Hall of Fame/Hall of Shame

Good and bad album covers from the Dr. Mystery music library

Hall of Shame #3
Prince - Diamonds & Pearls
Never put a hologram on the cover.


















Hall of Fame #3
Melvins - Colossus of Destiny

Talkin' Bear Mountain Saddle Creek Picnic Massacre Blues

March caption contest

Here is the photo for this month's caption contest. Click here for the rules. I also wanted to offer some words of encouragement from Randy Newman. I unwittingly set off a firestorm of Newman debate when I picked one of his album covers for my Hall of Fame. Regardless of his worth, the post was about the album covers, not the music contained therein. But keep it up anyway. I enjoyed it. Good luck, contest entrants.

"I will carry her across the threshold
I will make dim the light
I will attempt to spend my love within her
But though I try with all my might
She will laugh at my Mighty Sword
She will laugh at my Mighty Sword
Why must everybody laugh at my Mighty Sword?"
--Randy Newman, "A Wedding in Cherokee County"

Hall of Fame/Hall of Shame

Good and bad album covers from the Dr. Mystery music library

Hall of Shame #2: The Police - "Zenyatta Mondatta"
The Police were too busy rocking to come up with decent album covers (or album titles). Gaze into the shitty pyramid as Sting contemplates his future as a humorless twat. Andy Summers meets your gaze head-on, daring you to challenge the art direction and design of Michael Ross and Simon Ryan (I did not have this memorized. I looked at the liner notes. Please believe me.) Stewart Copeland, badass that he is, looks away, thinking only of the kickass drumming he will throw down later that afternoon.



















Hall of Fame #2: Randy Newman - "Good Old Boys"

Rack and roll

Remember when I punched the wall, causing a painting to fall and destroy our thermostat? The hijinks continued last week. I'm turning into a walking pratfall. Last Wednesday, I was bringing my fist down on my leg to emphasize a point about an "American Idol" contestant's shitty singing voice but I missed my aim and racked myself hard in the right testicle. On Saturday, I thought a water bottle I'd been drinking was empty and flipped it in the air and caught it. It still had a little water in it, and my glasses and face got drenched.

Texas A&M's press has I think cornered the market on boredom with an upcoming book I have been unlucky to proofread. The whole book is about twine! Twine, goddamnit! I proofread the index today, and while I think it notable that a scholarly tome was written about twine, it is even more notable that the index has entries for both Michel Foucault and "Weird" Al Yankovic.

New Weekly Feature: Good and Bad Album Covers of the Week

Each Thursday, I am going to reach into the Dr. Mystery CD, cassette, and record collection and inaugurate one album cover into the Hall of Fame and one in the Hall of Shame. Sometimes I will explain my reasoning, sometimes I may have nothing to say. The music will not be judged and is irrelevant to my purposes here. These are all albums from my stash, so it's safe to assume that I like at least three songs on them.

Hall of Shame #1
Frank Black and the Catholics - Devil's Workshop
Frank Black has written many fine songs, both solo and as a member of the Pixies, but his album covers have grown increasingly shitty. This cover always makes me laugh. It is half-ass to the extreme! Welcome to the Hall of Shame, Frank.





















Hall of Fame #1
Guided By Voices - Mag Earwhig!

A paragraph reserved for the kings

Sammy Hagar on Van Halen's upcoming induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame:

"My hope is that everyone lets everything go and we go there in complete respect of each other and in a loving way, with the attitude that 'I couldn't have done it without you' towards everybody," says Hagar, who received the official word of Van Halen's selection at his Cabo Wabo Cantina in Mexico, where he and Van Halen bassist Michael Anthony have spent the past week jamming with Red Hot Chili Peppers drummer Chad Smith in a newly developing side project called Chickenfoot.


I can't wait until that Chickenfoot album drops.


Sammy Hagar should be David Lee Roth's butler, goddammit! Van Halen should have been called Lee Roth. Every post-Diamond Dave album sucks so much ass.

Learning to love it

It was a traumatic moment for me when I realized that most adults were every bit as dumb as us kids, and probably dumber. The safety net was gone. Life was a dangerous and supremely unfair game of chance. I think most adults are stupider than children because they stop learning, stop being curious. They get settled in to something and quit thinking about everything else. Keep swimming or die! Be like the shark! If you smell blood, fucking go after it! Yes, I can whip up the exhortations like nobody's business, but do I follow my own advice? Many times, no. Let's take a couple of Sundays ago, for example. I was making some fish chowder, and things were going swimmingly (for more bad puns, email Henry Kissinger at bombthefuckoutofthem@yahoo.com). Unfortunately, the pot boiled over and the water put out the burner. I ladled some water out of the pot and moved it to a different burner (or more accurately, my wife did while I yelled profanities). Unfortunately, the pot boiled over again and put out the pilot light. Instead of cleaning things up and relighting the pilot light, I punched the wall, hard, knocking a painting off the wall, which fell, hard, on top of the thermostat, which broke. My knuckle was also bruised and bloodied. I'm an idiot. But, like Zelmo Swift, I go on. What else can you do? Keep getting out of bed. If my plans succeed, July 2007 will be the last month I ever spend working in an office, and that's something to get out of bed for.

Caption contest winner

I am going to take a brief respite from drunken profane rants to bring you the results of this month's caption contest. All entrants have been placed in the winter cap, and a winner has been pulled from the cap at random. This month's winner is Casual Ninja. Congratulations, Casual Ninja! I especially enjoyed all the captions this month. Funny stuff. Good job, people. And please, losers, enter again next time. There are still five or six regular entrants who haven't won yet, so keep entering.

Dumb things read at work

Some things I've come across proofreading books at work:

From a steaming pile of dog shit that purports to teach college freshmen how to "read" pop-culture texts but mostly does stuff like damn "Magnolia" for not offering solutions to how men can fully embrace the "new masculinity" or how "Being John Malkovich" doesn't do enough to fully endorse Cameron Diaz' and Catherine Keener's pseudo-lesbian romance. This book makes my groin ache more than it usually does, and makes me think my political sympathies should maybe be shifted toward the colossally powerful evil that runs the world rather than the shitty, ineffectual morons I've been throwing my votes toward since I was 18. Adults don't expect fictional characters in artworks to solve the world's minor problems, if indeed they are problems, I hope. Children already have this shit figured out. Get a fucking life. Anyway, here's an excerpt from this piece of garbage (from the chapter on how to read movies and music, as if they were the same thing):
"When I listen to Joss Stone on my Ipod, this says something very different about me, my mood, and how I view myself in the world than when I blast the pulsating alt beat of Audioslave, for instance."
I don't know what this sentence means, except that it reminds me of a really bad television commercial where a white man says "homey" and "that's off the hook." What different something is it saying about you, for christ's sweet tittyfucking sake? That you're willing to trade one empty corporate simulacrum of experience for another? I know what I'm about to say is not popular with many people I know, but I really don't give a fuck about the environment or saving the planet or recycling or any of that shit. We had a good run and we fucked it up. The world will still go on, believe me. We won't. That's alright. Everything has to end sometime. Yet I still weep when I think of the strong, majestic, eagle-of-freedom-worthy trees that were killed to bring the world this motherfucking piece of cock-ass-bullshit. Maybe I'm overreacting. Fuck that. There's no "maybe" in it. This book is inconsequential, and so is my stupid rant. But, goddammit, everyfuckingthing is becoming inconsequential and I am tired of it. Let's have some good times and piss on everything else. Hedonism now! Epicurean diets and rock and roll for all! Solutions for none! Let Sherlock Holmes have his solutions and leave me to my two bottles of wine and Dinosaur Jr albums!

Which is why I am glad to present this next sentence, from a food science book:
"Hollandaise is the aristocrat of sauces."
That's what I'm trying to find, every day. Glorious stupidity, not deadly stupidity, not mediocrity. I want aristocrats of sauces!

Happy Valentine's day! Save the dolphins! Don't blame me, I voted for a more coherent blog!

