Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 14
July 15, 2010
FAST TIMES AT THE MASSAPEQUA MALL
Windows down, Blaupunkt cranked, I was cruisin' in style: a two-tone chocolate brown & cream Mercedes 250 C; REO's "High Infidelity" in the cassette player; my favorite track, "Don't Let Him Go," rattlin' the coaxials . . .
"He's got plenty of cash, he's got plenty of friends.
He drives women wild, then he drives off in a Mercedes Benz . . ."
Didn't have plenty of cash or friends, and the only woman I was driving wild was the one who occupied the bucket seat beside me: my long-suffering girlfriend, Linda. Each weekend, Linda and I would head to Long Island to catch a movie. It was the early '80s, and most of the theaters in our native Queens were ancient, run-down affairs: their best days in the wind. It was the age of the multiplex, and the shopping malls of Long Island were burgeoning with these clean, well-ventilated, cubicle-like multi-theaters: your ass didn't stick to the seats, and man you had options! Six, eight, sometimes twelve flicks to choose from . . . it was paradise! Best part for me tho, was the cruise out in the Benz.
Massapequa, NY: a small, working class town less than 30 miles from Manhattan; infamous as hometown of the "Long Island Lolita," Amy Fisher. Upwardly mobile, yet close enough to the back alleys and elevated train stations of Queens to absorb some attitude. It was here, at a multiplex inside the local mall, that I spent many a Friday night. The Massapequa mall looms large in my consciousness. There are times when I still visit it in my dreams. It's one of those rare places that somehow, in some way, define my youth. Don't know why. Nothing extraordinary ever happened to me there. No sexual exploits in the theater balcony (there was no balcony): just a shitload of movies viewed (over 200 I've been able to document) -- not to mention the mountain of popcorn washed down with enough Diet Coke to float a battleship.
We'd just caught the last showing of "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." Not a bad flick. I had no idea I'd just witnessed a piece of cinematic history: three young actors who'd each cop a gold statue one day (Sean Penn and Nick Cage pulling a deuce) -- not to mention what would become the most iconic scene of a young girl exposing her breasts ever committed to celluloid. (God bless Phoebe Cates!) What I recall most vividly about the evening (even more so than Phoebe's bodacious set), was the strange kinship I felt with the young actors I sat watching on the screen. I felt I too, was destined for stardom.
Several months earlier, I'd boldly quit my job as a specialist clerk on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange (easy to be bold when your ass is sheltered by your parents' roof), and had thrown myself into what I felt was my true calling: that of cartoonist/illustrator. Things were lookin' up. I'd recently broken into the pages of National Lampoon magazine: An estimated 8 million readers a month -- the godamn juggernaut that'd come to be regarded as the very epitome of cutting-edge humor; spawning the likes of "Animal House" and SNL. And that wasn't all . . . me and my two buds -- Tommy Donohue and Francis Romano -- were ridin' the crest of the "NeWave" comix movement. With the backing of one William L. Snyder -- Academy Award winning animator and producer of those old Tom & Jerry cartoons -- we were about to launch our own zine: "Depraved Comix: The Magazine of New Wave Humor." Oh yeah . . .
Tommy, aka "Bubbles," was the best street artist ever to come out of Queens, NY. I remember the first time I laid eyes on one of his pieces -- the image is still seared into my brain. It was a "Jimmy Page" he'd done on the back of a denim with a set of iridescent markers: a demonic "ZoSo" workin' his famous double axe -- the twin guitar necks morphing into serpents; flames dancing and writhing; colors so pure, so intense, it was like staring into the flame of an acetylene torch. And the style . . . all the primitive power of Gaugin, fused with the trippy, cosmic grandeur of Peter Max . . .
And Francis -- don't know whatever became of him. Be he dead or alive. Perhaps living on some uncharted Polynesian isle -- worshipped as a god by flower-crowned, half-naked exotic beauties -- or hooked up to a set of electrodes at the local electro shock clinic. Francis had the most facile, the most brilliant comedic mind I'd ever encountered. Period. With Bubbles in tow, we aspired to set the newly birthed NeWave movement on its ass.
Leaving the theater that night with Linda, I felt good. Feeling good was not something that came easily, or naturally to me. But the future seemed bright. I remembered a bit of dialogue from an old movie I'd once seen: "The Magic Box" -- bio flick of William Friese-Greene, inventor of the motion picture camera. Much like Philo Farnsworth -- the backwoods teen who invented the television for his high school science project (an incredible story if you're not familiar) -- Friese-Greene was ultimately cheated out of the patent for his life-altering invention. The dialogue, as I recalled, was between Friese-Greene and Fox Talbot -- one of the pioneers of still photography . . .
"If you do this," Talbot tells Friese-Greene, still struggling with his invention after many years of trial and error, "Then never again will you ever be completely unhappy."
And so I believed too, as we neared completion of the first issue of our zine, that never again would I ever be completely unhappy. It wasn't until we hit the parking lot, that an odd feeling crept over me. There bathed in the ghostly luminescence of an overhead lamp, was my Mercedes. Oh, I know it sounds shallow, even foolish, but it was beautiful! I'd just treated it to a new coat of Turtle Wax; the rich, brown laquer appearing almost black -- like polished onyx -- under the bright light. An earthy, nubile young German - American beauty at my elbow, and all I lusted for was fine German engineering -- and four coats of rich acrylic laquer.
It was then it hit me. That somehow I'd reached a high point. That a moment like this would not come again. That life was neither long, nor its possibilities infinite. That one day I'd be old, remembering this moment -- like a ghost seen in a rearview mirror.
"What are you thinking about?" Linda asked.
The question seemed intrusive; it bothered me, as Linda's questions so frequently did.
"Think I'll get some new rims for the Mercedes."
Linda wasn't buying it.
"What were you really thinking?"
"That I hope I never get old."
"Everyone gets old."
"That doesn't help me."
The feeling passed as quickly as it had come over me. Linda put some Pat Benatar in the Blaupunkt, and we headed for home -- a stop at the Flagship Diner on Queens Blvd: a couple of their famous bacon cheeseburgers, oozing so much grease and melted cheese that the fries -- equally as grease sodden -- stuck to them. Excellent.
May you never, ever, be completely unhappy.
"He's got plenty of cash, he's got plenty of friends.
He drives women wild, then he drives off in a Mercedes Benz . . ."
Didn't have plenty of cash or friends, and the only woman I was driving wild was the one who occupied the bucket seat beside me: my long-suffering girlfriend, Linda. Each weekend, Linda and I would head to Long Island to catch a movie. It was the early '80s, and most of the theaters in our native Queens were ancient, run-down affairs: their best days in the wind. It was the age of the multiplex, and the shopping malls of Long Island were burgeoning with these clean, well-ventilated, cubicle-like multi-theaters: your ass didn't stick to the seats, and man you had options! Six, eight, sometimes twelve flicks to choose from . . . it was paradise! Best part for me tho, was the cruise out in the Benz.
