I was feeling flupie again. For an explanation of what "flupie" means, and to read (or re-read) a disturbingly funny post, go here. Anyway, I tried calling friends and family members in order to deflupify myself. I tried watching stupid comedy flicks, such as, Nacho Libre and Blades of Glory. I even busted out my guitar and played all the Black Sabbath riffs that I knew. Alas, nothing seemed to work.
It was around 11:30 PM that I had a toast craving hit me. I popped in my bread into the toaster the same way a man pops his _______ into his wife's ________ after thirty years of marriage. (Your homework assignment is to fill in the blanks using any other words besides the obvious choices and to leave them at the end of your comments here.) I went to the bathroom, read a piece about Chris Rock in Rolling Stone magazine, and came out after with clean hands to butter my toast. That is when the most amazing idea came to me: I should butter both sides of my toast!
You know what? I totally did that shit. It was good too. I think I could hear my heart scraping against my rib cage afterwards, but it was totally worth it. I didn't feel so flupie after that. I'm thinking of continuing doing strange new things, like playing spin the bottle all by myself. Well, maybe not that strange. I guess I could try truth or dare all by my self. Since I am in denial about certain things in my life it could actually help.
Just so you aren't confused or expecting to be aroused, "Blanket Dance" does not involve anything sexual. I guess it could, but for the sake of keeping this TIGF art form pure, let's leave sex out.
It's not just the moves or the Star Wars duvet cover that makes blanket dancing TIGF!!! It's the sound effects that go with it. The best are the ones that mix a little beat box in with the whoops and squeals. I'm sure that this would make one of the New Kids on the Block either very proud, or do the right thing and hang themselves. Not Donny, though. I like him. His portrayal of the character "Duddits" in the Steven King movie "Dreamcatcher" was spot on 'tardo.
Speaking of actors playing mentally handicapped people, I really would love to see Robin Williams take on a role like that. Wait, he already did and his name was Mork. A reprisal, then, of Mork trying ever so hard to make it on a football team and at the same time teaching us acceptance. Remember, we are all winners. But, as George Carlin taught me, some of us just win last. Oh, and he also taught me that if all children are special, then all adults are too--Hitler and Dahmer included. Wait, that can't be right. Then at some point in our lives some of us stop being special. Or maybe it is this, as Carlin points out, not all children are special. Notice how as we get closer to his truth it gets a little ugly? That's his shtick, though. I do, however, feel that all children are special because you do want to bless them with that possibility in life. Sometimes myth trumps reality, and should continue doing so. But, I do think that at some point people's specialness can be revoked. That is for another post, however.
Why did I drift off into this territory? Well, I wanted to say that these blanket dancers are special in that non-special way. You know, the same kind of special that makes a child want to feed the dog a whole box of Fig Newtons while in the car on a family vacation (ask me later). Without "speshul" people in the world, my abs would have no tone in them whatsoever--you know, from the laughing and the gaffawing and the "I can't breathe" I'm laughing so hard...glavin! The point is, I'm not down on stupid people as long as they can entertain me. I am not a misanthropic old codger like George Carlin, although he makes me laugh until one of my testicles comes dislodged and does that tether ball end-game wrap around my penis. How is that even possible?
So, in closing, everybody is special until proven not. I've had plenty of next door neighbors and fellow commuters become "not special". Do you get me on this?
I didn't get around to posting last night like I had planned. I watched Frontline's "Bush's War" instead. I'm not going to discuss that show other than it was well worth my time.
I'm never in a creative mood in the early part of the day. The closer I get to the witching hour the better for writing. I mean, I guess I could try to be silly. I guess I could tell you how I gave up picking my nose for lent. Nah, I don't have the inspiration at the moment to do that.
I could tell you that I've hurt my right foot. I've had to cut back on my walks now because of it. It's weird because my right foot is so swollen that all my shoes feel too tight on that foot now. Don't ask me how I did it, either. I have no clue. I woke up one morning in pain and my foot was all swollen. I think I've been kicking the wall in my sleep.
