Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.


Goblins Will Come Out, Etc.
Here now – look here:


Notice the difference? With regular Barbasol, you get a cool thing about manliness on your can. With the Barbasol what’s made for sensitive skin, you get nothing.

Godammit, am I not a man, just because I like a little lanolin in my foam? I know what this omission implies, and I don’t like it. I have a skin condition — a medically diagnosed skin condition. I don’t deserve this kind of discrimination.

Heh heh, that sounds like a dirty euphemism — “Hey baby, I like a little lanolin in my foam, if you know what I’m sayin’. C’mon over here and sit on big poppa’s lap.”

Anyway, I noticed this when I was out running errands this weekend and thought I’d use the Internet here to clamor some for justice. You hear that, Barbasol? No justice, no peace.

Hey, check this out — when I was out running around I saw a haiku in the Wal-Mart parking lot:


This weekend marked a big evolutionary leap for me. First off, a few months ago, I bought a Palm Pilot thingy, mostly because I wanted to be all cybernetic and technological like Bonner, who's always yammering on about this kind of shit like some kinda sophisticated la-de-da robot. A few hundred dollars later, I was the proud owner of the world’s most expensive shopping list doohickey.

Really, I thought this thing was going to change my life, organize my shit and make me cool. But up until this last weekend all I ever did with it is scrawl barely comprehensible notes to myself that said stuff like “HOT DOGS.” Then I’d go to Publix and pull it out in front of the hot dogs or whatever and think to myself, “Ah yes, hot dogs,” while attracting the attention of old hippies who desperately grabbed at relevance by approving of my modernity while simultaneously seizing the opportunity to disparage how much technology ruins our lives with all of its comforts and conveniences.

And it is more convenient, I guess, writing “HOT DOGS” on a little computer, as compared to the grueling task of writing it on the back of an unpaid phone bill.

But no, now things are different between me and my electronical grocery list. And these changes were flown in on the wings of the Wal-Mart haiku. You see, I parked my truck next to the haiku, and was standing there marveling at it, when I thought, “I sure would like to preserve the magic.” And then I remembered my Palm Pilot has a damn camera stuck in it! I took the pic, and revelation smacked into my frontal lobe like Pegasus smacking into a unicorn: Not only could I preserve the magic, I could use my gadget to surreptitiously photograph average citizens and make fun of them on the Internet.

Hot damn! It was on!

I rolled out my plan at the Laundromat, and soon discovered that a Palm Pilot takes shitty-ass pictures.



This lady has pink hair, but big whoop. The thing I really wanted to document is an unfortunate blur — a T-shirt that says “WORLD’S GREATEST DAD.”

A brave move, pink-haired lady, even on wash day. I regret my Web site doesn’t stand as the tribute you deserve.

Disappointment struck again when the wheelchair man wasn’t at the laundry. I wanted to get a picture of him, and he’s ALWAYS tooling around outside the laundry. Seriously, there’s a retirement home down the street (which, incidentally, has a retention pond next to it that’s chock full of little three-pound bass — fun and easy to catch, if you ignore the No Fishing sign and the impotent complaints of the very elderly), so it’s not unusual to see old folks truckin' around the area on their scooters and Little Rascals and such. But his guy is there every damn time I go. He picks a spot, pulls up alongside the road and just sits there, watching the cars go by.

A few weeks ago I was the only one at the Laundromat. I was kicking back on the toolbox in the bed of my truck, reading and waiting for my clothes to dry, when I saw him making his rounds. “Good ol’ wheelchair man,” I thought. “His ass is always out here.”

This day the wheelchair man bypassed all his usual car-watching spots. He patrolled the sidewalk in front of the laundry for a while, then caught me by surprise by gunning the engine and crossing the grassy little slope separating the sidewalk from the Laundromat parking lot. I was watching out of the corner of my eye, thinking he was going to eat it, and wondering if I’d be inclined to help when he did (look, old people need to learn about their limitations, and it’s a cruel world, OK?). But he made it, and immediately took up a spot on the other side of the lot from me, swiveling around and fixing me with a stare.

I started getting a little uncomfortable, every so often peeking over the edge of my book to see if he was still staring at me. He was.

This went on for a few minutes, and I was wondering if I was going to have to go over there and give him a smack. He made his move first, though — reaching over and pushing the button on a tape deck affixed to his steering column. And I shit you not, as soon as he did the first Black Sabbath album started blasting out. Loud. And this dude is like 100 years old.


