Friday, February 24, 2006

This is not an airport

The goonybird has invented a new dance we call 'The Propeller Dance.' It' a variation of the Stompy dance and it involves many of the same moves and positions as the Stompy dance (which is a dance danced by stomping around in a circle using one foot as a pivot.) However, the Propeller Dance is only performed when the artist is unencumbered by a diaper.

Yes, friends, he's discovered how to get his dinger zipping around in a circle on purpose.

So impressed with himself was he that he woke grandpa out of a sound sleep to witness its debut performance. By all accounts, it was quite a show. We thought grandpa was going to tear himself a new hernia.

Thursday, February 23, 2006


I have lifted the subject for this post from the lovely and talented, the beneficent, the resplendant, the completely cosmic Ms. Surlygirl! You can find her at:
Go there and find out just why Ms. Girl is so popular among today's webnosceti. You'll be glad you did! ......................(was that good? did i do it right?)
I like drugs; lets get that clear right now. I think they should be legalized, and I have no problem with whatever it is you want to take. You want to inject battery acid, thats 'ku. Don't assume I'll tie you off, but go ahead.
Although I have tried opiates (not worth the constipation), I have never stuck a needle into myself. If I become diabetic, I'll have to use a pump because there's just no way.
So, onward. I was a mere slip of a girl, only 13 years old the first time I smoked pot. Ah, the memories. It was at a concert. Never mind whos concert. Oh all right, it was Elton John. A guy passed me a # , so I took a rip and passed it on. Seemed appropriate at the time.
Well! The two girls I was with were JUST! UTTERLY! SHOCKED! AND! APPALLED! (and too puss to take a hit, losers.) When school started that fall everyone already knew all about it... apparently certain somebodies had been burning up the telephone lines all summer.
And damn, did my stock go up! Kinda backfired on ya, didn't it, Terry and Jane! (Little twats.) Man, I was COOL. When I set the ladies room towels on fire later in the year my reputation was set in stone...I was one WILD ASS BITCH.
I did acid only once, when I was 14, during summer school ( yeah, fine I had to go to summer school. I kind of forgot to attend half of my freshman year. Hey, people forget things.) As God is my witness I will NEVER make that mistake again. I was SO loaded. And I stayed that loaded for eight hours. And I had to eat dinner with my parents...and my mother served boiled peas...and when I speared them with a fork, the peas...made a sound...and they burst.......and.......fluid.......ran.......out........
I usually just drank. Hell, I was a seasoned drinker at a very young age, as a consequence of growing up with a boozer who had boozer friends. Shit, I even knew how to pace myself. The downside was, nobody else my age did. So at a party, when everyone else around me was puking and crying and blacking out and crawling around in their underpants beneath the pool table, I was the one who always ended up confiscating car keys and unplugging the toilet. Yay! Nursemaid! Just exactly how I wanted to spend my teenage party years. So what did I do? I ended up with the guy who supplied drugs to that end of the county.
This dishrag would stick anything in his head. He did not care. He was also the individual who invented wake and bake. He punctuated his entire life with bong hits. Sit up in bed, take a bong hit. Drift into the can, take a dump, bong hit (no lie, kids. while he was sitting on the throne.) Eat breakfast, bong hit. Turn on the news, several bong hits. Leave for work, bong hit. Etc. He went from just dope to everything and anything pretty rapidly, and started substituting drugs for sleep and food and work, and me, so I left him.
Now that's not to say I didn't keep right up with him; I did. I just wasn't very impressed with any of it, though God knows I tried. Anyway, that pretty much wrapped up my druggie years.
After that, the only notable (I'm qualifying that; notable, now come on) time I've been high was back on New Years, in Canada. Down a couple blocks from our hotel there was an abandoned 'Sixties era movie theatre, and set into one of the steel foyer walls was a doorbell and an intercom. You pushed the doorbell, said 'Tom told me to come here for weed' and a door in the steel wall buzzed open. You went up the stairs to a rather nice brick loft, after passing under the scrutiny of the large scowling bald man with the police issue spring baton, and there, sitting behind a desk was the pleasant, ordinary dealer. You gave them the money and they retrieved a bag of the proper size from the drawer and off you went. Kind of like making a bank transaction. Wave to the cop parked across the street, "Hi mountie! Diggin' Vancouver!" Cop waves back, "Hi American! Diggin your cash!" and off you toddle to the nearby Blunt Bros.
Blunt Bros. is gone now...farewell, my first dope cafe! You opened the door and a giant steel-blue cloud whoofed out. And inside, the air was not only blue, it had texture. And mass. All being produced by a group of the most profoundly, on-their-lips, slack-jawed, staring stoned people; I mean STONED people. STOOONED PEOPLE.
It was like a museum vignette. Like the ones that show a group of fiberglas cavemen living their daily cave lives? Only this would have been titled 'North American wastoids reducing their braincells to whimpering submission: c 21st cent.". Only crunchables, pop and paraphenalia were on sale...basically the only draw was the 'oooo, we're breaking the law out loud!' cachet. Still, it was fun, and I honked down a great big heefin joint with some (fiiiiiine) french snowboarder guys who thought it was great fun to get the chubby housewife wasted.
Later on that evening we all wandered around town admiring the buildings and worked on burning that ounce down. I had an excellent time. Beautiful city, everyone in a celebratory mood, fun friends, and absolutely ass kicking drugs. Party on Wayne! Party on, Garth!