Good news: I'm finally back to eating spicy foods!
Bad news: I forgot that said foods can cause gastrointestinal distress.
I feel a rant coming on. Please, do not take any of this to heart. I promise that I turn it around at the end.
For those who think that I don't know it yet: Yes, I've kicked cancer's ass...with the help of God, doctors, nurses, chemicals, radiation, family, friends, community. When I take all the credit I deny the collective community that I am a part of. I am not lingering in the aftermath as much as some people think. I had problems that I was dealing with before all of this started, and as much as I would wish to my fairy godmother, I don't get a clean slate. So, from one thing to another--that is the reality. Plus, anyone thinking that some sort of cosmic karma machine is going to dispense life candy to me based purely on getting through all of this, grow up.
I feel blessed that I got through cancer, but I really don't feel that this makes me a Mother Teresa and I'm going to have everything go my way because of it. On the contrary, I will have to work harder to get what I want and what I need. If I don't, then something else bad could take me away before I get a chance to realize my full joy in life. This is mortality. We are going to die. That usually involves something less than desirable happening to you. These are givens. Life is not cozy; nature is not balanced. There is always something out there ready to kick your ass and if you let your guard down you're toast. I know that this reasoning seems obscene, but isn't everything outside of our "magical" touchy-feely thought process a bit obscene?
Now to redeem myself. I know that I brought many people along with me on this journey. I know that many people felt for me and took away positive things from my experience. I am trying to understand the effect that my experience had on other people. Sometimes I don't do a very good job of doing that. I am trying to balance the positive aspects of this victory with the harsh realities that I wrote about above. Nature wants me to become defensive and paranoid. I need to overcome that if I am going to expect people's continued goodwill. To the people that have called me on certain things: I need to bitch about it, but I need friends even more. I am impatient with myself and it's not the personality trait that helps right now. How I get from where I am to where I want to be is still something that I am struggling with. I wish I could just chill out.
I love you all for being here and listening to me go on and on about all of this. I don't know how much of it made sense. That's the thing about feelings: they don't always make sense.
I do this once in awhile--go out to the west desert and explore trails and skeet shoot. I usually take my brother with me, but this time he drove. He owns a Ford Explorer and can't get up into the same territory that Clyde can. So, we kind of hung around the foothills and couldn't break trail on some of the snowy paths.
We set up a shooting range on a hill next to a fork in the trail. Just as we were about to start shooting I didn't feel well. I was in agony and tried my best to do some shooting and enjoy the scenery. I ended up having to find a place to go. It helped, but I don't want to have to do that again. So, I came back up to our set up and shot like the devil himself. It was about then that a convoy of some serious dudes in serious rigs came up the trail.
When you get up in these desolate areas it is understood that "fun" can mean illegal activities. When you are out gunned or not interested in facing questionable types, you kind of pull a "What goes on in no man's land stays in no man's land." When I saw these guys bust through these big, virgin drifts, I was a bit interested in where they could be going in such earnest. After I got done shooting for awhile, I told my brother that I was going to hike up the trail to check them out.
I found a couple of great liquor bottles along the way that I would use for target practice. Coming around the bend I could see some massive tailings from abandoned mines and the canyon's opening, a narrow limestone crevice. I thought to myself that this was what they must have been coming up here for because it was hard to get to and secluded. A little further up I could hear their voices, but not what they were saying. They would shoot their guns here and there--nothing that would get your goat up if you are used to this area--it's all pretty common.
It was as I was just around the corner from them that I got hit by an amazing shock wave. My teeth rattled and I could feel my insides react to it. It was loud as hell, whatever it was, and then I couldn't hear much of anything but the ringing in my ears. I've not had a scare like that but a few times in my life. I did an about face and tried to walk out of there as fast as I could. I would have run but it was all snow and mud ruts from them breaking trail.