So you can see why I’d be disappointed that he wasn’t there the day I figured out my PDA camera. But I sucked it up, finished my laundry and went to get some groceries over at the Publix.

Fortune favors the bold, as you know, and lady luck soon caressed me with her bosoms, as I spotted my old-ass buddy cruising the aisles. He caught me by surprise, but I managed a quick snap:


Notice the speed — he’s a damn blur! He really must have tricked that thing out. No way it’s stock.

When I was leaving he had taken up a post outside Publix. Not enough action at the Laundromat I reckon.


I also took this picture of some ribs I got from Terrell's. Not to make fun of, but because I just like them.


Oh, you know what? Based on all the outrage directed at the condition of my stove, I picked up some CLR at Publix. It came recommended, and I planned to give that thing a good cleaning and throw a pic up here for everyone to marvel over.


But look at what the goddamn CLR did to my grease-catcher! It left the rust and crud undisturbed, but ate the important shit right up! What the fuck? Seriously, it totally dissolved the infrastructure, leaving behind a thin crud shell. Is this an improvement?

For comparison, here’s my stove, pre-CLR:


Okay, maybe it’s a little gross, if you’re a girl or an OCD-sufferer or some other kind of big whiny baby. But what you’re looking at is actually recently scrubbed, with soap and steel wool and everything. I swear! It might look like any ol’ food scum, but it’s not — it’s actually congealed and hardened food scum, buffered and polished to a fine sheen. Shit, if my grease catcher is anything to go by it might be the only thing holding the stove together. It’s an important part of my kitchen’s ecosystem, like tundra.

I ain’t gonna listen to you uptight crackers and yankees no more, for real. If I keep fucking with that stuff, picking at it and applying all manner of infernal chemicals and unnatural cleaning devices to it, I could end up with a real sorry mess instead of just the weird smoke that comes out of the burners if I turn them up past medium. THAT I’ve learned to deal with, you know? Like, you don’t go picking at the earth’s crust, for god’s sake — goblins will come out, everyone knows that.




...and now it's time to play a little game called

What the fuck is this?
The mummy.

Why is it in my house?
Because I never get tired of rounding the corner and yelling "Gah!"

Also, I like his expression of distracted concern. It looks like you just offered him a piece of pecan pie, and he's like, "Uhhhh, no, I better not. I had a really heavy lunch."

What the fuck is this?
Some Jimmy Buffet-ass kitchen thing my mom gave me a couple of years ago.

Why is it in my house?
I think you're supposed to rest spoons on it when you're cooking or something. It's cheerful.

What the fuck is this?
A cleaver.

Why is it in my house?
My old roommate Keith left it behind when he moved away in, like, 1997 or something, and since then I've been using it to prepare food.

One time Jason Armadillo came over to my place while I was cooking supper, saw it and yelled, "Holy shit, what are you doing with that?! Did... did... you find it... in a field?!"

What the fuck is this?
Every damn vitamin, herb, snake oil, antioxidant, supplement, canard, placebo, mineral and hogwash pill I can get my hands on.

Why is it in my house?
Dude, I'm *cough* healthy *cough* *cough*.

What the fuck is this?
A promotional postcard I stole from the Gainesville Sun a few years ago when I was writing their weekly music column. To the best of my knowledge, the project it advertises (possibly a motion picture) has unfortunately never been released.

Why is it in my house?
C'mon, fucking look at it. A "madcap duel between mortician & monkey?!" I'm not entirely sure it didn't spring forth from my subconscious fully formed like Athena.

What the fuck is this?
Danzig "Archive de la Morte" DVD collection.

Why is it in my house?
R-rated version of one video has boobies.

What the fuck is this?

Why is it in my house?
You got me.

What the fuck is this?
Captain Harlock, Space Pirate.

Why is it in my house?
Um, he's guarding the moisturizer?

What the fuck is this?
A cactus... A dead cactus.

Why is it in my house?
A year or two ago, a good friend was leaving town, moving all the way to Seattle. The day before she left, she gave me the cactus. "I bought this for you to remember me by," she said. "I don't expect you to actually take care of it — since it's a cactus, you won't have to do anything, and it'll live forever."

About a month ago I looked over at it and was like, "Holy shit, I swear that thing was green yesterday, but now it's totally dead."

