steve perry

Snot Wars! (Why I Shouldn’t Write Science Fiction) and More Observations of the Unwashed

1 Comment

Americans are obsessed with hygiene.  For the most part that’s a good obsession unless you go overboard with it, as my friend Sheena (not my mentally challenged Husky mix, but another Sheena) points out.  There’s a difference between showering daily, brushing and flossing one’s teeth twice a day, using a good mouthwash, putting on clean clothes every morning, and going around huffing mothballs or picking strange people’s hair out of bathtub drains.  I don’t know where TLC finds the weirdos for the My Strange Addiction show.   Maybe back in the ’80’s  I should have gotten help for my Steve Perry obsession and my excessive use of Aquanet, but I think both of those addictions were pretty much considered normal back then.  We didn’t have all the interesting stuff to do back then.  Cable TV meant you had 13 channels.  Dad always sprang for HBO so we had movies too, but even TV wasn’t the 24/7 freak fest that is available today. No COPS, no World’s Dumbest, no pecker pump infomercials.   There was no Internet (at least not for the unwashed masses) back in 1986.  The only computers I’d ever used back then were highly unreliable, had less memory than most of today’s cell phones, there was no such thing as Windows, and the disc drive was a cassette tape.   Cell phones were only for the mega-rich, and even then they had almost no range- and were tethered to the inside of a car. 

Today I could see myself overloading on Chanel #5 for example, but that stuff smells good, and not having much of a sense of smell, I tend to load up a bit heavy on cologne if I’m not careful.  I still have a bit of the Steve Perry obsession, but even an old cougar has to have some sort of fantasy life.

I might have impossible dreams about an older guy who is likely not nearly as hot as he was back in 1981 or thereabouts, but I’m not as bad as Anna Nicole-

Love? or Money?  Ewww!

It’s one thing to have fantasies about a guy who’s 20 years older than me who was incredibly hot 30 years ago.  It’s quite another to suck face with a guy who’s 50 years older than me and who was never hot, but has a lot of cash.  Then again, I don’t know how much money it takes to make it acceptable to suck face with a pruny, toothless old dude.  I hope I never have to figure that one out.

I find it incredibly icky on the occasions I have to snake my own bathtub and/or bathroom sink drains.  I know it’s probably not terribly environmentally sound, but I’d rather run the DRANO through them before they get to the point where the only way the tub will drain is if I snake out gobs and gobs of unspeakable smelly hair tangled up in pasty goopy blecch- and then still have to run the DRANO through. There is nothing I would find addicting about either snaking the drains or running the DRANO through them, unless it would be the end result of actually having shower water and/or toothbrushing leavings make it down the drains.

I am at least reaching a point of detenté in the Snot Wars.  I found this really cool stuff called Sinus Plumber that pretty much does exactly what it says.   I am generally skeptical of anything that claims to be “all natural-” just because it’s all natural does not mean a product is either safe or effective.   I could put some all natural fire up my nose and I don’t think that would be either safe or effective.  I can think of a good number of all-natural lethal things- cyanide, arsenic, snake venom, shark bites, Ebola, the list goes on and on.  However, the Sinus Plumber stuff does work.  It does burn a slight bit, but it also leaves one with the refreshing scent of wintergreen- and a lot less snot. 

I also do the sinus rinse twice a day.  It isn’t fun but it does rinse out a lot of the snot and it does rinse out a lot of the things that I’m likely allergic to.

Then to add to the adventure, and to increase the possibility of some relief for my interminable snots, I’ve been taking the 24 hour generic Allegras (fexofenadine) which seem to be- after a couple of weeks of taking them every day- working better than the Claritin-Ds. 

I still have to sleep at about a 45° angle to keep from choking, but at least now I’m sleeping, which is an improvement.  My outlook is getting better with the more shut-eye I can muster. I think I’ve moved beyond wanting to throttle anyone today, or falling asleep at my desk, but it’s only 1:30.

I had to take Steve-o to the Walmart (not the Walmart of the infamous Quest for Pennzoil- this one is Marion)  to cash a check Saturday (long story) which meant that we had to go to the Customer Service Desk (Customer Torture Area is more like it.)  To be fair, this Walmart is less odious than most in that the team members speak English (at least the redneck dialect thereof) as a first language.  When we got to the desk the fan was running and the poor cashier had her turtleneck pulled up over her nose.

“Man, I’m not trying to be rude, but the guy in here before you really reeked!,” the poor girl mumbled through her shirt, “It’s so bad I can taste that nasty!”

He got his check cashed, and I wished her a better smelling rest of the day.

I really felt bad for her.  When I worked in rural Chevy dealerships we dealt with hog farmers (or should I call them pork producers?) who would come in to buy stuff for their trucks- whilst still knee deep in pig shit.  There are few things (that I can smell) that smell bad enough and strong enough to make me want to puke, but pig shit is one of them.   The only reason I can think of as to why they didn’t at least change their boots before going out in public is that being a hog farmer, one probably gets to the point where pig shit no longer smells.  Thankfully I kept a big old bottle of Lysol spray behind the counter and then as soon as they left I would douche the place thoroughly with it.  Maybe that’s where the idea to use Lysol cleaner for feminine hygiene came from.  I certainly hope not, but it wouldn’t surprise me. 

This should not be confused with

This!

I do know of a few people for whom the Lysol cleaner-as-body-wash might not be a bad idea though.  It does get the crusty shit off the linoleum floors pretty good.

 

 

Observations of the Great Unwashed, and The Mind is the First Thing to Go

Leave a comment

I’ve always been a bit scatterbrained.  My brain does not generally work like a flow chart.  Somehow I go from point A to point F and it usually ends up making sense in the end, but where I got the idea to skip all the points in between I don’t know.   I make some really strange connections that are logical to me but to no one else.  I wouldn’t call it ADHD, because I can truly focus and be detailed- perhaps too much so- when necessity calls for a high level of detail.   I get lost in details very easily if I’m not careful.  But in the normal course of life I have my own personal scribbled mental shorthand that serves as a sort of guide to daily activity. 

