Always Drunk

Video Saturday: Propinquity

2012-02-11T11:08:00.000-06:00

It was twenty years ago this month (and damned if I can remember the exact date) that Bestest Friend and I saw Michael Nesmith perform in Boston. It was absolutely freaking magical.

Complete aside: If you haven't seen the episode of "The Monkees"
where Nesmith interviews Frank Zappa, you have zero credibility
with me. (Go YouTube it. I'm busy.)

This is how the mind works: I don't remember the date of the show, or the venue (it was a very small club with a funky vibe, which probably narrows it down to about 300 places in Boston), but I remember that I wore an oversized tweed jacket with shoulder pads, a short blue skirt, tights, and a very Hilary-esque headband. It was 1992, but fashion was still stuck in the 80s.

OMG, slap a headband on the model on the right,
and basically I was wearing the outfit from this
1992 sewing pattern. Wow.

Anyway, the Nez had released two greatest hits CDs - The Newer Stuff and The Older Stuff. And in the bizarre quantum mathematics of time, the stuff on The Newer Stuff is now older than the stuff on The Older Stuff was then. Please tell me that makes sense - all I've had for breakfast is coffee and frosting (don't ask). But he was touring in support of The Older Stuff, which he actually released after The Newer Stuff. That's it, I'm ending this paragraph now.

Part of the reason my memory of the show is so spotty is that I was sick as a dog that weekend. But I had spent some ungodly amount of money on a plane ticket at a time when I was actually unemployed, and I was in the coolest city on the planet (almost) with my Bestest Friend, and I wasn't going to let the fact that it was February in Boston and I had the flu stop me from enjoying myself. I do recall fighting to get a seat at the bar because I could barely stand and then absolutely bitching out some chick who waltzed in at the last moment and stationed herself directly in my line of sight. I don't like confrontation, but I was running a fever and she was blocking my view of Michael Nesmith. Bitch.

Do not mess with me. Srsly.

One of my all-time favorite songs - not just by Michael Nesmith but by anybody - is "Propinquity (I've Just Begun to Care)." The Nez is a vastly talented and intelligent man, but he's also a bit of a pedant. He once bragged in an interview that he had used the word "impel" in a pop song. A wee bit pretentious in the lyrics department, is what I'm saying. Which is fine, because it's resulted in some amazing songwriting over the years. I mean, "Propinquity"? C'mon, Mike. If you mean "close proximity or kinship," then just say it. Especially since you don't actually use the title word anywhere in the song.

A lyrical affectation we refer to as "Led Zeppelin Syndrome."

However, it's a gorgeous, gorgeous song. I found this absolutely lovely live version of it to share with you today, but by all means seek out the original version he recorded with the First National Band on Nevada Fighter (1971). Beautiful song, great melody, perfect lyrics, and that beautiful, distinctive voice.

Pompous-ass title. But I can work with that. Enjoy.

Friday Singerie

2012-02-10T13:36:00.000-06:00

I think I've shown great restraint in not indulging my deep and bewildering love of monkey art in this space recently.

I'll drink to that.
(Monkeys Drinking and Smoking in a Tavern,
in the style of David Tenier the Younger.)

And I'll continue to show restraint. Today I'm only going to put up a few images of monkeys wearing adorable people clothes and doing people things.

I might actually buy cabbage if this simian gentleman were the proprietor.
(Monkey in a Market, George Lance)

I feel it is totally necessary at this time to post a picture of a monkey barbershop in which all the customers are cats.

This seems unlikely, but there are actually a lot of paintings on this very theme.
(Monkey Barbership with Cats, Abraham Teniers)

But not all singerie depict monkeys engaged in human activity. Here's one that shows a monkey doing a very monkeyish thing. While dressed in people clothes.

Yeah, yeah, wait your turn. I can only pick so many nits.
(Circus Friends, Joos Vincent de Vos)

Why, you ask? Why am I so fond of this rich and beautiful artistic genre?

More cats. Singing cats. With jazzbo monkeys. You have to ask?
(Katzenkonzert, David Teniers)

Because it is full of awesome.

Monkey freaking Knife freaking Fight.
Anonymous but epic.

