Thursday, July 30, 2009
An Open Letter to the Homeless of Portland
Dear Homeless Man Interrupting My Conversation:
You don't get to be homeless AND vegan. Pick one.
Love,
Tranny Dog
You don't get to be homeless AND vegan. Pick one.
Love,
Tranny Dog
The Saga of Sassy and Sour: A Foray into Portland's Nude Women
"Can I get a vodka with lemon juice?"
"We don't have lemon juice."
"Oh. Do you have lemons?"
"No. We've got limes." They also had strippers. And a great jukebox. Unfortunately, as Edith would say about vodka and lime juice, those two were a strange combination.
"While you're in Portland, we need to take you to a strip club," Harley insisted. Harley is a childhood friend of Edith's and, along with her boyfriend, our extremely gracious host in the City of Roses. She explained that strip clubs were as numerous there as churches in the south. My cursory glance proved her correct. The great thing about Portland strip clubs, however, is that they are completely lacking in cover charges. This coupled with the cheap drink prices make them an appealing option for a night on the town.
"I'd like to go, I've never been to a strip club that had women dancing," Edith said. And added her disclaimer, "As long as I don't have to get a lap dance."
"She didn't have the best experience at the male strip club," I offered as an explanation to Harley. It was true. Months ago, Jonathan Joseph and I took Edith, her boyfriend, and the transtacular Kimberly to Swinging Richards. It wasn't the first time Edith had been to Atlanta's cleverly named gay strip club but it was to become her last. On previous visits, she picked up on the not-so-subtle anti-biological woman vibe. On this visit, she experienced a scarring event that I inadvertently set into motion.
The dancers at Swinging Richards are a relatively diverse set -- relative for a bunch of waxed, toned strippers, anyway. But one thing they have in common is abhorrent dancing skills. Some don't even try, they just sway back and forth and make Male Stripper Face. This is a face made by all men who take off their clothes for money. I can't tell if it's a biological instinct or a stated part of the job description, but it's all pursed lips and vacant eyes. The pretense of fantasy. Every now and then at Richards, you'll come across a dancer who truly enjoys his job or, at least, likes to show off his moves. That night we saw one of these elusive orchids. He was on stage acting like Dr. Moreau's hybrid of Nadia Comaneci and Napoleon Dynamite. It was intriguing.
Edith wanted to tip Nadia Dynamite a few dollars for his troubles but was far too shy to be face-to-face with a stripper herself. I agreed to do it if she gave me the money. So up I went and as I slipped the dollar bills into his arm band I asked Nads for a small favor. "You see that girl at my table? Can you please look directly at her and wink? Thanks." There would be little else as cheesy and awkward as a wink, I thought. But alas, my inspired plan was not to come to fruition. He finished dancing and left the stage without so much as a blink. "Meh," I thought as the conversation moved on to other spectacles.
When suddenly! and without warning! Edith's chair went spinning around. But before I could call the Ghost Hunters, I saw Nads mount Edith and begin grinding. Apparently, "please wink at her" translates to "please flap your penis in her face" in Stripperese. And flap he did! And gyrate, and bend, and twist, and shout, and hang upside down from the ceiling. Halfway through this feat of athleticism, I realized this would cost money... that I didn't have. Luckily, between the non-mushroom bruised people at the table, we were able to afford this gymnastic sadist's fee.
Edith shuddered as we relayed all this to the highly amused Harley. After we assured her that a lap dance would not happen, we found ourselves on the way to what Harley warned us was a strange and wonderful place, aptly named Magic Gardens.
"No. We've got limes," Patty offered.
"Just get me a vodka cranberry," Edith asked, defeated. This was the third bar in Portland that night not to have lemon juice but the first not to even have lemons. It seemed the city had traded citrus for strippers.
Patty shrugged and began mixing. I would have loved to sit Patty down and hear all the stories she had to tell. There she was at least 70 years old, wonderfully disinterested in you, pouring your drink while ladies took off their clothes around her. I also took note of how she made these drinks as I'd never seen a soda gun used for liquor before. I'm not even sure how that works. Are there regular bottles attached? That seems like a bitch to change out every 5 minutes. Are there special bags of liquor concentrate you can buy like the soda syrups? I had to know!
But, sadly, I couldn't marvel at Patty for very long. Mostly because she clearly wanted nothing to do with us, so we moved on to a table. In addition to Patty, and the large Samoan bouncer whose picture is in the dictionary next to "man who can clearly bounce your ass off pavement," Harley had mentioned the music as part of the strange wonderfulness of Magic Gardens. It was all eminating for a jukebox with a great selection of songs. Well, great selection in my opinion. But despite you and I's varied musical taste, I think we can both agree that it's odd to watch strippers dance to the following numbers:
The Cure - Close to Me
Feist - 1,2,3,4
Lesley Gore - You Don't Own Me (I will admit to the appropriateness of this one.)
Some mid-tempo Top 40 hit from The Fray or their ilk whining about feelings
(and my personal favorite) Billy Joel - Uptown Girl
To give these ladies their props, they handled the music very well. Even when they were Windexing down the stage from the previous dancer, it was like they were fulfilling some deep seeded Cinderella fantasy. Edith was amazed at how much better women are at stripping than men. Harley's boyfriend attributes it, in part, to women's ability to remove their clothing without the Male Stripper Face affliction. I try not to look at female strippers' faces because I feel bad when they make eye contact and I continue to not tip. Everytime I'm at a straight strip bar I feel like I need to wear a tiara emblazoned with the words "I Orgasm For Dick" just to make the message clear. Not that they care. A non-tipping asshole is a non-tipping asshole.
So having seen Grammy nominated 1,2,3,4 used as an alluring prelude to the actual tippers night o' masturbation, Harley then dazzled us with talk of the best strip club in town. And off we went to Sassy. Yes, that's right: Sassy. Though perhaps Post Apocolyptic Dystopian Future would be a more accurate name. Guarding the gate into Mad Max's Inferno is a less gay, more angry Wez from The Road Warrior. When Wez questioned my Georgia ID, I simply stood by patiently and occupied my eyes with his skull tattoos so as to avoid staring at the largest of several knives hanging from his belt.
As Magic Gardens' niche was tainting my childhood memories of Billy Joel with taint, Sassy's was punk rock angry-hot chicks. The guys that do make it past Wez and his Kevlar vest are clearly looking for a woman that considers slapping you to be foreplay. But shhh... don't tell their sorority girlfriends that's what they are into. It was packed with frat boys in polo shirts (and one in a Hawaiian shirt) with some seriously repressed kinkiness. One of the popular ladies didn't even dance. She just worked out on stage. Ever see a naked woman hang upside down from a vertical pole by just her legs and proceed to do sit ups? I have. And I've seen Sigma Phi Epsilons love it. The SigEps were even throwing one of their ambassadors a bachelor party the night we went.
Poor Jorge. Or poor George -- he was referred to as both so I couldn't tell. But whatever his name was, I'm sure he's legally changed it by now out of sheer embarrasement. When the DJ announced Jorge was getting married, his friends erupted in hoots and hollers while he sank so low in his chair that I was afraid he'd hit an iceberg. After an absurd amount of cajoling (during which Harley's boyfriend brilliantly yelled out, "She'll never forgive you!") the DJ was forced to remind him over the microphone that his friends are not getting their money back no matter what so Jorge was finally led up to the stage. Apparently, the Bachelor Light Special at Sassy involves seating the betrothed in the center of the stage while dancers descend onto him in a frenzy not unlike feral cats in heat. Jorge was sitting on his hands not moving a muscle. The terror in his eyes was mounting with each passing note of Billy Idol's White Wedding. When the girls busted out the dildo and fucked his belly button, I swear Jorge was going to cry. His wildest fantasies were being fulfilled... nightmarishly in public.
