In “Hey, I Know That Guy!” news, one of my middle school science teachers was sentenced to fifty-one months in jail for, apparently, convincing some young girls to unrobe in front of their webcams.
“Evil mastermind!” I shouted. “That wasn’t what he taught us in the 7th grade!” Otherwise, science would have been a lot more entertaining.
Turns out, though, he was undone because he pissed off his landlord:
He saved the images on a computer, and an apartment manager who evicted him discovered them on the computer last year and told police.
Huh. What have I told you kids about computer security? Always use a password, and make sure it’s not something easily guessed like, say, ireallyreallyreallylikenakedunderagedgirls.
On the other beaker (’cause he was a science teacher, right?), I also recall Mr. Hazlett doing his best to save a dying man after a car accident, and when the CPR didn’t work, when the man couldn’t be saved despite Mr. Hazlett’s efforts, our science teacher was simply inconsolable for days after.
So, next time, Mr. Hazlett, avoid the illegal and stick with the heroics–you’ll be a better person for it.
To begin with, it’s a passing lane. You don’t cruise in it, you don’t talk on your cell phone, make dinner plans, fiddle with your radio, or lean over into the backseat to beat your kids. Eating, phone conversations and domestic abuse can be just as easily done–and safely, too–if you pull over to the side of the road and commence with whatever activity helps you get your jollies.
The passing lane, the furthest lane on the left side of the highway, is meant to be a quick kiss, a tantalizing, teasing caress, not a prolonged Stabby-McStabbity thanks to the help of automotive Viagra. Much like your fumbling boyfriend of yon high school days, the goal for the passing lane is to get in and get out. Once your bidness is finished, don’t bother sticking around; move over and let those of us who want to go faster than you slip on by. It’s only nice. Don’t dawdle in the lane, celebrating this one small victory in your otherwise unexamined, unhappy life; don’t stay put, reveling in your small-hearted joy of knowing you’re quickly building up a line of cars behind you, each with a driver ready to visit unholy destruction not only on you, but also on your children and children’s children; and for god’s sake, don’t–please, please–actually slow down.
In addition:
- If you’re over 70 (or just look like you’re 70) don’t chance it; stay in the furthest lane on the right.
- If you drive a truck, SUV or mini-van with tinted windows, hie thee to the middle lane so the rest of us can see past you and decide whether we need to gun it around you because you’re going so slow, or because there really is a traffic snarl ahead and that’s why you’re driving like a turtle stampede.
- I’m flashing my lights because you need to move over. There’s an opening to the right–take it! And if by some glancing miracle you do move over thanks to my skilfull use high beam morse code, don’t get all pissy and immediately move back into my lane, behind me, and start tailgating and flashing your lights. Bitter passive-aggressiveness will never make you any friends. (But it might secure you political office.)
- Finally, if you’re towing anything, anything at all, stay in the furthest right lane. Be it a U-Haul, rowdy children, or grandma’s dog on a cross-country vacation, if it’s tied to your car’s back end, stay out of the passing lane.
And hey, if I missed anything, feel free to add in comments.
Speaking of Halloween, what the hell is it with those sound effect CDs where they lump in such non-October 31st-ish sounds such as “Alien Laboratory”? Aliens? Really? I suppose if you lived in a trailer park, drove a pick-up held together by three wheels and a body of rust, and had a third grade education, yeah, I can see you being afraid of aliens. Especially because of the anal probing. (Not that anal probing is bad, per se; all I know is it’s not for me. When I introduce people to my brown-eyed-girl, I’m speaking solely about my wife.)
Halloween is about more earthly frights such as vampires, werewolves, witches and the religious right. I know I’m old and the kids need to get off my lawn and all, but remember the old sound effects albums our parents used to play? Vinyl albums, man, those 12-inch discs of death could decapitate your brother or sister if thrown just right (Tip: also good against zombies). That was a medium meant for Halloween. You can’t get a-scairt much by cassettes or, for god’s sake, iPods. “Oh, no! My iPod has come to life and is… biting my ankle? Also, why is it telling me I need to sign up for iTunes before it can kill me?”
Where was I? Oh, yeah, Halloween albums from the good old days. These suckers knew how to dampen your pants. They had the screaming, the hollerin’, the wolves howling, the cats screeching, the bubbling cauldrons, witches’ laughs, and best of all, the moaning and groaning of the evil Count mixed in with the piercing shriek of a young (and assumedly hot) maiden.
