Yes, I Still Have A Farmer's Tan

"Why," you ask? I'll get to that in a moment. But first, to the owners or parent corporation of Raging Waters San Jose (empahsis, not the employees)...

A) Pop some Altoids, Tic-Tacs or whatever you got.

B) Put on some lipstick or lip balm.

C) Now go "mwaah-mwaah."

D) Get your lips nice and limber...

E) ...and kiss my hairy ass.

So once again, if there's any confusion for the owners or parent corporation of Raging Waters San Jose (empahsis, not the employees), refer to letter "E." If you, the owners or parent corporation of Raging Waters San Jose, want me to spend dime one of the two-hundred and fifty or more dollars that I annually plunk down in your establishment, refer to letter "E."

Maybe it was my fault in assuming (why is Mel Brooks ringing in my ear?) that since the park is always open this time of year (unless it's raining) that it would be open to the public. I even called your automated line for directions, which at that point you could've then mentioned that the park would be closed today to the public for a private party...before I drove more than a hundred miles and got my son's hopes up.

So as long as Junior and I made the trip, we went to Paramount's Great America, where in a pique of anger with the owners or parent corporation of Raging Waters San Jose, I bought the two of us, two season passes to Paramount's Great America. Granted, their water park doesn't open until Labor Day, but the rest of the park is open on weekends right now. Em-pha-fucking-sis, open.

So, to the owners or parent corporation of Raging Waters San Jose? To paraphrase an old Chicagoan saying, "kiss my ass early, kiss it often." Unless Paramount owns you too, then you've got my wallet, regardless.

The One Man Who Knows How To Up The Rhetoric

"Unortho-what?"

I'm Glad To Know Indian Courts Have It Together

Atrocities happen in rural areas of India. Not all the time and all over the country, but the kinds of things that shouldn't happen to people, ever. So when you want to serve a warrant for something as innocuous as kissing Shilpa Shetty on the cheek?

Yeah, I'm glad you, the legal courts of India, all have your priorities in order...








Hello?The whole World outside the British version of Celebrity Big Brother wants to kiss Shilpa...yes, even Richard.

"Aren't You Relieved To Know That You're Not A Golem?"

Sublime. A word that isn't used often enough, because most people find it underwhelming and that's a shame. Stranger Than Fiction is "sublime." I would directly and favorably compare it to "The Purple Rose of Cairo," though obviously it is about books instead of movies.

Will Ferrell was perfect in it and his performance was sublime, same with Emma Thompson and Dustin Hoffman. I believe that's why that's why this fine film passed by everyone's radar...oh, that, and the fact that Columbia fucking forgot to market it.

If you've ever written a novel, screenplay or a short story, "Stranger" will give you more than food for thought. It's a Vegas buffett and you are the only one in line. The one thing that threw me off was that the comedic moments were fewer and farther between than I had expected with the presence of Will Ferrell. Yet, this is understandable when you realize that the story itself, intentionaly searches for a tone so that the audience will be kept off balance.

One of the more brilliant comedic scenes wasn't included in the theatrical release, but is in the extras. A fictional book show where Kristin Chenowith plays a vapid morning show character that interviews Emma Thompson's character, some years before when the novel was to take place.

So much for my power of observation, I missed all The Beatles References. I don't usual make remarks about people gaining weight as I'm not the lightest person on Earth, but Tom Hulce? What's up, "Hamadeus?" Not to mention after seeing his character, I'll never use the word "convo" again, even though I always use it in jest.



****SPOILER****



You have to highlight this one with your mouse to see it...


Deus Est Emma and the noir side of me is just fine with it.

We're 37th! We're 37th!...Wha???

When it comes to "romantic cities for boomers" (do they mean as in "Baby Boomers," or as in "Esiason?"), San Francisco is thirty-seventh.

'kay...

Rochester came in eighth...over San Francisco. Because let's face it, thousands of people are flying into "Rochester, City of Love." To be fair, nothing says romance like freezing your ass off six months a year, that'll make you cozy up to some of the least compatible availables around.

...hello, survey takers? Please...put the crack pipes down just long enough to do some actual research.

Hmmm, note that a certain male "enhancement" product sponsored this study. You wouldn't need that in San Francisco. A bowl of curry for your circulation, a quick walk around town to see the beautiful women from all over the world and if you still need one of those pills? You are most likely, clinically dead.