The girl who produced the dildo was Malice. In addition to having one of the greatest stage names, she was Harley's favorite stripper and the reason we came. It was pretty clear why. Like Nads Dynamite, Malice enjoyed what she did. Unlike Nads Dynamite, Malice was good at what she did. Her moves weren't cheesy and ridiculous, they were sexy. She was a striking, thin woman that when including her bleach blonde fluffy mohawk was about 7'8". Bitch had stage presence. Harley forced Edith to go up to the stage and tip. Edith's brave little step was rewarded with a face full of mohawk, Malice's signature move, it seemed. According to my sources, the mohawk smells lovely and floral. Which I must say is polite if you insist on rubbing people's faces with it via back bends.
Not polite, however, is the asshole who designed the men's rooms. For comparison, I take you once again to Swinging Richards. Walk into that men's room and you'll notice one thing first: the mirrors. All along the walls surrounding the urinals are mirrors. So at any angle at any point in the oddly shaped restroom you are able to see everyone else taking a leak. I think it's designed to foster a sense of community. For a more private bathroom experience, they offer stalls. As a sidenote, if you are ever in there then I recommend using the slightly hidden sink as the big one is often manned by one of those godforsaken washroom attendants. "Oh my! Is that how the faucet works? Thank you, my savior! Here, please take my money for doing an overly simple task I was going to do myself before you heroically swept in uninvited and did it for me." Though as a sidenote to the sidenote, a friend of mine was once one of those dreaded people at Richards and apparently there is good money in it.
In keeping with the post apocolyptic vibe, Sassy does not offer anything as upscale as washroom attendants. They don't even offer as much privacy as the mirrored place where horny gay men go to unzip their pants and hold their dicks in their hands. The men at Sassy, who are there for the naked ladies, walk into an open room whose ambience suggests that of a crack den and stand all in a row urinating into a trough. The last time I peed into a trough? Excellent question. If, however, your bathroom itinerary contains more than simple lizard draining then allow me to direct you to the single toilet. You'll find it in the stall, but don't worry because it's not that hard to spot... since the stall, like the bathroom, has no door on it.
All of this was going to require liquor.
"Do you guys have lemon juice?" Edith inquired.
"Sorry, no," the bartender replied. "I've got sour mix."
"Fine."
And so Edith drank her vodka sour. Garnished with a lemon wedge.
"We don't have lemon juice."
"Oh. Do you have lemons?"
"No. We've got limes." They also had strippers. And a great jukebox. Unfortunately, as Edith would say about vodka and lime juice, those two were a strange combination.
"While you're in Portland, we need to take you to a strip club," Harley insisted. Harley is a childhood friend of Edith's and, along with her boyfriend, our extremely gracious host in the City of Roses. She explained that strip clubs were as numerous there as churches in the south. My cursory glance proved her correct. The great thing about Portland strip clubs, however, is that they are completely lacking in cover charges. This coupled with the cheap drink prices make them an appealing option for a night on the town.
"I'd like to go, I've never been to a strip club that had women dancing," Edith said. And added her disclaimer, "As long as I don't have to get a lap dance."
"She didn't have the best experience at the male strip club," I offered as an explanation to Harley. It was true. Months ago, Jonathan Joseph and I took Edith, her boyfriend, and the transtacular Kimberly to Swinging Richards. It wasn't the first time Edith had been to Atlanta's cleverly named gay strip club but it was to become her last. On previous visits, she picked up on the not-so-subtle anti-biological woman vibe. On this visit, she experienced a scarring event that I inadvertently set into motion.
The dancers at Swinging Richards are a relatively diverse set -- relative for a bunch of waxed, toned strippers, anyway. But one thing they have in common is abhorrent dancing skills. Some don't even try, they just sway back and forth and make Male Stripper Face. This is a face made by all men who take off their clothes for money. I can't tell if it's a biological instinct or a stated part of the job description, but it's all pursed lips and vacant eyes. The pretense of fantasy. Every now and then at Richards, you'll come across a dancer who truly enjoys his job or, at least, likes to show off his moves. That night we saw one of these elusive orchids. He was on stage acting like Dr. Moreau's hybrid of Nadia Comaneci and Napoleon Dynamite. It was intriguing.
Edith wanted to tip Nadia Dynamite a few dollars for his troubles but was far too shy to be face-to-face with a stripper herself. I agreed to do it if she gave me the money. So up I went and as I slipped the dollar bills into his arm band I asked Nads for a small favor. "You see that girl at my table? Can you please look directly at her and wink? Thanks." There would be little else as cheesy and awkward as a wink, I thought. But alas, my inspired plan was not to come to fruition. He finished dancing and left the stage without so much as a blink. "Meh," I thought as the conversation moved on to other spectacles.
When suddenly! and without warning! Edith's chair went spinning around. But before I could call the Ghost Hunters, I saw Nads mount Edith and begin grinding. Apparently, "please wink at her" translates to "please flap your penis in her face" in Stripperese. And flap he did! And gyrate, and bend, and twist, and shout, and hang upside down from the ceiling. Halfway through this feat of athleticism, I realized this would cost money... that I didn't have. Luckily, between the non-mushroom bruised people at the table, we were able to afford this gymnastic sadist's fee.
Edith shuddered as we relayed all this to the highly amused Harley. After we assured her that a lap dance would not happen, we found ourselves on the way to what Harley warned us was a strange and wonderful place, aptly named Magic Gardens.
"No. We've got limes," Patty offered.
"Just get me a vodka cranberry," Edith asked, defeated. This was the third bar in Portland that night not to have lemon juice but the first not to even have lemons. It seemed the city had traded citrus for strippers.
Patty shrugged and began mixing. I would have loved to sit Patty down and hear all the stories she had to tell. There she was at least 70 years old, wonderfully disinterested in you, pouring your drink while ladies took off their clothes around her. I also took note of how she made these drinks as I'd never seen a soda gun used for liquor before. I'm not even sure how that works. Are there regular bottles attached? That seems like a bitch to change out every 5 minutes. Are there special bags of liquor concentrate you can buy like the soda syrups? I had to know!
But, sadly, I couldn't marvel at Patty for very long. Mostly because she clearly wanted nothing to do with us, so we moved on to a table. In addition to Patty, and the large Samoan bouncer whose picture is in the dictionary next to "man who can clearly bounce your ass off pavement," Harley had mentioned the music as part of the strange wonderfulness of Magic Gardens. It was all eminating for a jukebox with a great selection of songs. Well, great selection in my opinion. But despite you and I's varied musical taste, I think we can both agree that it's odd to watch strippers dance to the following numbers:
The Cure - Close to Me
Feist - 1,2,3,4
Lesley Gore - You Don't Own Me (I will admit to the appropriateness of this one.)
Some mid-tempo Top 40 hit from The Fray or their ilk whining about feelings
(and my personal favorite) Billy Joel - Uptown Girl
To give these ladies their props, they handled the music very well. Even when they were Windexing down the stage from the previous dancer, it was like they were fulfilling some deep seeded Cinderella fantasy. Edith was amazed at how much better women are at stripping than men. Harley's boyfriend attributes it, in part, to women's ability to remove their clothing without the Male Stripper Face affliction. I try not to look at female strippers' faces because I feel bad when they make eye contact and I continue to not tip. Everytime I'm at a straight strip bar I feel like I need to wear a tiara emblazoned with the words "I Orgasm For Dick" just to make the message clear. Not that they care. A non-tipping asshole is a non-tipping asshole.