I know that there are some people who close mine shafts around that area for public safety, so I convinced myself that was what was going on. When I came back to my brother he had a relieved look on his face. He asked me if I heard an explosion and I said, in a shaky tone, "How could I not? I was almost right there." We both decided to head out of there. Man, I was happy to get out of that area.
I contemplated telling the police about it, but I didn't pay enough attention to the vehicles to give helpful details. Also, the nearest police station is about sixty miles away and how to explain where this all was going on, I hadn't a clue because it was the first time I'd been there. Plus, this area is no man's land. Lot's of weird stuff happens and you just let it go--until you find a dead body. Thank goodness that hasn't happened to me, yet. Am I sick in the head that I can't wait to go there again?
I was lonely tonight, so I came on to my blog to see what action it was getting. It was then that I remembered that I had a site meter, of which I've not checked in a long time. So, I decided to check out who has been visiting my blog. Not many today came 'round, but that's alright. I found someone that Google searched "Theodore Grunt" and came to my blog.
Crystal, that was your nickname for me way back when. It is weird that someone else found me that way, or remembered me that way. I don't know if Crystal reads all my posts anymore, but she was one of the first long time Grunt readers, along with Scott, Logo, and Vera. Scott gets extra credit because he's been around this blog since 2005, when I started it.
The post that this person was sent to by Google took me to the past. I decided to review my posts pre-cancer, and I noticed that I have changed a great deal in my style. I'm nowhere near as gonzo anymore, but, I think that I have matured like a fine wine. I also noticed a spooky sense of something "great" that would happen to me right before the shit went down. I also noticed a pattern of me feeling not so good, leading up to the more significant health problems before I was diagnosed.
I don't know if I will return to my gonzo blogging days. Who I am now is constantly changing. I'm going through a patch of unfeeling lately. I think it is a reaction to the extreme vulnerability that I endured this past year.
Three girls that I had dated B.C. (before cancer) found guys and got married while I was "wrote off" as a victim of poor health. It's ok. I'm thinking of ways that I could make "You can get anything off of the Wendy's dollar menu" sound good to a date. I am one broke man. I don't know just how long the fall out of medical bills will be around for me. So, I have figured out the solution to my problems: work out like a son of a bitch and woo an older rich widow--sugar mama!
Seriously though, I complain to all of my girlfriends what a lousy and cheap man I am when I take myself out for a "me" date. Shit, I mean there is no way that I am going to put out if that is the treatment that I get from myself. This is all horribly disturbing. I better go to bed now.
You thinking of quitting That's Incredibly Gay Friday? What you talkin' about, Grunty?
That's right. I've been thinking of quitting TIGF and devoting Friday to nothing but the Garys in the world. I know that is what you all have been secretly wanting but just didn't know it yet. We could feature Gary Sinise (actor), um, Gary Busey (escaped lunatic/coke fiend), Gary Hart (the Senator that screwed Donna Rice), Gary Hart (the wrestler), Gary Grant (Carey Grant's secret retarded brother), Gary (the snail from Spongebob), Gary Moore (great guitarist), Gary Numan (of the song "Cars" fame), Gary Numan (The other Gary Numan that falsely admitted to killing Jon Benet Ramsey), Gary Glitter (glam rock legend and evil pedophile just like the Gary Numan before him), Gary Payton (notorious trash talking point guard for the Sonics), Gary Indiana (the state), Gary Larson (cartoonist), Gary Oldham (kickass actor), Gary Gilmore (famous killer executed by firing squad in my home state in 1977 as well as having a classic punk song by The Adverts, named after his eyes--his last words were, "Let's do it!"), Gary Allen (country music redneck), Gary Fisher (developer of the mountain bike), Gary Cooper (legendary actor), Gary Paulsen (author), and all those dickhead bosses that I had named Gary.
Sheewooooh! That's a whole lotta Garys!!! Did I leave any out? Maybe I should just stick to my routine "Gay Friday" shtick. Dance monkey, dance!
I am feeling fat and sassy tonight. Just thought I'd share that with you.
