Ken Ober died yesterday. And last night was more than a little rough.
When Remote Control showed up on the MTV, he instantly became something of a hero to me. There was just something so cool about being the host of a game show with questions that were not only good, but were questions a 12-year-old TV junkie could answer in a heartbeat. As an added bonus, the banter between Ken, the cast, and the contestants resulted in the learning of more than a few obscene gestures and sayings.
Much like the years I spent practicing the Grand Prize Game just in case I won the six-year-old's version of the lottery and not only got tickets to Bozo Show but got plucked out of the crowd to make a run at Bucket Number Six, I watched Remote Control every day after school so that if the day came, I would come away victorious.
In the years since Remote Control's heyday, I'll admit I never really gave much thought to Ken Ober until one day about three or four years ago when I somehow Forrest Gumped my way into being deep in the running to host a dating show destined for cable.
"It's either going to be you or Ken Ober. Of course they like him better but I'm really pulling for you."
After that sentence was seared into my brain, I had to fight the urge to tell the show's producer to not even bother with me. I'd pick Ken Ober over me. No question.
Unfortunately, that's as far as things went. That bombshell was dropped on me just before the holidays and spending a couple weeks trying not to feel inadequate turned out to be all for naught.
Right at the turn of the new year, some new peeps took over at the network and slew of works-in-progress, including that dating show, were instantly scrapped and that was that.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
We are Motorhead and we play rock 'n roll.
Whoa. Really? It's been this long since I was around these parts? Maybe my dear mother was onto something when she called the other day to make sure I was still alive.
No matter. Got a story for you and it's a pretty decent one.
On top of that, the whole concert experience was one of the strangest nights ever. We got the sweet hook up on backstage passes so what was supposed to be any old Tuesday featured sharing a couch and boozing it up with C.C. DeVille and his groupies, a visit to Motorhead's dressing room and having one of the weirdest conversations of my life with a couple members of the Vagos Motorcycle Club. To this day I swear they were just chatting me up to mark me as the murderee in an initiation ritual but lucky me a chunk of them were nabbed by The Man the very next day. (Hit that link, yo. It's all right there on the wikipedia.)
Motorhead had set the bar pretty high and the second time around didn't disappoint.
Here's a little recap.
Somehow we Forrest Gump'ed our way into VIP passes and were taken by a private elevator to the secret level which was full of the pretty people. The real kicker though were the seats. Second row balcony. Dead on balls center. We're talking serious Statler and Waldorf territory The best part was watching the strippers who's poached our seats plead with the usher but he wasn't havin' it and without mercy he banished them to the back with the rest of the riff raff.
There were no Vagos in sight but I did end up being on the receiving end of a one sided conversation when a young kid noticed my shirt (gotta look tough for Motorhead ya know)and proceeded to tell me a story about his experiences in Iraq.
YOUNG KID
That dude's rockin' an M-60 but it's just like the 240 I had in Iraq.
ME
I wasn't just in Iraq. I was deep into the shit. You know how things were tough in Baghdad? Well shit was a hundred times worse in Fallujah. And you know what's fucked up? I wasn't even supposed to be there. I was sent back home for three weeks of leave and I wasn't back home but for a couple days when I get a call from the Army telling me I'm needed back in Iraq. I was on a flight back there that night. Do you have any idea how bad that sucks? And on top of that they sent me to mother fuckin' Fallujah. Total bullshit. So I get there right and they issue me a 240 and have me post up on the top floor of some bombed out office building. I'm looking out over four city blocks and guess what my rules of engagement were? Kill. Anything. That. Moves. I squeezed off at least 1, 000 rounds that day. Best fucking day of my life. And here we are at Motorhead! Fuckin' A!
ME
Uh, I'm just glad you made it back in one piece. Thank you for serving our country.
YOUNG KID
No, thank you. Man, your support means a lot. You wouldn't believe how many people thought what we were doing was a bunch of shit. Thank you.
That last thank you was punctuated by the longest, most awkward hug of my life. Good times.
Once the show finally started, Motorhead brought the heat. When they took the stage, Lemmy said "We are Motorhead and we play rock 'n roll."
For the next two hours they proceeded to flat out kill it.
+Twitter+-+Search+-+motorhead_1255247492254.png)
#2 is probably the greatest thing ever written on Twitter.
But before they did, there was a surprise opening act in the form of Tenacious D.
They opened with Iron Fist
They closed with Overkill and nearly everyone in the crowd had a strobe light induced seizure.
In case you've lost count Lemmy turns 64 this December.
Paul McCartney, you are a fragile old man.
Added bonus clip- Best. Way. To. Start. A. Video. Ever.
No matter. Got a story for you and it's a pretty decent one.
Last Friday my buddy Scott and I went to see Motorhead play. I've seen them once before and they were nothing short of amazing. In fact they were the first band I've ever seen that forced me to get ear plugs. Without question they're the loudest band I've ever seen.
On top of that, the whole concert experience was one of the strangest nights ever. We got the sweet hook up on backstage passes so what was supposed to be any old Tuesday featured sharing a couch and boozing it up with C.C. DeVille and his groupies, a visit to Motorhead's dressing room and having one of the weirdest conversations of my life with a couple members of the Vagos Motorcycle Club. To this day I swear they were just chatting me up to mark me as the murderee in an initiation ritual but lucky me a chunk of them were nabbed by The Man the very next day. (Hit that link, yo. It's all right there on the wikipedia.)
Motorhead had set the bar pretty high and the second time around didn't disappoint.
Here's a little recap.
Somehow we Forrest Gump'ed our way into VIP passes and were taken by a private elevator to the secret level which was full of the pretty people. The real kicker though were the seats. Second row balcony. Dead on balls center. We're talking serious Statler and Waldorf territory The best part was watching the strippers who's poached our seats plead with the usher but he wasn't havin' it and without mercy he banished them to the back with the rest of the riff raff.
There were no Vagos in sight but I did end up being on the receiving end of a one sided conversation when a young kid noticed my shirt (gotta look tough for Motorhead ya know)and proceeded to tell me a story about his experiences in Iraq.
YOUNG KID
Hey man, your shirt's badass.
METhanks.
YOUNG KIDThat dude's rockin' an M-60 but it's just like the 240 I had in Iraq.
You were in Iraq?
YOUNG KIDI wasn't just in Iraq. I was deep into the shit. You know how things were tough in Baghdad? Well shit was a hundred times worse in Fallujah. And you know what's fucked up? I wasn't even supposed to be there. I was sent back home for three weeks of leave and I wasn't back home but for a couple days when I get a call from the Army telling me I'm needed back in Iraq. I was on a flight back there that night. Do you have any idea how bad that sucks? And on top of that they sent me to mother fuckin' Fallujah. Total bullshit. So I get there right and they issue me a 240 and have me post up on the top floor of some bombed out office building. I'm looking out over four city blocks and guess what my rules of engagement were? Kill. Anything. That. Moves. I squeezed off at least 1, 000 rounds that day. Best fucking day of my life. And here we are at Motorhead! Fuckin' A!
ME
Uh, I'm just glad you made it back in one piece. Thank you for serving our country.
YOUNG KID
No, thank you. Man, your support means a lot. You wouldn't believe how many people thought what we were doing was a bunch of shit. Thank you.
That last thank you was punctuated by the longest, most awkward hug of my life. Good times.
Once the show finally started, Motorhead brought the heat. When they took the stage, Lemmy said "We are Motorhead and we play rock 'n roll."
For the next two hours they proceeded to flat out kill it.
+Twitter+-+Search+-+motorhead_1255247492254.png)
#2 is probably the greatest thing ever written on Twitter.
But before they did, there was a surprise opening act in the form of Tenacious D.
They opened with Iron Fist
They closed with Overkill and nearly everyone in the crowd had a strobe light induced seizure.
In case you've lost count Lemmy turns 64 this December.
Paul McCartney, you are a fragile old man.
Added bonus clip- Best. Way. To. Start. A. Video. Ever.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Some things just can't be unseen
I'm supposed to be swimming laps right now. The LA Triathlon is in a week and a half and I'm deep into the homestretch of trying to cram myself into decent shape but I can't bring myself to go to the pool tonight.
Last week I had the kind of horrific experience one can't easily forget.
I had finished my swim and all was well. It was when I entered the locker room that things took a turn for the worst.
For the record, I've been going into locker rooms for a good 25 years now and I like to think that I have mastered the art of locker room etiquette. For guys it's pretty simple. Always keep your eyes up and the chatter to a minimum until underpants are being worn.
I can only think of two previous times in my life where these long standing rules have been broken.
The first time was at a birthday pool party in the 6th grade. In the locker room of the YMCA it was discovered and pointed out by Mike Miguel that Chad, a kid who already stood 5' 7" and weighed solid buck fifty, had a full rack rack of pubes. What can I say? We were kids and we were in awe about standing next to a 12-year-old who was a full grown man.