So having seen Grammy nominated 1,2,3,4 used as an alluring prelude to the actual tippers night o' masturbation, Harley then dazzled us with talk of the best strip club in town. And off we went to Sassy. Yes, that's right: Sassy. Though perhaps Post Apocolyptic Dystopian Future would be a more accurate name. Guarding the gate into Mad Max's Inferno is a less gay, more angry Wez from The Road Warrior. When Wez questioned my Georgia ID, I simply stood by patiently and occupied my eyes with his skull tattoos so as to avoid staring at the largest of several knives hanging from his belt.
As Magic Gardens' niche was tainting my childhood memories of Billy Joel with taint, Sassy's was punk rock angry-hot chicks. The guys that do make it past Wez and his Kevlar vest are clearly looking for a woman that considers slapping you to be foreplay. But shhh... don't tell their sorority girlfriends that's what they are into. It was packed with frat boys in polo shirts (and one in a Hawaiian shirt) with some seriously repressed kinkiness. One of the popular ladies didn't even dance. She just worked out on stage. Ever see a naked woman hang upside down from a vertical pole by just her legs and proceed to do sit ups? I have. And I've seen Sigma Phi Epsilons love it. The SigEps were even throwing one of their ambassadors a bachelor party the night we went.
Poor Jorge. Or poor George -- he was referred to as both so I couldn't tell. But whatever his name was, I'm sure he's legally changed it by now out of sheer embarrasement. When the DJ announced Jorge was getting married, his friends erupted in hoots and hollers while he sank so low in his chair that I was afraid he'd hit an iceberg. After an absurd amount of cajoling (during which Harley's boyfriend brilliantly yelled out, "She'll never forgive you!") the DJ was forced to remind him over the microphone that his friends are not getting their money back no matter what so Jorge was finally led up to the stage. Apparently, the Bachelor Light Special at Sassy involves seating the betrothed in the center of the stage while dancers descend onto him in a frenzy not unlike feral cats in heat. Jorge was sitting on his hands not moving a muscle. The terror in his eyes was mounting with each passing note of Billy Idol's White Wedding. When the girls busted out the dildo and fucked his belly button, I swear Jorge was going to cry. His wildest fantasies were being fulfilled... nightmarishly in public.
The girl who produced the dildo was Malice. In addition to having one of the greatest stage names, she was Harley's favorite stripper and the reason we came. It was pretty clear why. Like Nads Dynamite, Malice enjoyed what she did. Unlike Nads Dynamite, Malice was good at what she did. Her moves weren't cheesy and ridiculous, they were sexy. She was a striking, thin woman that when including her bleach blonde fluffy mohawk was about 7'8". Bitch had stage presence. Harley forced Edith to go up to the stage and tip. Edith's brave little step was rewarded with a face full of mohawk, Malice's signature move, it seemed. According to my sources, the mohawk smells lovely and floral. Which I must say is polite if you insist on rubbing people's faces with it via back bends.
Not polite, however, is the asshole who designed the men's rooms. For comparison, I take you once again to Swinging Richards. Walk into that men's room and you'll notice one thing first: the mirrors. All along the walls surrounding the urinals are mirrors. So at any angle at any point in the oddly shaped restroom you are able to see everyone else taking a leak. I think it's designed to foster a sense of community. For a more private bathroom experience, they offer stalls. As a sidenote, if you are ever in there then I recommend using the slightly hidden sink as the big one is often manned by one of those godforsaken washroom attendants. "Oh my! Is that how the faucet works? Thank you, my savior! Here, please take my money for doing an overly simple task I was going to do myself before you heroically swept in uninvited and did it for me." Though as a sidenote to the sidenote, a friend of mine was once one of those dreaded people at Richards and apparently there is good money in it.
In keeping with the post apocolyptic vibe, Sassy does not offer anything as upscale as washroom attendants. They don't even offer as much privacy as the mirrored place where horny gay men go to unzip their pants and hold their dicks in their hands. The men at Sassy, who are there for the naked ladies, walk into an open room whose ambience suggests that of a crack den and stand all in a row urinating into a trough. The last time I peed into a trough? Excellent question. If, however, your bathroom itinerary contains more than simple lizard draining then allow me to direct you to the single toilet. You'll find it in the stall, but don't worry because it's not that hard to spot... since the stall, like the bathroom, has no door on it.
All of this was going to require liquor.
"Do you guys have lemon juice?" Edith inquired.
"Sorry, no," the bartender replied. "I've got sour mix."
"Fine."
And so Edith drank her vodka sour. Garnished with a lemon wedge.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Dude! I Camped on Fireball Island!
Who knew that Fireball Island was masquerading as a national monument near the Oregon Trail in Idaho? I was totally psyched to discover this. They had the pathways, the smolder pits, the stairs, the angry volcano god that tried to kill me. Everything! ... Well, it had morphed its jungles into the Devil's Orchard, forsaking the rain forest for a plethora of desert flora. Also, the caves are now called lava tubes, but I've been in them. They are definitely caves. Anyway, all of that is just Vul-Kar's clever disguise -- I saw through it, though.
Naturally, I spent hours trying to find the jewel (having already secured the token at the top of the North Crater). I went through some pretty mad cap adventures, dodging both fireballs and other explorers (I see you there, Red Guy!), but in the end I realized it was a metaphorical jewel. The treasure was a mosquito-free, relaxing campground with perfect weather. Once I possessed that knowledge, I kicked off my explorin' boots, put away my cards, and basked in my new found riches. Fuck yes.
Naturally, I spent hours trying to find the jewel (having already secured the token at the top of the North Crater). I went through some pretty mad cap adventures, dodging both fireballs and other explorers (I see you there, Red Guy!), but in the end I realized it was a metaphorical jewel. The treasure was a mosquito-free, relaxing campground with perfect weather. Once I possessed that knowledge, I kicked off my explorin' boots, put away my cards, and basked in my new found riches. Fuck yes.
The Enola Gay Burger
There's a place called Arco, Idaho. Somewhere around 1,000 people occupy a small tract of land in the middle of the Idaho National Laboratory, a vast space of flat, flat lands with the occasional rocky mini-mountain jutting up. The image is quite striking, if desolate. At some point, the United States government found these dusty 890 square miles to be the perfect place to set up shop -- atomic power testing shop, that is. And thus was born the National Reactor Testing Station.
But near that test run nuclear reactor there's a place called Arco, Idaho, the first city in the world to have electricity generated by nuclear power. It's atomic past is now apart of Arco's culinary present. Of it's 1,000 or so residents, one saw fit to open a restaurant... or perhaps it could best be described as a diner, I don't know. It straddling the line. "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger," proclaims the billboard! Home of the Atomic Burger? Some shit hole place in some shit hole town? I believe it. And that's not sarcasm. Middle of Nowhere, USA with all it's surrounding cattle land and savage lack of pretension? I believe they make a good burger.
Edith and I drive into Arco and immediately spot the sign, "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger." The sign is suspended from a green wooden building and features an anthropomorphic pickle with a smile on his face, one hand in the air, and the other where his human-pickle crotch would be. Covering himself in modesty? Just too darn excited about the Atomic Burger? I chose the latter explanation, as I myself was growing quite excited about this meal. Especially after days of campsite feasts.
