Ouija Hat

I've lost two hats in the past three months.  That's almost one hat per month.  Who takes care of those lost hats? When the hat catcher finds them, the hat catcher takes them to the hat pound. What happens to those hats at the hat pound if nobody adopts them? That hat, my friends, gets put to sleep and nobody wins then.

I know what you're saying, "Grunt, you are a bad hat owner, so irresponsible...uuuuugely irresponsible."  You know what? You'd be right.  The first of these two hats got lost because I wanted to take it for a motorcycle ride.  Because of my recklessness, this hat got real scared and jumped from the crevice between the seat and backrest that I stuffed it into. If you live in the Mt. Olympus area, please keep an eye out for a dark blue hat with some faded patches and has an eagle on the front.  It responds to "Hattie".

The second hat that I lost was when I was hiking up a popular canyon in Sandy that has some beautiful waterfalls, where people like to slip and fall to their deaths on a fairly regular basis. I guess when you are looking at a beautiful waterfall it's easy to come to the conclusion that life isn't worth living.  I mean, what is your life, really, in comparison to such beauty? It's nothing, I say.  Get closer to the edge.  But I digest. I'd digress, but there's still some of that Little Caesar's Pizza taking up residence inside of me, doggedly so. Turn to poo already!  

So, I put on my Napa Auto Parts hat.  It's my pride and joy because I like cars and working on them.  I like Napa because their staff actually knows what they are doing. All the other auto parts places employ individuals who seem to know what a car is and what oil is; therefore, they are your new god. 

I went into an Autozone wearing my Napa hat and the manager told me to get a new hat.  I told him that I would, if he would stop being gay.  It isn't a choice, is what I was trying to say.  Only my dad gets to call me homophobic. Oh, and if you were wondering if I made that last part up, well, I didn't. My 86-year-old Mormon dad totally called me homophobic.  I asked him if he knew what homophobic meant. He said, "Uh, maybe I don't...er, I forgot." I explained to him that it meant a fear of gay people.  He then goes, "OH, not that one.  You're a Sociopath!"  Thanks dad, that made me feel so much better.

Where was I?  Oh yeah, so I'm going up the Bell Canyon Trail wearing my Napa hat.  The first part of the trail goes around a hoity-toity gated community, with all these uuuuuuugely tremendous homes.  It was rather windy that day.  As I was hiking up the hill, I remember thinking that I'd better take my hat off.  It was just as I was completing that thought that a gust of wind came and whisked my Napa hat off of my head.  I watched it sail through the air and into the backyard of some dickhead's mansion.  It hurt my feelings because I've started to wonder if my Napa hat wanted a better life and decided to use the wind as an excuse for leaving me. Rather convenient, I say.  

So, what does this all have to do with the title? Well, I had an idea.  You have heard, I hope, of urban legends where people get in too deep playing with Ouija boards.  They get all freaked out and throw it away, run it over with their car, burn it, or send it to Grandma.  Inevitably, the Ouija board returns the following day, unharmed, ready for the next round of satanic Chutes and Ladders.  I thought that this kind of supernatural technology would actually be welcome if it were employed in objects that tend to get lost.  If you lose or accidentally burn your remote, wouldn't you want it waiting on your coffee table for you the next day?  I sure would.  So, I thought that having an Ouija Hat would be pretty rad. If both those hats were Ouija Hats, then I would still be wearing them today.  I would be haunted by demons, but I'd still have protection from the sun.  I'm just bummed that I wasn't the first one to think of and create the Ouija Hat.  I really thought I had an original idea.  Oh well, at least I still can lay claim to being the inventor of the Breakfast Thong.

Thinky Brain vs. Feely Heart

Thinky Brain knows what's best for me, at least that's what it tells me.  Feely Heart wants me to believe in stuff that is unknowable, whether the stuff it wants me to believe in is totally bat-shit crazy doesn't seem to bother it at all.  Popular subjects that these two parts of me fight over are God, religion, politics, and love.  It seems that my Thinky Brain and my Feely Heart don't get along on these matters much.

I won't go into the specifics of each argument vying for my attention, but I will say that I'm fucking tired of Thinky Brain making my Feely Heart hurt and Feely Heart pissing off Thinky Brain with all of its mushy, illogical wants.  I always thought that it was a good thing to have a brain that would keep me out of trouble.  I also believed that my heart would always show me the way.  It seems like having these two things would be a match made in heaven for me and it would if they could ever agree on anything.

