'm so mean. - T

September 16, 2006

Gotta chase your dreams, baby



Fade In:

EXT. NIGHT. A DARK CITY STREET

Rain drizzles down across the empty night streets. The reflection of NEON lights leave a glaze across the boulevard like old stains left over from days long past. Nina Simone’s “Sugar in My Bowl” plays over the scene. PAN DOWN, revealing a 1951 CADDILAC SEDAN slowing to a crawl as the light turns from GREEN to YELLOW to RED. The wipers slowly dance to and fro lifting the light drizzle away from the windshield. The subtle buzz of neon is all we can hear behind the engine idle.

CUT TO:

INT. CAR.NIGHT. MOMENTS LATER

CLOSE UP through the rear view mirror of a WOMEN'S EYES. She stares intently, looking behind her. Her eyes show no fear, but a calculated risk of what’s next. She looks away as we PULL BACK revealing an OVER THE SHOULDER view of a HANDGUN on the dashboard. Her gentle hand reaches for it. ENTER EVIE HARLOW, a sultry woman with deceitful eyes and a past to match. Suddenly, the cars interior fills up with light. Headlights from another car.

CUT TO:

EXT.STREET. CONTINUIOUS

A 1948 PLYMOUTH COUPE comes to a rest behind the Caddy. We can see two MEN inside, their features obscured by shadow, hidden underneath the brims of their fedoras. The sit for a moment behind the Caddy.

CUT TO:

EXT.NIGHT STREET-CONTINIOUS

WIDE SHOT from behind the Plymouth. Both doors open and out step the two MEN, wearing dark suits, they both stand next to the wide open car doors. We see that each of them is holding a PISTOL. The step in unison toward the CADDY.

CUT TO:

INT.CADDY.CONTINIOUS

Through the rear view Mmrror we see Evie, her eyes watching the men approach. A PAN DOWN reveals she is holding a 45 caliber pistol. She cocks back the hammer with intent.

CUT TO:

EXT.STREET-CONTINUIOUS

One man stops in front of the Plymouth, while the 2nd continues his approach to the Caddy. He holds his pistol just behind his back, trying to keep it out of sight.

CUT TO:

INT.CADDY.CONTINIOUS

We now can see Evie's face; sharp features, pouty lips, dark hair. A striking beauty. She forces a smile as the FIRST MAN leans into frame on the driver's side. She spot checks the opposite rear view mirror, the other guy filling the reflection in front of the Plymouth. The Man staring down at her has a rough face, scars from street fights, a block jaw and heavy eyes. Like a boxer with to many rounds under his belt, he speaks slow and with a light accent, maybe Turkish.


MAN #1

You almost lost us back there Evie, cant have that.
Pull the keys out and gimmie em.

Evie doesn’t hesitate. She raises the pistol in an instant before the man can react. All we can see is the man's sudden surpise.

CUT TO:

EXT.CADDY-CONTINUIOUS

Two muzzle flashes lift the man next to the car window off his feet and straight to the pavement. The 2nd man reacts, raising his pistol and firing, while the Caddy leaps into reverse and pins him between the two cars. He screams out as he shoots into the air, and then drops his gun.

CUT TO:

INT.CADDY-SAME MOMENT

Evie slams the car back into drive and floors it. Sudden brakes and the car skids to a halt. She is calm and collected. She knew this was her play. Through the rear view mirror we see the man slip to the ground in agony. He’s barley moving, if at all.

She opens the door.

CUT TO:

EXT.STREET-CONTINUIOUS

The 2nd man lays in front of the badly damaged Plymouth. His breathing slow and desperate. Evie approaches him, and he’s helpless to stop her. From HIS POV she fills the frame above him. Holding her pistol toward him she speaks.

WOMAN
Both your legs are broken Carlo, doubt if you’ll make it, but if
you don’t bleed to death first, make sure and tell Ben that
when I said it was over, I meant it. If I so much a smell any of
you goons around a corner, I wont play as nice next time.
The man, Carlo says nothing. She exits the frame.

WIDE SHOT as she enters the Caddy and drives off into the night. A single headlight from the Plymouth casts light of Carlos broken body as we PULL BACK and FADE TO BLACK.

-Continued Later-

Welcome to Hollywoodland, now get me a cup of joe and shut the fuck up.

So kids, you're fresh off the bus, dreams of stardom in one hand, your granny's old suitcase in the other. Hollywood welcomes you with dirty streets, crazy people and another half a million folks just like you pouring in weekly with the same little dream. Yeah, you're special. You’ve got that one thing we here in LA LA Land have been holding our collective breath for. You’ve got talent, after all everyone in (insert any small town name here) said so. You played the lead in (insert any common high school play here) and everyone told you that you should be in pictures. Hollywood “needed you” they said, you are the next big thing. After all, you are you. That special talent from anywhere America. Listen kiddo, this is the toughest city in the world to make it in. I’ll wager, that within a month, some jerk will talk you into taking some nudie pics, cause after all, Sleezy McSleeze can help your career, introduce you to people, make it happen. He’s here to help, cause you're that special talent, remember? 02-night-life-girls-new-york-city.jpgHey, porn stars come from somewhere, we don’t just grow em like fucking crabapples. It’s a nice thought, but we got plenty of assholes for parents doing that for us all across the states. Amazing how once the chickies hit the pole, they slide right in to porn.

But that’s not why you’re here, no, not you, you're going to be the next fucking big thing. Right. Yeah, ok dollface, we see ya standing there. Sure thing. Gotcha. So you better go rent that little North Hollywood apartment. The one we all rented before you. In fact, if you look around, you just might see some of the memories we left behind. So don’t be a wise ass and think you got it all figured, cause ya know what, ya don’t sweetheart, its just the opposite. This town will eat you alive. But sometimes, somehow, one of you makes good. Aint it a swell thought. Mom and Dad will be so proud, well, unless you're destined for low budget fuck films - you know, the ones your Mom and Dad get from some online store, after all you are outta the house and they can watch porn all they want. Oh yeah, your folks watch porn, I promise. And they like to fuck each other. Once or twice on your bed even. Kinky bastards. And that’s how that story breaks. Mom and Dad settle in with a gallon of lube and some turkey sandwiches to watch a good little dirty flick. Imagine their surprise when they see you getting a face full or fucked six ways from Sunday by 3 men with cocks the size of baseball bats. Yeah, happens every day darling, so don’t act so shocked. But not you, you’re a good one. You're serious about your craft. Its art, its passion. Yeah yeah, we have seen you before. Now go get me a fucking cup of joe and stop with the dreamy “I’m going to be a star” horseshit.

But, this is the town that can makes all your dreams come true. One little break and you're off. It does happen, but will it happen to you? Lets see how it goes kiddo, after all Granny knew best when she said you’d be in pictures. Didn’t she?

Stay tuned folks, next week we get to see where the dame goes and who’s waiting for her. Should be fun. Got something to say does ya? Well what's keeping ya, drop me a line. If it's hate mail, put that in the subject line. I read those first.

--Jason

Musical Secrets of FTTW


Enjoying the new FTTW?

We thought you would.

And it hasn't even begun yet.

But, since that is neither here nor there right now, let's have some fun. I'm on my last cigar and should prolly take a shower sometime today, so we thought we would make this an easy, fun post and be honest with you. Sure, you can see the mp3's and read about our lives and kinda get a feeling of who we are, but deep down, you really can't judge anyone by what they put in their site.

So what do we mean?

You look at us and think punk rock, fast cars, drugs and all that.

But until you really find what is in someone’s heart. What really makes them something called human? You have to look at what they think is a great piece of art, music or film and really, think about that when you see the image of them that is in your mind.

Reality is the new fiction these days.

What do I mean?

What is an album that no one would expect you would love?

turtle gets all weepy on you first.

First of all, any one of you from other sites prolly know I like a lot of different things. I mean come on, I always champion the cause of bringing Mr. Patrick Swayze’s career back into full swing cause well really, he is the most underrated actor of all time, but for music? Well, all I usually do is listen to punk rock or indy crap. It's why I always look better than Michele when we do the "What's Playing Now" part of FTTW. So, I'm good there. See, one of the advantages of that is I am usually only listening to fast stuff. So you guys all think I’m "cool" when we do that column.

But, as very few people know, there is an artist I have seen over twenty times in my life. Someone I go see in any town he is playing at. Hell, I make pre-show parties happen when he is playing. Very few people know the reason why I need to see him every time he is around.

Mr. Neil Diamondimg-diamond-neil.jpg

Ok. I'll be honest. I have seen Mr. Neil Diamond a lot times in my life. I first saw him as a kid. Under ten. Maybe seven. Shitty seats in shitty arena. Watching the crowd move did something to me. I could see these 50 year old groupies handing him flowers and just dancing away. I was a kid. Just some stupid metalhead watching the crowd all move at the same time. It did something to me. The power he held over the crowd. Not the music so much then. And no, I'm not going to be one of the people to tell you my first musically tastes were punk bands. That came much later in my life. But, at this time, just the way the audience moved and the way he had control over these people, did something to me. I didn't know the music. Just the power he had over everyone.

It was amazing.

But, it ended and soon after that, I forgot about him and moved on.

I used to go to dump yards with my grandfather every week to dump off whatever he was doing the week before in the yard. A 45 minute trip. Me, holding shovels and him, pounding back bourbon. But, there was always one thing on the old 8-track of this old beat up truck. Mr. Neil Diamond. My grandfather called it his dump music. I called it pure power. That's when I started listening to the lyrics. Man, Mr. Neil Diamond was either fucked up, fucked over, or falling in love in each song. Mr. Neil Diamond wore his heart on his sleeve. This was a man you didn't want to fuck over.

Or he would write a song about you and then the world would know what a bitch you were to him. Notice how he names the girls personally who have fucked him over, but when he loves a girl, it turns out to something like "Kentucky Woman?"

See this is my theory. He has been fucked over so many times; these songs are all a veiled threat to whomever he is dating.

"You fuck me over? I will write a song about you and put damn near everything in it about you except your parents address."

Mr. Neil Diamond took no prisoners.

Fast forward.

Years later when I was living in band houses with punk rock cranking all the time from some basement that was 8 inches too small to walk in much less have bands play, my secret was discovered. In a bad way. See here is the thing. Mr. Neil Diamond doesn't just write songs. He doesn't just sing fluff. When he sings, it is your life he is talking about. Each song has you in it. So, as a consequence, people coming home from a bar or a party or show, could tell the way I was feeling by the time they put the key in the door. And they would react appropriately by the song they heard.

"Solitary Man" - Turtle got fucked over by a girl.

Let's go to a bar cause seeing him laying on a sofa with a smoke in his mouth whacked out on some kind of drugs asking everyone "Why?" gets kind of annoying.

"Shilo" - Turtle got a phone call that one of his friends just died.c couch.gif

Let's go to a bar cause seeing him laying on a sofa with a smoke in his mouth whacked out on some kind of drugs asking everyone "Why?" gets kind of annoying.

"Cherry, Cherry" - Turtle got a phone call from a girl and is happy.

Let's go to a bar cause seeing him laying on a sofa with a smoke in his mouth whacked out on some kind of drugs saying to everyone "YES!" gets kind of annoying.

The list kind of goes on and on.

The basic point is here, if you come home and hear Mr. Neil Diamond before you open door, you better god damn know which song it is before you put your foot in the door, cause this might not be the best night for me.

Or maybe it could.

You never know with Mr. Neil Diamond. - T

Neil Diamond - Cherry, Cherry
Neil Diamond - Shilo

michele goes goth:


So this is about albums you wouldn't expect us to be listening to. You really have no idea what's in my mp3 folder, people. You would die of shame for me if you knew. We talk about punk rock a lot here. And I've talked about my love of heavy metal, especially speed metal. But I know some of you can see my "what's playing" thing on Google chat. And I know that someone out there right now is looking at that saying, what the fuck, she's listening to......

My Chemical Romance - Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge

Yea, it’s the dude with the make up. That one from that video. I’m Not Ok. He kind of looks like what would happen if Robert Smith ate the dude from AFI.

So you probably only know that one song and you’re thinking, my god Michele, you’ve really gone to the emo dark side. Pop punk new wave emo Hot Topic music. But really. This is no worse than my Cure phase. imsoemomylawncutsitself.jpgOr my Bauhaus phase. Hell, it isn’t even emo. It’s not even goth. It’s just good music.

I gotta say, I hate when people judge an entire album on the basis of one song that may or may not sound like radio-friendly angsty pop music aimed at 14 year old girls who like to draw scars on themselves with Sharpies and write MySpace odes to unrequited crushes.

Sometimes Three Cheers makes me feel like I’m 15 years old and sitting in my bedroom, wearing black pants and a black shirt and a black sweater and black sneakers and carving hateful words into the wooden desk by my window, wondering if life gets any better than this and if that guy I was pining for had any idea that my heart and soul were bleeding for him. Bleeding, I tell you! Or was that yesterday?

Ok, so maybe that Cure phase never really leaves you. Maybe there are times when I still want to dress in black (wait, I do that every day) and listen to some depressing love songs (wait, I do that every day) and write maudlin poetry (no, I don’t do that). But I swear to you, I never dated or pined for a guy who wore eyeliner. Goth/Depression chic was ok for me, but it was kind of lame on guys. It still is. Face powder? Lipstick? Mascara? If I wanted to a guy like that I would have stood outside the midnight showing of Rocky Horror and grabbed the first Frankenfuter.

Where was I? Oh, yea. This album is good. Get past the whole “I’m Not Ok” thing and dig into the rest of it. By the third song you’ll have forgotten that this band previously made you feel like Hot Topic barfed up its contents into your radio.

And honestly, I could have finally unleashed my love of Air Supply on you all here. Or Journey. Be glad this is all you had to be subjected to.

My Chemical Romance - You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison (Really, listen to this song. I promise you will like it. Money back guarantee)

So that's what we have going on in our "You would have never guessed this about us" musical rotation. What's in yours? Closet Journey fan like me? Own the entire Kidz Bop catalog? We're not talking guilty pleasures or anything like that here, just music that maybe flows against what pre conceived notions people have about what you listen to.

God, I hope it's not Kidz Bop. Or Madonna.

Life in black and white

Welcome to a new feature of FTTW: Saturday photography.

Every other Saturday afternoon Shawna will bring you "Film and Developer: The Art of Black and White Photography"

One Saturday a month we will have someone write about digital photography.

On the other Saturday, we will have a themed reader photography submission day. We'll announce the theme on Wednesday or Thursday and you'll send us your pics and we'll have some fun complimenting each other. More details to come on that next week.

If you would like to do a one shot column on digital photography (we'd like to have a different author each week), please shoot us an email at submissions@fasterthantheworld.com.

And now, Shawna's first Film and Developer column.

Black and white. Two of my favorite descriptions of the absence of color and light are black and white. This is especially true in relation to photography. The highlights, the shadows, the shades of gray, all blended together in a way that absolutely fascinates my mind and directs my emotion. For me, seeing a good black and white photograph causes the same feeling that music does in others; stirs an emotion so deep its indescribable. You know, similar to the chills that you get when you hear a person singing who has an awesome voice? Yeah that. Same feeling.

During one of my college photography courses, the class watched a documentary on a photographer named Eva Rubinstein. Rubinstein’s photography gave me chills. She had an incredible way of using light. She used it, seemed to command it, in her photography. A good black and white photograph won’t just look cool to your eye, but will provoke an emotion. During an interview conducted by Frank Horvat, Rubinstein described the difference between a shot she took when she was highly emotional and the same shot she tried to duplicate focusing on the “mechanics”. Quote: “Years ago, after a workshop, I got very powerfully involved with somebody who left at the end of the week, while I stayed on. I took one photograph in the room where we had been, just moments after he left. I was emotionally shaken, I had no tripod there, and made the picture at a quarter of a second, hand-held. A couple of days later I saw on the contacts that, not surprisingly, the image was "soft". So, in a much calmer state of mind, I went back to the same room with my tripod. Everything was the same, the light, the things in the room. The picture I made that day is perfectly sharp - and totally sterile. I have shown both versions to people without saying any of this, and they have invariably preferred the "soft" one. Surely because the sharp one is emotionally empty, there was nothing going on in me except trying to "get it right". (source)


One of my favorite shots is of my baby girl and the brother who loves her dearly. I shot this with my old-fashioned Nikon FM 35mm camera, using old-fashioned T-Max 100 black and white film. I developed the film myself in a darkroom in Raleigh, NC and then printed it 8 x 10 on an old-fashioned Beseller enlarger, using one tray of developer, one tray of stop bath and one tray of fixer. The art of black and white photography – real photography, taken with film, composed in the eye and viewfinder alone, and using no computer graphics whatsoever – is a dying art. My goal here is to help keep this beautiful art form alive.

(click for a bigger image)

Shawna writes and shows off her photography at My Opinions are Free

Amie: Volume 1, Issue 1



What do you get when you put a socially inept geek, a genetically engineered mutant, and a green furball in the same story? You get - Amie!

Welcome to the first installment of Amie, a serialized graphic novel that will unfold here at FTTW each Saturday morning written by J. W. Carbonell.

Click image for this week's strip.

September 15, 2006

Welcome to Celebrity Hell



They're fucking everywhere, aren't they? Pretty, skinny people who are vastly overpaid for pretending to be someone else, warbling a tune on key, or just rolling their near-visible hipbones down a runway. We don't have to look at them, we don't have to care what they're doing...but, like the proverbial car wreck, we cannot look away. So, we might as well sit back and bitch about them, no? Let's go!

First up is Ms. Kate Bosworth. Now, I don't know her from Adam, haven't seen Superman Returns, and am not really interested enough in her to IMDB her ass (as merely dating Orlando Bloom does not a person of interest make you), but bitch needs to eat a sandwich. I'm sure the photog who captured this shot was dancing a little happy jig at the thought of selling a "nipple slip" picture, but little did he know, he was actually capturing the majority of this girl's skeletal structure instead. Seriously, if your top gapes open and we can see your bony hip, it might be time to up your carb intake.



Next we have the inexplicable Victoria Beckham. I shall not endeavor to delve into the why-ness of her at this time (or suggest that rhinoplasty has nothing to do with actual rhinoceroses and she shouldn't be quite so hesitant to look into it)...I'd just like to take a moment point out the coolness of that boobie-framing dress.



And here we have the equally inexplicable Mischa Barton, who clearly does not own a mirror. But I'm more interested in how this walking stick of low-fat margarine gets actual acting jobs. She is, I swear, as uninteresting as orthopaedic dentistry. I've had mochas from Starbucks with more personality than she displays.




On the "oh my god, yessss" side of the page, we have the delectable Julian McMahon. I don't watch the Nip/Tuck show (anti-heroes are not my bag, baby) but this guy is fucking lickable, isn't he? Apparently he's having some sort of sexual identity-crisis on the show that has the Advocate all giddy that he's 'on their side.' Whatever. Who needs sides as long as everyone's getting off, I always say.

Equally edible is Amy Smart, apparently starring in a new show this fall called "Smith". If she's going to look like this every time out, I'm going to need to keep my vibe handy. And my husband, too, I suppose.



Other Celebrity Bits Not Worthy of an Entire Paragraph but Still Mildly Interesting:

'Guerilla Artist Banksy's Barely Legal exhibition - Guerilla artist? No, CON artist. Stop encouraging bullshit like this, you idiots.

The real reason Paramount dumped Tom "I'm a FREAK!" Cruise - The fact that we recognize Scientology as an actual fucking religion makes *us* the joke, people.

"Napoleon Dynamite" to be a dad - If they don't name the kid Napoleon Firecracker, I believe I will cry.

There, didn't that feel good? A little bit of bitching, a little bit of lusting...refreshing. Onward...

Celebrity and fashion go hand in hand. It's a sad fact that designers cannot buy the kind of advertising they get when some empty-headed fashionista "accidentally" leaves her 10K Hermes bag full of *coff* a million bucks worth of jewelry lying around an airport, so having some bony-arsed heiress trot down the runway in your gear is nearly as good as just giving her the shit for free and hoping she's photographed working it at some LA nightspot. Therefore, we shall have a fashion roundup at the end of every visit to Celebrity Hell, and this week's should be a doozy, thanks to Olympus Fashion Week in NY, but I'm essentially lazy, so how about we just hit the high points...

What we liked (so far):

Rock & Republic is flat-out jamming. These clothes work anywhere, any time, any place.

Nicole Miller is gorgeous. Beautiful fabrics and detailing, for when you want to get all girly.

Proenza Schouler is kicky. Funky colors and cuts make this the business wear for the fuck-your-power-suits crowd.

What we hated (so far):

Baby Phat proves once again that with great money does not necessarily come great taste. Kimora Simmons is a fucking joke, and that purple head leaf alone is enough to warrant her arrest.

Heatherette seemed to be more interested in putting on an off-Broadway production than a fashion show. Gold lame pants? Please.

Imitation of Christ is, I am told, one of the most haute of the haute couture houses. But seriously, it looks like the designers just took six months to smoke pot and fuck around, then slapped this crap together the night before the show, doesn't it? It's not just me, is it??

And there you have it, our first FFTW foray into Celebrity Hell. I'll see you next week with more badness. Bring a machete, won't you?

boxing, braves and bucs



Boxing never ceases to amaze me, maybe that is why I watch with such rapt attention. Saturday night I watched James Toney out hustle, out work, and out smart the limited skills of Samuel Peter, only to lose on a split decision (116-111 twice for Peter 115-112 for Toney). To the casual fight fan this name may not be familiar. Sam Peter is a hard punching African import from the nation of Nigeria, the same country that brought us Ike "The President" Ibeabuchi , the man who could have and should have dominated the heavyweight division for many years. Unfortunately Ike is doing time in the Nevada State Correctional Facility, so we were stuck with Lennox Lewis for the last decade or so, but that’s another story.

Saturday night proved why in boxing the old adage, "You never leave it to the judges" rings true. Though thirty-eight years old, James Toney showed why he is the most skilled boxer in the heavyweight division, he moved and jabbed and frustrated the big Nigerian, causing Peter to be penalized a point in the 9th round. Apparently two of the three judges were watching something other than the fight that was going on above them, because neither of them bothered to penalize Peter on their scorecards, making what should have been a 10-8 round for Toney into a 10-9 round for Toney on both of their scorecards Hey, it happens, but every time it happens boxing looks like what people think it is, crooked and fixed. That is why boxing is losing the casual fans, those people that will spend the $49 for a Pay-Per-View event, the casual fans who would take a weekend trip to Atlantic City or Vegas to see a fight and maybe drop a few hundred in the casinos. Boxing has done it to itself. Without a national commission to police it, boxing is left to police itself, which is not a good thing.

The Toney camp has the option to protest the outcome, but getting the outcome of a boxing match reversed is like protesting for your virginity back. It's a nice thought, but it ain't going to happen.

What about the kid from Philly, Ryan Howard? He's a monster; on Sunday he hit HR's numbers 51, 52, & 53 off of Tim Hudson of my Atlanta Braves. I hear echoes of MVP in the background.

FF151333-s.jpgWhat has happened to my Braves this year? I have been a huge Braves fan since 1979, when I was forcibly relocated from NY to LA. Growing up, I was a Mets fan. Back then when you lived on the Island, you were a Mets fan. Only people from the City (who in actuality couldn't care less about baseball), or, if you were from the Bronx, you cared about the Yankees. God, I hated the Yankees and still do but that, again, is another story.

Back to my move from NY to LA. When I was a small child I was made to swear a blood oath by my grandfather, a life long Brooklynite and Dodger fan, that I would never root for the LA Dodgers, for the Dodgers had abandoned him when they moved to LA; he held a grudge till the day he died, even though he couldn't remember why - the Alzheimer's had done a job on him - but he always remembered he hated the Dodgers.

Anyway, when I moved to LA we had cable for the first time. Before that, cable was an urban myth. I heard, "it's kinda like TV, but with more channels." And thank god for that. Now my choices were the Chicago Cubs on WGN or the Atlanta Braves on TBS. Truly it was no contest; by the third inning Cubs announcer Harry Carey was so fuckin' drunk I couldn't understand a word he was saying. Plus, it was the Cubs. No one I ever knew in my life was a Cubs fan, so by default, the Braves became my team. A New York Jew, living in Los Angeles (the most culturally devoid place on earth), rooting for the Atlanta Braves. I didn't even know if they had Jews in Atlanta, but by god there was one in LA who was rooting for them. Thus began an almost 30 year love affair between me and the Braves. More on that later.

I am a monster Tampa Bay Buccaneers fan, and a true lover of the NFL, so a few quick words on the NFL and then I am outta-here…

1. NE will not win the AFC East, Miami will - Sorry; Brady is a system QB, nothing more, he played in a good system at Michigan and plays in a good system in NE, take him out of that system and he is an average QB at best.

2. The Eagles are done, Donavan McNabb, sucks, always did and always will, he's almost as big a cry baby as…

3. Dante Culpepper, yeah I know I picked Miami to win the East, doesn't mean I have to like their QB.

4. Drew Brees is going to be sorry he ever signed with New Orleans, he nor Reggie Bush can save that team

5. Michael Vick should be moved to the slot, he is a horrible QB, he has a career completion rate of 54%, that would get most guys cut from their high school JV team.

These are my opinions and I'm stickin' to em'.

FTTW Wants You!

FTTW was built from Michele and turtle wanting to do things they hadn't seen anywhere else. Trust us, we looked in a lot of places for the perfect mix of a great site, but never found one. Frustrating nights turned into frustrating days until we decided to do it ourselves.

We made a site about punk rock and fast cars and a big variety of things, but the pace we were writing at turned it into more like a job. We don't write short posts. Everything we write is kind of long and making you guys laugh and think three times or more a day took our passion and burned us out. But at the same time, more people were coming to read the site. We were doing something right, but what? Our stories were always fun, but the damage it was doing on us was turning us into basketcases.

We started watching one guy in the comments whose writing we liked. A plan was formed and we had a new writer, thefinn. Soon to become a new editor but that is another story. More people lined up for one time shots - especially when we took a vacation and let our readers take over the site - and if the response to their stories was postive and they were willing to do it, the were on as full time contributors. As more people came on, the idea of a magazine came into place as we had more submissions coming in.


The bottom line of me telling you the history of FTTW is two fold.

1. This is how it happened

2. We want more writers

Number two is the big one. We want you, the readers, to send us in material. If you like the site and want to join in what we are doing, cover an angle and bring us a story. You see what we do here. No topic left uncovered. No limits on length. No guidelines as far as language and subject. Hell, last night we got a guy to submit us something about how it took him five years to knit a scarf. We are also adding a funny advice column. And a new comic (that will be three comic strips here).

You never know. Sometimes a one shot story from someone turns into a weekly slot on FTTW cause we like it so much. You might be good and not even know it. We just want to showcase you. You have something you are an expert in? Some topic you are passionate about? Something interesting happen to you? Been to a great show? Collect something unusual (not dead bodies, please)? Write it up. Tell us a story. Send it in.