Crustville, episode three

Episode 1
Episode 2

"Who was that on the phone?" Sheryl asks her husband while he chews on a toothpick and looks irritated.
"My dumbass drug-dealing cousin Tony," Frank says and grunts. "He wants to get that dumbass techno-blues band I was dumb enough to play bass for back together. He's fixing up some sketchy half-douche with a prosthetic robot arm and programming the arm to play keyboards. Fucking Emerson, Douche, and Palmer is hitting the fucking big time."
"Mondays," Sheryl says and laughs bitterly to herself.
"You know the only good thing about Monday nights?" Frank asks his wife. "They're not Monday mornings."
He grunts again and stares at his knuckle. It's red and he doesn't know why, though it's been red since 1987.
"You want to fuck?" he asks his wife.
"No," she says.
"Good," he says back. The phone rings again and he throws his toothpick at the wall. It lands on the couch. He leaves it there.
"Hello," he barks. "Make it worth my while."
"Hi Frank," his aunt says reticently. "It's Marnie. Your uncle has some really bad ideas. I want you to come over here and talk him out of them."
"Shit on my balls," Frank says and groans for an incredibly long time. "You're worried rich uncle Gene is going to squander a few of your million doll-hairs and you want poor working man Frank to come over and put the kibosh on it. Nutsack!"
"Awww Frank," Marnie says. "Come on. Frank. Come on. Awww. Frank. Come on. Come on. Come on. Aww. Come on, Frank."
"Fuck you and fuck John Wayne."
"You don't mean it, Frank. I'll make you some strawberry rhubarb pie and give you all the gin you can drink and you and Gene can have a nice talk about his incredibly stupid ideas and how bad they are and then you guys can play a little ping pong. Wadda ya say?"
"It beats not fucking my wife. I'll be over when I feel like it. Goodbye and piss on it!" Frank slams the phone down and bites a loose piece of skin on his right thumb.
"Gonna go over and keep them in gold-plated televisions for another month?" Sheryl says, laughing. "Have fun." She picks up their cat, Rufus, and walks back to the bedroom. Frank hears the radio go on and he puts his boots on, swearing.

"Frank!" his uncle greets him warmly and hands him a bottle of gin. "Your aunt has the idea that I'm not onto something. Bullshit! Let me turn you on to more of my ever-illuminating brilliance! The ideas flow like wine, Frankie, when you open the tap and let them flow. People have heart attacks from not expressing their ideas, Frank! Real live heart attacks!"
"I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about," Frank says.
"I've got some beverage ideas, and also some television ideas that I think could make some money."
"OK."
"One word, Frankie. Race."
"What?"
"Race, man. Marketers are looking at this world as one big multicultural awareness-raising melting pot. But you have to market to race, man. Niche marketing."
"Not sure where you're going with this one, but I'm already leaning toward Aunt Marnie's side."
"Hear me out, Frank. Check out my beverage ideas. First up, ReJEWvenation: The Sports Drink Too Intense for Goys! What do you think?"
"Uh. I'm going to have more of this gin while you keep talking," Frank says.
"Okay. Also, Halal-cohol: The Non-Alcoholic Beer for Muslims. All the party, none of the guilt. Eh? Eh?"
"What else you got?" Frank says.
"Oh, I got. I got. Check this one out. African-American History Month: The Soft Drink. It's an orange drink, not unlike Sunkist."
"How will you make a profit off a drink only available in February, Uncle Gene?"
"Ever heard of pumpkins, man? Ever buy one of those shits in June?"
Gene snorts disgustedly at Frank's lack of response.
"I can see I'm wasting my breath on the beverage ideas, but let me tell you about my television show. The CW and Bravo are interested. I talked to my buddy Dave at the CW last night, as a matter of fact."
"OK," Frank says, warming to Gene's tone. After all, Gene made most of his money producing Crustville's top-rated sit-com, Whoops, I Fucked Your Niece from 1997 to 2002. "Let's hear what you got."
"Okay?" Gene says. "You know how everybody loves Queer Eye for the Straight Guy? Spin-off time. I got a little variation on that. Black Eye for the White Guy. Heh? Does it smell like a blockbuster hit in here, or am I just inhaling past glories?"
"I don't know," Frank says. "Does anybody still watch that show?"
"Of course they do," Gene says. "But hear me out. What we have are three teams. On each team is a black man and a white man. The white man's ancestors were slaveholders. The black man's ancestors were once slaves for their very partner's ancestors. Get me?"
"Awww fuck," Frank says. "You're a moron."
"This is just the beginning. The black man on the team, once a bell rings, punches the white teammate repeatedly in the face. The first team in which the black guy pummels the white guy until he gets a black eye wins. The black guy will get forty acres and a mule and the white guy wins a trip to Hawaii. Spike Lee is already attached to direct the pilot. This is a winner, Frank."
Frank walks into the kitchen and grabs a slice of rhubarb pie. He eats it and leaves without saying goodbye to his aunt and uncle. He gets in the car and drives past The Place Where No One Is Happy But No One Gets Cut Off. He turns around and drives past it again, slowly. Bertie Hogan, Ass Disagreement's drummer, is sitting on a stool at the center of the bar. Frank parks and sits in his car, the keys in his hand. It wouldn't hurt to jam with them just once, would it?

February caption contest

Enter and win a compilation CD, made by me.
The rules:
1)Leave a caption for the photo in comment form under the post.
2)You have until the 15th of the month to enter.
3)On the 16th, I put all the entrants' names in a winter cap and draw one winner at random. That person gets the CD.
4)Last month's winner is ineligible this month, but may still enter for fun.
5)Go nuts!

More great dead people, and the further adventures of the Hambegglar

He was back again today, working the street while I drove home from the job. The same sign warning all of his imminent need for hunger. This time, he was eating some pizza. I'm almost convinced the motherfucker's a performance artist.

As an amateur necrologist with both a love of celebrity (and semi-celebrity, and non-celebrity) death (and a constant dread of and fascination with my own eventual dirtnap) and a love of music, I would be remiss in paying tribute to the recent deaths of two of my favorite musicians: Flying Burrito Brothers pedal steel player and film animator, Sneaky Pete Kleinow, and Faust cofounder Uwe Boll. Smell you later, gentlemen.

Sights seen on my way home from work

A homeless man was holding a cardboard sign telling of his hunger and immediate need for food while eating an enormous hamburger.

January caption contest winner

Hello everyone,
Thanks to all who entered and please enter again next month. This time, the winter cap has decided to award the compilation CD to Mary P. Congratulations, Mary P.!

Sincerely,
Great Nor'easter HQ
Texas Blizzard 2007
Do Not Leave Your Home for Any Reason Or You Will DIE!!!!!
Hour 39 of the Terrible Freeze!
Little Children Making Depressing Mud and Sleet Snow Angels and Submitting Pictures of this to the News!

(I am obligated by my birthplace in a non-Southern clime to make fun of the puny little storms that shut the town down. Nevertheless, this did not prevent me from taking two vacation days in a row due to the "icy conditions keeping me from driving there." I am usually an honest person, but where my day job is concerned, I consider lying an honorable and healthy thing to do.)

January caption contest

I'm one day late in posting the contest this month, so entries will be accepted through the 16th and the winner will be announced on the 17th. Sorry about that. I've been in mourning for the triple threat of greats we lost over the holiday season: James Brown, Gerald Ford, and Saddam Hussein. But seriously, folks, I've heard a lot of griping from rednecks and oldsters about how James Brown's death was given more attention than former president Ford's. Wise up, jerks. What did Gerald Ford do? Fell down a couple of times, pardoned Nixon. James Brown? 40+ years of funk.

Contest rules here.

Caption contest winner

Hello, everybody. I put all the names in a hat and drew out the winner. Congratulations to our first-ever repeat winner, kristykay aka spacebeer! It should be very easy to mail your winnings. Thanks for entering everybody, and try again next month.

Shame on you

Have you seen the trailer for the new Ben Stiller movie? I'm sorry, but I just don't see the humor in it. Stiller plays a night watchman at the Holocaust Museum in D.C., and every night at midnight, the exhibits come alive. I'm outraged at the poor taste of everyone involved. I expected a little more from the Hollywood dream factory, and a lot more from Stiller. Shame on you, Hollywood dream factory. Shame on you, Ben Stiller.