What the fuck is this?
Character moustache.

Why is it in my house?
Emergency deployment of sasparilla.

What the fuck is this?
Nathan's Hot Dog Cookbook, by Murray Handwerker, published 1968 by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

Why is it in my house?
When I become wicked sorcerer king of Narnia I'm going to need a Crown of Ultimate Evil like the one on the cover.

What the fuck is this?
A shitload of Adam Ant CDs.

Why is it in my house?
Because they're rad.

What the fuck is this?
Oh, that's Swimmy.

Why is it in my house?
My grandpa brought Swimmy back from Thailand in the '60s. When Grandpa died a few years ago, nobody else in the family would claim Swimmy, so I gave him a good home.

One day I'm going to reconstitute Swimmy. Then you'll all pay.

What the fuck is this?
Fruity-lookin' star pillow.

Why is it in my house?
I bought it off Laura Minor the night of the lesbian window. I was listening to a lot of T. Rex that week and thought it might lend the place a little glam-rock ambience, what can I say.

What the fuck is this?
Unfinished Ric Flair painting I started like five years ago.

Why is it in my house?
I'm not actually supposed to take it outside, ever since that incident where a small herd of cattle was accidentally exposed to it and went sterile.

Great art is rarely understood in its time.


Typical "Blog" Crap
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate blogs? You go to read one, and it's basically terrible. You go to read another one, ditto. I won't even elaborate — you've read them. You know what I mean.

I also hate how we're all supposed to think they're so damn important. You got Grandma Dustpussy, publisher over at the Ye Olde Daily Antiquity Status-Quo Times-Herald, still smarting from being caught napping when USA Today fucking put yellow on the front page in 1983 or whatever, desperately scrambling to hop onto a trend that 14-year-old Indonesian goth kids without electricity ditched a year ago.

Then you have people with names like Xeni, who are possibly from the future, or Burning Man, or maybe space, and use the word "meme" and talk about blogs with the assurance that their relevance at this point can be assumed, despite the fact that if you said the word in front of your co-workers, your mom, the guy who works on your car or 99% of anybody they'd think you burped or were trying out a new bullfrog call. Look, I know Xeni is futuristic and hot — that doesn't mean we have to listen to her. She might be evil, you know.

Anyway, these people have at least one thing in common: they're all absolutely convinced that blogs Mean Something Important. Of course, they can't tell you what, exactly. But Something Important.

I kind of hate that.

Mostly, though, I think I just hate the word. "Blog." God, what an ugly fucking thing. Blog blog blog. Blog blog blog blog blog blog blog. Ugh, I'm hardly a word snob, but c'mon.

I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that I don't have a blog. I have a Web site. Shut up, I know what the URL looks like. Look, shut up! I SAID SHUT UP.

Oh, if you are my friend, I don't hate your blog... It is an exception. As far as you know. Carry on with all the good work. It's important and it means something blah blah blah.

Anyway, the point of all this is that I'm a little unhappy about something I'm fixin' to do, which is give in to some kinda blog sheep thingy and answer some stupid questions that are going around. I have to, you see. Sean Bonner tagged me. And he said it's mandatory.

Sigh. Fucking Bonner.

Alright, here goes:

Total size of music files on my computer: none. Zero. I still buy CDs. Shit, I still have about 200 vinyl LPs... Down from more than 4,500 at my collection's peak. But I hate how this first question is already assuming I'm some robot-loving tech nerd, listening to my beloved boops and bleeps and whatnot on tinny computer speakers that sound like ass on a stick. For your information, Sean Bonner, I'm, uh, listening to my beloved boops and beeps on tinny computer speakers by using my Nomad Zen Xtra MP3 player, which is full to burstin' with 39 gigs out of a possible 40.

Nomad Zen Xtra, isn't that the hot chick who writes for Boing Boing? Ah hah ha ha hah ha ha haaa!

The last CD I bought was: How about the last 100 CDs I bought? I buy a lot of CDs. Despite my innate kneejerk punk-rock snobbery toward all things popular, I bought that Arcade Fire thing everyone seems to love. What can I say, it sounded pretty good when I was doing shots of bourbon and chugging Michelob Ultra and dancing around the living room like a big tard with really cute indie-rock girls at 3:30 in the morning.