Walking inside did nothing to squelch this excitement. There appeared to be maybe two employees working at the time, judging by the number of tables desperately in need of bussing. We found ourselves a clean, or at least clear, white and gray Formica table and sat down in the green plastic chairs. A few other tables were occupied by locals, several older and almost all in baseball caps. The walls were being used to sell clocks. Clocks that my friends and family should not be surprised to see under the tree this December. They were all made of differently shaped wood pieces, each with a unique image or picture lacquered on. I must applaud the "something for everyone" philosophy of the clock maker. There was an Elvis clock, a cuddly kitten next to a vase of roses clock, an elk clock, a studly Native American clock, and even a muscular unicorn galloping along the Tron racetrack clock. All as tasteful as possible. I began to wonder if they sold gift wrap as well.
According to the menu, the Atomic Burger came with sauteed mushrooms and onions on a corn meal bun and was made with special seasoning that is created, bottled, and sold in Pickle's Place, John's Spice. There was a bottle of this spice created by Arco's culinary rockstar, John, on the table. The label boasted numerous uses for this powdered magic and the ingredients listed garlic, onion, and various peppers, among a number of other spices both specified and not. "Mmmm," I thought to myself sprinkling some on my hand for a sample. "Oh," I said simply, having been mildly disappointed by the flavor. "Well, maybe it needs to be cooked in meat to really be effective," my inner optimist surprisingly offered. I say surprisingly because my inner optimist is buried under so many layers of bitterness and cynicism that I often can't make out what exactly he's trying to say, only an indistinct mumbling.
When the overworked, yet still somehow lackadaisical, waitress finally came to take our order, Edith and I both got an Atomic Burger (every time I say that, I feel as though my voice should get amplified and reverberated). I refrained on the mushrooms; she added cheese to hers. We spent the remaining time chatting about the clocks and musing about what local kids and teens must do in Arco.
Finally, the moment of truth. Our ATOMIC BURGER-Burger-burger arrived. And immediately, my inner optimist was shoved so far down that I fear he may have suffocated to death. It looked weak. All my images of Nagasaki and Indiana Jones flew right out of my brain. All that was left was this burger. This average looking at best burger. A floppy piece of meat with some grilled onions on a normal looking bun. I put the usual lettuce, tomato, onion trimmings on and took a bite.
On second thought, perhaps it was atomic. In the way that the survivors of Hiroshima who got all sickly and radiated were atomic. The highest compliment I can pay this burger is that it was passable. I'd say it was a step up from fast food in that the thought of it doesn't make me want to retch, but neither does it make me want to salivate. In fact, it just makes me mad. If you are going to have a fucking Atomic Burger than have an atomic fucking burger! It's called false advertising and it's illegal, you masturbating pickle. So thank you, Arco. You have effectively built me up and knocked me down. I suddenly no longer feel bad that your high school rodeo team is named the Butte Pirates. Guess we found out what the teens do in Arco.
But near that test run nuclear reactor there's a place called Arco, Idaho, the first city in the world to have electricity generated by nuclear power. It's atomic past is now apart of Arco's culinary present. Of it's 1,000 or so residents, one saw fit to open a restaurant... or perhaps it could best be described as a diner, I don't know. It straddling the line. "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger," proclaims the billboard! Home of the Atomic Burger? Some shit hole place in some shit hole town? I believe it. And that's not sarcasm. Middle of Nowhere, USA with all it's surrounding cattle land and savage lack of pretension? I believe they make a good burger.
Edith and I drive into Arco and immediately spot the sign, "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger." The sign is suspended from a green wooden building and features an anthropomorphic pickle with a smile on his face, one hand in the air, and the other where his human-pickle crotch would be. Covering himself in modesty? Just too darn excited about the Atomic Burger? I chose the latter explanation, as I myself was growing quite excited about this meal. Especially after days of campsite feasts.
Walking inside did nothing to squelch this excitement. There appeared to be maybe two employees working at the time, judging by the number of tables desperately in need of bussing. We found ourselves a clean, or at least clear, white and gray Formica table and sat down in the green plastic chairs. A few other tables were occupied by locals, several older and almost all in baseball caps. The walls were being used to sell clocks. Clocks that my friends and family should not be surprised to see under the tree this December. They were all made of differently shaped wood pieces, each with a unique image or picture lacquered on. I must applaud the "something for everyone" philosophy of the clock maker. There was an Elvis clock, a cuddly kitten next to a vase of roses clock, an elk clock, a studly Native American clock, and even a muscular unicorn galloping along the Tron racetrack clock. All as tasteful as possible. I began to wonder if they sold gift wrap as well.
According to the menu, the Atomic Burger came with sauteed mushrooms and onions on a corn meal bun and was made with special seasoning that is created, bottled, and sold in Pickle's Place, John's Spice. There was a bottle of this spice created by Arco's culinary rockstar, John, on the table. The label boasted numerous uses for this powdered magic and the ingredients listed garlic, onion, and various peppers, among a number of other spices both specified and not. "Mmmm," I thought to myself sprinkling some on my hand for a sample. "Oh," I said simply, having been mildly disappointed by the flavor. "Well, maybe it needs to be cooked in meat to really be effective," my inner optimist surprisingly offered. I say surprisingly because my inner optimist is buried under so many layers of bitterness and cynicism that I often can't make out what exactly he's trying to say, only an indistinct mumbling.
When the overworked, yet still somehow lackadaisical, waitress finally came to take our order, Edith and I both got an Atomic Burger (every time I say that, I feel as though my voice should get amplified and reverberated). I refrained on the mushrooms; she added cheese to hers. We spent the remaining time chatting about the clocks and musing about what local kids and teens must do in Arco.
Finally, the moment of truth. Our ATOMIC BURGER-Burger-burger arrived. And immediately, my inner optimist was shoved so far down that I fear he may have suffocated to death. It looked weak. All my images of Nagasaki and Indiana Jones flew right out of my brain. All that was left was this burger. This average looking at best burger. A floppy piece of meat with some grilled onions on a normal looking bun. I put the usual lettuce, tomato, onion trimmings on and took a bite.
On second thought, perhaps it was atomic. In the way that the survivors of Hiroshima who got all sickly and radiated were atomic. The highest compliment I can pay this burger is that it was passable. I'd say it was a step up from fast food in that the thought of it doesn't make me want to retch, but neither does it make me want to salivate. In fact, it just makes me mad. If you are going to have a fucking Atomic Burger than have an atomic fucking burger! It's called false advertising and it's illegal, you masturbating pickle. So thank you, Arco. You have effectively built me up and knocked me down. I suddenly no longer feel bad that your high school rodeo team is named the Butte Pirates. Guess we found out what the teens do in Arco.
The Diptera Resistance: A One-Act Play
On an undisclosed stagnant pool of water in Boysen State Park, a colony of mosquitoes gather. Slowly, an older mosquito with a swollen belly ambles towards the podium.
Mosquito Leader: I now call to order the Wyoming Mosquito Fraternal Society meeting on July 12th, 2009. Thank you all for being here. And a special thanks to Buzz Schlessinger, whose wife, Laura, made those delicious Beef Krispy Treats you're all suckling on.
Mosquito Crowd: [smattering of applause] "Juicy," "Very nice," "Thanks, Buzz!," "Mine dripped on my pants," etc.
Leader: Hopefully, you've all had a chance to read over the minutes from the last meeting. I'd now like to propose a motion to approve them.
Skeeter: Motion seconded.
Leader: Any objections?
Mosquito Crowd: [pervasive quietness] "Nope," "Cough," "Gross, I still smell like citronella from last night," etc.
Leader: Ok, motion moved. June minutes approved. Now, I'd like to turn the floor over to Pierce Zancudos, our new President of the Neighborhood Watch. Pierce?