This is great

My purpose in posting this is not to laugh at these people or indulge in some kind of elitist hipster snarkiness. I honestly think these old people do a fantastic version of Sonic Youth's "Schizophrenia." Despite the patronizing voice-over that precedes the song, I love this.

Robots Behaving Badly, or Wrong Side of the Robo-Tracks

Antidotes to indie-hipster douchebaggery

See people playing together and listening to each other! No anorexic asexual drones with tight pants, painstakingly disheveled hair, and guest list privileges in sight! Watch the cynicism melt away! Huzzah!

Billie Holiday - Fine And Mellow
Uploaded by alternativa

December caption contest

Good luck, contestants. Click here for the rules.

The adventures of Dr. Mystery

I hope everybody had a good Thanksgiving. I did, though I regressed back into some bad habits. Three weeks ago, I finally got around to my New Year's resolution to live a healthier lifestyle because, as one of our country's finest poets, Kirk Hammett, has told us, "my lifestyle determines my deathstyle." I'm a fan of drinking to excess, eating rich foods, and sitting on my ass, but my sausage casing isn't. I want to get rid of my beer gut, improve my circulation, and refrain from stuffing delicious foodstuffs inside other delicious foodstuffs and frying the whole works and topping it with cheese. I also want to avoid the alcoholism that plagues males on both sides of my family. I once had an uncle who passed out drunk with a bloody nose and bled to death. I never met him, but I assume we shared a love of the epicurean lifestyle. (Oddly enough, Epicurus was hardly an advocate of the lifestyle bearing his name.) Zaz! Whoop! Honk! Anyway, I started running three weeks ago, drinking a lot less, and eating better and smaller portions of food. I've dragged myself in and out of shape a half dozen times in the last half dozen years, but in a very lazy way. This time, I really did it right. And I felt great. And I'm going to continue to attempt to make steps in this direction as soon as I finish these four glasses of vodka. (Rimshot!) But seriously, folks, I have been plagued with the curse of the formerly lazy. I have shin splints from the running. I wasn't doing anything wrong. I bought expensive and comfortable running shoes, I didn't overexert myself, I stretched after each run. The shin splints were inevitable, though, considering my previous exercise regimen included challenge pissing and competitive taco-eating. My shins are puny and ill-mannered. So I took this last week off to let these jerks heal. I also drank a lot and ate many, many foods in one sitting, but I was visited by my brother, his girlfriend, and my sister, and it was a holiday, so nuts to you. I'm a man who enjoys the pleasures of life, and since these pleasures are few and far between, I must take advantage.
Other exciting news flashes about me:
1) I had to have a biopsy because I have nodules on my thyroid. Fortunately, the biopsy was later cancelled because the nodules are too small to give an accurate reading. Nodules are fairly common, and 95% benign, but I have family history, so they have to keep an eye on them. Worst case scenario, I get the most treatable kind of cancer, have my thyroid taken out, and miss a couple weeks of work. That actually sounds really good. Two weeks off. I wonder what kind of drugs they'd give me. Good ones, I bet.
2) I've decided that working in an office is unacceptable for a man of my ill temper and constant sadness, and that my journalism degree has the cachet of a homeless man's diarrhea sample. I've also decided to get a teaching degree and teach high school English. So many people think this is a bad idea that I'm convinced it's a good one. (So many people thought a journalism degree was a good idea.) It's been in the back of my head for about four years and has grown to such a loud buzzing I can't ignore it. I have no fantastical, idealistic illusions. However, there are too many shitty high school teachers, and kids are receiving messages everywhere they move that the purpose of American life is to move piles of money back and forth while everything around us (landscape, culture, family, interaction with people, art) decays. All I need to do is reach a couple of kids each year, make them feel like reading is a worthwhile thing to do, and I'll be content with that. I also love having summers and holidays off to travel, write, sit on the couch in my sweatpants drunk watching "Tyra," eat a donut at every donut shop in the city, etc. The so-called low pay is not a problem, either, considering how much less I'm making than Austin-area teachers with my prestigious journalism degree. I make really shitty money. I don't care about status, impressing anyone, blah blah blah, but it would be nice to answer the question "What do you do for a living?" without my stomach sinking into my knees. I think teaching is an honorable profession. I think I could be at least moderately decent at it. I like having my summers off. I like kids, believe it or not. I even like the idea that I may be shot. I really, really, really need to do something with my life besides proofreading in a motherfucking office. I need something that is not going to be the same every single day. Academia's not for me, I'm not a famous celebrity millionaire, so what do I do? This may be a way out of my unsatisfying working life.
3) I had a goddamn religious experience last night when I was lucky enough to see my favorite movie, John Cassavetes' Love Streams, on the big screen at the Texas student union. Every time I see his films, particularly that one, it's a life-altering experience. I drove around aimlessly afterwards, eventually getting an extra-large cheese Coney at Sonic. I also got a parking ticket I'm not going to pay, because fuck 'em, that's why. What I'll never understand is how his movies never, ever play the same way twice, how I'll never understand them even though they feel like extensions of my body, how open and free and mysterious and bottomless and infuriating and wild and elusive and beautiful and tough they are, how these movies I've seen dozens of times continually surprise and invigorate me, how anyone who doesn't like them is wrong, how this guy was a Shakespeare, a Van Gogh, or a Picasso. I saw it by myself because my wife was tired and had a lot of stuff to do and another Cassavetes freak friend was out of town, but I'm glad I ended up there by myself because it was such an overwhelming experience that I don't think I would have been good company. I can't believe how much his movies mean to me. I can't put it into words. I try and I just sound like a big sissy. It's a goddamn abomination this movie is not on DVD and out of print on video. Why don't people want to see good things? Why does TV and newspaper world reinforce such lonely, pathetic emptiness? There are so many ways out. Go and find them. This is a world worth living, and hope is something worth having.
4)Lecture over. I was proofreading a book two weeks ago that was published in the 1950s and is being reprinted exactly as it was then, with the exception of the now-dead author's contact info. He was an old cowboy who wrote about the proper way to bridle horses, California-style. In his author photo, he is ancient, leathery, slight, wiry, and scowling like every other person in the world infuriates, disappoints, and exasperates him. I imagined him yelling each word of the text at an unappreciative younger horseman. If I walked on to his property, he would have asked me to lasso something. I would have failed. He would have spit on the ground and walked away, muttering under his breath about my perceived lack of proper masculinity. These are actual quotes from the book:
(from the introduction) "All of the information contained in this book is important. There are words and groups of words that are more important than the others. These words are in dark print to make them more noticeable. It is written in a style that is conducive for a clear understanding of the information given in this book."
(on the back) "It is as different from the average 'horse book' as bourbon is from skimmed milk."
(from a foreword by a ranch owner who knew him well) "He is one of today's old timers."

November contest winner

The winning name has been drawn from the winter cap. Congratulations, Air Wolf! You are November's caption contest winner. I don't have your new address, so email it to me or give me a call. Booyah, bitch!