My Feely Heart loves it when I pig out on stuff that makes it feel good and my Thinky Brain just goes with it because it's all "I like thinking about why this is so damn good. It's because of bacon, right?" Winner: Both.

On matters of politics, Thinky Brain wants to find the evidence that backs up the candidates' claims and is interested in what will work, versus what will make me feel good about myself.  Feely Heart wants everybody to get along, but also wants affirmation that what it feels is right and is best for everyone else, even if what it feels has no basis in reality, reason, or logic. Feely Heart is also prone to acting on fear, but will never admit it. Winner: Thinky Brain.

When it comes to love, well, the battle isn't as one-sided as you'd think.  Sure, Feely Heart gets a lot of time at the podium here.  I get to hear all about how good or bad Feely Heart is feeling at any given moment--like constantly and unrelenting.  It's that blubbering, attention-starved teenager who is given the spotlight and wants so much for the world to know that they are the center of the universe. Feely Heart can also be a little prima-donna bitch in this matter, if you ask me.  Thinky Brain is mostly putting its fingers in its ears and repeating "la-la-la-la" until it can't take it any longer and screams "SHUT-UP, YOU NINNY!"  This is the point where Thinky Brain has to step in and take control of the situation. Thinky Brain is usually pissed off because it was on the verge of discovering the cure for cancer or some shit, but got interrupted and lost its choo-choo train of thought. Thinky Brain has to figure out all of the compatibility issues, current readiness for a relationship, whether upping the hygiene routine and wardrobe is warranted. Winner:  No winners yet, but I'm hopeful a peace can be negotiated and that the sanctions will be lifted.

God isn't so much fought over as much as religion. Thinky Brain can dig God, even if that's more Feely Heart's territory.  It figures that if there's a being that did all this universe building, well, they've got its vote.  Plus, it has decided that against the odds, believing in God provides a bit of afterlife insurance.  Where we get into trouble is when religion gets thrown into the mix.  This is where Feely Heart and Thinky Brain start pulling the off the gloves and fighting dirty.  Feely Heart feels so loyal and obligated to notions that comfort it and provide a sense of being one of the "chosen" or part of God's only true path.

Feely Heart relies purely on emotional validation as it's standard of proof.  Feely Heart calls this The Holy Ghost. In fact, Feely Heart was at one time convinced by a slight peaceful ease, which lasted a couple of minutes tops, that American Indians were really Jews who came over to the Americas to escape religious persecution and evil in general. Once in the new land, some of these Jews were disobedient and caused God to become furious, resorting to his big hammer of retribution: the curse of dark skin (And it came to pass that a great and thunderous voice came from the heavens and said, "ooogah-boogah" and the wicked suddenly got darker and better at music and of sports).  Thinky Brain eventually caught wind of this (it took quite some time and about two semesters at university) and was all "the fuuuuuuuuuuck?"  Thinky Brain soon found out all this other crazy shit that Feely Heart was getting me involved in with this religion stuff, too much to list here.  Thinky Brain has wanted to put a stop to all of this, but the real chance of being cut off from family and friends, plus being the village pariah, have caused Thinky Brain to hold back and plot its next move, biding its time.  The winner: Feely Heart, but it sure is fucking with me hard at the moment.  God help me.

Even though Thinky Brain and Feely Heart don't get along, I truly believe that for all of their arguing the two will steer me where I need to go, eventually.  Feely Heart's desires make me human and are responsible for the joy I have in life.  Thinky Brain is doing its best to keep me out of trouble and cleaning up the resulting messes made from trying and failing.  Thinky Brain's job is to tell Feely Heart that everything is going to be okay and that things are not as bad as they seem.  Feely Heart, in turn, celebrates when Thinky Brain figures out important shit and gives Thinky Brain credit, where credit is due.  Feely Heart also is Thinky Brain's editor, quite often.  It tries to keep Thinky Brain's editorials from reaching the printing press without a thorough examination first, and then offers its suggestions.  Sometimes, Thinky Brain sneaks these things past Feely Heart and later has to deal with the blow back from the readership.

Thinky Brain and Feely Heart aren't perfect but they are trying.  It's just that I get a bit tired of them fighting and wish I could go on a long vacation somewhere nice. That's all I'm asking.

