They happen in threes

R.I.P

• Farrah
• Ed
• Michael

Of Farrah:

My older brother had "the" poster with the magic nipples in it. I was an avid watcher of Charlie's Angels reruns, but was more devoted to Wonder Woman. I will remember her for her character of "Blond Girl" in Logan's Run and for her paintings, using her nude body as a brush. This is proof that Texans are different from the rest of us and that is why we like them. Mostly, though, I will think about another fellow being that lost their battle with cancer and how fortunate I am to have survived my battle with that disease.

Of Ed:

I was lucky enough to have spent many nights of my youth watching The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. I would sometimes crash my parents' room and watch this with my dad while my mom was busy doing mom stuff. There was something about Ed that made you like him, or fear him. You just knew that if you met him in the right circumstances that he might "heyo" you to death. Ed was one of the few people that could put "Trademark Laugh" on a resume and it would get him the job. At least he and Johnny can do the show again.

Of Michael:

Pop genius, pure and simple. I really got into my brother's 45's of the Jackson 5 and his early solo stuff. I wasn't even ashamed to like him when he released Thriller, then things started getting weird...Howard Hughes meets Elvis weird. From hyperbaric chambers to Elepant Man skeletons, and the occult to Bubbles the Chimp. Throw in Brooke Shields, Webster, Neverland Ranch, and a bunch of young boys and you have only a grain of sand on an entire bizzaro world beach. He seemed only to be visiting this planet, anyway. Somehow, I am happy for him. As tragic as his death may be, I really didn't want to see what advanced age would do to him. I found it painful to watch him make attempts at becoming "adult", having kids and canned marriages. He just could never be old--he needed to exist elsewhere, away from normality. Maybe he really was Peter Pan. There won't be anybody nor anything like him again.

Catch 22

You're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't. So, the best thing is to say that you are always thinking about it, whatever "it" is, and hang out with good people.

Water Safety

Remember kids: If you are ever in a shipwreck, root beer floats.

Lazerly laterly

My mind is still on vacation. Astral travel is much cheaper than getting away physically, but I am no yogi.

My mind thinks of silly things quite often. Lately, I've been fascinated with how Dustin Hoffman says "uh-oh", you know, the "Rainman" catchphrase. I also have an equal fascination with how Jackie Chan says "uncle". He sounds like he's saying "unkhole". There's nothing wrong with it. It is just something that I get a kick out of. So, I've been thinking how great it would be if Jackie Chan and Dustin Hoffman did a movie together, called Uh-oh! Where's Uncle? Dustin Hoffman would just reprise his Rainman character and team up with Jackie on a quest to find his Uncle, who was kidnapped by international gangsters that ride motorcross bikes around the Bronx--the Bronx having the Canadian Rocky Mountains as a prominent backdrop (just like in Rumble in the Bronx). Apparently, Hong Kong filmmakers didn't even try to match their shooting location to their intended setting. Oh, and when is the last time you were traumatized by hordes of breakdance-couture, dirtbike riders in the inner city? Did they try to steal your grocery-store-owning uncle, too? Well, my friends, all of this nonsense will go into this production. Dustin Hoffman will use his savant super powers to process information from almanacs, phone books, and the "Adult" ads in Craigslist to track down the bad guys. Jackie Chan will just randomly beat people up, run around and jump alot, and smile at stuff while pronouncing things wrong to our delight. The best part is that they both will say the catchphrase "Uh-oh! Where's Uncle?" a lot.

Yep.

TIGF!!! Silk blindfolds

I have sensitive eyes. Noise isn't the primary obstacle for me getting to sleep or staying asleep. Light is the main culprit for my arousal or inability to zonk out. I happen to live on a busy street. This damn street, and paranoid neighbors with their motion-sensing flood lights, make me go into fits when I'm trying to get a little shut eye. Up until now, my solution has been to use my black Pink Floyd "Division Bell" concert t-shirt to throw over my face. It still has that unwashed stench of concert sweat and weed and will stay that way--you never wash concert t-shirts, teens. The problem there was that I had woke up a few times with this t-shirt almost strangling me, having wrapped itself around my neck. So, I broke down, went to Rite-Aide, and bought myself a teal-colored, silk blind fold. I didn't opt for the one with lace, though.

As gay as I look wearing this thing, I have got to say that it feels divine. It is more than that, though; my eyes feel cooler and I don't wake up as "baggy" as I used to. The downside to this blind, versus the Floyd shirt, is that there is no olfactory enhancement that stimulates wicked dreams. In fact, this silk blindfold promotes more sedate and sensitive dreams, where I sit around drinking chai and asking people about their feelings. This pisses of that little part of me that says, "Oh, go shove a corn cob up your ass, you sissy boy!" I think, in time, this little part of me will come around.

Any of you use a blind fold?

Couch coma

It all hit me today. I watched enough bad T.V. to rob my brain of all independent thought.

Symbiotic relationships--like remoras and sharks--are fascinating to me. I like picking out who the "remora" is and the "shark" in any given relationship. My truck needs a remora. That would be awesome. I would be going down the freeway with a few of them stuck to my truck, cleaning all the foreign debris that collects on it. While we are talking around the wishing well, it would also be nice if our cars fed off of bugs in the air like a whale does with krill. No pollution or trips to the pump, just free energy and less mosquito bites.

I have come to the conclusion why the sasquatch gives off such a horrible smell: skunk lovers. Since the best kook psuedoscientists have produced enough hardcore speculation as to their numbers (3,500) it must get lonely out there for a hairy and horny biped--much like a long-haul trucker. Eyewitnesses testify that a horrible smell accompanies the beast--a smell that has nothing to do with the body odor that comes from a large man in a yak hair covered, latex gorilla suit. No, the sasquatch tides themselves over with the odd skunk here and there with a behavior that is known as "misting" in cryptozoological circles. I do not wish to get into the mechanics of such, but I will just say that the natives of this country did not call the sasquatch "skunk ape" for nothing.

Okay, that is enough nonsense for tonight.

Home again! Home again! Jiggitty-jig!

I was hoping to join a cult in the wilderness but nobody would take me. I tried my damnedest to find Bigfoot but could not grow sufficient facial hair to fit the part of an expeditious wacko. I did have the boots, though.

I will have to report about this sometime down the road.

On walkabout....