Crustville, episode two

Episode one link

Jimmy's left half sat awkwardly in the passenger seat of Bob Larkin's green 1971 Dodge Dart. The bleeding had stopped, mostly, but a towel was placed on the seat to catch the odd dripping and/or leakage.
"This is the part of the job I hate, Left Jimmy," Larkin said, mopping his brow with a crocheted doily. "It doesn't seem right to separate you from your right side like that, especially when profits are up. Sure, we'll help place you somewhere else, but you were probably pretty attached to your right side, pardon the pun."
"Who cares?" Jimmy's left half said (though to the untrained ear his speech sounded like "sssaaa ungh ungh goo sa fmmp ungh ungh," Larkin had become accustomed to the particularities of half-mouth speech). "I'm glad to be free. Guy's a pussy. Right Jimmy 's been a thorn in my left side for years now."
"Oh, really?" Larkin said. "If what you say is true, and I have no reason to doubt you, why did you let Right Jimmy dominate Whole Jimmy's personality?"
"Because I'm fuckin' lazy, that's why," Left Jimmy said. "I chipped in on the typing and the eating lunch, but I let super-douche take care of the rest. I didn't even know we were in a frat until the third year of school. I was laying low. Think I'd join up with a bunch of salad tossers in backwards baseball caps and beaded necklaces? Think again, fuckface."
Larkin stroked his chin and smiled.
"I think I know a guy who can set you up with a job," he said. "His name's Tony. He used to run a job service for people in your predicament. It's called Half a Chance. He sold it to Martha Stewart last year. And he still likes to give guys like you half a chance, but in a slightly different market."
"Tony?" Left Jimmy said. "Sounds like some pasta-making queer. I don't think so. No more shit jobs for me. I'm probably just going to buy an RV and sell crank to junior high kids."
"That is a solid option, but hear me out," Larkin said. "You get in good with Tony, and not only will you get your RV, but also enough extra to pick up a few Quonset huts and a Carl's Jr. franchise. And you won't be selling crank to junior high kids. You'll be selling crack to rich housewives of aluminum siding executives."
"I'm listening," Left Jimmy said. "You're lucky you mentioned Quonset huts. Does Crustnet Enterprises know you consort with crack dealers?"
"I consort on my own time," Larkin said. "It's not like I'm e-mailing him from my work computer."
Nobody said anything for a while.
"Well?" Larkin said grumpily. "Do you want me to call Tony or don't you?"
"Fine," Left Jimmy said. "Set it up."


Thirty minutes later, Larkin and Left Jimmy were parked in front of the gates to Tony's sumptuous estate, a sprawling 54-acre compound that was the end result of the only known collaboration between Frank Lloyd Wright and Frank Gehry. Larkin pushed the buzzer and waited for the gates to open.
"Why are you doing this for me?" Left Jimmy asked.
A single tear trickled down Larkin's left cheek.
"Because you remind me of my son," he said.

Larkin and Left Jimmy were sitting in the Jacuzzi in Tony's living room. Tony sat in an Aeron chair on the other side of the room, in a Speedo and a t-shirt embossed with the phrase "I got Lewinsky-ed on Padre Island Spring Break 2002," with a sleeping tiger cub in his lap. The cub was named Ronnie Van Zant. A blonde woman in a bikini combed his hair while he talked.
"I've got a feeling about you, Left Jimmy," he said. "You're a born salesman. But we need to do something about your downsizing. We need to upsize you. These are upscale women, our customers. They don't want to buy anything from half a man. Left Jimmy, how would you feel about a full half-body robotic prosthesis?"
"I'd love it!" Left Jimmy shouted.
"Your enthusiasm warms my heart, Jimmy," Tony said, smiling and stroking the cub. "For what you've given me today in enthusiasm, I repay in robotics. I'm going to pony up the dough for the prosthetic attachment, complete with extra-strength robotic claw. Your right hand is going to be a claw, Jimmy! Think of it. You can crack nuts with it! A robotic claw! It's every boy's dream!
"I'm living the dream," Left Jimmy said. "This is really happening."
"Do you play keyboards, Jimmy?" Tony said. "Our keyboard player just quit to go to law school right after I wrote some new material that really cooks."
"You have a band?" Left Jimmy said. "What are you guys called?"
"Ass Disagreement," Tony said. "We play heavy blues with a slight trip-hop inflection and a couple of Glenn Frey covers. 'Smuggler's Blues,' 'The Heat is On.' The bitches go nuts when we play. I mean they go apeshit."
"Sounds great, but I don't really play anything. A little acoustic guitar, but that's about it."
"Don't worry," Tony said. "We'll program the claw to play keyboards. We can attach the prosthetic this Thursday. Get used to it over the weekend, then be here on Monday at noon to start working. Sound good?"
"Sounds real good," Left Jimmy said.

After his visitors were gone, Tony grabbed his cell phone and dialed Frank's number.
"Frank," Tony said. "Guess what? We have a new keyboard player."

Yahoo news headline, Nov. 13, 2006: Bush trades ideas on Iraq with panel

A Poem, Vol. 1

I've been collecting Yahoo news headlines for the past year with the goal of assembling enough of them to create rhyming poems. You'd be surprised how hard it is to collect rhyming headlines. Here's the first one.

UNTITLED FOUND HEADLINE POEM #1

Report: Stone ready to bare all in "Basic Instinct 2"
Newly discovered ring around Uranus is blue
Women break record for longest bra chain
Barry Bonds: I'm just trying to stay sane

With movie due, "Da Vinci Code" debate persists
Crafty sea lion befuddles fish biologists
K-Fed illegally samples Thomas Dolby's '80s hit
Spokeswoman confirms Bow Wow and Ciara split

Pope calls Judas double-crosser in homily
Can Michael moonwalk his way out of bankruptcy?
Bolten: White House must regain its "mojo"
Is a burrito a sandwich? Judge says no

See you next year!

Halibut: Fish of the Month

THE HALIBUT















Not as heavy as tuna steak or swordfish, not as fragile and flaky as tilapia, not as fishy as salmon, halibut rises above. Congratulations, halibut, you are Dr. Mystery's new go-to fish.

November caption contest

I was gently chastised last month for failing to explain the full rules of the contest. I admit to being lax about that in recent months, so here are the rules:
I put up a new photo on the fifth day of each month (since that's the day I happened to post the very first contest).
Leave a caption in comment form under the post to be entered.
The fifteenth of the month is the last day to enter.
On the sixteenth, I put all contest entrants' names in a cap and draw one winner at random.
The winner gets a compilation CD, made by me.
Last month's winner is ineligible the next month, but may enter again after that.

Good luck, contestants.

The Last Robo-Supper

Caption contest winner

Thank you, contest entrants, for your captions. All your names have been placed in a winter cap, and a winner has been drawn. This month's winner is conorj. Congratulations, conorj!

Nostalgia night

It was nostalgia night at the Dr. Mystery/Spacebeer Household. I busted out the cassettes. First, Steve Martin's "Let's Get Small," dubbed off my uncle's vinyl copy in junior high. Second, a comedy tape my friends and I made when we were 14, intentionally funny at the time, unintentionally funny now. Our only topical target, Saddam Hussein. Other targets: George Bush I, Dan Quayle, Madonna, New Kids on the Block, Colin Powell (whom I refer to as Colin Wilson for some reason), Milli Vanilli, Vanilla Ice, Andrew Dice Clay, the reanimated corpse of the freshly dead Sam Kinison, Clarence Thomas, and virginity. Third, a tape my mother sent me of me at age 4 and 6, and my brother at age 1 and 3. We had some pretty kickass jokes at those tender ages.
My brother's favorite joke at age three: "I'm going to tell you something real you like (fart noise). I'm going to tell you something real I like (fart noise)."
My favorite jokes at age 4, (the last one was invented by me):
"What crawls and goes ding-dong? A wounded Avon lady.
Where do sheep get their hair cut? At the baa-baa shop.
Why did the rabbit go to the baa-baa shop? Because he couldn't find a rabbit cut-hair place."
It's all been downhill from there.

Suck City

I waste so much time and energy being a goddamn sadsack. Please don't follow this recipe:
1) Quit an unfulfilling job
2) Spend a year doing nothing
3) Get a new job that makes the unfulfilling old one look like a party at Freddy Mercury's house c. Queen's heyday
4) Apply for, and get interviewed for, a dream job that sure as hell won't solve all your problems (there are multitudes) but will solve a few very large ones. Needless to say, you are close, but no cigar. The job is given to someone else
5) Have another drink
6) Know that someday, possibly soon, you will be driving to work one morning and will just keep going. Think how hard it will be to find work after that!
7) How do other people do it? How do they get up every day and go to the same place, sometimes for 25 years or more? How much of the little person you were one day do you have to kill to be able to keep showing up?
8) You'd think my conscious efforts to avoid success would prevent failure, but you'd think wrong
9) Why is it so fucking hard just to have a reasonably decent day?
10) Being unemployed was no cakewalk. It grew exponentially stressful as my money ran out, and my days got worse and worse, but I slept well and felt happy at night.
11) My life's ambition is to do nothing, to be idle forever. How many more lawyers and politicians do we need? How many more rock bands? That's right, none.
12) Woe is me, I don't like my job. Shower pity on me.
13) I'm a selfish douchebag. Happy Halloween!