Who came in first you ask? Why Pittsburgh, of course! It's Becka-tastic!

And The Blogroll Rolls On

Wow, now both of my major blogs are blogrolled by Chris! Unlike most people who I meet or cross paths with, I'll always remember Chris and this is why.

Note, not only does he have a hilarious blog, but he can carry tune better than anyone on "Idol" and he checks his mirrors while he drives. Three qualities that all young Americans should emulate.

As Far As I'm Concerned, It IS You

Please, don't make this difficult.
No, please, with the attitude.
Don't make this a racial-thing.
Don't try and make me out to be a snob.

In this case, it's not me, it is you. Yeah, you.

It happened again the other day. Someone was hurt, someone took offense...all because I didn't remember who they were.

You, not "you," know what I'm talking about. You are out somewhere, doing something and you accidentally make eye contact with someone. They can see it in your eyes that you can't quite recall who they are and they get offended like you've just run over their favorite aunt...backed up and ran her over again. Jeez, you wouldn't give Dubya that look, why do you have to dump that on me?

What I always want to do in that situation (though somehow I never get to) is to take three of the most disparate people I can find, and line them up. Three of the most diverse people, racialy and physically that happen to be on hand, and then line the offended person next to them. I'd then say, "look...you know what you all have in common? You all look alike, you are people I don't know." Then I'd just walk away.

I know that sounds cruel and that my empathy meter bottomed out, but:

A) I've attended eight different schools since kindergarten, that includes three different high schools that were some fifty miles apart.
B) During my three plus years in the grocery business, I worked six different stores in six different towns to get my minimum of weekly hours.
C) At the company I'm working for now, I've worked with some three thousand different people and have met conservatively, over five-hundred people.
D) I've lived in four cities around the World.
E) The Missus has worked four different jobs and a busload of temp jobs since I've known her. That's over a dozen Christmas parties and just because somehow you remember grabbing my ass after your fourth gin and tonic, doesn't mean I want to remember you.

Maybe we had a life-changing conversation on the streetcar over transcendental meditation or who makes the best hamburger...cool. That doesn't mean that out of the sea of people that I've swam across, that I can distinguish you.

I certainly feel some sadness when someone that I remember fondly, has no idea who I am. Yet, if you don't make the effort to remind me who you are, you don't get the right to give me the evil eye or the finger. Of the fifty states in America, the only one where I wouldn't stick out is Hawaii. Don't get me started on countries.

So please, introduce or contextualize yourself. Otherwise? It is you and it's not me.

Sunday Night

The last three Sunday nights in a row, we (the household, not the "royal") have been watching Tiramisu and Asian Buffet.

"Tiramisu" is 70% soap opera (read, melodrama), 20% comedy and about 10% food. Let me preface this by admitting that I am a snob, I would not watch "Tiramisu" if it were an American or British production. Barring the occasional lust...er, crush, on a particular actress, I will not watch soap operas at all.

Half the acting on the show is substandard, even by soap opera standards. It's not hard to deduce that the lesser actors were cast solely upon their looks and English-speaking abilities. Yet, there is a certain chemistry and it works.

"Asian Buffet" kicks ass on so many levels, no show comes even close. Sure, Bourdain could make any show in the World worth watching, but neither he nor the entire Travel Channel can cover as much ground as this show does. I'm talking about recreations of royal feasts from Persia (yes I know it's Iran, I meant dishes from the Persian Empire), to Tibet, to Thailand, to Okinawa.

Tonight, they had the role that spices play in Asian cuisine. Hot peppers from the interior of Thailand all the way up to the Sichuan Province. Curries and masala in India. The whole process of making wasabi in Japan, from the fields, all the way up to the sushi. It's definitely a show you don't want to watch while you are hungry.

What, No Ultraman???

Kids, what's the matter with kids today?

Sure, you say Ultraman isn't anime. Neither is Kamen Rider and he was represented.

I've Been Linked

Navin R. Johnson: The new phone book's here! The new phone book's here!

Me: Dang, I wish I could get all geeked up about nothing.

Navin R. Johnson: Nothing? Are you kidding? Page 73 - "Johnson, Navin R.!" I'm somebody now! Millions of people look at this book everyday! This is the kind of spontaneous publicity - your name in print - that makes people. I'm in print! Things are going to start happening to me now.

Me: Yeah, well, I've been linked by Melinda June.