Friday night I was telling Jason Black from the on-hiatus Hot Water Music (new band: The Draft) (I tried to convince him that naming it "The Saucy Pirates" would move a few units, but he's lame and didn't go for it) that the Arcade Fire album was good, and was halfway through comparing the arrangements on it to some of the songs on The Smiths' The Queen is Dead before I remembered Jason, being lame, doesn't actually like The Smiths, of all preposterous opinions to have, and was fixin' to backtrack on the comparison when I was physically attacked by two girls. Kinda big ones. They thought it would be flirty and funny to jump on me and bite my shoulders, but when they did the chair I was in splintered out from under me with a loud crack... Fucking Jason ran off, too, and I had to fight the girls by myself. One of them got me in a full nelson, and all I could think was, "God, people are watching. Please let me break it." You have to be careful when fighting girls. You don't want to lose, but you don't want to win, you know? It's a delicate balance. An art, really.

Anyway, I broke the hold and threw a big hissy fit, screaming, "Get the fuck off me!" Everyone thought it was funny, seeing as I'm not usually on the receiving end of those sorts of hijinx. Fuck, I must be really annoying.

Song playing right now in iTunes: iTunes?! Cracker please. Notice how all these groovy avant-garde blogariffic types assume everyone buys into their weird Apple Computer cult? Yeah, sweet, dude. Your monitor looks like an egg. Guess what? I can right-click stuff.

Anyway, it's the David Bowie song "Saviour Machine," a great cut with a dramatic, swooping vocal melody that's off his overlooked "heavy metal" album The Man Who Sold the World, which has some shit on it that's just as burly as anything off the first four Black Sabbath albums, I shit you not. Despite the fact nobody back then was sure if he was a lady or not.

Hey, Xeni McBlogger! Bowie was hot and from the future, and look at him now! Respected artist... Millionaire... Married to a famous model... You like that? You wanna end up like David Bowie? Huh? Do you? If you know what's good for you, you'll get your evil robot masters to beam you to the present, and just settle the fuck down.

Five songs I listen to a lot, or that mean a lot to me:
The Smiths "There is a Light that Never Goes Out"
Mission of Burma "Academy Fight Song"
The Chameleons "Nostalgia"
Thin Lizzy "Little Girl in Bloom"
Echo & the Bunnymen "The Killing Moon"

Gee, that's great. Four parts mopey new-wave sissy and one part sentimental Irish drunk. If I had a sixth, it'd probably be Skynyrd's "Simple Man," just to throw the scent off and get a little "sentimental redneck drunk" in there... Oh, and I'm not interested in what any of you keyboard psychologists think that says about me. And I'm going to stop now. But if I had another one, it'd be Naked Raygun's "Vanilla Blue." OK, now I'm really going to stop.

Bonner put up thing where you can download his song choices. I ain't, though. Go to damn Best Buy and just get the CD like a normal person, would you? Sheesh.

Oh, and I'm tagging my brother Neil as well as Keith, Duke, Brian, Sweetney and Styro Kitty, all chosen more or less at random.


Big Ron = No Boner
I reckon any discussion of shame here is going to ring pretty false, what with me occasionally exposing my pee-hole to the world and such.

And while it's true that I'm not exactly wallowing in the stuff, I do feel shame. Sometimes. Of a sort. Etc. Even though my good friend Anatol Blass, a bona fide smarty-pants if there ever was one, once told me, "Shame just gets in the way of a good time." Or maybe he said self-esteem? You get the picture. Anyway, Anatol has a real-life Ph.D. in physics and somehow landed a wife who is so far out of his league in the hotness department that people stop on the street, point, and stare when they walk by, so you should listen to him and not sweat that shame business.

Of course, Anatol did light his penis on fire during a high-spirited moment gone slightly awry at Caryn and Sean's wedding, and had to douse it with toilet water to avoid injury... I really need to tell that story sometime. But, for now at least, I feel like it's important that you just be made aware of this event when considering Anatol's advice. Seek balance in everything.

...Wait a minute, what the fuck did I just say? "Seek balance in everything?" Where the hell did that come from?! Is that one of those goddamn Free to Be You and Me songs? No... Wait. I know where it came from. Fuck, this is exactly the sort of thing I was worried about.