Massapequa, NY: a small, working class town less than 30 miles from Manhattan; infamous as hometown of the "Long Island Lolita," Amy Fisher. Upwardly mobile, yet close enough to the back alleys and elevated train stations of Queens to absorb some attitude. It was here, at a multiplex inside the local mall, that I spent many a Friday night. The Massapequa mall looms large in my consciousness. There are times when I still visit it in my dreams. It's one of those rare places that somehow, in some way, define my youth. Don't know why. Nothing extraordinary ever happened to me there. No sexual exploits in the theater balcony (there was no balcony): just a shitload of movies viewed (over 200 I've been able to document) -- not to mention the mountain of popcorn washed down with enough Diet Coke to float a battleship.
We'd just caught the last showing of "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." Not a bad flick. I had no idea I'd just witnessed a piece of cinematic history: three young actors who'd each cop a gold statue one day (Sean Penn and Nick Cage pulling a deuce) -- not to mention what would become the most iconic scene of a young girl exposing her breasts ever committed to celluloid. (God bless Phoebe Cates!) What I recall most vividly about the evening (even more so than Phoebe's bodacious set), was the strange kinship I felt with the young actors I sat watching on the screen. I felt I too, was destined for stardom.
Several months earlier, I'd boldly quit my job as a specialist clerk on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange (easy to be bold when your ass is sheltered by your parents' roof), and had thrown myself into what I felt was my true calling: that of cartoonist/illustrator. Things were lookin' up. I'd recently broken into the pages of National Lampoon magazine: An estimated 8 million readers a month -- the godamn juggernaut that'd come to be regarded as the very epitome of cutting-edge humor; spawning the likes of "Animal House" and SNL. And that wasn't all . . . me and my two buds -- Tommy Donohue and Francis Romano -- were ridin' the crest of the "NeWave" comix movement. With the backing of one William L. Snyder -- Academy Award winning animator and producer of those old Tom & Jerry cartoons -- we were about to launch our own zine: "Depraved Comix: The Magazine of New Wave Humor." Oh yeah . . .
Tommy, aka "Bubbles," was the best street artist ever to come out of Queens, NY. I remember the first time I laid eyes on one of his pieces -- the image is still seared into my brain. It was a "Jimmy Page" he'd done on the back of a denim with a set of iridescent markers: a demonic "ZoSo" workin' his famous double axe -- the twin guitar necks morphing into serpents; flames dancing and writhing; colors so pure, so intense, it was like staring into the flame of an acetylene torch. And the style . . . all the primitive power of Gaugin, fused with the trippy, cosmic grandeur of Peter Max . . .
And Francis -- don't know whatever became of him. Be he dead or alive. Perhaps living on some uncharted Polynesian isle -- worshipped as a god by flower-crowned, half-naked exotic beauties -- or hooked up to a set of electrodes at the local electro shock clinic. Francis had the most facile, the most brilliant comedic mind I'd ever encountered. Period. With Bubbles in tow, we aspired to set the newly birthed NeWave movement on its ass.
Leaving the theater that night with Linda, I felt good. Feeling good was not something that came easily, or naturally to me. But the future seemed bright. I remembered a bit of dialogue from an old movie I'd once seen: "The Magic Box" -- bio flick of William Friese-Greene, inventor of the motion picture camera. Much like Philo Farnsworth -- the backwoods teen who invented the television for his high school science project (an incredible story if you're not familiar) -- Friese-Greene was ultimately cheated out of the patent for his life-altering invention. The dialogue, as I recalled, was between Friese-Greene and Fox Talbot -- one of the pioneers of still photography . . .
"If you do this," Talbot tells Friese-Greene, still struggling with his invention after many years of trial and error, "Then never again will you ever be completely unhappy."
And so I believed too, as we neared completion of the first issue of our zine, that never again would I ever be completely unhappy. It wasn't until we hit the parking lot, that an odd feeling crept over me. There bathed in the ghostly luminescence of an overhead lamp, was my Mercedes. Oh, I know it sounds shallow, even foolish, but it was beautiful! I'd just treated it to a new coat of Turtle Wax; the rich, brown laquer appearing almost black -- like polished onyx -- under the bright light. An earthy, nubile young German - American beauty at my elbow, and all I lusted for was fine German engineering -- and four coats of rich acrylic laquer.
It was then it hit me. That somehow I'd reached a high point. That a moment like this would not come again. That life was neither long, nor its possibilities infinite. That one day I'd be old, remembering this moment -- like a ghost seen in a rearview mirror.
"What are you thinking about?" Linda asked.
The question seemed intrusive; it bothered me, as Linda's questions so frequently did.
"Think I'll get some new rims for the Mercedes."
Linda wasn't buying it.
"What were you really thinking?"
"That I hope I never get old."
"Everyone gets old."
"That doesn't help me."
The feeling passed as quickly as it had come over me. Linda put some Pat Benatar in the Blaupunkt, and we headed for home -- a stop at the Flagship Diner on Queens Blvd: a couple of their famous bacon cheeseburgers, oozing so much grease and melted cheese that the fries -- equally as grease sodden -- stuck to them. Excellent.
May you never, ever, be completely unhappy.
July 2, 2010
A HEARTWARMING BEDTIME STORY
Gonna lighten things up a bit. Thought I'd share a little bedtime story my father would sometimes use to lull me to sleep when I was a tot -- if a shot of Yukon Jack and a couple bong hits didn't do the trick. Try it on your little one . . .
Once upon a time, long, long ago, lived a wise king. The king was much-beloved by his subjects, and although a good egg in general, had two very peculiar traits: an insatiable appetite for mutton, and a penchant for sending his knights on strange quests intended to test their resourcefulness and fortitude.
One dark and stormy eve, the king summoned his favorite knight to the throne room.
"Brave knight," said the king, his words muffled by a mouthful of mutton, "I have a quest for thee!"
The knight bowed and braced himself for what was to follow.
"I wish thee to sally forth on this most odious eve and fetch me some ping-pong balls." The king said, chewing noisily on the mutton.
Although the request seemed odd, the loyal knight did not question his wise monarch. Bowing once again, he vowed not to return until securing the objects in question. Donning a suit of shining armor, he mounted his white charger and set off at once amidst the crack of thunder and the flash of lightning.
Days, weeks, months, and finally years passed, but the knight did not return. The king was greatly saddened by the loss of his champion; women wept, and tales and legends sprouted amongst the people about the fate of the brave knight.
Finally, one day as the king sat eating his mutton, there was a violent pounding at the throne room doors. Into the room burst a strange fellow pushing a wheelbarrow. Scarred, bruised and bleeding, the man's wild mane of hair and grizzled beard were caked with mud; his clothes in tatters.
"Sire! Sire!" The man panted, on the verge of collapse, "It is I, your noble knight, returned from my quest!"
The king stopped chewing and regarded the strange man and his wheelbarrow; the contents of which were cloaked in a blanket.
"Brave knight, thou hast returned! But pray tell, what has troubled thee lo these many years? All I asked for were some lousy ping-pong balls!"
Slumping to the floor, the knight looked up at the king wearily, "PING-PONG BALLS???? I THOUGHT YOU SAID KING KONG'S BALLS!!!!"
The moral of the story: ALWAYS question authority!
Once upon a time, long, long ago, lived a wise king. The king was much-beloved by his subjects, and although a good egg in general, had two very peculiar traits: an insatiable appetite for mutton, and a penchant for sending his knights on strange quests intended to test their resourcefulness and fortitude.