Sadly, I have not yet achieved my dream of acquiring a framed print of Edmund Bristow's "Before the Monkey Duel" for my formal living/dining room. But sometimes dreams are sweeter for going unfulfilled.

And sometimes they're all Holy crap I want this now!
You know, it just depends.

This is who I am, people. Love me, love my monkey art. And make sure I stay on my meds. Because sometimes the monkeys talk to me late at night.

Um, you can ignore that part.

Unless you can't.

Because I can't.

The monkeys are telling me to stop writing now.

Rats

2012-02-09T15:21:00.000-06:00

Precocious Daughter wants a pet rat. Actually, she wants more than one. They're social creatures, she says.

Which I guess makes the black plague a social disease.

Beloved Spouse and I are on the fence about this. Actually, I'm on the fence. BelSpouse is several hundred yards away from the fence in case any of those damn filthy rats decide to climb over it.

Hi, neighbor! Borrow a cup of feces?

I'm slightly more in favor of the idea than he is, is what I'm saying. PDaughter's cousin had a couple of pet rats for a while, and once I got roped into taking care of them for several days. After I got over my initial revulsion, and as PDaughter is now very fond of pointing out, I bonded with the little critters. They were cute and funny and affectionate, even if they did have beady eyes and sharp little claw-hands and long, naked tails oh God those scaly hairless tails...

What, this thing? Pshaw, you'll get used to it.
And its clammy supple embrace around your neck late at night.

It's hard for even a rational, educated mind to get over the rat's longstanding reputation as voracious, disease-spreading vermin. For my mind it's even harder. Where I come from, rats weren't pets. They weren't cute. And you didn't give them names like "Snickers." So when I think of a rat, I think of something like this:

Only uglier and approximately three feet long.

Whereas PDaughter visualizes something more like this:

It's adorable until he gnaws the head off that teddy bear.

Now, I know intellectually that the truth is somewhere in the middle.

Rattus norvegicus.
From the Latin for "serve with vegetables."

And I know that other than their name and slightly larger size, domestic rats are no different from hamsters or gerbils or any other pet rodent that BelSpouse and I might be more readily amenable to having take up residence mere feet from our daughter's tender flesh. Maybe it's just the name. Maybe the household variety of rat should be called something else, to differentiate it from the disgusting flea-infested pests whose mere presence causes restaurants to close down and housekeepers to get bad reputations.

Something like "gutterbunnies." Or "scuttlepuppies." Or "Manhattan retrievers."

Or rodenticus Jethrotullicus.

I don't know. PDaughter swears she'll save up the money for the rats and their habitat, and she'll take excellent care of them, i.e., not let the cats gobble them up two days after she gets them. Of course, no matter how happy and well cared for they are, the rats will die after a while - maybe a year or two. And then I'll have dead rats in my house and a daughter crying her eyes out over dead rats.

They don't teach you how to handle this stuff in parenting classes.

OK, I've got diapering down.
Now what do I do about dead rats in the kid's bedroom?

On the other hand, they don't scam, don't fight, don't oppress an equal's given rights. So there's that.

According to noted animal behaviorist Edward Vedder.

I don't know. Rats or no rats? We're going to have to sit down and discuss this as a family before making a decision. In the meantime, however, I've noticed that PDaughter is being very nice to me and volunteering to do all sorts of chores in between her pleas for pet rodents.

So this decision may take quite a while to make, is what I'm saying.

Toad...Or Hypno-Toad?

2012-02-08T12:45:00.000-06:00

So I was perusing the frog display at my local Hobby Lobby the other day.

There's a sentence that just doesn't get uttered often enough.

ONE-QUARTER of the freakishly large frog selection available at Hobby Lobby.

Since Hobby Lobby is a very Goddy store - not open on Sundays, and you can buy mints with little Bible verses on them if you think that fresh breath will help you get into Heaven - I can only presume that Jesus really, really likes frogs. And Anne Geddes prints.

No one ever accused our Lord and Savior of knowing shit about art.

So anyway, there's this huge green mountain of frogs at Hobby Lobby. Frogs for your lawn, frogs for your garden, frogs for your table. All doing more or less cute, whimsical, froggy things.