Smug Electronic Game

I was feeling rather optimistic at a certain point today.  I felt like I might be coming out of a depression.  It's been more than that: a dark pit of fear and anxiety, mixed with depression.  There were attempts at displays of humor, musing, and sharing music on social media.  Trying to play through the pain seemed to be speeding my recovery.  Unfortunately, I had over estimated my recovery and tried contacting a friend before I could really deal with it.  Before we go any further, let me just say, I am the one at fault.  I know you are all gasping because you thought I was perfect.  Well, I'm pretty freaking far from perfect. Okay, now that we got that straightened out, I will continue.

What I was trying to get at was that I fell back into that pit of depression/fear/anxiety.  I concluded that I needed to stop making an ass of myself and go do nothing in a place where nobody, including me, would be affected or hurt.  That's where I found it: an electronic handheld game called "20 Questions".  This game asks you a series of questions about a thing that you are thinking and within 20 questions, it tries to figure out what that thing is.  Well, I felt pretty awful tonight, so I chose "depression" as my thing that the game would have to find out from my answers to it's questions.

I didn't think it was going to get it, but right after the 20th question, the game got it.  The way it celebrated after was a bit dickish, though.  It basically said, "I know what you're thinking! I got you beat! It's depression, isn't it?"  I answered "yes" and then it did this whole end zone dance, "I AM THE WINNER!!! You thought you could beat me, but I am too smart! Do you want to play again?"  No, 20 Questions, I do not want to play again.

If I had a robot, It'd probably sneak into my room later tonight and whisper "loser" into my ear, and then pat me on the head.

Gift Basket of Deplorables

This post's title begs to be made into a movie.  Who to direct? Tarantino?? Rob Zombie???  Whomever takes on such a project needs to tap into the mind of the Trump supporter and extract that magic--the perfect horror movie.  I figure the strategy to "make America great again", in this horror scenario, is a family magically appears in every neighborhood around the country, in a house that no one remembers being there.  Things in the neighborhood mysteriously start to change, bit by bit.  It's a "The Stepford Wives" meets "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" kind of thing.  One by one, each household is transformed into a super xenophobic, uneducated, disgruntled Trump supporter. It gets better. Hillary and her zombie body-double hoards start taking over the urban areas, eating the rich but not leaving any meat on the bone for the working class. Her attacks become more intense as the weather cools down.  Meanwhile, The Great and Terrible Orange One is busy building a wall around his tower, using illegal immigrant labor, to protect him from the mess he started.

It's a work in progress.

Gassclown

This is the clown that gives me gas and haunts my dreams.

This one gives me gas and haunts my dreams, too.  However, this clown used to pay me to do horrible things to people.

It's no wonder I turned out to be a mentally-scarred adult clown with many, many issues.  If you are brave enough to honk my nose and stick around, you'll probably be disappointed. I am not used to keeping the party going longer than an hour or two.  I'll probably say something awful to ruin the birthday party, so I can go home early and calm down. After a while, it starts to sink in what a sad, sad clown I really am. I think about how nice it was to be at the party, with the balloons, bad clothes, floppy boots, and my squirting lapel flower. I think about how nice it was to have someone get involved in my act, even if I wasn't ready for it. I really appreciated you honking my nose. Sorry for the strange noise it made. Please forgive me.

A Whale Regulated Militia

Elf Evaluation

Sometimes I wonder about my life and why things happen the way they happen. I'm either too smart or too dumb...I don't know which.  Well, if I don't seem to know which, then it's probably the latter.  I certainly feel like I've been rather dumb lately, dumb and insensitive.  I blame Donald Trump.

Have you ever entered a situation or an experience so loaded with prior hangups and bad memories that you ruined things? Yeah, I've totally screwed shit up because of that.  I can say that I'm cool with things and try to convince myself and others that I'm okay with it, but if I haven't really dealt with my issues, they always have a way of showing up at the wrong time and wanting to crash the party.  I blame Hillary Clinton.

I may not want something 100%, but that doesn't mean that I don't want it like 85%.  What's with the whole binary system of desire, anyway?  I am criticizing myself here.  It seems I have to want something with every fiber of my being in order to make a life decision.  Shit, I don't have this standard with food.  There have been plenty of times where I choose some kind of burger with a bit of uncertainty, but after am all "Damn, that was a good freaking burger!"  It's really because I can be a chicken shit sometimes.  I blame the media.