The second time was in the 8th grade. A kid named Travis Schwager was not only the new kid in school but also the strangest freak of nature any of us had ever met. To this day, Travis is still at the top of my list of freaks. He was so strange he was amazing and I'm seriously at a loss of words for how to describe him. The main things you need to know right now is that Travis was so pale he was translucent, his bright red hair was crafted into a perfect bowl cut and the first day of 8th grade gym class he hit the showers with one hand holding a small towel to cover his gear.
In the shark tank that is an 8th grade locker room that was so not the smart thing to do and Travis really didn't help his cause by crying every time the water hit his skin.Even the most modest of growers now had somebody to pick on. We were all so intrigued about what could have been lurking under that terry cloth shroud that even our gym teacher got into the act by ordering Travis to scrub up with both hands. Somehow though, he managed to keep that towel in place.
Now let's go back to last week's locker room...
I'm walking out of the shower and encounter a doughy but rather flexible naked guy standing precariously on a bench bent completely over and rummaging through his bag. Right away I knew this was a sight I've never seen before and that would include the glimpse a foot and a half up his butthole. Seriously, it was the sort of gruesome thing that will someday break the internet and I wouldn't be exaggerating that much if I told you I saw the backs of his molars.
I wanted to say something but couldn't since my brain was trying in vain to remember the PIN number to its self destruct sequence.
The Rabbi who came out of the shower a few steps behind me (Scout's honor on that one) couldn't contain his curiosity and asked this chap what exactly he was doing.
"I don't want to get my feet dirty on this floor."
Um, excuse me?
Someone doesn't want get their feet dirty?
The same someone who just spent an hour swimming in a public swimming pool that's housed inside a public school and is the same someone who just took a shower in said public school?
Oh sorry to burst your bubble Mr. Someone but you've been breathing disease the moment you stepped foot on campus. Trying to keep your feet clean by standing on a spot where naked asses have sat for decades really isn't going to help your personal hygiene.
Instead, the only thing you've accomplished is frightening total strangers.
If I drown during the triathlon it's going to be all your fault.
Last week I had the kind of horrific experience one can't easily forget.
I had finished my swim and all was well. It was when I entered the locker room that things took a turn for the worst.
For the record, I've been going into locker rooms for a good 25 years now and I like to think that I have mastered the art of locker room etiquette. For guys it's pretty simple. Always keep your eyes up and the chatter to a minimum until underpants are being worn.
I can only think of two previous times in my life where these long standing rules have been broken.
The first time was at a birthday pool party in the 6th grade. In the locker room of the YMCA it was discovered and pointed out by Mike Miguel that Chad, a kid who already stood 5' 7" and weighed solid buck fifty, had a full rack rack of pubes. What can I say? We were kids and we were in awe about standing next to a 12-year-old who was a full grown man.
The second time was in the 8th grade. A kid named Travis Schwager was not only the new kid in school but also the strangest freak of nature any of us had ever met. To this day, Travis is still at the top of my list of freaks. He was so strange he was amazing and I'm seriously at a loss of words for how to describe him. The main things you need to know right now is that Travis was so pale he was translucent, his bright red hair was crafted into a perfect bowl cut and the first day of 8th grade gym class he hit the showers with one hand holding a small towel to cover his gear.
In the shark tank that is an 8th grade locker room that was so not the smart thing to do and Travis really didn't help his cause by crying every time the water hit his skin.Even the most modest of growers now had somebody to pick on. We were all so intrigued about what could have been lurking under that terry cloth shroud that even our gym teacher got into the act by ordering Travis to scrub up with both hands. Somehow though, he managed to keep that towel in place.
Now let's go back to last week's locker room...
I'm walking out of the shower and encounter a doughy but rather flexible naked guy standing precariously on a bench bent completely over and rummaging through his bag. Right away I knew this was a sight I've never seen before and that would include the glimpse a foot and a half up his butthole. Seriously, it was the sort of gruesome thing that will someday break the internet and I wouldn't be exaggerating that much if I told you I saw the backs of his molars.
I wanted to say something but couldn't since my brain was trying in vain to remember the PIN number to its self destruct sequence.
The Rabbi who came out of the shower a few steps behind me (Scout's honor on that one) couldn't contain his curiosity and asked this chap what exactly he was doing.
"I don't want to get my feet dirty on this floor."
Um, excuse me?
Someone doesn't want get their feet dirty?
The same someone who just spent an hour swimming in a public swimming pool that's housed inside a public school and is the same someone who just took a shower in said public school?
Oh sorry to burst your bubble Mr. Someone but you've been breathing disease the moment you stepped foot on campus. Trying to keep your feet clean by standing on a spot where naked asses have sat for decades really isn't going to help your personal hygiene.
Instead, the only thing you've accomplished is frightening total strangers.
If I drown during the triathlon it's going to be all your fault.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
I love the smell of Ortho in the morning.
It's taken a while but I finally found a good reason why it sucks to be a guy.
When I discovered this reason I was standing out on our back patio in my underpants talking on the phone with a friend and making plans for meet up for an afternoon beer. Welcome to the baller lifestyle.
While I was out there I made the mistake of peeking into a set of doors that are never opened. Much to my surprise I discovered a Black Widow had moved in and set up shop.
Here's a closer look. Apologies for the lack of focus but I was keeping my distance, thank you very much.
2) Get Sigourney Weaver on the horn and see if she had anything going on. She did an admirable job of kicking ass in Aliens and this Black Widow was a little smaller than the queen alien so it should be a walk in the park for her.
3) Hose the spider down with the most toxic chemicals I could find then go meet my friend and hope it's dead by the time I return. The only hitch to this plan is that all the nasty stuff under the sink is non-toxic and biodegradable. Boo.
4) Squash it with a broom. Sounded like a good idea until I tested out the strength of its bristles. Yeah, not such a hot plan. At best I might get lucky and take a leg off. At worst it would play dead and bite me when I tried fishing its guts out of the broom.
5) See what Google has to say.
What's great about this is when you type in "how to kill a" here's what pops up.
how to kill a mocking bird
how to kill ants
how to kill a tree
how to kill a vampire
how to kill a dog
how to kill a zombie
how to kill a cat
how to kill aphids
how to kill a werewolf
When I discovered this reason I was standing out on our back patio in my underpants talking on the phone with a friend and making plans for meet up for an afternoon beer. Welcome to the baller lifestyle.
While I was out there I made the mistake of peeking into a set of doors that are never opened. Much to my surprise I discovered a Black Widow had moved in and set up shop.
Here's a closer look. Apologies for the lack of focus but I was keeping my distance, thank you very much.
Back in the last century, I had to deal with a similar critter situation but since I'm now a refined gentleman I couldn't exactly challenge my girlfriend to a Wild Turkey fueled Madden battle. And yes, I still have Madden '94.
It was time to step up and be a man.
Quickly, these options came to mind.
1) Make a Mexican Flamethrower and take care of business like I mean business. The only drawback here was the possibility of house catching fire.
It was time to step up and be a man.
Quickly, these options came to mind.
1) Make a Mexican Flamethrower and take care of business like I mean business. The only drawback here was the possibility of house catching fire.
2) Get Sigourney Weaver on the horn and see if she had anything going on. She did an admirable job of kicking ass in Aliens and this Black Widow was a little smaller than the queen alien so it should be a walk in the park for her.
3) Hose the spider down with the most toxic chemicals I could find then go meet my friend and hope it's dead by the time I return. The only hitch to this plan is that all the nasty stuff under the sink is non-toxic and biodegradable. Boo.
4) Squash it with a broom. Sounded like a good idea until I tested out the strength of its bristles. Yeah, not such a hot plan. At best I might get lucky and take a leg off. At worst it would play dead and bite me when I tried fishing its guts out of the broom.
5) See what Google has to say.
What's great about this is when you type in "how to kill a" here's what pops up.
how to kill a mocking bird
how to kill ants
how to kill a tree
how to kill a vampire
how to kill a dog
how to kill a zombie
how to kill a cat
how to kill aphids
how to kill a werewolf
But the moment you get to "how to kill a b" a whole cornucopia of spider killing info pops up and in about 2.2 seconds I was down at the neighborhood hardware store on a mission to pick up Ortho Hornet and Wasp Killer. Apparently it's the most bad ass stuff a person can legally buy without needing a special permit.
When I returned home I noticed the spider had ignored my request to either pay rent or move out. It was time to get to work. A couple of test squirts later, I felt confidence in what Mr. Ortho had to offer.
Because the gap between the regular door and the screen door was pretty narrow and I was twitching more than Don Knotts in the Shakiest Gun in the West, I accidentally bumped the door with my can'o death and for the first time since I spotted it, the spider sprang to life.