Navin slumps like a puppet whose strings have been cut and the air goes out of him like a balloon on a barbed wire fence.

Me: Oh...and when you are through crying? I'd stay away from those oil cans.

Let's Get Mikey And Adventures With Korean BBQ

Um, thanks but no thanks, I have my own.

Or...ah yes, the "adult" version of the Life Cereal ad: I know, let's get Mikey, he'll grab anything...

This pic, courtesy of Married with Dinner. Which is not a show with Sydney Poiter and Katy Segal...

Try, try, try, and separate them, it's an illusion

Sydney Poiter: They call me Mis-ter Bun-dy!

...but a blog about food and marriage.

Wouldn't you know it? No parental or familial obligations tonight, to get in the way of seeing "The Lookout" and the movie isn't playing anywhere near San Francisco. So do I write instead? Naw, blog-hopping and plenty of it.

I hit all the blogs I didn't hit yesterday, visit a few from back in the day and then I hit the food blogs, which trigger all kinds of memories.

Mind you, I will do anything the Missus asks me to, but my real devotion is to my taste buds. Back in '91, I went to get some photos developed on Geary Boulevard and I spotted a Korean barbecue joint. I saw via a menu in their window that they had bul go ki and it was on, like Original Star Trek with The Federation against the Klingons! If you've never had bul go ki? Think beef teriyaki, only sweeter...literally.

Five years previous to that, a friend of mine that refused to get his driver's license used to have me chauffeur him to Downtown Berkeley, from that hellish suburb that I was stuck in. The only way he could get me to go, was to spring for either Blondie's Pizza or this little bul go ki and rice restaurant. While Blondie's still thrives to this very day, that rice place closed after a few months. Those damn hippie heathens didn't realize how good they had it.

My nostalgic taste buds got the better of me and demanded that the Missus and I go to that restaurant that very night, regardless of the fact that I had no idea if the place was any good.

Four hours later, plenty of parking and the place was Spartan as hell. There was a plant or two and about twenty tables. Four chairs to a table and a metal hood above each table.

The Missus and I were the only ones in the joint, yet it took the Waitress about two minutes to poke her head out of the kitchen. She came out and handed us two menus. I had no idea what to order besides the bul go ki, so I ordered the barbecue special which included that, plus kal bi.

The Waitress then asked me, "do you want it here, or do you want it in the kitchen?"

Dear Penthouse, I never thought that this would happen to me...

...no, you don't crack wise, "go there" or do anything that might remotely negatively influence the people that serve you food. I didn't joke and I said slowly, but calmly, "I'll have it here." Of course, I had no idea what she was talking about until she brought out the charcoal hibachi.

The sucker was hot, as in melt your eyebrows if you leaned over it and this was back in the day when women, and men used entirely too much hairspray. I wondered what their insurance premiums were like. Then, this tray brought out the Waitress. I say the tray "brought her out" because the thing was so damn huge. It had banchan on it. Korean appetizers-slash-side dishes.

We are talking every vegetable under the Korean sun that could be marinated, pickled, or mixed with hot pepper paste, or garlic. The pickled cabbage that is kimchi, broccoli, eggplant, carrots, cucumbers, three different kinds of sprouts, spinach, and I mean these little dishes took up virtually all the remaining space around the hibachi, save for...

...the next tray, which was about a third as big as the first. On there were plates of marinated beef, bul go ki and the kal bi, which she cut with scissors. She showed us the basics of grilling and then we were on our own. It's a wonderful experience and you develop such a rhythm, that you feel like you could never burn anything on that grill but your arms.

The kal bi was fairly good and the bul go ki was even better. We went one more time, but I've never been back since. The Missus nor anyone I know on the West Coast, has an appreciation for banchan and I had since discovered that there were bul go ki bottled marinades in even the most Wonder Bread of the suburbs, here in the Bay Area. So I just buy the occasional jar of marinade and save my forearms a singeing or two.

First...

First, Ireland Baldwin? The chain ends with you, break the cycle of insensitive stupidity.

Second, overheard on the radio this morning and I'm coming in on the end of this, so it might be paraphrased...

G.W.N.I.D.K*: What was that anyway, "Glengarry, Glen Daycare?!" Put that snack down! Snack time is for closers!


*Guest Whose Name I Don't Know.

I Take Blogpourri For $800 Again, Alex

What is "you need a sherpa to navigate through his links?"