That’s right, they sounded like they were bumping nasties. On Halloween! See? A treat for the kids and the parents!
Nowadays I have to mix my own playlist of Halloween sounds if I want to avoid “Exploding Bowling Alley” (Seriously, it’s an honest-to-goodness real track), or “Underwater Madness”. That last one’s just gonna make all the little kids take a piss.
I tell you, someone should put me in charge of the world so I can fix things.
Hey, I went to daycare when I was younger. I learned things, so don’t blame me. There were girls. They were pretty… and they played hand games (stop that!). You don’t say no to that, do you? You take one for the team, you walk it off, you learn, for the sake of being next to the gals, shameful things like:
Miss Mary had a steamboat
The steamboat had a bell
Miss Mary went to Heaven
The steamboat went to–
— Hello, Operator
Please give me number 9
And if you disconnect me,
I’ll kick you from behind
The ‘fridgerator
There was a piece of glass
Miss Mary sat upon it
And broke her little
Ask me no more questions
I’ll tell you no more lies
The boys are in the bathroom
Zipping up their
Flies are in the meadow
The bees are in the park
The boys and girls are kissing
In the d-a-r-k, d-a-r-k, d-a-r-k
Dark, dark, dark!
My personal favorite, however, and the one I can’t believe is still floating around that great grey soup swishing about in my head, is the following:
Bo-bo, skee-ot-dot
Oon-not, oon-ney-ney
I am boom-boom
eenie-meenie, dot-dot
bo-bo, skee-ot-dot
Before you ask, no, I have no clue what it means. But I do recall you were supposed to strike lightning-fast after the last line and pop the other person on the head. Kids’ games, man–they’re frickin’ brutal.
I need to see if I can wrangle the Insta-Princess into working out the hand movements with me. I’m rusty; maybe she recalls them. If so, instant YouTube video. Clearly, we’re meant to be Internet stars.
As a fair number of you know, Fall is my favorite season of the year. Specifically, I get pretty wound up when October knocks on the door with its gift basket of chilly wind, gray skies, and general fear of something creepy lurking around the corner.
You know, Halloween.
This year, because of an unexpected turn of mildly unpleasant weather, the cool temperatures, sunless sky and constant drizzle have fooled me into thinking October 31st is waiting to spring at any moment. I’m okay with that. So, this morning (like, say, 4:00 when the Insta-Princess insists–for some silly reason–my proper place is in bed), I stumbled downstairs and starting rooting through our vast but only semi-organized collection of CDs. Finally, after agonizing minutes of searching (where I accidentally found my long-lost Bat Out Of Hell II disc inside a Doobie Brothers case), I managed to pull free from the grabby mountain of musical clutter my Devil’s Dance CD.
Devil’s Dance isn’t entirely filled with spooky music, but it tries, and because of that attempt, the numbers chosen, and the masterful playing of Gil Shaham on his Comtesse de Polignac Stradivarius (accompanied by Jonathan Feldman on piano), it is, for me, the quintessential Halloween album.
Without a doubt its best number–and the most fitting for album–is Camille Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre. Both Shaham and Feldman are at their best playing this selection; a dynamic duo without the tights and with slightly more diginity. It was this playing that tripped my old desire to learn how to play the violin. Unfotunately, I have little musical talent, which is probably why I’ll forever crush on Flora when she strokes the strings of her cello.
A slightly more bombastic tune, but still ghoul-worthy is John William’s Devil’s Dance from The Witches of Eastwick. Yeah, I know, the guy who wrote the Star Wars theme and the Superman March hit one out of the ballpark for Satan. That’s cool.
Of particular note is Giuseppe Tartini’s Devil’s Trill –or, Sonata in G Minor. Supposedly the devil invaded Tartini’s dream and played a brilliant tune on his violin; upon waking, Tartini then tried to record what he heard. The end result isn’t frightening (the legend of its origin is what ties it to this collection of musical pieces), but it is a very demanding piece, requiring almost insane speed and accuracy. You don’t hear it very often for this reason, but Shaham takes it on and does a wonderful job.
So, Halloween, I have your soundtrack and await your arrival. You great pumpkin, you.
As a kind gesture to those of us who enjoy a cheap sandwich, Planet Sub offers a 6″ turkey sub for $2.50 each time the KC Royals win.