I swore I could hear it hiss but before it could heat up its venom sac, I let loose with a barrage of Ortho so massive I'm surprised the FBI didn't show up to investigate a nuclear detonation.
I swaggered my way back into the house expecting applause for slaying the beast. When was none I made the mistake of asking my girlfriend for the whereabouts of my hero's welcome. She just stared me down for moment and responded with, "Yeah, you'll get one the moment you ever thank me for doing your laundry all these years."
Touche'.
Whatevs. You can't win them all but I scored where it matters.
Todd 1 Black Widow 0.
When I returned home I noticed the spider had ignored my request to either pay rent or move out. It was time to get to work. A couple of test squirts later, I felt confidence in what Mr. Ortho had to offer.
Because the gap between the regular door and the screen door was pretty narrow and I was twitching more than Don Knotts in the Shakiest Gun in the West, I accidentally bumped the door with my can'o death and for the first time since I spotted it, the spider sprang to life.
I swore I could hear it hiss but before it could heat up its venom sac, I let loose with a barrage of Ortho so massive I'm surprised the FBI didn't show up to investigate a nuclear detonation.
I swaggered my way back into the house expecting applause for slaying the beast. When was none I made the mistake of asking my girlfriend for the whereabouts of my hero's welcome. She just stared me down for moment and responded with, "Yeah, you'll get one the moment you ever thank me for doing your laundry all these years."
Touche'.
Whatevs. You can't win them all but I scored where it matters.
Todd 1 Black Widow 0.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Stereotype of the Week...
Rumor has it Mexicans have been known to enjoy a good stabbing but is it really necessary to show you passion for sharp pointy things by wearing a hat covered in switchblades while enjoying a Dodger game with your young son?
Monday, August 31, 2009
How novel, a crazy guy named Norman
I'm a little weirded out at the moment.
Feeling the pain of watching Los Doyers cough up a loss to Arizona, I flipped the TV over to a documentary about plastic surgery called Youth Knows No Pain.
About five minutes in I about feel off the couch when a plastic surgery enthusiast named Norman appeared on the screen.
Last year on some random day I got a random phone call about performing in a pilot for a new stand up comedy series. I thought it was a little odd that someone would be shooting a pilot without having gone through the trouble of booking any talent first.
Going in, I had a hunch that it would be a rather strange evening and I wasn't disappointed. Just a few hours earlier the show without any talent had managed to become overbooked and moments after arriving I was asked to hang out during the taping just in case.
So I fixed myself a dinner of Oreos and pepperoni slices from the craft services table and grabbed a seat in the wings. Over the course of two hours, I received a clinic in how not to produce a show. The whole thing was just a disaster but on the bright side there was a guy in the hired studio audience who provided endless entertainment because he was one giant, bizarre Jack Nicholson caricature. This is pretty much exactly how he looked that night.
Little did I know I was sitting in the presence of the plastic surgery enthusiast I was now watching on the TV. Norman Deesing is his name and the fact that he resembled Jack Nicholson wasn't a coincidence. In the documentary, he confessed to having plastic surgeries in order to look more like Jack. And if that wasn't enough the kook is a school teacher (!) who's now world famous- at least according to his wife/publicist.
Then again, who am I to talk shit? He was the one on HBO tonight and I was the one watching at home.
Good times.
Feeling the pain of watching Los Doyers cough up a loss to Arizona, I flipped the TV over to a documentary about plastic surgery called Youth Knows No Pain.
About five minutes in I about feel off the couch when a plastic surgery enthusiast named Norman appeared on the screen.
(Now for a little back story)
Last year on some random day I got a random phone call about performing in a pilot for a new stand up comedy series. I thought it was a little odd that someone would be shooting a pilot without having gone through the trouble of booking any talent first.
Going in, I had a hunch that it would be a rather strange evening and I wasn't disappointed. Just a few hours earlier the show without any talent had managed to become overbooked and moments after arriving I was asked to hang out during the taping just in case.
So I fixed myself a dinner of Oreos and pepperoni slices from the craft services table and grabbed a seat in the wings. Over the course of two hours, I received a clinic in how not to produce a show. The whole thing was just a disaster but on the bright side there was a guy in the hired studio audience who provided endless entertainment because he was one giant, bizarre Jack Nicholson caricature. This is pretty much exactly how he looked that night.
Little did I know I was sitting in the presence of the plastic surgery enthusiast I was now watching on the TV. Norman Deesing is his name and the fact that he resembled Jack Nicholson wasn't a coincidence. In the documentary, he confessed to having plastic surgeries in order to look more like Jack. And if that wasn't enough the kook is a school teacher (!) who's now world famous- at least according to his wife/publicist.
Then again, who am I to talk shit? He was the one on HBO tonight and I was the one watching at home.
Good times.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Whoa, where'd the week go?
Um, so yeah, kinda lost track of this week. Had some good times and hung out with some good people.
Here's a lil' montage.
SATURDAY
Really though I can't hate. They could be doing something so much worse for a Father/Son activity such as going to the park to throw rocks at ducks or heckling survivors down at the Museum of Tolerance.
Still, I gotta give the kid a 25 percent chance of ending up like this guy.
SUNDAY
Here's a lil' montage.
SATURDAY
Hey son, wadayasay we throw on our wigs and go to the Dodger game?
Really though I can't hate. They could be doing something so much worse for a Father/Son activity such as going to the park to throw rocks at ducks or heckling survivors down at the Museum of Tolerance.
Still, I gotta give the kid a 25 percent chance of ending up like this guy.
49, 000+ people went to the game and I was the only one to make use of the super secret bike rack.
MONDAY
TUESDAY
MONDAY
TUESDAY
An apocalypse is always a good way to spice up a Tuesday.
WEDNESDAY
Getting ready to make the funny.
THURSDAY
FRIDAY
Got a new Twix hook up. Heck yeah.
I've got five bucks for anyone who can translate this.
FRIDAY
Got a new Twix hook up. Heck yeah.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Well, that was certainly random.
A little earlier tonight I was on the couch watching Los Doyers play the Cubs while keeping an eye on the clock. Had to run a vital errand over to The Grove to pick up a DVD of Eastbound and Down so that a friend will be able to keep laughing his way through chemo.
The moment Russell Martin broke the game open with a grand slam I was out the door. Had a nice little pedal over to The Grove and it took all of five seconds to realize why I don't like going over there. It's not that there's too many people, it's that there are too many assholes crammed into one space. I quickly lost track of how many times I was bumped into or had a toe stepped on but I did remind myself to pack a taser the next time I work up the courage to go there.
The way back was a completely different story.
I was barely out of the parking garage when I crossed paths with a small squad of Midnight Ridazz kids. I assumed they were going to swarm The Grove and add a dash of excitement to a Thursday night but I couldn't have been more wrong.
Apparently they were out and about escorting lone cyclists home and I was one of the evening's big winners.
A few of them explained what was going on and they were completely serious about following me home. One of them asked my name and for simplicity's sake I threw out my alias Bobby because Todd is a name that never makes sense among a throng of people.
"Your name's Ted??"
"No, Todd!"
"Pat??"
"Todd!!!"
"Steve??"
Even Bobby didn't work because word made its way to the back of the group that the lucky guy being escorted home was named Tommy.
Hilarious.
There's a whole bunch of cyclists following me, I swear.
.JPG)
See, I wasn't making stuff up. *
It took a few blocks to warm up to the idea of being escorted home by a group of strangers but by the time the ride came to an end a couple miles later, I felt like an ass for not having the foresight to have enough beer in the fridge for random occasions such as these.
Next time we meet though, we'll crack a few and have a little party out back.
.JPG)
.JPG)
The moment Russell Martin broke the game open with a grand slam I was out the door. Had a nice little pedal over to The Grove and it took all of five seconds to realize why I don't like going over there. It's not that there's too many people, it's that there are too many assholes crammed into one space. I quickly lost track of how many times I was bumped into or had a toe stepped on but I did remind myself to pack a taser the next time I work up the courage to go there.
The way back was a completely different story.
I was barely out of the parking garage when I crossed paths with a small squad of Midnight Ridazz kids. I assumed they were going to swarm The Grove and add a dash of excitement to a Thursday night but I couldn't have been more wrong.
Apparently they were out and about escorting lone cyclists home and I was one of the evening's big winners.
A few of them explained what was going on and they were completely serious about following me home. One of them asked my name and for simplicity's sake I threw out my alias Bobby because Todd is a name that never makes sense among a throng of people.
"Your name's Ted??"
"No, Todd!"
"Pat??"
"Todd!!!"
"Steve??"
Even Bobby didn't work because word made its way to the back of the group that the lucky guy being escorted home was named Tommy.
Hilarious.
There's a whole bunch of cyclists following me, I swear.
.JPG)
See, I wasn't making stuff up. *
Next time we meet though, we'll crack a few and have a little party out back.