Pierce: Thank you very much, your corpulence. I'd also like to thank all of you for giving me this opportunity. As you all know, I ran on a platform of tightening security. This evening, I would like to really focus on the human threat. These giant mammals put us and our families at risk. We've been at their mercy for too long. I say they do NOT belong in our air space!
Mosquito Crowd: [scattered cheering] "Here here!," "Fight, not flight!," "Screw the terrorist scum!," "Aw, I think they're kinda cute," etc.
Leader: Okay, okay. Settle down everyone. I think it is safe to assume that the majority here would like to see these security initiatives enforced. Pierce, do you have any proposed plans?
Pierce: I do. I feel, and I know I've heard this from many of you as well, that to really show these humans we mean business we need to make an example of one. I'm talkin' 'bout really pooling our resources here and running someone into town and out of our park!
Mosquito Crowd: [vociferous hooting] "You're damn right!," Suck 'em dry!," "Wildlife 4 eva!," "Sorry I'm late," etc.
Leader: Alright! Alright. So we make an example of someone. Let's talk about a plan of action.
Pierce: Absolutely, Sir Sucker. We'll split into three squadrons. Buzz, you will lead the ear brigade. The louder, the better. Meanface McFats, you take our Eye Boys out. Be sure to bulk up with some protein shakes before take off. And finally, I will be leading the biggest squadron, the blood mobilizers. We'll be jabbing out proboscis into every square millimeter of human skin exposed.
Leader: Fantastic. So who is our target?
Pierce: For that, I turn to our Senior Security Advisor. Gnate?
Gnate: Thank you, Mr. President. Our most recent intel indicates there are two new trespassers in our borders. They came in a large wheeled fortress but are currently unprotected. Field agents report they are extremely loud and brazen in their taunts. These two humans are proclaiming how much they love it in our lands. Even going so far as to mention moving in here.
Mosquito Crowd: [rampant booing] "Not in our air!, "We mustn't kow-tow to their demands!," "Out for blood!," "Has any tried sprinkling sage in their blood? It's fabu!," etc.
Leader: Then it's settled, we attack at once! GO! GO! GO!
---
Amelia: Wow, this place is so beautiful.
Edith: I know. I think I'd put my house there by the water.
Amelia: Huh, did it just get buggy?
Edith: There does seem to be a lot of mosquitoes suddenly.
Amelia: Good lord, they're relentless. And holy crap, I think they're organized. RUN!
Mosquito Leader: I now call to order the Wyoming Mosquito Fraternal Society meeting on July 12th, 2009. Thank you all for being here. And a special thanks to Buzz Schlessinger, whose wife, Laura, made those delicious Beef Krispy Treats you're all suckling on.
Mosquito Crowd: [smattering of applause] "Juicy," "Very nice," "Thanks, Buzz!," "Mine dripped on my pants," etc.
Leader: Hopefully, you've all had a chance to read over the minutes from the last meeting. I'd now like to propose a motion to approve them.
Skeeter: Motion seconded.
Leader: Any objections?
Mosquito Crowd: [pervasive quietness] "Nope," "Cough," "Gross, I still smell like citronella from last night," etc.
Leader: Ok, motion moved. June minutes approved. Now, I'd like to turn the floor over to Pierce Zancudos, our new President of the Neighborhood Watch. Pierce?
Pierce: Thank you very much, your corpulence. I'd also like to thank all of you for giving me this opportunity. As you all know, I ran on a platform of tightening security. This evening, I would like to really focus on the human threat. These giant mammals put us and our families at risk. We've been at their mercy for too long. I say they do NOT belong in our air space!
Mosquito Crowd: [scattered cheering] "Here here!," "Fight, not flight!," "Screw the terrorist scum!," "Aw, I think they're kinda cute," etc.
Leader: Okay, okay. Settle down everyone. I think it is safe to assume that the majority here would like to see these security initiatives enforced. Pierce, do you have any proposed plans?
Pierce: I do. I feel, and I know I've heard this from many of you as well, that to really show these humans we mean business we need to make an example of one. I'm talkin' 'bout really pooling our resources here and running someone into town and out of our park!
Mosquito Crowd: [vociferous hooting] "You're damn right!," Suck 'em dry!," "Wildlife 4 eva!," "Sorry I'm late," etc.
Leader: Alright! Alright. So we make an example of someone. Let's talk about a plan of action.
Pierce: Absolutely, Sir Sucker. We'll split into three squadrons. Buzz, you will lead the ear brigade. The louder, the better. Meanface McFats, you take our Eye Boys out. Be sure to bulk up with some protein shakes before take off. And finally, I will be leading the biggest squadron, the blood mobilizers. We'll be jabbing out proboscis into every square millimeter of human skin exposed.
Leader: Fantastic. So who is our target?
Pierce: For that, I turn to our Senior Security Advisor. Gnate?
Gnate: Thank you, Mr. President. Our most recent intel indicates there are two new trespassers in our borders. They came in a large wheeled fortress but are currently unprotected. Field agents report they are extremely loud and brazen in their taunts. These two humans are proclaiming how much they love it in our lands. Even going so far as to mention moving in here.
Mosquito Crowd: [rampant booing] "Not in our air!, "We mustn't kow-tow to their demands!," "Out for blood!," "Has any tried sprinkling sage in their blood? It's fabu!," etc.
Leader: Then it's settled, we attack at once! GO! GO! GO!
---
Amelia: Wow, this place is so beautiful.
Edith: I know. I think I'd put my house there by the water.
Amelia: Huh, did it just get buggy?
Edith: There does seem to be a lot of mosquitoes suddenly.
Amelia: Good lord, they're relentless. And holy crap, I think they're organized. RUN!
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Love Poem #9
In the dark days of my life
I doubted I'd ever meet you
But you exist! You exist!
O, Nebraska, the light of my heart
I trace my fingers along your body
Feeling the gentle mounds of your dissected plains
Pinching the tip of your rock hard Chimney
Entering the Gateway to your West
The thrill of adrenaline is in my veins
Georgia waits for me in the east
The unintended cuckold of a fiery roadtrip
Can she feel me breath for you?
Like the state-crossed lovers of yore
We know this affair is fleeting
But, sweet Cornhusker, I will remember you
Your postcard sticky with my love
I doubted I'd ever meet you
But you exist! You exist!
O, Nebraska, the light of my heart
I trace my fingers along your body
Feeling the gentle mounds of your dissected plains
Pinching the tip of your rock hard Chimney
Entering the Gateway to your West
The thrill of adrenaline is in my veins
Georgia waits for me in the east
The unintended cuckold of a fiery roadtrip
Can she feel me breath for you?
Like the state-crossed lovers of yore
We know this affair is fleeting
But, sweet Cornhusker, I will remember you
Your postcard sticky with my love
Psychic Touchs "Phenomenons" [sic]
That's what Omaha's own Madame Z was advertising. It didn't take Edith and I long to go in. Madame Z was a 65 year old Filipino woman, about 4'11" with terrible teeth. Upon greeting us, she instantly unleashed her own patent brand of crazy in an accent so thick it made her pearls of wisdom rather difficult to interpret. But what we did understand was extremely educational. So without further ado, I present what we learned:
According to Madame Z...
... Edith and I have the exact same fortune. Perhaps there was a divine one/get one sale in the ether that day.
... there will be money coming in. And maybe that's true, but clearly not into our bank accounts.
... "the gay men" wrote an excellent book about "the scientific approach to astrology." You know, the science of the zodiac.
... you appear more spiritual if your house looks like the Applebee's of religion. The more varied the bric-a-brac's divinity, the better.