Most people just throw their links up or at best, divide them into categories of interest. I try to add a brief description so that you, the reader, get an idea of why I frequent those blogs. Of course, by doing so, my links are a huge mess that are difficult to navigate.

So most of you have probably not noticed that I've added Amy, Dead Spot, Eric's World of Food, and the immortal Coaster Punchman. With the exception of the first six links, I don't play favorites. For this blog, I still have the old-fashioned template where I manually type everything in. I bounce the scroll wheel up and down, in a one-armed bandit fashion and where I click, is where the link is slotted.

There is no bearing on the order...though cooking for me can influence your slot.

What is Van Halen's "I'm On Fire," Alex?

I love Altoids and when you eat as much garlic as I do, they become a necessity. For some strange reason, the local supermarkets refuse to carry the Peppermint flavor and I haven't been able to make it to Costco. Rather than pay close to two bucks a tin at the corner stores, I bought a tin of the Cinnamon-flavored ones.

Now, I've never tried these before in my life, though my previous experience with the peppermint, spearmint and the chocolate-dipped mints suggested that I had nothing to worry about. I popped four of the cinnamon tablets in my mouth and let's just say that now I know firsthand how Bill Pullman felt in "The Last Seduction," when Linda Fiorentino maced him in the mouth.

What is "most likely to wind up in an insipid commercial, where an equally insipid Dennis Haysbert walks through traffic?"

In the past month, I've witnessed two new lows in driving: A driver that was eating, talking on his cell phone and reading, while driving. And another who was texting while driving.

The former was not doing all three at the same time. No, this miscreant was kind enough to alternate these actions, the six blocks that we were stuck behind him. The reading a book was a new one on me, though I've seen people read the paper while driving, all the time. That must have been one hellva book that he had to risk his life and everyone else's. He Jerry-rigged it to one of those clips that you use to hold pads, so that you can jot things down.

The latter miscreant was driving extra slow and I thought he was talking to his three passengers. When I finally got the opportunity to pass him, I noticed a glow that was coming from his steering wheel. He had his cell out and he was typing away. To his credit, he did at least manage to keep his car going in a straight line.

Unfortunately, because of double-parked cars, errant taxis and oblivious bus drivers, I had to deal with Mr. Text Driving again, some nine blocks later. I would like to thank everyone involved for making certain that I had to deal with this fifteen miles-per-hour text whore and I hope that someday soon, someone else will do the same for you.

What? What was that???

What was that shouting? Why, it sounded like it came all the way from the NYC, could it be Becka? Don't pull anything while you are dancing in the streets.

An Email From Across The Pond

I'm sorry that I forgot to post this.

While Coaster and Dale were helping Melinda rough up Brits for their lunch money...

Brit Vic #1: (mumbles) Bloody hell, I hope they didn't see me.

Melinda: Oi, you in the blue! Give us fifty quid or you'll wind up talking out of yer arse, but permanent!

"Giving 'til it hurts. Everyone," indeed. Eh, Dale?

...Mr. C's longtime writing collaborator and friend's was, and is still, roughing it in England. He sent the following email...


Hello family, friends, and fine people met in passing, I hope you’re happy and hale.

I’m pleased to announce that the good folks at Lazy Gramophone have published two of my storytelling CDs, featuring musical accompaniment by the great Clay Hawkins, and the CDs are now available for order from the ’shop’ at http://www.lazygramophone.com/

Since we’re still living the bohemian life out here in London, placing such an order would keep us from actual starvation!

Also, “Jacksonville” has received a third extension on Resonance Radio, and runs every Tuesday at 10PM London time through May 1st. If in London you can listen at 104.4 FM, and from anywhere else in the world at resonancefm.com.

Lastly, Neil Evans and I are still cranking out no-budget short movies, and because months of footage piled up before we could snag an editing program we’ll continue to post new shorts every couple weeks at http://www.youtube.com/Guyjjackson

Please enjoy those, and if you have an office day job we strongly encourage shirking your duties in order to do so.

Thanks very much for your time and support and consideration and do take care!
Sincerely,

Guy J.
myspace.com/storytellinguyjj

The Science of Endings

So I finally finished "The Science of Sleep" last night. Let me preface this by saying, I love foreign film. Barring substandard juvenile comedies, that always stink regardless of their country of origin, virtually any foreign film has the potential to be at least interesting. They can offer a unique viewpoint that hopefully hasn't been tainted by American clichés.