October caption contest

Leave a caption in comment form under the post and you are automatically entered in a drawing to win a handmade Dr. Mystery compilation CD. Happy Halloween. I know it's only the 5th, but I celebrate Halloween all month long. Bwaa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

The two greatest toys I ever had

Mighty Men & Monster Maker


















the Viewmaster projector

Crustville, episode one

Many years ago, this blog told the tale of a man who refused to take off his gorilla mask. This is not that tale. This is the tale of a city. The city is called Crustville. You won't find it on any map, unless you find yourself in Crustville. In that case, it can be found on every map. Crustville is located eight miles beneath the earth's surface, below an abandoned doll factory deep within the Mojave Desert. You may ask how a city could exist eight miles beneath the earth's surface. Personally, I don't care. A better question is why a doll factory would set up shop in the Mojave Desert. It's asinine. Who were the advertising geniuses who came up with that one? Huh? Huh? Am I right? The Crustville founding fathers, before constructing their wondrous, terrible metropolis, raided the doll factory. They plucked each hair from each doll's head, laminated each individual hair, and declared it Crustville's currency. They have a saying in Crustville: "Another day, another doll-hair." Up here on the Earth's surface, this would be considered a dreadful pun. In Crustville, it is a practical statement of fact. Excepting their oddball currency, which is unwieldy and requires Crustvilleans to carry enormous wallets, their way of life is much like ours. We take you now to episode one of our delightful non-fiction tale, entitled "Downsizing."

I.P. Fakely combed his auburn moustache slowly and sighed. He had enjoyed his recent beach holiday in West Crustville and was feeling melancholy about returning to the hustle and bustle of corporate life. He took a deep breath and quietly uttered his relaxation mantra: "I am a handsome and powerful man who rarely appears unkempt." Then he smiled. The office needed him. He would have to leave his wistful vacation dreams behind and produce. His assistant, Jimmy, looked up from his computer and winked.
"How was the vacation, Mr. Fakely?" Jimmy asked. Jimmy was slight and too cheerful, though an excellent worker. I.P. enjoyed his company but occasionally fantasized about seeing him devoured by chimpanzees.
"Sensational," I.P. replied. "I was able to grow this moustache without worrying about looking unprofessional at work. The first few days of moustache-growing are not as attractive as they ought to be, Jimmy."
"Don't I know it, Mr. Fakely. When I pledged Sigma Tau Delta at Crustville Tech, I had to grow one during Hell Week. I also had to drink a cup of semen and get beaten severely with a tire jack."
"Hahahahaha!" I.P. laughed heartily. "Those were the days, Jimmy."
"I know, sir," Jimmy said. "To have just one of those golden afternoons back..."
Jimmy trailed off pensively. I.P didn't know what he'd do without him. He could type 280 words per minute.

Bob Larkin pulled into the parking lot of Crustnet Enterprises and breathed heavily. He took a pinch of snuff and punched the dashboard furiously.
"Goddamn you, downsizing!" he yelled. Then he put in a Roxette tape and snorted some cocaine. He liked to combine cocaine and snuff. He called it "the poor man's doubleheader."

I.P. had just opened the folder containing the Williams account when the phone rang. Jimmy answered it. "Yes, sir, right away," he said.
"It's Mr. Larkin, sir," Jimmy said. "He's waiting for you in the conference room."

"Bob Larkin," I.P. yelled affectionately as he entered the soundproof, leather-reclinered, executive conference room. "You filthy pederast! You abortion doctoring so and so! You cane toad! I find your aroma intoxicating and adult-oriented!"
"Fakely, you fuck!" Larkin responded. "You suckle a septuagenarian's armpit! You own the first three England Dan and John Ford Coley albums on cassette! Your daughter gave me a blowjob at Home Depot!"
"I love you, Bob!" I.P. exclaimed, and the two men embraced.
"What's the occasion?" I.P. asked.
"I'm afraid an unhappy one," Larkin replied.
I.P. swallowed hard and stared at his boots. "Let me have it."
"I'm sorry, I.P., but the rumors you've heard about downsizing are true. Profits are good, but the shareholders think they could be even better. Unfortunately, our assistants are first in line for cuts."
"Not Jimmy!" I.P. gasped.
"Afraid so," Larkin said, shaking his head sadly. "However, it could be worse. They're dropping us down to half an assistant."
"You mean __"
"Yep. Only part of Jimmy has to go. I've got my saw in the car. You want me to get started?"
"Wait a second. You're going to slice him in two at the midsection, right? He types 280 words a minute, so I'd really like to keep his upper body."
"I'm real sorry, I.P., but we tried that the last time we downsized, back in '89, for just the very reason you mentioned. It worked great for the upper bodies, but the lower halves got screwed. The only work they could find was operating paddle boats at ponds in state and amusement parks. Needless to say, paddle boat operator is not a high-demand industry. A lot of those damn things are still unemployed."
"Damn this infernal downsizing,!" I.P. shouted, shaking his fist at an imagined spiteful god.
"I don't like it, either, but it makes practical sense to slice them in half from head to toe. That way, each half gets a hand, an eye, a leg, and part of a fucked-up kind of mouth and tongue. They can make it work. Jimmy's typing skills are probably going to decrease, but just think of the thousands of doll-hairs we're going to save. I bet you'll get a new computer."
"Yay!" I.P. yelled, clapping his hands happily. "With a DVD-ROM and CD burner?"
"Only the best, baby," Larkin responded, pushing his thumb and forefinger together and kissing them. "Only the best."
"You've sold me," I.P. said. "Let's slice the fucker in two."

Larkin worked steadily for more than an hour, turning Jimmy the assistant into two able-bodied half-men. Jimmy took it like a trouper, even offering to clean up the blood. I.P. put in a special request to keep the right half (Jimmy is right-handed) and Larkin magnanimously complied. I.P. then gave Half-Jimmy a pep talk, a rousing oratorical masterpiece of strength in times of adversity. Half-Jimmy was inspired, though his typing suffered due to the forced reversion to the hunt-and-peck method. He was also not too fond of the new office uniform, a sweatsuit and football helmet, suggested by I.P. after a few days of staring at his disgustingly exposed innards. Half-Jimmy is still a solid worker, still too cheerful, and even slighter than he was before.

Next time: What Happened to Jimmy's Left Half?

"Skeptical Banana Vessel"

A confession

It's time for me to come clean. I have been living a secret life, a hidden life. For the past thirteen months, I have been taking blog-enhancing substances. It started when I was in the locker room after a particularly intense blogging session. My fingers were covered in sweat. My post was more than eight paragraphs long. Yet I continued to push myself. I busted out post after post, feeling the burn for days. Unfortunately, my blog was sorely lacking in mass. Can-Smashing Robot was redshirted for another season. "What else can I do," I cried while toweling off my hand and keyboard. Twinpeaksfan666 overheard my lament and slyly winked. "Hey, kid, you've got determination, but if you really want to be a World Wide Weblete, you better get some juice," he said.
"Juice?" I replied, baffled. "I drink gallon after gallon of Blogade. I eat Powerblog Bars by the dozens. I even bench press laptops. No 'juice' is going to cure my ills."
"You motherfucking idiot," he said, softly, shaking his head and putting a handful of pills in my hand. Those pills turned out to be anabolic blog enhancers, known to the layman as bloids. From that day forward, my blog has increased in mass by fifty percent, so much mass that other blogs had to be created to contain it all. I am now an officially sanctioned Weblete, and I can bench press thirty laptops in one hand, Grandfatha Klock in the other.

But there has been a price to pay.

A heavy price.

My posts have been prone to occasional outbursts and worse. In full-on cases of bloid rage, I have posted nothing but incoherent rants for weeks at a time. The hair on my knuckles is thinning. My testicles are the size of pistachios (but then, they always were). Was it all worth it? Maybe. Regrets? I've had a few. Would I do it differently? Possibly. I'm going to stop posting now. God, I'm so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! So fucking stupid! Fuck! Blooooooooooooogggggggggg!

