1. Someone posted this on our neighborhood Facebook page and I cannot stop…staring at it.
Braco looks so sad. Please help Braco. When it says that only adults 18 or older may gaze with Braco, it might mean that the restraining order will not be lifted, as a free “performance” will not generate the legal fees necessary to initiate such a process.
Otherwise, Braco charges $8 for a 10-minute session of him staring at you. I believe that this might supplant music as my new hobby. What’s the difference between this dude and some slithery German gawking at you from a park bench? Next time someone at the coffee shop catches me gawking (and oh, I do gawk), I’ll just write up a quick bill for $8 and present them with it, YOU’RE WELCOME. Here’s his website, but don’t get caught staring. He’ll charge ya.
2. As if to recreate that romantic scene in Schindler’s List where that little boy plays in the toilet, there’s been a relative spate of dudes getting caught practicing the fecephilial arts. I cannot figure out the ergonomic feng shui of such a peccadillo, much less the planning and the internal dialog that must take place. Which part is arousing to them? a. Getting shit upon? b. The risk? c. The taboo? d. The contortions? e. The sounds? f. The sights? g. The preparation? h……
In June 2011, police arrested Luke Chrisco at a yoga festival in Boulder, Colorado after a woman reported seeing something moving in her portable toilet’s tank; that “something” turned out to be Chrisco, who emerged from the tank covered in feces and promptly ran away….
In July, Kenneth Enlow was arrested after he was caught spying on a mother and a daughter from inside a public restroom’s septic tank in Sand Springs, Oklahoma. Last Thursday, the 54-year-old pleaded guilty to amisdemeanor charge of peeping Tom and was sentenced to one year in jail plus a $5,000 fine.
One of those songs where I can only imagine how it felt to hear it in the complete form for the first time in a big studio. What an amazing production. Wish I were gay. Damn. Did you know Donna Summer was the first and only artist of the vinyl area to go to #1 with three consecutive double albums? Why don’t I have more friends?
Working on perfecting the podcast. I have to ask advice from some of my favorite producers. This week.
Happy birthday Iggy Pop. Does Jim Rome know that he uses your biggest drug-based hit as theme music? Why do old bastards like Jim Rome, Ed Schulz and Rush Limbaugh use such inappropriately subversive theme music?
Here comes Johnny Yen again With the liquor and drugs And a flesh machine He’s gonna do another strip tease
Hey man, where’d y’get that lotion? I’ve been hurting since I’m up again About something called love Yeah, something called love Well, that’s like hypnotizing chickens
Well, I’m just a modern guy Of course, I’ve had it in the ear before I have a lust for life ‘Cause I’ve a lust for life
I’m worth a million in prizes With my torture film Drive a GTO Wear a uniform All on a government loan
I’m worth a million in prizes Yeah, I’m through with sleeping on the sidewalk No more beating my brains No more beating my brains With liquor and drugs With liquor and drugs
Well, I’m just a modern guy Of course, I’ve had it in the ear before Well, I’ve a lust for life ‘Cause of a lust for life I got a lust for life Got a lust for life Oh, a lust for life Oh, a lust for life A lust for life I got a lust for life Got a lust for life
Well, I’m just a modern guy Of course, I’ve had it in my ear before Well, I’ve a lust for life ‘Cause I’ve a lust for life
Well, here comes Johnny Yen again With the liquor and drugs And a flesh machine I know he’s gonna do another strip tease
Hey man, where’d y’get that lotion? Your skin starts itching once you buy the gimmick About something called love Love, love, love Well, that’s like hypnotizing chickens
Well, I’m just a modern guy Of course, I’ve had it in the ear before And I’ve a lust for life ‘Cause I’ve a lust for life Got a lust for life Yeah, a lust for life I got a lust for life A lust for life Got a lust for life Yeah, a lust for life I got a lust for life Lust for life Lust for life Lust for life Lust for life Lust for life
If I didn’t before, I’d like to once again point to my big shining moment as a published writer….almost a decade ago. A decade ago, I thought that the moment that the check arrived meant easy riches or at least literary respect and a humble but irrefutable success. I was wrong. Boy howdy was I wrong. And the ironic thing about it was that by writing this article I not only alienated everyone with whom I worked at the time (I used fake names but come on) but I couldn’t even really use it as a calling card to potential employers because of what the article itself betrayed about me and the lengths I would go to assure my sanity. Having said that, there was a shining moment before any of this shameful self-promotion during which I was a “writer”. I hope you like it.
I never EVER got the little plastic men to do what I wanted them to do on that vibrating sheet of metal. Through trial and error I was able to also determine that orange peels, little army men and live kittens are equally un-coachable. But still, everyone in my neighborhood had the game. Soon, it will pass from sasha to zamani and bringing it up in conversation will no longer illicit a glimmer of an understanding smile. I dread that day.