Except this one, which seems to have encountered
a genetic malfunction in the zygotal phase.
I don't know, maybe you're an aficionado of that niche market.

They have a lot of goddamn frogs, is what I'm saying. In fact, what initially drew me to the Frogstravaganza was the sight of the elusive Left-Handed Singing Cowboy Frog.

"I fell into a burning swamp of flies..."

All frogs are left-handed musicians, of course.

Including Kermit, shown here playing (ahem)
"Froggy Mountain Breakdown."

I appreciated the anatomical accuracy. What can I say, I'm a bit of a muscial frog snob.

But then something sitting next to Green Autry caught my eye. (OK, I'll stop with the frog puns. Soon. Unless I think of another one.)

Of course it caught my eye. It was...Hypnotoad!

All glory to the Hypnotoad. Er, and Jesus. Yeah.

Clever Hypnotoad, assuming a realistic molded-resin frog appearance to blend in among the lesser Earth creatures of its species. Before I knew it, I was in thrall to its bulbous, pulsating eyes. I might have stood there forever, awaiting its hypnotic commands to do its glorious bidding, when I was saved by a vision from above.

Saved by...Rasta Gnome.

At first I thought it was Jesus, because of the sandals
and the beard. But everyone knows Jesus wasn't black.

Having successfully broken free of the mesmerizing gaze of the incognito Hypnotoad, I was able to get the frog out of there. It was a frightening experience. Next time I go to Hobby Lobby, I'll steer clear of the frog display. After that, I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot tadpole.

OK, I'm done with the puns. Really. I'm not amphibian.

It was one of Hypnotoad's.

Whip It Good

2012-02-07T13:27:00.000-06:00

As you may have heard, former Brat Pack actor and cougar icon Demi Moore is in rehab following a highly-publicized incident in which her daughter and a friend called 911 to report that Ms. Moore was having seizures caused by substance abuse.

She will always, always, always be Jules
in St. Elmo's Fire to me. And Jackie Templeton from
"General Hospital." But mostly Jules.

The substance turned out to be...whip-its.

No, no.

Demi Moore is a freaking beautiful, freaking rich, freaking middle-aged woman, and she was doing whip-its.

There you go.

That's...desperate and sad, really.

Whip-its are the little canisters of nitrous oxide that, among other things, make whipped cream come shooting out of the can all fluffy. Nitrous oxide is laughing gas. Of course.

Breathe deep, and you won't care that none of this is covered by insurance.

When I used to work at Baskin-Robbins, there was a little fridge under the counter that held cans and cans of whipped cream for sundaes and banana splits and the occasional snack. And if you were working a shift without the boss, and there were no customers, you could help yourself to a couple of snorts of nitrous from one (or two) of the cans for a quick, free buzz. You had to be careful, because if you used up all the juice, the next person who actually wanted to dispense whipped cream would end up dribbling non-whipped creamy goo all over someone's brownie fudge sundae. And if that person was the boss, who knew damn well that twelve straight cans of whipped cream couldn't be defective, there was trouble.

Still, it was great fun. Because I was 14.

When I was 14, this was the coolest thing
anybody had ever seen.

I moved on pretty quickly from sucking nitrous oxide. Eventually I discovered there were other drugs that worked better, lasted longer, and didn't cut off the oxygen supply to my brain. Some of them were even legal.

All of these, totally legal. What a country!

The thought of being a 49-year-old woman with a successful Hollywood career and a ton of money and still thinking that huffing is a cool way to spend an evening is...did I already say desperate and sad?

Totally unrelated aside: If you Google "desperate and sad,"
you get a picture of Glenn Beck. Srsly.

I do feel bad for Demi, who clearly is in a bad way and is grappling with other issues besides a hankering for getting high like an adolescent boy with a black-light Led Zeppelin poster taped to his bedroom wall. She's getting help, and I applaud her for that and wish her the best.

That said, how often do I get to feel superior
to someone who looks like this, right?

If you're still a little confused about whip-its, gawker.com posted this great article on the subject. It's extremely specific and accurate on the hows and whys of sucking nitrous recreationally. DO NOT DO WHAT IT SAYS. Really. Go to your doctor and get a prescription for painkillers or something safe and natural like that, OK? Huffing is bad.