On to other things, do you ever come up with profound sayings before you even examine whether they actually make any sense? I have. Just today, in fact, I came up with such a profound saying. I haven't quite figured out if it makes sense yet, so maybe you can help me out with this.
Here is the profoundity: "There is no truth in comfort."
Pretty profound sounding, no? I didn't even have to light up a blunt for that one. I don't even smoke pot, so where does that sort of thing come from? Casper the Pope? Melvin Thomas, my make believe advice guru? I really don't know. However, I think that I could at least have come up with a better name for a make believe advice guru, say, Bucknife Jackson III. As for the other, well, I think that having just overcome cancer I need to start tempting fate again with blasphemous nicknames for the Holy Ghost. I really died a little right there. I hope someone laughed at the expense of my eternal soul.
So, let's examine the saying, "There is no truth in comfort." I think that one can be comforted by the truth, but it is also true that one can be devastated by it as well. The truth will set us free. Comfort usually is something that secures us, fine, but to a certain point can be imprisoning. I think if there was anything to the saying it would be this, that one cannot find the truth in easy shelter. One has to go outside of oneself, or into those inner depths where we hide that which we don't like about ourselves or are afraid of.
This is much like the age old question "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" The answer is, of course, 43.
I've got to take a class the next couple of days that will cut into my "happy" time on the computer. Since I don't have a job that allows me to waste time on the job on a computer, I have to bang out these posts when I get home. It sucks because I like my happy time. Happy time sounds dirty, doesn't it. I assure you that it is all pretty boring stuff that goes on during happy time.
On Sunday, I visited the foothills where I spent a lot of my time growing up. I walked around on some trails and did some trespassing, of which I supposedly was video taped and will be prosecuted for wandering on someone's cash cow--prime real estate that will soon be developed. It sucks because this area that is now being developed used to be my childhood playground in the hills. I took some short video clips with my phone but I forgot to get that all set up for the post. I will post it sometime soon, though.
The best part about the "No Trespassing" signs was the misspelling of "hidden camera". They spelled it "hiden camara". So, I stood there at the barricade and gave them a small discourse on the value of spelling things correctly, then ended my rant with "You dumb fucks". I hope that was all really caught on camera for them to enjoy. I'm still extremely sad that there will be a bunch of McMansions built in that area. People are going to have to be aware that mountain lions are frequently spotted in that area. Pets, small children, and pretty much anything that resembles a baked ham standing on two legs will be in possible danger there.
No one pinched me today. I am disappointed about that. I purposely did not wear green just so that I could be pinched. What does a person have to do to get pinched nowadays?
Yesterday was the Ides of March. Anybody have an "Et tu, Brutus?" moment? Julius Caesar got what was coming to him, a great big stab in the back--well, a stab all over the place from multiple people. You destroy one of the finest republics ever in one big ego trip and have the gall to ask, "Even you, Brutus? Even you, my child?" No one could beat you in battle. Not even your good friend Pompey could crush you. Your defeat came upon the senate floor by the hands of those who you thought were under your thumb. Blood spilled on civilized marble floors is much more ironic than any blood spilled on the earth of battle. Because of this great and tragic man, we have the perfect lesson of how republics of the people become the empires of the elite. Consider this on election day, America. At least we can do something about it, but sometimes I wonder if we have the balls. BTW, aren't term limits great?
My neighbors next to me had a deer die in their back yard. This winter has been really hard on the deer population, along with the elk and moose. There are dead deer everywhere around here. It is sad...and stinky. Animal control has their work cut out for them on this one. I can't wait for them to haul the carcass off. The smell is just awful. Oh, and there's nothing like staring at a giant, rotting carcass when you look out your back window. Yum! I want fries with that.
Friday, I was super tired all day long. It still did not deter me from celebrating Pi day. Pi day recognizes the number Pi (3.14.......) on March 14th, or 3/14. I celebrated with some pie, too. I had key lime and German chocolate pie. It was divine. If you missed out on Pi day, well, tough. You can still celebrate and eat pie whenevers, though. I like that word, whenevers.