One dark and stormy eve, the king summoned his favorite knight to the throne room.
"Brave knight," said the king, his words muffled by a mouthful of mutton, "I have a quest for thee!"
The knight bowed and braced himself for what was to follow.
"I wish thee to sally forth on this most odious eve and fetch me some ping-pong balls." The king said, chewing noisily on the mutton.
Although the request seemed odd, the loyal knight did not question his wise monarch. Bowing once again, he vowed not to return until securing the objects in question. Donning a suit of shining armor, he mounted his white charger and set off at once amidst the crack of thunder and the flash of lightning.
Days, weeks, months, and finally years passed, but the knight did not return. The king was greatly saddened by the loss of his champion; women wept, and tales and legends sprouted amongst the people about the fate of the brave knight.
Finally, one day as the king sat eating his mutton, there was a violent pounding at the throne room doors. Into the room burst a strange fellow pushing a wheelbarrow. Scarred, bruised and bleeding, the man's wild mane of hair and grizzled beard were caked with mud; his clothes in tatters.
"Sire! Sire!" The man panted, on the verge of collapse, "It is I, your noble knight, returned from my quest!"
The king stopped chewing and regarded the strange man and his wheelbarrow; the contents of which were cloaked in a blanket.
"Brave knight, thou hast returned! But pray tell, what has troubled thee lo these many years? All I asked for were some lousy ping-pong balls!"
Slumping to the floor, the knight looked up at the king wearily, "PING-PONG BALLS???? I THOUGHT YOU SAID KING KONG'S BALLS!!!!"
The moral of the story: ALWAYS question authority!
June 28, 2010
PLEASE SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE, GREG GUTFELD!
Does anyone else wish the Red Eye host would stick a sock in it -- or something that rhymes with sock? While I avoid Gutfeld's show like a Jehovah's Witness with hepatitis A, managed to catch him on Huckabee earlier this week (don't ask). Gutfeld, a former editor at Maxim (don't know if I'm more shocked by Gutfeld being an editor; or the fact that Maxim actually uses editors), had his panties in a bunch over the recent firing of General Stanley McChrystal. Gutfeld is one of those "pseudo patriots" -- y'know -- all for sending you and yours off to war, but would be the second guy to have his ass on a plane to Canada, should he be called upon to serve. (And second only, because my precious, white ass would already be in the seat in front of him.)
Gutfeld was whining about what a scumbag the Rolling Stone reporter who wrote the article on McChrystal is -- and even had the gall to snark: "Who reads that magazine (Rolling Stone) anyway?" Hmmmmm? Well Greg, one might ask the same of your former rag. Who the fuck reads Maxim?? Some twenty-something, Jersey Shore rejects who wanna know which protein bar has the fewest carbs -- or maybe sneak a peek at Lucy Liu's camel toe? Seriously Greg, are you gonna argue the case for Maxim vs Rolling Stone when it comes to journalistic excellence? That would be almost as ridiculous as comparing a no-talent, sub-turd like you to Hunter S. Thompson! But let's get back to that McChrystal thing. Whether or not you think the reporter who wrote the article is a snake; or don't care for Jann Wenner's politics, fact is, McChrystal screwed himself.
Why the hell is a 4 star general poppin' off to a reporter from Rolling Stone, like he's John Mayer dishin' the dirt on Jessica Simpson's fellatio skills?? McChrystal showed a stunning lapse in good judgement, not to mention a serious flaw in his cognitive thinking process. And it cost him his job. Period. Apparently the General doesn't know what even a kid from the streets of Queens, New York knows: never let your guard down -- EVER! Given this fact, maybe he wasn't the right guy to be running the war in Afghanistan? (By the way, I hear Petraeus is a pretty good general himself.) Time will tell. In any case, why blame Rolling Stone?? The right to free speech and a free press are the bedrock upon which this country was built. You're a patriot -- right Gutfeld? Ever notice how these same rights are expressly forbidden by the very thugs we're fighting? There's a good reason for it. Give people the right to free speech and a free press and who knows -- democracy may break out.
Gutfeld was whining about what a scumbag the Rolling Stone reporter who wrote the article on McChrystal is -- and even had the gall to snark: "Who reads that magazine (Rolling Stone) anyway?" Hmmmmm? Well Greg, one might ask the same of your former rag. Who the fuck reads Maxim?? Some twenty-something, Jersey Shore rejects who wanna know which protein bar has the fewest carbs -- or maybe sneak a peek at Lucy Liu's camel toe? Seriously Greg, are you gonna argue the case for Maxim vs Rolling Stone when it comes to journalistic excellence? That would be almost as ridiculous as comparing a no-talent, sub-turd like you to Hunter S. Thompson! But let's get back to that McChrystal thing. Whether or not you think the reporter who wrote the article is a snake; or don't care for Jann Wenner's politics, fact is, McChrystal screwed himself.
Why the hell is a 4 star general poppin' off to a reporter from Rolling Stone, like he's John Mayer dishin' the dirt on Jessica Simpson's fellatio skills?? McChrystal showed a stunning lapse in good judgement, not to mention a serious flaw in his cognitive thinking process. And it cost him his job. Period. Apparently the General doesn't know what even a kid from the streets of Queens, New York knows: never let your guard down -- EVER! Given this fact, maybe he wasn't the right guy to be running the war in Afghanistan? (By the way, I hear Petraeus is a pretty good general himself.) Time will tell. In any case, why blame Rolling Stone?? The right to free speech and a free press are the bedrock upon which this country was built. You're a patriot -- right Gutfeld? Ever notice how these same rights are expressly forbidden by the very thugs we're fighting? There's a good reason for it. Give people the right to free speech and a free press and who knows -- democracy may break out.
June 25, 2010
WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO THE LAS VEGAS WEEKLY?
You've really done it this time Dickensheets. Just picked up a copy of the "new & improved" Las Vegas Weekly. I'm stunned. Flabbergasted. I haven't had a visceral reaction to a magazine this bad since High Times put Barbara Bush on the cover. Honestly, your new format is the worst thing that's happened to a local weekly since City Life stopped running Joshua Ellis's column. What's next? A "Queer Eye" makeover for Josh Bell?
What have you done to my beloved Weekly? Why these joyless, sterile, antiseptic pages? What happened to those wild, confused graphics that overloaded the senses like a Jackson Pollock viewed on amyl nitrate poppers? Not only stimulating for the mind, but a delight to the eye! And what of that netherworld of mirth and satire that once inhabited the margins of your glorious rag? Mini-Elvis gleefully plugging a TV on the "Screen" page; or taking a dump atop the book review (this alone should've earned you "Editor of the Year").
Is this really you Scott? -- Or some mechanized, corporate clone, hatched from a pod in Bruce Spotleson's wine cellar? For shame! I can see you now at the Monday morning staff meeting: Swept away by your own megalomania; your soy latte and power tie; feverishly scribbling away on a chalkboard a la Glenn Beck (misspelling the word "autodidactic"). And who will dare challenge you??
Disraeli was right. Change is inevitable -- so are death and taxes. It's one thing to draw a mustache on the Mona Lisa; quite another to turn her into Lady Gaga.