This tendency to skip ahead in the logical progression of things sometimes leads to forgetting and/or misplacing things.  I know I should probably slow down or write things down or something like that, but I am not a very good planner by nature.  I always have way too much to do and I wonder how I get any of it done.  I know how easily plans get screwed up and then you end up having to improvise anyway.  For good or for ill, most days I’m winging it.  I think Steve-o has inherited the same characteristic- forgetting those little details, like socks.  Few things are funnier than an adult male (with birdy narrow feet) in purple Hello Kitty socks:

At least someone had a spare pair of socks that didn’t smell like fermented cow shit like the ones he had worn the previous two days.

I’m sort of pissed off that I lost my Skullcandy headphones that I’ve had for about 3 years (a record for me and headphones, as I lose them often) and I had to buy a new set.  The new ones are nice- but I have no freaking clue where in the hell my other set ended up. 

Then there’s the Fanny incident.  I know Fanny tries to get out, and I usually have no problem keeping her in because she’s both big and slow.   Yes, I was sleep-deprived in a bad way and just plain crispy Thursday night, but it’s no excuse.  My ineptitude and oversight  is not worth a dead cat. I know the next time I go to the pet food joint (probably tomorrow) that I am going to have to get her a collar and tag- with a bell- and she will wear it even though I know she hates collars and I will get several weeks’ worth of stink-eye over it.  Cats are vindictive creatures, and Fanny is no exception.  If she were like the other two cats who have absolutely no interest in the World Beyond the Door, then I wouldn’t need to do it.  Perhaps with a bell on I will be able to hear as well as see her.

Sometimes I go digging either in my room or in my purse and I find stuff I didn’t realize I had.  That’s just plain wrong.  I don’t know if I am becoming forgetful simply because I have been  chronically sleep-deprived and constantly running at full bore for such a long time, or because senility is setting in.  I don’t sleep well and haven’t for years because my sinuses drain 24/7.  I have to sleep on a 45° angle (picture a large wedge pillow, because this is what I have to use) to keep from choking to death on my own snot.  It’s better to live with the constant drainage, because if they don’t drain, they get infected and inflamed and I can’t breathe at all. 

NNo one should ever have to worry about choking to death on snot, but I have to.

I guess choking on snot would be a better way to go than ODing and croaking on the crapper like Elvis, or ODing on dog anesthetic like Michael Jackson (Propofol is actually one of the better dog anesthetics because it is metabolized quickly, and can be used on dogs that are sensitive to other anesthetic agents, BUT, even in dogs respiration has to be strictly monitored because one of Propofol’s side effects is that it can stop breathing) or ODing and drowning in the bathwater like Whitney Houston, but I really don’t want to go that way.   I don’t think I’ll be ODing on anything voluntarily, but one of my deepest and most primal fears is being suffocated to death.  I blame my sadistic oldest sister for that one, as well as for my inability to eat or drink after other people- especially blood relatives.  No I will not take a bite off the fork that you stuck in your filthy mouth and slobbered all over.  Not until it has been duly sanitized.   To this day if you take a swig off of my pop bottle, you own it.  I don’t  want it back.  Ever.  Even if you swear you don’t backwash.  I refuse to consciously swap saliva (and whatever else is in the backwash you leave behind) with anyone.  Not the old man, not my son, and probably not even Steve Perry, should he ever have the opportunity to hijack my Diet Dr. Pepper. 

At least I am not as OCD as Mom.  She is one of those people who refuses to touch the inside door handle in a public bathroom, and she still believes you can get VD from a toilet seat.

Maybe not so much VD, but let’s hope that is some sturdy plastic going on there.

I had to take a picture of this sign the other day. It was sort of depressing though, because as I thought about it, no I can’t remember when the last time was, and I am not talking about flowers.  I’m not sure if Clinton or Bush II was President.   I am a pathetic specimen for sure.

Duct Tape, Bad Body Work and More Unsolicited Parenting Advice

3 Comments

Oh, how I love examples of creative body work.  It seems the Kroger parking lot has yet again yielded me rich comedic fodder.  I wonder if the duct tape is simply holding the front fascia on or if the unfortunate owner of this POS is asking duct tape to do more than it was ever intended to do.  I don’t think the celebrated silver strapping would be terribly effective as a weatherstrip, so whoever is sitting in the driver’s seat better be prepared for a wet butt on rainy days. 

I have driven things worse than this, but not by much, and that was a very long time ago.  When the air was dirty, sex was clean, and Steve Perry looked awesome in Spandex.

Last night I was treated to an impromptu road trip to Cincinnati to pick up Steve-o.  I was also reminded why I don’t buy used cars with the exception (and I wouldn’t do it now because leasing is not a good option for me any more) of my own lease returns.  He bought that tasty Audi he was eyeballing forever back in September, and it appeared to be well-maintained.  He did his research and inspections and for all intents and purposes it seemed to be a good solid ride.   For what mysterious reason I have absolutely no clue, he decided to have the ECM flashed to change the presets- the things that motorheads will do in the name of performance- only to have the clutch plate fall apart on it as they were pulling back into the shop.  It was an interesting failure- the pressure plate springs were bent, the disc itself was warped and missing pieces of lining, and the rear main seal was leaking to top it all off.  Then again anyone who replaces a clutch without doing a rear main and input shaft seal is a bloody fool.

Pity be on those technicians, as putting a clutch in an all wheel drive car (worse than a 4X4 truck by all accounts) with a longitudinal engine (longitudinal: the crankshaft runs from the front of the car to the back, rather than transverse which is side to side- most front wheel drive cars have transverse engines) is no easy task.  I really pity them if Steve-o doesn’t get his car back tomorrow after paying the extra freight to get his clutch goodies overnight. 

I figure after 20 years I might not get stuck being his deus ex machina every time he gets in a spot, but at least I’m not paying for this repair work. I got off easy just having to get him and Spencer and cart them back as far as Columbus.