Did I mention that I was tired on Friday? Well, I was. This is how tired I was: I was listening to a voice mail that my sister had left for me (it was a long one) and around the middle I started answering back to her. I had totally forgot that I was listening to a message and thought I was just having a phone conversation with her. When she didn't respond to my question and kept on talking, it finally dawned on me that I had drifted off into space academy.
In space you smoke astro turf. Those astronauts sure know how to party.
Remember to eat your corned beef and cabbage on Monday, kiddies!
Most of you that are familiar with the band Darkness probably have heard or seen their video "I believe in a thing called love" a zillion times, so I used this video of their song "Girlfriend" instead. They came and went in the States as a sort of novelty act. Darkness did a second album that wasn't that well received, but their lead singer/guitarist Justin Hawkins was allowed to fly his freak flag even higher than before, as evident in this music video. While he may not be gay in real life, Justin Hawkins is queerer than a clockwork orange in his stage persona and I dig how TIGF he is.
Justin Hawkins has been known to fly around on a stuffed white tiger (fake) in concerts while performing solos on his guitar. He also flew in on a golden "boob" chariot on one tour. Why the band got rid of him, I don't know. I mean, outside of sounding like the biggest, and gayest rip off of Queen and Thin Lizzy, Darkness was all about this beautiful, blond princess of a man, Justin Hawkins. Enjoy!
I'm not sure what to post about tonight, but I want to post. Let's see where this goes.
I was pulled over last night. The officer told me that it was because my license plate light was out. The weird part about it was that he had me pulled over for about fifteen minutes. It was funny because I was twenty yards away from where I live. I didn't get a ticket. I later found out the reason why the local police in this small town were being so aggressive and thorough. Some weird guy had broke into a home and was standing at the foot of this little girl's bed. This was the second time that it had happened to this little girl, apparently. The first time the man came and went. The girl went and told her parents and they thought she was just dreaming. This second time the man invaded the home he left his shoes in her room, and now the parents finally believe their daughter. I am glad that the police were pulling people over and doing other sneaky stuff. It just leaves me wondering if they'll ever catch this freak now that the cat is out of the bag.
A man died recently of a cardiac arrest. He was only 63. I grew up with his son and one of his daughters. My oldest sister works for the same insurance company that he worked for. He was playing a game of pickup basketball at a local church gym and croaked after hitting the winning shot. This man really was part of this community, so the loss was felt all over. He was the type of person that would wake up at four in the morning, study the bible for an hour, go and exercise, have breakfast with his family, then go to work. When he would come home from work he'd do all kinds of volunteer work in the community, including tutoring kids in history, of which he used to teach before he got into selling insurance.
The medics did resuscitate him at the gym, but he did not regain any brain activity. They took him off life support and he passed away on Sunday. On Monday his son was really grieving. He never felt like he measured up to his father. Being bi-polar, he was really having a hard time of it. So, on that day he got on his horse and just took off into the mountains. His family went looking for him and from what I heard he was badly injured from getting thrown off his horse. So, not only did the family lose their dad, but the son is now in the hospital from his riding accident. As much as all of this is tragic, the family is taking it all in stride and carrying on.
Ever since I've had cancer it seems like I'm much more sensitive to other people's suffering and trials. What has happened to this family has really effected me and has been on my mind a lot these past few days. It also makes me think about how I'd handle losing a parent, especially my father.
My life growing up was very frustrating because of my father's physical and mental health problems. I spent a great deal of my secondary school years being reclusive from most social activity, other than hanging with a few close friends. Most people liked me, but I was the one who withdrew. I just hated having to explain why my father didn't have a job, why we didn't have much money, or why my "weird" dad wasn't like their fathers. The fact was that I really didn't understand what was going on with him, so I took it personally.
