Category Archives: bumgut

16000 views!!!!

The blog reached 16000 views today! If Miley Cyrus took a dump and made a video of the toilet handle being flushed, she’d top mr in an hour. Still it’s been a wild ride!!!!! Eh.

Champaign!!!!!

To no one.

I saw this on Current TV, specifically This American Life. The episode was called “Reality Check”.  A group called Improv Everywhere decides that an unknown band, Ghosts of Pasha, playing their first ever tour in New York, ought to think they’re a smash hit. So they study the band’s music and then crowd the performance, pretending to be hard-core fans. Improv Everywhere just wants to make the band happy—to give them the best day of their lives. But it turns out differently because the band realizes in short order that the reception was entirely fake, and they have to go on, knowing somehow that there’s not likely going to be any kind of repeat. It’s sort of a cheat. I watched it and clenched my fist involuntarily, thinking how strange the whole thing was…the unintended consequences of doing something that on the face of it seems purely altruistic. Was it a gift or a prank?

I have ideas. I have music and I have a script for a thing I’ve been working on. I have my whole CD written, concept, arrangements, everything. I’ve run my idea for a stage musical by some close friends and they all either think it’s funny or are being polite, and I’m not someone who makes friends with people who are polite.

Every Monday I say that this is the week that I try to get things done. There are people upon whom I rely to take the next step. And I am having severe existentialist ennui today.

Tell people I never meant to be creepy. I just was. I really didn’t mean to make anyone uncomfortable. I just did.

Tell people that I settled grudgingly into being a mediocre songwriter with a mediocre voice. It never occurred to me that I would not be successful or that people would not love everything I did. It never occurred to me that people in the future or in the near future wouldn’t delve into my discography and try to decipher my lyrics with like-minded fans. I wasn’t conceited. I was willfully blind.

I always wanted to tour. I never got to tour. It might not be as fun as I imagined it might be but it would have been nice to have done it. In my prime. When I had the energy and nothing to lose.

I always wanted to play, just once, to a really enthusiastic room chock full of strangers who came to hear good original music and thought that mine was unmistakeably that. Did you ever see the “This

I always wanted people to come after me if I walked away, either in love or in friendship, but it seems to me to be pretty much always me doing the hunting, me doing the apologizing, and that might have something to do with the fact that I am broken beyond repair.

You’re the only one reading this.

Looking back.

This blog has been quite a lot of work. There’s lots of writing on it. I like writing. I look back on some of the posts and in a better mood I enjoy the fact that some of these were written in an entirely different frame of mind than the one that follows. And I cannot imagine writing that much now, since my abyss seems to be getting deeper and deeper lately. But if you liked anything I did here I am happy. Going to Buffalo next week. Hopefully see some old friends and some  old new friends. I get the nagging feeling that this “vacation” will be the same as all the others. Hurry up, wait, end up feeling lonely, as if there’s no ‘there’ there. God knows there’s no ‘here’ here.

I know what I need to do. I’m just not doing it.

 

 

 

Farmer’s Market brings back memories of the Winch.

We went to the Farmer’s Market this morning. It was cold and rainy. Bought a Spicy Sausage Quiche (Also my stripper name back in the day. Ironic.)

Brought it home. Dove in. It was delicious.

Then it occurred to me that perhaps the Quiche contained sour cream. The mere thought made me not want any more. I left some for the cats. There’s a good 60% of a Quiche that others may have for lunch.

I can’t eat sour cream, cream cheese, mayonnaise, blue cheese, whipped cream, Ranch dressing, Russian dressing, French dressing or cheesecake. It’s odd, and I don’t know where it comes from. I was thinking that maybe it came from our Winchester initiation ritual. I’ll explain.

When kids graduated 9th grade, they were now going to move on to the senior high school. And everyone knew that this was going to happen. And all summer, at any time, on any day, a small group of provocateurs would organize the other kids in the neighborhood to execute the dreaded initiation. How did it start? Who was responsible? How long had this been happening? Did it happen in other ‘hoods? I didn’t know and I still don’t.I think it might have been just the boys.