As the return roadtrip progressed and I treated the boys to dinner at Taco Bell (I am still paying for that 5 layer beefy burrito, but where else can three people eat for $17?) the conversation somehow turned to creepy things. 

Dad and Spencer had the misfortune of meeting up with the male biological contributor of Steve-o’s DNA at a car show last summer.  He thinks Spencer is Steve-o.  That’s fine with me.  It’s also fine with me that I didn’t have to witness his transformation into Jabba the Hut.  Jerry has his faults, but he would never be mistaken for livestock or for a beached whale.  Apparently my illustrious ex has gotten a tad bit portly in the past 16 years.  However, the way Spencer described him, it sounds as if he’s munched and pieced and gorged himself into the “morbidly obese” category.  Sad thing, that, especially because I can remember a time when he was not only thin, but obsessed with remaining so.  I wonder what the hell happened – for a minute- but in the grand scheme of things, since I don’t have to pay for his chow, replace the furniture, smell him, or clean up after him, I could pretty much care less.

Any dude with a swinging johnson (one that works anyway… but I really don’t want to go into my musings on the sad and deprived world of ED) can be the male contributor of a child’s DNA.  That doesn’t take brains.  I am sure that if one were to investigate the number of convicted felons, chronic government moochers, correctional institute inmates, and so on that it could be proven that some of these low lifes have sired many offspring.  There are plenty of “baby daddies” out there who have done absolutely nothing to contribute to the physical, emotional or spiritual maintenance and growth of their offspring.  For these types of scrounge puppies I have nothing but contempt. 

Granted, it can also be said that it is in a woman’s best interest to scope out and screen any potential breeding partners so that only the gainfully employed and nominally vertical and breathing get through, but it doesn’t always work out that way.  Sometimes decent women for whatever reason end up procreating with the scum of the earth.  It happens, especially for those naive enough to “listen to the heart” instead of being like my oldest sister and examining the dude’s bank statement and earning potential before getting emotionally involved.  Then again some of us can pick and choose while others of us don’t have that kind of luxury.  Hindsight being what it is I should have simply gone to the “lives alone with cats (and dogs)” step, but life is to be lived and learned.  The difference between ignorance and stupidity is in learning from one’s mistakes.

I have confidence that Steve-o will be more than just a sperm donor.  He better be.  Or I will kick his ass.

 

Entropy in Practical Application, All is Vanity, and Balance?

3 Comments

Castles made of sand slip to the sea, but ill-maintained redneck houses are reclaimed by the swamp.   Entropy in action!  I think these guys thought they were going to put in a pool right next to the house.  It’s hard to see from this angle, but they dug a giant hole right next to the house for some mysterious reason.  Then the whole house started caving in and they filled in the hole again.   I’ll bet there’s not a level floor in that place, no running water, and there’s a roach colony of millions, but the satellite and big screen are working just fine.  Until the house falls in on the plasma TV, that is.  Central Ohio is all one big drained swamp.  Compromise your foundation at your peril.

I am one of those people who is all about practical application.  I seldom read fiction for that reason. I like a good story, but is it true?  Is there a practical lesson in it, or is there at least something funny, gross or macabre in it?  When I was much younger and had a lot more time on my hands, I read almost everything I could get my hands on- bodice rippers, porn-without-the-pictures, mystery-especially Agatha Christie, most of Stephen King’s novels, most of Tolkien’s works, but even then the bulk of my reading material consisted of my usual standards- scientific and historical non-fiction.

Sadly I’ve not read a fictional novel in years.  I really should broaden my horizons, and I would if I had more time for recreational reading.

I do read the Bible.  I really understand what the Teacher of Ecclesiastes was talking about.  Sometimes life seems futile and pointless and I feel like Sisyphus – I have to roll the boulder up the mountain every day only to wake up the next day and do the same pointless tasks over and over.  There truly is no satisfaction under the sun.  I get frustrated, lonely, tired and broke- and for what?  The only hope that there is purpose in life lies in the realization that it’s God’s plan and that there is a deeper meaning to life than just endless repetition and monotonous drudgery.  Sometimes it’s just really hard to see.

I couldn’t resist taking a pic of this bumper sticker, even though I managed to get my own reflection in the pic.  I have to amuse myself somehow.

On a much brighter note, the Journey show last Friday was beyond awesome.  I am a huge Journey fan and would love nothing more than to send myself back 30 years to be backstage with Steve Perry- believe that- but I am also a realist.  It’s not 1981.  Steve Perry is of the over 60 crowd, hip replacement and all.  As much as I would love to see him, and hear The Voice live, I don’t think he is physically able to tour and endure all that.  Arnel Pineda is worth seeing and hearing in his own right, and I don’t think I have ever heard Neal Schon or Jonathan Cain play better.  Journey 2011 is still very, very good.  I absolutely loved “Edge of the Moment,” which is one of the new songs from Eclipse.  I only wish they would have had time to play “Resonate” from Eclipse also, but if they would have played everything I would have wanted to hear they’d been playing all night and that’s simply not feasible- especially considering these guys are getting up in years.  Pity.

I only encountered two people who understood the t-shirt I wore to the show that says, “Neal Schon Afro Society” and has a pic of Neal from about 1977 with that ridiculous poofy ‘fro he had back then. (see the cover of Next to see what I mean- Neal is the one on the left)   But today I understand very well that a 56 year old guy with black hair is going to be coloring his hair, and the less hair one has the easier it is to keep it all one color.   Besides, a 23 year old guy looks dorky with a ‘fro like that.  A guy more than twice that age would look like Flippo the Clown with a ‘fro like that.  The ’70’s- I must say the hair and clothes were bad- but the music (grandiose, funky, fusion based rock, anyway) was good.

The nice part about this show was that everything was worth watching.  At no time did I feel compelled to make a run for snackies or to go to the john out of boredom!  Night Ranger was excellent- I particularly enjoyed Deen Castronuevo coming out to play drums during “Sister Christian.”  They also did a most wonderful rendition of Damn Yankees’ “High Enough”- even without Ted Nugent.  Foreigner was impressive as well- especially “Dirty White Boy” and “Jukebox Hero.”