So send your submissions in. Let us put you up.

Cause next Monday, all of this will change again.

I told you. Hold on. FTTW keeps growing and we want you part of it. Think you can write? Did we miss something? Can you help us fill in those blanks? Wanna be part of the FTTW Team?

submissions@fasterthantheworld.com

[also, any questions you have about writing for us will be answered through that address]


We're waiting for you.

* Also, if you would like to subscribe to the feed for this site, please click the extended entry thing. People have asked and I guess it's not that noticeable on the sidebar.



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Nirvana...and not the grunge kind neither.



Some have certainly accused me of being a few chicken McNuggets shy of a Happy Meal, but everyone has different things that turn them on. Since Kali is doing a fantastic job on the other kind, I'll say that "turn ons" in this case can be used interchangably with "interests".

I work a technical job all day long, thinking hard, more or less, with nothing physical to show for it. Grinding away on a computer, sending e-mail, making phone calls. While this may create a nice bank account, for a guy like me it lacks satisfaction. I need something I can get my hands on. For fun, I work on cars.

A sunday afternoon garage session is all fine and good. A couple of buddies come over and you wrestle an engine back into the car. Jokes and stories fly around about the time when someone did something or another. Thats all fine, but I like the late night solo thrash.

Normal folks are asleep, or at least nestled in front of the TV for the night. I slip on my coveralls, put on some music, rockabilly is best in this case, and set to work. It's peaceful. Occasionally, the clink of a wrench slipping out of my hand and hitting the ground, but otherwise quiet. Parts are assembled into components, components assembled into things. There is order.loudpedal1.JPG There is organization. Lying on the cool concrete floor on my back while I nudge that transmission back into its slot with my knees, a healthy clunk, then click as it notches into place. Fit. Just as it should be.

This is what mechanical things are folks. Metal. Oil. The smell of a freshly painted engine block that hasn't yet been fired. Tab A fits into slot B, but it ALWAYS takes more time and effort that expected. Making them fit together without turning it into a nasty hack job is what separates the faithful few from the legions of butchers that mangle things beyond recognition.

Sure, assembly line workers might have stuffed that same transmission into this car 50 years ago in Detriot and never thought a thing about it, but they made thousands of cars and it only had to just go together. It had to work, but it didn't have to be "right". This one is being assembled by hand, with love and care, to be perfect. The reward is nothing more than a job well done and maybe, if you're lucky, a few more horsepower or a shifter that feels just a wee bit better than the others as it slots into gear at the stoplight. Every single time that shifter moves, you know that you built the gearbox on the other end. It's yours.

Finally, it's together. The last nut is tightened, the oil is checked, the lights all work. It's late, much too late to go for a test drive, but I'm done. Lean back against the bench, pieces of rust and dirt in my hair, in my ears. A big sitcom smudge of grease on my face where I wiped the sweat off with a dirty hand. Take a look.

For better or for worse, I did it. If it falls apart, there's no one to blame but me.

To be continued...

Johnny Cash - One Piece at a Time

September 14, 2006

Cars of the Night: We Love it When a Plan Comes Together



Cars. This site started with our mutual love of muscle cars and we’ve kind of neglected that topic for a while. And being that today’s contributor stories were all a bit on the heavy side, we decided to have a little fun with our topic tonight. Rough sex, Iraq and sleeping on a couch are all well and good, but sometimes you just gotta kick back and say, let's not think too hard tonight.

A while back we did a thing on movie and tv cars. We put our favorites out there and then you all gave us some of your favorites. So we reached back into that post and pulled out two more tv cars to have some fun with tonight.

Michele revs her engine first:

I had a couple of cars in mind here. Dragula. Frankenstein from Death Race 2000. Cool cars. But then I remembered. There was one car that always bugged me. One car that really fucked me up when I watched this show after smoking a joint or two and my mind would start to do that weird overthinking thing. Why are there so many shades of orange? What would peanut butter taste like with Velveeta? How the fuck does this car I'm looking at work?


The Flintmobile

flintmobile.gifA car in the loosest sense of the word. No engine. Nothing under the hood. Powered only with the courtesy of Fred’s two feet. It changed from episode to episode, too. Sometimes it was two seater, sometimes it had four seats. Sometimes a convertible, sometimes hardtop. That’s one hell of car. It can shape shift!

I always wondered how the hell this car worked. I guess it used the skateboarding theory of motion. You use your feet to get it going up to speed and then you coast a bit off the momentum. But my child’s mind (oh, who am I kidding, I thought about this more when I was a stoned teenager than any other time) had so many questions about how Fred and his fellow Bedrockians were able to make their car go.

First of all, they were barefoot. Didn’t they get blisters on their feet? And what about rocks and pebbles and gravel in the road? .car.jpg Wouldn’t that cut their feet up? Wouldn’t the skin on their feet peel every time they tried to brake? Hell, there should have been blood all over the streets of Bedrock from cut up feet. And if Fred had to power that thing every day with just his own physical force, why was he so fat? You have to figure that getting the car in motion enough to get to the quarry or the lodge was quite a bit of exercise each day.

Also, the wheels. They were just two stone cylinders. How the hell could the car make turns with solid wheels going across the front and back? If you take close look at it, I don’t think it was built with axles that could make those stone tires turn quite enough to work the car right. The way the log things are set up on the side would prevent anything more than a slight turn of the wheel. Plus, the log thingamajig doesn’t look like it’s held together too well. That should have come flying off when Fred went too fast or attempted to turn. The car should have rightfully fell apart at least once every day, leaving Fred and Barney scattered across the Bedrock Highway amidst broken Flintmobile parts, just waiting for the Elephant ambulance to come get them.

See, the elephant car thing makes a lot more sense. Sure, it was a bit slow but, realistically, it was feasible to use for travel. More feasible than a shoddily built car powered by the feet of a tie-wearing caveman. Plus, it only cost peanuts to keep an elephant working.

What? Like you didn’t see that coming. -M


turtle loves it when a plan comes together

What a weird day. Waking up to weird shows that you aren't used to on a daily basis starts to warp your mind. Leaving your TV on at night is always like a gambling throw in Las Vegas. Sometimes you crap out when you wake up. Snake eyes. Sometimes you roll the perfect "Twelve the Hard Way" (Yes, I know that makes no sense but I was talking about prostitution there, not Craps.)

cigar.jpg So, since I am usually awake much later than anyone else in the fucking world, I watch some weird shit. When I do wake up, I am on the couch and my dog is on my bed. I look around and wonder what I have to do on here this week before the cigar even hits my lungs. Turn the stereo on and wonder what time it is.Fuck. Four in the morning. Sure. Four in the morning works for some people. It works for Michele cause she can talk to me from the East Coast but fuck, man, TV at that time sucks. No Little House. Just ads. I crapped out. Michele asking me what we need to do today, bright eyed and fucking bushy tailed and me not even being able to get out my morning piss yet.

You ever talk on a cell phone while smoking a cigar when your eyes are barely open and have to explain why you just yelled "ouch!" cause an ash from the cigar just fell on the tip of your penis and is burning your pubic hair?

Try explaining that when you just woke up. It comes out more of something like "Oh fuck!" "What???" "Oh.... nothing"

Admitting to someone that you burned your pubic hair at four in the morning with a cigar is like going into your first AA meeting. It's hard to admit you have a problem and you sure as fuck don't want others knowing about it.

Back to TV.

Fuck. Something has to be on. I'm losing Michele in about 10 minutes so I have to find something on. Something has to be on this damn TV. The music starts and I know I have found it. I rolled a seven today.

We decided to talk about cars and I found one.

And the nicotine was just soaking in.

The A-Team Van

Well fuck yeah. Now we can talk. A black van with a stripe down it filled with convicted war criminals that escaped Vietnam and prison to help people with their problems and wear a lot of gold while doing it.moses.gif It's like this story was written by god himself and brought down to the people by Moses.

1. Thou shall only blow tires out with weird looking guns
2. Thou shall not forget about anyone in a mental institution for any mission
3. Thou shall always tranquilize the driver of the van cause he is scared of flying
4. Thou shall have a cool looking van
5. Any driver of thy van needs to wear a lot of gold
6. Any driver of thy van needs a mohawk
7. Thou shall smoke cigars as much as possible
8. Getting the insane guy in thy van is not up to you. Cause fuck, it seems to happen every week anyways
9. Thy should be able to make any device to get out of any situations with a rubber ball and house hold bleach
10. MacGyver will steal your ideas on #9 and end up in hell for doing it.

So I don't know if this is a post about going to hell, starting a new religion by gathering ex-Krishnas and sending them to the airport for donations or the van itself.

I'll stick with the van tonight cause the "A-Team Seven Point Plan To Take Over The World One Piece Of Gold Chain At A Time" is already in process. See. I'm a thinker. By the end of the year, airports will be filled with guys wearing a lot of gold asking for change with a big black van parked in the "No Parking Zone" waiting to be whisked off as the sound blares out of the car. Leaving the insane guy back at the airport and the driver of the van half sedated on some sort of barbituates we snuck in his "Happy Meal."

He hates planes.

My plan will work.

But the van.

Man that van was cool.

Packed with rebels and angry people. With Mr. T driving! To tell the truth I could always give a fuck less about the story line. Gangsters taking over your neighborhood or having trouble with the retarded kid not being able to hit the piñata at your kid's 14th birthday party? Fuck. Call the A-Team. Shit. If they couldn't get that kid to hit the piñata at the party, they will shoot his parents tires out with the funny looking guns and drive to their next assignment. The kid would hit the piñata in the end, but not after the A-Team made a "Piñata Busting" device out of cornstarch and some ordinary toothpicks.

Then drive away in their van.

With the driver half sedated cause they were near an airport.A-team-6-500.jpg

My plans for world domination with my A-Team cult will be coming together shortly. Soon you will all start to see more mohawks and gold chains. More vans and more people asking us you to join us and our pursuit of a van driven nation with at least one crazy a day to break out of an institution so he could dress like a girl to help out some people who found us.

The A-Team Cult

I just need to get a driver license first. - T

So these were our cars of the night. Sure some of the reviews sounded more like Jim Jones with his perfect plan on moving to South America and others were just complete trainwrecks. Drink the Kool Aid and join FTTW.

Oh.

And tell us, what your favorite car was that defined a movie or tv show?

My First Stint In Philly Part II


A beautiful spring day in late May. The dogwood tree in my front yard had just started to bloom, small white buds peeking out all over. The grass was heading toward long. I’d have to cut it over the weekend. But it was nice to be home. After fourteen hours in a plane, the hour long car ride from the airport had seemed a little luxurious, and stretching out on my couch and putting my feet up for a few hours was going to be absolutely fucking fantastic. My wife wouldn’t be home from work for a couple more hours, so it was just me, the dogs and the house I never got to see any more. Or at least the one I hadn’t seen in three weeks.

I got up to the front door and noticed something odd in the sunroom to my left. It was an old glassed in porch, with some sliding doors and screens. It was also the only room “in the house” where I could smoke, so if something was amiss, I’d notice it right away. I spent a good deal of time in there, reading and smoking and hanging out with my brother in law after we’d gone fishing. I guess that’s why she left them there. She knew that I’d notice them right away and wouldn’t even try the front door, which was good because my key wouldn’t have worked anyway.


suitcases.jpg“They” were an old pair of suitcases that we’d had sitting in the attic since we’d moved. Not long after I’d taken this job, I went out and bought a “3-week” suitcase. It was a giant thing with wheels and held enough clothes that I could be on the road for about three weeks before I needed to reload. It was still in the car, along with my laptop bag. These old things, remnants of my move back to the States, ended up in the attic. I figured I might be able to use them for something someday, but I had no idea they’d be used like this. They’d been placed carefully next to the couch and table we had out there and on top of them was a manila envelope with my name on it.

I wasn’t exactly sure why they were out in the sun room. It never even entered into my mind that they contained the rest of my clothes and what was left of my toiletries. It certainly hadn’t occurred to me that my keys wouldn’t work in my front door and the dogs weren’t barking like they should have been. I had talked to my wife when I was in Munich, just before I had gotten on the plane. She hadn’t acted strange. She hadn’t said anything off, nothing that would make me suspicious. She certainly hadn’t said “Don’t come home. I’ve taken the dogs to my mother’s house and won’t be home for a few days. Now take your suitcases and get off my property.” Of course, she hadn’t needed to say it. It was written in a note in the manila envelope.

I tried my keys anyway, knowing full well that she’d have changed the locks and modified the alarm code. Even if I did get in, I wouldn’t be able to turn that fucking thing off, and then I’d have to explain to the police why I was breaking into my own house. So, I sat down on the couch and just stared at the front door for a few minutes, my brain stuttering and halting, as the realization started to dawn on me. But it wasn’t working. My brain had shut down. I was gobsmacked, numb and almost totally shut down.

No wife. No house. No dogs. Everything I technically needed was in these three suitcases. Fourteen hours on a fucking plane, three weeks and eighteen months of working my ass off and these three suitcases were all I had to show for it. No place to sleep, except the car. No one to curl up next to me, give me a hug and a kiss when I needed one. No one to curl up next to me on the couch on a rainy day and read with me. Nothing. I tried to call her, but the computerized Verizon voice told me that my number had been blocked from her phone.

Still sitting on the couch, I called my brother in law. He and I had been friends long before I had started dating his sister. We’d skated together, fished together and almost been killed together a handful of times. He’d introduced me to his sister, he was the best man at my wedding and he was my best friend. My only remaining friend. That’s the funny thing about traveling all the time. Not only do you lose your wife, but all your friends write you off as well. But he’d know what was going on. His phone rang a hundred times, and I was pretty sure he wouldn’t pick up. Finally, his wife answered and put him on the phone.

“I’m not asking you take sides,” I started, “but I expect that you know what’s happening ?” He told me that, according to my wife, it was just too hard on her while I was gone. She wanted a man who was around and that it really wasn’t working for her anymore. He told me that he had a spare key if I needed to get anything out of the house. I had to give my wife credit; she’d covered all the angles. Of course, she’d had a lot of time to think about it. “I’ve got a friend,” he said, “who needs another roommate. It’s cheap and he said you could crash there for a few weeks if you needed to.” “Gimme the number,” I said.

Anthony was an Italian kid. I called him and we talked for a bit. I found out that we were about the same age and his wife had kicked him out about six months earlier. He had a three bedroom place in Southwest Philly and was looking for another roommate. The place was cheap and a little seedy but I could move in immediately. He gave me directions to his place and told me I could meet him there in a couple of hours. “Fantastic,” I thought as I hung up the phone, “I’m moving to the Badlands.”

Row.jpg
Since I had a couple of hours to kill, I figured I’d head up to the general area, find a bar and get absolutely smashed. Then I’d make my way to his place, find out which room was mine and bawl my fucking eyes out. I grabbed my bags and jumped into the car. I was a man with a plan. Booze, bawling and passing out on the floor somewhere in the roughest part of Philadelphia. I’d already been awake for eighteen hours…. What was a few more spent shitfaced ? So of course, I got lost on the way up there, as my only intimate knowledge of Southwest Philly was the location of the airport.

After driving around seedy neighborhoods for two hours, I finally found the place. It was a run down, brick row house on an amazingly dirty block. I knocked on the front door and Anthony let me into what would be my new home. It was laid out a little strangely. The front door led you into what used to be the garage; which had been converted into a kitchen and living area. It was all cheap blue carpeting and cinderblock walls. As a matter of fact, it looked exactly like what a garage converted into a kitchen should look like. There was a spiral staircase in the middle of the room that’d take you upstairs to the bedrooms and the bath, and right next to it was a kitchen table and some chairs. Anthony and I talked for a little bit. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be staying, I told him. He said that it was cool and that he’d show me my room. We went upstairs and he showed me around. It was dingy and depressing and certainly not my fucking house. I suggested we go get drunk and he wholeheartedly agreed.

Three hours later, the booze and the jetlag caught up to me and killed the adrenaline that’d been keeping me going for the last few hours. Blind drunk, we stumbled back to the house and I found that the spiral staircase was not something to be toyed with when I was drunk. It was old and not very wide, completely not negotiable by my drink numbed brain and feet. I slept in the couch in the living room instead. When I woke up the next day, I was ready to take on the world…. Until I moved. The mother of all hangovers had decided to take root in my skull and it appeared she wasn’t leaving. So I lay there on the couch for a few minutes, trying to put the previous day back together in my head, trying to figure out why I was sleeping on a vaguely familiar couch and where the hell I was. Then it all came back at once.

I got off the couch and navigated my way to the kitchen, Mother Hangover causing me to shake and stutter the whole way. A young-ish man was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee and playing with something small and furry. I introduced myself and he told me he was the other housemate, Lynne. I grabbed a cup of coffee and slammed it, feeling it burn all the way down. Between the pain and the caffeine, I felt a little better than hammered shit, which was an improvement over how I had been feeling. I looked over at the table. The furry thing was doing everything it could to get away from Lynne.

“Cute cat,” I said. He told me his girlfriend had given it to him the night before, on a whim. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, though,” he said, “I’m not a cat person.” I sat down across from him at the table and clucked my tongue at the kitten. She was small and gray, about six weeks old. As soon as I clucked my tongue at her, she ran across the table towards me and jumped onto my shoulder. She stuck her nose in my ear and started purring, rubbing herself all over me. “Guess Pearl’s got a new boyfriend,” came a voice from above. Anthony was heading down that damnable staircase, smiling a little. I waved to him and told him that I was off to get my stuff. He tossed me a set of keys.


powerout.jpg Even though my new housemates seemed nice, living in that place seemed like a prison sentence. The house was a giant piece of shit and the neighborhood was worse. The living room would flood every time someone would do laundry, so we kept a squeegee by the back door. Lynne’s girlfriend turned out to be a screamer, which was the last thing I needed to listen to every night (sometimes several times) being depressed and drunk over a woman. To top it all off, there was sewage processing plant about 15 blocks away and the funk would come drifting up every day around three o’clock. In short, it was less than ideal. The worst part though, was the heat.

The AC died in mid June. This being an old row home, there were only so many windows that could be opened to get any sort of breeze running through the house. The temperature continued to climb and finally my housemates just started legging it to the girlfriend’s places every night. It was too hot to sleep, too hot to move. I would come home every night with a case of shitty beer and Pearl and I would just sit, trying not to move. We’d sit in the living room, watching whatever was on, me drinking myself stupid and her purring in my ear and sitting on my shoulder. The AC finally got repaired in late August, just in time for the weather to cool off and once it got fixed, my housemates returned as well.

Even though the place sucked, Pearl and the booze kept me from going anywhere else. It’s amazing what you can find tolerable when you’re loaded all the time. The camel’s back had to break though. It finally snapped when I found out Anthony had been using all the money we’d been giving him for bills on blow. Apparently his girlfriend had a candy habit and he was more than happy to feed her sweet tooth. Of course, I didn’t find this out in the traditional manner, with the half dead girlfriend lying on the floor, a few lines still next to her on the coffee table. Instead, I came home after a long day to find that we were the only house on the block without power. Once inside, I found a letter on the floor from the power company (that I read by flashlight) telling Anthony that he owed somewhere in the area of $2000 and that power would be restored when he paid the bill.

I packed my things into the car that night and told Pearl I was leaving. She purred in my ear for a little bit and then licked my nose. I left Anthony a note on the Kitchen table, right next to the notice from the power company. I even left him the flashlight, so he could read it. I got back into my car and left Philadelphia.

Let the Bodies Hit the Floor:
Drowning Pool Live from Iraq

The Safety Officer took the stage and admonished the crowd, telling them that the USO wanted to make this a very safe, and fun event. Because they wanted the event to be fun, the Safety Officer informed the crowd that Command wanted to slacken the rules just a little bit. Soldiers were told they could bend the rules, but not break them. As such, moshing would be allowed, so long as there were no attempts to injure anyone and crowd surfing as well was within the approved limits of what would be tolerated, so long as there were no bodies being tossed or thrown rather than carried aloft.

Following a one minute Moment of Silence in tribute to the victims of September 11th, Drowning Pool rocked LSA Anaconda. From the first verses of "Sinner", the crowd took advantage of the loosened rules as Ryan McCombs tore his throat open straining to sing through the dust and dry air.


Drowning Pool shook the former Iraqi sports stadium with songs like "Tear Away," "Reminded," and a few previously unreleased songs, such as one dedicated to the Soldiers themselves. The band wants the American people to see what they see, so you might hear the tribute song on the next album. The unreleased songs are also from the upcoming album, so America's Servicemen and women watching the USO concerts are getting a sneak peak at what I will readily admit is some damn fine music.

From a cover of Pantera's "Cowboys from Hell" to one of McComb's old SOil tunes, "Halo," the band kept the bodies surfing and slamming among the soldiers and airmen wedged to the front of the crowd. I only noticed a few nasty falls, and almost without exception the soldiers and airmen, men and women alike got back up and rode the waves of the crowd once again.

Ryan McCombs dedicated "Tear Away" to Drowning Pool's late frontman Dave Williams, asking the crowd to sing along as loud as they could to make sure that Dave could hear, and be here at Anaconda for the show.

Through drowningpool4a.jpgout the show McCombs, or Mike Luce (drummer), would stop between songs to thank the troops, express their gratitude at being allowed to come to Iraq to play, or comment on the absolute lack of humidity. At one point McCombs stopped between songs to lament the pain in his throat from chewing on dust and dry air all night. "What did you guys do with the moisture? I guess you soldiers don't want it, so you said 'Screw the moisture. I don't need it!'"

Finally, as the show was winding down, McCombs told the soldiers that he'd like to take a moment to get into the foxholes with them. He then began to whisper, "Let the bodies hit the floor. Let the bodies hit the flooor."

And from there the soldiers and airmen went wild.

Drowning Pool finished the set with "Bodies," a song performed almost as loudly in the audience as the sound the band produced. The song created a truly memorable moment in the evening.

Drowning Pool
wrapped up by circulating autographed photos of the band on a glossy flyer indicating the concert here at Camp Anaconda. The flyers went out as part of a meet and greet (in which everyone in attendance who wanted to take the time could get some face time with the band).

Tonight was truly a night to remember here in Iraq. Made possible by the generous contribution of time, and the band's sincere thanks to the men and women of the Armed Forces. Drowning Pool demonstrated that they have nothing but the deepest respect for the American military.

As a side note: Cover for the show was provided by a highly skilled sniper who took up a defensive position where he could best put down any efforts of the enemy to provide fireworks that might liven up the show in any kind of negative light. It was the first time in my life that I suspected the armed security at the concert really meant business.

Drowning Pool - Bodies

Dave works in Iraq and writes daily at Dave's Not Here. Man.

This has been a reader contribution. If you would like to submit something for publication here at FTTW, please email your story to submissions@fasterthantheworld.com

i got your most wanted right here



oh dear reader. this morning you are in for a treat. and in the process i am going to make myself melancholy and wistful. so i hope you appreciate it. i do not look young in "wistful."

this is a story about southie. a boy i met in helLA. ok the story is not about him, per se, but about us. ok and not so much about us as about our sex. well, because that's what you came for, no?

i'll start here. some people are the tie-er up-ers and some are the tie me down-ers. meaning in every relationship (read:fuck) there is someone who takes charge and some one who lets them. some people dummy this down to "dominant" and "submissive" but i prefer the even more generalized "male" and "female."


i mean christ, what self respecting guy allows himself to be dominated by a chick? oh, you? mclint214.JPG well then let's go back to dominant and submissive then, shall we?

i, for one, with all my bluster, prefer to be dominated in bed. that does NOT mean i'm just gonna give it to you, however. the struggle is where it's at. in bed with me? you just gotta "take it."

no one (and i mean NO ONE) knew this better than southie. southie is from quincy, massachusettes. (pronounced "quinzy" -- seriously, that's the way they say that shit.) it's in south boston. and it's the home of whitey bulger. what i mean to say is that this kid is one tough irish american fuck. the kind that goes to the gym every fucking morning without fail. and he's not gay. so that's saying something.

man this kid knew what he was doing. let me tell you. and somehow he knew what i was about before we ever got our clothes off. he had to. because when we did finally get to his bed (and by finally i mean on the second date) he threw me on it like a rag doll. he held me down with one hand while he went to town with the other. and i struggled, damn did i struggle.

see with a real strong guy you can struggle a lot. and god DAMN that's fun. i hit and scream and bit and pushed and he gave in not one inch. and geez did he know how to choke. just enough so that it is scary but not enough to put me out. and in the right spot too... cuz, really who wants a crushed windpipe?

did i mention he was uncut? i had no idea what i was missing. (err... what you men were missing.)

and the best part (wow there were a lot of best parts) was that never and i mean NEVER did he want to change roles. he was the john wayne and i was the helpless maiden. always. wow i miss that. fuck. see what you're doing to me reader? now ima hafta email him and we didn't leave things all that great...

in fact at some point we decided that the only thing we were good at was fucking. so that's what we did. damnit, i wish that were enough.

wow. southie. i had almost forgotten.

Kali writes daily at Kalipornia Sucks

September 13, 2006

Don't lie to us. We know you are in on this.

So this is conspiracy theory day!

Why you think something is run by the Government? Why you think the newspaper is always late? Why you think the Three Stooges had a homosexual agenda to kill the world one by one with the use of cigars and eye pokes?

These are the first ones that came up for us.

And as Jack says on "24".....

We are running out of time!!!!

turtle tells the world what they need to know first.

One night I stared at my BAC on the machine increasing as I thought the cops were just laughing at me. Well, they were. I was already arrested. I didn't need this. I thought they were just fucking with me. They were. I sat in a cell.

That's where they all started.

Conspiracy Theories

First of all, before any of this gets started, I want you to know I sleep with a 12 gauge and a German Shepherd, so let's not get any ideas here. I am like a sped out tweaker wondering where the next place to buy a "Whopper Jr.” is. I think that was Burger King, but it might be the Clown guy's place. See, my mind works that way.

My biggest theories?

Noah's Bagels

These are the work of the devil. They say they are the are the original New York bagels yet no one over on the East Coast has heard of them. They want to get you addicted to them while you think New York is the place to get these types of bagels. Go to New York and eat a real one. Noah's are liars who want you to believe the East Coast is better while playing rap tunes over the intercom.

They want you to think that they are New York when they prolly aren't even made in Fresno.


John Belushi was killed by Bill Murray

You think he OD'ed?

No my friends. He was supposed to be the Dan Ackroyd in the John movies.But, John liked Dan better. Bill killed him after he was left out of "Animal House". For Christ sakes, he didn't even get "D-Day;s" role. Bill killed him by selling bad dope to him. Caddyshack my ass. Bill golfs now. Every day. And every time he sinks a putt he says his mantra.

"Thank you god John is dead."

Now this mantra could be about John Lennon, but it is well known Richard Nixon shot Lennon dead so we won't discuss that here.