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Childrens Programming, or 'Spandex is Awesome"

My brain is dissolving.
I need to get out of this house.
I have the Goonybird over to babysit. He is darling, but he would rather argue with the stove than discuss Jean Arp. Whats more, I find that I have so many hours of childrens' television logged that I am beginning to form a strange attachment to it.

Example: a French-Canadian childrens' show called Lazytown.

The two adult protagonists in this show are male...the good guy is called 'Sporticus' (brother of Agador Hercules, one assumes; and a very sportif young man he is), and the bad guy is called 'Robbie Rotton' (who is very, very rotton indeed and in dire need of a sound paddling.)

Now both these individuals are damned fit specimens of prime young manhood...which only makes good casting sense since they're called upon to leap around the set like tree frogs. In order to facilitate all that joie de vivre, both young men are costumed in sleek, full-body spandex costumes.
I mean bounce-a-dime-off-that-honey-tight. Almost....hentai. YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

Unfortunately both men have been fiendishly dancers' belted within an inch of their *ahem* lives (one more successfully than the other is ya kin dig it)...after all, this is a childrens show.

Aha, but the producers overlooked one thing, you a consequence of being so darned fit, both men have been gifted by God with WORLD CLASS BUTTS. And those butts are wearin' spadex, baby.
No really, it's distracting as hell. The whole cast will be in the middle of some rambling debate on who stole the candy from Pixels' backpack or some shit, Sporticus turns away from the camera, and I'm lickin' the screen.

And be still my heart, but that Robbie Rotton can climb a treehouse ladder like nobodies business. You ever seen those old Blue Boy spreads where they're like, in the navy, and it's olden times, and there's a cute cabinboy, and the mean officer makes him scramble up the rigging....? Oh HELL yeah.

The other show that bothers me is called The DoodleBopps.. The Doodlebopps very own blue boy is known as, appropriately enough, Rooney Doodle*.
Now despite the somewhat more elaborate costume young Mr. Doodlebopp is required to wear, I feel certain he too shares the same hinder assal endowment Mr. Rotton and Mr. Sporticus enjoy, as young Rooney is called upon to execute the same frenetic motor activities. Tell ya what, he's obviously willing to do damned near anything in order to pay his rent. In any event, and despite the fact that he seems to have plums stapled all over his head, he looks a rather comely lad.