September contest winner

Hello contestants,
All thirteen entrants (nice turnout this month) have been placed in the winter cap and a winner has been drawn. The winner of this month's contest is Joel. Congratulations, Joel! Please play again next month, everybody. Except for Joel.

Pop quiz

Does the following passage come from:
a) an episode of the defunct Fox television drama "Boston Public"
b) an inspirational quote found in a college prep textbook for student-athletes
c) The Memoirs of Big Gay Rod
The tenth caller to answer correctly will receive a liter of grape juice and one-way tickets to Gary, Indiana. Here is the passage:

"When I'd get tired and want to stop, I'd wonder what (he) was doing. I'd wonder if he was still working out. I tried to visualize him still working. I'd start pushing myself. When I could see him in the shower, I'd push myself even harder."

Random photos lacking any connection to Can-Smashing Robot Systems, Inc., or its shareholders

September caption contest

Hello friends! Quick rule recap: Leave a caption in comment form under post! Be automatically entered in drawing! Winner receives mix CD created by me! Last month's winner ineligible! Don't cry, last month's winner! You can play again next month! Stay away from the barbed tail of a stingray!

Happy early Labor Day

A few things not to do on a weeknight

I gave my liver a jazz funeral on Tuesday night. On Wednesday, I got two bean and potato tacos with sides of jalapeno and salsa from the Taco Shack. I ate the first taco. Delicious. I ate half of the second taco. Uh-oh! Something bad is happening. I threw the remaining taco half away. Then I threw up undigested pure rum. If I had vomited in a shotglass, anyone wanting some free rum could have slammed it down. There weren't even any taco particles in there. Then I regretted throwing the taco half away. I wanted to eat that taco half. Then I slept for 14 hours. I'm a pirate!

(I tried to Google image search the perfect photo for this post, but the phrase "pirate taco rum" did not produce any images. If I saw some pirate taco rum on the shelf, I would definitely consider looking at it. A month ago some friends invented a mediocre drink called an "eskimo vagina." It is what happens when you want to make a margarita, but are forced to use powdered orange drink instead of margarita mix. It sort of tastes like Michael Dukakis' 1988 presidential campaign.)

Tales of small town life

I always hated going to church, for much the same reasons I hate going to work. It's boring, and boredom is worse than pain and death. I was raised Catholic. It was important to my grandmother that her children and grandchildren be raised Catholic, and the non-Catholic spouses (like my dad) didn't care one way or the other, so we were raised Catholic. My grandmother is a devout Catholic, in the best possible way. She has a deep faith in the religion that is mostly personal. She doesn't proselytize to any of her family or friends, and she hasn't let it interfere with her sense of humor or her open-mindedness. When I told my mother I didn't believe in organized religion when I was 14, and when I decided not to get confirmed when I was 17, my grandmother was upset but never once tried to change my mind (with the partial exception of sending me a book in college called "Why Be Catholic?" with a note attached saying something like "Just skim through it and I'll never bug you again.") My aunts, uncles, cousins, and second-cousins mostly still attend Catholic services. Even my uncles who aren't big fans of church make their children go. A cousin who was in my high school graduating class baptized her little girl a few weeks ago. It's a big part of my family life, but hasn't been a part of mine for years. I never felt comfortable in church. I never felt any connection with what happened there. I didn't like it, I didn't believe it, and I didn't need it. And I still don't. And I probably never will. But we're not here for a theology lecture. We are here for the story of a ridiculous lie I told to try to get out of Sunday school (or CCD, as Catholics know it). When I was about seven years old, CCD was right before church. On Sunday morning, I had to attend a 90-minute lesson before mass. This was an indignity and an injustice, I felt. It was bad enough that I had to go to church. Why the additional punishment? Give a kid a break. Give him more of his weekend. He earned that weekend. The church and parish center were about four blocks away from my house, so I started walking. It was a beautiful spring day, and I passed the school playground on my way to the parish center. I took a detour, sat on the merry-go-round for a while, probably pouted, then realized that I had spaced out for longer than I had intended. I was most certainly late for CCD, and I might have missed it entirely. My mother would be heading to church soon and I needed to think of a plan. Shortly thereafter, a large dog who had escaped its pen ran through the playground. That's it, I thought. I'll run home quickly and tell my mom that I was attacked by a large dog and couldn't make it to CCD. No, wait. I reconsidered. Mom might be skeptical. I liked dogs and wasn't particularly afraid of them. I better kick it up a notch. I then proceeded to run home and tell my mother that I had been forced to miss CCD because I had been chased by a bear. That's right. A bear. This might be the stupidest lie I've ever told. My mother took turns laughing at me and yelling at me, then drove me to CCD. I had only missed forty minutes of the lesson. I got carried away by my web of lie. I should have gone with the dog.
I told an even stupider lie once, but I had the good excuse of being three. My brother was a baby, only a few months old. A window in our living room was cracked, and my dad asked me if I knew anything about it. I told my parents that my infant brother, who could barely make a fist, had thrown a hot dog at the window, cracking it. Oddly, I hadn't been responsible for the crack in the window, but I apparently wanted to see my new brother get punished. That must have been some hot dog.

I wish I was a monkey or talking recliner on a children's television show, or my sad story in song

I realize it's become "incorrect" to quote Charles Bukowski since every creepy aspiring alcoholic hipster since 1973 worships his worst qualities as a human being and wildly overrates his worth, but since every pseudo-intellectual turbo-douche wildly underrates the man's work, I am going to take a chance on looking foolish (not such a stretch since I look foolish nearly every hour of my life) and offer this quote, which I believe to be the most poetically accurate summation of having a job (as opposed to doing some real work, which is something else entirely). Also, I can relate so much more to a middle-aged man who had a series of degrading jobs until he achieved success than I can to someone in the fucking Arctic Monkeys (t-shirts of that band seen on several middle-aged men notwithstanding). Here it is:

"How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?"

I'm in a slump, career-wise, and it seems to be poisoning most other aspects of my life. I'm a real selfish asshole sometimes, and hard to live with. However, I do have a tiny shred of optimism and a strong belief that life is mostly worth living. The sheer narcissism of being depressed by a continuous stream of shitty, boring, unfulfilling jobs (especially post-college degree) when it could be so much worse (victim of genocide, terminally ill, etc.) is embarrassing, but what can I do? I feel what I feel, and lately I don't feel good. Life is too often boring, embarrassing, and degrading. I don't want it to be that way, but I unfortunately need to eat, wear clothes, and have some shelter so I can continue being degraded until I catch a lucky break or die. Houses are too expensive, gas is too expensive, horrible people are running the world, and my cholesterol is probably too high. Larry the Cable Guy and Karl Rove are highly paid. My parents divorced three or four years ago, and that sucked and continues to suck in ever-mutating ways. People at my job tell me I'm too quiet, but they don't know that I'm not quiet at all. I just don't have anything to say to them. It's hot and the air conditioning in my car is broken. I accidentally watched five minutes of "Smooth Jazz TV" on Saturday night. I had to attend two hours of stress management training on Thursday, which consisted of one hour and thirty minutes of a random series of catch phrases, fifteen minutes of my coworkers nodding their approval and taking notes on each catch phrase, and fifteen minutes of wearing a blindfold and bouncing a ball. Who am I and what am I doing? Is this what it's going to be? Free will? I don't know what that is. Adults are a continual source of disappointment. They/I are/am stupid and boring and small and petty. Only small children have honest relationships with themselves, others, and the world. Thank god for music, books, and movies. And my wife. And my friends. And my family members who aren't annoying and perfunctory. And drawing, painting, photography, red meat, Mexican food, jokes, Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, Labor Day, kicks in the crotch, death, gin, nipples, the expression "don't that beat all," every pizza topping (with the exception of broccoli), the cancelled TBS video program "Night Tracks," Ric "the Nature Boy" Flair, and that girl I really liked for years who didn't go out with me. Also, hotel bars, the word "cocksucker," and the Sparks song "This Town Ain't Big Enough For Both of Us." The rest of it, I can do without. I need a new job.