.JPG)
Thanks for the ride. Hope y'all made it home safe.
.JPG)
And here's a bonus photo that's in focus. Imagine that.
*During the ride, one of my escorts asked if I had a blog. When I told him what it was called, Unicorn magic took over, hence the silly poses. Talk about flippin' sweet.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
I know the economy is rough and all...
but did David Hasselhoff really have to downgrade all the way to a Nissan Altima?
At least Super Pursuit Mode is still there. I just wonder how well she handles on 12 inch tires.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Sorry Florence and Normandie...
You're no longer the most dangerous intersection in Los Angeles.
1992 Rodney King Riots
1992 Rodney King Riots
There's a new Sheriff in town called the corner of 1st and Hayworth. Before you get your panties in a bunch and ask how an intersection so close to the Grove/Farmer's Market can be so dangerous, allow me to present this as evidence.
Your eyes aren't messing with you. You're looking at a giant tramampoline set up a mere three feet from a very sharp and pointy fence. By the looks of things one child has already been impaled but there are plenty of opportunities for a lot more death.
Can't wait to see what happens when its owners go away for the weekend. Guaranteed every kid in the neighborhood has this yard under 24 hour surveillance and the moment the coast is clear Trampoline Holocaust 2009 is a go.
Kids are drawn to to trampolines like moths to a light so you know this is gonna happen.
If you ever want to bring a lawn chair so you can post up and watch the carnage unfold, the Trampoline of Death can be found here:
Your eyes aren't messing with you. You're looking at a giant tramampoline set up a mere three feet from a very sharp and pointy fence. By the looks of things one child has already been impaled but there are plenty of opportunities for a lot more death.
Can't wait to see what happens when its owners go away for the weekend. Guaranteed every kid in the neighborhood has this yard under 24 hour surveillance and the moment the coast is clear Trampoline Holocaust 2009 is a go.
Kids are drawn to to trampolines like moths to a light so you know this is gonna happen.
If you ever want to bring a lawn chair so you can post up and watch the carnage unfold, the Trampoline of Death can be found here:
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Would you expect anything less from the daughter of a guy named Billy Ray?
Check out the blond version of Grimace above Miley's leg. Gnarly.
Because I'm not a teenager, I neglected to watch the Teen Choice Awards last night. Apparently Miley Cyrus won the award for Biggest Teen Skank Since Britney Spears and celebrated by taking the stage atop an ice cream cart that had been tricked out with a stripper pole.
I'm all for ice cream and strippers but really, if Miley's riding the pole at the ripe old age of 16 there's not a lot of room for shock value later in life. If it's a stripper pole at 16 can we pencil her in for going on a Cheeto fueled rampage of crazy at 19?
In the meantime, I'll just cross my fingers and hope puberty gets the best of Miley and she ends up looking for like her good ol' dad Billy Ray.
I don't know if it's just me but I swear they're starting to look more and more alike with each new season of Hanna Montana.
I'm all for ice cream and strippers but really, if Miley's riding the pole at the ripe old age of 16 there's not a lot of room for shock value later in life. If it's a stripper pole at 16 can we pencil her in for going on a Cheeto fueled rampage of crazy at 19?
In the meantime, I'll just cross my fingers and hope puberty gets the best of Miley and she ends up looking for like her good ol' dad Billy Ray.
I don't know if it's just me but I swear they're starting to look more and more alike with each new season of Hanna Montana.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
This week in Text Messages
The following messages found their way to my phone over the course of the last week. Thankfully not a single one of them was from my dear mother.
so my friend at work found a camera and turned it on and there is video of a dud waist down, jerkin off and coming all over the place. fucking hilarious.
Can the shamwow hold 10x its weight in jizz?
just got stopped in denver airport cus there was a pbr in my backpack. and i'm wearing a shirt that says "touch of class."
so my friend at work found a camera and turned it on and there is video of a dud waist down, jerkin off and coming all over the place. fucking hilarious.
Can the shamwow hold 10x its weight in jizz?
just got stopped in denver airport cus there was a pbr in my backpack. and i'm wearing a shirt that says "touch of class."
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Journey to the Homeland
Took a lil' vaca to my native land last week. A story or two will follow but here's a few highlights.
Skyfari!
The most bad ass shark in all of Nebraska.
Jellyfish.
Tom Osborne is not a piggy back ride dispenser.
Woolly Mammoth!
A bargain at twice the price.
Thunder/hailstorm!
All this for six bucks. Can you say cheaper than Mexico?
Reminiscing about two summers of sheer terror.
The reason why I held my poo from LAX through DEN to OMA. Cleanest. Facilities. Ever.
Even graffiti in Nebraska is good natured though I don't think fighting racism with homophobic barbs is the best way to go.
Skyfari!
If I were the king of the jungle and confined to a glass cage, I'd tea bag the world too.
The most bad ass shark in all of Nebraska.
Jellyfish.
Leave it to the greatest bar in the world to still have been accepting checks in 2009.
Penis of the Plains, Cock of the Countryside, Hard-on of the Heartland, Wanker of the West, Meat of the Mid-West, Schlong of the City, Dick of Downtown, Phallus of the Farmland, The Length of Lincoln, The Prick of the Prairie, The Gear of God's Country.
Tom Osborne is not a piggy back ride dispenser.
Woolly Mammoth!
A bargain at twice the price.
Thunder/hailstorm!
I knew there was a good reason I was holding back on cheeseburger consumption.
All this for six bucks. Can you say cheaper than Mexico?
Reminiscing about two summers of sheer terror.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Wonder if Larry was in the same platoon as Walter Sobchak
One of my favorite stupid things to do is read the Letters to the Editor section of my hometown newspaper. They're often hilarious, frightening, atrociously written and sometimes all three which makes for a very entertaining read.
Take this one by Larry Wajda for example. He starts out strong. Seriously, that first paragraph is the start of a movie right there but ol'Larry ain't about the prose. And he didn't got to the 'Nam only to be told 40 years later to wear his seatbelt and smoke outside.
Too many choices being taken away
By Larry Wajda
July 4, 1968, did not exist for me. I crossed the International Dateline at exactly midnight. I was on my way back from Vietnam, where I thought I was fighting to preserve the freedoms and rights of choice of the American people.
However, I now find that other people have the right to order me and my friends to stay outside, in what could be a 20 to 40 mile an hour subzero blizzard, if we want to go to a bar to celebrate New Year's Eve. Also these same people have the right to order me to wear a seat belt even if I drive across the street.
How many more of my rights of choice are they going to take away before I die.
I do love though how the last line in Larry's letter isn't a question but a statement. Nobody is gonna tell Larry to use a question mark.
Take this one by Larry Wajda for example. He starts out strong. Seriously, that first paragraph is the start of a movie right there but ol'Larry ain't about the prose. And he didn't got to the 'Nam only to be told 40 years later to wear his seatbelt and smoke outside.
Too many choices being taken away
By Larry Wajda
Ord
July 4, 1968, did not exist for me. I crossed the International Dateline at exactly midnight. I was on my way back from Vietnam, where I thought I was fighting to preserve the freedoms and rights of choice of the American people.However, I now find that other people have the right to order me and my friends to stay outside, in what could be a 20 to 40 mile an hour subzero blizzard, if we want to go to a bar to celebrate New Year's Eve. Also these same people have the right to order me to wear a seat belt even if I drive across the street.
How many more of my rights of choice are they going to take away before I die.
I do love though how the last line in Larry's letter isn't a question but a statement. Nobody is gonna tell Larry to use a question mark.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Sorry if all the awesome melts your computer
First up, I received this little nugget of joy from my buddy Kjeld.
Lucy, being astute as always, noticed that Debbie was photographed wearing the Sweetest. Shirt. Ever. Now the dilemma with Debbie is if she's like totally serious about her shirt and is really into wolves or if she's a hipster who just happened to have birthed the seed of MJ.
Personally, I'm leaning towards Debbie being into wolves because I can't really remember ever seeing a hipster who looks like Hulk Hogan with smaller tits.
You are not on drugs. You're simply looking at a tire cover featuring a rainbow and a unicorn holding a very large gun. It's hard to tell but based on the girth of the piece I'm guessing Springfield 1911. On a related note, I'm having trouble deciding if this tire cover is the gayest thing ever or just straight up gangster.
Second, my friend Lucy sent me this photo of the Michael Jackson and his baby mama.
Second, my friend Lucy sent me this photo of the Michael Jackson and his baby mama.
Lucy, being astute as always, noticed that Debbie was photographed wearing the Sweetest. Shirt. Ever. Now the dilemma with Debbie is if she's like totally serious about her shirt and is really into wolves or if she's a hipster who just happened to have birthed the seed of MJ.
Personally, I'm leaning towards Debbie being into wolves because I can't really remember ever seeing a hipster who looks like Hulk Hogan with smaller tits.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
A little gift from my good buddy Jeff...