Don't even think of huffing your cat.

And Demi...if this is about losing Ashton? Girl, please. That ain't worth the dead brain cells.

A Helpful Flowchart

2012-02-06T15:07:00.000-06:00

Everybody has to have a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

If you're Catholic, and you're not actually in the process of receiving Last Rites, here's yours.

I may need to become a Buddhist.

Hey, here's a Buddhist joke:

What did the Buddhist say to the hot-dog vendor?

"Make me one with everything."

This chart probably works for Jews, too. I don't think Protestants feel guilt - they rely on work ethic and God's grace to get them up in the morning, I guess. Republicans wake up when the sun rises on a new day to blame the world's problems on President Obama. And apparently Eli Manning wakes up when he smells someone about to hand him the keys to a new Corvette.

It's one of those Mondays, people. Hope yours is happy, happy, happy.

Video Saturday: Have Mercy Baby

2012-02-04T09:55:00.000-06:00

Oh my, I found a treat today.

I was trolling YouTube for a live performance by the great Clyde McPhatter. Which, it turns out, is not an easy thing to find. But when I did, I hit the jackpot. I found a clip from a Bobby Darin special that aired in the UK in 1960.

Wait, what? Bobby Darin and Clyde McPhatter? I know this is going to sound terribly obscure to Drunkards who are under, say, 150 years old, but I'm not sure there are any two greater voices from early rock and roll than those of Bobby Darin and Clyde McPhatter. These two great talents both died tragically young and about a year apart. Their legacies are immeasurable. Do you dig Michael Buble? Thank Bobby Darin. Do you love Bruno Mars? He's got that Clyde McPhatter high tenor down. Seriously, these cats are canon.

Yeah, I'm gushing.

So rather than listening to me, here's Clyde McPhatter with Bobby Darin providing wicked piano and vocal accompaniment on "Have Mercy Baby" (from Clyde's days with the Dominoes). Love love LOVE.

Eight Cool Things About Octopuses

2012-02-03T15:30:00.000-06:00

There's so much going on in the world right now. The Komen Foundation has reversed its boneheaded, politically-motivated decision to defund Planned Parenthood. Israel is planning to attack Iran over its nuclear capabilities. Michelle Obama is doing pushups on "Ellen."

It's all kind of overwhelming.

So instead of commenting on any of those things, I'm going to write about octopuses.

Do you know all the parts of an octopus?
Well, DO YOU?

The octopus is one badass cephalopod mollusc. They're intelligent, sophisticated, powerful creatures who probably would never deny underserved women access to breast cancer screenings because of pressure from short-sighted right-wing idealogues. Not according to my research, anyway.

But octopuses (not "octopi," a common misconception based on the incorrect assumption that "octopus" is a second declension Latin noun - au contraire, tentacle breath) have some amazing talents. I'm going to share eight of them with you, one for each arm, although recent scholarship suggests that two of the tentacles might be more accurately classified as legs based on structure and usage.

See, you can be a geek about anything. Here we go.

1. Octopuses can predict the outcome of professional sporting events.

RIP, Paul the Octopus.

2. Octopuses can totally kill and eat sharks.

Mega-shark vs. Giant Octopus? Not even a contest.

3. Octopuses are wicked cute when they're tiny babies.

I would so pay a quarter to get one of these out of a gumball machine.

4. Octopuses can do the Rubik's Cube.

Full disclosure: They rarely actually get more than four sides.
(And yes, that is a real photograph of a 'pus working a Rubik's Cube.)

5. Octopuses know how not to be seen...

There is totally an octopus smack dab in the middle of this picture.

6. ...but if they do want to be seen, they have freaking neon in their bodies.

Place a few of these around the living room, and you've got a party.

7. Some octopuses like to chill inside coconut shells.

Take that, hermit crabs! You ain't all that with your spiral shells.

8. Octopuses can do this to you if you get in their way.

Holy crap! What a sucker! (Sorry, couldn't resist.)

I found it very relaxing to write about our friend the octopus today. Much better than trying to make sense of all the weirdness going on in the world this week.