What have you done to my beloved Weekly? Why these joyless, sterile, antiseptic pages? What happened to those wild, confused graphics that overloaded the senses like a Jackson Pollock viewed on amyl nitrate poppers? Not only stimulating for the mind, but a delight to the eye! And what of that netherworld of mirth and satire that once inhabited the margins of your glorious rag? Mini-Elvis gleefully plugging a TV on the "Screen" page; or taking a dump atop the book review (this alone should've earned you "Editor of the Year").
Is this really you Scott? -- Or some mechanized, corporate clone, hatched from a pod in Bruce Spotleson's wine cellar? For shame! I can see you now at the Monday morning staff meeting: Swept away by your own megalomania; your soy latte and power tie; feverishly scribbling away on a chalkboard a la Glenn Beck (misspelling the word "autodidactic"). And who will dare challenge you??
Disraeli was right. Change is inevitable -- so are death and taxes. It's one thing to draw a mustache on the Mona Lisa; quite another to turn her into Lady Gaga.
June 5, 2010
THE ONE ABOUT THE GIRL, THE SAUSAGE & BUKOWSKI
They met each week in the backroom of a dingy writer's bar called "The Blank Page." A ragtag group of aspiring, would-be authors: postal workers, fry cooks, receptionists, insurance salesmen -- all eager for a shot at the literary brass ring. They were supposed to discuss the art of prose -- technique and all that. Tho most nights they just sat around pissing and moaning about how really bad all the stuff on the Times' Best Seller list was -- and how none of them could find an agent. Occasionally someone got up and gave a reading of their work -- but usually it was god awful and no one paid any attention.
The whole scene was pretty depressing, but it gave 'em all a chance to escape the keyboard a couple hours a week. Chavez caught his eye, so he ambled on over and gave him a high-five.
"How they hangin' bro?"
"They're hangin' right where you left 'em."
Chavez gave him a friendly jab in the gut and smiled big -- the neon Corona sign reflecting off his gold tooth. Chavez was one of the few people in the group he could stomach: a pretty good writer who'd completed a collection of short stories, "Mundo Gringo," while serving a bit in prison for carving up some guy with a weed whacker. Another was Brigette La' Marsh: a twenty-two year old poet with curly, strawberry blond hair that spilled down her back like the froth from a ginger ale float -- smoldering green eyes, and a body that Quakers would declare war over.
He ordered up a round and they bullshitted about writing for a while. He'd been working on a gothic-lesbian-vampire novel in the style of Charles Bukowski -- clean; sharp. The kinda prose that went down smooth as a banana daiquiri on a hot, August afternoon. Chavez was giving him an earful about some minimalist, bizarro, techno sci-fi he was reading, when something caught his attention. Over in the corner, Brigette was engrossed in a game of pinball. Sweet Jesus in Heaven! She was wearing a halter top with no bra, and a pair of hip-huggers slung so low, the cleft of her buttocks was visible each time she leaned forward to put some english on the ball. It was enough to give a fossilized caveman wood.
Chavez hooked an arm around his neck, "Look boss, there's somethin' I need to tell you about Brigette . . ."
Chavez hesitated, It wasn't gonna be good.
"I heard that puto Larry talkin' to some a the guys . . ."
"Yeah? . . ."
Chavez took a hit off his beer, "Larry say last week he take Brigette to a poetry reading in Greenwich Village --"
"Who was reading?"
"Ferlinghetti -- I think."
He made a face, "Go on . . ."
"Larry say that later they go back to his place and get drunk -- then he have sex with her."
His stomach suddenly felt as if he'd swallowed a mixture of Draino and antifreeze; then chased it down with some embalming fluid and ground glass.
"I don't believe it . . . NOT Larry!"
Chavez nodded, "I hear him tell Moose how he make her holler all sorta derogatory shit about Hemingway -- how he was a closet queen and had no appreciation for lyricism."
"BASTARD!"
Chavez finished his beer and went back to the bar to order another round. While he waited, Moose stumbled over and tried to bum a cigarette.
"Jesus Christ Moose! How many times do I have to tell ya? I quit smoking six years ago!"
Moose just stood there staring at him. Barely 7 pm and already stewed to the gills. His eyeballs looked like two fried bungholes.
Chavez was back with a pitcher of beer, "Hey Moose. How's your book baby?"
"Almost there cuz . . . Almossst there!"
Eight years ago Moose quit his job at the post office. He moved into his parents' garage and was working on a sci-fi novel in which Mickey Rourke and Ann Coulter were the sole survivors of a nuclear holocaust. He'd written nearly half a million words and still couldn't put an end to it. It was hopeless.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was little Frankie. A couple weeks ago, Moose and Frankie had gotten into a violent argument about the poet Delmore Schwartz. They hadn't spoken since.
"Just wanna let you guys know my wife cooked a big pan of sausage & peppers for the meetin' t'night," Frankie said, squinting up through his bifocals, "I'm askin' everyone ta kick in a buck ta cover the expense."
He and Chavez each antied up a buck. Frankie stashed the bills in his pocket. He stood there staring at Moose.
"Well? . . ."
"Well what?"
"Aren't you gonna chip in for the food?"
"Why should I?"
"'Cause my wife cooked it!"
"I didn't ask 'er to."
Frankie stormed off muttering something underneath his breath.
"I think you hurt his feelings, Moose."
Moose belched loudly and scratched his beer gut. It stuck out of his frayed "Impeach Clinton" T-shirt, and hung over the belt of his khakis like a blob of pizza dough given too much yeast. Moose wore it like a badge of honor. A man hadda suck down some major suds to own a beer gut like that.
Then it was time to start the meeting. Larry, who'd appointed himself moderator, said a few words about the biography of Shecky Green he was working on; then Brigette got up and read one of her poems. Along with being a strict Vegan, Brigette was a staunch supporter of PETA, and the poem was some purple upchuck about murdered baby seals playing with Jesus in Heaven. It was just awful, but her nipples showed through the material of her halter, so no one complained. Brigette finished and everyone applauded. Sylvia Plath she wasn't, but with a rack like that, who cared?
Frankie set up a chafing dish with a sterno for the sausage & peppers so everyone could help themselves -- everyone except Moose, who said he'd rather eat the ass out of a dead bear. Larry, who'd helped himself to a generous portion, noticed him talking with Moose and Chavez.
"Hey Hank! How's that book comin'?" Larry asked, chewing on a mouthful of sausage & peppers.
Larry always referred to him as "Hank" -- it was Bukowski's nickname, and a snipe at his well-known regard for the author.
"Like a porn star on 'X'. How 'bout the Shecky Green book? Moose tells me it's the definitive work on the subject."
Moose and Chavez laughed at a red faced Larry, who seemed slighly agitated by the remark.
"You guys can laugh if you wanna, but Shecky was brilliant -- he used humor as a means of social commentary! Do you know he once put a whooppee cushion on Yasser Arafat's chair at a Weight Watchers meeting?"
"Really?"
Larry was chewing like a pit bull.
"Norman Mailer once called him a genius!"
"Norman Mailer once called his barber a genius."
Moose asked for a cigarette; Chavez gave him a high-five. Larry's face was purple. He'd accidentally swallowed an entire length of sausage and was gasping for air. Served the sonofabitch right.
"He looks pretty bad, Moose. Maybe you should help him out."
