Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
PARIS GONE
He/she turned up missing more than a month ago. At first I thought it was just the cold snap that had sent Paris into the neighbor's barn for some mice and warm straw. Sometimes the cats would disappear for a week or two, then show up like nothing had happened. I worried at first. Then I got used to their cat like ways and learned not to worry. Look, no one is more surprised than I that I haved turned into a "cat person". I see myself still as a dog man, with a little chick magnet puppy that grows into a big lovable mutt. But that's my fantasy. It's like owning a restaurant. Owning a dog, like running a restaurant, is way too much work. Cats are low maintenence. AND they don't come in the house.
But now, with Paris gone, Ray Gilkey and Nicole are starting to act up. It's little things, mostly, meowing too much and sneaking onto the porch behind my back. This I understand and put up with. But they do another thing that is really infuriating. Out of the blue, they go off their food. I used to feed them DAD'S catfood. Then one day, just after I bought a 20 lb. bag of the stuff, they refused to eat it. I waited a few days, but no go. They wouldn't touch it. So now I was shooting in the dark as to cat food choice. I had no idea what to buy them. I closed my eyes and pointed. A yellow bag of ALLEYCAT called to me. I bought a 5 lb. bag. No sense going big yet. The woofed it down. Then, yesterday, after months of buying ALLEYCAT.....same thing. They refused to eat it! I'd just bought a fresh 20 pounder. FUCKERS ARE FUCKING WITH ME.
This morning Nicole just sat there pointing her squinty eye at me and and rolling on her back. Ray meowed and knocked the dish around. Are they in mourning for Paris? Or, more likely, they just want to twist me up. I'm wise to their games. I refuse to throw out another 20 lb. bag of cat food. Maybe I should get a dog. That would teach 'em. For now it's a waiting game. Let's see who gets hungry enough...... damn I miss Paris.
But now, with Paris gone, Ray Gilkey and Nicole are starting to act up. It's little things, mostly, meowing too much and sneaking onto the porch behind my back. This I understand and put up with. But they do another thing that is really infuriating. Out of the blue, they go off their food. I used to feed them DAD'S catfood. Then one day, just after I bought a 20 lb. bag of the stuff, they refused to eat it. I waited a few days, but no go. They wouldn't touch it. So now I was shooting in the dark as to cat food choice. I had no idea what to buy them. I closed my eyes and pointed. A yellow bag of ALLEYCAT called to me. I bought a 5 lb. bag. No sense going big yet. The woofed it down. Then, yesterday, after months of buying ALLEYCAT.....same thing. They refused to eat it! I'd just bought a fresh 20 pounder. FUCKERS ARE FUCKING WITH ME.
This morning Nicole just sat there pointing her squinty eye at me and and rolling on her back. Ray meowed and knocked the dish around. Are they in mourning for Paris? Or, more likely, they just want to twist me up. I'm wise to their games. I refuse to throw out another 20 lb. bag of cat food. Maybe I should get a dog. That would teach 'em. For now it's a waiting game. Let's see who gets hungry enough...... damn I miss Paris.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
BURN ONE
It always seems to happen around this time of year. Like my brother in law- St. John, the inventor of the "SOJKA" a door unlocker and the "SOJKA II" a plastic thingy that keeps the gas nozzle pumping, while you stay snug in your vehicle, smoking your cigarette- I get ideas for things to sell. Admittedly, mine lean towards the esotheric, nonetheless I always think they are really good ideas. HOLY lgm water, cigars and honey was one such idea. I still think it's a good idea, but in the process of failing miserably, I realized one very important thing. I'm no businessman. I've always known this, but for some reason in the throes of my "idea" hardon I forget. Before you know it I'm 30k in the hole and I have a lot of unfolded boxes on the porch.
So this time I'm going to avoid that part. Sure, I want to make money. This is a money idea, as opposed to an art idea. But, when it comes to making money, I've finally realized that so-called "money idea" might as well be an art idea in my case. But enough of that. Check it out! My idea is to sell a dollar burning kit. Like those little extreme unction kits priests carry around in case some poor sap jumps out a window or swallows a chicken bone, this kit would also admit you to The Church of the Little Green Man congregation as a lifetime member.(It's an easy church to get into. Just try getting out.)
I'm thinking that the kit would contain a match, a dollar bill, and a little labeled bottle to keep the ashes in. That's it. Put it in a box and sell it for say $5. If anyone but me did this it would sell like hotcakes. People would be lining up to give them as gifts. It's timely, it's witty AND it's green. Thank God I know better than to put any effort into packaging this idea. In the past I'd be going to the bank to get crisp ones and cruising Canal St. for cheap bottles. In the end the packaging would cost $6 and I would go broke AGAIN! But don't let me stop you from burning one at home. And feel free to send me one. Bless the LGM.