Oh, and God, please help Tom Brady win the Super Bowl, amen.

See what I mean?

Feeling Shellfish (See What I Did There?)

2012-02-02T11:43:00.001-06:00

Some days you just feel like telling everyone to leave you the f*&%! alone. The danger is that everyone will take you at your word.

But what are you going to do? Any little kid will tell you that she understands perfectly well that the Bactine will make the skinned knee feel better. But first it will sting like a bitch for about five seconds, and those five seconds of agony MUST BE AVOIDED AT ANY COST. It's hard to take the long view when you're staring down a bottle of Bactine.

That's why some days, even though the last - the very last - thing you need is to be left alone to your own reckless thoughts and irrational feelings, you will tell everyone to leave you the f*&%! alone. Because you totally mean it. You'll find the damn bottle of Bactine yourself later. And bitch about how you have to squirt it on all by yourself because no one is there to help. Because you told everyone to leave you the f*&%! alone. Which you totally meant at that moment.

I'm in my shell right now. But my pincers are ready to go. To keep away the predators, the haters, the evildoers, and of course the people who love me and want to help. Because it's all or nothing inside the shell.

Go feast on someone else's tender flesh. Crab is off the menu today.

Maybe tomorrow...if you're still here.

Douchebags Now Available in Pink

2012-02-01T13:52:00.000-06:00

I was going to blog about the Komen Foundation's mind-boggling decision to stop funding breast cancer screenings at Planned Parenthood locations. But nothing I could rant, rave, or bluster would say it better than this:

Thank you, someecards.com. Thank you, Riley's Mom, for putting it on your Facebook page so I could steal it.

SHARE THIS, DRUNKARDS. Srsly.

Update to Yesterday's Post (Before I Have a Heart Attack and Die)

2012-02-01T11:28:00.000-06:00

You may recall that yesterday I wrote about the teeny-tiny shorts that Precocious Daughter and I spotted in the juniors' department at Target last weekend.

Yeah, those.

I mentioned that neither PDaughter nor I get our own clothes from the juniors' department. I have too many curves to squeeze into those sizes, and she doesn't have enough. She's just a wee little girl. Yes, 12 is a wee little girl, when it's my daughter and my blog. She was out of diapers yesterday.

"Yesterday" is metaphorical for literary effect.
PDaughter would like you to know.

Last night I bought my baby girl a new pair of jeans that she spotted and thought were were really cute and begged me to get them for her. And they were indeed cute and fit her well, so I bought them.

From the juniors' department.

This is the big one.

Oh, crap.

Nooooooooo!

Really?

I don't feel so well just now.

But...if my little girl is shopping where the teenagers shop, what does that make me?

Oh yeah, you old.

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to take some Metamucil and have a lie-down now. Maybe catch some "Matlock" repeats later.

I'm sure I'll feel better after a little nap.

I'm coming, Elizabeth.

A Short Short SHORT Post

2012-01-31T11:53:00.000-06:00

Precocious Daughter and I were shopping at Target the other day when we saw this in the juniors' clothing section:

Shown just about actual size.

To clarify, neither PDaughter nor I actually shop in the juniors' department. She's still in kiddo sizes (despite her budding figure that makes me very, very nervous on a daily basis), and I haven't been that size or shape since...well, ever. When puberty hit, my peasant lineage came through with a vengeance. There was no way I was ever going to have the slim-hipped, flat-bootied roller-disco body that was in all the ads for Jordache and Chic jeans circa 1980. I had curves, so I went straight to misses' sizes, where I've stayed to this day.

For the record, I'm fine with curves.
Remember that.

Anyway, PDaughter and I both stopped in our tracks when we saw these shorts.

Here they are again. They haven't gotten any longer.

I totally admit, my first thought on seeing these was, "What kind of mother would let her daughter wear those?" My second thought was, "My daughter is never, ever going to go out in public in those." And my third thought was, "Damn, I wish I could wear those."

The thing is, almost nobody can wear shorts like these. Including 9 out of 10 people who actually wear them. This is the tenth person:

Male readers: She's not into you. Trust me.