Where was I? Ah, yes. The Cowboys were my favorite team and Roger the Dodger my favorite quarterback. My happiness on Sundays, oddly, depended largely upon their success. And even though he didn’t always win, Roger was always a sure bet to get to the playoffs, sometimes to the Superbowl, and twice in that glorious decade, winning it all! They won, which meant that I won!!! I won the Superbowl!!! Better tell Julie Pawlowski!
As with all things, the great and glorious Roger Reign ended, mostly due to the fact that his head kept getting scrambled by concussions, and after a while, the only thing he was dodging was the dreaded “How many fingers?” quiz.
Then Danny White took over, and he was great, but aside from a few games during the regular season, it just wasn’t the same. No Superbowls, not even an NFC Championship. And in the early 80’s the hated Washington Redskins were on the rise, with their Hogs, and the John Riggins, and the Joe Theismann (rhymes with ‘these men’. Why would he change it?)
In fact, during one season (1983) the Redskins seemed literally unstoppable. Scarily so. They were scoring at will, had lost only two games by the slimmest of margins, and were well on their way to a second consecutive championship, everyone thought. And the day they went to Dallas to smite my favorite team, the world held out little hope that there would be much resistance. As a matter of fact, dear reader, I was actually imagining them never losing another football game EVER.
Come with me, my fine friends, to December 11, 1983.
I met Melissa on the CB radio. The craze had long passed, and a few hangers-on to those halcyon days remained. Mostly Broadway/Filmore trash and me, frankly. Sometimes, a new voice would shine through the din. And I would apply to ol’ charm. But this chick was different. She had known me through my sister, whose opaque nature had yet to be addressed fully. CB radio was just the means by which we spoke before meeting that first date.
I wore my cleanest outfit, washed the prime real estate (twice) and brushed ’em good. She was taking me Christmas shopping at the local big box. Was it Big R? Big N? Neisners? If only Mike Rizzo could chime in. The place on Seneca St. near the Dunkin’ Doughnuts. What was it then? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnyhoo, there we went.
“So…what kind of girl do you like?” she asked as we ambled past the Customer Service kiosk. Every word she uttered dripped out of her smirking countenance as if she was playing with me.
“I like a gal with child-bearing hips…” I recall offering up. What even did that mean to a teenager? She opened up her jacket and showed me her jeans, directing my eye downward (as would so often be the case in the future) and as her voice seemed to dance the words “Will these do?” I felt a stirring. I’m not gonna lie. I thought I was driving into sexy town. Population Wheeeeeee!
She was a smoking hottie, short and bespectacled, pretty and sharp. Robust. Yeah. Robust. Fecund with possibilities unspoken. Maybe about 3 years older than me. Melissa is not her real name, but I’ll be dipt in horseradish enema juice if I can remember her name. We walked. Talked. Maybe even held hands. As her attention was diverted by something frilly, I heard a hi-fi-type sound seemingly synchronized with some flashing light eminating from a few dozen redundant screens. We passed the TV section.
Dallas trailed 14-10 in the third quarter and faced a 4th-and-1 from midfield. Dallas lined up, obviously trying to pull the Redskins offsides. At some point during the snap count, though, Danny White decided to audible into a running play. He handed the ball off to Ron Springs, who ran left. Washington defensive end Charles Mann crashed the right side of the line, and guard Herbert Scott could not block him. Springs lost two yards, and the Cowboys lost momentum they had gained since coming back from an early 14-0 deficit.
The video clearly shows an angry Tom Landry screaming, “No! No! No, Danny, No!”
Though the Redskins did not score immediately, the tide had turned. Later in the third quarter, Joe Theismann hit Art Monk on a 47-yard touchdown pass, and the game turned into a blowout. The Cowboys could not even stop the Redskins from performing the “fun bunch” celebration after the Monk score.
And that was that. The Cowboys were smoten. Smoted. Smatt. The game went downhill, and my mood changed. What had seemed like a sunshiny day full of possibilities had turned into a thick swill of cloudy confusion. What started as a nice vinaigrette with walnuts had devolved into a devil-brine with a hair in it.
Our silent ride to my house. Snowy in Buffalo. Aurora Avenue is abandoned but for us. The caked accumulation muffled the noise of the church bells ringing their unchanging repertoire out to the sinners and the repentant, washing what was once called “the ghetto of West Seneca” in its sweet, gentle rhythm as the sun ducks to hide muted light behind the dark slate of evening.
I slid over to kiss her goodbye. She pushed me away. Her last words to me:
“God…you smell like cat.”
I think I still enjoyed la petite mort in her memory that evening. Ha! Joke’s on her.