Moose got Larry in a bear hug, jammed a balled-up fist into his solar plexus, and applied the Heimlich Maneuver. It took a few attempts, but Larry finally expelled the sausage like a projectile: It landed in a scorpion bowl shared by a gay couple seated across the room.
Moose let go and Larry slumped to the floor; drooling like a cretin.
"Larry, you promised! No more meat! How could you?"
It was Brigette. She loomed over Larry like an enraged lioness. God, she was beautiful when she was pissed!
"But . . . It was only a sausage!" Larry said, pathetically.
Storming over to the bar, Brigette asked the bartender to call a cab.
Chavez nudged him with an elbow, "Go for it boss."
Twelve feet of scuffed, vintage barroom floor seperated them. He would've swam an ocean wrapped in chains if necessary.
"No need for that. I'll be glad to give you a lift, Brige."
She looked at him and smiled, "Really -- you wouldn't mind?"
"Not at all. Matter of fact, we can stop at The Krazy Karrot for a veggie burger if you'd like . . . I'd love to discuss that poem you read tonight."
Outside a big, yellow moon lit the sky above the elevated train tracks. The sound of two alley cats screwing behind a garbage pail out back of the bar could be heard. As they headed for his car, Brigette took hold of his arm. Hell. Sometimes you just got lucky.Horse LatitudesHorse Latitudes
The whole scene was pretty depressing, but it gave 'em all a chance to escape the keyboard a couple hours a week. Chavez caught his eye, so he ambled on over and gave him a high-five.
"How they hangin' bro?"
"They're hangin' right where you left 'em."
Chavez gave him a friendly jab in the gut and smiled big -- the neon Corona sign reflecting off his gold tooth. Chavez was one of the few people in the group he could stomach: a pretty good writer who'd completed a collection of short stories, "Mundo Gringo," while serving a bit in prison for carving up some guy with a weed whacker. Another was Brigette La' Marsh: a twenty-two year old poet with curly, strawberry blond hair that spilled down her back like the froth from a ginger ale float -- smoldering green eyes, and a body that Quakers would declare war over.
He ordered up a round and they bullshitted about writing for a while. He'd been working on a gothic-lesbian-vampire novel in the style of Charles Bukowski -- clean; sharp. The kinda prose that went down smooth as a banana daiquiri on a hot, August afternoon. Chavez was giving him an earful about some minimalist, bizarro, techno sci-fi he was reading, when something caught his attention. Over in the corner, Brigette was engrossed in a game of pinball. Sweet Jesus in Heaven! She was wearing a halter top with no bra, and a pair of hip-huggers slung so low, the cleft of her buttocks was visible each time she leaned forward to put some english on the ball. It was enough to give a fossilized caveman wood.
Chavez hooked an arm around his neck, "Look boss, there's somethin' I need to tell you about Brigette . . ."
Chavez hesitated, It wasn't gonna be good.
"I heard that puto Larry talkin' to some a the guys . . ."
"Yeah? . . ."
Chavez took a hit off his beer, "Larry say last week he take Brigette to a poetry reading in Greenwich Village --"
"Who was reading?"
"Ferlinghetti -- I think."
He made a face, "Go on . . ."
"Larry say that later they go back to his place and get drunk -- then he have sex with her."
His stomach suddenly felt as if he'd swallowed a mixture of Draino and antifreeze; then chased it down with some embalming fluid and ground glass.
"I don't believe it . . . NOT Larry!"
Chavez nodded, "I hear him tell Moose how he make her holler all sorta derogatory shit about Hemingway -- how he was a closet queen and had no appreciation for lyricism."
"BASTARD!"
Chavez finished his beer and went back to the bar to order another round. While he waited, Moose stumbled over and tried to bum a cigarette.
"Jesus Christ Moose! How many times do I have to tell ya? I quit smoking six years ago!"
Moose just stood there staring at him. Barely 7 pm and already stewed to the gills. His eyeballs looked like two fried bungholes.
Chavez was back with a pitcher of beer, "Hey Moose. How's your book baby?"
"Almost there cuz . . . Almossst there!"
Eight years ago Moose quit his job at the post office. He moved into his parents' garage and was working on a sci-fi novel in which Mickey Rourke and Ann Coulter were the sole survivors of a nuclear holocaust. He'd written nearly half a million words and still couldn't put an end to it. It was hopeless.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was little Frankie. A couple weeks ago, Moose and Frankie had gotten into a violent argument about the poet Delmore Schwartz. They hadn't spoken since.
"Just wanna let you guys know my wife cooked a big pan of sausage & peppers for the meetin' t'night," Frankie said, squinting up through his bifocals, "I'm askin' everyone ta kick in a buck ta cover the expense."
He and Chavez each antied up a buck. Frankie stashed the bills in his pocket. He stood there staring at Moose.
"Well? . . ."
"Well what?"
"Aren't you gonna chip in for the food?"
"Why should I?"
"'Cause my wife cooked it!"
"I didn't ask 'er to."
Frankie stormed off muttering something underneath his breath.
"I think you hurt his feelings, Moose."
Moose belched loudly and scratched his beer gut. It stuck out of his frayed "Impeach Clinton" T-shirt, and hung over the belt of his khakis like a blob of pizza dough given too much yeast. Moose wore it like a badge of honor. A man hadda suck down some major suds to own a beer gut like that.
Then it was time to start the meeting. Larry, who'd appointed himself moderator, said a few words about the biography of Shecky Green he was working on; then Brigette got up and read one of her poems. Along with being a strict Vegan, Brigette was a staunch supporter of PETA, and the poem was some purple upchuck about murdered baby seals playing with Jesus in Heaven. It was just awful, but her nipples showed through the material of her halter, so no one complained. Brigette finished and everyone applauded. Sylvia Plath she wasn't, but with a rack like that, who cared?
Frankie set up a chafing dish with a sterno for the sausage & peppers so everyone could help themselves -- everyone except Moose, who said he'd rather eat the ass out of a dead bear. Larry, who'd helped himself to a generous portion, noticed him talking with Moose and Chavez.
"Hey Hank! How's that book comin'?" Larry asked, chewing on a mouthful of sausage & peppers.
Larry always referred to him as "Hank" -- it was Bukowski's nickname, and a snipe at his well-known regard for the author.
"Like a porn star on 'X'. How 'bout the Shecky Green book? Moose tells me it's the definitive work on the subject."
Moose and Chavez laughed at a red faced Larry, who seemed slighly agitated by the remark.
"You guys can laugh if you wanna, but Shecky was brilliant -- he used humor as a means of social commentary! Do you know he once put a whooppee cushion on Yasser Arafat's chair at a Weight Watchers meeting?"
"Really?"
Larry was chewing like a pit bull.
"Norman Mailer once called him a genius!"
"Norman Mailer once called his barber a genius."
Moose asked for a cigarette; Chavez gave him a high-five. Larry's face was purple. He'd accidentally swallowed an entire length of sausage and was gasping for air. Served the sonofabitch right.
"He looks pretty bad, Moose. Maybe you should help him out."
Moose got Larry in a bear hug, jammed a balled-up fist into his solar plexus, and applied the Heimlich Maneuver. It took a few attempts, but Larry finally expelled the sausage like a projectile: It landed in a scorpion bowl shared by a gay couple seated across the room.