Since, I've had to overcome a lot of guilt and shame that I had carried with me for no good reason. I don't know that I'm totally over it all, but I love my father. It must've been so hard for him to have gone through all of that. He was such a success, then reduced to almost nothing. He has come along way since and it makes me very happy. However, I still want him to see me become a success, whatever that means. I also want him to be around to see my children. I want to show him that his suffering wasn't in vain. So, to lose him now would be extremely emotional for me. He turns 78 this April. I'd better get cracking.
I thought I'd take you on a walk with me and show you where I live, sort of. I mean, I really did live right there in that spot on this day. Also, I live about three miles away near the mountain bench (you'll get a quick pass). What you can't see is the Great Salt Lake, which is directly behind me at the start. The reason? Low resolution video and haze caused from the winter inversion. You just might be able to see Antelope Island. Where I was taking a walk is in the protected wetlands area. The dikes are great for seeing all sorts of water fowl, and the area is also a hot spot for spying bald eagles. I am much happier now not using my shotgun to be one with nature and now admiring it in peace.
My hair is coming back and it is blond. I had reddish brown hair before. Also, my hair is soft and fine, like a baby's. So, if I ever need comforting, I just pretend that my head is a cuddly bunny and pet away.
My medical problems have been getting less and less. I've been on steroids to take care of an extremely bad rash (it has scarred me on parts of my body) that I got right after my last radiation treatment. The doctors claimed that the radiation was not directly responsible for the rash. Rather, it could've been the massive amounts of stress that all the treatments caused that led to the breakout. It's all about semantics, folks.
The other medical problem, post cancer treatments, was that I had blood seeping from my toenails. That freaked my doctor out. We're not really sure why it is happening, but when in doubt you get a prescription cream for it. One of the chemicals that I had administered to me during chemo made my skin real sensitive. I'm hypothesizing that since I have been walking my toe nails are seating into this "baby" like skin. I think that as long as I don't get an infection, soon I will toughen up and there won't be anymore problems. HAHAHAHAHA! At least my name isn't Job. As long as we are talking biblical shit, do bleeding toenails qualify as stigmata?
I think I am going through a massive detox from all the chemicals that have been pumped into me. My sweat would probably kill a laboratory mouse, or at least be crystallized and smoked for a good high. Whatever the case, I can feel actual distance now between me and the whole cancer saga. It isn't a great amount of distance, but I can breathe a bit better. My dreams haven't come around yet, but I'm hoping that what goes on in my subconscious will follow suit with the whole getting on with my life bit. I've had some scary freakin' dreams, my friends. It sucks. It is a good thing that I don't have to share my bed with anybody, because they would start thinking I was some kind of basket case. I woke up in a pile of clothes one night muttering something about the car not starting. That was a bit weird. HA-HA, there he goes again, that crazy Grunt!
The weekends are starting to feel non-existent to me. It is like this when someone asks me what I did over the weekend, "Uh, I remember having lunch and then I ended up back at work somehow." There has got to be more to life than this. However, for a great deal of humankind, life does not get any better, or even as good as this. I imagine that for many people who have walked this earth, they never had expectations past survival. In essence, they had no capacity to dream like we do--in our fortunate circumstance. The fact that I can dream and have those dreams go unfulfilled is not a sign of my misfortune, but my blessed place in life. The fact that some of those dreams will come to fruition is absolutely marvelous. Why was I so blessed to be where I am in this world at this time in life?
I still have to go to work on a Monday, though. Bleh! So much for being deep.
We all know that Yogi was interested in one thing: pic-a-nic baskets, hey Boo Boo! It was even better if said picnic basket came with a side order of pissing the ranger off. That leaves Boo Boo. What was in it for him? The companionship of one dynamic character in Yogi. They slept in the same cave together. Yogi did have a girlfriend, but that did not seem to stop Boo Boo from hanging around with the hopes and dreams of one day winning Yogi's heart.
Boo Boo is a sweetheart with a genuine concern for the welfare of others and especially the ones that he loved most. This makes him cool and TIGF in a good way. The fact that he only chose to wear a bow tie made him even more gay. He's practically a Chippendale dancer for crying out loud.