"The Science of Sleep" was different. Yet, how good is "different," if a foreign film can't completely change the way the audience views a film or offer great insight into a culture? The director and screenwriters of any film should at least have a decent ending, because the audience invested ninety minutes or so of their lives...then what, absolutely no pay off? This movie accomplished none of the three...hell, there was no real ending at all. Somebody letting the air of ballon would've gone over with more aplomb.

Michel Gondry wasted several good visual ideas that would've been better served as music videos, than compiling them into this film.

What's Middle Age?

As of 10:58 AM, it's been four decades and two years. Am I officially middle-aged?

Your Quote of The Day

"I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center." – Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007)

from the Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter.

While you are up there, sip a martini for us, Old Man.

Stupid-stition

I ain't superstitious, Rod Stewart...


...well, yeah, I am, but my superstitions are sports-related. I am not superstitious when it comes to Friday the 13th and today was simply a cross-sample of the usual. Things that should not be attributed to bad luck, but to the usual inattentive, bad city drivers and people acting inconsiderate or stupid.

So I ordered dinner to go at two different restaurants, because Procrastinator Junior is still no fan of Vietnamese cuisine. Then I went to the ATM and the machine took my card...

...said that it was "going out of service" and it left out just enough of the card sticking out for me to grab it with my fingernails...

...then as I tried to grab my card, the ATM swallowed it up again...

...then it pushed it back out. Did I say "back out?" I meant to say, "back and down."

Right below the roller feed and below the slot that you feed the card into...

and below the ATM, itself.

I went to the bank door, which the bank had just closed of course. No problem, I know one of the bankers and he came to the door. I explained the situation and he tried to get it out, to no avail. Long story short, he said to come back tomorrow at 9AM and he'll give me another.

He's a nice guy and that's why I didn't light into him about how that wouldn't put dinner on the table. That and I don't want Procrastinator Junior to see me yelling at people for things that are not their fault...not to mention I don't want to become that very asshole that I abhor.

I do have a tendency to go Mr. Hyde when I'm hungry though.

I had to go home and get the Missus to buy dinner.

Superstition or not, this is a dark day in U.S. history, Ladies and Gentlemen.

The King of Take Out is dead...

Long live the Queen of Take Out.

It's Not Over Until The Mo' Po' Makes The Pronouncement

This show has been on for almost sixteen years now and as a comedian, I know he has had to have watched it on at least one occasion. So with that knowledge it goes without saying that as a man, you don't get smug, you don't do any victory dances or taunts, until you hear Maury Povich say...

"you are not the father!" Tough break, Eddie.

A Dream Of Significance?

Finally, I had a non-pedestrian dream that didn't involve me on some aimless journey to obtain some foodstuffs. In this dream, I was talking to George Clooney...yes, I know that's not what you would do with him all the Ladies and a few Gentlemen, but, hey.

So, I was in line at a store, talking to George Clooney about movies and in specific, those he had produced with Steven Soderbergh. Now they weren't the actual films, but in dreams, real logic is thrown out the window and replaced with one altogether, ersatz. The beauty of this dream is that I was nervous and that the conversation flowed rather nicely. He was even joking about some of these McGuffin films bombing and though I believe George has been smart with his money, I don't believe that anyone's ego or bank account at that level, would be so caviler.

One of the comediennes from Best Week ever joined in with us and she was wearing a California Highway Patrol uniform. I can't remember which one she was and why the hell do they air that show in what seems like only twice a week? VH-1 has become the "I Love New York" channel.

George and I crossed the street without paying for whatever we were standing in line for, not like we took anything with us or anyone. That's a damn shame, somewhere there's a comedienne in a Highway Patrol uniform asking David Byrne, "well, how did I get here?"

Again, with ersatz dream logic, I'm asking George what would be the best way to go about pitching a screenplay to Steven, instead of pitching it to him.

He's actually humoring me as we walk into a gift shop, he wants to get a gift for a friend who is a little down. He tells me Soderbergh's quirks and whatnot, while he picks out some lowkey jewelry and now it occurs to me that we are in Chinatown, Jake. Like I'd ever go to Chinatown, there's no parking and you can get the same food on Clement and Irving Streets.