“But, Skippy!” you protest. “I don’t want to have to sit through a Royals’ game. Or any baseball game, for that matter. I actually enjoy life and want to do something exciting, like racing slugs.”
Fear not, for now there’s a solution! No need to check the scores or watch the actual game. Instead, just go to the following page and it will let you know whether today is a scrumptious-sandwich-for-cheap day, the boys in blue have lost (again), or if they’ve even bothered playing.
I know, awesome, right?
Having briefly touched on Free To Be… You And Me in my last post, I wandered over to the glorious video archive of YouTubia and watched a few segments of the film, briefly reliving my elementary school days where we were first introduced to Marlo Thomas and friends through a reel-to-reel filmstrip while sitting cross-legged (back then known as sittin’ “Indian-style”). It wasn’t class, it was almost like watching a movie, so we grooved to the already outdated music and watched people whose celebrity power had dimmed before my generation had grown cognizant enough to learn to keep our nose-pickings private. (Stupid rules of social etiquette.)
Now, almost twenty-five years since I first saw the film, that time capsule of charming yet corny childhood lessons has new meaning. Yes, the music is still outdated, and yes, Michael Jackson looks normal in his song-and-dance scene with the talented Ms. Flack, but holy cow! How in the world did I not realize back then that Marlo Thomas was incredibly hot? Phil Donahue, you stud! That Girl, indeed.
I’ve also learned new lessons from old friends. Do you recall the segment where our noble heroine, Tender Sweet Young Thing, learned a thing or two about being uppity? If not, here’s a refresher:
As children we were supposed to come away with 1.) A fear of tigers dressed like raccoons, and 2.) An appreciation for the comeuppance of those who are rude and arrogant. But, as an adult, I’ve finally learned the real list of lessons:
- Don’t be proud of who you are, for you will be killed.
- Even those whose tires are less inflated with hubris are left to die (the video never explains their fate).
- Consequently, since your time is short no matter the social niceties you’ve mastered, you might as well go hog-wild and set free your inner-Tender Sweet Young Thing. Besides, she was the only happy one in the bunch.
- Mangoes are the ambrosia of Satan: eat one and bring doom down on your group.
- Tigers wear jerseys.
Frankly, I’m not sure how I missed such wisdom the first time around.
Rosey Grier, unfortunate, disillusioned man, was wrong about his most famous song, but that’s okay. A lot of people are wrong about many things; and me, I’m right about most everything. That’s okay, too. But, despite Rosey’s misunderstanding, I have to admit that although my desktop (computer-wise and plain ol’) is adorned with photos of Auggy smiling and laughing, my favorite pictures are the ones where we catch him scrunching his cute face up for a monster of a wail.
Sorry, buddy. Love ya’ lots and all, but right now your baby-sized frustrations make me chuckle. And who wouldn’t laugh with delight at the following?
Poor kiddo. You’re stuck with me.
In a sad turn of events, recently married and longtime civil rights advocate, Del Martin, died yesterday. On June 16th of this year, after 55 years together, Del and her partner, Phyllis Lyon, were finally, legally wed. I’m thrilled they got the chance to do so after so many decades of discrimination and bigotry, and that their nuptials were celebrated before Ms. Martin passed away. I only hope the rest of the country soon follows the lead of California and Massachusettes and allows all of its people to marry.
Rest in peace, Del.
So, does anyone in the Kansas City area remember the Green Mills Candy Factory? Or, as I like to refer to it, the Green Mills Candy Factory of Repugnance and Disappointment? That second title, the true one, you probably wouldn’t think that way about a place that makes chocolate. You’d be wrong, and let me tell you why.
For those of you not “in the know” (which usually includes me–except in my blog, where I happen to know everything, and can edit posts later on in case I don’t), the Green Mills Candy Factory of Repugnance and Disappointment was a local maker of chocolates and other teeth-rotting goodies, holing up somewhere near the Plaza. I think. I mean, yes, I know it was a candy factory (of repugnance and disappointment), and I know it was in Kansas City, but I can’t swear that it was in or near the Plaza. I just remember it that way, so there.
In an attempt to foster generations of addicts, Green Mills used to offer tours to groups of kids. “Come hither yon Boy Scouts, elementary soldiers, and migrant labor off-spring! Come see our treats and delight in our secret home base for the nefarious Captain Cavity!” It’s possible, however, they didn’t say it that way, and probably just stuck up a sign saying, “Tours open to the public.” But my recollection is better.