This is Jeff. Before proceeding, see if you can figure out what makes his shirt rather shocking.
Once you've figured out the Olsen twins started out in show business as babies, then these pics he recently emailed me will be much more understandable.
This is Jeff's arm.
This is Jeff's other arm.
At least he'll be able to Captain Pike his way through life if he ever takes a shotgun blast to the throat and no longer has the ability to speak.
Also, he should be very glad his armpits never crossed paths with my dear mother circa summer of 1991.
Back then I was starting the puberty and the first and only thing to show up was hair in my underarm area. I was 5' 7" and weighed a buck thirty with a full stomach but I had armpit hair down to my elbows. Armpit hair which my dear mother made me shave.
OK, I think I've got everything as awkward as it can get around these parts so I'll just stop there and continue with my therapist.
This is Jeff's other arm.
At least he'll be able to Captain Pike his way through life if he ever takes a shotgun blast to the throat and no longer has the ability to speak.
Also, he should be very glad his armpits never crossed paths with my dear mother circa summer of 1991.
Back then I was starting the puberty and the first and only thing to show up was hair in my underarm area. I was 5' 7" and weighed a buck thirty with a full stomach but I had armpit hair down to my elbows. Armpit hair which my dear mother made me shave.
OK, I think I've got everything as awkward as it can get around these parts so I'll just stop there and continue with my therapist.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
If only this Prius ran on rainbows and magic.
Apologies for the quality of the camera phone pic, but if you concentrate on the photo for half a second you will notice this Prius has been decked out in a ocean motif complete with Mother Earth covering the back window and a pod of dolphins swimming across the bumper.
Really, was this necessary?
If the owner of this car cared about the earth that much, they wouldn't be driving a car in the first place let alone a Prius and they certainly wouldn't be driving said car to the airport to pick somebody up when public transit from the airport is available.
And even if they couldn't commit to not having a car, you'd think they could have at least had the good judgment to not wrap their ride in a giant sticker that's going to be peeled off the instant the car changes owners.
But whatevs, at least with the ocean motif this big wad of waste will blend right into the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.
Monday, July 6, 2009
From the File Marked "Greatest Days Ever" Pt. 2
If you're just tuning in, and there's really no good reason why you should be considering Part 1 is just below, the story left off with my roommate Aaron and I on a quest for much needed extra credit so that we wouldn't fail the History of Rock Music class we were taking over the summer.
We found a possible source of extra credit thanks to a classified ad in the paper. Some silly goose was selling a pair of tickets to the KISS show in Kansas City the following night.
We didn't think there was a chance in hell such hot tickets would still be available but we called anyway. The guy on the other end of the phone said they were still up for sale and that if we wanted them we better show up quick because he was heading out the door. Apparently his snakes needed feeding and he was fresh out of mice. I felt his pain and frustration. I always hate it when that happens.
Aaron and I high tailed it over to his place, (basement apartment, black lights and coordinating posters, tasteful though- not gaudy, and half a dozen snakequariums or what have you) to pick up the tickets.
This guy, (purple cut off sweatpants that really set his forest of red leg hair ablaze, sleeveless tee, perfectly feathered thinning hair topped him off) really didn't seem like the sort of guy who'd miss the KISS Reunion Tour. And he wasn't about to. Apparently, his diligence at calling into 106.3 The Blaze- "Lincoln's Home for Pure Rock" scored him a couple of seats on the station's party bus which included a set of floor tickets.
We took the tickets off his hands and I was left with $14 and whatever change I could find in the couch to my name. Really didn't matter though. Mayhem was scheduled to begin in less than 24 hours.
But first we needed to find some beer.
Being 20 is probably the worst age someone can be. You might as well spend the entire year stuck in a waiting room until the real fun can start at 21.You're an adult but not old enough to buy your own adult beverages, which means you've gotta channel Malcolm X and obtain beer by any means necessary. For Aaron and I, that meant beggin' our permanently stoned neighbor to get off the couch to run a 5 minute errand. We had about as much luck as someone who gets struck by lightning while standing next to a Leprechaun.
And politicians wonder why so many kids turn to drugs. Could it because they're easier to purchase than a 12 pack of beer?
The big day arrived and went by all too slow. Aaron had to work until 5:30 and KISS was scheduled to throwdown when the clock struck ocho. The looming problem was that Kansas City was three hours away.
Would his little Mazda find the power to knock half an hour off our journey?
Didn't matter though. While he was at work, one of his co workers picked him up a case of beer. Aaron worked as a runner at a law firm and coaxed one of the lawyers into the breaking the law on the basis of a seldom used special occasion statute.
There was gas in the car and we had beer. The only problem was we had no ice and July in Nebraska is hot enough suck the beer right out of an aluminum can. Sure,we could have stepped up our game and spent a buck on ice but that dollar could no doubt be put to better use on the road so we lined a cooler never opened bags of frozen broccoli that for some mysterious reason had come with our apartment.
Before long, we were on the road. There's nothing barreling down the road 90mph in a car that really isn't meant to do 90- especially when the windows are rolled down due to lack of air conditioning. The sheer amount of noise kept the conversation to a minimum but that was OK. We had plenty of beer and cooler full of thawing broccoli if an unexpected emergency reared its ugly head. The miles started racking up and in just over an hour, we unpeeled ourselves from the vinyl seats that had fused to our skin for the trip's only pit stop.
If you've never set foot in Missouri, the state boasts one particular quirk that makes it a bit like the Mexico of the the Midwest. Just about every type of firework/explosive device meant to be detonated in the name of fun is available for purchase 365 days a year. Once inside the boundaries of Missurah, Costco sized fireworks stands line the highway like a never ending convoy of outlet malls that would only exist inside a redneck's wildest dreams.
We stopped at the biggest one we saw and for the first time in our young lives both regretted that we never took up smoking. Just how funny would it have been to walk into a store with more explosive devices than a lot of third world countries with a cigarette dangling carelessly from your lip and mosey up to a clerk and ask in all seriousness, "Where da y'all keep the thermonuclear shit?"
Then again 10 years later here in 2006, that same idea would probably much funnier if that someone were Arab and wearing a turban instead of a generic white guy in a sleeveless White Zombie t-shirt.
It didn't take long to make our purchases. We knew what we wanted going in. Growing up in a place like Nebraska where the 4th of July gives Christmas a run for its money, fireworks are a way of life. So much so that time and money has been spent to pass laws to banish specific types- namely bottle rockets and M-80 firecrackers. The only items on our shopping list though the might M-80 had been toned down considerably since the days of yore when a single firecracker packed as much wallop as a quarter stick of dynamite.
We were back on the road in no time. A pile of empty Busch Light cans littered the floor next to a big bag of explosives. We'd worry about where to hide the fireworks before returning to Nebraska later. Around the fourth, runs over the border in the name of really good fireworks are so popular that the Nebraska State Patrol actually sets up a major sting operation at the border. Hmm... Aaron and I thought maybe we could throw them off the scent of illegal gunpowder if we picked up an illegal alien somewhere along the way.
Downtown Kansas City came into view only 15 minutes before showtime. Riding shotgun I examined the map and feared for the worst. Out current situation was eerily similar to the last time I tried playing navigator through Kansas City. Just a few months earlier on our way to an Ultimate tournament, we drove off course for a good hour before I realized the map I was staring at wasn't of Missouri but of Mississippi. Isn't it funny how you get a little stupid when you're stoned?
Things were a little better this time around. We only took one wrong turn and arrived at the arena not too long after showtime. In the Midwest fashionably late dosen't exist and we were probably the last people to arrive. We were so late that some people must have already left because we found a too good to be true sliver of a parking spot between a couple tour buses that appeared to be the only one available in the entire lot.
We rolled the tow truck dice, took the spot, and sprinted into the arena. The house lights were already down and the crowd was going bat shit crazy. For the first time since we scored the tickets we started to grow curious about just where we were going to be sitting. The hesher we bought them from said they were dead center but he failed to elaborated that they were dead center in the upper deck of the absolute last row of the arena- so far up in the nosebleeds that you could lean back and rest your head on the wall. But they were happily waiting for us and by the looks of things had to be the only unoccupied seats in the entire arena. Maybe it was a fair trade for such good parking.
We didn't even have time to catch our breath or even think about adjusting to our surroundings before an at least 20 year old announcement bellowed a few very important words to the audience.
"You wanted the best and you get the best. The hottest band in the world- KISSSSS!"
What happened next is a little hard to explain as it all happened about as fast as the fight between Neo and Mr. Smith in "The Matrix."
Right as the fifth 's' in KISS started to fade, Ace Frehly ripped into the opening of "Duece." A few notes in, the Vader black curtain cocooning the stage dropped at the exact same moment the whole world exploded in a ball of fire. The the falling curtain and the rising flames going up passed each other along the way leaving KISS already rocking out with the hammer down. Their opening was a very bold statement that seemingly taunted the audience to go ahead and try to catch up the pace the were setting.