These are the other nine:

Note: No matter which type of body my child ends up with - and it matters not one bit which she ends up with, as long as she's happy and healthy - she is never going out in public in those shorts. Not while she's living under my roof, not after she moves out and makes her own decisions, not as long as I can somehow contact her from beyond the grave. As a mother, I won't let someone I love desecrate the temple of her body by making it look that slutty and/or hideous.

I said I wished I could wear them. I didn't say I would.

I've seen young women wearing shorts like these over leggings or tights so that their ass cheeks weren't blushing for all the world to see. That fashion choice doesn't really placate me. I think the only way I'd let PDaughter rock that look was if she were wearing them over an entirely separate pair of pants. Preferably made of heavy canvas and embroidered with the Lord's Prayer. And covered by a knee-length shirt.

Oh, dear. I think my hair just
spontaneously went up in a bun.

By the way, the shorts I photographed were a size 3. They were available up to size 17. Now, I'm not saying that there aren't beautiful women out there with hot, toned bodies that just happen to be a size 17. I'm sure there are. I'm also pretty sure they're not the ones buying these shorts.

Based purely on unscientific observations, you understand.

Thankfully, PDaughter's reaction to the Target short-short-shorts was almost as goggle-eyed as mine. She's still a little kid at heart, with a healthy dose of modesty thanks to her own peasant lineage. That could change when the hormones start pouring in. She might decide that shorts with an inseam that can be measured in millimeters is just the thing she wants to wear. Along with piercings, black eyeliner, and whatever's on sale at Hot Topic that week. Of course, for her own good, I'll say hell no.

Or better yet, I'll say sure...but only if I get to wear them, too. Out in public, at her side, preferably to a PTA meeting.

Or the skating rink.
(True story: I owned those exact skates.)

Sometimes I really, really, really love being a mom.

Five Funny Things Monday

2012-01-30T14:50:00.000-06:00

I need a good laugh.

Or an evil laugh.
I'm not particular.

The point is, I went looking for some funny stuff. Because life isn't always funny. But it's better when it is.

So here are five things I thought were funny today.

#1 - Funny Thing: Celebrity Edition

This is Tom Cruise as he will appear in the movie version of the 80s-set musical Rock of Ages.

The tattoos are pretty hilarious, as is the rock-star O-face pose. But the funniest part is that if you look really close, you can see a little bit of fuzz just above the waist of his low-slung rock-star pants.

Because the idea that this movie is being marketed to ~~women~~ people who might really want to see Tom Cruise's supra-pubes is funny.

#2 - Funny Thing: Reptile Edition

No one should smoke cigarettes. They're expensive, unhealthy, and they make you smell nasty. But they make you look way cool, so what are you going to do? I mean, check out this hot scaly dude right up here. He. Is. Awesome. I think I'm in love with this bad boy. Hey, baby, need a light? Smoking snake = funny.

#3 - Funny Thing: Lolcat Edition

Everyone knows that saying "pew pew pew" as if you're holding a laser blaster is inherently amusing. Admit it, you've made this sound-effects noise and pretended to shoot aliens or space-rats or something. Yes, you have. You were probably drunk. But you weren't this cute, so you weren't this funny.

#4 - Funny Thing: Media Edition

This is very, very wrong. But every time I look at it I crack up. No, it's not racist - it would be just as funny if it were a white rapist who looked like a white newscaster. As someone should tell the bozos on Fox News, it ain't funny just because you're making fun of a black dude. But it is funny.

#5 - Funny Thing: Consumer Products Edition

The sheer exuberance of this item makes me smile. Here is a product that knows what it what was made to do and takes great pride in it. I hope it was made in America, because I hate to think the Chinese have beaten us in the critical realm of Products That Self-Reference Their Own Effectiveness. Also, I have to find a way to work a similar tagline into my resume - "Experienced Office Manager: Great for Managing Offices!"

Yeah, just five things. There are probably more, but I want to pace myself. I'll probably need to laugh again later in the week.

And I don't have any weed.

Video Saturday: Life By the Drop

2012-01-28T09:31:00.000-06:00

There are a lot of ways to get to where you're going, and no guarantees you'll ever find the right path.