Let's talk about Yogi for a moment. Have you ever noticed how much Bob Dylan's singing sounds like Yogi Bear? I'm wondering if there is some kind of connection there. Does anyone know if Bob Dylan steals picnic baskets and likes pissing off park rangers? Has anyone ever seen him wearing only a tie and a pork pie hat? I'm just thinking out loud here.
(Cue Harry Nilsson's "One"--I hate Three Dog Night's version)
So, I found myself at the movies alone. This shit happened for real. I was surprised myself. I went to see "Semi-Pro". It had its moments. There were only two other people in the audience and you know what went through my mind for just one second: threesome. Never mind that the other two people in the audience were a couple in their fifties. I just saw the makings of a great adventure and put some mental effort into how I'd go about initiating such a menage a trios.
I figure that such a mature couple would need the services of a youngish stud like me. I mean, who could resist a radioactive sex shogun such as myself? This was all in my head, of course. You have to do such things to entertain yourself when you're all alone. In imagination land you can have Milk Duds for nipples and hot buttered popcorn for a mattress.
After I finished my silly exercise of imagination, I decided to call my sister and tell her that I was all alone at the movies. She wasn't too impressed and told me to try it for forty years, whatever that means. It was about then that the movie started. This is the part where I free based some Rollos. I'm telling you, that is the only way to consume your favorite candy. Having said that, Rollos aren't my favorite candy. I just had a craving is all. I would probably say that real chocolate isn't candy, rather, a sacrament. Rollos aren't real chocolate, though. As far as candy goes, I'm going to have to choose Red Vines for the theater.
I decided that since the only other people in the theater were old and far away from me, that I was going to laugh harder than I wanted to as well as talk to the movie screen. I really did this. I highly recommend it, too. Just wait for the movie to start or even the projectionist will feel more sane than you.
I had a good time with myself, and it did not even include any Paul Ruebens style hi-jinks. If you have to ask about what that means, then you weren't the one whose perceptions of Pee Wee Herman were utterly shattered, requiring much therapy and role playing with sock puppets. Plus, I found out that I am a cheap date. I only ate a eighty-nine cent cheeseburger for dinner! Ladies, this man is low maintenance. I did think that asparagus, new potatoes, and fillet mignon, with a fine port, would have been nicer--and I'm so worth it, even if I don't drink. But I had to say hello to my high school employer, Ronald McDonald.
All in all, it was a good night. So, if you find yourself alone in a movie theater, ask yourself: What would Grunty do?
If you're feeling down And you're new to town No one knows your name Take a tip from me A simple philosophy And your loneliness will fade
Inhale the good Exhale the bad Personal Wigwam
It ain't complicated Or hard to demonstrate it You just stay where you are So just close your eyes And self hypnotize Until the "eye" opens wide
Inhale the good Exhale the bad Personal Wigwam
Still there's mystery to my identity listen closely and you'll find I'm the Electric Papoose In the flying caboose And breathing gets me high
Inhale the good Exhale the bad Personal Wigwam
(1992 MDK)
The story behind this? Well, I always reference a time of my life spent selling Hoovers for Jebus door to door in Northeast England, and this was written during that time.
I was working in Doncatster and one of my "clients" gave me a guitar, which I had only started playing about two years prior. I had a creative explosion during this time of strict cloistering. Doing what I was, playing the guitar and writing "apostate" music (apostate for the conditions of the "job"--mind you, I signed up for it), it was even better that the song was based on the ideas of meditation and astral travel. My district "sales" leader found out about all of this and informed the president of our "division". They shut me down and I sold the guitar for ten quid. However, this was not before I did some crude recordings on a cheap dictaphone. My Portuguese sales partner thought is was the shit.