You can’t turn back time, but you can learn to enjoy the moment for what it is.  I know some people might have been disappointed because they expected to see everything exactly as it was in the Big 80’s.  In some ways it was all that and more- perhaps with some different faces or arrangements or a few new twists, but who or what can remain the same forever?  Entropy, my friends- everything is moving ever closer to disorder and chaos. My boobs are heading a bit further south every day.  That’s a lovely thought.  Pink Floyd- in rather macabre Brit fashion- in the song “Time,”  put it as,  “one day closer to death.”  Might as well tell it like it is.  As for me, it was most therapeutic for once to simply sit back and enjoy the show.  Next time- if there is a next time- I really want to spring for the VIP tickets and perhaps get seats close enough to take reasonably visible pics.  You can almost see Neal in the big screen in this one.

The common wisdom about aging is that everything gets bigger, hairier and closer to the ground.  Except the tops of men’s heads, that is.  The tops of their heads might get bigger and closer to the ground, but the hair migrates to their ears.  No wonder I wondered for a moment what my Dad’s friends were doing at my class reunion, until I realized they were the guys I graduated with, and not the geezers Dad hangs out with.  Creepy.

 

Trucker Bombs, Overwork and Music Reviews

1 Comment

I should always remember to have my camera ready whilst driving down Morse Rd.  I find the most hilarious and out of place things. For those unfamiliar with the term “trucker bomb,” Urban Dictionary defines it as:

Trucker Bomb (n):
A plastic container that a truck driver pisses into inside the cab of his truck during daylight hours to be later pitched out usually on the side of the road. This practice has come about by the increasingly strict laws about indecent exposure. Years ago if a truck driver got caught pissing on the side of the road by the Po Po, he was given a ticket, end of story. But now if convicted of indecent exposure, you must register as a sexual predator where you live. Much safer to piss in a wide mouth bottle and a whole lot legally less complicated.
 
Billy Bob Big Rigger builds a trucker bomb every day on his run though Ohio. After dark when the bottle is full, out the window it goes to be later detonated by the poor dick that has to mow the shoulder.
 
Given that most truckers dispose of these while driving along on the Interstate (though I do also see them deposited regularly along the exit ramp from Northbound I-270 to Morse Rd.,) it was odd to see one at the intersection of Morse and Sunbury Rd.s, just catty corner from the UDF/Mobil aka: the Armed Robber’s Late Night Wet Dream.
 
I also found it a bit odd that in lieu of the typical 2 liter Mt. Dew bottle it was a Sobe bottle.  Either it was a New Age trucker, or perhaps a young punk out partying who just couldn’t wait to make it to the UDF crapper.
I have to envy dudes on this point.  If they absolutely can’t make it to the nearest comfort station, it is relatively easy for them to take a tinkle in an empty plastic bottle.  This does NOT happen for chicks.  I find it exceedingly difficult to cop a squat out in the woods (usually because you end up pissing all over your pants) and most likely impossible to go in a drinky cup or anything else that isn’t a toilet. If a woman has to make time on a road trip, I think Depends might be the only way to bypass the gas station toilet without making an unholy mess.
 
This morning (yes, Memorial Day) when I would normally be visiting my grandfather’s grave (he was a WWII Veteran)  and then taking a trip to whatever party or BBQ was going on, I was actually at work getting the month-end stuff finished.  While it did bother me that I wasn’t able to make that road trip today,  I don’t mind too much because a.) I’m getting paid for it, b.) I was done relatively early, and c.) I have tomorrow off when everyone else has to be at work.  I don’t mind working alone.  In many ways I prefer it because I get more done when nobody is pestering me. Even when I am duly compensated (and especially when I am duly compensated!) I have to be careful of getting caught in the cycle of overwork.  Working into oblivion can become an addiction for me.   It’s too easy for me to get lost in the task at hand and forget things like eating, sleeping, maintaining contact with family and friends, etc. and so on.
 
Even for the last two weeks that I’ve been more or less living at work, I have had some time for guilty pleasures.  I am a huge Journey fan from way, way back, and I have currently been enjoying their latest release, Eclipse.  Working alone is especially nice for cranking up tunes on the MP3 player while I work -it might seem like multitasking in a weird kind of way, but I get more done when I am listening to good music.

As much as I rave about Steve Perry in Spandex, that was then, and this is now.  I can’t go back to 1981, but I can appreciate something new if it’s good.  Eclipse is good, strikingly good, and that’s saying a lot from someone who really hasn’t kept in touch with the music scene since about 1985.  One of the things I like about Eclipse is that Neal Schon pretty much had his way and this is a beautiful thing.  Neal is probably one of the best, if not the best living rock guitarist today, and getting new stuff from him (even better yet, as part of Journey) is awesome. It warms my soul to know that not every new song coming out is boy-band tripe, cop-killer-sister-raping rap, or sappy-yucky songs about girls kissing on girls.
 
Arnel Pineda is not Steve Perry.  That’s OK.  Arnel has a great voice and a lot of fire and can stand on his own merit.  He has an extremely wide range that he uses well- which I enjoy (this is challenging vocal material- take it from a student of voice!)  I like listening to him.
Tomorrow’s adventure is getting the Cougar Pool up and running.  I have it, but now I have to figure out how to get it to stay up and hold the water in.

The End of the World According to elysianhunter, aka: the Bucket List Condensed

1 Comment

Well, well, our friends the modern-day Millerites are here to tell us that the End of the World is upon us tomorrow, so I better get busy on that bucket list.  May as well go out on a limb and check out the street fair on Morse Rd.!  Go for a whirl on the “Ring of Fire.”  Snarf down greasy sausage and funnel cakes and chili-cheese fries, cholesterol and trans fat be damned!   Of course the odds of the date setters being right are pretty slim, so I think I will follow that self preservation instinct and stay away from the street fair.  If the cholesterol and trans fats from the greasy fair food or the hazards of riding on or standing near shoddily assembled rides that date back to the 1960’s don’t kill you, the drive-by shooters likely will in that area.