Hey, the best thing about marriage is the fact that there’ll be no more dating. In fact, while I can laugh about it now, there have been some terrible, terrible experiences “out there”, and you’re no different, I’m sure. So for a little self-indulgent fun, I thought I’d put up this little quiz. The better you know me and my history, the better the chance you’ll get it right. I also invite you to post your own stories in the comment section, because misery loves company. Abstinence makes the fond grow harder. A bush in the hand. All that. Let’s PLAY!!!!
…he’s really saying “I need help hiding my tracks better…” because if he never gets caught, he’ll never seek help, right? All these pious perverts are the same. Do what you want with your cock-n-balls, but stop telling other people how to live, asshole.
NOVEMBER 8–A Catholic priest charged with stealing $83,000 from his Massachusetts parish spent a large portion of the money on his pornography habit, according to police.
Rev. Keith LeBlanc, 59, was removed earlier this year from his pastor’s post at St. John the Baptist Church in the face of an investigation by the Archdiocese of Boston. That review (and a subsequent police probe) determined that LeBlanc used church funds to pay for online porn and pay-per-view adult movies ordered from the St. John’s rectory…(more here)
We had exchanged glances at our workplace for a good long while. She was olive-skinned, vaguely exotic, but unmistakably Buffalonian. Obvious as soon as she opened her mouth. And I liked her. The way she chose her dresses from the lunch-lady as business woman rack of Hengerer’s. The way she tried to hide her pretty eyes with all that make-up. You could tell she liked to tan, wrinkled and uneven as she was. Still, there was something…dirty…about her. We worked in different departments, and in the company hierarchy, she was decidedly above me in every way. I don’t think we were supposed to commingle at all, but here we were. All the flirting. All the whimsical suggestions. All the “maybe we could…” Now we sat together, two people brought together by chance and charm, gazing into each other’s eyes in my dingy apartment overlooking Elmwood Avenue.
And I can’t remember her name. But I can tell you we smooched a good long while on my sinking couch. She had children. I had never been with anyone who was a parent. That I knew of. She was perfumed to a fault, and my subtly scented oil-candle was no match. She was a good kisser. Still, for all of her experience, she should have been better at it. There were better kissers at our workplace.
This couch had to be on its 5th owner at least. Three flimsy mattresses, corduroy mustard yellow, sitting atop a stained cheese cloth with all the support of a hockey net, nailed clumsily to a heavy oak frame. Still, the evil with which I had seduced and TAKEN some girl from another department drove me to heights of passion!
So we gave each other the ‘nod’ and “took it to the bedroom” as I had done so many times before (about twice), where my single-sized futon (sans frame) with indecipherable Chinese symbol emblazoned in black awaited. And then, as we hurriedly disrobed, she breathlessly warned me that there was going to be an impediment to our love-making that evening. “Whatever could the matter be?” I wondered, mesmerized by the way her sensibly patterned dress deflected the moonlight. When she answered sheepishly, it never occurred to me that we could (well, SHE could) do other things to make each other (well, ME) happy. Sort of a carnal IOU, ya know? “I’ll get you next time.”
Ah, but hindsight is 20/20, and I was honestly grateful for a chance to perform my magic, and I was far too chivalrous for someone so young. There’s no other way to put it.
I soldiered on. I was, after all, a gentleman. How was I going to broach that jejune topic when she clearly had come to have the naughty Bishop throw a brick through her front window?
So she spread ‘em. And there I saw, for the first time in my life, a string coming out a person’s body. Like one of those party-poppers:
It was a deep, visceral shock. Like an elevator stopping mid-floor. My stomach lurched and twitched. Maybe this is why sex seemed so “The Tin Drum“-esque to me for years after.
Then I let her do the honors. Let’s see. How best to describe the sound.
I’d go with “…sclorch…”.
She got on top. I was torn between laughing and puking. But even though my involuntary mechanism was as robust as ever (heh), I was thinking two things. “Still not bad” and “Don’t look down…”. And as I passed my gray, viscous duchie to the left hand side, I could hear her sigh with disappointment. I didn’t cry that time, but I suppose her trained ear tuned her in to the fact that the game was going to be called due to rain.
And as the prerequisite pillow talk began, I was shocked by her first question.
“So what happened?”
At 21 you don’t have a very big Rolodex of snappy answers. And I still don’t. However, the answer I gave haunted me for years to come.
“I guess you’re just too ugly…”
That did it. She was outta there, barbecued marshmallow in tow (I made her take it). Everything happened so fast, I never got to look at her hindquarters or even her haunches or even her brisket! And we never saw each other again. Which made me wonder if the reason we saw each other at all in the first place was because she made her way up to our offices to see me specifically.
Men, don’t do what I did. I took the fool’s way in. The correct answer was that I was clearly not mentally capable of facilitating such openness between two people. Wherever she is now, I hope she’s happy. maybe she’s on the Facebook. If i could remember her name, I’d look her up. Maybe we could share a fond reminiscence.