One Spring day my elementary school in Prairie Village decided to load us impressionable yoots on to a giant yellow metal Twinkie (sure, call it a bus, but it’s lunch and I’m hungry) and field trip us all the way over to the Green Mills Candy… you know. We got to see how they mixed the chocolates and poured the chocolates and cut the chocolates and separate the chocolates and lovingly tongue the chocolates and package the chocolates and otherwise prepare them for shipment. So, we spend an hour–maybe two–wandering around the factory, listening to some middle-aged PR guy blather on about the factory’s history, its output, the people who work there, and yada. All we wanted, however, was for the tour to end so that we could score ourselves the inevitable reward for acting decent and not setting fire to the place. It’s a candy factory, right, so we’re bound to get candy as a treat (luckily, the next month’s field trip to the sperm bank was indefinitely postponed).
The tour, thankfully, comes to an inglorious and boring end. Still, we were excited. Candy! Finally! Would it be the fudge, or the chocolate malt balls, or the long-lasting chocolate suckers, or the three-course-meal chewing gum (some of us wanted to turn into giant blueberries)?
None of the above.
Seriously. Know what we ended up with? Go ahead. Guess.
No, not that. Not that, either. (I told you the trip to the sperm bank was postponed.)
Peanut brittle. Yeah, you read that right: pea-the fucking-nut brittle. That foul, stick-to-your-teeth plasticine-like concoction of dog poop and sugar. It was a candy factory, not some proto-Abu Ghraib where good children who didn’t maim anyone don’t get their ration of cocoa bean goodness, but you couldn’t tell by the events of that day. What’s worse is that they handed each of us a bag of treasure, tightly sealed and not to be opened until we left the factory.
We didn’t find out about their depravity until we were on the bus on the way home! See? Seeeee the repugance and the disappointment? There was no chocolate, no gum drops, no anything resembling sweetness and light. Just pain and misery; so-called “candy” not even fit for violent dictators or politicians.
My inner-child is forever wounded by that unhappy memory, unable to heal because the factory is no longer in business; I can no longer invade the place, ninja-style in the middle of the night, and gobble up whatever chocolate to be found so my soul could mend from the terrible, destructive damage. My salvation, wrest from my hands long before I could buy a ninja suit over the Internet. Oh, how I weep for such travesty.
Alas, alas.
In the beginning, I was afraid. A mad–very mad–chihuahua had killed my father, and I wasn’t sure I could ever have faith in nature’s Taco Bell canine ever again. Once that trust is broken, once a two-inch-high ball of pointy ears and fur rends a relative in twain, you can see where the relationship would sour.
Plus, I was never a fan of tacos.
In the end, however, I was won over by two things: 1.) a nifty inheritance (thanks, Dad!), and 2.) a web log reaching out to me and others like me. A blog dedicated to proving to the world that chihuahuas, although fiercer than pit bulls and deadlier than poodles (truth: poodles are pissed underneath all those foofy haircuts), are sweetness and light. Catch them at the right moment, even, and you’ll see their softer side of Sears: wearing ties, playing drums, sporting shirts with skulls on the front… er.
Also, the blog owner rocks the guitar and is hot. Sometimes, that’s just how things are.
From News of the Weird:
Higher-Order Animal Research: Britain’s Sea Life Centre announced a study in July that would give octopuses Rubik’s Cubes to play with, to ascertain whether they use a certain tentacle for such activities, or any tentacle at random. [Daily Mail (London), 7-7-08]
An hour later (if memories of childhood serve correctly)…
Observers were stunned when hidden cameras filmed one octopus making off with his Rubik’s Cube into a dark corner. Further investigation revealed his tentacles were covered in brightly colored square stickers. “What?” he asked when questioned. “They just came off. I wasn’t trying to cheat!”
Because, you know, Dad’s hurt feelings are what’s really keeping me from banging Mom.
(I Heart Jocasta)
Am I the meanest?
Sho’nuff!
Am I the prettiest?
Sho’nuff!
Am I the baddest mofo, low-down around this town?
Sho’nuff!
Well, who am I?
Sho’nuff!
Who am I?
Sho’nuff!
I can’t hear you!
Sho’nuff!
–This message proudly brought to you by Shogun of Harlem productions.