So this time I'm going to avoid that part. Sure, I want to make money. This is a money idea, as opposed to an art idea. But, when it comes to making money, I've finally realized that so-called "money idea" might as well be an art idea in my case. But enough of that. Check it out! My idea is to sell a dollar burning kit. Like those little extreme unction kits priests carry around in case some poor sap jumps out a window or swallows a chicken bone, this kit would also admit you to The Church of the Little Green Man congregation as a lifetime member.(It's an easy church to get into. Just try getting out.)
I'm thinking that the kit would contain a match, a dollar bill, and a little labeled bottle to keep the ashes in. That's it. Put it in a box and sell it for say $5. If anyone but me did this it would sell like hotcakes. People would be lining up to give them as gifts. It's timely, it's witty AND it's green. Thank God I know better than to put any effort into packaging this idea. In the past I'd be going to the bank to get crisp ones and cruising Canal St. for cheap bottles. In the end the packaging would cost $6 and I would go broke AGAIN! But don't let me stop you from burning one at home. And feel free to send me one. Bless the LGM.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
"SORRY, IT'S ART."
It has ocurred to me that I haven't really kept you up to date with the progress at WSSP. You know I sold it to Shewho? And part of the deal was I would finish it per her design. It was win win for both of us. I went at it full force, hoping to get the addition up before a hard freeze. But, just before deer season the neighbor dropped a dime on me to the building inspector, forcing me to stop work and go legit. This meant getting stamped plans for the new addition. By the time the plans were done, and our permit was issued the ground had already frozen up, making the pouring of the slab impossible. Yellow posted signs went up on every tree, joining the upside down scowling satan in grim witness to the work shut down.The septic filled with water and I went deer hunting. It felt like the asshole neighbors were winning.
Once deer season and the holidays passed I went back out in the deep freeze, insulated, framed and joined the electrition in readying the old part of the house for inspection. Progress was slow. In that cold it was like working on the moon. The stairs went in. The porch banister was built. In spite of the set backs we were slowly crawling forward. Then, last week we had a thaw. Despite the old man's dire predictions about February, the mercury rose and the frost began to melt. Be careful what you wish for. Forget the Biblical swarm of flies buzzing upstairs. Forget the leak in the brand new front porch. It was the gutteral gurgling emitting from the laid stone basement that really got my attention. Was it time to start gathering the animals?
This is the first structure I've ever owned with a basement. Usually I'm lucky to get away with a hand dug hilly billy crawl space in my real estate speculations. But WSSP has an actual stand up basement under a third of the house. At 10 am there was a couple of inches of water down there. By noon it was a foot deep and rising fast. Indoor swimming pool anyone? To say this property has "issues" is putting it mildly. A rental pump and fire hose later the sound of a straw sucking the bottom of a glass echoed down the road. It turned cold again and the flood stopped. The flies ceased buzzing and hit the floor. Winter was back. I called the building inspector. We were ready for our first inspection.
Some inspectors are hard asses. Some are crooks. Some are reasonable, just doing their job guys. Lucky for Shewho and I, this one was the later. He complimented the work, scribbled in his pad and wandered through the structure, studying floor to ceiling. Aside from some minor detals we were good to go. When I knew we were safe I turned his attention to the view from the upstairs window. "Look at this fucking mess." I said, drawing his attention to the scowling upside down satan, fake cobwebs and caution tape festooning the neighbor's property. He looked long and hard at it. "Is there anything you can do?" I pleaded. He looked at the floor and shook his head. "You know, if there was writing on it, I could cite them for an illegal sign. And if it was a swastika.....well that would be good....but this......I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. Sorry, it's art." Now that's something I didn't see coming.
Once deer season and the holidays passed I went back out in the deep freeze, insulated, framed and joined the electrition in readying the old part of the house for inspection. Progress was slow. In that cold it was like working on the moon. The stairs went in. The porch banister was built. In spite of the set backs we were slowly crawling forward. Then, last week we had a thaw. Despite the old man's dire predictions about February, the mercury rose and the frost began to melt. Be careful what you wish for. Forget the Biblical swarm of flies buzzing upstairs. Forget the leak in the brand new front porch. It was the gutteral gurgling emitting from the laid stone basement that really got my attention. Was it time to start gathering the animals?
This is the first structure I've ever owned with a basement. Usually I'm lucky to get away with a hand dug hilly billy crawl space in my real estate speculations. But WSSP has an actual stand up basement under a third of the house. At 10 am there was a couple of inches of water down there. By noon it was a foot deep and rising fast. Indoor swimming pool anyone? To say this property has "issues" is putting it mildly. A rental pump and fire hose later the sound of a straw sucking the bottom of a glass echoed down the road. It turned cold again and the flood stopped. The flies ceased buzzing and hit the floor. Winter was back. I called the building inspector. We were ready for our first inspection.