Elvis

He is still alive. Trust me. He wanted to disappear like I did. He did it his own way. Elvis tried working in fast food joints, but he just couldn't make it. Ever seen the Weekly World News?

They know where he is. According to the July 15th edition, Elvis is working on a road crew in California. Constantly bitching about how rock and roll sucks as he eats donuts and watches cars blow tires and eats more donuts.

Thus, the relevance of the decline of rock and roll and the decline of California highways have a direct link.

George Foremangf_intro.jpg

Why is the guy naming all his kids after himself? Easy. He is making an army. You fools just can't see it. What his army is after is anyone’s guess.

I'm just afraid one day the Constitution will be changed and I'll have George XIV at my door saying the "Article of the Constitution require me to have a grillin' machine in my house."

Watching all my non-compliant neighbors lined up and shot.

Grill or die.

God

Oh. He has it out for all of us. You don't see it, but it is there. He is not a nice happy forgiving god. Fuck no. He is a god that respects nothing except for blood. You think a party is going on up in heaven? No. It's not. It's like watching reruns of "Judge Judy" while cleaning up beer cans from the night before. Face it.

You made it to heaven, but you have to clean the shit until you get god high on your dope for free.

Deal with it.

You are dead.

Wang Chung

If you spin those records backwards they talk to you. Wang Chung wants the world too. "Everybody Have Fun Tonight" spun backwards really says "Everybody grab a gun tonight, shoot the president and elect us as the owners of the new world."

You have to take a lot of drugs to hear it, but it is there.

So in the end it looks like a fight off.

George Foreman and his army of Roman Numerals and Wang Chung coming together to take over the world as god eats bagels and laughs at you while you pick up the empty "Coors" cans. - T

michele tells her secrets:

First, fair warning. This has been a long day for me. I worked hard for a change. Government employees aren’t supposed to do that, so it threw me for a loop. I’m all out of sorts and that might be apparent in my story here.

I love a good conspiracy theory. Nothing like wild-eyed speculation to give an otherwise mundane story a lift. I mean, take JFK. Just another dead president. Booooooring. But add the allure of Marilyn Monroe, the mob and LBJ and you got a story with legs, man. This thing will walk for a hundred years or more. Sure, most conspiracy theories are like those emails your mom sends you about flashing your headlights at oncoming cars; no one ever says they believe them, but you know damn well there are some people who are deathly afraid of being killed by the Crips if they flash their lights. Like my mom.

And this is where my Big Conspiracy Theory comes in. It’s the Theory of Urban Legends. See, all those stories on Snopes? All those emails with the 600 forwards that your Uncle Gus in Ohio sent you? They are all part of one big conspiracy.

The guy hiding in the back of your car at the gas station. Mentos and Coke. Kidneys in the bathtub. Alligators in the sewer. The guy with the hook. Tupac is alive. Soylent Green is people.

All of these legends were made up by one evil, sinister cabal, formed long ago with the intent of, well, just making fools out of people. They have this giant underground lair where they gather on the third of every month to come up with new legends to pass around._40357803_urban-legend-hook203.jpg They used to have to do this by word of mouth, but ever since Al Gore invented the internet, they have been able to propagate their theories at the speed of however speedy that series of tubes that run the internet goes.

This may seem unbelievable to you. But trust me, I have it on good authority. A friend of a friend of a cousin’s uncle’s next door neighbor told me about it. And I heard that he is actually related to someone who was at one of these cabal meetings so you know it has to be true. It was them who made up that big theory about the world ending on August 22nd and it was this very cabal that brought you the “don’t go in the mall” legend of October 2001. Razors in the apples? Them. Elvis working at 7-11? Them.

But why, you ask? And who? What kind of people would spend so much time making up stories and passing them on to naive people like my mother, who would then enter them into an email with every one of her contacts listed, not bothering to BCC by the way, and send them off as if they were gospel truth and we should all be boycotting the Post Office because they are making a Hitler stamp?

Well.

I don’t know. This is where my conspiracy theory ends.

But I think it might be Leprechauns.

Like I said, I’m tired. And I have more hard work ahead of me tomorrow.

Damn government. Trying to make me work for my pay. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you. -M

These are just theories folks.

What's yours?

update It's 9:30 at night and I just finished eating a mini bag of M&M's. Every M&M was blue. Why were they all blue? Why did I get this little bag? It was cause the government read what I wrote earlier tonight and tried to poison me with Blue Dye #35. - T

Another update This is a serious one. Take this to heart, my readers, a group of steel drum players have nothing but the devil on their mind. CSC-Steel-Calypso-Band.jpg

Steel drum Calypso bands

This was the group that was on the grassy knoll that day. Want to know why the pope was shot? Why the President was shot? Why we have the Brady Bill? The terrorists have won everytime I hear "Copacabana" on a steel drum set.

Don't get me wrong.

I still want a steel drum

I will get one soon.

Fight fire with fire.

God Bless America. - T

Update again I have been told by Michele to put a "- T" at the end of all my updates. There seems to be something going on here but I still haven't figured it out. I think the "- T" at the end of all my posts lets the government know who is writing these and she wants no part of it. Cause I know the truth. - T

Clutch - Animal Farm

Shit meets the fan in rural Oregon



First of all I just want to introduce you all to my world. And I'm not going to do it nice and easy. No, because I never do anything nice and easy, just like Ike and Tina.

My world revolves around playing music. Just about any kind of music you can throw at me, I'll take a stab at playing. I may not like it. I may hate it so much you see me leaning off the side of the stage throwing up in some woman's faux Prada purse, but I'll keep playing until I can't stand it anymore. Or I drop from exhaustion. Or someone kicks me off stage.

I'm currently involved in a blues society. Which is pretty cool. We run a public jam every week. Everyone is invited to play. As long as you can carry a tune in a dumptruck, you can even sing. These folks are all the first people I met when we moved here last year. I often re-realize that all my friends are musicians. That's fucking scary.raykoonstage.jpg That's like putting live Qassam rockets along the path to your curb and calling it garden décor. If I was smart I would run the fuck the other way. But that ain't my job, the being smart thing.

This can all be really entertaining sometimes. The people-watching factor is off the scale, and some people totally self-destruct on stage, and that's pretty damn cool to watch, too. Maybe not so fantastic to hear, but damn funny usually to watch. You know, I'm not the one who enjoys starting the shit, but I sure do like to watch it hit the fan sometimes.

A lot of what I will probably write about will be these musical adventures, the clashing of egos, grown ups who act like 2-year-olds and then expect to be taken so very seriously, the gigs we do with the blues society (we do a lot of benefits for charities. As long as SOMEONE supplies the whiskey for us). Thoughts on playing a form of music that drives me bananas but still draws me, and how schizo I can be about being involved in it and my own retardotantrums.

I offer up, here as a sort of introduction to my world, a case of shit meets fan. Someone happened to be recording at this jam. We happened to have a very, very drunk person tell us she was a good singer and wanted to get up and sing some songs. So we let her. Because we're nice that way- and hell if they let me play drums, no one should be the least bit shy about anything else. In doing so, we gave ourselves literally months of entertainment at someone else's expense.

The Singer*

*thats one of the jams. not an actual band, just blues fans doin the thursday night thing. Me on the bass, i think a dude named paul on one guitar, kirk on another guitar, and probably tom on the drums. and some crazy psycho drunk chick singing after she told us she could sing. bwahahahaha. thats an introduction to my world, that mp3. It was so bad at times i couldn't play i was laughing so hard and trying not to do it out loud.

My First Stint In Philly Part I


I’ve been sitting outside the last few nights. The air here is getting a little crisp in the evenings, the mid to low fifties. It the perfect time to sit outside, enjoy a beer, and enjoy the sounds of the city around me. Some nights, a little streaming radio doesn’t hurt either.

Kids playing on the sidewalks and streets, shouting and laughing and just being kids. Septa making their rounds. My new neighbors hanging out in their backyard, hanging laundry and speaking Tagalog. As much as I hate the summer in this dirty old town, its times like this during the other three seasons that really remind me of why I love it so much here. It wasn’t always this way. This is the second time I’ve lived in this town. And the first time was a whole different story….

As the previous century drew to a close, so did my first marriage. My wife and I had always had problems, much like other couples. We were both the oldest child in our families and, as a result, we were both stubborn and pigheaded. We were always used to being in charge. We were always the one who got the last word and always the one who made the rules. It wasn’t exactly an easy relationship.

no, it's not my old houseAfter a few years, I kind of eased off. It’s one thing to always be in charge and always be right and always win the battle. But, it wasn’t good for the relationship and it wasn’t good for us. So, unless I was adamant about something, I let her make the majority of the decisions. Looking back, that may not have been the best choice, but at the time, it seemed the most reasonable. She had decided, though, that the best thing for us would be to have a baby.

It wasn’t long after we bought the house. We’d picked up an old stone house for a song. It was by far, the largest thing either of us had ever lived in. Soon afterwards, her nesting instincts had kicked in and when she’d gotten done decorating the place, she dropped the bomb. The house was far too big for the two of us, she argued. Wouldn’t it be nicer to come home to the pitter patter of tiny feet ?, she asked. Besides, it was in her plan. She was 25, she wasn’t getting any younger and it was the right time.

I still wasn’t convinced that fatherhood was for me. I could barely take care of myself, much less anyone else. I couldn’t get up on time, I could barely cook. My shoes were consistently untied and my clothes were always rumpled. There was no way in hell that I could take care of a kid. But we came up with a plan anyway. I needed a new job, one that paid exponentially more money, so that we could save up and so that when we were dependent on my salary alone, we could afford the luxuries and house that we’d become accustomed to.

yes, they're something she would have likedSo I looked for a new job and found one with relative ease. Remember, this was the late 90’s and the tech sector was huge. There were untalented hacks making great money and, as much as it pains me to say it, I had skills. I’ll be humble about almost everything else that has to do with me, because, honestly, I’m not that great of a guy. But my “kung fu” has always been strong, so it didn’t take me long to find something that was paying in the neighborhood that I needed to pull this plan off. And that’s when everything went Pete Tong.

The gig was simple. Make Client X happy. Client X was a multinational that had had their technological heads in their asses for years and were in the process of paying the price. Full blown distributed environments contained to closets and shit cabling that ran nowhere. Distribution systems that didn’t talk to the rest of their network. An inventory system that was still, at its heart, a pen and paper system. Making them happy made me a very busy boy. Busy enough that I was traveling constantly, three weeks a month, at least. During my busiest year, I was away from home 320 days. Client X was ecstatic. My wife, on the other hand….

Life on the road wasn’t treating me too good. I tend to eat like shit when I’m by myself and I don’t sleep. I forget simple things like shaving and where I put that damn pen. It’s easier for me to become distracted when I live with just myself and focus on what’s in front of me, which in this case, was the work. And it became easier for my wife to come home to an empty house at night or go out for a night with the girls. I started drinking myself to sleep, often. And she was letting the dogs come into the bed with her at night so she’d have something to cuddle when she woke up from a bad dream at two in the morning.

So, one sunny afternoon, after being on a plane for fourteen hours, I arrived home to find that I’d been kicked out.

Where will thefinn go ? Will he see his beloved dogs again ? What actually happened while he was away ? Tune in tomorrow for the second facinating installment, wherein thefinn finds a place to rest his weary head and falls for a girl named Pearl.

The Cemeteries Are Full Of Dimwits

I’m writing this early Friday night and I don’t know what movie to watch yet, but it’s gotta have zombies though, old school. Friday night is time to kick back and watch a few people die. Fridays are good.

nfr-dead.jpgThe laws of horror stupidity apply really well to a zombie movie. You see, if you’re smart you can stay alive for a long time, but no matter what you do, you’re most likely going to be eaten anyway. Zombies can’t run because their bodies are all rotted and shit, but that’s okay. They’re able to take their time because they have eternity to catch you. Zombie movies usually have that sense of inevitable doom. You will run out of places to go and they’ll probably get you. It’s going to spread, everyone may be turned and the world as we know it might end. But every minute, there’s an idiot born who will die before you.

Stupidity isn’t always completely necessary in a horror movie, but it helps explain a lot of situations and it definitely helps the body count. I don’t only love the idiots that die in the movie, it’s the idiots who die before the movie even starts. They’re usually necessary. Those legions of undead have to come from somewhere. The legions of undead are full of idiots who didn’t have the sense to get away. Shit should never have turned out like this… those stupid fucking people…. Jesus, just walk away, just walk. That’s why it’s so satisfying when they get ripped apart or shot in the head. If they’re dumb then it just feels better.

Take that Hare Krishna guy in the original Dawn Of The Dead. They don’t show his history but you know how he bought it. He walked up to someone and said “Love Will Overcome All” or “A Small Donation Will Set You Free.” The point is that he probably walked up to someone. Rama Mageesh promised him eternity but now he gets to crave human flesh until his own flesh rots away. Everyone knows this guy.

And of the four main characters in Dawn Of The Dead, who bought it? The stupid ones. The flyboy, Steven, jumped at every opportunity to act like an idiot, and I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did. Fucking dolt. That other guy, the cop, well he lost it at a crucial moment and he paid for it. It’s truly unfortunate when cops die in horror movies. Truly. Send more cops.

Here’s another good example, Burial Ground. Now there’s a piece of work. Holy shit this crew is stupid. They should have arrived at that tropical island (you know, the one from which they’d never escape) on a short yellow bus. They’re not half as smart as the zombies that kill them and they prove their worthlessness again and again.
These zombies got it together, man.
they're coming to get you, barbara They’re well dressed and they haven’t wasted their time while they were in the ground. They were working on their knife throwing and wall climbing skills. These are the type of zombies the Nazis always wanted. Anyway, every living human in this movie is an idiot and they all end up getting what they deserve. The best one of all concerns this kid who wants to make it with his Mom.

Weirdest looking kid I’ve ever seen in my life. Look at that kid. That’s supposed to be a kid? I’ll believe in zombies first. This kid gets all upset because of the walking dead or something, and goes to his Mom for comfort. Get this, he tells her how he needs to touch her, and how she used to hold him to her breasts when he was little. Then he goes for her tits. Mom smacks him down and he cries. The whole scene is pretty damn weird, and more unsettling than the blood and death around them.

Later the kid gets killed, becomes a zombie and finds his Mom. The lady figures that maybe it’s a good idea to let the kid have a go at her after all - now that he’s a fucking zombie - and she ends up getting a tittie bitten off. She must have been out of her mind because nobody is that stupid. Besides the obvious result of being dead, she’s got a gaping hole where her right tit used to be. When she starts to rot, that hole is going to be one of the first places the maggots settle into. That’s just going to be unattractive. Stupid corpse.

Stupidity is rampant everywhere, but especially in the underafternetherworld, so what’s the scene you think of? What’s your favorite display of horror stupidity? Who didn’t listen when you told them not to go in there?

Misfits - Night of the Living Dead

September 12, 2006

comfort foods: why i ever left this place, i still dont know

After the wonderful recipe that no one is going to try to make by Baby Huey earlier today, we thought it would be a great follow up to do this as our late night typing.

Comfort Food

Don't ask how it got that lame ass name. I don't know how it got associated with being comfy or anything like that. In fact the whole name sounds like it was made up by "Francis" the Head Chef at the local "Free Gay Buffet". All I know is that this is some of the best food there is.

It's something that you always wanted and never forgot. Fuck the name, this is about the food.

Wanna read ours?

Here we go!

turtle gets all Ragu on you

Lasagna

No. I am not Italian. No. I don’t shave everyday. No. My old country has never won a World War. But hey dude, we made an alliance with the Italians during WW II. Maybe that's why I like Italian food so much. Fuck, you can only eat so many soft tacos in a day before you start wondering when you have to swim the river and get a job picking tomatoes in the "land of freedom". Soft tacos are not comfort food.

But, lasagna. The only way to make it was the way mom made it. 100 percent German lady making this wonderful dish. I could smell it being cooked three days away from some place I called home. The leftovers. The garlic bread. I was safe now. The war was over. A food alliance between the losers of too many wars put their only skills together and my mom came out the winner. Don’t bother ever buying it for me or making it for me.

It's been tried. And like Hitler killing himself, it has been lost.

I can only eat mom's lasagna. The rest is just soft tacos. And I don't want to pick blackberries in the field again._tn_SwimmingRiver.jpg And the Rio Grande is fucking cold for god’s sake.

I ain't swimming that fucker again without a gun to my back.

Meatloaf

Yes I took a sucker bet out of this one, but the way mama makes it is so perfect. Another food to never try to make me. It just won't work. Four family members all putting out their cigarettes in the wasted catsup of the after meal plates as they rub their tummies. A habit picked up that I still do today. But, I use cigars now. If I put out a cigar after I ate your food right in the middle of the plate? It means good job. And it also means that you are lucky these aren't the Roman Times or I would find a vomitorium and show you what a proper meal you have made and how I wanted more.

Tomato Soup and Grilled Cheese

Let's be honest here. This is jail food. You might remember this as your mama feeding it to you when you were in bed with the flu, but in jail, it's called "Tuesday".artestgrchs.jpg Don't get me wrong. Nothing about this reminds me of being in jail or prison and for god’s sake that doesn't make me feel comfy. But, just the taste of the cheese in the soup as you watch golf all day long naked with just a blanket on, it's comfy.

Sunday with a cigar. Watching TV while wondering if you even want to talk to the world today. A swing and a miss. A scratch on the balls. A missed putt. A stretch in your back. An Eagle. A relight of the cigar and one last bite of the grilled cheese.

That is comfort.

Seared Tuna

Oh yes. Now I'm getting expensive on you. Or if you are perverted, kinda dirty on you. I giggle any time I type those words. Tuna...hehehehe. Seared...hehehehe.

But seriously, this is what I eat when I couldn't keep anything down. Be it car wrecks or detoxing, this was what kept me going. When all you can do is watch "Sponge Bob Squarepants" and puke bile for three days in a row, this is what you want. Gooey, slimy and covered in sauce. The only thing I want when I am sick. I can cook a piece of this before you can finish a cigarette. This is really a food that is no good for BBQ's. Too fast to cook. Before I have my bladder halfway empty, the food is done. And as you guys all know, cutting off a majestic piss half thru feels like someone punching you in the balls. Flip the fish with one hand while holding "Mr. Frosties" head with the other.

Seared tuna is great, but pissing is better. - T

Michele has some close encounters:


Comfort foods. I have a lot of them. When you’re Italian, food in and of itself is a comfort thing. Sad? Eat. Happy? Eat. It’s raining? Eat. All the worlds’ problems are solved with food. And while grandma’s pasta did give me lots of comfort on Sundays, there’s two different foods that will always give me the feeling of, well, home. When I eat these foods I feel like everything that has gone wrong will be better, that everything that sucks will be good again, that all I need after this is some feety pajamas, a pillow, a blanket and Wonderful World of Disney on the tv.


Mashed Potatoes

These were a special meal thing. Mom didn’t make them too often because they were a pain in the ass. Peeling enough potatoes to feed five people who all wanted second helpings is a bitch. Trust me, I know. 3882620_large.jpgWhen I was about six, mom realized I was old enough to work the peeler. One of those old fashioned metal things. That fucker would twist and turn as you used it. Wet potato in one hand. Sharp, resistant peeler in the other. Six year old hands. What the hell was mom thinking? It took me about fifteen minutes to peel one potato. And I cut three of my knuckles in the process. Don’t ask. Just know that I’m kinda spastic. So I had to start peeling the potatoes at like 4:00 if we wanted to eat by the time dad got home at seven. This was slave labor. Sweatshop type work. I hated it more than anything. But I got to hang out in the kitchen with mom and watch Dark Shadows. And that ruled. And then we’d eventually sit down to dinner and let me tell you, there’s something extra good about mashed potatoes that you bled for.

Plus, there’s the fun factor of mashed potatoes. The castle and moat! You build your potatoes into this huge glob that in your mind looks like a castle (fuck Richard Dreyfuss, we were building shit out of our spuds way before he did his alien thing) and then use your spoon to carve a moat around. Fill the moat with gravy. Then dump a spoonful of corn all around the moat and pretend that the kernels are drowning peasants. Make the appropriate “help me” noises. Then wait for your mom or dad to tell you to stop playing with your food and pretend you don’t see dad shaping his mashed potatoes into a hand giving the middle finger to your mother.

That was last Thanksgiving, by the way.

Gotta love the mashed potatoes.


Chili

Not just any chili. Dad’s chili. It’s the dead of winter. February in New York. Cold, gray and it’s snowing like a motherfucker. freshly fallen silent shroud of snow Everyone is outside shoveling snow or pretending to shovel snow but really just playing around. I try to explain to dad that there’s no point in shoveling the driveway now when ten more inches are predicted. But, like my mom and the potato peeler thing, my dad insists on some kind of work ethic. It’s like a life lesson. You shovel and shovel and you finally get to the end of the driveway and you turn around to survey your work and...fuck. The driveway is covered again. Must be about another five inches fell while you were working your ass off to get it cleared. Dad motions for you to start over again. Thank you, Mario, but our princess is in another castle! Fuck that. You have other things to do because here comes Mr. Plow. He clears the street, but not all the way. He leaves a thin layer of tightly packed snow on top of about an inch of ice. Oh baby! It’s like the bat signal went off. All of a sudden, there’s a bunch of kids in the street. Just waiting on a car. We’re going skitching! You wait for a car to come down the road. When one finally comes, you move in behind it like a stalking animal, crouch down and grab the bumper. Your feet slide along the street as you hang on for your life. The car makes a turn and your feet go sliding and your hands are so numb with cold you’re not sure if you are hanging on anymore and you’re pretty sure that in about two seconds, your head is going to be crushed underneath the car’s tires. But you get your balance back and you’re sliding again. You let go at the next corner and walk back home, exhilarated.

chili.JPGThat smell. You walk into the kitchen, soaking wet with snow crusted on your pants and your hands red and raw and your nose running and that smell, it melts you. Chili. Dad’s winter chili. Is it ready yet? You ask him ten times. No, he says. It has to be just right. You take off your boots and your scarf and your frozen gloves and leave them in a wet heap on the mat and you get changed into your warmest clothes, all the while your mouth is watering. Mom gives you hot chocolate. You sit at the table and watch your dad stir the chili and put in a few more spices, a few more shakes of chili powder, another dash of something else. You just wait. By the time the feeling comes back into your hands and feet, the chili is done. Dad puts a huge bowl of it in front of you with a big chunk of Italian bread and he tells you thanks for you shoveling the driveway.

Oh fuck. The driveway.

Oh well. This chili ain’t gonna eat itself. -M

So once again, we got way off topic. These are our favorite comfort foods.

We want to know yours.

And don't tell us Mac and Cheese because we will know that the tapeworms from that Kraft crap have taken over your mind. Like a weird Star Trek thing, the tapeworms have got you.

What's yours?

RKL - Coming Home

Dalla mia cucina ad il vostro



I come from a half-Italian family. Now, I wish I could say that I was a stereotypical wop, with Sinatra warbling on the radio, a pot of red sauce constantly bubbling on the stove, and a glass of chianti always waiting for my dad when we went over to my grandma's house. But who the fuck am I kidding? I grew up in Central Ohio. My family was typified by my uncle Dino. I love the guy. Great Italian name, greasy wop haircut and the mustache all screamed "pisane." However, the giant belt buckle, Appalachian accent, love of Marlboros and cowboy boots let you know his, and my family's, true nature. And I loved that duality.

That dual nature especially showed itself in our family's cooking. My dad's aunts and uncles (he had 11 of them--big Catholic family don'tchaknow) were all excellent Italian cooks, but could still chicken fry your ass and serve you with brown gravy and you'd ask for more. I learned to cook from my Dad, who learned to cook from his mom and dad and aunts and uncles.

I mentioned all that to say that I figured for my first recipe here on FTTW, it'd be apropos to start with a recipe that comes directly from my family. Unlike some of my family's recipes, the contents of which I've taken a vow of silence to learn, I'm excited to share this with you.

This is not a quick recipe, but it is absolutely worth it.

Polenta e Fagioli

4 1/2 cups chicken or vegetable stock
1 c coarse ground corn meal (also marketed as grits--but NOT hominy--or polenta)
2 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil
1 onion, diced fine
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 hamhock, whole
1 10-oz package frozen spinach, thawed and drained
1 14-oz can kidney beans, completely rinsed
1/2 c parmesean cheese
salt and pepper

Heat a 6-quart soup pot over medium heat and add the olive oil. Add the onion and garlic and season with salt and pepper. Cook this for about 5 minutes, till the onions are translucent. If they start to get brown, turn the heat down. You don't want them to brown, only sweat. Add the hamhock and the broth. Bring the broth up to a simmer (that is, it should just barely be bubbling) and simmer the hamhock for about 25 minutes. Remove the hamhock from the broth and cut up the meat into small pieces. Throw the bone out and add the meat back into the broth. Add the spinach in and make sure it's not clumped up.

At this point, bring the broth to a boil. As soon as it starts boiling, add the corn meal and start whisking. Drop the broth back to a simmer. You'll want to whisk this till it becomes a thick consistency, like grits or oatmeal. If you got regular cornmeal, this should take about 20 minutes. When you taste it, it shouldn't be crunchy at all, and it shouldn't be soupy either.

When the polenta is the right consistency, gently stir in the kidney beans and half of the cheese. Turn the whole mess out into a deep 8 x 8 baking dish. Top it with the other half of the cheese and cover with saran wrap. Put it in the fridge for 2 or 3 hours. In the fridge, the starch in the corn meal will set up and form a cake consistency as opposed to a porridge. After it's set, it stays set. Cut it into squares and pan fry it, grill it, broil it, whatever gets your motor running.


As always, nothing washes dinner better than a healthy dose of metal. So tune in to "Dead of the Night" at 10pm Eastern, every Tuesday night on WXDU.

Wii Will Wii Will ROCK you

Welcome to The Action is Go! I'll be writing each week about video games in typical FTTW fashion. So you never know what you'll get here, you'll just know that it will have something to do with gaming. And in my world, gaming is anything from Pong to pinball to the Atari to the (droooool) Wii to the Vic20 to my beloved Dreamcast.

And just so you understand what you're getting with me, let me sum up my gaming motto in one sentence:


Old School beats New School

Yea, I'm one of those. Always talking about the old days. The days you blew on a cartridge to get it to work.nespanties.gif The days before graphics became more important than gameplay. Before you had to sit through twenty minute cut scenes to get to the next screen. Before CGI rendering and 3D artists turned games into slick movies. I hate video games that spend too much time presenting themselves as slick CGI movies


I still have my SNES and Sega Genesis hooked up. Hell, I'd even break out the Atari if I could find it in my mother's attic. It's not like I don't play the newer games. I like Prince of Persia and Destroy All Humans and MGS and all, but sometimes I miss the simple days. So I ditch 3D worlds for the flat world of Mario. Controllers that don't have as many buttons as the space shuttle. Cheat codes that consist of U-D-R-D. Cartridges that take a beating and keep on ticking. Come on, how cool was it to be able to attach Sonic & Knuckles to Sonic 3? Pitfall Harry and poorly rendered spaceships. Wasted hours playing Dr. Robotnik's Mean Bean Machine or Castlevania.