Sure, there's a rush when you flee your supposed "burning building", a feeling like you've somehow escaped a potential problem.  The problem is that when there becomes a pattern of these events, well, you have to start asking yourself if you just view every situation as a burning building.  I blame my optometrist.

What do I do? I don't know, really.  If I hurt someone, then I do my best to make that right. But what do I do about myself?  I am repeatedly hurting myself and it has to stop.  I have to identify my problems and their root causes.  After that, well, the hard work begins of actually trying to fix myself.  Can't I just shut up and play my guitar?  I blame society.

Boy, this self evaluation stuff is hard. I blame myself.  At least that's a start.

Imma

Sans the spur.

Fambly Circle Jerk

TIGF!!! (That's Incredibly Gay Friday): Jabroni, plus mini-unrelated post

I needed some modeling clay the other day (wow, that totally rhymed). I am using this clay for checking clearances on some mechanical parts. I go into the local arts and crafts store, you know, the type that should have a "no boys allowed" sign out front. Which is to say, this arts and crafts store is really a fabric store that has a smidgen of art supplies to qualify putting "art supplies" on the sign. First gripe: no modeling clay! Fhat the wuck? I got pissed off and left the store. 

I had to get my damn modeling clay! I thought of Walmart--too easy. Try harder, Grunt. There's a Dollar Store! I go in there and start checking out all the kids toys. For awhile I was doing fine, but then a lady comes down the aisle. For some reason, I start feeling stupid. I did this to myself. I mean, it's not like she knows one way or another that I don't have kids and that shouldn't matter. If I want a damn kid's toy, Imma gettin' it! And I found what I was looking for, some kind of off brand Play-Dough, two jar pack for a buck. 

I took that one item up to the counter and I almost did the thing where you get a bunch of other items to somehow hide the thing that you really want to buy, say, condoms when you're a teen or tampons for your woman. I caught myself about to to do this, but then decided that I was being a total jabroni about it. I went right up to the counter, put my kiddie clay right up to the checker lady and said, "Just this, please." She gave me this look like, What the fuck are you buying this for? I sent her a psychic telegram that said, Because Play-Dough, that's what the fuck for! I think she totally got my telegram. Now don't bother me. I'm going to make rude sculptures with this stuff before I have to use it for what I needed it in the first place.

TIGF!!! (That's Incredibly Gay Friday!!!): Gay Toupee (Trumpvolta) for the USA!

What is the only thing that can save us from this evil combover?

Why it's our friend Gay Toupee!

I know that technically speaking that this is a wig, but Trump's hair needs a lot of help, just as our country will need if he is elected president.  But if Trump gets outfitted with TIGF!!! level hair, he might come to his senses, drop out of the race for the Republican presidential nomination, leave his wife, and save John Travolta from Scientology, which I believe robbed him of both his dignity and his hair.

Trumpvolta would be the ultimate power couple, far greater than the Clintons.  Trumpvolta doesn't have to be a sexual partnership, just a TIGF!!! one. Once Trumpvolta is under the guidance of the Gay Toupee, they will be unstoppable.  Trump will broker the deals, boss people around and Travolta will create sensible policies and programs to benefit the American people.  This is how the Travolta half of Trumpvolta would deal with terrorists:

I think it could work.

Happier Place

A couple of recent posts of mine would seem to indicate that I am typing this post from beyond, while my beautiful corpse was rotting inside the Rubbermaid shed in my backyard (I'm a big Robin Williams fan). Not so, my friends! I have triumphantly overcome my sad place and turned it upside down into a happy place. The problem is that when I turned my sad place upside down, all the furniture got ruined in the process. Dammit! Well, I suppose a trip to IKEA might be in order. They say that Valhalla awaits those who die while assembling flat-pack Swedish furniture. I can't wait to meet Conan the Barbarian. I'm pretty sure he'll be blown away by my tales of putting tab "A" into tab "B" and twisting fasteners with just the right flick of the wrist. Don't worry that none of this made any sense. Just be happy for me that I feel good today.

 

Time for a rotate and balance

I've been feeling a bit paranoid today. Why am I feeling this way? Well, it probably has to do with the fact that I think that people are on to me. The thing is that I'm really not up to anything, but I have people that used to be closer to me drop out of my life. It's like they are picking up on a vibe and subconsciously distancing themselves from me. Or, maybe, I am withdrawing from them. Whatever greener pastures that I see them drifting off to in my paranoia, I am not exactly protesting; rather, I lament the growing distance.