Some inspectors are hard asses. Some are crooks. Some are reasonable, just doing their job guys. Lucky for Shewho and I, this one was the later. He complimented the work, scribbled in his pad and wandered through the structure, studying floor to ceiling. Aside from some minor detals we were good to go. When I knew we were safe I turned his attention to the view from the upstairs window. "Look at this fucking mess." I said, drawing his attention to the scowling upside down satan, fake cobwebs and caution tape festooning the neighbor's property. He looked long and hard at it. "Is there anything you can do?" I pleaded. He looked at the floor and shook his head. "You know, if there was writing on it, I could cite them for an illegal sign. And if it was a swastika.....well that would be good....but this......I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. Sorry, it's art." Now that's something I didn't see coming.
Friday, February 6, 2009
MICHAEL PHELPS' SHRIVELED BALLS
Maybe shrunken gonads helps him swim at those supersonic speeds. Or maybe he has webbed toes and finned testicles. I have no idea. But what I do know is he missed a great oportunity to be the face of a new stoner nation. That picture with Phelps' lips wrapped around a bong, instead led to him apologizing and whining to the media over his "great mistake". Excuse me, but wouldn't it have been better to own up to the fact that he was a marijuana smoker AND the fastest shaved down body to hit the water since Mark Spitz? He could've joined the ranks of Louie Armstrong, George Washington and Sitting Bull as a spokespersion for the pipe (or bong in his case).
And what caused this weepy apologist stance? Greed. The man was worried about losing all those swim trunk and nose plug endorsement contracts. Dude, why not grow a pair and throw it back in their faces? Pot helps my glaucoma, depression, and overall state of well being. I don't know if it makes me swim any faster, but if anybody catches me torching one- I'll own up. I'm not sorry. Endorsement contracts be damned. I'm stoned and I'm proud.
And what caused this weepy apologist stance? Greed. The man was worried about losing all those swim trunk and nose plug endorsement contracts. Dude, why not grow a pair and throw it back in their faces? Pot helps my glaucoma, depression, and overall state of well being. I don't know if it makes me swim any faster, but if anybody catches me torching one- I'll own up. I'm not sorry. Endorsement contracts be damned. I'm stoned and I'm proud.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
WHO'S SCAMMING GRAMP?
I talk to my folks a lot. Every few days we touch base. My mom tells me what she's cooking for dinner in great detail. And if it's not hunting season the old man and I can cover everything from politics, to the economy, to family business. "Your sister said that the Farmer's almanac has been right all season. And February is supposed to be worse than January." He told me this at least five times. And every time I tell him to shut up. I don't want to hear it. Undeterred, a day later, he'll tell me again.
Last night, after informing me of February's impending shit storm again, he was just about to hang up, when I hear my mother's voice in the background. "Tell Michael about our scam." I thought they had an idea to make money by coming up with a good grift. But it was not their scam to which mom was referring. The old man had recieved a strange phone call from one of his granddaughters. The phone call that my father recieved went something like this.
"Hi Gramp. This is Wessey." (Wessey is my brother Duke's kid).
"Hi darlin'. What's going on?"
"Well Gramp, I'm in kind of a fix."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, some friend's and I went to Canada and we went shopping."
"Good for you. What's the problem?"
"Well Gramp. We got stopped at the border. And......well we hadn't declared the stuff and customs is making us pay tax and penalties on it all."
"How much?" Granddad asked.
"$2400."
"Together or for each?"
"Each." Wessy whined.
Now my father will do anything for his kids and grandkids....within reason.
"What do you need from me?"
"I'm sorry Gramp. Can you call this number and Canadian Customs will tell you what to do. They won't release us."
Then Wessy told him what border crossing she was at and a list of numbers to call. He wrote it all down and being a week shy of his 80th birthday and seeing out of one eye, he probably got the numbers wrong. He called some guy who told him to go to Hell and eventually gave up. Then he called Wessy's cell.
"Hi Gramp. Can I call you right back?" Wessy sounded busy.
"Where are you?" Gramp asked.
"I'm at work."
"In __________?" he asked.
"Yup."
BAM! The other caller was not Wessy. Gramp had been scammed. Or at least attempted to be scammed. Lucky for him he got the numbers wrong. He later found out the area code was for New Orleans. Then he went on to tell me how he went to the cops and they told him it happens all the time to the elderly and there was nothing they could do. Big surprise. This is a wake up call for all you geezers. It's a devious world out there. Be sure of who you're talking to. Just remember all pleas for bail or border crossing money may not be part of some plot to get into your bank account. Once in a while even the best of us can have a little trouble with the local gendarme. If the caller is sobbing uncontrollably it's probaby me. Don't hang up. And please send money. And if the Almanac is right, February's gonna be a pisser.