Here are the lyrics for "Free Will and Testament" by Robert Wyatt:

Given free will but within certain limitations,
I cannot will myself to limitless mutations,
I cannot know what I would be if I were not me,
I can only guess me.

So when I say that I know me, how can I know that?
What kind of spider understands arachnophobia?
I have my senses and my sense of having senses.
Do I guide them? Or they me?

The weight of dust exceeds the weight of settled objects.
What can it mean, such gravity without a centre?
Is there freedom to un-be?
Is there freedom from will-to-be?

Sheer momentum makes us act this way or that way.
We just invent or just assume a motivation.
I would disperse, be disconnected. Is this possible?
What are soldiers without a foe?

Be in the air, but not be air, be in the no air.
Be on the loose, neither compacted nor suspended.
Neither born nor left to die.

Had I been free, I could have chosen not to be me.
Demented forces push me madly round a treadmill.
Demented forces push me madly round a treadmill.
Let me off please, I am so tired.
Let me off please, I am so very tired.

The only thing about my job that is good

I recently moved upstairs to a new cubicle. There is a bathroom upstairs of which I was previously unaware. It has a plant in it, and a flickering fluorescent light that is slowly dying. This light flickers intensely with a weird reddish-yellowish tint. I feel happy when I stand under the light. It makes washing your hands after urinating a freaky-deaky, psychedelic, totally in-your-face, tripped-out thrill ride. Unfortunately, I eventually have to leave the bathroom and confront head-on the series of awful choices I have made since age five that led to a goddamn fucking cubicle.

I wish our politicians talked like this

Marxist Mexican labor leader Vicente Lombardo Toledano, in a speech after his forced resignation from a labor organization:
"I leave this office a rich man. Rich in the hatred of the bourgeoisie."

August caption contest results

What a turn of events! The contest entrants were placed in the winter cap (except for Krouchdog, because he won last month) and a winner was drawn. In a surprising twist, the winner, Spacebeer, declined her victory since she won a few months ago. Round Two began, and a new winner was drawn. This month's winner of a Dr. Mystery deluxe homemade compact-disc-technology-style compact disc compilation is Rustle.Destroyer! Congratulations on your random victory, Rustle.Destroyer. Please enter next month, everyone, and don't stop believing!

One more thing

The lovely Spacebeer has pretty much covered our D.C. trip and airline woes in detail, but I do need to mention one thing she forgot about our shitty four-hour Holiday Inn stay in Bedford, Texas on the night of the one-engine plane. The bar in the hotel was called Scuba Joe's. According to their website, they have a pool table.

The MC battle continues!

Grandfatha Klock sent me a tape of his response to Grandmutha P.I.E.'s blistering retort. The battle is still on! Here is a transcript of his fearsome rejoinder:

Yo, P.I.E.
Time to D.I.E.

The worst rhyme I ever wrote is on display in a museum
While your finest ever jam belongs in a mausoleum

You know who raps better than you? Edie McClurg
Wack MC, you're going down like the Hindenburg

I should know because I was there
I tread where other homies wouldn't dare

For example, I survived the Titanic
I was spittin' rhymes while other fools panicked

At the last possible moment, I cold hopped into a lifeboat
With some rich hoes, my ghetto blaster, and my zebra-skin coat

I was blastin' mixtapes, straight up gettin' it crunk
The hoes fondled my zebra coat while that big-ass ship sunk

Popped the cork on some champagne and passed it all around
Had a house party on that lifeboat, it was weeks till we were found

I didn't give a fuck, though, that boat became my home
The hoes shaved my head because I cold forgot my comb

That's why rappers heads be shaved up and down the block
They're paying tribute to a survivor called Grandfatha Klock

I'm feared and respected, I'm willing and able
I rapped for Dorothy Parker at the Algonquin Round Table

When my crew rolls into town, the 5-0 always search us
I been saying fuck tha police since the Louisiana Purchase

P.I.E., my history's large and my future's even larger
After I shame you, you'll leave your house less than Henry Darger

If you try to out-rap me, you're doomed, you're gonna slip
Cause my rhymes are hella tighter than X-tra strength DentuGrip

Go bake some muffins, P.I.E.

For no reason at all, here is an album cover for you to look at

R.I.P. Arthur Lee

August caption contest

I'm back from D.C. I had a great trip, but a horrible tale of airplane and airline woe occurred on our final day (which turned into days). That story to come. Here are three highlights from my trip:
1) I ate great food.
2) I saw a homeless man's dick when his pants fell down.
3) I drank at a bar that has 1,000 beers.

Here is the August caption contest photo. You all know the rules by now.

Exciting new hip-hop developments

Hey everybody. Whoo boy, you turn your blog over once to a guest hip-hopper, and it turns into a real hootenanny! I'm talking a real lollapaloozer! A freestyle rap battle has just begun between Grandfatha Klock and Grandmutha P.I.E. on the comments section under Grandfatha Klock's guest post. P.I.E. issued a stern challenge, and Klock responded boldly. Klock's handlers have just left word with me to challenge P.I.E., wherever she may be, to continue the battle. When I return from D.C., I will post Klock's response for him (like most old people, he doesn't know a fucking thing about using a computer, not a goddamn fucking thing). I guess that's okay with me. Let the battle of the hip-hoppers continue! Hooray!

Tales of small-town life redux: the sequel to the prequel

What's up, bitches? I was at a fun party on Saturday night seeing off some friends' old home before they move to a new home a few blocks away. I got a little too drunk, as is my public wont, and I said a couple of dumb things. First, I claimed that a funny incident happened at my home, when in fact it happened at a place I've never been. This was quickly brought to my attention. This made me appear rather foolish. In my defense, I truly believed the incident happened at my house, probably because the man behind the incident either came to my house later or relayed it to me on the phone that night, if my memory is reliable, and as this boring anecdote proves, it is decidedly not. I have a sneaking suspicion that I quickly wear out my welcome when I have too many beers. I think I may turn into the kind of person I don't like much, but people keep inviting me back, so maybe I'm mistaken. Perhaps they just prefer the company of my lovely wife and I am a necessary evil. If this is the case, I can hardly blame them, and I will amp up my obnoxious behavior so I become violently hated, not quietly tolerated.
The second dumb thing I said was that besides my family, everyone in my hometown should be drowned in the river like extra kittens. People seemed a little creeped out by this comment. After careful consideration, I am going to revise that comment. Forty percent of the people in my hometown should be executed by firing squad. It's not such a bad place by tiny town standards, and a certain love/hate relationship will always exist. It is a complex, twisted, weird ball of reactions my hometown rustles up in me, and if you grew up there, you might understand my morbid outburst.
As far as my promise to hold cockfights in my backyard as soon as I purchase a house, and my call for every graduate student to drop out of school, I still tentatively stand by both drunken exclamations. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to watch a video conversation between Zach Braff and Kevin Smith on MySpace. I wonder if they're going to cover such topics as whether a Jedi light saber could pierce Frodo Baggins's anus-matrix, how one can make it through the trailer for "Garden State" without hemorrhaging angry blood-vomit, why Kevin Smith is such a talentless douche, or why Zach Braff's name sounds like a fart (e.g. "I just zach-braffed so hard that I had to change my underwear.")

I'm going to D.C. in a few days for my summer vacation, so I probably won't post for several days. The August caption contest may be postponed a day or two. I will close with a rare excerpt from a transcript of a live Grandfatha Klock show:

"(yells at crowd to keep it down, inhales oxygen from nearby tank)
Let me tell you suckas what GK is about
My Lincoln Town Car is all pimped out

I was raised on a farm but my name ain't Cletus
Been droppin' dope beats since Lillian Gish was a fetus

Bust it
(spins on back for one hour)"

See you later, friends.

A guest post from the world's oldest rapper, Grandfatha Klock

Grandfatha Klock, c. 1997

Yo.