I want a scrolling screen. 2d adventure moving from right to left.


So I've been playing a lot of Zelda. Not the new stuff. The original. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't like Ocarina and the rest - hell, I've had a deposit down on Twlight Princess for over a year - but I just find the older games so much more enjoyable. Games that were created without the help of cinemetographers and an all star cast of voices. Games that didn't come with a pre-packaged soundtrack and team of publicists. Games that were all about the quest. The challenge. The puzzles. The gameplay.

I know. I know what I sound like. Get off my lawn.

But that's neither here nor there right now. Well, maybe it is. Because I got some news today that made me say:

Wheeeeeeeee!

Here comes the Wii!

A supposed formal announcement Thursday during a three-region press event. What will they say? Is this finally it? The final specs? The price?

I've been dicked around by Nintendo before. I want the real deal this time. I want the launch date. Nintendo Revolution ControllerI want to know if Twilight Princess is coming out on launch day. I want the dollar amount. I want to know all the games that will be available for the Virtual Console. I swear on the grave of Pitfall Harry, if they hold a six hour "event' and don't give me all this information, I will....well, I will cry. Or something.

Seriously, the anticipation I have for this console. I haven't been this excited since I thought I was getting a baby brother for Christmas. And let me tell you, when I got that god damn EZ Bake Oven instead, I made a vow to hunt down Santa Claus and dismember the bastard. I'm still looking for him.

So hear this Nintendo. Don't be giving me some EZ Bake Oven on Thursday. Give me that baby brother. Give me all the facts I've been dying for. Tell me which day I need to go stand in front of EB Games at 4am and fight off all the uber geeks for my rightful place in line. Hey, I've had a deposit down on this console since LAST MAY.

You want to talk excitement? Anticipation? As in, if I had a dick I would probably be sporting wood right now?

Play Nintendo has a list of possible (a 'reliable' source say so) launch titles for the Virtual Console:

1. Bonk's Adventure
2. Castlevania
3. Duck Hunt
4. Excitebike
5. F-Zero
6. Kid Icarus
7. Legend of Zelda, The
8. Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time
9. Mario Kart 64
10. Metroid
11. Mortal Kombat
12. New Adventure Island
13. Ninja Gaiden
14. OutRun
15. Pac-Man
16. Prince of Persia
17. Punch-Out!!
18. R-Type
19. Rayman 2
20. Sonic the Hedgehog
21. Star Fox
22. Super Mario 64
23. Super Mario Bros
24. Super Mario Kart
25. Super Mario World
26. Tecmo Bowl

Hot damn. I think I just got chills typing those all out. Kid Icarus. Castlevania. TECMO FUCKING BOWL! I already have some of these for the Game Cube, but this list is still...it's like....

excuse me a minute. I need a moment.

In fact, just come back Thursday.

I'll have all the news that comes out of the event.

And I better be getting that baby brother.

September 11, 2006

Gretsch Guitars

guitar.jpg

This is a repost from my site from about a year ago - expect this to happen every once in a while - and covers one of my favorite guitar companies:

greshmain.jpgAfter writing a post about The Reverend Horton Heat, I decided talk a little bit about Gretsch guitars. Guitarists are known to be particular about getting certain sounds. They attach themselves to certain pieces of equipment -- guitars, pedals, strings, amps, speakers, etc. Gretsch, every bit as much as Gibson and Fender, are responsible for a lot of those cool guitar sounds we grew up loving.

Some of the biggest names in guitar ever have played Gretsch: Chet Atkins, George Harrison, Bo Didley, Chris Cornell, Django Reinhardt, Neil Young, Brian Setzer among others. There's something cool, undeniably Gretsch about those Filtertron pickups. You can hear it in strumming, in the decay of those single notes. Sure, some guitars sound similar, but nothing sounds exactly like a Gretsch.


Founded, in 1872 by German-immigrant Friedrich Gretsch, the company started as a drum and banjo manufacturer in New York. They later added lutherie (guitar manufacturing) to their company and in the 1930s offered acoustic archtops and flat-top guitars. Their first amplified models, the "Electrified Spanish" guitar, appeared in 1940. The 1950s saw the introduction of well-received, though conservatively designed electric archtops.

GRETSCH65CountryGentleman.jpgIt was in 1956 that Gretsch cut a marketing deal with Chet Atkins and created his "Country Gentleman" guitar.

Click on the image of the Country Gentleman for a full-size image. Check out the tuners on this baby. Look at how cool those little art deco things are. It's a little touch, but the kind of cool thing Gretsch does on their instruments. For an example of where these tuners originally became popular, click here.

The Country Gentleman has moved on to Gibson. Unfortunately. Not that I personally have anything against Gibson as a company. In fact, I probably admire them more than any other American lutherie company. But they have had quality control issues. They acquired Epiphone and with the exception of the high-end models, Epiphone is now a manufacturer of low-end Gibson knock-offs. Gibson has also acquired Kramer and Steinberger and the quality of those instruments has declined extremely. It's cool that they try and make affordable instruments, but I wish they'd still offer the level of quality they offer under their own name.

This is not to say that the Country Gentleman is not a quality instrument under Gibson's helm. It is a fantastic instrument, it just doesn't have that same Gretsch kitschy cool. Oh well. I'll write more about Gibson another day.

harrisongretsch.jpgGretsch has had some amazingly cool players. Out of the list above, their most famous player must be George Harrison. While John Lennon was playing his huge Epiphone Emperor, Harrison knocked out some cool sounds on his Gretsch Duo Jet. Of course, all the Beatles played a variety of brands, the Gretsch Duo Jet is a mainstay of Harrison's sound. At least as much as Rickenbacker.

The modern Gretsch company has gone through some changes. It is now located in Savannah, Ga., and their company was acquired by Fender Music Company in 2002. While this would normally spell the end of quality and manufacturing integrity for a company if Gibson had done it, Fender is known for letting their subsidiaries continue to produce their instruments at the same level of quality. They may cut into production levels, but the heart of a company generally remains the same. Fender acquired Jackson about the same time and if anything, quality has gone up for them.

I find this slice of Americana so interesting. When you think about the industrial background of America's youth, what images come to mind? I think about railroads and car manufacturers. Seldom did instrument makers enter my mind, but obviously they did their part to keep our economy going. And they more than did their part to ensure we produced some of the coolest music ever.

I got a heck of a lot of the information for this piece from The Guitar & Rock Equipment by Nick Freeth. If you've not seen it, check it out. And I didn't even talk about the coolness of the Bigsby vibrato unit. Some time in the future, I guess.

Cullen writes daily at Half a Pica Distance

Movies and Music. Sometimes It's Just Funny

These are some of the new writers! Feel free to insult them or drag them down. But, remember, they are the ones entertaining you during the day. So as part of our kick off week, we asked them all to do answer question.

We ask you to answer this, too.

The best scene of a rock star in a movie. Wanna answer?

Wanna meet some of our wrtiers?

Join in.

Pril's goes first

Lee Ving as Mr. Boddy in "Clue", and Jane Wiedlin in the same movie as the singing telegram girl that gets shot at the door. Anthony Kiedis in "Point Break". I love "The New Guy", there's tons of goofy cameos in it, like Henry Rollins as the prison warden, Zakk Wylde as the wussy cellmate to Eddie Griffin's character, and Gene Simmons as the mall preacher.

Ok now the few words... Just cool to have a movie credit as someone who was spent the movie dead, for Lee Ving (and i think Richard Hell got a similar part in "Desperately Seeking Susan" actually). Good times seeing Jane shot! Same with Anthony Kiedis, but it was just his foot if i remember right. The other ones.. one of those things, you see the movie for the first time and you're all "Hey that's whatsisname!" and it just makes the movie worth watching, even if it DOES kind of suck otherwise.

Damn and i almost forgot, and i watched the movie again the other night.... Sting was the sort of dickhead dad who owned the pub in "Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels". Been a while since i saw the whole thing. I thought he was funny. Sting's always kind of a sweet guy with his desert rose and blue turtles and crap and then here he's this asshole pub owner.

turtle takes the calling next

Lee Ving from FEAR in Flashdance. He had the perfect look and the perfect attitude for this role. He was a strip club promoter trying to turn innocent girls into girls that would kill their dreams by taking off the clothes for a few bucks more. This was beautiful because in all reality, it wasn't really him acting....this is the way he lived. Anything for a few dollars more. Beer and strippers. This man had a job that alot of us wanted but what he was built for. Seein' titties and drinking beer. Getting in fights and seein' tittes. This was Lee Ving.

Producedby meets the devil.

Heh, I will call Sting in Quadrophenia, or Lee Ving from Fear in Streets of Fire, but the hands down best would be Steve Vai in Crossroads.and the film Crossroads with Ralph Machio not the crappy Britney Spears film. the one I'm on about was a blues film, and it was pretty damn good.

Ernie gets all Canadian on us.

I love the scene in Wayne's World where Wayne and Garth get back stage
at the Alice Cooper concert and Alice explains the origin of name
'Milwalkee'... "...It's pronounced "mill-e-wah-que" which is Algonquin
for "the good land."

WE'RE NOT WORTHY!!

Sport Rumors comes out punching.

Rockstars who wanna act, you gotta watch out for them, rockstars always wanna act, Jagger, Daltry, Elvis, Henry Rollins, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, etc, you gotta watch out, it usually doesn't work out to well for either the Rockstar/Actor or the movie they are acting in; but since the question was, who do I think was/is the coolest rockstar to do a turn as an actor I gotta answer; Joe Strummer. Strummer by far, the coolest rockstar - ever, and yes he was a rockstar, The Clash was many things, even rock, so that allows me to classifie him as a rockstar. No one could command the attention of a room like Strummer, I was lucky enough to see "The Clash" (both incarnations) and Joe Strummer & The Mescaleros, in both, big and small venues, and no matter what, your eyes never left Strummer. A small man, who was huge in presence, Strummer demanded your attention. In his movies "Walker", "Mystery Train", & "Rude Boy" Strummer became the center of attention of any scene he was in, Steve Buscemi and Ed Harris, both good actors, were overshadowed by Strummer, just as Jones and Simonon were in "The Clash", it's a shame he is gone, we lost a great artist, way to soon.

tiny dead bunny gets weird on us.


David Bowie in Weird Al Yankovic's UHF. Not only did David Bowie play the character of Bob the Clown, but Weird Al's character was supposed to fake punch Bowie's fake red clown nose for the movie, only the two of them did so many takes of the fake punch that Weird Al mistakenly punched Bowie for real. David Bowie started tearing up and that's the take the director used for the movie. The idea of Weird Al bitch
slapping David Bowie dressed as a clown and making him cry is .. well ... it brings a tear or two to my eyes.

Uber runs to the border.


I always loved "The Chase" because Charlie Sheen is a badass and Kristy Swanson is hot and anytime I see her it takes little to no work to imagine her as a vampie-slaying babe in a cheerleader outfit. But the appearance of Henry Rollins as the hard-ass cop and Anthony Kiedis and Flea as bumbling monster truck driving vigilantes make the movie. Rollins' character is a great send-up of that particular type of police officer (come on, we all know at least one) who thinks his badge and desire for justice makes him one of the baddest motherfuckers on the planet, and juxtaposed with the amateur documentary filmmakers, who can't seem to get anything right, it's pure satire. As for Flea and Kiedis, I'll refer you to the equation known as the "Why did Truckzilla cross the road?" formula: monster trucks + kickass rock stars + big puffy trucker hats + vigilante justice = comedy gold

Kali cripples us all

when i was a kid i wanted billy idol to rock so much harder than he actually did. (yes even in gen x fucking sissies) so in that jim morrison movie cleverly disguised as a doors movie when he played the raucous dude with a limp screaming and fucking girls in cars?!?!?! ya. that was cool. the billy idol i always wanted. foul mouthed and
drunk. and cripple. which - by the way - was real cuz he had just gotten in that huge motorcycle wreck...

From The Pop Culturista


Adam Ant as the baddie in World Gone Wild. He chewed scenery with an abandon that made his co-star Bruce Dern stand by in open-mouthed admiration, and William Shatner (who was *not* his co-star, and probably several thousand miles away) shift about uncomfortably. I was only seventeen but I wanted to eat him with a spoon.

From Anastasia/Factoids


Gavin Rossdale as Balthazar in Constantine. He was so very urbane, we were so very envious of Gwen Stefani.




thefinn is up next.

I call The Circle Jerks in Repo Man...

A young Emilio Sheen says in his best 20 year old deadpan, "I can't
believe I used to like these guys," as the band plays an acoustic
version of "When The Shit Hits The Fan".... Priceless...

Cullen pulls out an old tape.

Jello Biafra, Ted Nugent, Mike Nesmith, and many others in Tapeheads.

I'm not sure that any rock star's performance really stands out in this movie, but this is a favorite flick from my youth. Back in the days when Tim Robbins was still funny and John Cusak kept his ideology in his pants. There is plenty to like in this movie. But the best. King Cotton. Chicken. Waffles. Rap. Jello Biafra as an FBI agent.

Michele drinks a shot.

Flea in Big Lebowski

In The Big Lebowski - one of the greatest movies ever made - Flea plays Nihilist #2 (aka Kieffer). He's not a very good nihilist. Kind of whiny. And it's not even his best film work. But I just love the whole nihilist angle of this movie.

Nihilist #2: Iss not fair!
Walter Sobchak: Fair! WHO'S THE FUCKING NIHILIST HERE! WHAT ARE YOU, A BUNCH OF FUCKING CRYBABIES?

Plus, he looks kinda goofy in that outfit.

The Loud Pedal makes his mark.

Dig deep.

Red Hot Chili Peppers in the absolutely disgraceful 1986 skateboarding film, Thrashin'.

It's so bad it's...bad. It's funny as hell though. If you don't own it, you should. Tony Hawk is in it. Tony Alva is in it. Wow. Both in the same go.


So now you've met our contributors and you know a little about them from their answers. What about you? What's your favorite rock star movie moment?

Letter to the Editor of Dsyntery Weekly




dweek.jpgTed Rhobe Rae is the executive editor of Dysentery Weekly. Below are some of the thousands of letters he receives each week in regard to his publication.

Dear Mr. Rhobe Rae:

I want to start by saying how much I love your publication. I look forward to opening my fresh, crisp copy of Dysentery Weekly every Friday afternoon. However, I am writing today to inform you of some aggregious historical innacurracies in an article from your August 28 issue entitled, "Midgets throughout the Ages."

1. You state that, as early as 40,000 years ago, midgets were domesticated by humans to serve purposes such as plowing, feet washing, and foot stoolery. However, there is ample evidence that Neanderthal man domesticated midgets before Homo sapiens existed. Dr. Arthur Cramden of the National Institute of Midgetry states in his 1997 report entitled, "The Short Folks: Man's Best Friend Revisted" that midgets were commonly used by Neanderthal man in his hunting expeditions because "they had the innate ability to scramble into underbrush that would have been difficult for a full-sized man to penetrate" (Cramden, 1997). This, of course, would have occured at least 50,000 years ago, which contradicts your estimates. While it is true that midgets were first domesticated as pets 40,000 years ago (as a result of the invention of the ball and the game of "fetch") it was not the first time they were domesticated in history.

2. Midgets were not, as you attest, a major force in the Battle of Agincourt. This is impossible, because in England during the early fifteenth century, all midgets were conscripted to circus duty by the age of three. It's possible that Henry drafted some of the more specialized midgets (for instance, acrobat midgets who could easily baffle the enemy with their unrivaled movements) but not likely, as Henry V was well known for his desire to keep all circuses running during the war, thereby supporting the fragile morale of his homeland (the state of which has been linked directly to theif guilds made entirely of sneaky midgets by Taylor and Tomtree in their 1974 article, "The Rise and Fall of our Neighbors to the South", and disputed by Hannigan in his 1998 article, "Taylor and Tomtree are Morons") in tact.

3. The first midget in space was not Gustaf "Wigglbotham" Troeller. He may have been the first midget sent into space in Western civilization, but it is well publicized that the Chinese used midgets in rocket flights that, because of the diminished weight of the passengers, were able to reach heights above the surface of Earth equidistant to what is now considered "outer space."

While some of the inaccuracies I point out may seem trivial, you must remember that we have to treat the history of our little friends with care and delicacy. It has been marred by ignorant stereotypes, mildly inappropriate genocide, and we must not repeat the mistakes of our forefathers by bathing modern midgets in a light shining with lies and innacuracies. We must let our light outshine that of the past, and let our flame burn on the fuel of the true nature and history of our glorious friends close to the floor, the midgets.

Sincerely,
Husky Livinston, Portsmith IA

Uber answers more of your dsyentery questions at Uber's Corner

September 10, 2006

we have a date with the underground, chapter 20

Welcome to the first day of the new FTTW online magazine! This will all hit you about four or five times a day with new stories from our writers coming out all day long. And prolly more as we get more writers on. I think we were at about 20 so far and trust us, for the editors of FTTW, we are glad it is Monday.

So let's start this fucking thing and not look back.

All of the past Underground stories and many other archieved stories are in the sidebar.

Get a late pass and get up to speed cause here we go!



This one had to come out because of personal reasons. To promote yourself, your website, your band, your "World's Best Chili", sometimes it means you have to bust people who tell you they can do them when they say they can help but really haven't done these things in 20 years. But fuck, some things just have to keep going. If you can't do it, I can. I'll get this done. Just tell me. Fetch me a soda and a cigar and we can get this started. Sleep stops meaning much to you anymore. You know things need to be done. All you can do is say "Thanks. But I can do it." I don't really care if you can do something or not. Like a band, if you can't do it, just fucking tell me and I can do it. We can work around this.

I was pretty much being taught at that early age that if something needed to be done, it was always going to be up to me to do it. Sure, I'll take help, but if I don't even know how to do this, don't ask me to teach you how to. Sure, now I know how to do this stuff. I can put in new pickups, boil strings, burn screens and cook methamphetamine, but back then, I couldn't do shit.

I had to learn. We all did.

It sucks. But really, at fucking four in the morning, you want to get this done. I'm no teacher. And if you think I am, you should see how I learned how to do this. Something that will keep you fed on the road. Something you can pay 300 bucks for or 30 for. Something for promotion and something to keep you occupied in "off time".

Realize you can pay a pro place for this and add money on your tab, or do it yourself and be able to eat that night.

What am I talking about?

Silk Screening Shirtslast silk.jpg

When you get signed to a label, you automatically think that you will get all this stuff done for you. Stickers, hats, CD's shirts and money. No. You don't. You don't get shit. They pay for production on the CD's but not really. That's all money that you have to pay back to them. Music industry is a really cutthroat thing when you are just getting started. It's called "Wow. Thanks for signing us. We owe you how much money?"

So you have to get creative. You have to do somethings yourself.

Yeah it is a bitch. Well, it was a bitch to learn it. It takes an hour or more just to get the screen right. You have to realize that this is the money you will have on the road. Selling your own shirts equals Del Taco for the night. Getting label credit card means nothing except for more paybacks. But, if you do this yourself? The cash is yours. Money on your CD? Meh. Label payback. They don’t mean shit. Every taco you eat from that CD money is the same amount you have to pay the label back for. With interest. Fuck them. Do it yourself. We can do this. Light a cigar and decide how we can get this done cheap. One friend has a hook up on cheap shirts. One friend can get the light bulbs. We can do this. We didn't need the labels "help". This is ours.

You have to do it. If every other band has shirts, why don't you? Someone would have to take care of it. Sure, it's easy to say that you will do it, but after the first few fuck ups on your first few screens, you can kinda see where you need help. Burning your first three screens beyond recognition is frustrating as hell. Cause you don't know if they are supposed to look like that. Is emulsion supposed to turn black? Are these things supposed to look like little burned pieces of toast? Trust me. It took me a few years to learn to do this streamlined, but, back in those days, with my first set up, it was pure hell. Overpriced, no instructions and no refunds. Burned screens and long nights. Too many showers. Too many fucked up wasted chemicals.

You fucked that screen up? Burn it too much? Can't clean it off?

Too bad.

That first learning process was hard. beaux-freres-bottles-250p.jpgDon't bother looking on line for instruction. They are confusing as hell. All I can say is that you have to do it wrong about three times before you actually get it right. And those first three times are so frustrating, you almost wanna quit and pay for someone to do it for you. But, in the back of your head, you knew you had to learn this. Cause really, it was kinda fun to do. Slamming beer in a someone's garage at four in the morning wondering if you did it right this time is a wonderful feeling. It's kinda like feeling that you did all you could. Now all you could was just wait to see if it worked. Those were interesting times. It really showed me who would end up being with you in the long haul. At the end of all this. People who went to bed and people who stayed with me to learn. It was a telling process on people. Who would stick and who would leave. And really?

It got simple once I got it down.

Don't get me wrong. I loved seeing the sun come up while I washed the screen and set it out to dry. Go to bed and wake up with hard emulsion. And what's funny is I just got better at it. Day by day. Buy me the screen and the emulsion and I would rip your idea out in a few minutes. Well, more like an hour, but you know what I mean. I'll draw up your idea and take your pic and make it clear. You buy the materials and I'll screen it for you if you give me a few beers and wanna hang out for a night and try, try to learn this yourself. It got to be like turning on the stereo in the morning for me. Wake up and take a shower with a piece of wood in your hands. The feeling of going into the shower with the screen at six in the morning with a toothbrush to get the light ink off it. It's coming off. It's working. It's coming off. I did another one. Now let's wash this green shit of my body and get out of here.

The feeling of making a spinner. Multi colors got to be a bitch. Everything had to be exactly the same. The same proportions and the same size. But, that's another story for another day.

When we started making too many designs, the overhead of them cost too much. I had to make my own screens. I was tweaking at the time and really had nothing else to do, so I built my own. The feeling of making your own screens with a table saw and a hammer. The full end project. Looking at the screen and feeling that you have won. Sure, hammering in, or taping later in life, the screen was a bitch, but if you could make a screen for three dollars? That was the way to go. Many times I almost lost my fingers on that saw. See, when I was hammering silk, you had to cut the four panels of wood, then put a cut in the middle of each about halfway thru the length of the wood to get the silk nailed down into the slots.

Hey. I was just learning. I didn't know. Gimmie a break.

silk screen.GIFProblem was...everyone had an idea. Everyone had something new. Someone would go and get an idea. Then there was another night gone. I was running five screens a day, building three new ones and screening about 50 a day. Covered in ink. Myself. The screens were still clean. We had to move the system to our practice studio. It just got to big and really, face it, no ones parents want four kids in their garages all night playing punk rock using stinky ass chemicals to get thru the night. Someone talking on the PA saying they were bored. Someone playing bass. Someone cutting up lines and someone bringing in more beer. No parents want that in their garage

But, you know what? It didn't matter. We were fully self-contained on shirts. We could do this ourselves now. And that is all what mattered.

So we moved the system over to the studio. More screens piled up. I would do tons of them for other bands cause, well, it was kinda fun. Chances are that if you are wearing some old punk rock tour shirt, I had something to do with it. And "something to do with it" really means I might have seen it at a show before. I am not a silk screening god here.

Just a demi-god.

Trust me, mien readers, my three month break from touring was never a break. Lines of speed and late nights. Getting these screens right. Always something wrong. Something that had to be fixed. 24 hour Kinko’s. Late night arguing cause they fucked my transparency up. Another design. Cut the colors and kill it. Another screen is done. Sit it in the sun to dry and then you just wait for the next step.

That's when you actually ink the shirt. This was the easy part. Run a squeegee down it and pull it off. Let it dry and you got it. A new shirt. Or...maybe you didn't.

Ink has oils in it that have to be removed or it washed of. The ink that is. It would looked washed out and faded after one wash. OK. What the hell was going on here. A phone call and a new lesson. I had to burn the oil out. How to do that? A 1000 dollar machine would do it in two seconds. Just a heat lamp and a roller.

Well, that's not gonna work for me. What else can I do?CLOSET DESIGNS BLANK TEE.GIF

Iron them for about 30 seconds each.

Crap.

But you know what? It worked. I washed all the shirts about three times to make sure the ink would stay in and it did. Trial by fire right there, folks.

So, I ended up about 30 screens, a spinner, a single panel board, and a ton of chemicals.

To this day, I have no idea where they all went. All that stuff. I must have left them all at someones house, a studio, given them away to the bands or just forgot about them one day. They are somewhere. But, just not here.

The good news is we won our ebay auction for 14 screens with all of the set ups so I don't have to go out and buy all this crap again or build my own screens for the FTTW shirts. In fact, I am going to have a few empty screens sitting around, so if I get an idea for a new shirt, hell, I prolly make it one night then put it on here the next day.

It's what I do. I get bored easily. And what's funny is the only thing that entertains me is Little House. Weird isn't it? So you might see new shirts come up here every once in awhile. When you see that, just keep in mind that Turtle was watching a Little House episode he saw way too many times the night before.

So we are waiting on the screens from ebay. Hence, why you have to wait for a few days before the FTTW shirts come out. Just give me some time. I've never seen this episode of Little House.

Memories of punk rock and cigarettes and some kind of time frame. Someone walking in and asking me why I can't move faster when all I could say is "I try to only take three showers a day." I was clean, but covered in this ink. Always.

This won't make sense to a lot of you, but there is a specific process that goes into this. You have to learn it by fucking up. It's like sex or riding a bike. The first time your tire blows too fast till you get the process down.speedball.jpg Figure it out by fucking it up. It just happens. You buy some overpriced crap, fuck it up and get screwed. Years later, you understand that you could do this whole thing for a few bucks cheaper, and, I god damn promise you, you will remember the names of the companies that sold you that overpriced crap and go out of your way to insult them every time you can.

And for people who don't know how to screen?

Should watch me do it.

Shirts on the road are your money. Sure, you have cash from CD's but really, you have to pay that back. So if you are in a hole, spend that money. You have to eat at least once a day, I guess. But the shirts.

The shirts. The cash. That was up to you

Watch it being done and leave me alone.

Kinda like sex or riding a bike.

You never forget how to do it. - T

England Ink


I’m sitting on a very uncomfortable bench, surrounded by Polynesian and Japanese art, placed on reddish walls. There’s bamboo pressing into my back and Flogging Molly is doing something unconscionable to the memory of The Pogues on the stereo. I’m in a tattoo shop just off South Street on a Saturday night, so the place is jumping with tattooed hipsters and South Jersey Wannabes hanging out by the counter. I’m also pretty sure that the place has an all female tattooing staff and the ladies are damn talented. My wife is getting a new piece done tonight and as I sit here, shifting every ten seconds so my butt doesn’t go numb, I think back to the places I got my tattoos in. One in particular….