Last night, after informing me of February's impending shit storm again, he was just about to hang up, when I hear my mother's voice in the background. "Tell Michael about our scam." I thought they had an idea to make money by coming up with a good grift. But it was not their scam to which mom was referring. The old man had recieved a strange phone call from one of his granddaughters. The phone call that my father recieved went something like this.
"Hi Gramp. This is Wessey." (Wessey is my brother Duke's kid).
"Hi darlin'. What's going on?"
"Well Gramp, I'm in kind of a fix."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, some friend's and I went to Canada and we went shopping."
"Good for you. What's the problem?"
"Well Gramp. We got stopped at the border. And......well we hadn't declared the stuff and customs is making us pay tax and penalties on it all."
"How much?" Granddad asked.
"$2400."
"Together or for each?"
"Each." Wessy whined.
Now my father will do anything for his kids and grandkids....within reason.
"What do you need from me?"
"I'm sorry Gramp. Can you call this number and Canadian Customs will tell you what to do. They won't release us."
Then Wessy told him what border crossing she was at and a list of numbers to call. He wrote it all down and being a week shy of his 80th birthday and seeing out of one eye, he probably got the numbers wrong. He called some guy who told him to go to Hell and eventually gave up. Then he called Wessy's cell.
"Hi Gramp. Can I call you right back?" Wessy sounded busy.
"Where are you?" Gramp asked.
"I'm at work."
"In __________?" he asked.
"Yup."
BAM! The other caller was not Wessy. Gramp had been scammed. Or at least attempted to be scammed. Lucky for him he got the numbers wrong. He later found out the area code was for New Orleans. Then he went on to tell me how he went to the cops and they told him it happens all the time to the elderly and there was nothing they could do. Big surprise. This is a wake up call for all you geezers. It's a devious world out there. Be sure of who you're talking to. Just remember all pleas for bail or border crossing money may not be part of some plot to get into your bank account. Once in a while even the best of us can have a little trouble with the local gendarme. If the caller is sobbing uncontrollably it's probaby me. Don't hang up. And please send money. And if the Almanac is right, February's gonna be a pisser.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
GARAGE MODEL
Back in the Funkies I predicted that fashion shows would become the entertainment of choice as pop culture bopped into the 21st century. They were short, flashy, filled with 'tude and easy to digest. I was almost right. It wasn't fashion that distilled down into bite sized, sugar-coated niblets, rather it was the mannequins. Models and modeling have become institutionalized to the degree that every pretty young thing (girls mostly) with a TV set or a computer knows "the look", "the pose", "the do", "the strut" and "the pout". Forget being in a band with dreams of being a rock star. Become a model and you can get all the rock stars you want. Bevys of tweens are now skipping working at McDonalds, getting head shots, and trying to get an agent. They're modeling at home. Just turn on the I-phone and work it baby.
Shows like AMERICA'S TOP MODEL lay out all the cheezy, giggly banality to the degree that you'd think any tween with her head screwed on straight would run in the opposite direction. But, just like dirty old men, the tweens are sucked into the cathode flame. Before you know it they're mugging for the imaginary camera and shaving off nonexistent hair. They pack up and practice "vogueing" and dissing, as well as seeing who can sound street or faggy. "That's fabbbbbbuuuuuullllush beeeotch!" Don't get me wrong. I think this new avenue for expression is great. Like art, modeling can be taught. (How many songs you got written, Slick?) Why not start teaching yourself at 13? But, in the wise words of my supermodel friend Marianna Rothen- "Don't go pro until you can show your tits." In case my neices Sammi and Danni read my blog- that's 26.
Shows like AMERICA'S TOP MODEL lay out all the cheezy, giggly banality to the degree that you'd think any tween with her head screwed on straight would run in the opposite direction. But, just like dirty old men, the tweens are sucked into the cathode flame. Before you know it they're mugging for the imaginary camera and shaving off nonexistent hair. They pack up and practice "vogueing" and dissing, as well as seeing who can sound street or faggy. "That's fabbbbbbuuuuuullllush beeeotch!" Don't get me wrong. I think this new avenue for expression is great. Like art, modeling can be taught. (How many songs you got written, Slick?) Why not start teaching yourself at 13? But, in the wise words of my supermodel friend Marianna Rothen- "Don't go pro until you can show your tits." In case my neices Sammi and Danni read my blog- that's 26.
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