Sure, you can see these guys on TV and have a good idea about what is going to unfold but until you see the chaos live you really have no idea. Aaron and I were easily the youngest people in our section and we by far the most blown away. None of the concerts we'd ever been to representing some of the finest acts of our generation did anything remotely close to the kind of show KISS delivered onstage. Not even Metallica could hold a candle to these guys. Their pyrotechnic show durning their encore of "One" now looked like a chubby little girl in a tutu waving a sparkler in each hand.
By the time Ace started his guitar solo in which his guitar A) started on fire and B) shot missiles that from our vantage point just had to somehow be fake*, we were fully lobotomized by their brand of rock and roll. True, the vast amounts of grass (as the old timers around us called it) being passed around helped too.
Just a scant 15 years earlier the very site of KISS had me running for cover after I saw their appearance on 3-2-1 Contact, a childhood scarring moment that ranks right up there with the time my mom took me to see "The Shining." Now, I couldn't believe that I was blessed enough to witness the greatest show on earth. Up yours Barnum and Bailey.
When the show climaxed with "DetroitRock City." Aaron and I were completely wasted both mentally and, well, mentally I guess. I knew the only cure for what ailed us could be found thirty or so miles in the wrong direction from home where the northernmost Waffle House (#281) could be found. Don't ask how I know.I just do, OK?
There's no such thing as a late night trip to a Waffle House that isn't weird and this one was no exception. The only other diners at midnight on a Wednesday were a group of older folks who'd also been at the KISS show. They could tell by our glazed over euphoria that we'd also been at the same place. And they had a few questions for us youngsters, specifically about the opening act we missed- Alice in Chains. How the hell could people our age think the shit they played was anything close to music? The best part was when the lady with the femme mullet who asked the question stood up on a stool at the counter and acted out Jerry Cantrell's put you to sleep style of playing guitar. "All he did was stand there like this and the blond guy just yelled stuff that didn't make sense. How is that supposed to be good?"
A couple summers earlier Aaron and I saw "Alice" play Lollapalooza and thought they were rad. Now after seeing KISS we realized we grew up in the wrong era and the folks who were our age in the 70's had used up all the fun. Lane Staley probably knew it too as that opening gig for KISS was the last show ever did.
The trip home was nothing but smooth sailing if what you'd call the events that unfolded at the end of "A Perfect Storm" smooth sailing. A textbook Midwest thunderstorm graced us with its presence. Gale force winds blew Aaron's little Mazda back and forth across the road and the buckets of rain made it impossible to see except when eye searing lightning lit up the sky a few seconds at a time. I had a hunch death was imminent and I figured there wasn't much I could do, so much to Aaron's dismay I decided to pass out and wait for the Grim Reaper with a belly full of waffles and bacon.
Turns out we didn't make it home in one shot. Woke up the next morning at dawn in the parking lot of some random Missouri rest stop with an opened pack of bottle rockets in my lap. I was confused for a moment but soon came to my senses. Aaron was still slumped over the steering wheel snoring like a freight train and decided it was best not to wake the tired fella up.
While I waited, I started to piece together the events that had unfolded just a few hours earlier but decided it wasn't worth the bother. Any day that starts with beer and ends with at wake up call in a rest stop parking lot without involving an anal buggering at the hand of a redneck trucker has to be a perfect day.
(*In regards to the asterisk that I know you forgot you even saw. A few months later KISS came to play a show in Omaha. Aaron and I went with our friend Jason who's greatest KISS moment involved singing "Heaven's on Fire" at his school's talent show. We got right up front and saw with our own eyes that Ace's guitar really did fire missiles.)
We found a possible source of extra credit thanks to a classified ad in the paper. Some silly goose was selling a pair of tickets to the KISS show in Kansas City the following night.
We didn't think there was a chance in hell such hot tickets would still be available but we called anyway. The guy on the other end of the phone said they were still up for sale and that if we wanted them we better show up quick because he was heading out the door. Apparently his snakes needed feeding and he was fresh out of mice. I felt his pain and frustration. I always hate it when that happens.
Aaron and I high tailed it over to his place, (basement apartment, black lights and coordinating posters, tasteful though- not gaudy, and half a dozen snakequariums or what have you) to pick up the tickets.
This guy, (purple cut off sweatpants that really set his forest of red leg hair ablaze, sleeveless tee, perfectly feathered thinning hair topped him off) really didn't seem like the sort of guy who'd miss the KISS Reunion Tour. And he wasn't about to. Apparently, his diligence at calling into 106.3 The Blaze- "Lincoln's Home for Pure Rock" scored him a couple of seats on the station's party bus which included a set of floor tickets.
We took the tickets off his hands and I was left with $14 and whatever change I could find in the couch to my name. Really didn't matter though. Mayhem was scheduled to begin in less than 24 hours.
But first we needed to find some beer.
Being 20 is probably the worst age someone can be. You might as well spend the entire year stuck in a waiting room until the real fun can start at 21.You're an adult but not old enough to buy your own adult beverages, which means you've gotta channel Malcolm X and obtain beer by any means necessary. For Aaron and I, that meant beggin' our permanently stoned neighbor to get off the couch to run a 5 minute errand. We had about as much luck as someone who gets struck by lightning while standing next to a Leprechaun.
And politicians wonder why so many kids turn to drugs. Could it because they're easier to purchase than a 12 pack of beer?
The big day arrived and went by all too slow. Aaron had to work until 5:30 and KISS was scheduled to throwdown when the clock struck ocho. The looming problem was that Kansas City was three hours away.
Would his little Mazda find the power to knock half an hour off our journey?
Didn't matter though. While he was at work, one of his co workers picked him up a case of beer. Aaron worked as a runner at a law firm and coaxed one of the lawyers into the breaking the law on the basis of a seldom used special occasion statute.
There was gas in the car and we had beer. The only problem was we had no ice and July in Nebraska is hot enough suck the beer right out of an aluminum can. Sure,we could have stepped up our game and spent a buck on ice but that dollar could no doubt be put to better use on the road so we lined a cooler never opened bags of frozen broccoli that for some mysterious reason had come with our apartment.
Before long, we were on the road. There's nothing barreling down the road 90mph in a car that really isn't meant to do 90- especially when the windows are rolled down due to lack of air conditioning. The sheer amount of noise kept the conversation to a minimum but that was OK. We had plenty of beer and cooler full of thawing broccoli if an unexpected emergency reared its ugly head. The miles started racking up and in just over an hour, we unpeeled ourselves from the vinyl seats that had fused to our skin for the trip's only pit stop.
If you've never set foot in Missouri, the state boasts one particular quirk that makes it a bit like the Mexico of the the Midwest. Just about every type of firework/explosive device meant to be detonated in the name of fun is available for purchase 365 days a year. Once inside the boundaries of Missurah, Costco sized fireworks stands line the highway like a never ending convoy of outlet malls that would only exist inside a redneck's wildest dreams.
We stopped at the biggest one we saw and for the first time in our young lives both regretted that we never took up smoking. Just how funny would it have been to walk into a store with more explosive devices than a lot of third world countries with a cigarette dangling carelessly from your lip and mosey up to a clerk and ask in all seriousness, "Where da y'all keep the thermonuclear shit?"
Then again 10 years later here in 2006, that same idea would probably much funnier if that someone were Arab and wearing a turban instead of a generic white guy in a sleeveless White Zombie t-shirt.
It didn't take long to make our purchases. We knew what we wanted going in. Growing up in a place like Nebraska where the 4th of July gives Christmas a run for its money, fireworks are a way of life. So much so that time and money has been spent to pass laws to banish specific types- namely bottle rockets and M-80 firecrackers. The only items on our shopping list though the might M-80 had been toned down considerably since the days of yore when a single firecracker packed as much wallop as a quarter stick of dynamite.
We were back on the road in no time. A pile of empty Busch Light cans littered the floor next to a big bag of explosives. We'd worry about where to hide the fireworks before returning to Nebraska later. Around the fourth, runs over the border in the name of really good fireworks are so popular that the Nebraska State Patrol actually sets up a major sting operation at the border. Hmm... Aaron and I thought maybe we could throw them off the scent of illegal gunpowder if we picked up an illegal alien somewhere along the way.
Downtown Kansas City came into view only 15 minutes before showtime. Riding shotgun I examined the map and feared for the worst. Out current situation was eerily similar to the last time I tried playing navigator through Kansas City. Just a few months earlier on our way to an Ultimate tournament, we drove off course for a good hour before I realized the map I was staring at wasn't of Missouri but of Mississippi. Isn't it funny how you get a little stupid when you're stoned?