Tattoogun.jpgWe’d been in Kings Lynn for about three weeks, living in a hotel during the day and working all damn night. Kings Lynn is about 100 miles from London, tucked away in the northeast part of the country and home to virtually nothing but a few memorable pub names and a pie plant. Meat Pies, to be precise. The company I was working for at the time owned this plant as a subsidiary, and my partner and I were there to work out a few things for a project we were on. The majority of the work my partner and I were doing had to be done at night, so during the day we’d sleep and sight-see for a while. Nights out were few and far between, until, near the end of this project, the boss invited us out for drinks.

My partner and I met him at a pub in the center of town called the Pigs Whistle. Smallish place, lots of wood and brown. It was exactly like every other pub I’d been in while in Europe. Marco (my partner at the time, he was a great beast of a man who used to play American football and could drink many men under the table) even made a comment about it when we walked in. We’d been eating in pubs and small restaurants for months and after a while they all looked pretty much the same. He and I ponied up to the table we saw the boss at, and, after the usual greetings, he was off to buy us a round. Let me state for the record, I have no idea what type of whiskey I was drinking that night. All I know is that it went perfectly well with Newcastle Brown and after a bit, I was ordering them as boiler makers and slamming them down. It didn’t take long for me to get what I call “Douglas Adams Drunk”, the point at which you can mumble to yourself at an empty table for ten minutes and still have a great time.

We’re sitting around, drinking and laughing, when Marco nudges his empty pint glass my way. “It must be my round,” I think as I leave the table and head for the bar. The bartender is standing there, and she might be pretty if she had her front teeth. Kings Lynn was a blue collar town and after a while you just got used to things like that. I place our order and she smiles at me again, just for good measure. She turns to get our drinks and I see that she has the most beautiful tattoos I’ve ever seen in my life. I can see a Japanese swordsman facing off against something peeking up from beneath her tank top. Sakura tracing down her left arm, the faces of oni peeking ever so slightly through the flowers themselves. It was some of the most beautiful and detailed tattoo work I’ve ever seen in my life.

She brings the drinks back. I ask her where she got her tattoos done, half expecting to hear “London” or someplace else that was a hundred miles away from where I was. She smiles at me again, and tells me that a local kid by the name of Laurence did them. He’s got a place not too far from the pub and he takes appointments. She tells me to hold on and roots around in her purse for a minute, to produce a simple black and white business card. Laurence’s name and a phone number. The plainness of the card reminded of the ones I’d get from guys who ran numbers. I told her so and she just laughed and walked away.


tattoo samurai.jpgThe next day, I inform Marco that we’re going to accelerate the deployment we’re working on just a bit. Just long enough to allow us some free time to go visit Laurence and to get drilled. There was no way I was leaving this podunk town without letting Laurence make his mark on me. So we rearranged our schedule a little, hauled ass on a couple of throwaway things and made sure that we’d have an entire day off on Friday. I had called Laurence a few days before to set up an appointment. We basically blew through the work, caught a couple of hours sleep and set off to find Laurence’s shop.

We drove around for a while, completely lost and trying to find a specific address without the aid of Mapquest, a GPS or any general knowledge of how the town was laid out. Finally we found the place, a hobbit-sized gray house on a trash ridden corner that was right next to an empty lot. There was blowing trash and empty Silk Cut packets fluttering about. We got out of the car and knocked on the door, looking like a couple of enforcers from the local mob. Marco, a giant in a track suit and me in my standard T-shirt and jeans. We knocked on the door, and it opened as far as the chain would allow. A shaved head and beady eyes peered out at me, a Camel clenched between his teeth. The smoke curling around his head and the barrel of a 9mm peeking out from behind the door frame.

“Who the fuck are you, then?” he inquired as he slowly shakes the barrel in our general direction. “Um, we’re here for Laurence… Tattoos….,” I stammered. It’d been years since anyone had pointed a gun at me and I guess I was a little out of practice.

“Oh,” he smiled, “You’re the Yank that called about the tattoos… Fucking hell, why didn’t you just say so, mate?” He instantly went all toothy grin and wide arms as the door swung open. The gun had magically disappeared and we were let into a small waiting area with a couple of couches, a TV and a Playstation. The room smelt of smoke and whiskey and herb. It looked more than a little shady, and certainly not sanitary, so I asked for a portfolio or a flash book. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t getting the runaround, you see.

“Portfolio then ?” he asked. “Come with me,” he said. I followed him up the stairs in the back of the room and into what I can only describe as the World’s Messiest Gallery. He had pieces everywhere; canvases piled against the walls, bits of paper here and there, sketches on the walls themselves. As well as a metric ton of clothes, overflowing ashtrays and empty lager cans. But, fuck me… They were all beautiful. There were reproductions of Lichtenstein, Japanese stuff that looked like it was from the Edo and Meiji periods, Sailor Jerry ripoffs and some things I didn’t recognize, but that were instantly familiar. I quickly became convinced. This kid was the real deal.

Samurai_tattoo_sword.jpg
As we headed back downstairs, I told him what I wanted and asked if he could do it. “I can do kanji until the cows come home, mate,” he said. “But lets do some checking real quick…” He headed towards a room in the back, motioning me to follow him. It’s pitch black until he flipped the switch and I’m was standing in a room that was literally floor to ceiling books. He pulled three different kanji dictionaries from three different spots and laid them out on a drafting table near the door. “Just want to make sure you’re getting what you pay for,” he said as he started comparing results from the different dictionaries.

As he’s starts sketching, he tells us to hang out in the waiting room for a bit. We did and twenty minutes later he came over with the sketchbook in his hand. He’s grinning from ear to ear when he shows me. And what he shows me is dead on. It’s exactly what I wanted and full of the intricate line work and small details that make his work so good to look at. I tell him it’s a go and he’s off like a shot to prep the chair and the stencil. He tells me to head into his “studio” and makes another motion with his fingers, showing me the way.

Laurence’s “studio” was also the kitchen, but at this point, I’m too excited to care. I headed over to his workspace, a drop leaf table slightly off center in the room and close to the sink. He’s got a couple of armchairs on either side of it. He offers me a cuppa from the kettle on the counter as I check the rest of the table out. Stencils, ashtrays and old mugs mar the surface of what used to be a beautiful old kitchen table. His gun and inks, however, are lined up directly behind the ashtray and there’s not a spec of dust on them. He sits me down and places the stencil on me. “Ready, then ?,” he asked.

I’m not going to give you the same, tired rhetoric. Yes, getting a tattoo hurts. But pain is relative and I’m sure that you’ve withstood worse. Okay ? That being said, Laurence lit another cigarette and started going to town. He’d pause every ten minutes or so, to light another cigarette or change inks. But his hands were flying. He finally finishes and sits back on his stool, looking a little more exhausted. “Well ?” he asked as he exhaled another plume of smoke. It was odd. I’d watched him work on the entire piece, but it never came together the way it did when he had finished it. And I love it. I tell him so and he just grins.

I paid him and left his kitchen, more excited than I had been in a long time. So, how about you ? What’s your favorite tattoo and where’d you get it ?

Fooseball is the Devil



Hey football fanz. Welcome to The End Zone! This is the NFL section of Faster Than the World.

In this little corner of the website, the Fall air is crisp and cool, the beers are iced down and the grill is fired up. The scent of charcoal is on the wind and the sausages, peppers and onions are simmering and sizzling. If you look around, there is probably some kind hard liquor floating around here somewhere. Thats right. It's time to tail-gate because it's Sunday. And that means Football! Here, have some chili.


What's up! My name is Ernie. You may know me from the comments here on Faster Than the World as 'mrbandw' and I'll be posting here once a week about things going on in the NFL. Before we dive into the 2006 - 07 season, let's just get a few things out of the way and established here:

1. I am a hard core fan of The New England Patriots. Hard. Fucking. Core. I'll be writing about the NFL in general, but I wear my love of The Patriots on my sleeve, amongst other places, and that's not going to change, so you might as well know that right from the start. In case you're wondering, I've been a Pats fan since 1976, so I've been
through the shit with this team. I know what it's like to follow a perennial loser and I know what it's like to finally reach that pinnacle of success, winning the Superbowl.

pats.jpgRegardless of who I'll be rooting for every week (The Pats, duh), I hope this will be a place that fans of teams from all over the league will participate in. Part of the fun in football is the rivalry between fans, so leave me some comments and let's have some fun with this.

2. I am a big football fan. Ok, I'm a huge football fan, but that does not mean that I watch every single game or know everything there is to know about every team and every player in the league. I'm not going to try and pretend to be some super know-it-all, football expert, because I'm not. I will say that I follow the Patriots very closely and through osmosis I usually have a pretty good idea of what's going on with the other teams around the league. If you think the stuff that I am writing is completely out of whack, let me know in the comments! That's what they're there for. I've got a tough skin. I can handle whatever you've got to tell me.

3. If you know absolutely nothing about football and have questions, don't be afraid to ask! New football fans who want to learn about the game will be embraced, possibly by a large, hairy man with a 16 ounce can of Bud in each hand, but it will be an embrace none-the-less.

This will be a place to share thoughts and ideas about the day's games and other stuff going on in the NFL. I'd like to maybe get into some talk about favorite stuff to do when tailgating, things you like to do on game day, insane rituals and superstitions, all kinds of stuff. Maybe we'll even talk a little bit about college ball. Who knows? It could go anywhere and that's cool. It's going to be a work in progress and I hope you guys will help contribute to the fun, because that's what the point of all this is after all, FUN!

Now that we've got all that out of the way, let's check out a few games.

It's always kind of hard to gauge what the good match-ups are going to be in week one of the schedule. That's because in the NFL, teams can go from losers to winners over the course of one season, or vice-versa. Just because your team sucked last year, that does not mean they are going to suck this year. Just because your team kicked everybody's ass in the league last year, that does not mean they are going to do it all over again this year.

Every year it is different and some teams rise while others fall. That is one of the things that makes the NFL cool. That being said, there are quite a few interesting games this weekend.

Atlanta Falcons at Carolina Panthers - These are two teams that are expected to be playoff caliber teams and they will be matching up against each other right off the bat. They both feature explosive offenses that can move the ball so this could be a high-scoring game. Atlanta QB Michael Vick is always fun to watch. Plus, this is a divisional game, so that means there are already playoff implications to this outcome game.

That's another thing that makes the NFL cool. There are only 16 games to a season and there is not a lot of room for error. One slip and your team can go from playoff contender to playoff pretender.

Buffalo Bills at New England Patriots - Another divisional game that features two long time rivals. Many people have already chalked a 'W' in the win column for New England in this game, but The Pats and Bills always play each other tough. Don't be surprised if this game comes down to a field goal, because with these two teams, more often than not, that is usually the case.

New York Jets at Tennessee Titans - This should be an interesting game. These are two teams that have had some down years the past few years and are trying to climb back into the playoffs. Former Titans QB Steve McNair is gone from Tennessee and it's still up in the air who's going to step onto the field at the position come Sunday.

The Jets will have a lot of eyes on them because they have all kinds of questions.. They have a new Head Coach, Eric Mangini, who after only one year of experience as defensive coordinator at New England, has jumped into the Head Coach role in New York. How he will fare will be watched closely.

Plus, you've got all kinds of questions about the health of Jets QB Chad Pennington as well as running back Curtis Martin. How will those guys perform? There's lots of stuff to watch in this game.

manningface.jpgChicago Bears at Green Bay Packers- Too bad these teams are meeting in September. It would be much more fun to see Chicago play Green Bay on the frozen tundra. Either way, this long time rivalry should be fun to watch. This could be Brett Far-vre's last season in the NFL, so soak it up Packer fans.

To close things out we've got The Indianapolis Colts at the New York Giants in the Sunday Night game. This game features Colts QB Peyton Manning vs. Giants QB Eli Manning. I am hoping to see a lot of what we in New England refer to as, 'The Peyton Manning Face,' in this game. That is the look of frustration and disgust that Peyton is famous for after he has blown a big game by throwing an interception.

This game is being hyped to the max in the national media as 'Manning vs. Manning'. Personally, other than the novelty of the fact that it's brother vs brother at the quarterback position for each team, I don't have a huge amount of interest in this game as far as the match-up goes.

I may as well get this out of the way and let you know this right now: I think Peyton Manning is OVER-RATED, but that is a discussion for another day, or maybe not. That is up to you!

Enjoy the games today everybody!

Ernie writes daily at Mr. Black and White.

September 9, 2006

Electric Bugaloo

I was scrolling through my media guide to see what cheesy movies were on today. Because Saturday is always cheesy movie day on cable. You get killer animals, b-grade horror and disastrous sequels. It was seeing Batman and Robin listed in the guide (just writing the title out makes me shudder) that got me thinking. What are some of the worst sequels ever made? This is a pool of titles so deep that you could drown in it. Superman III. Neverending Story II. Rocky 5. Land Before Time 1,478. Jesus, didn't Ducky and gang keel over yet? Are they gonna run that series until extinction takes place? Land Before Time, the Final Chapter: Everyone Dies. Anyhow, we came up with what we think were the worst sequels. Movies that followed up what were pretty decent films with suckfests that made us weep for humanity.


Michele gives you this horror:

Oh, there were so many places I could have gone here. Sequels are always gonna be suspect. More have gone horribly wrong than right. Batman and Robin. Godfather III. Teen Wolf Too. Every sequel has the potential to be Breakin 2, Electric Bugaloo. No, that’s not a good thing. But of all the movies I could have chosen, one stands out in my mind above the rest. One that gets my vote as the Best Worst Movie Ever. One that has such a cult following there is a public screening with a Q&A from the actors being held next week.

Troll 2

Picking Troll 2 as the worst sequel is admitting that I kind of liked the first. Well, I did. It was campy and cheesy and poorly written, but it had such appeal. June Lockhart. Julia Louis Dreyfus. Sony Bono! It was a fun movie, the kind you wind down with on Halloween night after watching a bunch of movies that would have you sleeping with the lights on. But this sequel. Dude. It didn’t even have trolls. Troll 2. No trolls.

You know pretty quick into this movie that things are going to be bad. There's this moronic, semi-retarded family and they are going to vacation in a town called Nilbog.

The town. Nilbog. NILBOG.

t2-nilbog.jpgOk, if you don’t get it due to the subtle brilliance (watch that sarcasm meter!) of whoever thought that up, the father of this insipid family says to someone on the phone: "Nilbog...You spell it N-I-L-B-O-G."

Like I said. Semi retarded.

So, we’ve got a troll movie with goblins and no trolls and no discernable connection to the first film. And not even a single B list celebrity to make fun of. And no plot. None at all. Just some random shit happening that’s supposed to make sense but leaves you wondering if you went into a stupidity coma and missed part of the movie.

But what we do have is urination! After the ghost of Josh’s grandpa tells him the food the family is about to eat will turn them into goblin food, Josh takes matters into his own hands. Literally. He whips out his dick and pisses on the dinner. Oh yea. That went over big at the family table. I mean, I’ve seen this happen before but I usually just have to say something like, "No grandpa. Pull your pants back up, grandpa. You are not in the urinal at Yankee Stadium." Josh’s dad isn’t so patient. He gets pissed, so to speak and shows Josh a letter from the owners of the house. And says the cheesiest line ever recorded in film history:

Do you know what it means? Hospitality! And you can't piss on hospitality! I won't allow it!"

I remember seeing this for the first time. I just sort of stared. Blinked. Questioned myself. Ok, Michele, you haven’t done drugs in a long time. You haven’t been drinking. I think he really just said that.

And that’s pretty much how the whole movie goes. You sit there wondering if all the acid you did back in the day is playing havoc with your mind because there is no way this dialogue could really be happening.

“They're eating my mommy!”
"Would you like some, Josshhh-uuuuuu-aaaaaa?"

Oh god. Just eat him already. Please, for the love of god, eat the whole fucking stupid family because they really don’t deserve to be alive. I was rooting for the goblins. I wanted them to take over the house, the town and the birthplace of whereverthehell the director of this movie was from. Somewhere in Italy. I wanted to go back in time and keep this guy from ever being born. I mean, this dude makes Uwe Boll look like Martin Fucking Scorcese.

This movie just should not exist. Yet, I watched the whole thing. More than once. I’ve studied it. I’ve re examined it. And yet I cannot fathom how something like this ends up playing in your local movie theater on a Saturday afternoon. troll2a.jpgYou know those magnetic poetry things? There must be something out there called Magnetic Cliche Characters. Whoever wrote this movie just picked out some magnets, threw them against the fridge and made characters built solely on the cliches that stuck. And then he went into some bumfuck town and said something like “eight bucks and a candy bar to anyone who wants to act in my movie!” A few Snickers bars and a credit card transaction later and Troll 2 was rolling.

I don’t know what else to say about this movie. It’s not even bad in a Plan 9 From Outer Space way. It’s beyond that. But. You have to see it. Yes, it’s horrible on every single level. But you need to witness the outright horridness of it all. You need to see all the mistakes and continuity problems and make-up disasters. You need to see this just so you can know that bad exists on levels you never dreamed of. Beyond Baby Geniuses or Leonard Part 6 or even Kazaam, which I thought was the worst movie in existence until I laid my eyes on the green jello goblins of Troll 2.


Oh yea. Josh defeats the goblins. With bologna sandwiches.

Bologna fucking sandwiches.

Yep, I just gave you spoilers without a warning. Please. If you've got an IQ above "Paris Hilton" you will know everything that's gonna happen about twenty minutes before the characters in the movie do. Or, if you're lucky, your brain will shut itself down about five minutes into the film and the bologna sandwiches won't even matter.

Oh, toward the end of the movie, the piss-happy Joshua finally gets it.

Nilbog! It's goblin spelled backwards! This is their kingdom!

Ya think? -M


[Troll 2 is ranked as the worst movie ever at IMDB]


turtle tees up next

I'm going to be honest here. I fucking hate reading reviews. I really hate it. I think it is a stupid waste of time that only takes me away from my daily hygiene routine. And when I say "daily hygiene routine", I mean, "light a cigar". We are a "story site and not a what did you think about the new teen movie" site.

But, it is Saturday and really in my heart, I know some of you have some very strong ideas and opinions on this subject.

So let's get over that and move on. The best movie that was ruined by the worst sequel?

Easy.

Caddyshack

Sex, drugs, money, golfing. Bushwood and the best roles every played.

Judge Smails

Gambling is illegal at Bushwood sir, and I never slice.
*Damn*.

Al Czervik

Oh, this is the worst-looking hat I ever saw. What, when you buy a hat like this I bet you get a free bowl of soup, huh?

Oh, it looks good on you though.

Carl Spackler smails.jpg

So I jump ship in Hong Kong and make my way over to Tibet, and I get on as a looper at a course over in the Himalayas. A looper, you know, a caddy, a looper, a jock. So, I tell them I'm a pro jock, and who do you think they give me? The Dalai Lama, himself. Twelfth son of the Lama. The flowing robes, the grace, bald... striking. So, I'm on the first tee with him. I give him the driver. He hauls off and whacks one - big hitter, the Lama - long, into a ten-thousand foot crevasse, right at the base of this glacier. Do you know what the Lama says? Gunga galunga... gunga, gunga-galunga. So we finish the eighteenth and he's gonna stiff me. And I say, "Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort, you know." And he says, "Oh, uh, there won't be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness." So I got that goin' for me, which is nice.

Ty Webb

Be the ball Danny. Be the ball.You aren't being the ball, Danny.

Danny Noonan

It's hard when you're talking like that.

Perfect lines. So many stories going on. Perfect movie.

What a great cast and a great line up. The story line was perfect and so were the actors. Everything in that movie was perfect. Naked lady tees and shitting in the pool. Caddie day in the rec park. Even the little gopher was funny. This was a joy to watch and one of my favorite movies of all time.

A simple story about wanting it all, getting it all then not wanting it all anymore.

Then realizing that what all you wanted was always in front of your face.

All you had to do was look.

Caddyshack 2

Ug. A storyline that tried to take the first sweet story about innocence, lost innocence, deception and honesty and tried to make a bible out of it. I don't even want to make any quotes on this one. Jackie Mason took some rich people and tried to make them "real" people. Jesus. This was bad. Dan Ackroid (and no, he doesn't deserve one minute of my time to look up how his name is really spelled) went to hell in this movie. This showed me that John Belushi was the brains behind his whole career. He demolished this role like a fat kid eats a pack of juju bees. What the hell was I watching? Where was everyone? Bill Murray’s role was replaced by him? Rodney Dangerfield's role was replaced by him? Even the gopher was all animatronics? What the hell was going on here?

The only saving grace of this whole fucking amazing injustice to movies was Randy Quaid.caddyshack-two73.jpeg Face it. His bit parts in movies save them from the Black Death of movies. Going straight to video. He saves them. He kept this ship from sinking by an inch but you could tell, half the actors had already drowned by the time this ship had hit the mighty sea.

Peter Blunt

Golf, golf... what kinda name is "golf" anyway? Sounds like a sound you make when you've got something caught in your throat.

Not even the mighty Quaid could save this movie. - T

RIP Rodney Dangerfieled
RIP Ted Knight

So that is our take on these movies. But, we wanna know yours.

Which ones do you think had such a great outbreak then failed so, so bad the next time they raced out of the doors. Something that you felt so good about hearing about, then felt so bad about when you watched it.

And don't tell us Friday the 13th part 3, cause hell, I was even disappointed in the 3-D galsses they handed out before the movie started.

What were your most disappointing sequels?

Best Friends


I’ve had a bunch of different stories bouncing around in my head for the last few weeks… And in a good many of them, one person figures prominently… It’s kind of weird, because I’m an army brat. I became very used to the fact that I might only know a person for a few months at a time, but for fourteen years, I considered him to be my best friend. The guy you could tell anything to, the cat who was always around when you need someone. I could tell you a hundred stories about the stunts we pulled, and I may do that… But for now, he needs a proper introduction. Jonny D., Faster Than The World. FTTW…. Here’s Jonny….

We were seven years old when we met. My parents had just signed me up to play soccer, something I was vehemently against. I had no desire to play soccer, much less any organized sport. It didn’t matter how much I was against it, though. My father decided that I was pasty and pudgy and badly in need of a haircut. I guess he figured he could get two out of three fixed in one fell swoop. He signed me up. He went out and picked up my uniform and tried to surprise me with the whole thing. After he saw the look of horror on my face, he tossed the uniform on my bed and left the room without saying anything else.

My mom worked her magic on me the next day. I was helping her make dinner when she dropped the bomb. Something about how I had opportunities that my old man never had as a child. Traveling to foreign countries, seeing the world. Color TV. All the comic books I could read. Playing soccer…. Something that my father had wanted to do as a child, but because his father hadn’t been as supportive as he was, something he’d never been able to do. She laid it on thick. So thick it made my teeth hurt. I knew what she up to, but I told her I’d give it a shot anyway. It obviously meant something to the two of them for them to double team me like this. And it couldn’t go as badly as the whole church fiasco.

soccer1.jpg
First day of practice. My parents had driven me over the local soccer field a little early. We were we supposed to congregate and get to know each other a little bit before we started practicing. Kids milling about talking about Buck Rogers and playing “slap hands”. I just stood on the sidelines for a while, watching how the other kids were interacting, a little shy about my fat and firmly convinced that no one else was here because their parents had forced them into the car. My parents had been working on me for a few days straight, telling me about how much fun I’d have and how great it was to be part of the team. I still wasn’t buying it, but how bad could it be ?

The coaches came by after a little bit, clipboards in hand and trailing a giant mesh bag of balls. They talked to us for a while about the importance of winning (it wasn’t) and the importance of trying (it was), the standard “I’m talking to kids below ten” rhetoric. And then they split us up into teams of two to watch us play a practice game. I was placed on the red team, with the other three fat kids on the field. The coaches yelled out where we should go, based on what positions we’d be playing, gently guiding us to our assigned spots with shouts of “No, to your left” and “You, move to the middle… No, the other middle”.

Somehow, perhaps as a cruel joke, I was made a winger. Left, to be precise. Let’s get one thing straight, the wing is a position for a kid with stamina. A kid who can run all damn day, come home, eat dinner and run all damn night. It’s an offensive and slightly defensive position, meaning you can play a good deal of the field. I wasn’t huge, but I knew that there was no way I could run all the time. I was at least twenty pounds overweight, I read a lot, and I did way too many things that didn’t involve running… Or jumping…. Or anything that wasn’t sitting on my fat ass. Hell, the only running I did back then was away from fights, and I wasn’t very good at that, either.

The coach blew a whistle and the game started. We all scrambled, each one of us trying to get a grasp on the ball and our position on the field. Thirty kids, bouncing a ball back and forth over center field, most of us with no clue as to what was going on. After a few minutes, one of the opposing team, got the ball and was headed downfield, directly at me. It was my job to stop him and get the ball back to the midfielders. I ran as fast as my pudgy little legs would carry me. I went low, dropping my legs to the left, hoping to make contact with the ball and praying that I wouldn’t end up flat on my ass. Somehow, I did hit the ball… and his legs. I made had managed to kick the ball further downfield and knock him ass over tea kettle all in one go. His legs shot out, went over his head, and he landed flat on his face. The ball bounced away as I scrambled to get to my feet. The other kid still wasn’t moving.soccer2.jpg

I walked over to him, knowing somewhere deep down, that I’d killed him and that I was going to jail. I was going to grow up in jail, and get tattoos and have to stick people with a shiv just so I wouldn’t get beat up. He started to stir, and I saw the blood flowing down his chin and neck. Yep, it was jail for sure. I’d have to kill people for my bread and butter, but at least I wouldn’t have to play soccer anymore. The other kid started to find his feet as I stood next to him, offering my hand and helping him up.

“Shit.” he said, shaking his head, blood flying off in small droplets. I started. It was the first time I’d ever heard a non-adult use that word. “You okay ?” I asked. He nodded his head. The coaches came running over as soon as they saw the blood and started helping him off the field. I followed as closely as I dared, a little frightened that the coaches would be pissed off at me for flattening him or that the kid would end up taking a swing at me later. He still looked a little dazed as they led him to the sidelines. They sat him down and one of the coaches gave him his handkerchief. The other one told him to tilt his head back and they both went back to the game.

I sat down next to him and offered the most somber apology my seven year old mind could come up with. “I’m really sorry,” I said. “It’s okay,” he said. The sentiment barely registered with me. It was okay ? If someone else had done to me what I’d done to him, I’d have come up swinging and clobbered anyone who was in my line of sight. “You sure?” I asked. “Just a bloody nose,” he said, “and I should have gone to the right, anyway.” He smiled a bit and I could see some of the blood on his teeth. “My name’s Finn,” I said. “I’m Jonny,” he replied.

He was definitely thinner than I was. A large mop of curly brown hair that he parted to the side and glasses remarkably close to mine. He looked remarkably frail at that moment and I started to feel really bad for clobbering a kid I outweighed by twenty pounds or so. Still, he had taken the hit like a champ, no tears, no yelling, no crying for his momma. Wish I could say I would have done the same, but had it been me, I would have beaten him up with tears streaming down my face, calling for my mother the entire time.