I’ve never been terribly impressed by armchair eschatology.  End of the world prognostications have been going on since the beginning of time.  I’ve come to the conclusion that regardless of when the world ends nothing I’m going to do will change the timing.  So if it’s The End across the board, or just my personal end, it really doesn’t matter.  The number one rule of humanity is that death is inevitable.  Physical death is part of the package.  Whether I expire all by myself, or in a blaze of glory with the rest of the world, is immaterial at that point.

It smacks of hubris to claim you know the day and time the world’s going to end when Jesus Himself said He didn’t know.

(Jesus said:) “No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.” Matthew 24:36 (NIV)

I really don’t think it’s a good idea to claim you know more than Jesus does.  Just saying.

I asked Clara her opinion, and all I got from her was her WTF glare.  Malinois are probably one of the most intelligent dog breeds, but she’s still a dog.  She licks her own butt- and she’s not above crotch sniffing, but I will give her credit for knowing her limitations.

Movies with the apocalyptic theme are ever-popular, whether they be based on the 2012 Mayan calendar hoo-hah, deadly plagues, alien invasions, or asteroids.  That genre is getting a bit tired, although I did enjoy the book version of The Stand.  Personally, if I want to be scared by a movie, give me an old ’80’s slasher, or dig out the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Tomorrow I am not going to do anything differently.  I need to take Sheena to the Vet (not looking forward to that) and get Steve-o’s tags for his dune buggy (the BMV on a Saturday- joy!) Then my plan is to come back home, do more laundry, and possibly watch the Journey Live in Houston 1981 DVD and crank it up really loud because Jerry won’t be home.

If the world would happen to end and the last thing I see is Steve Perry in 1981, at least it would end on a pleasant visual for me.


Just watching the wheels go ’round.  I wish I could.  At least if the merry-go-round collapses nobody should go airborne.

Here lately I have been busier than I care to be at work.  I like being busy and I like the overtime, but I really don’t like coming in on Sundays.  Thing is, if I don’t get something accomplished over the weekend I will be so buried by Monday that I will never catch up.

If there is a Monday (he-he.)

Murphy’s Law will almost guarantee it.  The world won’t end at a convenient time, and the apocalypse won’t be some sort of deus ex machina that will magically aspirate my carcass out of the latest shit pit.  If the End comes during my lifetime, Murphy’s Law would dictate that I would be in the middle of something either pleasurable or interesting.

Examples:

Coming and going at the same time (as if I would be lucky enough to get lucky…)

The world ends suddenly upon receipt of the winning $5,000 Target gift card up for grabs in the sweepstakes I enter probably three times a week.

The world ends suddenly upon the discovery of an affordable and effective method to permanently remove superfluous body hair.

The Apocalypse will likely not occur when I’m already being tortured and sudden death would be a preferable option.

I can assume the End will not commence whilst I am:

At the BMV

At the Dr.’s office

Enduring one of Jerry’s drunk and stupid late night rampages

When I’m getting chewed out (deserved or undeserved)

No deus ex machina for me.

BTW- don’t cancel your plans for Memorial Day Weekend just yet.

Lilo is watching you.

’80’s Nostalgia, Humor in Suffering, and Things I Never Thought I’d See in a Museum

1 Comment

I thought it was weird when I saw the 1981 Reagan Limousine on display four years ago.  It was on display when I took Steve-o and his woman du jour to the Henry Ford Museum, lined up along with the Kennedy Assassination Limo and a string of other Presidential limos dating back to Roosevelt.  I need to make it a point to take a trip up there again soon, even though I absolutely hate the crappy roads in Detroit, and the Dearborn area is rather frightening even in the daytime.

Granted, this is a historical car- and technically it does belong in a museum- but the fact that the props (ok, artifacts) from events I remember as if they were yesterday are in museums is a bit disquieting.  As far as I’m concerned (yes, I know he died in 2004) Reagan should still be President, riding around in that limo.  I bet Reagan is spinning in his grave at the antics of his successors (Bill Clinton was bad enough- and a tomcat- but even though as far as anyone knows, he keeps his pants on, Obama is far worse) and that’s sad.   We could really use someone like Reagan today.  To quote a bumper sticker that I would put on the HK Yaris if I had enough room:

In the 80’s we had Bob Hope, Johnny Cash and President Reagan. Today we have No Hope, No Cash and President Obama.

I also like this one:

Put the Constitution on His Teleprompter!

I’m sure Obama could use some fresh new reading. 

The statement comparing the 80’s to today almost makes me depressed.  It makes me want to vote for Donald Trump, even though he’s no Reagan.  I like him better than the same old tired milquetoasts that have been dominating the Republican mainstream the past few years. Mitt Romney and Mike Huckabee are just plain too lame.  Like him, or hate him, The Donald has balls.  We need a President with balls. Obama has none.  I believe if he’s not directly in cahoots with terrorist nations and organizations, he’s not doing anything to stop them or even mitigate their actions.  He’s complicit with Black genocide in supporting abortion “rights” that are NOT the state’s to give and are clearly morally wrong.  Reagan was the last one who had the courage to call evil what it is and to do what was right even when it wasn’t popular.  I don’t know if Trump is in that league, but I think he is more aware of the right course for this country, at least in regard to economics and foreign policy, than Obama ever could be.  

The sad thing is back in the 90’s I didn’t think it could get any worse than Bill Clinton.  I was absolutely shocked at the dress-stain incident even though Clinton’s foreign policy (or the lack thereof) was even more devastating to the country than the shame he brought to the Oval Office.   Even so, if someone were to compare Clinton vs. Obama, I hate to say it, but I would take Bill Clinton in a heartbeat (which is disturbing clear down to my conservative Republican soul.)  If there is worse than Obama, and given human nature there is (even though we have not seen it in an American President, and I hope we never do) but- humanity gave us Stalin, Mao and Hitler after all.  I hope people aren’t dumb enough to vote for him/her.