Someday I could serve some kind of purpose for them: a reference point and an example to buttress their reality at my own expense. At what point do the hands of friends and family close? They don't, really, but I've seen mine become wobbly and reluctant when I could not accept the reality of another. That person is gone now.

I checked into that person's reality and found out why open arms only led back to the reasons for checking out in the first place. So, I go about my reality forming carefully now. I watch and see who is trending on me and who is flaking. What matters is who is sticking with me, regardless of where my life journey goes. Because, I can't settle for comfort or for salve. I cannot partake of prosperity served in a dog dish, either. But, I also do need to get over myself and lighten up.

It's a balance that I am after. It's becoming more aware of the Dharma in the world, but not forgetting I'm a white guy who loves Jesus and shooting clay pigeons. It's allowing people to be different from me and still love them. Mostly, though, it's about allowing myself to be different from those that I love and not hating myself.

A Moment of Ingratitude and Frustration

Sometimes I feel like I'm left holding the bag of my mother and father's inadequate parenting.  I have no idea what I am going to do about my older brother.  He is a mess in so many ways that it is absolutely breaking my heart.  I feel almost powerless to help him.  I already watched one of my sisters kill herself with alcohol.  My brother hasn't taken care of himself, is morbidly obese, can't even work a part-time job without physical and emotional issues.  I've pretty much resigned myself to being his caretaker for the rest of his/my life.  This will pretty much insure that I will have no progeny. It's hard to fix 'em when they're adults.  Somewhere along the line my parents just stopped looking for answers for my brother.  Oh, they wondered, but it never went as far as trying to get him help.  I think my mother probably just kept putting his name in the temple prayer rolls, hoping that Jesus would come down in his magic spaceship and fix him for her.  My dad did his best at never having meaningful interaction with him, only sporadic outbursts of aggressive demands and cut downs.  It blows my mind.  

F to the uck.

Waaaaaait a minute

I was watching the movie "Grease" tonight and in the opening animated credits I saw something interesting.  Rizzo, in her still image in the mirror, looks like a Hobbit.  If she is in fact a Hobbit, well what kind of Hobbit would she be?  A slut Hobbit?  Was Rizzo a slut?  I don't think so.  She was just an assertive, catty woman...er, a bitch.  But I like that sort of thing, so let's go with that.  She's a badass, bitch Hobbit, the one that all the teen Hobbits try to bang, but never end up being able to handle her kind of tough love.  

What would Rizzo's Hobbit name be? Baggins? Proudfoot? Nah, I'm thinking it's something like Rizzo Firesnatch or Rizzo Tumblenhay.  Something tells me she wouldn't be the type of Hobbit that would stick 'round the Shire, either.  I think she's a big city Hobbit with big dreams and a tight ass.  

I could totally see her and Gandalf having a one night stand.  Yeah and all the other Fellowship Hobbits would be hanging around making things awkward between her and Gandalf, like they're going to get some sloppy seconds. In true Rizzo style, she'd quip, "Whaddya fellas think this is, a gang bang? Scram!"

My kind of Hobbit lady.  Anyway, if she and Gandalf had a baby it would explain people like Jesus.  I mean, the kid would end up being human size, but all magical and hungry 'n' shit. That's why Jesus was always turning water into wine and food into more food--it was freakin' elevensies--time to nosh!  Anyway, there probably is a Pink Ladies chapter in the Shire.  It was just cut out of the movies.  I'm sure that it is in the books, somewhere in the middle, perhaps.  Yep.

I wanna rock...

Wouldn't the world be a much better place if this happened instead?

Toaster Coven

I can picture it now: witches gathered in black masses, waiting for their toaster strudels to reach golden perfection, a Hermetic Order of the Golden Crust, if you will. Maybe there's a witch who just wants a bagel to go.  Cursing and cackling sure do work up an appetite.  Hell, bake a damn potato, a pot pie, a friggin' french bread pizza! Holy shit!

I think the young girl witches start off with some kind of satanic easy bake oven, er, easy bake coven, but instead of a 90 watt bulb, it is a burning ember straight from Satan's asshole.  Surprisingly, this does not effect the taste of the cupcakes.  Wait...this sounds way more badass than a stupid toaster oven. 

Maybe what makes a toaster coven a step up from the satanic easy bake oven is the sisterhood that is developed around convenient baked goods and hot buttered toast. Yeah, and just try fitting a baby into an easy bake oven, satanic or otherwise.  Now I totally get it.