... it is acceptable to take calls during someone's reading. Especially when it is your son collect calling you from jail.
... those fuckin' gypsies will just rip you off. She has numerous anecdotes to backup this claim.
... she's the only legit game in town. And she'll point out the federal tax ID certificate posted above the bedroom door to prove it!
... lawyers will also just rip you off. They cost $30,000 and are completely useless compared to Madame Z's patented court spells. (Disclaimer: Only effective for 9 hours.)
... the police are really just in your way. What you need is her special spell to make you invisible to cops. It works. As evidenced by her claim that she drove past a cop doing 75 mph in the heavily traffic lighted downtown and he didn't even blink.
... her inner "psychic" guided her through both the US Citizenship test and the driver's test. I, for one, am glad that she consciously took the driver's test when she admittedly knew nothing and refused to study.
... burning smelly shit keeps the Devil out. And thank goodness for that since she's been possessed by the Dark Prince once already!
... Edith's boyfriend has already found another woman. Guess that explains why Madame Z says the relationship won't last. She seemed really against the idea of Edith's man.
... she's been married twice. The first time at the age of 13 (in the Philippines where such things are apparently legal). Both ex-husbands are now dead or dying.
... if you don't want the expense of divorcing your soon-to-be dying husband then make him divorce you. Somehow. It's cheaper.
... I'm something of a metaphorical lady-killer. Bitch, please! I haven't eaten a ham sandwich since my lesbian days in high school.
... Edith and I both have the ability to be non-metaphorical killers. That's right, kids, Edith and I can ... waaaait fooor iiit... kill with our thoughts! BAM! Uh oh. I may have killed Jon Benet.
According to Madame Z...
... Edith and I have the exact same fortune. Perhaps there was a divine one/get one sale in the ether that day.
... there will be money coming in. And maybe that's true, but clearly not into our bank accounts.
... "the gay men" wrote an excellent book about "the scientific approach to astrology." You know, the science of the zodiac.
... you appear more spiritual if your house looks like the Applebee's of religion. The more varied the bric-a-brac's divinity, the better.
... it is acceptable to take calls during someone's reading. Especially when it is your son collect calling you from jail.
... those fuckin' gypsies will just rip you off. She has numerous anecdotes to backup this claim.
... she's the only legit game in town. And she'll point out the federal tax ID certificate posted above the bedroom door to prove it!
... lawyers will also just rip you off. They cost $30,000 and are completely useless compared to Madame Z's patented court spells. (Disclaimer: Only effective for 9 hours.)
... the police are really just in your way. What you need is her special spell to make you invisible to cops. It works. As evidenced by her claim that she drove past a cop doing 75 mph in the heavily traffic lighted downtown and he didn't even blink.
... her inner "psychic" guided her through both the US Citizenship test and the driver's test. I, for one, am glad that she consciously took the driver's test when she admittedly knew nothing and refused to study.
... burning smelly shit keeps the Devil out. And thank goodness for that since she's been possessed by the Dark Prince once already!
... Edith's boyfriend has already found another woman. Guess that explains why Madame Z says the relationship won't last. She seemed really against the idea of Edith's man.
... she's been married twice. The first time at the age of 13 (in the Philippines where such things are apparently legal). Both ex-husbands are now dead or dying.
... if you don't want the expense of divorcing your soon-to-be dying husband then make him divorce you. Somehow. It's cheaper.
... I'm something of a metaphorical lady-killer. Bitch, please! I haven't eaten a ham sandwich since my lesbian days in high school.
... Edith and I both have the ability to be non-metaphorical killers. That's right, kids, Edith and I can ... waaaait fooor iiit... kill with our thoughts! BAM! Uh oh. I may have killed Jon Benet.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Tour of Homos: Omaha Mining Company
The Omaha Mining Company has simultaneously the most crass and amazing name for a gay bar in the history of faggotry. The expected classiness was immediately apparent when I had to tear my eyes away from the porn that played on about four televisions all over the room just to order my drink. The bartender was wearing a shirt that asked me to "Say Hello to [his] not so little friend" with an arrow pointing to what I can only imagine was the rug burn on his knees. My vodka tonic came in a mason jar with a neon green straw. About 12 hours later I realized that they were probably going for some old-timey miner theme by having those. ... or maybe I'm over thinking the 200 for $15 purchase.
My friend asked why my vodka tonic looked blue -- a valid question. Turns out it was because the Omaha Mining Company has black lights for their overhead lights. At first, that may seem like it would up the skank factor but really, I found it to make quite a brazen "No Monkey-Punky" statement. I feel I must mention that the black light did not reveal anything that would concern ABC News. Which is probably because the only thing those four guys on the television were doing was innocently showering together.
What did up the skank factor was Mr. Cool who strolled into the bar at 12:15am wearing shades. Perhaps if this were one of Omaha's six months of perpetual light then sunglasses at night would be logical. Yet even then it would not be acceptable to continue wearing sunglasses in a dimly lit bar (remember, no overhead lights) as Mr. Cool did. After getting his drink, he proceeded onto the painfully empty dance floor, blatantly disregarded the sign declaring there was no drinking in that part of the bar. He then shimmy-rigged with the only man who was anywhere close to his level of coolness: his reflection in the mirrored walls.
And oh, the music he boogied to! Never before had I seen such a disconnect between the music and a bar's patronage. To every single song the exact same techno beat was layered on top. How do I know it was the exact same beat? Because no matter what was playing -- be it Hooked on a Feeling, Let's Dance, or the Pussycat Dolls (yes, that was honestly the playlist) -- the rainbow string decoration on the ceiling fan, or fan flair, was swinging in time so perfectly I feel as though it was taunting Mr. Cool. So who does the Omaha Mining Company think enjoys this constant barrage of a single beat? Various men all over the age of 40, several of them drinking alone. Save the two out of place preppies in maybe their late-20's, the average age was 52. Maybe that's why the dance floor was so empty. Or why on a Friday night there were only 19 people there, including me and my friends. Or why the decorations included giant Zima ads, an oversized stuffed Tweety Bird, and a big ol' Winnie the Pooh. Wait, no, I'm sorry. That last one is just because it's a terrible bar.
[Incidentally, Nebraska has an earlier last call than Georgia. 1am versus 2am. I, honestly, did not think I would come across a place with tighter drinking laws than Georgia.]
My friend asked why my vodka tonic looked blue -- a valid question. Turns out it was because the Omaha Mining Company has black lights for their overhead lights. At first, that may seem like it would up the skank factor but really, I found it to make quite a brazen "No Monkey-Punky" statement. I feel I must mention that the black light did not reveal anything that would concern ABC News. Which is probably because the only thing those four guys on the television were doing was innocently showering together.
What did up the skank factor was Mr. Cool who strolled into the bar at 12:15am wearing shades. Perhaps if this were one of Omaha's six months of perpetual light then sunglasses at night would be logical. Yet even then it would not be acceptable to continue wearing sunglasses in a dimly lit bar (remember, no overhead lights) as Mr. Cool did. After getting his drink, he proceeded onto the painfully empty dance floor, blatantly disregarded the sign declaring there was no drinking in that part of the bar. He then shimmy-rigged with the only man who was anywhere close to his level of coolness: his reflection in the mirrored walls.