See, I was feeling a little shame yesterday, skulking around with an armload of VHS cassettes like a dungeon master trying to sneak a batch of Sybil Danning movies past Mommy. But it wasn't low-grade soft-porn I was hiding — no, my collection of that enjoys a prominent display in my house, on the shelf right next to Godzilla humping Barbie and... What? No, not there, around the corner past the meth lab. Yes, there. No, you can't borrow them. And those are action figures, not "dolls," thankyouverymuch.

Anyway, my shame was born of yoga.

Look, I don't want to hear it. Flexibility, of which I have exactly none, is a key part of effective kickboxing. Yeah, that's right, smart-ass — I said kickboxing. So if you don't want me to yoga my shin up your ass, you'll clam up, and pronto.

To tell the truth, I've been intrigued by yoga for a while now. When I was younger, it seemed like yoga advocates were all either doughy hippies who smelled like patchouli or wiry but impenetrably foreign guys who smelled like turmeric. There was this one beardy dude who always did yoga in this one open courtyard at the university, and he seemed like he was in good shape, but he also lived in a field and never wore a damn shirt, and one time he was doing some kind of complicated upside-down thing and I looked over and one of his nuts had flopped out of his jean shorts, right there in front of God and everybody. Ugh.

Nowadays I know a couple of broads who teach yoga and do that shit all the time, and you know what? They're hot. So hot that I don't even care that they're total hippies who smoke weed and everything. I'm telling you — hot. If their nuts flopped out you'd totally look; I just know it. They're all lean and muscley, but in a cool, flexible way, and let me tell you, if there are four words nobody's using to describe me, they're "lean," "muscley," "flexible" and "cool." So I figured I could use a little of that action.

I got me that Yoga For Dummies off Netflix and also hoofed it over to my beloved downtown library, where I navigated through the bums, poked through the VHS tapes and skittishly darted over to the fishing videos every time I heard someone approaching.

I thought about going to a class or something to learn that shit, but was a little worried about making my hippie debut in public. Also, I wasn't sure what the boner etiquette was for yoga class, and chances are I'd be sporting one of those before long, and I kind of didn't want to, you know, call up and ask.

There is a place down the street from me called — not making this up, cousin — Big Ron's Yoga College, which is a fucking awesome name for a yoga place, and very reassuring to a guy like me, who's a little wary of all those places named shit like Meadow Leaf's Incense Grotto of Ayurvedic Serenity and the All-Seeing White Light Temple of Scientology Indoctrination. The hippie joints might be chock full of hot babes like my friends, or I might even end up in one of their classes. And boner or not you just know that shit is going to eventually get me into some kind of trouble. Chances are, though, watching someone named Big Ron bend over isn't going to give you a hard-on. But I bet if it did he'd be really cool and understanding and non-judgmental about it. Maybe you'd go out with Big Ron after class and get a pitcher and some wings and talk about it, have a few laughs and then be friends forever.

The deal-breaker for Big Ron, though, was the fact that he costs money, and the library tapes are free. Browsing through the selection there just reinforced my impression that I'm a statistical outlier in the world of yoga demographics. Everything was either insufferably cosmic (serene photos on the cover, vaguely Sanskrit-looking font, lots of earth tones) or hosted by Kathie Lee and intended for the elderly (day-glo and cheery, like David Lee Roth's pants or a 1985 Trapper Keeper folder after chugging half a two-liter of Jolt). I chose a few from some series called Power Yoga because, well, they had "power" in the title, and that was the closest any of 'em came to "fighting" or "ass-kicking." Hey! If there are any yoga creeps reading this, you should cobble together a tape called Ass-Kicking Yoga for Fights. There's definitely some untapped market potential there, at least around my house.

I ran by the gym on the way home and did some leg-presses and a few sets of squats, hoping none of the gym dudes could detect the yoga taint, and then went home and threw in Yoga For Dummies. It started out demonstrating some basic stuff. I followed along and did it, and noticed that it really stretched your shit out and definitely took a lot of effort to do 'em right, and mostly didn't seem quite as, um, made-up as all that other hippie stuff, like astrology and peace and wheat grass.

I did, however, skip the somewhat traumatic cat pose. (Way back on prom night I swore I'd never find myself in that position again.) But it all went pretty well. For the most part the chick demonstrating everything skipped preposterous claims, and though I found her kind of patronizing in tone I relaxed after remembering that it was after all designed for use by dummies.