When the day came, however, you knew in short order. You were tricked into either a tent or an alley or a garage. One of the ring-leaders would concoct an amalgam of unnatural liquid and solid combinations. Say, mayonnaise, gravy, raw eggs, pickle brine, etc.etc. ahead of time. It would be dumped on your person in a most forceful, unpleasant manner. And that was…it. You would slink off to the nearest hose and wash yourself off and then live another day. I know it happened to me in the tent on the Pulaski property. It was Ron Storrs, his brother Bob, a Koeppel or two. Honestly I think this might have been the deepest they had ever gone into civic planning in their lives. Had they used that initiative to cure cancer or stop country music’s popularity in the early 90’s, this world might whisper their names in a different tone.

But that’s the only reason I can fathom as to why the sight of a mayonnaise jar or a sour cream container makes me wretch.

I wish I could afford therapy.

Explain Glee to me.

From Wikipedia:

In 2009, the Glee cast had 25 singles chart on the Billboard Hot 100, the most by any artist since The Beatles had 31 songs in the chart in 1964.  In February 2011, Glee surpassed Elvis as the artist with the most songs placed on the Billboard Hot 100 chart, though fewer than one-fourth have charted for more than one week. The cast performance of “Don’t Stop Believin'” was certified gold in November 2009, achieving over 500,000 digital sales  The series’ cover versions have also had a positive effect on the original recording artists, with sales of Rihanna’s “Take a Bow” increasing by 189 percent after the song was covered in the Glee episode “Showmance”.  Their cover of “Forget You” was also credited for making the original song reach a new peak on the Billboard Hot 100  on the same week the Glee cover reached the chart.

I watched this show once or twice recently to give it a chance. Explain it to me. As I see it, there’s kids saying lines about how great it would be to sing this song or that one, or sing songs by this or that artist, and then they…sing it, fully produced, no mics, without even the pretense of a plausible talent show or glee club recital. Everything immaculately choreographed, and sometimes there’s an awkward, ill-fitting mash-up, like someone took a bunch of scrap paper, wrote down some popular song from the past (good or bad, deserving or not) and glued them together in a Frankensteinian amalgam of attempted irony and high calorie, low nutrition treacle. With an occasional poorly rendered human emotion thrown in here and there. And an effeminate fellow who wants to use some hunk as a woodwind instrument. Right? What am I missing?

Seriously. Help me understand.


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Who dunnit? Answers.

So let’s see here:

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(After meeting you on a blind date) I’ve decided to stay with my boyfriend.

That happened! She was one of these BPO women. We connected via my phone solicitation and the “action” quickly went to my apartment (phone) where we shared many bawdy stories. Very, very bawdy. Needless to say, her boyfriend was on his way out and she and I should get together and do…stuff. When she opened the door to my teeny tiny apartment and saw my silly wardrobe and ill-groomed countenance, her eyes sort of dropped back into her skull like mine would when Scott Norwood missed. We had an awkward drink at some Buffalo bar, she dropped me off, no kiss, no fantasies that we had discussed would be acted out, and three days later (we spoke every day for a week leading up) I called her to give it the old college try…again…but she was going back with her boyfriend. The one that hit her.

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I have made a pledge with myself and my god to remain a virgin until I’m married. Even so, I am not attracted to you.

This happened! A devout catholic who’s snark and intellect would seem to be a dream match but that’s just a theory. A great gal. I remember going out on a date with another couple. I was asked to tell the story of how we met. I blabbed on like I was Shakespeare or Gore Vidal. Romance this. Chance that. And on the way home, all happy with myself for being so damned eloquent, she blindsided me with the line above. Does oral count? It doesn’t matter. She tapped my shoulder like I was being shelled by the Yankees.

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I have invented a paint that changes color when you look at it, and the government is after me to steal it. Also, I want to remain a virgin. I really like being a virgin.