And oh, the music he boogied to! Never before had I seen such a disconnect between the music and a bar's patronage. To every single song the exact same techno beat was layered on top. How do I know it was the exact same beat? Because no matter what was playing -- be it Hooked on a Feeling, Let's Dance, or the Pussycat Dolls (yes, that was honestly the playlist) -- the rainbow string decoration on the ceiling fan, or fan flair, was swinging in time so perfectly I feel as though it was taunting Mr. Cool. So who does the Omaha Mining Company think enjoys this constant barrage of a single beat? Various men all over the age of 40, several of them drinking alone. Save the two out of place preppies in maybe their late-20's, the average age was 52. Maybe that's why the dance floor was so empty. Or why on a Friday night there were only 19 people there, including me and my friends. Or why the decorations included giant Zima ads, an oversized stuffed Tweety Bird, and a big ol' Winnie the Pooh. Wait, no, I'm sorry. That last one is just because it's a terrible bar.
[Incidentally, Nebraska has an earlier last call than Georgia. 1am versus 2am. I, honestly, did not think I would come across a place with tighter drinking laws than Georgia.]
Friday, July 10, 2009
It Says, Thing Says: Dueling Gringos
It says: Goddamn Mexicans! Invading our nice, safe cities. Now there's signs in Mexican all over the damn place. This is Amurica! Where we speak God's English. They take away jobs from hard working Amuricans, refuse to pay taxes, and then run off and have twenty babies before they're even sixteen years old! Plus, they steal.
Thing says: But Los Portales.
It says: This was a good town before them Mexican gangbangers came rolling in with their old Cadillacs and crazy latin polka. Them lazy bastards sit around all day drinking and doing rim jobs on these Caddies. Which is an Amurican car! It's blasphemy seeing some wetback muddying up an honest-to-god trusty Amurican classic like that.
Thing says: But, seriously, Los Portales!
It says: Now my wife don't feel safe in our own city, what with the now ever present threat of rape. Them Mexicans are violent, dirty, stupid, lazy, unlawful, and just plain bad for Amurica! 9/11!! Not to mention those little shithole restaurants they open. Uglying up our fair city...
Thing says: WHOA! Now you crossed a line, bitch. You wanna keep talking about Los Portales? Because I will fuckin cut you. Good, cheap, ridiculously authentic Mexican food is one of the ways Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Vishnu, Kukulcan, and L. Ron Hubbard reward us for being sensational.
It says: But look at...
Thing says: NO! You look at it! It's everything everyone wants and more. LOS PORTALES PARA PRESIDENTE DE LA TIERRA!
Thing says: But Los Portales.
It says: This was a good town before them Mexican gangbangers came rolling in with their old Cadillacs and crazy latin polka. Them lazy bastards sit around all day drinking and doing rim jobs on these Caddies. Which is an Amurican car! It's blasphemy seeing some wetback muddying up an honest-to-god trusty Amurican classic like that.
Thing says: But, seriously, Los Portales!
It says: Now my wife don't feel safe in our own city, what with the now ever present threat of rape. Them Mexicans are violent, dirty, stupid, lazy, unlawful, and just plain bad for Amurica! 9/11!! Not to mention those little shithole restaurants they open. Uglying up our fair city...
Thing says: WHOA! Now you crossed a line, bitch. You wanna keep talking about Los Portales? Because I will fuckin cut you. Good, cheap, ridiculously authentic Mexican food is one of the ways Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Vishnu, Kukulcan, and L. Ron Hubbard reward us for being sensational.
It says: But look at...
Thing says: NO! You look at it! It's everything everyone wants and more. LOS PORTALES PARA PRESIDENTE DE LA TIERRA!
Dear Missouri,
If they were to bottle and sell your essence, it would be called Eau d'Snooze and the commercial would be a bunch of white people sitting in silence eating corn. You make me want to drink but I can't because I'm driving. Then again, a fiery auto crash may just be the thing I need to be shaken from this coma-like stupor you've put me in. The only thing keeping me going is the promise of Nebraska beyond your borders. Nebraska!! A state I, frankly, am still not convinced exists. This, Missouri, is how much you blow.
Love,
Tranny Dog
Love,
Tranny Dog
Monday, July 6, 2009
Goodbye, Cruel World
Ah, running away from the pain. Janie did it, Brave Sir Robin did it, and I do it. Mostly I call upon Sweet Lady Liquor when an escape is necessary but we all know the dream is always to actually physically leave. In my head it goes something like this:
My friend, Edith, and I are embarking on a Pity Party Roadtrip. She was recently a victim of the economy and I a victim of heartbreak. I'm not sure where we'll end up yet but I do know that I will be writing about our adventures. Due to an expected lack of internet, my travelogue may not be transcribed here until I get back (whenever that is) but as soon as I can, I'll update.
Happy Travels!!
I forsake city life and move to some extremely rural town where nobody knows me. I get a job doing something physical, maybe working the land. I grow hard and rugged. I'm often dusty but it only adds to my handsome masculinity. I work, I drink whiskey & rye, I'm strong & silent. And that's how I live out my life - simple, but that's all a man needs.Of course, sometimes it goes like this:
I leave everything behind and go to Europe. Maybe Madrid or Paris or Athens... definitely somewhere I don't speak the language. But as I learn to communicate, my new bohemian friends immerse me in the culture. Each day I begin to glow a little more. My waist shrinks and I accumulate chic, simple dresses that allow my natural beauty & curves to show. Eventually, I meet him. He is elegant and funny with a relaxed philosophy toward life. We drink wine and fall in love. And that's how I live out my life - as his wife, taking care of our homey apartment in the city and the beautiful countryside villa. Laughing, eating, loving.Of course, what ended up happening in real life went like this:
I left my home and began wandering the streets with my brother. Soon we realized that with no steady way of getting food, we would starve. We went to and fro in search of help that would come too late for my brother. He was hit by a car and killed. I dragged his corpse with me to the entrance of an old landfill. That was where I lost my energy and couldn't go on. Using an old Doritos bag as a pillow, I set up camp. And then the hunger began to take over. Though I'm not sure of my brother's nutritional value, the fact he was nutrition at all made it totally worth it. And that's how I thought I'd live out my life - feeding on the rotting corpse of my dead brother and sleeping in trash.Of course, help did come and now I've got my stable living situation. But that's why I doubt I'll ever see those first two scenarios come to life. So my current need to run will be a trip and not a forsaking of my home.
My friend, Edith, and I are embarking on a Pity Party Roadtrip. She was recently a victim of the economy and I a victim of heartbreak. I'm not sure where we'll end up yet but I do know that I will be writing about our adventures. Due to an expected lack of internet, my travelogue may not be transcribed here until I get back (whenever that is) but as soon as I can, I'll update.
Happy Travels!!
Sunday, July 5, 2009
"Scandal in the 'Hood" - A Limerick
At Mr. Roger's neighborhood watch
Friends shared plenty of vodka and scotch
And thanks to one hot tub
They had rub-a-dub-dub
Have you ever licked a neighbor's crotch?
Friends shared plenty of vodka and scotch
And thanks to one hot tub
They had rub-a-dub-dub
Have you ever licked a neighbor's crotch?
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Tour of Homos: New Order
New Order is an old throwback.
And by that, I mean New Order is full of old people in danger of throwing their backs out. Jonathan Joseph and I were warned about that before we went so there was no a shock. And if you set your expectations appropriately (average age being "sock hop attendees") then you'll have a pretty good time. Jonathan Joseph and I spoke with one older gentleman that regaled us with tales of yore. Apparently, the bar was once much bigger and hosted the likes of now-fading legend Diamond Lil. It was a little sad to hear because looking around the small bar hidden in the back of this strip mall there were maybe six people there. It was Jonathan Joseph, myself, our new friend, another guy his age (who seemed ... sick, to say it politely), and two skeezy looking guys in their 40's. It appears as though it's those comparatively younger guys who are the slimeballs you need to look out for.