I finished that, and a-flush with enthusiasm decided to fire up some Power Yoga and really get down. The tape began and some mostly naked Asian dude named Rodney gazed out of the TV, radiating so much peacefulness and mystical insight at me that I started getting a tan. Somehow, I suddenly found myself even more embarrassed than I was at the library, where I hid my tapes behind the biggest book with guns on the cover that I could find in case someone I knew saw me. I got up and closed the curtains, and I don't even bother to do that when I'm watching porno.

Soon Rodney, who if you ask me could've used a little more coverage in the fabric department, was sitting next to a rock and a cactus or two and going on about listening to the wisdom of the universe and letting go of childhood trauma in a way that projected just a little too much personal intimacy for me. A minute or two later, Rodney got started, stretching his man-parts up into the camera and I shut him off, just cutting my losses before I got too into it and had to drastically rethink my lifestyle. I kind wanted to hang onto my beloved childhood traumas, too. And not necessarily add any new ones, at least any that involved watching a magical naked Asian dude on my TV.

Today, despite the Power Yoga leaving me feeling a little queasy, I got up and did my poses. I even paid attention to my breathing. It was alright, too. I think I'm going to keep it up. Though I might have to start just calling them "stretches."

Oh, and you know what? Last night I said fuck it and ate some tabouleh for supper too. Had a little yogurt, of all things, for dessert. Namaste, bitch.



It Just Might Make You Feel Better!
A wise man once told me, "Beware the thoughts that come in the night."

Ahhh, thoughts schmoughts. I like the thoughts that come in the night.

If anything, it seems as if nightfall bestows upon me a kind of mental clarity. Thoughts that come in the night have a certain purity, not to mention a sense of purpose. If it wasn't for thoughts that come in the night, do you think Batman would be so hardworking and dedicated? Quiet summer nights, the still and humid and dark ones that make sleep impossible, are the best time to reflect on my triumphs and regrets, or update my mental list of people I'm going to stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab with my shiny shiny knife summary points for that lecture on tips for a successful job interview I'm giving to the orphaned deaf kids next week.

Also, the thoughts that come in the night sometimes have pictures of boobies. I like those.

And if you do hit a rough spot and get that occasional sad thought in the night that just refuses to get itself spruced up by a clove cigarette and an album by The Cure, you can always kill it, like maybe with some roofies, or violence. If you believe nothing else you read here — if you turn your ass to every other bit of wisdom of which I sing, take this, at least, as gospel: more than anything else, a thought is an easy sumbitch to kill.

Sure, much like other items such as varmints, swimming-pool boners, werewolves, hopes, dreams, shots of bourbon, Amish people, ideas and emotions it sometimes seems like you squash one pesky thought and six others pop up to mock you, but what is life without struggle? God, it's fun, I bet! No struggle, hell. Hmm, what was I just talking about again? Eh, fuck it.

Anyway, if you ask me it's not the thoughts but the songs that come in the night you really have to avoid. Let me give you an example.

First, I want you to picture me rocking a peach cotton polo shirt, collar turned up in the classic Andrew McCarthy style. Full-blown Sixteen Candles. Maybe I'm accessorizing with a thin satin piano-key necktie, maybe I'm sporting a rumpled jacket with the sleeves pushed up. Got that? Okay, I'm also naked from the waist down except for a warm, fuzzy pair of colorful argyle socks and half a tub of lube. I'm just hot and slick with wet lube and man-sweat and a-rubbin' and a-puffin' and a-groanin' just as nasty as you please.

Alright, that's all I have. That's it for this entry. Enjoy the mental picture. If you're eating supper, try not to focus too much on my wobbly balls, ha ha.

...Aw, just kidding.

Anyway, there I am, clad in 1985's best and rubbin' off a batch by hand, and I've got my eyes all squinched up and good ol' Mr. Imagination in turbo overdrive. C'mon in! Jump over this here hypothalamus and have a look. What do you see? That's right — Molly. And she looks so pretty. And she's leaning on my bedroom wall, giving me a sexy look. She starts moving closer, slowly walking across the room... Hips swaying, ever so slightly...