Then, he's trying to find the best card to go with this necklace. There are all kinds of novelty cards, I point to a group of them that in ersatz dream logic, have little jokes about Kennoc listed as a rhubarb that is threatening to overrun Canada, like kudzu did the South. Of course as always with dreams, just as he is about to give me an answer how best to approack Steven Soderbergh, I wake up.

Dreams tease, they may give you great hints or point you in the right direction, but they will never give you the answers. Just like comedians and cartoonists have joked for decades about where missing socks go, somewhere, there is a place where all the answers that were never discovered in dreams, lie waiting.

A Fun Night With Your Kid Is...

Watching the Sharks win it in double overtime!

The Word of The Day Is...

Everyone has a word here and there, that they stumble across and they have absolutely no inkling as to what it means. Me? Even more so, because if the book doesn't involve bullets or broads, I'm less likely to pick it up and read it.

So I was halfway through a short story that is staged in 1904 and the author has made it a point to use a vernacular that is dated as can be. Cool, I can understand that, as this sets a tone and language is ever evolving. If you were to ask people just what a "blog" is a decade ago, everyone would come up with every definition but the word's actual meaning.

So there were a couple here and there in the story that were challenging, but I could ascertain their meaning from the surrounding words and the sentence. This one threw me for a loop though, "absquatulated."

I typed it into the cell phone so that I could look it up later. The M-W online didn't have it, can you imagine? Oh, don't make me Google the damn thing (like that takes so long).

Here it is, according to the Freedictionary.com. Don't say that you never learn anything on my blog and no, I'm not encouraging you "to depart, abscond, or to go off and squat elsewhere."

Just don't squat here.

Oh, That's Jello, James

James commented "there's no way that's Jello..."

That, sir, is Jello.

Here are the molds. Here is my city done up in Jello and Scottsdale, Arizona gets the same treatment. If you light it from below, the food coloring, plus a couple of Hickok secrets do the rest to give it that surreal look.

Bill Cosby & Kraft Foods, Bow Down To Your True Mistress!

Hey kids, rock n' roll, rock on! Whoops, I mean, hey kids, Liz Hickok has gone nation-wide in a big way. Including her appearances on local TV, she's been on PBS and now we're talking the Food Network! Check out the email...

Hello!

I am pleased to announce that I (and my San Francisco in Jell-O artwork) have been nominated for a Food Network Award, in the "Play with Your Food" category (Art with an edible twist!) The show airs next Sunday night, April 15th at 9 pm/ 8 Central. If you have access to the Food Network channel, you should definitely tune in to find out if I win the award! (If I haven't leaked it to you already) My friend and I had a great time in South Beach the weekend of the filming. You can see pictures from the weekend at www.lizhickok.com/foodnetwork.

Some of the footage in the show will be from my latest project in Scottsdale, Arizona. I've recently updated my website so you can see pictures from that project. Next on the list of cities to create.... Las Vegas! (Why not?!)

Also, if you happen to be in the Bay area, you have a few upcoming chances to see some of my work in person....

One is for the "Taste" exhibition and fundraiser at Root Division Gallery. The show runs from April 13th through the 28th. The Artist Preview is the night of Saturday the 14th from 6-10pm, and the Fundraiser is on the 19th from 7-11pm. More info at end of email...

Also, save the dates for the weekend of Friday May 11th- Sunday the 13th for the Spring Blue Studios OPEN STUDIOS. Several Mission area art spaces will be opening their doors for visitors to come and enjoy seeing amazing artwork and speaking with the artists. I will send more information on that as it gets closer.

Thanks so much!

-Liz

www.lizhickok.com

Hey Liz, rock 'n roll, rock on! We are all rooting for you!

Check out her desert that is so much cooler. because it is done up in Jello...

St. Peter Faces One Common Act of Dishonesty

If there's one thing that St. Peter has, does and will forever grant a waiver on?

Tetherball.

It's not like cheating at tetherball is a major sin, but he has to leave it off the highlight ("lowlight?") reel of transgressions by default.

Everybody is guilty of it. Everyone has palmed or held the ball. Everyone has tripped or bumped into their opponent. Or stepped on their toes...not by accident.

And Lord help the short opponent, be it friend or foe, stranger or sibling. You never gonna get a chance to hit it as you are are being manically laughed at.

Tetherball brings out the worst in us all.

I'm Too Tired

I'm too tired, I've got to run errands, otherwise I'd take Procrastinator Junior to this.