Moose let go and Larry slumped to the floor; drooling like a cretin.
"Larry, you promised! No more meat! How could you?"
It was Brigette. She loomed over Larry like an enraged lioness. God, she was beautiful when she was pissed!
"But . . . It was only a sausage!" Larry said, pathetically.
Storming over to the bar, Brigette asked the bartender to call a cab.
Chavez nudged him with an elbow, "Go for it boss."
Twelve feet of scuffed, vintage barroom floor seperated them. He would've swam an ocean wrapped in chains if necessary.
"No need for that. I'll be glad to give you a lift, Brige."
She looked at him and smiled, "Really -- you wouldn't mind?"
"Not at all. Matter of fact, we can stop at The Krazy Karrot for a veggie burger if you'd like . . . I'd love to discuss that poem you read tonight."
Outside a big, yellow moon lit the sky above the elevated train tracks. The sound of two alley cats screwing behind a garbage pail out back of the bar could be heard. As they headed for his car, Brigette took hold of his arm. Hell. Sometimes you just got lucky.Horse LatitudesHorse Latitudes
May 28, 2010
TERROR FROM ACROSS THE POND: LET'S DECLARE WAR ON BP!
I'm an angry man. I go to bed angry and wake up angry. I'm angry when things go my way; angrier still when they don't. But nothing has ever set my blood to boilin' like watching former oil exec John Hofmeister spew his own brand of high-grade corporate BS on Larry King's show earlier this week. Mr. Hofmeister, a former president of Shell Oil, and author of "Why We Hate the Oil Companies" -- (LOL!) had the unmitigated gall to tell Larry (and an absolutely apoplectic James Carville) that we shouldn't be focusing on one li'l ol' well that leaked; (even if it turned the entire Gulf into toxic soup) but rather on the 35,000 that didn't!
Now, I've heard of having brass cojones, but Mr. Hofmeister must be able to play "When the Saints Go Marching in" with his set. I'd like to echo Mr. Carville's response: "Did I hear you right???" Well Mr. Hofmeister, you do have a point. One ecological cataclysm in 35,000 starts certainly ain't a bad record. Not if you're playing the percentages. (Along with human life, the local economy, and an entire ecosystem.) Hey, it's a perfectly legitimate point: Provided of course you're a greedy, souless, mealymouthed corporate bloodsucker who talks out of his sphincter. Ok Mr. Hofmeister, lemme see if I get your logic: Let's say I commit a murder. I could go before the court and make the case that while there are some seven billion people on the planet, I only took the life of one! One out of seven billion!!! Pretty good record -- wouldn't ya say?? Hell, maybe I could even argue that rather than locking me away for life, the court should actually present me with a plaque for being such a conscientious citizen! Don't you agree Mr. Hofmeister? Course you might feel differently if that one person murdered happened to be your wife, or child, or best friend. Then you might see things in a different light -- might see the actual human tragedy, rather than percentages. But hey! Why split hairs?
You're a filthy pig Hofmeister. You and all your big oil corporate cronies: Your corrupt, tea-drinking counterparts at BP, and the scumbags at the MMS who accepted their "gifts" to look the other way when safety measures that would've prevented the current disaster weren't implemented. 9/11 pales in comparison to the damage you and your ilk have inflicted upon the American people. You are the real terrorists. It's not Radical Islam or creeping socialism we truly need to fear: It's big corporations that are destroying this country; polluting the planet, poisoning our children, and decimating the working class. Bernie Madoff got 150 years for his crimes. You and your cronies should be locked away until your corpses turn to dust -- given prison sentences so long your disgraced great grandchildren will have to finish serving them out.
Ask not why we hate the oil companies Mr. Hofmeister. We hate 'em because of assholes like you!
Now, I've heard of having brass cojones, but Mr. Hofmeister must be able to play "When the Saints Go Marching in" with his set. I'd like to echo Mr. Carville's response: "Did I hear you right???" Well Mr. Hofmeister, you do have a point. One ecological cataclysm in 35,000 starts certainly ain't a bad record. Not if you're playing the percentages. (Along with human life, the local economy, and an entire ecosystem.) Hey, it's a perfectly legitimate point: Provided of course you're a greedy, souless, mealymouthed corporate bloodsucker who talks out of his sphincter. Ok Mr. Hofmeister, lemme see if I get your logic: Let's say I commit a murder. I could go before the court and make the case that while there are some seven billion people on the planet, I only took the life of one! One out of seven billion!!! Pretty good record -- wouldn't ya say?? Hell, maybe I could even argue that rather than locking me away for life, the court should actually present me with a plaque for being such a conscientious citizen! Don't you agree Mr. Hofmeister? Course you might feel differently if that one person murdered happened to be your wife, or child, or best friend. Then you might see things in a different light -- might see the actual human tragedy, rather than percentages. But hey! Why split hairs?
You're a filthy pig Hofmeister. You and all your big oil corporate cronies: Your corrupt, tea-drinking counterparts at BP, and the scumbags at the MMS who accepted their "gifts" to look the other way when safety measures that would've prevented the current disaster weren't implemented. 9/11 pales in comparison to the damage you and your ilk have inflicted upon the American people. You are the real terrorists. It's not Radical Islam or creeping socialism we truly need to fear: It's big corporations that are destroying this country; polluting the planet, poisoning our children, and decimating the working class. Bernie Madoff got 150 years for his crimes. You and your cronies should be locked away until your corpses turn to dust -- given prison sentences so long your disgraced great grandchildren will have to finish serving them out.
Ask not why we hate the oil companies Mr. Hofmeister. We hate 'em because of assholes like you!
May 7, 2010
LOVE & SQUALOR (A Belated R.I.P. for J.D. Salinger)
Well, Jerome. It's been months since your passing. Why this sudden twinge of grief? Truthfully, didn't think much of it at the time. If I felt your loss at all it was only in an oblique way: that with your passing (along with Mailer and Updike) a chapter in American literature had truly come to a close (forgive the trite expression). Quite a chapter it was! That whole post-war crew. You were by no means my favorite of the bunch: Irwin Shaw was a better storyteller; Updike more poetic; Mailer the heir to the throne of Hemingway; Kerouac a groundbreaking stylist -- and Cheever, that purveyor of Waspish, New England angst, the best pure writer of the lot.
No, Jerome. You were not the best in breed. Not in my opinion. I even lampooned you in my novel, "Horse Latitudes": you were 'Saul David Kaddish' -- the literary superstar who writes a blockbuster novel; then retires to a bomb shelter (note the metaphor) in Vermont, to spend his remaining years retyping recipes from a German cookbook. And that brings us to the crux of the matter: THAT book. That godamn book! You know the one I'm talking about. I'm not gonna mention it by name. The one that drove you into seclusion (and the royalties from which, allowed you to remain there). The one that's regrettably become a handbook for alienated misanthropes of every stripe. The one that's cast a spell upon virtually every aspiring writer at some point or another (Me too; I admit it!) -- in much the same way Wolfe's, "Look Homeward Angel," did for your generation. And, in much the same way too, so many of us seemed to outgrow.