One thing I also noted on our trip to the Henry Ford Museum was an exhibit on 80’s ephemera in which there was a Marlboro Lights 100’s pack, (now I don’t see that as historically worthy, but I smoked my share back then, so maybe so) and a collection of old vinyl records to die for by- Boston, Foreigner, The Police, Iron Maiden, Journey, and many other good ones.  The album art was so much better back then.  Someone actually had to draw them instead of just getting into some computer program and playing with it to make some funky design.   I still say the Journey Departure cover is one of the best:

We thought Defender was a “futuristic” video game.  Then again, we actually took quarters and went to the arcade to play video games and pinball. 

I still think it would be a much better world if Reagan were in the White House, and Neal Schon still had his fro.

Makes me wish it were 1981 again…only not as a geeky 12 year old who got beat up every day.  If it were 1981 and I knew what I do now it would be interesting.  I could have a lot of fun with that.

Speaking of Journey, I decided to go ahead and get my ticket for the show on August 5, even though it is at Crew Stadium (outside.)  I don’t generally like to go to outside shows because of the lack of A/C, but it starts at 7PM, so at least it’s not in the heat of the day.  Journey only makes it to Columbus every couple of years or so, and they aren’t getting any younger.  Neal Schon is pushing 60, Jonathan and Ross are over 60, and Arnel and Deen are both over 40, and given the lifespans of rock musicians, that’s not a comforting thought.  I should take any opportunity to see them that I can get. Foreigner and Night Ranger (also very good bands live) are opening for them, so this is a show worth having to contend with stygian heat and/or the prospect of torrential rain. The nice thing about this show is that it will be an older crowd.  Usually the over 40 set is not into throwing things, fighting or stealing stuff- and it’s reserved seats- so barring weather extremes, it should be a pleasant evening. 

Jerry has been on yet another trip on the self-pity express.  I don’t feel sorry for him.  He brings his own misery upon himself.  I do try to find the humor in it, otherwise I’d have to throttle him. 

Last night he decided to go to the hell hole again.  He staggered in around 10PM which was nice.  I had a quiet evening until he came home.  The best thing for me to do is to pretend I’m asleep.  He knows better than to try to wake me up- even when he’s shitfaced, usually- because I am rather nasty when I’m disturbed late at night.  If he sees that I’m awake he will torment me, and I’ll never get to bed, but if I stay under the radar he will usually prattle on to the walls (or Isabel if she is in view) about various unintelligible nonsense for an hour or so until he passes out.  I got lucky last night.  He was sprawled across the bed, pants down, snoring and near comatose before 11. 

Jerry has had many shitfaced conversations with poor Isabel.  According to him, she’s the only one who understands him when he’s shitfaced.  I never knew that cats could understand the ramblings of the insanely drunk. 

I should put a collar on Isabel with a speaker in it.  When Jerry’s shitfaced and talks to her, I could have her reply through her collar speaker.  It would be a hoot.

Jerry: “Whaats aff? Gotta pith…”  (falling over something)

Isabel: “Go to bed, shit head!”

Jerry: “Where’s foooooooooood?”

Isabel: “Shut up, or it’s gonna be up your ass.” 

That could be funny.  Isabel can out run him, and she always has the option of disappearing down the cat hole (there’s a cat-sized hole in the basement door for cat access so they can use the litter box, but the dogs can’t get to the litter box and use it as a snack bar) when she’s had enough of his “conversation.”

Not Very Nice (but Hilarious as Hell) Observations of the Unwashed Masses

1 Comment

I have friends who send me the “People of Walmart” picture collections all the time.  I do find them funny, largely because anyone who ventures out in public looking like that deserves to have their picture posted online ad nauseam and to infinity, if for no other reason than to send a message.  Some people actually have standards, such as keeping one’s butt crack  covered and out of public view. (Steve-o….)  I can’t blame Steve-o for crashing out on the couch, but I can get the pic of his exposed midriff.  He can literally sleep anywhere, which can be fun to both watch and document.

On Sunday, when I was in Marion, Steve-o and I decided to go to Taco Bell, which hopefully was a good thing, because I think he has talked them in to having him work there again on the weekends.   I get culture shock every time I go back up to Marion.  Closer to home, I’m used to seeing foreigners and what I would consider “sophisticated freaks.”  Up there, the freak element is usually morbidly obese, poorly dressed, and always White Trash.   

Sunday was no exception.  I was surprised I noticed her before Steve-o did, but then he is more acclimated to the ways of the Rural Ohio Redneck, because he lives in Marion and goes to school in Lima.  It’s sort of like Deliverance- only without the mountains, canoes or banjos.  There’s not much else to do in rural small towns except to eat and fornicate, so one can expect to see a lot of fat people doing a lot of breeding, especially the ones who don’t have cable.

Steve-o is not a “little guy.”  He’s 6’1″ and somewhere between 180# and 190#.  Up there, however, he is often dwarfed by the women.  One thing I like about going back up there is that by comparison I’m downright petite.  

This chick had at least 150# on Steve-o and probably an inch or two of height as well.  I didn’t take a pic of her out of fear that since she was in an eating establishment she might mistake me for food.  I don’t know where she found such massive pajama bottoms with this print, although Walmart is renowned for the variety of styles in their Plus Size collection.  She had to be a 5X at least.  Now I know who’s buying the size 20 underwear.  Why, oh why, does any clothing manufacturer sell size 20 women’s undies in the thong style?  What’s the point?  I understand that it might take a few yards of material to craft a “brief” style panty (although there’s nothing “brief” about an ass the size of a Toyota Corolla) in that size, but the coverage factor would be well worth it.   If one really wants a 5X thong it would be more cost effective to go to the Tractor Supply store and buy a 25′ spool of rope.  Better yet, for the tiny bit of good it might do, as far as coverage goes, just go commando.  It would spare others the visual of getting to see your thong-string as well as your gut when you get up and stretch and yawn.  Woof.