Another (Completely Insane) Fairy Tale (That Made My Jaw Drop)

2012-01-27T14:18:00.000-06:00

I promise you, I'm not turning this blog into a repository for bizarre and obscure fairy tales. But I found another one I had to share.

This dear child will require years of powerful Adlerian therapy.

I love fairy tales, if you hadn't guessed. In the course of getting a liberal arts degree about 200 years ago, I spent two solid years doing little but watching movies, looking at art, and reading myths and fairy tales. For credit! After which they gave me a degree just as if I had studied something useful!

Q: Which one is the liberal arts graduate?
A: The one taking the picture, working as a photographer for minimum wage.

Anyway, I've had a soft spot for fairy tales since I was a kid. Being a strange little person, the "happily ever after" part never interested me as much as the hardships and whacked-out plot twists that led up to it. When I got older, I was thrilled to discover that the Disney versions of those stories weren't exactly canon. The real tales - the ones collected by the Brothers Grimm and other folklorists, who got them straight from the miserable peasants who created them - are full of violence and political satire and are dark, dark, dark. They're infused with history and black magic and abstruse symbolism that kept their makers from having their heads lopped off when the local liege discovered he was being ruthlessly mocked by his subjects.

Thanks to the Internet, there are literally hundreds of fairy tales in thousands of incarnations at my fingertips. I really could turn this blog into nothing but a Creepy Old Story A Day site. But I'd miss writing about how much I hate onions, so I won't.

And they'd miss me, the evil bastards.

But I read this obscure little story online today, and it tickled me so much that I wanted to share it. I wanted you all to see just what kind of sick, twisted fairy tales make me smile. Just barely coincidentally, like yesterday's story of the monkey and the crab, this one has a rather timely message for this election year. It's the same message we hear couched in every candidate's rhetoric, although usually not nearly this blatantly (or entertainingly): Stay in Your Place, Don't Listen to Outsiders, and You Will Die a Horrible Death. Maybe the last one is less political and more just the result of having been created by medieval peasants who expected to die in their own filth before the age of 40. Or maybe not.

Let's not forget Rick Santorum's "You're All Going to Hell in 2012" platform.

So please enjoy today's fairy tale. I've got to go appreciate some art. Don't worry, I'm a professional. I've got a degree.

The Mouse, The Bird, and the Sausage

Once upon a time a mouse, a bird, and a sausage became companions, kept house together, lived well and happily in peace, and wonderfully increased their possessions. The bird's work was to fly every day into the forest and bring back wood. The mouse had to carry water, light the fire, and lay the table, but the sausage had to cook.

He who is too well off is always longing for something new. One day the bird met with another bird, to whom it related its excellent circumstances and boasted of them. The other bird, however, called it a poor simpleton for his hard work, but said that the two at home had good times. For when the mouse had made her fire and carried her water, she went into her little room to rest until they called her to lay the table. The sausage stayed by the pot, saw that the food was cooking well, and, when it was nearly time for dinner, it rolled itself once or twice through the broth or vegetables and then they were buttered, salted, and ready. When the bird came home and laid his burden down, they sat down to dinner, and after they had had their meal, they slept their fill till next morning, and that was a splendid life.

Next day the bird, prompted by the other bird, would go no more into the wood, saying that he had been servant long enough, and had been made a fool of by them, and that they must change about for once, and try to arrange it in another way. And, though the mouse and the sausage also begged most earnestly, the bird would have his way, and said it must be tried. They cast lots about it, and the lot fell on the sausage who was to carry wood, the mouse became cook, and the bird was to fetch water.

What happened? The little sausage went out towards the wood, the little bird lighted the fire, the mouse stayed by the pot and waited alone until little sausage came home and brought wood for next day. But the little sausage stayed so long on the road that they both feared something was amiss, and the bird flew out a little way in the air to meet it. Not far off, however, it met a dog on the road who had fallen on the poor sausage as lawful booty, and had seized and swallowed it. The bird charged the dog with an act of bare-faced robbery, but words were useless, for the dog said he had found forged letters on the sausage, on which account its life was forfeited to him.