My name is Grandfatha Klock and you better recognize
Cooling on the windowsill are three blueberry pies

Taking out rappers like a lyrical sniper
Even though I'm wearing an adult diaper

I own my own home--I don't need to take out a loan
I use a telegraph machine, not a cellular phone

People think hip-hop begins and ends with Tupac and Jay-Z
But I've been droppin' rhymes since issues one of Mad, Cracked, and Krazy

The bitches all love my phat Social Security checks
But I need to take Viagra when I want to have sex

My mobility is limited and my skin looks like a troll's
The first book I ever read was the Dead Sea Scrolls

I'm the world's oldest rapper, from my rhymes you've all been looting
I use my Rascal scooter when I need to do a drive-by shooting

I'm old, beeyatch!

Yeah, boyee! Grandfatha Klock in the house!

Grandfatha Klock will be performing at the Hip-Hopatorium in Grand Rapids, Michigan August 3, 4, and 5, weather permitting

Expressway to yrAnus

Phrases taken out of context from a collection of philosophical investigations of Jean-Francois Lyotard's The Differend that I have been proofreading at work:

solar anus

mad anus

haunted by the ring of the anus

anus-matrix

Caption contest winner

Hey, everybody. The winning name has just been pulled from the hat. July's CD winner is Krouchdog! Congratulations on your random victory, Krouchdog. Email or Myspace me your new address since you just moved/are moving.

Tales of small town life

"He [Reverend Hightower] still kept the cook, a negro woman. He had had her all the time. But they told Byron how as soon as his wife was dead, the people seemed to realize all at once that the negro was a woman, that he had that negro woman in the house alone with him all day. And how the wife was hardly cold in the shameful grave before the whispering began. About how he had made his wife go bad and commit suicide because he was not a natural husband, a natural man, and that the negro woman was the reason. And that's all it took; all that was lacking. Byron listened quietly, thinking to himself how people everywhere are about the same, but that it did seem that in a small town, where evil is harder to accomplish, where opportunities for privacy are scarcer, that people can invent more of it in other people's names. Because that was all it required: that idea, that single idle word blown from mind to mind."
-- from Light in August by William Faulkner

This passage in the Faulkner book jumped out at me when I read it last week. It reminded me, generally, of what private life means in a small town, which had already been on my mind for a few weeks because of the reemergence of a couple of false stories about me (thankfully much more benign than in the Faulkner novel). My reputation was hardly tarnished by the well-meaning but imaginary fluff said about me, but other people weren't so lucky. I particularly remember two stories spreading through town while I was in high school, one about a man caught screwing a pig in a barn during a cattle branding, the other about a twentysomething woman "allowing" thirty guys to gangrape her at a party. The line stretched out the door and down the block, apparently. She was mercilessly taunted for close to three years by school kids, and her first and middle name became slang for "whore" the entire time I was in high school. I always wondered why nobody said anything about the two men from my town who were named in the story as being a part of the gangrape. Everyone in my hometown, at one time or another, has had something untrue spread about him or her, but the most malicious gossip seems to be reserved for those who are poor, not very bright, and/or a little odd. This was the case for both the alleged pigfucker and gangbangee. Both stories were, most likely, complete bullshit, and probably everyone repeating them at least suspected as much, but the idle words blew back and forth from mind to mind for a long, long time. Then they stopped, as abruptly as they started. Faulkner had something to say about this, too, in the same novel: "But Byron believed that even the ones who said this did not believe it. He believed that the town had had the habit of saying things about the disgraced minister which they did not believe themselves, for too long a time to break themselves of it."
Former classmates of mine have a habit of repeating a story about me that never happened. I've tried to set them straight so often that I no longer bother to correct them. They don't listen. What can I do? The fake story is funnier than the boring truth, so I don't have a lot of convincing ammo. It "took place" the first time I ever got drunk. I was newly 16 and at a large (for my hometown's standards) house party. It was Homecoming weekend, and the football game had been snowed out, so the party had become much bigger and started much earlier than planned. It was a few miles out in the country. I had just finished my shift at the grocery store where I worked, and I called my friends to give me a ride to the party. (I didn't have a car.) Unfortunately, because of the cancelled game, they were already at the party. I walked to Main Street in the snow and waited until someone my age drove by, flagged them down, and got a ride. I was one of the last people at the party, and I was a little too exuberant. My previous maximum beer intake was a modest three. College kids were at this party, home for the weekend. I attempted to keep up with them. I hit the booze with gusto, relish, and determination. I had about 11 beers in an hour, plus a couple of shots. Picture me then. I was about 101 pounds and newly 16. Sometime in the next hour, I passed out. Then I woke up and vomited. Then I passed out again. Then I woke up and vomited some more. Then I blacked out, for the only time in my life. I remember brief splotches of vomiting, giggling, and dancing to Cypress Hill. I remember someone carrying me out of the house and hitting my head on the ceiling and door frame. I had bruises on my head the next morning. I remember it starting to snow, and vomiting in the snow. Then a friend drove me home. Pretty standard stupid teenage first-time drunk life lessons learned, am I right? Then the story begins, and the reality gets even more dull. After my friend dropped me off, I walked to the back door of my parents' house. It was usually unlocked to let the dog in and out in the middle of the night, and it presented a straight shot to the basement stairs and my bedroom. Unfortunately, the back door was locked. I walked to the front door. I tried to open it. It was locked. My friends' car was gone. It was snowing. I had no choice but to knock on the door. My dad was up having a midnight snack, and let me in. He apologized for locking me out, then noticed the state I was in and got pissed off. When my dad gets pissed off, he is impossible to take seriously. I told him I wasn't drunk, just sleepy, and went to bed. The End. Somehow, though I explained how I was locked out to many friends and classmates, I was made fun of for the next two years for walking up to my unlocked front door and ringing the doorbell. When I walked down the hallway at school, people would ask me if I rang my doorbell today. When I was in town for my dad's wedding last year, I was asked at the bar by a former classmate's uncle if I remembered ringing my own doorbell. If you look at my MySpace page, a high school friend has left a comment on my page saying she remembers me ringing my own doorbell. Obviously, this doorbell story has really stuck with these people. I guess they can have it.
My mother ran into a former grade school teacher of mine a few weeks ago. This former teacher is a nice old woman, but she is not immune to the charms of a fabricated story. She asked my mother how and what I was doing. Then she told my mother that she remembered how, during recess, I sat against the wall and read books while the other kids played. This is colossal bullshit. I was on the merry-go-rounds, tires, swings, slide, basketball court, kickball area every recess. I played four-square. I did not read books during recess! I loved to read, still do, and as a child, I was very enthusiastic about telling everyone I met about the books I was reading (this was before I learned that enthusiasm about anything other than work, money, and sports generates suspicion and hostility), but come on, lady! Just because I was apparently one of the only males in Bridgeport who read books, people have to talk shit. I know you mean well, but you're making me look like an even bigger dork than I was/am.
Now that I come to the end of my rambling tale of gossip, I wonder if it is a tale of small town life, or a tale of human nature in general. We are all constantly full of shit. But are small towns filled with different shit than cities? In the city, at least, you can live a private life, but what about your neighbors? Your coworkers? What are you saying about them? What are they saying about you? What are you saying about me? I know what I'm saying about you. You're a lot of fun, but, damn, you need to stop being such a whore. And you smoke way too much pot. And your dog never stops barking. I also heard you had gonorrhea once. And you secretly have a Dave Matthews CD in your car. It's inside a Modest Mouse case.

The time to mourn Syd Barrett has ended. Ric Flair week continues

Mid-1980s Ric Flair had a weird fixation on training bras.

RIP Syd Barrett

Just when you thought it was over ... more Ric Flair! Whoooo!

July caption contest

Rules: Post a photo caption in comment form for this blog entry. July 15 is the last day to enter. A winner will be drawn out of a hat on the 16th. The winner gets a lovingly hand-crafted, wood-fired, flame-broiled compilation CD forged from the darkest recesses of Dr. Mystery's loins and/or psyche. The CD will also have a limited-edition-of-one cover. It is possible that the CD will contain at least one song by Hollywood legend Eddie Murphy. It is also possible that this will most decidedly not be the case. You can't win if you don't play. Good luck, losers.