Anyway, I wonder if Jinx Dawson sang this tune after having an evil Pop Tart, or something.

Genesis weren't always lame

Genesis with Peter Gabriel is what gets me feeling all proggy inside.  "The Lamia" is a great track from the final album from the Peter Gabriel fronted Genesis, The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway.  If you are into prog rock that's weird and complex, not boring, the Genesis albums from "Trespass" to "Lamb" are worth a listen to. Peter Gabriel was doing some very interesting theater in concerts back in those days.  He liked to make up strange characters and even stranger costumes to portray them.  It's all worth checking out if, say, you are recovering from surgery and enjoy teasing guys about their belief in the healing power of puppies. Yeah.

TIGF!!! (That's Incredibly Gay Friday!!!) Experimenting

Experimenting is fun, just ask me, Sir Bartholomew J. Gruntington III.  I once kissed a man...and I liked it? Nope, I wasn't quite fond of it, as you can see, but at least I know.  And if watching G.I. Joe cartoons has taught me anything, it's that knowing is half the battle. Why hate on that, brah? 

P.S. I also don't like being kissed by drunks who chain smoke, as in this picture.  Even though he got to taste my pristine white-boy lips, and had many fun-filled adventures, in the end he rejected my offers of enlightenment and did not buy the Jebus© brand vacuum cleaners I was selling.  Folks, if your vacuum doesn't give you a burning in your bosom, or whisper inspiration into your ears while cleaning, you're using a fallen vacuum cleaner or doing it wrong.

I didn't have time to go to the arts and crafts store....

Lost Dream Clown

Get outta my freakin' room! I don't know how you managed to escape, but you need to get back in my head and dance, juggle shit, plus fall down a lot so I can laugh myself to sleep.

I'm really quite sane. I promise.

TIGF!!! (That's Incredibly Gay Friday!!!) Han Solo's Illegitimate Son, Keytar

Many people do not know this, but aside from Ben Solo (Kylo Ren), Han Solo had fathered many other kids throughout the Star Wars galaxy, albeit, illegitimately.  I mean, you didn't expect an intergalactic smuggler to stay celibate while hitting all those freaky space bars, did you?  And as for his special relationship with Chewie, I mean, do you know how hard it is to get wookie hair out of your asshole? Sharp teeth much?? Nope! No, Han had a blowup doll to tide him over to the next stop. 

It was at the most infamous of space bars, Mos Eisley Cantina on Tatooine, that Han met Keytar's mother, Laimee Ryenou, and also where Keytar was concieved, in the droid closet.  Funnily enough, that's what Laimee called her space vagina.  I don't know what the difference between a space vagina and a regular one is, but I think it has something to do with how bad things have got stretched out or something to do with hitting "light speed", or passing through a wormhole.  Hey, at least she didn't call it her "sarlacc pit". Fun fact: Luke Skywalker lost the skin off of his robot hand to a rather voracious "droid closet".

Anyway, Han's inspiration in naming Keytar came from the music that was playing by the band, Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes. It was one of the Nodes who took the spotlight, playing an outright brain-defying solo on his signature instrument right as Han and Laimee were hitting "light speed" together. Erm, well, we all know that Han shot first....we'll leave it at that. Back to that glorious instrument. What was it, you ask?  Well, it was none other than the keytar!

Han didn't keep in touch very often with his Tatooine lady, nor made much of an effort to connect with his son, Keytar Solo.  It's sad, really, because Keytar is a bit of an unsung hero in the Star Wars universe.  He was a pioneer for interspecies gay rights (one who is sexually attracted to an intelligent being of the same sex, but not of the same species). Mainly, he took his fight to the Empire, choosing to change things within the system.  This was a bold move, seeing has how uptight the Darkside is about anything that could be construed as "space gay".  You'd think it would be different, with the name "Darkside", right?

Whatever happened to Keytar Solo, you ask? Well rumor has it, after his long campaign for "space gay rights" within the Empire and tenure as a daytime talk show host, Keytar settled down with his Ewok longtime companion, Furtürd, on some far away beach planet (space gay marriages hadn't been legalized yet). Ever seen a hairless Ewok? That's how you can tell, my friends.

The irony in all of this is that Keytar Solo never learned how to play the keytar.  In fact, he didn't much care for that instrument at all.  Strange.