“JESUS MARY AND JOESEPH!” The exclamation had come from over my left shoulder. A bearded man with glasses was running our way, hollering and screaming and waving his hands over his head. It was Jonny’s dad, awakened from his nap on the sidelines by the news from my parents that I’d just killed his son. He came tearing up and started checking Jonny out, pushing on the sides of his nose to make sure it wasn’t broken. He smelled of pine tar and old cigars, but he seemed to have a kind face. He glanced over at me while I was explaining to him that it was an accident and that I felt horrible. “No permanent damage done,” he said. I caught sight of my parents heading our way. Jonny’s dad popped up as soon as they came over. “Just looks like a bloody nose,” he said to no one in particular, but I could see the look of relief on my mother’s face.

ninjasoccer.jpgJonny’s dad introduced himself to my parents, and they continued to talk as Jonny and I sat and watched the group of kids running around the field. He and I started talking. It turned out we went to the same school. We liked a lot of the same TV shows. We both liked firecrackers. Ninjas. Cartoons. Godzilla. Kung fu movies. It turned out that we actually had a lot in common.

Our parents would hang out and talk at almost all our practices, one part keeping Jonny’s dad awake in case I clobbered him again and one part keeping my parents from fighting and causing a scene in front of all the kids I was playing with. Eventually my mother offered to watch Jonny after school, so his dad didn’t have to worry about him burning down the house or setting the yard on fire with an errant firecracker. We’d walk back to my house after school, playing out scenes we’d seen in karate movies and talking about who’d win in a fight between Superman and Batman. We’d draw comic books and watch cartoons and do horrible things to Adventure People in the alleyway behind my house.

He was the coolest guy I knew and the best friend I could ask for.

September 8, 2006

space sex: the final frontier



We were looking for something to write about today. Sometimes you have those days where nothing hits you right. So I asked a friend for an idea. He says “Hey, it’s the 40th birthday of Star Trek.” God bless his geeky little heart. Ok, fine. Star Trek turns 40. We’ll write about that.

Except we both hated Star Trek.

Well, ok. We’ll write about that. Turtle just asked me if Ricardo Montelban is dead. No idea. Ask me if he’s macho, though. Ricardo Mantelban es muy macho, si, pero Mistah Roarke canceles out-a Khan. Pero Desi Arnez con "Babbaloo" est immortales! Desi Arnez es macho muy bien! Desi Arnez est mas macho. Si, si, Desi Arnez. Nexte questione!

Anyhow. Happy Birthday Star Trek. Here’s our ode to you. Kind of.

Michele climbs aboard the Enterprise:

My mother forced us to watch this show. Not in its original run, but later on, in reruns. They were on at dinner time and we’d have the little tv in front of the table and every night we’d be subjected to Captain Kirk trying to stick his dick in some alien chick while we choked down our Salisbury steak. ssteak.jpgSometimes it would be wrapped around a pickle. The steak, not Captain Kirk’s dick. Mom was weird with food, but not that weird.

I just couldn’t get into the show. No matter how much my mom tried to turn us all into Trekkies, we weren’t having any of it. Instead, the rest of the family spent dinner making fun of the show while mom kept telling us to shut up because Spock was saying something really deep and meaningful.

It’s not that I didn’t like sci-fi. I watched the Outer Limits and Twilight Zone and mom and I read a bunch of H.G. Wells books together. It's just....well, you know that one Star Trek episode? That one where they find a distant planet and they go explore it and they run into trouble and James T. falls in love and Spock is all "let's think logically here" and they narrowly avoid dying in outer space and if not for the courage of the fearless crew the Enterprise would be lost? Yea, that one. Face it, the show was as redundant as playing with Barbie dolls. No matter how many different dresses you put on Ken or how many ways you got Barbie's legs up in the air, it was just the same thing every day.

Besides, I’m a Star Wars geek. I can’t like Star Trek. It’s in the Code of Honor or something. It’s like a Yankee fan being a Met fan, too. You can’t do that. It’s just not right. You need to choose one or the other. I chose Star Wars. My mother just didn’t get it. Why? She would cry. Why have you forsaken me? She would come into my room and just start talking about Klingon and Spock ears and living long and prospering. She’d try to entice me with technical details about the Enterprise. I’d laugh. Come on, mom. I’ve got Tie Fighters. The Death Star. Yoda. AT-AT Walkers. Boba Fett. Chewie. Stormtroopers. Han Fucking Solo. trekkies-thumb.jpg Ok, ok, I have the god damn stupid ewoks but that’s nothing compared to tribbles.

And let’s face it, even when a Star Wars convention is at its geekiest, it still remains about 800% cooler than a Star Trek convention. Some chick dressed up as Princess Leia in a slave outfit v. some polyester uniform wearing guy with huge man boobs spreading his fingers? We. Win.

Anyhow. I was supposed to be talking about how much I hate Star Trek.

James T. Kirk was a manwhore. Seriously. What kind of example was he setting for the youth of America. Han Solo, he only fucked one chick. He was loyal and practiced monagamous, safe sex. Star Trek should have done a Very Special Episode at the end and had Kirk's dick fall off due to some alien sexually transmitted disease and a hundred strange looking females knocking on his door looking for their baby’s daddy. He’d be dickless and broke thanks to paternity suits. Lesson learned, kids. When exploring the final frontier, keep your dick in your pants.

I hate Star Trek. -M

Beam me up, Turtle

Oh. We aren't gonna make a lot of new friends on here today. I've been working on parts of cars and fucking around with all of this stuff lately on FTTW that I haven't really had time to go into any thought process of where to go with an idea much less if I want to write it. Shit, last night Michele put new cartoons in and I put in three stories. Plus she did her own story and I did the new Underground for Monday morning.

So some days, watching TV is all you want to do. So Michele told me that it was the anniversary of some show that I used to watch when, well hell, watch when nothing else was on. I would stare at this show and wonder how it got this huge fan base, huge conventions and why Kirk always got to fuck the cool aliens. 30 years ago he was screwing green broads? Nowadays, that would be called "screwing someone with Hep-C." I mean they went out of their way to have every race on this show. Every one was included. I didn't think they knew what they were getting when the hired Sulu. I think they just wanted an Asian guy but ended up getting a flaming homosexual Asian guy.

Two birds.

One stone.

Gay Asians are funny. And they can cook!

So what have we got here? A drunk Scottish Engineer. Some way too over serious doctor who people call "bones" which in my opinion would be like calling me "Superstar Porn Action Man." I mean people know what you do, why do they have to make you a nickname on your job? What else did we have? We already talked about Sulu. He just lit on fire when he took his shirt off. There was some kid on there from another country. Can't remember his name. He had a yellow shirt thou. That means he wasn't gonna die. The black chick with the weird thing in her ear and Spock. Mr. Spock. He could "Spock" you. He was just always entertaining.Easter Island Kouneski.jpg I loved the Vulcan mind meld. That was fucking like Shakespeare. "I feel pain! My babies! I feel pain!" Much Like "Romeo and Juliet", Mr. Spock told the truth and was an incredible thespian. Thank god he went on to make "In Search Of" or my early 80's Saturday mornings would have been filled with things like playing sports or getting laid. But Mr. Spock! In search of something! I can't mow the lawn today, mom! Mr. Spock might find some secret Aztec treasure hidden in Europe protected by those statues from Easter Island! I have to watch! Lawns can wait! Zulu warriors and Spock finding them couldn't wait! You fool! I need to watch this!

What the hell was I talking about?

Star Trek.

The only remaining thing about that show was one man who made it the greatest event ever. The man of mystery. The man of confusion, guilt, charms that could peel the panties off a sober woman coming out of an abortion clinic and get her legs into the air in the back seat of his car within five minutes, pounding her down with his Spanish lust.

That's right. You know whom I am talking about.

Kahn.

Mr. Ricardo Montalban.

I will tell you, I kinda wanted to do this post because of a rumor he was dead and as you all know, I hate writing obituaries on these damn sites, but somehow I am always the one writing them or giving the eulogy at the funerals. I am getting tired of that, so I started thinking about a world without Mr. Ricardo Montalban. No Mr. "whateverthefuckhisnamewas" on Fantasy island. No Tattoo. No midget calling someone "Boss" putting little people back in the discriminatory stages about 50 years. No weird ass fantasies with half ass would be porn stars. This was the primer for Beverley Hills 90120, Melrose Place and even American Idol. This was all because of a cool guy with a plan to conquer the world. With a bunch of broads in tow. Anyone else notice that he was like the only guy with a planet full of hot chicks? Kinda like an Mormon but one that smokes cigars.real ricardo.jpg

If that episode didn't inspire Jim Jones, I don't know what did. Hell, after I watched it, started cutting my pubic hairs and placing them in a dish.

"Turtleland"

Sure. He failed on Star Trek, but fuck man, he ended up with his own personal island and a midget as his errand boy. An island that people came to for virtual LSD trip.

And all he had to do was wear his white suit and smoke his cigars.

And get laid.

Fuck Star Trek 2: The Wraith of Khan.

It should have be named Star Trek 2: Kahn Gets His Own Drug Induced Island With A Midget Who Tells Him When the Plane Comes - T

So that's it! Welcome to the day that makes some people hide and other people happy. Masturbation for TV shows or just smoking another cigar day.

For me it is just Friday.

So maybe I'm doing both.

Do you have a favorite Star Trek episode? Or are you more of a Star Wars geek? Choose your sides, guys.

September 7, 2006

Ouch. That Hurts.......



Because of the start of the NFL season, something I never watch, and because I am seeing all these hurt guys on the sideline with cut up testicles and cut up stomachs, I thought it would be a good time to think about sports injuries.

And no, I'm not talking about that slow motion compound fracture to that one quarterback years ago.

I am talking about you.


What was your sports injury that really, really made you wonder why you did this sport? Why did you play it? Sure. Playing football or soccer, you can kinda expect to get hurt. Hockey? I actually think "Hockey" means "Missing Teeth" in Russian. So yes, there are tough games out there. But, being the Turtle, I have to go another angle.

My better half is suffering from a bad headache from all this redesign and is taking the night off and sleeping for a half hour while I kick this out.golf.JPG

But, anyways, I know a lot of you love Michele's stories a lot better then mine, but sometimes this stuff has to happen. Three days and this site will run itself. Just hold on till we get to Monday. Then it will all start.

But anyways.

Injuries.

Specifically, sports injuries.

More specially, your sports injuries.

Wanna play?

Here we go.

Golf.

Beer a hole. Oh, you know this is going nowhere but down. Every hole, drink another beer. Hot weather and plenty of beer. Seriously, I was drunk by the 6th hole. My mind was shot as I kept walking. See, that's what I do when I golf. I don't get a cart. That's pure pussy. I can walk. But, having an 18 pack of Natural Ice and a golf bag strapped on your back is a lot to deal with. I got people behind me screaming to move faster and people in front of me asking me to slow down. Slam another beer. The Marshal asks us if we have been drinking too much. Of couse not. What do you think we are? A bunch of drunks?

I am talking to him like some sports caster telling him "no" while asking him if he can throw this empty can away for me. And if he has a cigarette. And why he is fucking with us. And asking if he really thought the foursome of the "Christian Coalition for Cocaine" would really be drinking in this tournament. Hey. We wanna win. Christians. For Cocaine. Great name.

I thought it was funny at the time.

I set up on the 16th hoe and nailed one. Way out there. Fuck yeah. I walked back as my friend pushed his ball down in the grass. I lit my cigar. It's what I always did. And still do. The Marshall asking me if we need some help. Sixteen beers, I'm feeling no pain. I don't need your help. Two holes left. Just leave us alone. I'm singing some old Black Sabbath songs by now thinking of how bad I can fuck with people before this ends.

Ouch.

My friend muffed his shot. Hit it right off in my direction. I didn't even see it coming. The ball hit me right in the eye. Under it really. I did something I never do. I put out my smoke and tried to see clear. Blood. Great. Moveable face. Great. Sure, the alcohol really helped the handling of the pain, but it still hurt like hell. The Marshall went away. My friend gave me a fresh smoke and apologized. I pushed my checkbone back up and kept going. Fucking blood.

It ruined my handicap for the day.

golf ball.JPGBut still. The golf ball cracked my skull and gave me the meanest black eye I have ever had. Surgery and pins to hold my head together for a god damn golf game.

And there were still two holes left in the game.

So that was my worst injury. Cut up and fucked up for playing golf. Fucking golf. This is a game you play with your mother, not fucked up on drugs and alcohol yelling at the Marshall while holding your shirt over your face to stop the blood from coming out.

This is my worst injury.

For golf.

Don’t ask me about skateboarding. Cause that just gets ugly.

What's yours?

Your worst sport injury? - T


The Soundtrack of Your Life (Contest!)



cassette.jpgThis was just an idea we came up with a few minutes ago. We at FTTW have been working hard to keep ourselves and the contributors minds together while we format and add in new stories every night (somehow it is always is at two in the morning when we are doing that). But for today, before we go back to rebuilding the site, we thought of something fun to do.

Seven songs for seven days. What song is your Monday song? Tuesday song? etc. Get it? Seven songs for seven days.

See if you can do it, too

Keeping in mind this has been a long week, we have decided to make this easy, and so some of you don't go crazy on us and list like 200 songs, we have limited ourselves to one song a day with a short explanation.
.turtle hits play first

Monday - Iggy Pop - Repo Man

Hell. I have to go to work. Might as well do it high. Stealing cars high on speed. That usually gets me going. I might have a shitty job with no respect, but they have it worse. Speed and beer at five in the morning. All I have to do is take a shower. Maybe shave if I feel like. Hey, I'm German. We don't grow hair. We lose wars.
Tuesday - D.I - OC Life

Fine. I admit it. I'll go with Kali on this one. I hate Orange County. Not LA. Or California in general like she does. Just Orange County. Flat and boring. That's like a strong cup of coffee and an unfiltered Camel cigarette to get your day hyped up. Man, I hate this and I hate that. I can't even eat I am so pissed off that it is only Tuesday. After the grogginess of Monday has worn off, I usually need to hate something. Might as well hate Orange County, aka "Land of Del Taco". I don't believe I could any more awake for the week after realizing I wasted years of my life there.

Wednesday - Rocket From The Crypt - Young Livers

Well you made it halfway thru the week and still haven't been in jail yet. So this week is going pretty good. Maybe this is more of a "let's get some fast food" song. It is just about something you love that you have to keep doing. Five years ago it would have been about different things. But, now it just is about Michele and myself and those bastards at "Wendy's" shorting me on mustard with my 99-cent Value Fries. Those fuckers. I need my mustard.

Thursday - Sleater Kinney - Words and Guitar

Welcome to Thursday. A meaningless day with a meaningless song. Words about "I got it". Co-workers telling you "Hey! It's almost Friday! Cheer up!" Oh, you are so worthless in my eyes. The look of hate in my eyes as I think "Well, we still have another day to go. But you need to think about your life, coworker. Think about it, co-worker, while you are typing out some kind of story or coding, your wife is fucking "Juan" the gardener and drinking your beer. That's one more day where she tells you she has a headache and you wonder where your last Budweiser went." That's how my mind works. I always have to a response when someone is too damn cheery for my liking. But, the songs cool. Just something about the words. Cheap entertainment. Don't get me wrong. I love the song, but on a Thursday, my mind works as well as this track does. "Kickass But Mentally Harmless".

Friday - NIN - The Perfect Drug

Oh, you knew this would come in here. Friday nights at about 9:30 are when I lose Michele. That's when this song comes into my brain. I close down FTTW and just work on submissions from our contributors. Wondering why I am so in love and still in California. How did I meet this girl again? How did all this happen? What the fuck is FTTW and why do people want to come on board? How the fuck did I get so lucky to meet this girl? Seriously, when she goes to bed, all of my urges to work on FTTW stop. But, I just can’t. Four days left. If she is around or not, it still has to get done. But, I'm addicted to her and when she is not around, I shake like a junkie waiting for my next "Bird" fix.

Saturday - X - We're Desperatewrecked.jpg

This is the song when you wake up in the morning and look at you bar tab, food tab, online purchase and ask yourself where you thought this money was going to come from. Sit in bed for a few minutes and remember how it was like to be homeless. Or a professional couch surfer. Well, if I don't pay my rent this month, abandon everything, live at "Bob's" house, this will be OK. Saturday. Aka "Plan To Destroy The World Day".

Either that or "Stop Buying So Much God Damn Porn Online Day".

Sunday - Black Flag - Annihilate The Week

A song that walks you thru what you did last week and what you used to do to get thru the week. But really, it's just reminds me of where i was and what I do now. Everyday with my blood so BAC'ed up, I didn't know where I was. Get some lines out and start calling yourself a different name. Sweaty band sessions. Sweating Malt liquor. Eating pasta seven nights in a row. Waking up on floors with cigar burns on my chest. Sure, I loved not remembering my middle name seven days in a row, but things are different now. And I like them different.

Now the song just reminds me it's Sunday.

Get ready to rewind the tape and start the week again. - T

michele flips the tape:


Monday: Panic! At the Disco - The Only Difference Between Martyrdom And Suicide Is Press Coverage
Jesus, it takes longer to write out the title than it does to listen to the song. And really, I have no fucking clue what the lyrics to this song means. But Mondays. Choosing between martyrdom and suicide seems like a plan. Fuck the press coverage. Most Mondays I feel like I’m either going to nail myself to a cross by 9am or sway from a rafter of the Throgs Neck Bridge by noon. This song is at least groovy enough to get me through morning traffic.

Tuesday: Huser Du - I Apologize
This is the day where I spend the whole morning saying I’m sorry for being such a dick the day before. You think I’m kidding when I say how much Mondays suck? When you spend the whole day in a pissy rage, the next day is the “I suck, please don’t hate me” day. The first twenty minutes of my morning are usually me making sure turtle hasn’t blocked my number from his phone or gone into the witness protection program just to get away from me.


coffee45.jpgWednesday: Glassjaw - Her Middle Name Was Boom
Midweek. Glad to have the last two days behind me, just trying to get to the weekend. I’m hyper and wired and drinking way too much coffee and getting only like three hours sleep because I’m trying to exist on California time. I fell asleep with my head on the keyboard the night before and now today I’m jacked up on Dunkin Donuts superfuckingsize coffee with a double shot of espresso and it has the desired effect of waking me up but man, it makes me mean and by 1pm if you so much as look at me sideways I will do a roundhouse kick and smash your face in.

Thursday: Hellacopters - Born Broke
It’s the day after payday and I’m fucking broke already? Shit. God damn food, clothing and shelter. Damn my kids for wanting a hot meal and clothes that fit them. Selfish bastards. Just once I’d like to deposit money in the bank on a Wednesday and not revert back to the negative sign by Thursday afternoon. Turtle may be onto something when he says there’s gotta be a sweatshop around here somewhere that my kids could be slaving in.

Friday: Pro-Pain - Don’t Kill Yourself to Live
Well the god damn week was so draining I don’t think I can enjoy the weekend. It’s not like I go anywhere, anyhow. I’m pretty much anti-social and I’m working real hard on becoming an eccentric millionaire hermit so don’t ask me to go anywhere on Friday night because I’m just going to stay in and play Gauntlet and whine about the week and spend hours fucking around on Fark with turtle until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. I try. I do. But I usually abandon him at about 12:30.

Saturday: Misfits - TV Casualty
Finally. The house is clean. Bills are paid. Told the parents thanks, but no thanks for the dinner invitation. What to do. Oh, yea. It’s Saturday. Turn on the tv. Infomercials, football, golf, Saved by the Bell reruns, really bad horror movies starring ferocious insects. 800 channels. Surf them all. Only take breaks to plug in the GameCube or Playstation. Maneuver Crash Bandicoot around for a while, get my ass kicked by my kid at some NHL game. Order pizza, flip the channels some more. OH! Showgirls! Kick ass!

pa_astroglide_35_detail.jpgSunday: The Cure - Friday I’m in Love
Yea, I know it’s a Friday song. But you know, even though I’m not religious, I still like to think of Sunday as a day of reflection. So I reflect on....love. You know. Birds singing in the trees and furry woodland creatures gathering around your feet while you happily dance through forest as the flowers gain voices and join in your chorus and well, somehow that Disney-inspired reflection gets sidetracked by thoughts of multiple orgasms and astroglide. Sunday I’m in love. -M


So this is the deal.

You give us your seven songs with the reason behind it. We make a mix CD of the one that is the best and send it to you for free. When I say "best" I'm not talking about the music. Sure, it's all great, but really, I am no judge in what you listen too. Basically this is a contest to see who has the coolest songs and the most entertaining story of why it is those seven songs.

If any other readers like and laugh at your stories, we hope they will vote on them in the comments.

Wanna play?

TGIF (Thank God It's Football Season)

ernie.jpg

Lets face it, football rules.

Yeah, baseball is great. Hockey? Yup, love it. Basketball, eh, I'll watch it, sometimes... Depends how the Celts are doing. But football? I just can't get enough of the fooseball, even if it is The Devil.

If it were not for my wife giving me the, 'don't even think about watching another game', evil eye as soon as The Patriots game ends every Sunday afternoon, I'd watch football all day.

In her defense, there's a lot of nonsense that goes on around here when The Pats are on: yelling, screaming, running around the house, occasional writhing on the floor in agony, and that's not even including what the kids are doing during the game...


The NFL kicks off it's season tonight with the Superbowl Champion Pittsburgh Steelerssteelers girl.jpg (Gack! ah, 'scuse me, itch in my throat) taking on the Miami Dolphins, hereafter to be referred to in this space as 'The Fish'.

The NFL instituted this fairly new 'tradition' for kicking off the season two years ago, where the winner of the Superbowl gets things started in a nationally televised home game on a Thursday night.

Personally, I like it. I realize that it's mostly just another way for the NFL to hype itself, but I don't care. It's fun and I think it's a cool way to let the reigning champs and their fans have a final moment in the spotlight before the normal Sunday schedule starts.

Tonight's game should be pretty interesting.

Steelers quarterback Ben Rothlesburger will be on the sidelines after undergoing an emergency appendectomy earlier this week. That means the Steelers backup quarterback, Charlie Batch, will step in under center.

Batch is a decent QB. He is a seasoned player and should not have a problem stepping in while Rothlesburger recovers from his surgery. The Steelers are a team that relies mainly on their running game on offense. They like to give the ball to their running backs and let them wear down the opposition's defense by pounding the ball down their throat. Rothlesburger's job is basically to hand the ball off and not make any mistakes in the passing game so I don't expect to see a huge drop off in the Steelers offensive production with Batch in there in his place.

dolphin.jpgOn the Miami side of the ball, The Fish are hoping that the off-season acquisition of quarterback Dante Cullpepper from the Minnesota Vikings will finally solidify a position that has been in constant flux ever since Dan Marino retired from Miami back in 2000.

Cullpepper is coming off of a pretty extensive offseason knee surgery, but looks to have completely recovered, playing without any problems in all of the Fish's pre-season games this year.

Both the Steelers and the Dolphins are very solid teams defensively. They both feature a strong defensive line that can stop the run as well as quick linebackers that can put pressure on the quarterback. That means there will be a lot of heat on both of the QB's in this game not to make any mistakes. A turn-over by either team could wind up being their undoing.

Once the initial adrenaline rush at the start of the game is over, I'm expecting this one to become a bit of a slugfest between these two teams. If I had to make a pick, my mind is saying Miami in an upset, but my gut tells me that the Steelers don't kick off the '06 season as reigning champs with a loss in front of their home-town crowd. I mean really, how lame would that be?

Always go with your gut.

Prediction: Steelers 24, Fish 17.



Ernie writes daily at Mr. Black and White

His regular NFL column for FTTW will appear on Sunday mornings.

September 6, 2006

Red Asphalt

Something everyone has to learn. Something that is feared and anticipated at the same time. Something you look forward too, but at the same time don't wanna take the test. Fuck being afraid. This is what you what, what you need to do, and what you are going to do.

Driving School


I was a kid when I learned how to drive an automatic. You have to learn how to do that when you're so young because of certain circumstances. A 13-year-old kid behind a wheel of a Chevy Nova prolly isn't the best thing you want seeing next to you at a red light. Grandfather passed out in the passenger seat. A look of "I don't really know what the fuck I'm doing" on my face.

But, that's a story for a different day. Besides, that was automatic transmission. I think. Been a lot of years.

But, anyways, when I was getting my learners permit, my dad thought he would take the hardest standard transmission car and teach me what a clutch does. Fucking Volkswagen Rabbit. 197?. One of the old ones that if you looked too hard at it, the car would stall.

My Dad wanted to teach me on the hardest cars to drive and shift in. Fucking Germans. Fuck those cars.

I am convinced Germany is still so pissed from losing every World War that they are trying to get back at us with everything they can. Just to make our life hard. They hold grudges. You ever seen a German toilet? Oh yeah. VW_rabbit_side.jpgThey made them like that just cause they lost a few wars. Them some sneaky bastards.

What was I talking about?

Cars.

Dad drove me up to empty parking lot and gave me the key. Made a remark how I smell liked alcohol then jumped out of the car. All day long I learned that damn clutch. It was ugly and painful, but at the end of the day, I had learned how to drive the biggest bitch car there was.

Skip ahead.

School. Turtle drops a few hits of acid to get thru the day. Hey. School sucks but being high on LSD makes the day a little more bearable. It's just the way it is. Sitting in some math class, my name was paged to come to the office. I sat for about three minutes before they repeated it over the intercom. LSD is fully hitting me now. They didn't say my name. No they didn’t. Did they? I'm just tripping. The teacher asked me what the hell was wrong with my hearing. Crap. I guess I'm not tripping.

Well, this is no good.

I went to the office with the strychnine just hitting me hard. My hands were shaking. I walked in and saw the two eyes I didn't need to see. Staring me right down. Asking me what took me so long to get up to the office.

Mom. Oh shit.

What's going on? My driving test today. In about 45 minutes. We need to leave now.

Oh shit. I forgot about that. I lit a cigarette and walked with her to her car. She knew I was high as fuck. She's not that big of an idiot. Acid starting to hit me hard. I asked my mom if she would buy me a beer before this whole thing got started.

See, I’m such a good son. Whacked out on LSD, smoking in front of my mom, asking her to buy me a beer before I have to take a driving test with some DMV guy who prolly hasn't seen a naked breast since he looked at his man boobs in the mirror the night before.

Appointment - Turtle - 11:30

Well that’s just fucking great. Enough time for me to be peaking and calling myself "Jesus Christ" or "Moses" and asking people if they knew the 11th commandment. Just great.

I watched the clock move as I prayed this wouldn't get any worse before it got better. The time counted down as I could feel it all hit me hard.

"Turtle?" "Yes?" "Let's take your test. Follow me to the car."

Do I really want to do this? Should I just tell them I am not feeling well enough to do this? Being 16, you do some pretty dumb stuff. Fuck it. Let's do it. So I went with him.