Things were a little better this time around. We only took one wrong turn and arrived at the arena not too long after showtime. In the Midwest fashionably late dosen't exist and we were probably the last people to arrive. We were so late that some people must have already left because we found a too good to be true sliver of a parking spot between a couple tour buses that appeared to be the only one available in the entire lot.
We rolled the tow truck dice, took the spot, and sprinted into the arena. The house lights were already down and the crowd was going bat shit crazy. For the first time since we scored the tickets we started to grow curious about just where we were going to be sitting. The hesher we bought them from said they were dead center but he failed to elaborated that they were dead center in the upper deck of the absolute last row of the arena- so far up in the nosebleeds that you could lean back and rest your head on the wall. But they were happily waiting for us and by the looks of things had to be the only unoccupied seats in the entire arena. Maybe it was a fair trade for such good parking.
We didn't even have time to catch our breath or even think about adjusting to our surroundings before an at least 20 year old announcement bellowed a few very important words to the audience.
"You wanted the best and you get the best. The hottest band in the world- KISSSSS!"
What happened next is a little hard to explain as it all happened about as fast as the fight between Neo and Mr. Smith in "The Matrix."
Right as the fifth 's' in KISS started to fade, Ace Frehly ripped into the opening of "Duece." A few notes in, the Vader black curtain cocooning the stage dropped at the exact same moment the whole world exploded in a ball of fire. The the falling curtain and the rising flames going up passed each other along the way leaving KISS already rocking out with the hammer down. Their opening was a very bold statement that seemingly taunted the audience to go ahead and try to catch up the pace the were setting.
Sure, you can see these guys on TV and have a good idea about what is going to unfold but until you see the chaos live you really have no idea. Aaron and I were easily the youngest people in our section and we by far the most blown away. None of the concerts we'd ever been to representing some of the finest acts of our generation did anything remotely close to the kind of show KISS delivered onstage. Not even Metallica could hold a candle to these guys. Their pyrotechnic show durning their encore of "One" now looked like a chubby little girl in a tutu waving a sparkler in each hand.
By the time Ace started his guitar solo in which his guitar A) started on fire and B) shot missiles that from our vantage point just had to somehow be fake*, we were fully lobotomized by their brand of rock and roll. True, the vast amounts of grass (as the old timers around us called it) being passed around helped too.
Just a scant 15 years earlier the very site of KISS had me running for cover after I saw their appearance on 3-2-1 Contact, a childhood scarring moment that ranks right up there with the time my mom took me to see "The Shining." Now, I couldn't believe that I was blessed enough to witness the greatest show on earth. Up yours Barnum and Bailey.
When the show climaxed with "DetroitRock City." Aaron and I were completely wasted both mentally and, well, mentally I guess. I knew the only cure for what ailed us could be found thirty or so miles in the wrong direction from home where the northernmost Waffle House (#281) could be found. Don't ask how I know.I just do, OK?
There's no such thing as a late night trip to a Waffle House that isn't weird and this one was no exception. The only other diners at midnight on a Wednesday were a group of older folks who'd also been at the KISS show. They could tell by our glazed over euphoria that we'd also been at the same place. And they had a few questions for us youngsters, specifically about the opening act we missed- Alice in Chains. How the hell could people our age think the shit they played was anything close to music? The best part was when the lady with the femme mullet who asked the question stood up on a stool at the counter and acted out Jerry Cantrell's put you to sleep style of playing guitar. "All he did was stand there like this and the blond guy just yelled stuff that didn't make sense. How is that supposed to be good?"
A couple summers earlier Aaron and I saw "Alice" play Lollapalooza and thought they were rad. Now after seeing KISS we realized we grew up in the wrong era and the folks who were our age in the 70's had used up all the fun. Lane Staley probably knew it too as that opening gig for KISS was the last show ever did.
The trip home was nothing but smooth sailing if what you'd call the events that unfolded at the end of "A Perfect Storm" smooth sailing. A textbook Midwest thunderstorm graced us with its presence. Gale force winds blew Aaron's little Mazda back and forth across the road and the buckets of rain made it impossible to see except when eye searing lightning lit up the sky a few seconds at a time. I had a hunch death was imminent and I figured there wasn't much I could do, so much to Aaron's dismay I decided to pass out and wait for the Grim Reaper with a belly full of waffles and bacon.
Turns out we didn't make it home in one shot. Woke up the next morning at dawn in the parking lot of some random Missouri rest stop with an opened pack of bottle rockets in my lap. I was confused for a moment but soon came to my senses. Aaron was still slumped over the steering wheel snoring like a freight train and decided it was best not to wake the tired fella up.
While I waited, I started to piece together the events that had unfolded just a few hours earlier but decided it wasn't worth the bother. Any day that starts with beer and ends with at wake up call in a rest stop parking lot without involving an anal buggering at the hand of a redneck trucker has to be a perfect day.
(*In regards to the asterisk that I know you forgot you even saw. A few months later KISS came to play a show in Omaha. Aaron and I went with our friend Jason who's greatest KISS moment involved singing "Heaven's on Fire" at his school's talent show. We got right up front and saw with our own eyes that Ace's guitar really did fire missiles.)
Friday, July 3, 2009
From the File Marked "Greatest Days Ever" Pt 1.
*If you're too lazy to do the math, I wrote this three years ago on the old blog. Like clockwork when I noticed the date, I paused for a moment of silence and paid my respect to what is still one of the most epic day/night/mornings I've ever experienced.
This is part one...
On this day in history, ten years to be exact, some shenanigans went down that will forever make this day a very monumental one in the world of Todd. No, it didn't involve the losing of my virginity. That happened a few years earlier and the select few who know that tale know it as the kind of thing that would only happen to a guy like me. I'm not really at liberty to discuss that landmark day but I will fluff you a bit and tell you it involved Steve Martin and a self inflicted nosebleed.
But please, don't feel gypped. The story that is set to unfold is every bit as good and it even involves more blood- a lot more.
You see, ten years ago on this very day I saw KISS live in concert for the very first time.
It was the summer of '96, otherwise known as the magical time between my first and second sophomore years of college. The only productive thing I did was sign up for a summer course to help negate the effects of getting a non-passing grade in Art History. Couldn't find Remedial English taught by a gym teacher named Shoop so I settled on the next best thing- The History of Rock Music.
I don't remember how I discovered it but the summer of '96 was the first time a course in rock music history was offered at the University of Nebraska (where the 'N' on the football helmets stands of knowledge!) and you really had to be a dumb ass not to sign up for it.
Really, could there be an easier class to take over the summer?
My roommate Aaron signed on too and for six weeks, our education consisted of in class showings of VH-1's "Behind the Music" and all six hours of PBS' documentary on Rock and Roll- the best part of which was the segment on Satan rock where Ozzy talked a ton of shit in the general direction of KISS about them being commercialized sellouts- "What kind of rock band has lunch boxes and little dolls of themselves?"
Last I checked, Ozzy bendy dolls were still available in the junky toy aisle down at Ralphs.
The only hard part of the entire course was one particular question of one particular midterm that happened to count for a lot of our overall grade. I think it was the professor's way of seeing if we were actually paying attention in class but regardless, it took a lot of cruelty to have one question count for half the grade of one exam. The question: Put all of the Beatles album and single releases (UK and US) in chronological order.
That question wouldn't be so bad if mixing and matching or multiple choice were an option but nope. All we had was a blank page and failing hopes about pulling down an "A" in the History of Rock. Holy shit was that a cruel question. The professor really wasn't into the whole partial credit for a partially right answer thing so everyone in the class headed towards the 4th of July break with a cumulative "D" hanging over our cumulative heads.
Oh man, what were we going to do? Aaron had aspirations of going to law school. I had aspirations of graduating before I turned 30. Over mooched iced coffees at The Mill, our favorite spot to mooch beverages and bask like leeches in the glory the of air conditioning, we tried to formulate a plan.
But what?
The only thing that could dig us out of such a deep hole was extra credit. In the syllabus, the proffessor stated that extra credit would be awarded for concert going. The bigger the concert the more bonus points you'd get. The only problem was we lived in Nebraska. A concert comes along about as often as Jesus rising from the dead. Still, we remained undeterred and I put applied everything I'd learned in Journalism School so far and rummaged around in the newspaper basket until I found the classified ads and looked for the section marked "Concert Tickets."
There was only one listing but we hit the jackpot- "KISS in KC two tix $40 ea."
Some of you kids might not know this but back then the internet really wasn't all that popular. There was no Craigslist or Ebay to help you find whatever it was your little heart desired. You had to do things the old fashioned way. That that meant finding a week old classified ad about two tickets to the KISS show in Kansas City and sliding quarter into a pay phone to find out if they were still available.
...to be continued...
This is part one...