I like to imagine him getting a phonecall from his agent. I imagine him looking at his bills, and his overextended credit cards, and his ridiculous bar tabs, and sighing just a little bit.

I imagine Messrs. Rotton and Sporticus receiving similar calls, and looking at each other over that weeks' scripts, and grinning wide, like Snidely Whiplash.

Yep, yep, yep.

I really need to get out of this house.

* post of 1 - 20 - 2006...'Babies Are Good' in the archives

further proof of just how much spare time I have these days.....
yes, our Rooney is a limber lad...
...and he certainly knows how to party! toss him a quarter, won't you?

LAZYTOWN: SPORTICUS, ROBBIE, AND SOME KID WITH PINK HAIR ensemble shot. even an industrial strength dancers belt cannot contain the glory that is Sporticus. Robbies sweet, sweet ass Sporticus...a dear little bottom, true, but no Robbie.

Monday, February 20, 2006


I have a collection of books that I think of as reliable standbys. Books that are such good fun time after time that I save them, and then ration them out slowly, like extra fine chocolate. Most are fiction, although a few non-fiction titles have earned their place on the list too.
The following list is not in any particular order, andI iincluded the year I first read them if I remember it. Take note of those early dates, might want to add those titles to your shelf. Except for.....
1. The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath, H.P.Lovecraft, 1981 which you must read and buy immediately if you have not already, for this is a book of such rare language, image and imagination that it belongs rightfully upon the shelf of anyone considering themself a lover of fiction. Furthermore I demand that it instantly be included in the curriculum of every class in American fiction being taught in any school anywhere. They can just bump a couple authors to make room. (Like Poe. To hell with ponderous Poe. He can sit in the asbestos handbasket with windy Mary Shelley and crappy Bram Stoker as long as he doesn't fidget.) It's an unforgiveable oversight and I want it rectified NOW. H.P.Lovecraft was a genius on the order of Aubrey Beardsley and he's been relegated to the 'oddity' shelf because people simply REFUSE TO FUCKING READ ENGLISH. (Well, that and he's really peculiar.)
I wish I had a nickel for every person who's ever told me 'Oo, Lovecrafts' too hard. I can't get into the language at all.' Morons, philistines, dregs and fice, all afflicted with Peyronies' of the BRAINSTEM, all of you. You don't DESERVE Lovecraft.
Read through 2 copies, and thats only because it's very hard to come by so I treat it well (and, um, I'm kind of afraid not to.) Otherwise the total would be well over seven.
2. Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte.
A favorite since 1969. The only romance novel I've ever read. When I realized it was a romance novel I was horrified. Five copies. Finally got in in a Borzoi edition (and a Caxton just to be a smartass, and because I love the binding.)
3. Papillon, Henri Charierre. 1970
The best adventure story ever put on paper. Read through two copies.
4. Paper Moon, Joe David Brown.1971
Just an excellent, excellent work of historical fiction, completely accurate in every detail, and such a smooth read you lose yourself completely. wonderful. Second copy.
5. I'll Take It, Paul Rudnick.
Again, perfectly laser accurate in every detail and funny every time you read it. First copy, but failing fast. A latecomer.
6. Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady, Florence King.
Completely hilarious, beautifully written. Two copies.
7. The Hobbit and the Ring trilogy, J.R.R.Tolkein. 1968
(By the way, Kingsley Amis, that substance falling on your head down there in hell? Thats Tolkein up in Heaven, peeing on you. Ha.) Can't have one without the other as far as I'm concerned, and once you start, you start at the beginning and go all the way to the end with them. Glorious books. I've read my way through SIX sets of them. Yeah, baby.
8. The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas.
The second best adventure ever written. It's irresistable. Four copies
9. Dracula, Bram Stoker. 1968
You know, this book, after all is said and done, is pure dreck. It's uneven, in fact its pretty crappy in places... but's Dracula. Five copies, finally got it in hardcover (Borzoi edition, so it's virtually bulletproof) in 1975.
10. The Complete Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle.
Again, irresistable. Helps that Conan Doyle never wrote a bad sentance in his life. More than four copies, at least....
(10 1/2.....The Beekeepers Apprentice, Laurie R. King. Honestly, worthy of the master. Don't own a copy but I will. I've checked it out seven or eight times already.)
11. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee. 1970. Of the bunch, the most superbly written and superbly crafted. Almost perfect, in fact. Two copies.
12. The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck.
Outstanding despite it's author. Fortunately it was written before Steinbeck turned into a self-important windbag (Travels With Charley!). Three copies
13. Watership Down, Richard Adams. also Tales from Watership Down..which I keep at the library.
Just a very likeable book about clever bunnies. Two copies
14. The Zero Stone, Andre Norton, also its sequel Uncharted Stars. 1970
Good clean (dreck) fun with aliens, talking mutant cats and spaceships. Three copies
15. Ubik, Phillip K. Dick.
A latecomer to the ranks. A work of genius. I lifted the idea for my blog intro from this book. Still on the first one. Use only as directed.
16. A Town Like Alice, Nevil Shute.
The Ultimate ordinary people against all odds book. I love it. Two copies
17. Boys Life, Richard McCammon.
A very odd book. Clearly this man wants to wash Ray Bradbury's feet. I like it. One.
18. Norstrillia, Cordwainer Smith.
Another very odd book, and well written. Two copies.
19. Heiro's Journey, Sterling Lanier.
Another wierd one. True dreck, but odd enough so you forgive it. Two copies
20. Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe, Fannie Flagg.
This was Ms. Flaggs one moment of grace. Forget the movie, forget anything else she's written. Sorry, Fannie. Two copies.
21. The entire 'FOXFIRE' series, editor Elliot Wigginton. Finally read through my first set, looking for another. Pure gold.
22. The October Country, Ray Bradbury. 1970
My favorite collection by him. Three copies.
23. Something Wicked This Way Comes, Ray Bradbury. 1971. Five copies. Still excellent.
24. Dragons' Tears, Dean Koontz.
Nobody writes dogs like Koontz. Very likeable dreck.