We'd have to take a series of buses. Or park at the Cannery, or an expensive North Beach garage and walk up the hill.

A Song For The Departed

No, not for the deceased nor for the movie. Search this blog for "Scorsese" for stuff pertinent to that.

No, I'm talking about two people departing these parts for others. This reminded me of a song way, way back in the day, that came out when I was born, and that I haven't heard since I was about nine. It was called, "Everyone's Gone To the Moon" and I've always believed (incorrectly) that it was an Otis Redding song.

Coaster and Dale have gone to England. I'd say "lucky bastards" except that:

A) The weather is horrid this time of year, even when the sun comes out.
B) The exchange rate favors the Pound.
C) Knowing Tony Blair, after getting his ass handed to him by the Iranians, he'll keep Coaster and Dale there, for fifteen days. Just make himself look tough again.

Hang in there, you two. Don't get too large off of pints and Indian take-away, and for our sake, don't let Tony Blair use you for propaganda purposes...or porpoises.

Acne, Smmm-acne?

A commercial fishing boat hauled in what may have been one of the oldest creatures in Alaska — a giant rockfish estimated to be about a century old.

The 44-inch, 60-pound female shortraker rockfish was caught last month by the catcher-processor Kodiak Enterprise as it trawled for pollock 2,100 feet below the surface, south of the Pribilof Islands in the Bering Sea.

The Seattle-based vessel, owned by Trident Seafoods, pulled up an estimated 75 tons of pollock and 10 bright-orange rockfish.

Scientists at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration at the Alaska Fisheries Science Center in Seattle measured, photographed and documented the fish. They removed an ear bone, the otolith, which contains growth rings similar to rings in the trunks of trees.

They estimate the rockfish was 90 to 115 years old.

To wit, people...bull...f**cking...sh*t.

Horse cookies.

Mularkey.

You know what this is? I'll tell you what this is.

Breakout the Wayback Machine, Sherman, and set it for March, 1982. I had a crush on this gal. Pretty eyes, devastating smile and a body that was mmmmm-hmmmm. You would say "voluptuous" and I would say, "everything in the right places, and then some."

When we looked at each other? Not quite electric, but pretty damn close. There was only one problem, well there was a couple, but one huge problem. She was a Republican and not just any Republican, I mean, Mussolini and Anne Coulter would look like moderates, compared to her.

We never talked politics, or really anything at all. Because every time she talked about anything other than gym? Nails on the political and social chalkboard. I always wanted to ask her out, but I couldn't bring myself to do it and I'm sure that if I had, her parents would've brought out the rope and looked for the closest tree, anyway.

The point being, the resulting stress gave me zits. I say "zits," plural. Yet, one of those zits began to grow...

and grow...


and grow...


...I mean, soon, it seem to take on a life of it's own. A week later? I swear the thing was pulsing...throbbing...no, I'm not talking about something in my teenage pants, I'm talking the Atlas of Acne.

What? What was that? Oh, Good Lord, it is breathing?

I panicked and bought a case of Clearasil. I went home, I brought a five quart stainless steel bowl into the bathroom and I poured the contents into the bowl. Just then, I nearly got whiplash as my head reared back and two eyes appeared from the middle of the Atlas of Acne, the zenith of zits.

A mouth appeared under those eyes and it let out a crazed roar. My head snapped to the left as the zit broke free of me and dove for the commode. The zit let out the most hideous squeals as it tried to squeeze itself down the toilet and I doused it with Clearasil, in a vain effort to destroy it.

The point is, Ladies and Gentlemen, I would know those eyes anywhere. The above picture is anything but a rockfish, that, is my zit.

Poppa Says It's A Bitch To Recognize It...

Last night, I found out what was both good and bad, about the Internet. Haahnster was talking about the greatness of Led Zeppelin IV and I clicked on a link to Sandy Dennis, because I knew so little about her, beyond the song, "The Battle of Evermore."

Big...mistake...

I had an ex, a little over two decades ago. She used to play Fairport Convention and Alan Stivell. It wasn't for me back then, I was more Motley Crue, Vandenberg, The Scorpions, and a wonderful detour into "The Cure: Live." But Sandy still sung the hell out of that song and I was curious how someone so talented, couldn't rise above cult status.