Speaking about dictaphones and Portuguese sales partners, I caught him having a wet dream on audio tape. This dictaphone had a voice activated recording feature. My partner was notorious for talking in his native tongue in his sleep. He didn't believe me and so I secretly set up my dictaphone to record whatever noises occurred during the night. When I woke up that morning he was already up and his bedding was gone. I thought nothing of it until I played the tape back. What I got where the usual trains and buses passing our flat, then the big nocturnal "O". It went like this: "Aaaaaaah, ahhh, oohhhh! Oh, no! Oh, the dangit! Oh, I for make all over now." On second thought, that might not have been a nocturnal emission. I played the tape back for him and he first said that it wasn't him. I said, "Well, it sure wasn't me moaning in broken English." He then said that he was having a "Dream bad about dogs for chase." Yeah, it was kind of like living with Borat for three months. It was great. Anyway, back to the story.
I later borrowed another guitar when I moved from Doncaster to Keighley. It was there that I met a faith healer named Dave who had a brief pub touring stint with the Dave Clark Five in the eighties. I wrote a bunch more songs there. One of those songs was "Child of Buddah". It did not fair well with my compadres. It did not help that I was not a good singer at the time, either. I got shut down again. But at least I made some more recordings.
I laugh at the quality and my lack of playing ability at the time. But I've never had so much fun as I did then, writing songs and playing guitar. I guess it was because it really meant that I was being bad, or at the very least, annoying as hell.
How are you doing today? Has anyone told you that you're looking good? Well, I'm here to tell you just that. Boys: I noticed that your mustaches are coming in nicely. Girls: Why, tell me how you get your hair to be so flirty?
Had enough?
OK, I spent some time in my room with Suzi plugged into my biggest amp (the neighbors were gone). I was pretending that I was both David Bowie and Mick Ronson rolled into one super rock god. I think I played "Moonage Daydream", "Soul Love", "Hang on to Yourself", and "Ziggy Stardust" each about three times. My alien rock god name was Buffy Scottsdale, because all alien rock gods must be androgynous, but capable of great feats of masculinity. I just took the name of my first pet and the model of vehicle that I drive (a Chevy Scottsdale K20 pickup truck). You can do the same trick to get your stripper name, only using your second pet's name followed by the street that you grew up on. My stripper name is Thor Belmont.
Try it out for fun and find out what your names would be.
I've stopped itching long enough to do some typing. My rash has made a home here on my body. I have to accept that I will be a bumpy, splotchy mess from now on. It is times like these that one might fall into the depths of despair. Not me. I am hoping to join in the side show circuit as "Gila Man and his dwarf slave, Oswald." I'm having open auditions for Oswald. Email me if you are below four feet tall and don't mind being told to do awful things in the name of showbiz. There's a little school boy's outfit in the deal if you make the cut.
How many of you are familiar with the phenomenon of "stage fright" when urinating in public? Wait, that didn't sound right. Let me try that one again: when urinating in a public restroom? Here's the thing: I have had my moments of pee paralysis. The most extreme case of this occurred when I was trying to pee next to the regional manager of Hoover Vacuums in Northern England. Yes, this was way back when I was going door to door selling vacuum cleaners for Jebus there. The conversation went thusly, me: "Um, nice talk." Him: (clears throat) "Boy, it's sure cold outside." Me: "Yeah, unbelievable." Then about thirty seconds of silence. Not even one mercy drip came from my lazy boy, nor his. It was too much, so I wrapped it up and left that awkward silence in a flash. Maybe I should have farted and broke the tension.
This is also how I know that ghosts are real, stage fright. I was in the comfort of my dwelling, going #1 in the bathroom, well, trying to go #1. I desperately wanted to go #1, with scatters of #2, but no. I had to go real bad, but I couldn't. I had stage fright. How could I have had stage fright if there was no audience? Exactly! I deduced that there was someone in that bathroom with me, someone invisible to the naked eye. It was a ghost, a perverted one, but a ghost nonetheless. After more encounters I figured out who this ghost was. It was none other than the Ghost of Abraham Lincoln! Read more about his ghost in this post here.