I had to watch this heifer’s Taco Bell feeding orgy with a sort of a combination of disgust and awe.  I tried to avert my eyes but I simply had to watch, sort of like when there’s a car wreck. You know you shouldn’t stop and gawk, but you just do.   I never knew it was possible to cram two whole tacos in a human (?) mouth at one time, only to munch, chug Mountain Dew, and still manage to carry on a conversation.  The two tacos were only an appetizer.  I gazed in muted horror as She-Behemoth inhaled an order of Nachos Bell Grande, a steak quesadilla, a few burritos, a  box of 12 supreme tacos, with sour cream and guacamole, and a Mountain Dew with a few refills.  Thankfully I am not one who is easily nauseated.  Steve-o (thankfully, or I’d never been able to keep a straight face) was facing the opposite direction of the She-Behemoth during her cram-fest so he didn’t get an eyeful of her power taco-stuffing adventure.  He is not easily nauseated either, but he is also even less likely than I am to hold back his commentary on such a disgusting visual.  I could only hope that if he did see and inevitably comment, that he would be kind enough to comment in German, so at least he would be the only one to understand that he was making crude references to the table manners of feeder swine.

I managed to eat my chili-cheese burrito without much incident.  Steve-o did glance over and see She-Behemoth when he was on his way out, as she was stretching, yawning, and exposing a rather large bare patch of her rather porcine gut (and what I believe was -gag- the string of her thong.)  All he did was look away and shudder.  He saved his commentary for when we got in the car.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him what watching her eat was like.

Now I know why I normally go through the drive-thru at places like Taco Bell, so I don’t have to sit down to eat and feel as if I am in a hog barn observing the sows suck down the slop.

It is sort of cruel to make fun of the large.  I am not rail-thin by any stretch of the imagination, but there’s a difference between being large and being crude and large.  If you have big meaty arms, wear tops with sleeves.  Do the general public a favor and don’t confuse tights or leggings with pants.  If your top doesn’t completely cover your butt, don’t wear it with tights or leggings.  Tight jeans are for Steve Perry in the early ’80’s.  If you don’t look like that, and if you aren’t a dude, don’t go there. 

If I had a time machine…

Another disturbing trend I notice when I’m out in public is there must be a dire shortage of mirrors.  Either that or I’m just old and it has become socially acceptable to go out while wearing house slippers and/or pajamas in general.  I really try to save others from that visual. 

I can stand the PJ parade a lot better than I can the Piercings and/or Tats Gone Wild crowd.  What could possibly compel someone to tattoo his entire arm to look green and scaly like a lizard?  I saw a Target “Team Member” (cringe– any place that has euphemistic names for their employees such as “Associate,”  “Team Member,” etc. is almost always a dreadful place to work, and I’ve commented on that phenomenon before) yesterday who had this done to his left arm.  He was a nice looking young kid at one time- probably even magically delicious- before the 1 1/2″ earrings, before the nose rings, before the lip rings, and I don’t even want to speculate on piercings or tats in other areas.  Maybe that’s why he ended up a stock boy at Target instead of a Chippendale’s dancer.

I have to wonder how many tats are inspired by a little too much drinky-drinky?

A Little Personal Dignity, Welcome to the Freak Show, and Modesty Lost

Leave a comment

Yes.  Bad ass, and not in a good way.  Woof.

Whatever happened to personal dignity?  I feel guilty when I go through the drive-thru with PJ’s on- but on the rare occasions I do that I usually wear a coat over them, and I’m not getting out of the car parading around in a store.   If I absolutely must take a late night or early morning foray across the road to Speedway or CVS I try to be kind enough to others to a.) put on clothes vs. PJ’s, and b.) wear a hat if I am suffering from Bed Head. 

When I wear shorts they are normally Bermuda-style, and I generally prefer capris or below-knee skirts to shorts as they cover more of my legs.  At no time whatsoever do I appear in public places displaying butt crack, the top of a thong, or midriff.  Nobody wants to see any of those, at least not mine, and besides, we have laws in this country against subjecting others to cruel and unusual punishment.

I have some personal dignity even when it’s hot weather, but it’s certainly not hot weather yet.  I may break out the summer ensembles some time in late May depending upon the weather.    In Central Ohio, March is still part of the limbo snow-booger grey season of  “not quite winter, but definitely not spring” in which one may as well prepare for plenty of cold, wind and rain because that’s what you get.  However, I still see girls wandering about with little more than a tank top, flip-flops and a smile. What the hell are you thinking?  Especially tragic are the ones who dress (or should I say, fail to dress) like the native women in National Geographic but weigh more than many small cars.  Woof.

It is no crime to be large, just dress accordingly.  Nobody wants to see meaty arms, especially complete with an anchor tattoo.  I like her blue hair, though.  Nice touch.

I find it hard to believe anyone would find this pic sexy.  There’s even a warning label in the tights intended to inform the wearer that they are not pants.

‘Nuff said.

Of course I would be willing to relax my own modesty requirements for the male -and buff of bod. 

I don’t know too many dudes who are comfortable enough in their masculinity to wear a pair of Hello Kitty underwear, but given the right physique, it can be a beautiful vision to behold.

The only problem with revealing clothing items for men is that the guys who have absolutely no business wearing garments such as man-thongs or speedos are the ones who do wear them.  I remember one afternoon, when he was very little, taking Steve-o to the pool.   Steve-o, having an eye for the odd and out of place that he has, saw a very fat dude who appeared to be nude, and at that tender age was rather distressed by the fact that someone was nude at the pool. (Today, I’m sure Steve-o would find a skinny-dipper at a public pool most amusing.)  I was going to say something to the manager, because the fat dude appeared to be nude to me also.  I thought he had absolutely nothing on- until he bent over and you could see the slightest hint of red speedo stretched tenuously across his butt cheeks.  His fat rolls covered up his skimpy suit when he stood up.  This is a guy who just might want to consider the boxer-style swim trunk.

I don’t know which is worse, the speedo on a guy who should be wearing boxer-style trunks, or the giant plastic crucifix he’s wearing.  Talk about mixed messages.