Some that have dropped off the list.......
-Dandelion Wine, Ray Bradbury. A great book, a must read, 1970. I just finally read it enough, I guess. Went through four copies doing it.
-anything by Robert Heinlein. 1971. Heinlein was a babyraping perv. I'm boycotting he cares; he's dead. Which makes me happy. But I did enjoy a lot of his books at one time. 2 copies of Stranger in a Strange Land.
-Image of the Beast, Phillip Jose Farmer, and Blown. *ahem* Speaking of perverted. But these I'd still read if I had a gun to my head; they're good. Sick, but good. Just not infinitely repeatable as it turns out. 2 copies.
-The Jewel of Seven Stars, Bram Stoker. Likeable, minor gothic egypt dreck.
-The Barbie Murders, John Varley. Collection. The incest got to ookin' me out.
-anything by Steven King except Night Shift. I find that once is just about enough with King as a general rule, but I will return to the Night Shift collection occasionally. If only King would exercise the discipline to keep himself down to short fiction.
-Birdie, William Wharton. Finally had my fill of it. Good book, though. 3 copies.

Please note; this is not a list of all my favorites, or all the best, even. Just the ones that provide a wonderful journey time after time.
I am the only person I have ever heard of who reads books to destruction like this.
If anyone would like to suggest a new title for the ListI would be more than grateful, and pleased as well.

Sunday, February 19, 2006

like the night of the iguana, if the iguana was in a coffee can in my freezer.

We have a 2-year-old goonybird in the house today!
I have a two year old grandson!
You know what else we have in the house thats two years old?
His placenta.
In the kitchen freezer.
......Now come on, at least it's not out on the counter floating around in a jar. Or just, you know, laying in a drawer or something. Because that would be sick.

...the placenta waits...
for its day.