So that was my impression of the place when I went into the loo and saw a flyer for "Open Mike Night." At first, I thought an open Mike sounds delicious. I hadn't had a fresh, bloody meal in weeks. But it turns out they meant "Open Mic Night." A few inquiries with the bartender and we discover you can get up to the microphone and do anything you want. My sights are, naturally, set on angsty poetry.
Okay, you guys? Open Mike Night at New Order? Best kept secret the septuagenarians are keeping! When you ask your pop-pop how he's doing and he starts complaining about his dotageitis flaring up, you can be assured that what he's not telling you about is the round of applause he got for his rendition of My Funny Valentine accompanied on the keyboard by the fabulous June. You see, Open Mike Night at New Order is so much more than a microphone and 3 awkward people. There's quite the crowd gathered to see June on the keyboard, a drummer, and a gal on sax as well. These geezers get up there and croon jazz standards - or occasionally an oldie - like you fuckin' paid for it! ... well, compared to the standard karaoker anyway. But the whole vibe is very 50's cool. It's quite possible there's nothing else in the city like it. And I bet June has some stories to tell!
It's true what they say, we really can learn a lot from our elders. Like how to live life in style.
And by that, I mean New Order is full of old people in danger of throwing their backs out. Jonathan Joseph and I were warned about that before we went so there was no a shock. And if you set your expectations appropriately (average age being "sock hop attendees") then you'll have a pretty good time. Jonathan Joseph and I spoke with one older gentleman that regaled us with tales of yore. Apparently, the bar was once much bigger and hosted the likes of now-fading legend Diamond Lil. It was a little sad to hear because looking around the small bar hidden in the back of this strip mall there were maybe six people there. It was Jonathan Joseph, myself, our new friend, another guy his age (who seemed ... sick, to say it politely), and two skeezy looking guys in their 40's. It appears as though it's those comparatively younger guys who are the slimeballs you need to look out for.
So that was my impression of the place when I went into the loo and saw a flyer for "Open Mike Night." At first, I thought an open Mike sounds delicious. I hadn't had a fresh, bloody meal in weeks. But it turns out they meant "Open Mic Night." A few inquiries with the bartender and we discover you can get up to the microphone and do anything you want. My sights are, naturally, set on angsty poetry.
Okay, you guys? Open Mike Night at New Order? Best kept secret the septuagenarians are keeping! When you ask your pop-pop how he's doing and he starts complaining about his dotageitis flaring up, you can be assured that what he's not telling you about is the round of applause he got for his rendition of My Funny Valentine accompanied on the keyboard by the fabulous June. You see, Open Mike Night at New Order is so much more than a microphone and 3 awkward people. There's quite the crowd gathered to see June on the keyboard, a drummer, and a gal on sax as well. These geezers get up there and croon jazz standards - or occasionally an oldie - like you fuckin' paid for it! ... well, compared to the standard karaoker anyway. But the whole vibe is very 50's cool. It's quite possible there's nothing else in the city like it. And I bet June has some stories to tell!
It's true what they say, we really can learn a lot from our elders. Like how to live life in style.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Get Vaccinated In My Love
Taking a reluctlant lover is sometimes a necessary evil. Does the fact that Gomer doesn't know what is good for him mean that he should be denied it? Just because a puppy doesn't understand that a parvo shot will save his life doesn't mean you don't drag his stubborn ass into that examination room for a prick in the bum. When your love is as amazing as mine, it can be a bit overwhelming at first, like the vet with her needle. This is both my blessing and my curse.
I've been accused of bullying Gomer into a relationship. I don't think that is true at all! Everyone has a choice. You can't make anyone do anything, all you can do is guide them in the right direction. I only offer myself as an option. It is not my fault that some of them need a bit more reminding than others. You have to be vigilant when you're dealing with a forgetful dog. Make him remember you're there and that you're his for the taking.
Sometimes it's not so much forgetfulness as it is fright. Frankly, a bit of forcefulness is needed when he's just scared of how much he wants it. I remind myself that is a lot of loving being thrown his way but he'll adjust, it simply takes time. The key is to never let up. Going easy on him just gives him a chance to escape. There will always be the one that listens to his flight instinct and will run with his tail between his legs if given the chance.
So take your reluctant lover, friends, and don't let go. After all, you know it could save his life -- even if he's to dumb to see that.
I've been accused of bullying Gomer into a relationship. I don't think that is true at all! Everyone has a choice. You can't make anyone do anything, all you can do is guide them in the right direction. I only offer myself as an option. It is not my fault that some of them need a bit more reminding than others. You have to be vigilant when you're dealing with a forgetful dog. Make him remember you're there and that you're his for the taking.
Sometimes it's not so much forgetfulness as it is fright. Frankly, a bit of forcefulness is needed when he's just scared of how much he wants it. I remind myself that is a lot of loving being thrown his way but he'll adjust, it simply takes time. The key is to never let up. Going easy on him just gives him a chance to escape. There will always be the one that listens to his flight instinct and will run with his tail between his legs if given the chance.
So take your reluctant lover, friends, and don't let go. After all, you know it could save his life -- even if he's to dumb to see that.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Dear Restaurant Owner,
I have come to your restaurant to enjoy one thing: the buy one/get one coupon I found in the Savvy Shopper. I am not at your establishment to hear a live band. And I am certainly not at your establishment to hear a live band whose speakers are turned up so loud that I need to yell just to be heard by the person I'm sharing a side of fries with. Surprising as it may be, there are actually interesting people willing to dine with me; and, crazy as this sounds, I would like to engage in conversation with them. Hate to say it, but it seems your hip marketing idea is hindering that process.
Live bands do not belong in restaurants, especially bands with caterwauling singer/songwriter front men (with bad hair). If you would like for there to be live background music for your diners then please note the keyword, "background." Oxford defines background as "a position that is not prominent or conspicuous." Nowhere in that definition does the phrase, "blaring so loudly that you'd slap Mother Teresa to make it all stop" appear. Besides, when I want to listen to a band, I'll go to a club or music venue where they belong and won't interrupt my otherwise tasty and thrifty meal.
So please, if you want to run a low-rent CBGB then by all means do. But if you want to run a restaurant then a little consideration for your patron's eardrums will go a long way.
Sincerely,
Tranny Dog
Note to the band member in the back: You're about to be kicked out. You played the mini-guitar and the trumpet. I know this because I saw you, not because I heard you. If your bandmates are able to make sure no one can hear your trumpet then they must really hate you. Yikes.
Live bands do not belong in restaurants, especially bands with caterwauling singer/songwriter front men (with bad hair). If you would like for there to be live background music for your diners then please note the keyword, "background." Oxford defines background as "a position that is not prominent or conspicuous." Nowhere in that definition does the phrase, "blaring so loudly that you'd slap Mother Teresa to make it all stop" appear. Besides, when I want to listen to a band, I'll go to a club or music venue where they belong and won't interrupt my otherwise tasty and thrifty meal.
So please, if you want to run a low-rent CBGB then by all means do. But if you want to run a restaurant then a little consideration for your patron's eardrums will go a long way.
Sincerely,
Tranny Dog
Note to the band member in the back: You're about to be kicked out. You played the mini-guitar and the trumpet. I know this because I saw you, not because I heard you. If your bandmates are able to make sure no one can hear your trumpet then they must really hate you. Yikes.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Tour of Homos: Opus 1
"Opus 1 on Wednesday" -- A Haiku
Small room. Awkward vibe.
Meatball Lean Pockets offered.
Shit costs three.fifty!
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