I would have to say that 95% of men should wear the boxer-style trunks, to spare the rest of us the rather unsavory visual,  just as 95% of women should be wearing the old-lady skirt type one piece bathing suits (or a two piece that has a long enough top to cover the entire belly area) with the bra inserts in them like I do. 

Has everyone forgotten about modesty?  I don’t believe women should be confined to the burqua or anything draconian like that, but there’s a hell of a lot of space between the burqua and the women in the South American jungles who wear nothing but a leather thong and a smile.  Women with meaty arms should not go sleeveless.  Large women should rethink spandex and tank tops and should avoid anything that shows midriff or thunder thighs.  Even thin women can go without displaying their butt cracks and tramp stamps.

Fat men in speedos are just plain gross.  Any “fashion” that displays a man’s hairy ass crack (whether he is buff and hot or not) needs to go away. 

Steve-o, this includes you dude.  Nasty!

I don’t want to see a dude’s ass crack, or the top of his boxers when he bends over.  Pull your flipping pants up to the waist.  And don’t even think about skinny jeans or spandex unless you look like Steve Perry back in 1981:

If you can wear tight jeans like that, gentlemen, then by all means, go right ahead.

Things to Add to the Bucket List, 30 Years Ago Today, and Simplicity is Complicated

Leave a comment

On with the February funk, including the whole death theme, because it just plain fits.

I’ll put it this way.  At the end of this month I will be 42.  I have no illusions.  At least half of my life is most likely over, because I honestly don’t anticipate being able to make it to 84, barring extreme advances in medical science and some pretty serious Acts of God.  I know that if God wants to keep some poor sucker lingering about far beyond what we perceive to be his/her useful life He can and does, but I hope and pray I don’t outlive my purpose.  This being said, I still have no clue why I’m taking up valuable oxygen, other than (maybe?) to keep a few people entertained.  It’s not my place to know and I understand that.  I also understand that there have been at least three instances in my life where I narrowly escaped the Reaper:

1. I spent the first week of my life in the hospital with pneumonia and my entire childhood battling various respiratory ailments (as well as getting regular beatings from my sisters, their friends, and kids at school.)

2. I had rheumatic fever when I was 10 years old.  Save for a  two week long series of painful penicillin shots in the butt, and a year-long course of penicillin pills, I’d been worm chow over 30 years ago.

3. I understand first hand why at the turn of the 20th century 1 in 4 women died in childbirth.  In spite of an eleventh-hour c-section, (the whole Murphy’s Law as it applies to childbirth thing, believe that) I was almost one of them.  That was the closest I’ve ever gotten to the Dirt Nap, and at that time I was ready to go ahead and take it.  Some days I’m still very open to the possibility, though I believe the length of my time here is God’s decision not mine.

Again, somehow, I am still remaining vertical almost 20 years later, so there must be some reason why I continue to display vital signs- though said reason continues to elude me.

Before I go take the Final Trip, there are a few things I’d like to do.  Of course the Cougar Cruise is one of them, but I’d be happy just to go on a regular cruise with all the other geezers and so forth.

I’d like to do some international travel.  Granted, I’ve been to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls which was pretty cool, and I was in Windsor, Ontario for an afternoon as a little kid. Windsor is more or less Detroit’s French speaking quarter, and not much to write home about.  I did learn that Dad does not speak French.  I would caution that one does not go to Canada for the cuisine.  Everything we ate in Niagara Falls tasted like greasy Clorox.  It might simply have been the establishments we had the bad luck to choose, but from what I experienced it seems Canadians use grease like Cajuns use spice- and apparently Clorox is the spice.  Acck.  Then again, I believe the national entree of Canada consists of French fries smothered in gravy.  I don’t think I’ll be going for the gravy covered fries any time soon.   I still remember those nasty bland Cloroxy, greasy, slimy, luke-warm chicken wings we had for dinner one night, but even in the States, Hooters’ is not renowned for their culinary acumen.  There wasn’t even any hot sauce on the side to give them a hint of flavor.  It was as if they had never heard of Tabasco or habanero sauce.  Leave it to Jerry.  We had to eat there because Hooters’ was just across the street from the hotel, and they had American beer.  I hope it tasted like Clorox too, but even that would have been an improvement over Natty Lite.

I’d like to go to Europe, even though Grandpa said he didn’t lose anything there and there was no way in hell he would want to go back there.  When he went there, it was during the war.  It makes sense not wanting to go back to that. 

Australia sounds interesting too.  Aussies speak English so that’s a plus already.  The only thing that might not be so fun about Australia is all the venomous critters that seem to live there.  Perhaps I watch Animal Planet and Discovery Channel too much, but I might have to take a pass on the deadly spiders and the box jellyfish.

In a way I’d like to go to the Holy Land, but with all the foreigners fighting over there, I think I’ll have to settle for the shows on History Channel and so forth.  I’m not afraid to die, but I am afraid of torture and rape.

30 years ago, one could get a coveted ticket to see Journey on the Escape tour, which would be the one and only reason why I would like to see time travel made a reality.  I never got to see Steve Perry with Journey, live and in the painted-on jeans.  I’ve seen video with Steve Perry, which is sweet, but it’s not quite the same as being there live.   I’ve gotten to see Journey-which was awesome- once with Steve Augeri, and once with Arnel Pineda, but I never got to see them with Steve Perry, and barring a miracle, I probably never will.  I can’t blame him.  If I were 62 years old and had the life he did, I’d be happy to be retired with my memories and cats.

Today we get a lame-ass half-time show by the Black Eyed Peas, who never really impressed me to begin with.  New music absolutely sucks and no it’s not just because I’m old.  They’re trying to substitute sleaze and special effects for no-talent losers.  Give me a band who can actually play, and singers who can actually sing, and screw the costumes, the sleazy dancing and the light shows.

I’d love to get my life down to being more simple, but that would mean in some ways it would have to be more complicated, which doesn’t seem to make sense on the surface. 

All I can say at this point is that if I have 40 years or four seconds left, I can only pray for the strength to get through it- and to make something worthwhile of the time.