So what is it then? Why these sudden pangs of remorse? Well, I'll tell ya: it was your magnificent indifference to it all! They laid the crown at your feet. All of 'em . . . the publishers; the critics; even that elitist tribe at 'The New Yorker' -- and you . . . YOU would have none of it! In a gesture as emblematic as Van Gogh cropping his ear; or Rimbaud renouncing poetry to run guns in Africa, you turned your back on all the "Phonies" -- went off to the wilds of New Hampshire to write words for your eyes alone; reminded us all that being a writer means more than simply being an "author." (Even a best-selling author!) There will never be another like you. And it is for this reason, Jerome, that you will always occupy a place in this writer's heart.
No, Jerome. You were not the best in breed. Not in my opinion. I even lampooned you in my novel, "Horse Latitudes": you were 'Saul David Kaddish' -- the literary superstar who writes a blockbuster novel; then retires to a bomb shelter (note the metaphor) in Vermont, to spend his remaining years retyping recipes from a German cookbook. And that brings us to the crux of the matter: THAT book. That godamn book! You know the one I'm talking about. I'm not gonna mention it by name. The one that drove you into seclusion (and the royalties from which, allowed you to remain there). The one that's regrettably become a handbook for alienated misanthropes of every stripe. The one that's cast a spell upon virtually every aspiring writer at some point or another (Me too; I admit it!) -- in much the same way Wolfe's, "Look Homeward Angel," did for your generation. And, in much the same way too, so many of us seemed to outgrow.
So what is it then? Why these sudden pangs of remorse? Well, I'll tell ya: it was your magnificent indifference to it all! They laid the crown at your feet. All of 'em . . . the publishers; the critics; even that elitist tribe at 'The New Yorker' -- and you . . . YOU would have none of it! In a gesture as emblematic as Van Gogh cropping his ear; or Rimbaud renouncing poetry to run guns in Africa, you turned your back on all the "Phonies" -- went off to the wilds of New Hampshire to write words for your eyes alone; reminded us all that being a writer means more than simply being an "author." (Even a best-selling author!) There will never be another like you. And it is for this reason, Jerome, that you will always occupy a place in this writer's heart.
April 23, 2010
TEA OR SYMPATHY?
Let me make one thing perfectly clear (to borrow a phrase from Dick Nixon) -- I have nothing against the Tea Party. Heck, if a buncha old coots wanna get together on a Saturday afternoon: take back their country; rant against big government and socialism; maybe burn a black man in effigy -- so be it. Afterall, they're old and it's good for 'em to get out of the house. But let's not be hypocritical here folks . . .
Don't like big government Grandpa?? Hey, tear up that Social Security check! (You'd think the word "social" would be reason enough?)
Not a socialist Granny?? Say thanks but no thanks Medicare -- I'll pay for my own medz and doctor visits!
Really guys, I know you're bored, and thanks to those frequent trips to the clinic on the government's dime, have plenty of time to look forward to -- but what's wrong with a friendly game of shuffleboard? Or knitting a sweater for the grandkid? Or how about building a gun rack for all those automatic weapons you bought on Ted Nugent's website? Why not leave overthrowing the government to big corporations who do it with bribes rather than bullets? Why not leave it to the professionals? It's much neater that way and no one gets hurt -- unless of course you happen to work for one of those big corporations . . . but don't even get me started . . .
Don't like big government Grandpa?? Hey, tear up that Social Security check! (You'd think the word "social" would be reason enough?)
Not a socialist Granny?? Say thanks but no thanks Medicare -- I'll pay for my own medz and doctor visits!
Really guys, I know you're bored, and thanks to those frequent trips to the clinic on the government's dime, have plenty of time to look forward to -- but what's wrong with a friendly game of shuffleboard? Or knitting a sweater for the grandkid? Or how about building a gun rack for all those automatic weapons you bought on Ted Nugent's website? Why not leave overthrowing the government to big corporations who do it with bribes rather than bullets? Why not leave it to the professionals? It's much neater that way and no one gets hurt -- unless of course you happen to work for one of those big corporations . . . but don't even get me started . . .
March 31, 2010
VEGAS REALITY SHOWS I'D LIKE TO SEE
ROMAN POLANSKI'S HOT TUB PARTY . . . The title says it all! Direct from the Palms hotel & casino, Polanski critiques some of Hollywood's most celebrated films, while sodomizing a drugged and unwilling underage girl. Get ready for some hot tag team action, when Polanski is joined by celebrity pals Jack Nicholson and Woody Allen -- and special "guest fluffer" Debra Winger. Hey, just keep telling yourself it's not "rape," rape. (Right Whoopi?)
LEAVE IT TO QADDAFI . . . What happens when a Middle East tyrant and religous fanatic decides to chuck it all and open a tattoo parlor in Sin City?? Hijinx ensue when Moammar "Daffy" Qaddafi hits the Las Vegas Strip like a suitcase nuke! Watch as he talks Lindsay Lohan into getting a "Death to the Infidels" tramp stamp; rides his camel through the Starbucks drive-up; and threatens to behead an insolent buffet server . . . and just wait til you meet those wacky newlywed neighbors! (Joy Behar and Kim Jong-il.)
PARANOID CONSPIRACY THEORIES WITH CHARLIE SHEEN . . . Each week a drug-addled Charlie Sheen gives a sixty minute rant about a nonexistent conspiracy while snorting cocaine off a stripper's ass. Forget about who really knocked down the Twin Towers Charlie. We'd like to know why you still have a frigging career?
MY AMIGO GEORGE! . . . "Muchas Gracias!" Is what you'll say, when President George Bush gives some lucky, undocumented worker the day off and performs his job duties. In the pilot episode, Dubya hands out fliers for an escort service on the Strip, washes dishes at a trendy, non-union Vegas eatery, and builds a deck on Dick Cheney's Lake Mead summer retreat.
VINCE NEIL'S LOOZA-PALOOZA . . . Who'd a thought a bloated, middle-aged ex-rock star could still look so good in eyeliner and Spandex?? Vince teams up with fellow has-beens like David Lee Roth and the drummer from the Dave Clark Five (Tommy in rehab) and rocks frat parties and boat shows all over Vegas. Let's face it Vince, you're six months away from opening a "theme" restaurant and a stint on Celebrity Rehab.
MISTY CROSLIN: SIN CITY AU PAIR . . . She'll chain-smoke her way into your heart!! Each week Misty babysits the rugrats of Las Vegas, while modeling the latest in lingerie from Victoria's Secret. The tykes really get an education as Misty shows 'em just where the horse bit her -- and talk about an interesting tatoo: issat really the guy from ZZ Top's beard?? Hey kids! Ready for some arts & crafts? Watch as Misty teaches the tots how to roll a blunt -- and shows 'em the correct form when doing a keg stand. After a long day, the kids get to flake out on an air mattress, while Misty reads them a bedtime story from her favorite book: "Deliverance." The fun really starts when the tykes turn up missing. I don't care what they say Misty. You can move into my trailer anytime!
TOP MEN'S ROOM ATTENDANT . . . Forget those self-absorbed, meglomaniacal celebrity chefs! It's time we paid homage to the true unsung heroes of Las Vegas -- the men's room attendants. Contestants are judged on a broad spectrum of skills, ranging from speed-loading a multiple-roll toilet paper dispensor; to performing jumping jacks in a bio-hazard suit. Celebrity judges include members of the U.S. Senate, and that idiot from Wham.