On this day in history, ten years to be exact, some shenanigans went down that will forever make this day a very monumental one in the world of Todd. No, it didn't involve the losing of my virginity. That happened a few years earlier and the select few who know that tale know it as the kind of thing that would only happen to a guy like me. I'm not really at liberty to discuss that landmark day but I will fluff you a bit and tell you it involved Steve Martin and a self inflicted nosebleed.
But please, don't feel gypped. The story that is set to unfold is every bit as good and it even involves more blood- a lot more.
You see, ten years ago on this very day I saw KISS live in concert for the very first time.
It was the summer of '96, otherwise known as the magical time between my first and second sophomore years of college. The only productive thing I did was sign up for a summer course to help negate the effects of getting a non-passing grade in Art History. Couldn't find Remedial English taught by a gym teacher named Shoop so I settled on the next best thing- The History of Rock Music.
I don't remember how I discovered it but the summer of '96 was the first time a course in rock music history was offered at the University of Nebraska (where the 'N' on the football helmets stands of knowledge!) and you really had to be a dumb ass not to sign up for it.
Really, could there be an easier class to take over the summer?
My roommate Aaron signed on too and for six weeks, our education consisted of in class showings of VH-1's "Behind the Music" and all six hours of PBS' documentary on Rock and Roll- the best part of which was the segment on Satan rock where Ozzy talked a ton of shit in the general direction of KISS about them being commercialized sellouts- "What kind of rock band has lunch boxes and little dolls of themselves?"
Last I checked, Ozzy bendy dolls were still available in the junky toy aisle down at Ralphs.
The only hard part of the entire course was one particular question of one particular midterm that happened to count for a lot of our overall grade. I think it was the professor's way of seeing if we were actually paying attention in class but regardless, it took a lot of cruelty to have one question count for half the grade of one exam. The question: Put all of the Beatles album and single releases (UK and US) in chronological order.
That question wouldn't be so bad if mixing and matching or multiple choice were an option but nope. All we had was a blank page and failing hopes about pulling down an "A" in the History of Rock. Holy shit was that a cruel question. The professor really wasn't into the whole partial credit for a partially right answer thing so everyone in the class headed towards the 4th of July break with a cumulative "D" hanging over our cumulative heads.
Oh man, what were we going to do? Aaron had aspirations of going to law school. I had aspirations of graduating before I turned 30. Over mooched iced coffees at The Mill, our favorite spot to mooch beverages and bask like leeches in the glory the of air conditioning, we tried to formulate a plan.
But what?
The only thing that could dig us out of such a deep hole was extra credit. In the syllabus, the proffessor stated that extra credit would be awarded for concert going. The bigger the concert the more bonus points you'd get. The only problem was we lived in Nebraska. A concert comes along about as often as Jesus rising from the dead. Still, we remained undeterred and I put applied everything I'd learned in Journalism School so far and rummaged around in the newspaper basket until I found the classified ads and looked for the section marked "Concert Tickets."
There was only one listing but we hit the jackpot- "KISS in KC two tix $40 ea."
Some of you kids might not know this but back then the internet really wasn't all that popular. There was no Craigslist or Ebay to help you find whatever it was your little heart desired. You had to do things the old fashioned way. That that meant finding a week old classified ad about two tickets to the KISS show in Kansas City and sliding quarter into a pay phone to find out if they were still available.
...to be continued...
Friday, June 26, 2009
Michael Jackson Round Up
There's really no need to get into specifics. If you stop by these parts for your news, you don't deserve to know what happened yesterday.
Anyhoo, these are the funniest things I came across in all the happenings.
LA Times:Celeb Twitters React.
Um Miley, I think your dad Billy Ray might be a little disappointed in your choice of inspiration. Then again, I don't ever recall hearing you do a cover of "Achy Breaky Heart."
Then again, I don't ever recall listening to your music.
Anyhoo, these are the funniest things I came across in all the happenings.
LA Times:Celeb Twitters React.
Um Miley, I think your dad Billy Ray might be a little disappointed in your choice of inspiration. Then again, I don't ever recall hearing you do a cover of "Achy Breaky Heart."
Then again, I don't ever recall listening to your music.
Just in case it's been a while since you've seen Children of a Lesser God, Marlee was the deaf chick William Hurt was trying to hump. I'd love to get her opinion on her favorite MJ song.
Seriously, why doesn't my Criterion Collection DVD of On Golden Pond have any footage of this? That had to have been one crazy week. Think MJ and Jane's dad spent any time fishing for Walter? Or maybe a game of Parcheesi?
Found my two favorite comments on LAist and coincidentally they came from a gal named Shar.
Why would the news industry devote so much air time to the death of a pervert while leaving out the news that Farrah has died. She should come first. I say it's a gender thing, just as most of life is. His talent was no more than Farrah's. He had people behind him who saw a vision. He did not fulfill that vision because he wanted to be white and female. Too bad he died on the same day as Farrah (LIFO) most recent first, that's just wrong! Everything about him was wrong. A product of the entertainment industry and a pervert from the time he made his first $1M. Very few people will mourn his loss. Good thing he died before he could mess up more lives. Farrah, on the other hand, was a vision and a wonderful person. RIP FARRAH, ROT IN HELL MICHAL JACKSON!
Then, 13 minutes later Shar posted the following comment. Totally different than her previous comment.
Farrah died today. Why would the news industry devote so much air time to the death of this wierdo, while leaving out the news that Farrah has died? Is it a gender thing? His talent was no greater than Farrah's. He had people behind him who saw a vision. He did not fulfill that vision because he wanted to be white and female (clearly). Too bad he died on the same day as Farrah. Everything about him was wrong. A product of the entertainment industry and a pervert from the time he made his first $1M. Only his family should mourn. Good thing he died before he could mess up more lives. Farrah, on the other hand, was a vision and a wonderful person. RIP FARRAH, ROT IN HELL MJ!
Just a hunch but I think Shar, might have once been the President of the Farrah Fawcett fan club but was ousted back around '83 for being a little too crazy.
Finally, yesterday Facebook was a veritable smorgasbord of Michael Jackson jokes. Guess that happens when a person has a ton of comic friends. Not surprisingly there were a lot of repeats referencing MJ's knack for the bad touch with the kiddies but I must hands down Brett Gilbert (maybe you've seen him as the Alien Autopsy Guy in Ghost World?) had the best jokes in both quantity and quality.
Favorite Michael Jackson dead jokes.. 1. Boys underwear flying at half mast 2. Heaven needed two white woman today. 3. Governor Mark Sanford just became a huge Michael Jackson fan. 4. Bubbles gets everything in the will. 5. The one thing everyone agrees on is that Michael touched many people. 6. He WILL be back. And he's bringing the dancing zombies with him!
Well played Mr. Gilbert. Well played.
Found my two favorite comments on LAist and coincidentally they came from a gal named Shar.
Why would the news industry devote so much air time to the death of a pervert while leaving out the news that Farrah has died. She should come first. I say it's a gender thing, just as most of life is. His talent was no more than Farrah's. He had people behind him who saw a vision. He did not fulfill that vision because he wanted to be white and female. Too bad he died on the same day as Farrah (LIFO) most recent first, that's just wrong! Everything about him was wrong. A product of the entertainment industry and a pervert from the time he made his first $1M. Very few people will mourn his loss. Good thing he died before he could mess up more lives. Farrah, on the other hand, was a vision and a wonderful person. RIP FARRAH, ROT IN HELL MICHAL JACKSON!
Then, 13 minutes later Shar posted the following comment. Totally different than her previous comment.
Farrah died today. Why would the news industry devote so much air time to the death of this wierdo, while leaving out the news that Farrah has died? Is it a gender thing? His talent was no greater than Farrah's. He had people behind him who saw a vision. He did not fulfill that vision because he wanted to be white and female (clearly). Too bad he died on the same day as Farrah. Everything about him was wrong. A product of the entertainment industry and a pervert from the time he made his first $1M. Only his family should mourn. Good thing he died before he could mess up more lives. Farrah, on the other hand, was a vision and a wonderful person. RIP FARRAH, ROT IN HELL MJ!
Just a hunch but I think Shar, might have once been the President of the Farrah Fawcett fan club but was ousted back around '83 for being a little too crazy.
Finally, yesterday Facebook was a veritable smorgasbord of Michael Jackson jokes. Guess that happens when a person has a ton of comic friends. Not surprisingly there were a lot of repeats referencing MJ's knack for the bad touch with the kiddies but I must hands down Brett Gilbert (maybe you've seen him as the Alien Autopsy Guy in Ghost World?) had the best jokes in both quantity and quality.
Favorite Michael Jackson dead jokes.. 1. Boys underwear flying at half mast 2. Heaven needed two white woman today. 3. Governor Mark Sanford just became a huge Michael Jackson fan. 4. Bubbles gets everything in the will. 5. The one thing everyone agrees on is that Michael touched many people. 6. He WILL be back. And he's bringing the dancing zombies with him!
Well played Mr. Gilbert. Well played.
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