This happened! Whoa nelly!!! I asked a stunning girl out in 1989 or so. she worked at the Towne Restaraunt in Buffalo. She had a delightful bodice, nerdy glasses, and random braids of random colors. Sweet poppa chongo I loved that gal. Or at least the idea of her. When she said yes to a date I was three feet off the floor and full of flippy floppy!! So we went to dinner and a movie. She sat down a seat from me, which really crushed me. I feel like I wrote this before here. Did I? Well, we went on a couple more dates, each one providing more solid evidence that no, she was not going to prance around in a silk camisole for me, and no, we were not going to act out pages from my own adaptation of the Kama Sutra, and no, I would not be getting a boyfriend discount on souvlaki. The kicker came when she told me about the paint she had invented that changed colors when you looked at it, according to your mood. And the government was out to get it, and her. I swear I told you all this before. Anyhow, even a horny fool knows when to bow out gracelessly.

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I must stop seeing you because your dirty apartment reminds me of my mother.

This happened! Dave and I were looking for something to do in Buffalo on a Friday night. And I needed to go to the Wilson Farms next to my apartment for some smokes, so that’s what we did. I made nice conversation with the gal behind the counter, and she agreed to meet us at the Towne. She was a little pedestrian, which is probably why she kept having to avoid cars on the road when they couldn’t see her, but she was also very attractive in that Buffalo girl way. I couldn’t tell you her name. But she dumped me over the phone with the line you see here after spending a few evenings in my apartment.

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I cannot date you because I am training for the Olympic Archery team.

When I was working at Ingram, I had a crew that I would go to lunch with on a regular basis. When I was with them, my cocksure ego overrode my normally shriveled self-esteem. Everything I said, it seemed, was funny. Every time a pretty girl was waiting on us, the charm got turned on. And so it was at one of those delightful pizza places on Hertel Ave. I couldn’t tell you what she looked like now, but I thought she was diggin’ my rap. So I asked her out. She gave me her number. I waited the requisite two days and called her. She told me that she was too busy. She was training for the Olympic archery team. Too busy. Sorry. I think I may have called the National Olympic Committee to check if her name was on any roster that they knew of, but the answer they gave escapes me, as did/does common sense.

See, when there’s a barista or a waitress or a service industry worker of any kind, they’re PAID to be friendly. They are friendly because that’s how they make more MONEY. It never occurred to me that her pleasant demeanor and tepid acquiescence to my flirtations were a means by which she would be able to get more cash out of me. How stupid was I?

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Your hygiene is terrible.

If anyone ever thought this of me while I was either smooching them, trying to manually close the deal that my other parts could or would not, or getting out of my fast-food wrapper-carpeted Chevy Spectrum smelling of repeated, un-showered layers of Pierre Cardin cologne in the phallus-shaped bottle from my mother for the 5th straight Christmas because once I said it smelled nice, they never said it. So congrats, one person who guessed this.

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Ah, Rabelais…

I remember reading this passage (ahem) with an old girlfriend from Buffalo and laughing my ass (ahem) off.  Olivia asked me once where I got the term “bumgut” from. This.

 

“Once I did wipe me with a gentlewoman’s velvet mask, and found it to be good; for the softness of the silk was very voluptuous and pleasant to my fundament. Another time with one of their hoods, and in like manner that was comfortable; at another time with a lady’s neckerchief, and after that some ear-pieces made of crimson satin; but there was such a number of golden spangles in them that they fetched away all the skin off my tail with a vengeance. This hurt I cured by wiping myself with a page’s cap, garnished with a feather after the Swiss fashion. Afterwards, in dunging behind a bush, I found a March-cat, and with it daubed my breech, but her claws were so sharp that they grievously exulcerated my peritoneum. Of this I recovered the next morning thereafter, by wiping myself with my mother’s gloves, of a most excellent perfume of Arabia. [He continues in this vein for several pages.] But to conclude, I say and maintain that of all arse-wisps, bum-fodders, tail-napkins, bung-hole-cleansers and wipe-breeches, there is none in this world comparable to the neck of a goose, that is well downed, if you hold her head betwixt your legs: and believe me therein upon mine honour; for you will thereby feel in your nockhole a most wonderful pleasure, both in regard of the softness of the said down, and of the temperate heat of the goose; which is easily communicated to the bumgut and the rest of the intestines, insofar as to come even to the regions of the heart and brains. And think not that the felicity of the heroes and demigods, in the Elysian fields, consisteth either in their Ambrosia or Nectar, but in this, that they wipe their tails with the necks of geese.”

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