My mom looking at me as if this was the end for all my driving privileges. She knew I was high. Just didn't know what I was on. It was like a sad look from her. Like a "Why did you have to do this today???" look. You guys all have had those looks before. But my look from her had Jimi Hendrix singing in her eyes.driving test.jpg

Good acid.

Bad day.

I got in the car. Automatic. Cool. Turned the keys on as he pulled out his little "Rate Me" board. Told me where to go. I lit a smoke. He asked me if I was a little to young to smoke. My response was "Let's just get thru this and you can tell me how your mom died of some kind of cancer when this is done, ok?"

Lights. Traffic. A judge, basically, next to you. Seeing three things at once. Wanting to stop at any liquor store just to slow my hands down. Rat poison makes your hands shake like a crack addict who ran out of things to pawn off.

He must have known I was wasted or he just didn't care because I passed. I got my license.

Mom dropped me back off at school.

After she did....

I walked to the nearest liquor store and got drunk. - T

Michele holds the stick next

No one really wanted to teach me to drive. My mother tried. My father tried. It’s not that I wasn’t any good at it. It’s just that I wanted to go. All I cared about was slamming my foot down on the pedal and moving, traffic laws be damned. Who needed to learn five point turns and parallel parking? Just point me to the nearest parkway and let’s see what this baby can do. Jesus, I was learning how to drive in a flaming red Ford Galaxie 500 convertible. Built for speed. Ok, fine. My father decides he’ll take me off the side streets and let me get this speed demon thing out of my system. Long Island Expressway. Trucks bigger than most buildings doing 100 mph all around me. All these lanes. All these exits. All these other drivers. Fuck. Ok, I’ll admit to you all. I got scared. I didn’t like it at all. I managed to maneuver the car through some fast moving traffic and got off the Expressway and let my father take over. My hands were shaking. I was done. The next day, my parents signed me up for driver’s ed. I know what they were thinking. Let some poor schmuck handle teaching her how to drive, because I wash my hands of it. Can’t blame them.

That schmuck turned out to be my history teacher, Mr. D. The class met two days a week after school; one day for driving and one day for classroom lecture.

The classroom lecture consisted mostly of us watching films while Mr D used this wooden pointer to draw attention to the finer points of the film by banging on the screen. Driving was serious business to Mr. D. Because, you never know. He said that a lot. You never know. Driving wasn’t some pleasurable thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. It wasn’t even a means to an end. Driving was a solemn privilege filled with dangers. Oh yes, danger that lurked on the roadways. Death and mayhem were waiting at every turn.

If you are anywhere near my age, you probably remember driver’s ed films. Like most PSAs of the time, the films were meant to scare you into submission. Drugs, alcohol, talking to strange men, dancing too close to each other, the evil Russians - these were all things that warranted a ten minute, poorly produced movie designed to make you live in fear of everything around you.mechdeath.jpg Life came with a warning label back then and there was no was no lesson that couldn’t be taught with a short burst of alarmist propaganda. Driver’s Ed was no exception.

The first film we saw that year would later be referred to as "The Box of Death." It was an animated movie in black and white and starred a teenage boy driving a sports car. Picture this. The carefree teenager speeding down a residential street, humming along to that evil rock and roll music and probably daydreaming about unhooking Suzy’s bra on their big date tonight. And then a look of surprise on his face. What’s this? A box! In the middle of the road! Just a big, white cardboard box sitting there in the street. An thought bubble pops up above the teen's head. We can read his thoughts! We see he has two choices here: A) drive around the box (good choice) or B) drive over the box (bad choice). Cheesy music plays. Tension abounds. This being a scare-tactic film, you know which choice the kid has made. He guns the engine and goes for it.

At this point Mr. D. stops the film.
“What do you think is going to happen here, class?”
“Uhh...he’s going to hit the box...”
“YES!” He smacks the screen with the pointer. “He is going to hit the box! Because he has MADE THE WRONG CHOICE!” Each word brings a smack of the pointer. The screen sways. Mr. D. stares at us, like it’s our fault the kid in the movie ran down the box.

“Would you like to see what happens? Are you ready to see where a bad choice can lead you?" Damn. He’s reading from the same script as that cop who came last week to warn us, a bit late, about drugs. Those of us who aren't already asleep encourage him to play the rest of the film.

Back to our speeding teenager who made the wrong choice. He is still speeding down the street. His face has changed a bit. He is no longer thinking about Suzy’s tits. This is more like a Death Race 2000 look. He’s hell bent on running down that mysterious box. Closer. Closer. Close up of his face. Determination. Must. Hit. Box. Why though? We don’t know. Teenagers are just inherently stupid, I guess. He finally reaches the box and never lets up on the gas pedal. He hits thing, it makes a loud thud, and the box goes flying in the air. We see it tumbling. Up, up and then.....down. It lands on the sidewalk. The teenager stops his car. Gets out. Has this Home Alone look of surprise on his face. Well, duh, genius. You were aiming for the thing, what did you think was going to happen? He walks over to the box, where it rests upside down and battered. Carefully lifts it up. I don't know what we expected to see. Garbage. Soda cans. Homeless kitties. Gwyneth Paltrow’s head. But, no...we see an......arm. A small child's cartoon arm sticking out of the box, looking somewhat bruised and bloody.

Mr. D waits for us to scream. Or cry. Or recoil in horror or feel associative shame just from being teenagers. Instead, we burst out laughing.

"Is there something funny about a dead child?" Mr. D is not happy with us.
We can’t help it. It’s just that, well, a kid was the last thing we expected to be in the box. Why? Because it's incredibly absurd. Mr. D. stares me down. “Tell me. What is amusing here?’ I can’t help myself. “Well,” I say, “if a kid is stupid enough to hide in a cardboard box in the middle of the road, he sort of deserves to be hit by a car.”

Mr. D. threatens me, and then all of us, with driver's ed failure. Then he lectures on The Box.

“That box you encounter could be filled with anything. Leaves, children, bricks! And yes, there will be boxes! There will be obstacles! There. Will. Be. Boxes!” Pointer slams.


We have no idea what box he is talking about. Really, none of us have ever come across a cardboard box, empty or filled with small children, in the middle of the road. It just never happened. wheels.jpgWe imagine odds are slim that it will. We make jokes about brick-filled boxes. We make bad puns revolving around kids named Jack (jack-in-the-box...get it?). Mr. D. realizes lecturing on The Box is useless. He warns us that the films we will see in the coming weeks will make The Box look like a comic book.

We spend the rest lecture days in a dark classroom, projector rolling and Mr. D. banging the pointer around. We see school buses imploding. Cars going off cliffs. Rag doll bodies being thrown through car windshields. Corpses, brains, body parts and crying teenagers, all ketchup and fake goo and horror movie screaming, set to a 70's soundtrack that sounds as if it were ripped from a porn film. They had titles like "Death Never Takes a Holiday" and "Mechanized Death" and "Blood on the Highway" and we began to look forward to these films the way we looked forward to watching horror movies at Mike's house on Friday nights. We ate that shit up. Get stoned, go to driver’s ed, watch some quality gore flicks. Doesn’t get much better than that.

These films were the Reefer Madness of driving culture. Instead of scaring us into being careful drivers, they served as pure entertainment. Kids who weren't even taking driver's ed would sneak into the classroom just to see "When Death Comes Driving."

We were sad when the semester ended and our car crash gorefest was over. We all passed Mr. D.'s class with flying colors, most likely because he didn't want to see us in his classroom again the next semester. We were the kids who laughed at death. We mocked The Box.

I'm sure Mr. D. would be happy to know that all these years later, I still think of him every time I see a box in the road.

[See: Hell's Highway]

So those are our 'learning to drive' stories. We know you have them, too.

Fail your road test a bunch of times? Crack up dad's car when you mixed up the brake and gas pedal? Don't be shy. We all fucked up our driving lessons at some point.

What's your story?

September 5, 2006

Sweating Til You Bleed - Best Live Album



Live albums. Always hit or miss. Most live albums are just a waste. Your favorite band screaming incoherently and saying stupid things like "Are you ready to rock?" or "You guys are the best crowd on this tour so far!" Right. I bet you say that to all the crowds. Really, the only people who love live albums are the people who don't mind 29 minute versions of 4 minute songs. You know who you are.

But once in a while you'll get a live album that really does stand out. We're not talking Frampton Comes Alive here, so get that out of your head. We each came up with an album that we think surpasses what the usual concert disc contains.

Michele first:

You don’t want to know some of the albums that came to mind when we picked this subject. I’m not really a big fan of live stuff and all the picks that I first thought of would have made me look like a damn hippie, so I’m not even gonna say. But then I thought some more about and it hit me. The live album that still gives me chills when I listen to it. The live album that is so amazing, it sounds studio produced. The live album that I put on about an hour ago and thought, damn. Damn you, Layne.

Alice in Chains - Unplugged.

Some will argue that Nirvana put out the best Unplugged album. It was pretty damn good, but I think AIC is just better in a lot of respects. Really, you can look at both the albums in the same way.AliceInChainsUnpluggedAlbum.jpg Each is a lasting, haunting legacy of two talented musicians whose lives went to waste.

There’s something about these Unplugged sessions that is unlike any other live effort by a band. It’s personal. Intimate. And you can hear and - if you have the DVD - see how different it seems for the musicians, too. The lack of that vibrance and energy that comes with being plugged in is replaced with a solemn kind of emotion. It’s raw. Stripped down. You get to see and hear the bare bones of a song. Sometimes that’s a beautiful thing. And sometimes it’s unnerving.

A lot of people think Layne Staley sounds bad on this album. They say his voice is cracked and old and worn. Well, the band hadn’t played live in like three years, so cut the guy a break. Personally, I think he sounds great. How he looked at this show, though, that’s another story. And that, I think, is what makes Unplugged stick out. Just knowing where he was headed. Watching him sing, looking at his face and knowing the end of the story. He looked beaten and halfway to dead. You knew. Well hell, everyone knew from a long time before that he’d die a junkie death, but looking at him that night, you just knew it was all winding down. It took about six years after that for his way of life to finally take it’s toll, but any AIC fan who watched the show that night saw the end of Staley right then.

But the music. Wow. The playlist is the heart of AIC. The songs here are all laid out like raw meat. Cooking in reverse, kind of. Knowing what a steak looks and tastes and smells like when it comes out of the kitchen and then looking at a slab of meat and thinking, that’s what I just ate. Does that make any sense? Fuck, I’m tired. It makes sense in my head. Maybe I’m hungry, I don’t know. But anyhow. You take a song like Angry Chair and throw it out there unplugged and you think that just can’t work, but it does. It works so well. It gives you a new appreciation of the song and of the musicianship of the band.

Over Now. Damn. The harmony on this is beautiful. And sad in a way. I tend to think metaphorically when I’m tired. But I won’t bore with you that now. Just...listening to this makes me feel sad. And then, Down in a Hole. The fucking highlight of this album. This song, this version of this song, never fails to blow me away. Such a depressing song, yet so pretty in a lot of ways. It makes me feel down but I listen to it anyhow because there’s so much feeling in it and it’s just a reminder of things. That sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach when you know everything is going to hell and you can't stop it. Not even having the urge to climb out of the hole anymore. Listening to the song this way, live, somehow kicks me harder than the studio version.

So this is a great album, musically. But depressing as hell.

Meh.

I'm gonna put on some Love and Rockets and go back to thinking about steak. -M


turtle rides the train

Alcohol, amphetamines, LSD and pot. The most amazing live record ever. Something that you listen to and wonder why you ever thought guitarists and singers were so cool. They didn't do that much.

What album am I talking about?

The Who - Live at Leeds

From start to finish, you can see why Keith Moon was a damn god on the drums. Those fills didn't need to be there. He just did them cause he was out of it. Don't get me wrong. Playing high is hard but sometimes it is a hell a lot of fun. Cept for LSD. No bueno on playing on that stuff. The fucking strings feel like tree limbs.

But maybe that's just me.

This was the album that got me into the background of music. Guitarists? Meh. Singer? Meh.

Wanna know what holds a band together? Listen to this. Moon is so fucked up he can barely talk, but somehow his fills are incredible. Fucking amazing. bellboy.jpgDaltry and Pete don't even need to be there. They are just icing on the cake.

You want to know why this album worked so well?

Cause they all hated each other. That's a true story. The best bands all hated each other. Do their job and then go home alone. If you guys can tell me any band that hangs out with other when they are on off time, go for it.

The truth be told, everyone hates each other in a band after the end of a tour. The real good bands can come on, still hating each other, and put out something amazing. Something that no one wants to repeat or ever wants to forget. Something that you ask yourself how can that guy barely make out a sentence, but still pull off a drum fill like that? That wasn't on the real album was it?

I have seen the Who about ten times. I have never seen them with Moon. I’m only 11 years old for god's sake, but even their fill in drummers lacked. They died when Keith died. This was the ultimate live album of a band at their peak.

This is what they did.

Enjoy it or fuck off.

The attitude on this whole thing inspired me to pick up a bass.

RIP - John Entwistle
RIP - Keith Moon

If there is a god and a heaven, you guys are fucking the place up right now. - T

So that's our take on Best Live Albums. We know that you will all have your own, but some will always be in our heads. Where you can just feel the power, energy, emotion, crowd, and the heavy breathing of the band.

Just imagining how tired you are and looking at the set list thinking you have sweated every kind of moisture, emotion and talent out of yourself.

Then seeing you are only on song two of the list.

But you just have to keep going.

So what's your favorite live album?

Pie Wars!



pies2.jpgBecause another site has the ability to ban me when I start one of these threads, we decided to find out where our readers allegiances are. We are not talking about anything serious here; we just need to get this out of the way it is before our new site premieres next Monday. Might as well figure who has good taste buds and who is just weird.

This is pie war.

This got both Michele and I banned on other sites before, but since this is our site, who really cares?

Yes, this will get ugly.

turtle gets in his taxi

Apple pie. What else can you say? Don't ask me about the thing in Taxi Driver with the slice of cheddar cheese. That sounds so god damn gay it makes Gene Simmons look like Richard Simmons. Cheddar cheese. On pie. hm.

But I always called everyone who ate any other type of pie weird. No, I'm not all American and no I don't like baseball but yes, I like apple pie. And sex. Having sex after eating a piece of apple pie in some god-forsaken island in New York is pretty close to heaven.

Or maybe it was just Friday night.

All I know is I want it again.

But, that's beside the point.

All I know is apple pie is a sign of supremacy and victory. The Ice cream on top is like putting the flag on the moon for the Apollo astronauts.

Victory.

Apple pie, to me, is like life.

Well, more like a game of "Hungry Hungry Hippos".

When you eat apple pie, it;s like you are playing a game of "Hungry Hungry Hippos" with the Orange Hippo. You are the Orange Hippo. B00000IWIA.01._SCLZZZZZZZ_.jpgThe Hippo of Strength and Power. Courage and Wisdom. Someone who likes pumpkin pie can be the Pink Hippo. The Hippo of Weakness. Cowardice.

I will eat more balls than you. I will be the ball eater. God, that sounds kinda gay, but anyways, my Orange Hippo will show your Hippo the flaws in your pie-eating plan.

If you want something weird like Mincemeat. you might as well be the fucking Green Hippo. Otherwise know as "France". The Surrender Hippo. Make no mistakes, mien readers, pie wars are evil. The Green Hippo will always lose.

If you sit down after a large meal and someone offers you a piece of Blackberry pie, they are insulting you. Not only insulting you, but challenging the Orange Hippo. The Hippo of Strength and Power. Courage and Wisdom. I'll eat it. But as long as I can look in your eyes and let you have that gaze.

That "you lost to the Orange Hippo" gaze.

Apple pie.

Join me or die at my feet.

I think I have too much time on my hands. - T

michele breaks her cherry:


Turtle got the apple before me. I let him have it, really, because I’ve never seen anyone so devoted to apple pie. He’s fiercely loyal to it. In fact, it’s one of those things that we realized we had in common before we started dating. The willingness to defend the greatness of apple pie was something that brought us together. You can keep most other pies - and don’t even come in here and say something about mincemeat pie or squash pie or any of that crap because that ain’t pie, that’s dinner. And pie is dessert. Real pie does not contain vegetables. Except pumpkin. Wait, is pumpkin a vegetable?

Anyhow, I have to go with my second choice pie here. Which really isn’t a bad thing.

Cherry Pie

shesmycherrypie.jpg


Yes, go ahead. Sing the Warrant song. Get it out of your system. But let me tell you, they were on to something. Because eating cherry pie is a pretty sensual experience.

First, I gotta say, don’t try to give me a cherry pie made with that canned filling. Like that crap they give you at iHop for your pancakes. What is that called? Oh, compote. No bueno. I’m not eating a compote pie. I want pitted, sour cherries. The tangy ones. The kind of tang that makes your mouth salivate just thinking about it.

goodpie.jpgOne fresh slice of cherry pie. I want to slide it into my mouth and get that satisfying, tantalizing feel of my juices starting to flow. And then to bite down into it, feel my teeth press against the soft flesh of the cherry and then the orgasmic explosion of flavor as the cherry bursts and its juices ooze over my tongue and down my throat. Lick the excess of my lips and dive in for another taste.

The only thing that could make that any better would be to have a hot, naked man turtle feeding it to me.

Swingin' in there 'cause
She wanted me to feed her
So I mixed up the batter
And she licked the beater

Hot damn, that’s good pie.


So those are our favorite pies. What's yours? An no one say hair pie or anything like that, cause I'll have to kick your ass. And forget pizza pie and shephard's pie or anything with meat or vegetables in it. We want dessert pies. You know what we mean.

We take our pies very seriously here at FTTW. Like turtle mentioned, this has gotten us a timeout on the forums of another site because these pie wars, well, they get vicious.

Name your pie. And be prepared to defend it.

explosions and explorers



Have you ever been somewhere you didn't really want to be? Didn't care to be at all? Just wanted to sleep but you had to be there? Well, sometimes these kinda things happen at shows. Big or small. Somwhere you really weren't expecting much but a beer and a place to sleep till the night was over but something big happened?

Tonight's post is about just that. Shows you saw that you thought were just going to be a waste of time, but somehow, some way, they ended up sticking in your memory forever.

From music you didn't really like to things you just had to do.

And after the band played.

It impressed the hell out of you.

turtle lights it up first.

Coolest show I have ever seen?

Too many to name.

Most interesting show that I wasn't expecting?

Easy.

Somewhere in Europe. Maybe Germany. Freaked out and fucked up fans. Free tickets and nothing to do that night. Some German band. Some kind of industrial shit. All in German.

Fuck it.

Let's go.

The backstage reeked like some sort of Meth lab while I tried to remember how to at least understand German as I slammed a beer. The hell was that on their guitars? The hell was all this wire? The hell was this smell?

Rammstein

Don't ask me what happened that night. I grabbed a piece of pizza and a beer. Lit a smoke and could feel something. Not like crowd heat. That's at every show. But fire heat. Something was burning. Somewhere. I surveyed the stage. Fuck. Those are fire blowers. Looked at the wires connecting the stage to the sound both. Something up hanging off of the top of it. Being dosed in some sort of liquid. The smell. The sweat, pot, beer, and gas I guess, covered the place in a weird smell.

People had told me these guys blow shit up, but really, their music wasn’t my style. I don't give a fuck what "du hast" means. Sing in fucking Portuguese for all I care. I just wanted something to do on the night off. But the smell. The guitars with...flame throwers on them? What the fuck?

I didn’t even ask.

I walked back out into the crowd and just watched.

They played industrial music. Meh.

But they fucking blew everything up.

Didn't expect to see a guitar solo with a flamethrower going over the crowd. Didn’t expect missiles to be shot from the soundboard to the stage. Didn’t expect two of them to light themselves on fire.

Germans.

They like fire. It's in their blood. Damn Germans always want to take over the world, blow something up or get us drunk on really good beer.

By the end of the night I was smelling like two familiar chemicals, as well as nicotine and some kind of gasoline.

All I can say is that I hate industrial music. I hate music in funny languages.

But if you blow shit up the entire set?

I'm getting your CD, god dammit. - T

Michele gets all sugary on us.

Most interesting does not necessarily mean the best. Just keep that in mind here.

November 1998. Hammerstein Ballroom in NYC. Or maybe it was Roseland. One of those places that is 99% pit and 1% girl’s bathroom line. I’m pretty sure the bill was Incubus, System of a Down and some obscure band. Dial 7! I can’t believe I remembered their name! Well, doesn’t matter. This is about SoaD.

We’re really at the show to see Incubus - this was before Incubus became yet another ‘dead to me’ band - but SoaD’s manic energy is hard to ignore. Lots of screaming and head banging and the pit is aggressive yet friendly. Good times. We (my sister and I) are really getting into SoaD’s set, which is cool because we weren’t sure what to expect with them. We get up pretty to the stage. About ten feet away from Shavo.

Let me tell you, I know crazy when I see it. And this dude is crazy. You can see it in his eyes. He’s creeping us out big time as he stares down the crowd like a serial killer sizing up prey. But the pit has closed up and we’re pretty much stuck there in front of the stage and this sweating, crazy fucker.

The band launches into Sugar. Crowd goes crazy cause this song is the ‘flavor of the week’ on MTV and the one tune everyone knows. The band is still relatively obscure at this point.

Did I mention it’s Columbus Day? Well, it is. So, they start playing the opening notes to Sugar. Over and over. Just that little snippet of bass. Serj - who is a little nuts but only about half as nuts as Shavo, starts to go off on a political rant. The crowd is kind of impatient. They want this song. You can feel the kids in the front getting antsy. They want to get the pit going again. Impatience. Serj going on. And on. The bass line. Serj still talking about whateverthefuck is his mission statement of the week. Damn the man, save the Empire or something like that. powerup.gifThese kids just want to get down to the part where they can shout “the kombucha mushroom people!” while jumping up and down, pumping their fists and wondering what the fuck a kombucha mushroom person is. Me, I always thought of those mushrooms in Super Mario. But I don't think that's what they were going for with this song.

Anyhow, Serj is just about winding up his rant. The man this, the man that, free yourself, war sucks, politicians should die, something about Chomsky and America is a hegemony and you know damn well that more than half the people in the place, maybe Shavo included, have no fucking clue what a hegemony is or who the fuck Noam Chomsky is. Holy hell, Serj can talk. Kids are moving. The place is pulsing. Serj is almost done. The band looks ready to go. And then. He pauses towards the end. The band stops. Dead. Silence. The crowd waits. Anticipates. And then Serj, full of passion, and most likely some heavy duty drugs, throws his head back and screams:

"CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS WAS A COCK SUCKER!"

Whoa. That’s....unexpected. People are just kind of staring. Some girl in back of me does one of those fake coughs to hide a laugh. No one is saying anything. Was he expecting a rousing round of applause?soadlive.gif I'm not saying that everyone in the crowd worships at the altar of Columbus, but no one really expected him to say that. So between the stunned silence of the crowd, the impatient look on Serj's face and Shavo's menacing glare, I came down with a case of the giggles. I can’t stop laughing. My sister laughs. The coughing chick starts laughing. And the song starts up, the pit forms again and goes into high gear and my sister and I back out of the crowd and towards the bar, giggling uncontrollably as the kids up front do their kombucha mushroom thing.

The whole train ride home, we’re saying it over and over again.

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS WAS A COCK SUCKER!

We just know it’s going to be one of those things we’ll be saying to each other for the rest of our lives.

February rolls around and we're gonna see System of a Down again, this time because they are playing with Fear Factory and Puya. We miss Puya, thanks to a downpour and a stalled car and we get there about three songs into SoaD’s set, right in time for the familiar opening notes to Sugar. Serj opens his mouth for another political rant. Fuck the system or something. My sister remarks that it just so happens to be President's Day. Oh, fanfuckingtastic! We inch up toward the stage as the same bass notes play over and over as Serj goes on about system fucking. President’s Day. We were so sure that at any moment, Serj was going to pump his arm the air, throw his head back and scream "Abraham Lincoln was a cocksucker!"

But he didn't.

He just growled about fucking the system and complained about the evil, tyrannical overlords that America has created.

Which, I suppose, could be construed in the same way.

The next Columbus Day I called my sister at work. Got her voice mail, left a little message for her.

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS WAS A COCKSUCKER!

She had left the same message for me.

Thanks for the memories, Serj! Bless you and those kombucha mushroom people. Power up! -M

System of Down - Sugar
Rammstein - Du Hast

And that's our "interesting shows" stories. Not the best shows we've ever seen, that's another post for another day. But the most unexpected fun we had at a show.

What about you guys?

Ever see a band that you had kind of no expectations of and they ended up being entertaining?

Maybe in ways you just didn't expect?

September 4, 2006

Stupidest Lyrics Challenge - Big in Japan



We have been challenged.

Dean Esmay posts today about the Most Vapid Rock Song Ever, and in the process calls us pansies and poseurs. I know bait when I see it. And we took it.

First, Dean - Smoke on the Water? Vapid? Come on, dude. It tells a great story. It’s total rock and roll attitude. Your place gets fucked up, you move on and find somewhere else to rock out. Rock and Roll never gives up, man!
It’s pretty easy to find stupid rock lyrics. One really needs look no further than Come as You Are for some of the stupidest lyrics in existence. But vapid is a whole other plane of stupid. Vapid is like, hmmm....empty calories.

You want vapid? Me and Turtle got it.

Michele gets stupid first:

Empty calories. Like.....sugar. As in:

Def Leppard - Pour Some Sugar on Me

Oh yea. I win. Hands down.

Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on
Livin' like a lover with a radar phone
Lookin' like a tramp, like a video vamp
Demolition woman, can I be your man?
Razzle 'n' a dazzle 'n' a flash a little light
Television lover, baby, go all night
Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet
Little miss ah innocent sugar me, yeah

Yea dude. That’s what I’m talking about. Television lover? Razzle n Dazzle? Sugar me sweet? What the hell is going on here? Are you making dessert?

Oh it gets better. And you know what the worst part is? I love this fucking song. I blast it in the car. I remember one night pulling into 7-11 with this shit cranking and I was singing real loud


You got the peaches, I got the cream
Sweet to taste, saccharine
'Cos I'm hot, say what, sticky sweet
From my head, my head, to my feet

There were people in the parking lot. They just kinda looked at me. The look usually reserved for some guy in an Firebird who is rocking out to Journey. And I thought to myself, what the fuck am I singing? Sacharine? I’m sorry, but no self respecting rock song should have the word “saccharine” in it.

Do you take sugar? One lump or two?

Dude. That has to be the worst line in the history of all of rock and roll. Ever. Any time. I win.

I sat in the parking lot being stared at and I thought about the lyrics for the first time. And laughed. I laughed as I got out of the car and I giggled while I got my coffee and I’m standing there staring at the piles of sugar on the counter and I laugh out loud. I can’t help it.