She starts to dance a little — it makes those gorgeous freckles look like they're dancing, by god! She parts those big-ass, juicy, red lips in gooshy anticipation... You're misunderstood, aren't you Molly? I think your homemade clothes are just so neat. And those jocks and preppies don't love you, not like me. They don't understand Oingo Boingo. And Ducky — let's face it, Ducky's a homo. There's nothing wrong with that, but he would never do the things I want to do... Honestly, between us I think he just wants to wear your dress to the prom. Oh Molly, what's that you've got there? A hair scrunchie? What frisky things are you going to do with that scrunchie, you naughty girl? Eh? You filthy, degenerate whore? Tee hee! I don't think Ducky would hang around for that, the big sissy!

She gets closer... Closer... And then — the song.

"Raindrops from your eyes
Washing all the mad out of you
Raindrops from your eyes
It's gonna make you feel better!"

...What the fuck?

"It's all right to feel things
Though the feelings may be strange
Feelings are such real things
And they change and change and change."

Awwww, no... No! No no no!

"Sad 'n' grumpy, down in the dumpy
Snuggly, hugly, mean 'n' ugly
Sloppy, slappy, hoppy, happy
Change and change and change!"

...Did that song just say hugly?

"It's all right to cry
Crying gets the sad out of you
It's all right to cry
It might make you feel better!"

It's here! The song! It's back! Argh... Pain... Can't get... the poison... out of my... head... And neither can you, probably, if you were a kid during the (shudder) 1970s. For those of you lucky enough to sidestep this particular hippie indoctrination tool, the song is It's Alright to Cry, from the television special Free to Be You and Me.

Jesus, the horror... You see, back in 1974 crazy motherfuckin' Marlo Thomas helmed some sort of commie plot aimed at convincing pre-teen boys to stop hollering and stabbing each other in the face with Jarts and whacking each other in the head with those awesome old-school metal Tonka trucks and instead replace this healthy all-American behavior with crying and feelings.

You know who they got to sing that fuckin' song? Rosey Grier. You'd think a former NFL defensive lineman and co-star of a classy flick like The Thing With Two Heads would know better, but no. Fuck, apparently he wrote a book called Needlepoint for Men too. Seriously, what the fuck? Rosey? I don't give a fuck about no NFL — me and Ducky are coming by later tonight to whoop your fuckin' ass. Needlepoint for Men, that shit ain't right.

Back in third grade there was a kid named Robbie who got fully suckered in by Marlo and Rosey and Fidel and all the rest of those pinkos. Know how we knew? Every other Friday our class threw together some ramshackle "talent" show, and fucking Robbie would get up there and sing It's Alright to Cry. And I can still fucking hear it, and still fucking see it — Jesus, it's seared into my synapses and I can still fucking see it like it was yesterday. Maybe Robbie's dad had cancer or maybe this was Robbie's way of telling the world that Uncle McFeely was sticking his finger up Robbie's pooper on the sly or something and I should be more understanding, but you know, before your ass goes judging me on this, how about you have Robbie pop on in and sing you a few choruses during a fantasy visit from Molly Ringwald and see how sensitive and full of feelings and caring and shit you are, fucker.

Now, before I run down this talent show too much, I should point out that it wasn't all bad. Once — and I swear I'm not making this up — three friends of mine got up there wearing black vampire capes, the kind with red lining, and thrashed and writhed all over the stage to the Beatles' song Helter Skelter while a fourth kid flicked the lights on and off. I sat there watching in awe, and when one of the kids, I think Kevin Gaskin, leaped off the stage with a bloodcurdling scream, my life was changed. I knew what I was going to do with my future. (Devote myself to interpretive dance.)

Later, Kevin and I, along with one of the other helter-skelter kids, I think Oliver, would beat up a classmate who blocked us from playing my copy of the KISS album Destroyer on music day. That was bad enough, but when we grilled him after class and he admitted to never having heard a Beatles song... Well, he deserved punishment, didn't he?

But as much as I cherish those memories — and I cherish them, I really do — they're no trade-off for the psychic scarring left behind by Robbie and Rosey.

Fuck... I can still see the way Robbie — every Friday — would deliver the last line of the song... It was by far the worst part of any performance. He'd have his head down during most of the song, see, and for that last fucking line he'd look up, eyes moist with emotion and hatred for America, and stare out at us like a new thought had just occured to him... A happy lightbulb of revelation switching on over his head... And he'd switch up his tone, coming off all hopeful, like there was a new day ahead, a day where Daddy didn't have a tube up his nose and Uncle McFeely kept his fingers to himself... And he'd spit out that last line, that fucking hated last line:

"It just might make you feel better!"



Looking good!

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?