LEAVE IT TO QADDAFI . . . What happens when a Middle East tyrant and religous fanatic decides to chuck it all and open a tattoo parlor in Sin City?? Hijinx ensue when Moammar "Daffy" Qaddafi hits the Las Vegas Strip like a suitcase nuke! Watch as he talks Lindsay Lohan into getting a "Death to the Infidels" tramp stamp; rides his camel through the Starbucks drive-up; and threatens to behead an insolent buffet server . . . and just wait til you meet those wacky newlywed neighbors! (Joy Behar and Kim Jong-il.)
PARANOID CONSPIRACY THEORIES WITH CHARLIE SHEEN . . . Each week a drug-addled Charlie Sheen gives a sixty minute rant about a nonexistent conspiracy while snorting cocaine off a stripper's ass. Forget about who really knocked down the Twin Towers Charlie. We'd like to know why you still have a frigging career?
MY AMIGO GEORGE! . . . "Muchas Gracias!" Is what you'll say, when President George Bush gives some lucky, undocumented worker the day off and performs his job duties. In the pilot episode, Dubya hands out fliers for an escort service on the Strip, washes dishes at a trendy, non-union Vegas eatery, and builds a deck on Dick Cheney's Lake Mead summer retreat.
VINCE NEIL'S LOOZA-PALOOZA . . . Who'd a thought a bloated, middle-aged ex-rock star could still look so good in eyeliner and Spandex?? Vince teams up with fellow has-beens like David Lee Roth and the drummer from the Dave Clark Five (Tommy in rehab) and rocks frat parties and boat shows all over Vegas. Let's face it Vince, you're six months away from opening a "theme" restaurant and a stint on Celebrity Rehab.
MISTY CROSLIN: SIN CITY AU PAIR . . . She'll chain-smoke her way into your heart!! Each week Misty babysits the rugrats of Las Vegas, while modeling the latest in lingerie from Victoria's Secret. The tykes really get an education as Misty shows 'em just where the horse bit her -- and talk about an interesting tatoo: issat really the guy from ZZ Top's beard?? Hey kids! Ready for some arts & crafts? Watch as Misty teaches the tots how to roll a blunt -- and shows 'em the correct form when doing a keg stand. After a long day, the kids get to flake out on an air mattress, while Misty reads them a bedtime story from her favorite book: "Deliverance." The fun really starts when the tykes turn up missing. I don't care what they say Misty. You can move into my trailer anytime!
TOP MEN'S ROOM ATTENDANT . . . Forget those self-absorbed, meglomaniacal celebrity chefs! It's time we paid homage to the true unsung heroes of Las Vegas -- the men's room attendants. Contestants are judged on a broad spectrum of skills, ranging from speed-loading a multiple-roll toilet paper dispensor; to performing jumping jacks in a bio-hazard suit. Celebrity judges include members of the U.S. Senate, and that idiot from Wham.
March 12, 2010
"TWITTER" HIGHLIGHTS
Finally took the plunge and went on Twitter. After several weeks of "tweeting" have a grand total of 14 followers, (lost 2) was "blocked" by a literary agent whom I insulted, (no need to thank me) and have a whole new appreciation for Facebook.
For those of you too smart to waste time with Diablo Cody tweeting about her chihuahua, or are simply not interested in an adult film star getting her butthole bleached, here are some highlights:
-- Louis Farrakhan taken aboard UFO. Can see future: Obama 1 term prez; USA destroyed by fire & brimstone; Jheri Curl popular again.
-- Govt survey spent 219k to find out if college girl more likely to have sex after drinking. Could've just slipped her a roofie.
-- New episode of Jersey Shore: Gang discovers fire & learns 2 use blunt instruments. Snookie attends T party; uses Glenn Beck's testicles as tanning goggles.
-- Watching movie. Steven Seagal so fat he's wearing Buddha around neck. Not medallion. Actual philosopher.
-- Pope thumbs down on condom use. Can't get an altar boy pregnant.
-- Joke: Whattaya call a bus load of YA novelists going off a cliff? A: A good start.
-- Did I Say "Elevator music for a narcoleptic" ??? Got title for next short story collection.
-- How 'bout Palin/Joe the Plumber in 2012? I'll swim to China with a liberal Democrat under each arm.
-- Joe the Plumber all for "conservatism" -- but can't pronounce it.
-- Sarah Palin: "Writing on hand poor man's teleprompter." Nah-uh Sarah. Just dumb white girl's.
-- New slogan: Toyota -- Ain't NO stoppin' us now!!!
-- That's no girl! That's me!! (Waving.)
-- Academy Awards: Was that Steve Martin or Mr. Magoo?
-- Sean Hannity sponsored by "Preparation H" -- can't make this stuff up.
-- Cameron loses best director; picture. Looking forward to next film project working with sock puppets.
-- Has Tom Hanks been smokin' Woody Harrelson's tux??
-- LI, NY woman pays 20k to have hubby rubbed-out. Gives hitman $500 deposit but insists on receipt for tax purposes.
-- "Horse Latitudes" outa stock blues continue. Amazon sez publisher to blame. Publisher sez Amazon. Right nut, left nut, dick in the middle (me).
Have a great weekend -- Quinn
For those of you too smart to waste time with Diablo Cody tweeting about her chihuahua, or are simply not interested in an adult film star getting her butthole bleached, here are some highlights:
-- Louis Farrakhan taken aboard UFO. Can see future: Obama 1 term prez; USA destroyed by fire & brimstone; Jheri Curl popular again.
-- Govt survey spent 219k to find out if college girl more likely to have sex after drinking. Could've just slipped her a roofie.
-- New episode of Jersey Shore: Gang discovers fire & learns 2 use blunt instruments. Snookie attends T party; uses Glenn Beck's testicles as tanning goggles.
-- Watching movie. Steven Seagal so fat he's wearing Buddha around neck. Not medallion. Actual philosopher.
-- Pope thumbs down on condom use. Can't get an altar boy pregnant.
-- Joke: Whattaya call a bus load of YA novelists going off a cliff? A: A good start.
-- Did I Say "Elevator music for a narcoleptic" ??? Got title for next short story collection.
-- How 'bout Palin/Joe the Plumber in 2012? I'll swim to China with a liberal Democrat under each arm.
-- Joe the Plumber all for "conservatism" -- but can't pronounce it.
-- Sarah Palin: "Writing on hand poor man's teleprompter." Nah-uh Sarah. Just dumb white girl's.
-- New slogan: Toyota -- Ain't NO stoppin' us now!!!
-- That's no girl! That's me!! (Waving.)
-- Academy Awards: Was that Steve Martin or Mr. Magoo?
-- Sean Hannity sponsored by "Preparation H" -- can't make this stuff up.
-- Cameron loses best director; picture. Looking forward to next film project working with sock puppets.
-- Has Tom Hanks been smokin' Woody Harrelson's tux??
-- LI, NY woman pays 20k to have hubby rubbed-out. Gives hitman $500 deposit but insists on receipt for tax purposes.
-- "Horse Latitudes" outa stock blues continue. Amazon sez publisher to blame. Publisher sez Amazon. Right nut, left nut, dick in the middle (me).
Have a great weekend -- Quinn