And if I don't win for the song I at least win for what happened to me as I was standing there looking at the sugar. You know what's really awkward? When you look up and see someone that looks really familiar, but you can't place him, and then you're both standing by the coffee machine, contemplating the cup sizes, and suddenly it hits you that you are standing next to the guy gave your first, sloppy handjob to in 7th grade in the closet at Becky's party, with Zeppelin's No Quarter on the stereo. And you run out of the store as your finally remember why that song always makes you feel vaguely ill. That's awkward. And it got me thinking about Led Zeppelin instead of Def Leppard.

Stairway to Heaven. Oh yea, I'm calling that classic song vapid. Hell, more than half of Zep’s catalog is vapidness at it’s worst. No Quarter. Dazed and Confused. Ramble On. Misty Mountain Hop. Literary-inspired vapidness.

But nothing beats saccharine.

Not even pretentious songs about Gollum. -M


and special props to anyone who gets the connection between the pic and my post

turtle gets big in Japan

and in the process calls us pansies and poseurs

Turtle reads this and puts out his fourth cigar of the day before tossing his German shepherd out to attack random kids while putting on a new promo of Fu Manchu.

I am punker than thou.

No, really. I do smoke too much and that is an issue between the Michele and myself, but that's another story for another time.

Most vapid song?

Godzilla - Blue Oyster Cult/Soft White Underbelly/Whateverthefuckwewanttocallourselvesthisweek

Jesus. Sure the song rocks, but it's about Godzilla destroying Japan. No hidden messages here. Just destroying Japan. Whatever drugs they were taking back then, get me in on some of those, cause every time I watch a Godzilla movie I end up more confused than a Mormon preacher exploring a new town for the first time on Gay Pride Weekend.

Don't we just wait for the big guys to kill each other? Although it is funny as hell to watch the little tanks get destroyed. Godzilla just stepping on them and moving on. That's funny shit. Comedy gold right there. I think Godzilla redefined and reinvigorated the Japanese steel mining industry cause of his nasty habit of crushing tanks and buildings when he was bored. I swear, Godzilla must have kept the Japanese economy going. Godzilla2000-16.jpg

"Godzilla Fucked Us Up Again, Inc."

Help Wanted. Apply Inside

Drink some beers and watch those movies enough times and you will have a set of toy tanks on your carpet. I used to step on those when I came home from having tied one too many on. You can feel his power and rage as you see all these little tanks over your floor and you just step on them to get to the bathroom for the Godzilla Piss part of the movie then the Godzilla Passes Out On The Floor part.

Then of course the Godzilla Tries To Remember What Happened Last Night part of the movie.

I'm telling you, these movies were ahead of their time.

It also helps to have an Asian girl sitting on your couch with a WWII helmet pointing at you screaming while you crush the little tanks. But that's not necessary. It just makes it funny. Hell, maybe Mothra can come in and bring you more beer after two in the morning. And by "Mothra" I mean "Bob", your next door neighbor with a drinking problem.

The hell if I know.

Where the hell was I at?

Oh yeah.

Vapid songs.

Godzilla. A song that was just about some movie series that meant nothing. Maybe BOC hated Japan when they wrote this. Maybe there was some deep meaning to this. Maybe I missed something here.

Cause let's face it….

Japanese automobiles sucked in the 60's. - T

Blue Oyster Cult - Godzilla


So these were our choices for the most vapid songs we had. We limited it to "classic" songs, but hell, you guys can go anywhere. We made our decisions. What are yours? And saying "Cherry Pie" by that one hair band didn't really work for us.

Cause every one knows. Apple pie is the best.

So these are ours.

What are yours?

September 3, 2006

Into the woods part II
Or: How I came out of the woods


My sophomore year started pretty normally until the third day or so. I got called to one of the counselors offices and was told that, due to the results of some testing I’d taken over the summer, I’d been selected to take part in a work experience program that was being offered that year. It was the first time the school had tried something like this and they warned me to not fuck it up. There were only two jobs left and I applied for both, immediately thinking that I was bright enough and eloquent enough to get a job for the local English newspaper. Once again, I was wrong.

kaserne.jpgTwo days later I left school two periods early and headed over to the adjoining kaserne. I had the address of where I was going on a slip of paper and it wasn’t too far from the school, but in a part of the kaserne I’d never been in. Two blocks, three blocks…. Right around this corner and… Damn that’s a pretty good sized building. Instead of working for the paper, I was working for the community theater, doing god knows what. Excactly the type of job I was qualified for.


I headed inside and wandered around for a few minutes. It was cavernous. Giant black walls, connecting down three sides to a giant black stage. Completely empty; save for a small table, a folding chair and an ashtray. Amphitheater style seats led up from the foot of the stage and headed further to the back, where I assumed the ticketing and management offices would be. I was supposed to be looking for the manager of the place, a cat named Alan. I looked more like I was casing the joint. But, I finally found him asleep on a couch in an office upstairs.

“Excuse me, “ I inquired. He stirred a bit on the couch, but not enough to fully rouse himself. There was a bottle of gin, a rocks glass and a box of Silk Cut on the table next to him. “Excuse me,” I repeated, louder this time. He came awake with a start, nearly falling off the couch. He sprung to his feet and extended a hand in my direction. His eyes wandered wildly, the look of a man who’d been in a deep sleep and who was trying his best to look like he hadn’t been.

Alan was small and ginger. Rumpled suit and dapper shoes. He lit a cigarette with a silver lighter, and exhaled ever so slowly, pacing the room as I told him why I was there. When I was finished he looked at me a little incredulously. “I asked for what ?” he inquired.

“I don’t know what you asked for, sir,” I said, “But you’ve got me.” He asked if I knew anything about lighting or set construction. No to both counts. Painting ? Nope. “What the hell are you good for then ?” he asked. “Very little, according to my father,” I replied. He smiled at that and it seemed we had it off. He walked me around the theater for an hour or so, showing me the control rooms, the offices, the rafters, the lighting cage, etc. It really was a well constructed and outfitted theater, especially one that was government sponsored.


Dressingroom.jpgWhen all was said and done, we headed back to the office. He sat back down on the couch and motioned for me to sit with him. He reached for the bottle in front of him and poured three fingers into the rocks glass. “There are very few rules here,” he began. “However, I don’t expect you to follow them all to the letter. You’re a young man after all. You’ll need to ensure that all props from the previous night’s performance have made it back into the cages. You’ll need to clean the dressing room.” He continued on… A list of, essentially, chores. Bored to tears, I blocked him out until I heard the words “Africa” and “month”…. Huh, what ? “I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ll be gone for a month?”

“Yes,” he said. “And I’ll expect you to keep this place up for me while I’m gone.” Alan had no idea what he’d done. I had no idea what I was going to do. All I knew was that he was giving me the keys to this place for a month. He had a gi-fucking-normous sound system in what he called the “big room” and there were two back doors to this place. And I’d have keys. He smiled at me. “We have a deal?” he asked. Oh, hell yeah, we had a deal.

For the first few weeks, I worked my ass off the three days a week I was supposed to be there. Alan and I made a good team. He did absolutely nothing while I was there but smoke, drink and sing Cole Porter songs, off key and off kilter. I took care of the chores. One Wednesday, I showed up in the afternoon, a little earlier than my normal time. I came in through one of the back doors and my ears were assaulted by what I could only imagine was Minnie Mouse being done by a large black man. An incredibly shrill voice was, by the sound of it, having a damn good time somewhere not far from the door I had just come in. I walked slowly around the corner, still mostly hidden by the scrims. Alan had his pants around his ankles and there was a woman in uniform bent over the very front row of seats, hollering like I hadn’t heard anyone holler before.

I took my leave, quietly, out the door I had come in. Walked about 75 feet from the door and planted my ass on a curb, while I waited on the back door to open and close behind me. Then I’d head back. About twenty minutes later, it had and I headed back in. Alan was sitting in the front row, fully clothed, and smoking a cigarette. “Walked in on me then ?” he asked. I nodded an affirmative. “Then you and I will have to work out something.” he said. “If her husband finds out, he’ll fucking kill me.”

empty stage.jpgAnd we did. I decided to go for the whole ball of wax. I asked for access… Whenever I wanted, for me and the crew. I told him flat out that we were looking for somewhere to party, listen to music and get loaded. A sly smile crept over his face. “There’ll be girls, right ?” he asked. “Yeah,” I told him. “You give me a call before hand, then.” he said and smiled.

For the entire year, once a week or so, we threw parties. Alan and I would play gracious hosts, a few friends would do the DJ work and, if there wasn’t a show running, we’d let the party go until it had just run itself out. Kids would bring their own booze and music. He and I were just providing a place for them to play and have a good time. And we had a good times. Hell, after he’d spent a month in Africa, he came by, straight from the airport to have a beer and see what was going on. We had so much fun in that place, it was kinda scary. But my fondest memory will always be this:

Two in the morning…. Half a dozen loaded and sleepy kids are left in the place. Alan’s been hopped up all night on something and barely drinking. I’m sitting on the steps and talking to a girl I barely know. “Angel of Death” starts blaring from that fucking sound system so loud, I’m firmly convinced that my ears are bleeding…. Alan plays the whole album… Me on the steps, long after the girl had been scared off… He in the control room, cackling so loud, I could hear it in between the songs….

September 2, 2006

Skate and destroy.. Fuck the Cops


My better half is sick with the flu and her power keeps going out in her house. Fucking New York. That's what you get when you live on an island, I guess.

So tonight, she is gone.

Just me.

Lucky you.

I finally got off my ass and reorganized all my CD's and put them back in order. Keep in mind I have a few thousand, so when I get depressed or bored or lazy, I just pull out another one and toss the old CD on the ground. No, I do not have any of that shit you fancy compy guys have here. No ipod. Sorry. You can send me money at amazon.com/iamacheapbastard
wholikestowhorehimselfouttohisreadersforfreestuff.com so I can get one.

I'm just kidding about that.

I just like to make fun of "bloggers" who pull that kinda shit. Cause it makes me laugh. Why don't you ask for free government cheese, too?

But let's get back on topic.


Music is just always playing in the background of my typing and my life. But, since tonight Michele isn't doing too well, I thought I'd take on something of my own. I thought of ideas and got one.

I found a CD I haven't seen in ages and it gave me an idea.

Skate Rock

More specifically, what is your favorite skate rock song of all time?

russ-empty-pool.jpg Sure, I have a metal knee cause I bailed hard too many times, but there are always times I still remember in the backyards of new houses with empty pools. Case of beer, stereo, no fucking pussy boy helmets. No all american boys with their mom's taking pictures of them. No Vision Skate wear. Just sucked up and fucked up boards. Kneepads...ok…we wore those. They were kinda pussy but it hurt like fuck to hit the damn ground with no kneepads. Missing teeth and blood. Cop choppers overhead when they found us or someone called the cops. Hop the fence and leave. Drunken bailing on that damn drain in the middle of the pool. Street curbs after that. Carpet banks when we had a car. Venice canals if it was the daytime. Always a sound track. Pocket full of bearings and a truck key to keep up. A can of spray paint to get your feelings off your mind and some dumbass taking photos. More missing teeth in the crowd then real teeth.

This was skating.

This is when it was shirtless, sunburned, scabbed up idiots trying to get a few more feet higher in the air.

But there had to be one track.

One song that stuck out in your mind.

Every time you hear it, you remember sitting on a bank, canal, ramp or empty pool.

Waiting for your turn while drinking a beer or smoking a bowl. Wondering if your board would make it another day.

Remember back then skating was almost illegal everywhere, so you went all out when you did something. If you were gonna break the law, sure, you would hop the fence in a brand new house with your 3 and half kid household moving in soon. Then you mobbed in and destroy the pool. That's what's you did.

It was just the way it was.

Alot of us were arrested, but fuck man, it was fun.

And you know what?

Next day we would find another pool and forget about the blood and keep going.

Bones heal, teeth can be replaced and chicks dig scars.

Bottom line.

Chicks dig scars.

That was skating.

So what was your song?

This was mine.

What's yours? - T

Faction - Skate and Destroy



A Contest! - Answer that and stay fashionable

As you all know, dynamine (thefinn's wife) is making FTTW buttons. They will be for sale pretty quick, but for right now, we want to offer you all a challenge. We are giving away 10 buttons to the first 10 people who can answer our little trivia question.

[click each for bigger]

The trivia question is easy and it is in a lot of our posts. You may have to dig around the archives or some of the categories to find the answer, but it is in there a lot, and a lot of you prolly already know it anyways. And you get to pick your own button!

The two-part trivia question for the free FTTW buttons:

What is the turtle's dog's name? Where does that name come from?

Answer that and stay fashionable. - T


Answers in gmail only, not in the comments: fttw10@gmail.com.


Thank you so much to Dynamine for her hard work in making these kick ass buttons. And stay tuned for next week's trivia contest, where we will have more buttons and shirts to give away.

Into The Woods Part I


Morning everyone.... I've been writing an intro for this piece for about fifteen minutes now and this is all I've got. It's been a long week at FTTW. We're all a little thrashed from the amount of personal and professional work we've been doing over the last few days, so bear with us while we get our shit together... This morning we've got some high school remembrances of trying to get a half decent party together and Turtle and Michele will be about a little later, once they've gotten some well deserved rest.... Enjoy...
--finn

It was hard to have a party when I was in high school. Damn near everyone lived on base, so that meant small places. Most of us had largish apartments and there were a few high ranking individuals who had actual houses, but not many. A good many of us had at least one parent that’d have to go on Temporary Duty for a few weeks at a time, but none of us had two. Getting our parents out of the house for an evening so we could get drunk, cop a feel and throw up on ourselves was almost an exercise in futility. So, we needed a new plan….houses.jpg

We needed something quick and simple and that everyone would believe. And something that would work often. Because we were sixteen and having thirty second sex in someone else’s bed was our god given right…. We tried a few ideas. Almost all of them ended the same way. We had massive walkouts after the first period that would result in everyone being marked absent, something we would chalk up to computer error when explaining it to our parents. We would plan phony field trips, with phony permission slips and then leave school at lunch. We’d do crap like this all the time, something simple, quick, very little thought required. We never cared if the administration was catching on. The majority of them were extremely bored civilians working on a military base, which meant that they were the only ones who weren’t armed. You try telling a Staff Sergeant that his daughter is constantly skipping school and fucking EVERYBODY without staring at that .45 permanently attached to his hip. I can understand why they were a little apprehensive about delivering news that a parent didn't necessarily want to hear.


Since it was such a breeze to get out of school, we only ever had one problem with the plan. Where to perform our nefarious activities. We usually had to go somewhere not far from the school, that was without parental supervision. So we’d hit up the gas station across the street and…. Oh yeah, I guess I should describe the gas station. The actual “gas station itself” was tiny, two pumps and a register in the island. The store attached to the gas station was something entirely different. I can honestly say that I have never seen more booze crammed into a smaller area in my entire life.

Laid out in neat rows with your standard German precision. Rows and racks and stacks of booze. All cheap and all available to any enterprising youngster with the cash. Lambrusco, the worst red wine you’ve ever had, in one liter bottles, complete with the screw off top. White wine spritzers in six packs. Vodka and rum and gin in two liter bottles for about the cost of an American fast food lunch. And the beer…. Maybe one day, I’ll devote an entire post to German beer and Andech’s and family food fights with hazelnuts. That’s not where I’m headed this morning, though. Suffice to say, the beer was fantastic and dirt fucking cheap. The only thing that ever made the gas station even remotely creepy was the man behind the register. No matter what time you went in, day or night, it was always the same Turkish guy, with the same sad smile on his face, sitting behind the register. I don’t think he ever ate or slept. He was always there and waiting for us.woods.jpg

So, we’d skip class, stop at the gas station for booze and…. Usually we’d have to head off to the woods, because getting busted on base meant getting the MP’s involved. That was the last thing we wanted. And, if no one had a free place to crash for a few hours, we’d have to bugger off to the woods, and hit up one of our favorite spots. The woods followed the path of the river that ran through town (the Lech, for those of you keeping track) and spread out from the river’s edge about an acre in each direction. It was a great area for a group of kids to get lost, get drunk and play spin the bottle. But we could only get so drunk and make so much noise before someone called the Polizei… And if the MP’s were bad, the Polizei were so much worse. American citizens only had a handful of rights on German soil. Loud, drunken American teenagers trying to copulate in the woods near a highway had even less.

And so it went…. But there’s only so many times you could get rained out in the middle of a makeout session. There’s only so many ways you can explain wet socks and shoes to your parents on a bright sunny day. Hanging out in the woods was cool, but they were no place to throw a proper party.
We needed something better…. A pool hall, a cheap bar, something….

And at the beginning of my sophomore year, I found it.

September 1, 2006

i'd kill castro for one of these


Sometimes things happen. They just do. No way around them or no explanation.
One day you wake up and you have suddenly changed. You don't realize it, not your friends do.

What do you do that you know you shouldn't do? Slam that extra beer? One more shot? Get another tattoo cause it's free? Yell at people cause they are old and just need to be yelled at? Yell at hookers for getting too close to your car? What do you do that you really don't want to do but still do because you stopped caring when the Pope was shot in whateverfucking year and you were just more worried about your next candy fix. Nothing except yourself.

These are our vices.

What are yours?

Turtle first:

Things I do that are bad for me that I know I shouldn't do but keep doing them? Fuck, there are tons. I shouldn't be involved with what I did, I shouldn't have to watch people die, I should just hide out and disappear but something always calls me to keep coming back to keep doing what I do. Some things happen that I have no control over and I end up in another situation I don't want to be in. But, these are external forces. Things I have no control over. I just have to deal with them.

So let's start with the big one.

Cigars

Smoking. Sure I quit. Yay fucking me. But, I really didn't. I switched to cigars. Don't ask me why. I wonder that myself. So did I really quit? Did I cut out nicotine? Honestly? No. I didn't. Ask Michele. She knows. Sure I don't inhale, but those drugs still get in my system. Driving around town finding the best cigar is a fuck lot harder then going to 7-11 for a pack of Camels. I have no idea why I do it. Sure, it looks cool as fuck and really I don’t give a fuck if you think it stinks cause I lost my olfactory senses since I started doing cocaine and meth. But i quit almost 5 years ago but never got them back. che-habano.jpgA dead bum in a urine-covered alleyway still smells like flowers to me. I don't care unless someone says something. So I smoke about six a day. Yeah, I know. It's bad. But, the burning feeling on my tongue and the smoke coming out onto the screen of my compy or blowing in the wind when I am out on the grass with my dog is pretty much pure heaven to me.

The way the tip lights up and then goes away when you ignore it and you have to relight it. Forget me and I'll forget you. The cigar is the most evil mistress there ever was. It looks at you and tells you "hey dude, you wanted me, I didn't want you. So pay attention to me or I am walking."

The ultimate in denial of "I've quit smoking".

I love them.

Grape Soda

Yeah yeah yeah. You guys all know I'm an alcoholic. I slam beer and vodka like there is some kind of nuclear warheads coming over to blow us all up. Get some meth and coke in me and I’m gone for five days. But those five-day binges somehow turned into a five-year sober run. I quit. Wow. Never thought that would happen. But, in my heart, I will always be an addict. But, what to move on to now? Grape soda. Don’t ask me what happened. For five years I’ve been slamming diet grape soda. Ask Michele. I went thru a six-pack at her birthday party. Just something in me that demands me to have a taste in my mouth other then the lies that come spurring out to get you to loan me some money. God, talk about being brutally honest. But that's the way it is. I hate the way food tastes. I hate the way my mouth tastes. I need a cigar or a grape soda today to push me thru another hour till I can get some gum or something.

Truth is painful sometimes.

Driving

I'm the calmest and coolest person you will ever meet other then a dead man, but get me in a car and it’s like the Indy 500 but with me telling people to fuck off a lot. Talk to me the on phone, in person or on here, you will find how easy going and laidback I am, but in a car, I am pretty vicious. Every time I am driving with Michele on the phone, I have to end every sentence with "That "fuck you" wasn't for you, Michele." or that "Get the fuck out of my way, bitch" wasn't to you Michele".

I think I need to get on some meds. - T

michele:

Geez. Everything I do is bad for me, it seems. But what’s the one thing that I just can’t quit? The one thing that I know wrecks me sometimes but I can’t give up? That one thing that has got a hold on me.....

Coffee.

I have to say, I’m getting better. I used to be a 12 cup a day person. Just chugging it all day long. Always a cup of coffee in front of me. There was a time, not too long ago, when I lived on coffee, cigarettes and mini snickers bars. The staples of the diet of an insomniac. No, the caffeine wasn’t the cause of the insomnia. That’s a whole other story. Some other time. Right now, we’re talking coffee. Or, as we say on Long Island, cawfee. At least that’s what turtle claims Cawfee? Is that how it comes out of my mouth? Meh.

Recently, I’ve worked my way down to about five cups a day. Though it varies. Some days call for eight or nine cups. All depends. See, I like being jacked. I like the feeling of being wired and fired and ready to step on someone’s face if they look at me wrong. This explains the little problem I had with speed back in high school. I quit that shit when my hair felt like it was standing up on ends all the time. But then I discovered coffee. Legal speed, the American way. All jacked up all day long. Ready to take on the world. And then at about 3pm comes the caffeine crash and you know what that means. 7-11! Coffee! COFFEE!!!!


Let me tell you. The worst thing 7-11 ever did was try to be a DIY Dunkin’ Donuts. I used to be able to go in, pour a cup of coffee, get out. But no. They had to give people choices. Do you know what happens when you give the average American choices? They become confounded. They stand there at the coffee kiosk thing and stare. Confused looks on their faces. I guess their mind just can’t comprehend the sea of flavors and toppings and their brain goes into lockdown.

Fifteen different flavored coffees.capp.jpg Decaf or super caffeinated. Hot chocolate. Two flavors of cappuccino. Steamed milk. Vanilla syrup. Caramel syrup. Powdered chocolate and vanilla. Ten different flavors of cream. Marshmallows. Whipped cream. Amaretto flavoring. Equal. Splenda. Iced coffee. Latte. Mocha vanilla chocolate cream latte. All that’s missing is the Sambuca. The steel counter is littered with packets of sugar and Sweet-n-Low and globs of chocolate syrup and latte foam.

I can understand how some people go into 7-11 for a simple cup of coffee in the morning and get lost in the netherworld of choices. Not everyone has the power to think in simple terms like you and I. You can almost hear the buzzing in their heads. Hmmm...if I do a half cup of steamed milk and add some caramel syrup and maybe a little whipped cream...No, no....half cup of coffee and half hot chocolate. With powdered vanilla.....

Jesus fuck, man. Get the hell out of my way. It's 8am and my brain is about to go into hibernation mode if it doesn’t get it’s morning caffeine I and just need a god damn cup of fucking coffee with a little milk and one Equal, real simple there buddy, so just move the fuck out my way before I step on your face, man. Agitation. Aggravation. I need my coffee. NOW.

They stand there. Pondering. Not moving. Eyes darting from pot to pot, from sugar to cream, flavor to flavor. I explode.

Do you want coffee or a three course fucking dessert? Take the god damn coffee cup. Pour coffee. Pour milk. Put cover on. Leave. Why do you want to mix your coffee with all that crap? It?s 8am, people! Who the hell wants whipped cream and chocolate sauce at 8am? Coffee is not supposed to taste like it was made in a bakery. Hey, if you want flavored coffee, go to Starbucks, where people expect you to spend ten minutes pondering your choices while the snarly cashier taps her fingers on the counter waiting for you so she can tell the anal retentive barrista what the fuck you want. It's part of the ambience! At 7-11, you’re just taking up valuable counter space while I’m trying to get my regular cup of coffee. And you are pissing me off.

Think! Think before you enter the store, folks! Do you want caramel? Do you want vanilla? Do you want chai tea with lemon or steamed milk with cinnamon? Just make.a.damn.decision. and get on with it, already. You are worse than the people who wait til they get to the drive through speaker at Taco Bell before even giving any thought to what they want. You know what 7-11 has by now. Figure it out before you get out of your car. I mean, what do you tell your boss when you’re late for work? Sorry, I couldn’t decide between the blueberry cream coffee or the black English chai steamed fucking tea and I had a nervous breakdown right there in front of the nacho machine?

There are just too many choices in this world. No one should be made to choose between more than A B or C for anything. No matter what you are buying - bread, tampons, garbage bags, vodka - there are so many different brands and styles and sizes of each that your brain can implode by just entering the grocery store. Do we really need to confuse people even more by turning their simple stop for morning coffee into a logic problem? No. Enough already. I’m making a stand for coffee flavored coffee. Say it with me....coffee flavored coffee!

"You can get every other flavor except coffee-flavored coffee! They got mochaccino, they got chocaccino, frappaccino, rappaccino, Al Pacino, what the fuck?!"

God damn. I need a cup of coffee. -M

Lagwagon - Mr. Coffee
Good Riddance - United Cigar

I guess I need to lay off the caffeine and turtle needs to lay off the cigars. I don't care so much about the driving and grape soda, but those cigars? They gotta go. He said he'd quit when he moved here. I'm just putting that out here so you all see it. He said that. And if he does I'll cut my coffee down to two cups a day so I don't get all wired and high strung with him. Even trade, I think.

So what's your deal when it comes to the bad stuff? What do you do that you know is probably going to end up killing you in the end?




Whiplash




For the benefit of those who haven't read my site (shameless plug uberlink), I love the guitar and write about it often.

I've been plucking away on the gee-tree since I was 15 years old. But I suck. I don't have the natural talent or the passion to play. I do have the love of the instrument though. I love the way they look. I love the way they sound. I love the way they feel and smell. I love to research the history of the guitar. I love to learn about building them (even though my woodworking skills are more meager than my guitar playing). What I lack in ability, I make up for in research.

I want to find out why things sound the way they do. I want to know how to get those sounds and I like to, in my own way, help out those who are trying to play better or are in the pursuit of purchasing a guitar.

These articles will cover the guitar, guitarists and guitar-centric things and thoughts. As this is my inaugural BIAAtG here at Faster Than the World, I wanted to cover something in line with the site name.


They were going to call their first album So, I started thinking about fast music. And I wondered, what are the first fast songs you ever heard? What was the first fast, heavy song that redefined the way you thought about music?

I had heard plenty of Black Sabbath and their pounding E chord. Sabbath was the standard by which all other heavy metal was measured, but the first fast and heavy song I think that made me really rethink what metal could be was Metallica's Whiplash. A very simple, repetitive tune but, at the time, riding that low E, that unique distortion was new. Making songs with rhythms that thumped with big-block V-8 power is nothing new today, but no one was playing that way before speed metal came along.

Say what you will about Metallica's selling out and producing progressively cheesier music – I say it, and often – but there was not a more influential rock band to come out of the ‘80s. It has been said that more people picked up musical instruments, the guitar primarily, due to Metallica's influence than any other band or musician. I don't find it hard to believe that.

So, thank you Metallica for changing the face of music and introducing me to speed metal.

Any similar experiences with you guys?