Whoa, there went two hours in the Twilight Zone. Because looking up Sandy, got me on a Phil Lynott and Thin Lizzy tangent. Which got me looking up Killing Joke, which got me looking at who collaborated with Killing Joke. Which got me on Chris Tsangarides and Alcatrazz.

Then I went off on a Graham Bonnet tangent and the best part of this folks? I finally got details into the intrigue that went on behind a bunch of bands and why people got kicked out, fired, quit, etc...including Concrete Blonde.

The nugget of the night? Well, I'll put it to you this way, I knew a group called "Touch," or I should say I knew a song they did on "The Monsters of Rock: Live At Castle Donington!" It was the first Monsters of Rock concert, before it grew into something huge and most Americans would know only The Scorpions and maybe April Wine from that album.

But Touch? "Don't You Know What Love Is" went only as far as #66 on the Billboard Top 100 and it has been unavailable on CD until now. If your name is Chelene, Big Shoulders or if you like The Darkness at all. Click this link, go down to the bottom left of the page and click "Don't You Know What Love Is." You'll hear how "I Believe In A Thing Called Love" some twenty years before The Darkness was in existence.

Return of the J-Man!

Me: Check this out!
Katie: OMG that is fucking fantastic! Did you post it? You have to! It’s fantastic.
Me: Naw, you go ahead.
Katie: Hells no. how about a joint post? I will say it’s a wp katie joint.

So here you go folks, "The Return of The J-Man!"

Whoops, I Forgot To Mention

I forgot to mention that this is my favorite Internet take on a recent popular movie. Click this and scroll down. Then you'll learn to appreciate the JDC like I appreciate the JDC.

Go Figure

You Are 40% California

You're not from California - don't try to game this quiz!

How California Are You?

Take this lame quiz and you might find out that you are more "Californian" than I am. But rest assured, I was born here, and with the exception of nearly three years, I have lived in this state all of my life.

Now the quiz skewers more towards the City of "Angles," because we rarely get celebs in our Starbucks and while we have traffic choppers, they never seem to catch car chases.

The quiz makers of this abomination, can kiss 40% of my San Franciscan ass.

BTW, I cribbed this off Johnny Dollars, who tested much higher. Hell, I know Katie would test higher and she was born in New York.

Sleep Is For Wussies

Am I on another trip to "Bronchitis City?" Good Lord, I hope not. But hey, sleep is overrated. The irony is, that instead of blog-hopping, I could've been watching "The Science of Sleep."

No April Fools Jokes Here

I don't do April Fool's jokes. I do wordplays, light prank phone calls involving various accents (both foreign and domestic) that you will probably figure out within thirty seconds that it's me, if you haven't already looked at your caller ID. And I tease you mercilessly, 'cause that's what I do.

Baring that in mind, it is the day after Procrastinator Junior's birthday and unlike one of his grand aunts, he wasn't going to an April Fool's baby. Because it was going to be bad enough, being a son of a procrastinator...

Look, Jimmy, I know I've said it before, but I'll get around to playing tag tomorrow. I promise.

On the other hand, it's better than being a son of a Bush (ba-dum-chee!). That's right people, I got a million more like 'em and I'll be here all week...









because quite frankly, it's my blog.

I didn't get over to the people that I tagged yet...that is, I glanced at Katie's and I haven't read Dale's, but I did read the excellent one of Johnny Dollar's. The reason why my Internet presence was cut short, was because I got under the weather a little before the party and full-on after.

I have allergies and sometime Friday night, a scratchy throat, coupled with that runned-down feeling, jumped into the pile of symptoms. So I'm not sure what I've come down with, is it an "allergold?" Or is it a "coldergy?"

I did get to see "Harsh Times." The directorial debut of David Ayer, the writer of "Training Day." He wrote it around the same time as "Training Day" and they are very similar themes. Two guys driving around Los Angeles, exposing its dark underbelly. The fact that the world is one huge shade of gray, as opposed to black and white. "Man" as a "monster," or "is he the anti-hero, or the pro-villain?"

The fact that violence is the only true perpetual motion machine. Nihilism not necesarily at its finest, but I enjoyed it. Like "Training Day," the cast is outstanding from top to bottom and the reason I think most people won't like it is, it's not a glossy, Hollywood film. Ayer gives a very slow and deliberate, "documentary" type of pace.


Hopefully I'll stick enough through tonight and I'll take the work day off, in an effort to get some writing done and see "The Lookout."