The bird sadly took up the wood, flew home, and related what he had seen and heard. They were much troubled, but agreed to do their best and remain together. The bird therefore laid the table, and the mouse made ready the food, and wanted to dress it, and to get into the pot as the sausage used to do, and roll and creep amongst the vegetables to mix them. But before she got into the midst of them she was stopped, and lost her skin and hair and life in the attempt.

When the bird came to carry in the dinner, no cook was there. In its distress the bird threw the wood here and there, called and searched, but no cook was to be found. Owing to his carelessness the wood caught fire, so that a conflagration broke out. The bird hastened to fetch water, but the bucket dropped into the well, and he fell in with it, and could not recover himself, but had to drown there.

----------

Uh...And that's what happens when we let people make up their own minds about what they want to do. The End. Yep.

A (Rather Horrifying) Fairy Tale (Which Is Why I Like It)

2012-01-26T16:33:00.000-06:00

I came across this Japanese fairy tale, and I had to share. Because it features a well-meaning crab, an evil unrepentant monkey, and horrible, sweet revenge. Which makes it just about the perfect story, although I'm not sure why anyone would tell it to a child, except perhaps some in the business of making commissions for referrals to psychotherapists. Seriously, this story is messed up. In a charming, Japanese way.

And there's probably some kind of political analogy here, too. Like ~~Democrats~~ ~~Republicans~~ ~~Tea Partiers~~ ~~Liberals~~ someone you don't like is ruining the country with their ~~profligate~~ ~~rabble-rousing~~ ~~tax-and-spend~~ ~~intolerant~~ ~~interventionist~~ agenda. I'm sure you'll see something if you squint hard enough.

Anyway, enjoy the story of The Quarrel of the Monkey and the Crab.

Long, long ago, one bright autumn day in Japan, it happened, that a pink-faced monkey and a yellow crab were playing together along the bank of a river. As they were running about, the crab found a rice-dumpling and the monkey a persimmon-seed.

The crab picked up the rice-dumpling and showed it to the monkey, saying:

"Look what a nice thing I have found!"

Then the monkey held up his persimmon-seed and said:

"I also have found something good! Look!"

Now though the monkey is always very fond of persimmon fruit, he had no use for the seed he had just found. The persimmon-seed is as hard and uneatable as a stone. He, therefore, in his greedy nature, felt very envious of the crab's nice dumpling, and he proposed an exchange. The crab naturally did not see why he should give up his prize for a hard stone-like seed, and would not consent to the monkey's proposition.

Then the cunning monkey began to persuade the crab, saying:

"How unwise you are not to think of the future! Your rice-dumpling can be eaten now, and is certainly much bigger than my seed; but if you sow this seed in the ground it will soon grow and become a great tree in a few years, and bear an abundance of fine ripe persimmons year after year. If only I could show it to you then with the yellow fruit hanging on its branches! Of course, if you don't believe me I shall sow it myself; though I am sure, later on, you will be very sorry that you did not take my advice."

The simple-minded crab could not resist the monkey's clever persuasion. He at last gave in and consented to the monkey's proposal, and the exchange was made. The greedy monkey soon gobbled up the dumpling, and with great reluctance gave up the persimmon-seed to the crab. He would have liked to keep that too, but he was afraid of making the crab angry and of being pinched by his sharp scissor-like claws. They then separated, the monkey going home to his forest trees and the crab to his stones along the river-side. As soon as the crab reached home he put the persimmon-seed in the ground as the monkey had told him.

In the following spring the crab was delighted to see the shoot of a young tree push its way up through the ground. Each year it grew bigger, till at last it blossomed one spring, and in the following autumn bore some fine large persimmons. Among the broad smooth green leaves the fruit hung like golden balls, and as they ripened they mellowed to a deep orange. It was the little crab's pleasure to go out day by day and sit in the sun and put out his long eyes in the same way as a snail puts out its horn, and watch the persimmons ripening to perfection.

"How delicious they will be to eat!" he said to himself.

At last, one day, he knew the persimmons must be quite ripe and he wanted very much to taste one. He made several attempts to climb the tree, in the vain hope of reaching one of the beautiful persimmons hanging above him; but he failed each time, for a crab's legs are not made for climbing trees but only for running along the ground and over stones, both of which he can do most cleverly. In his dilemma he thought of his old playmate the monkey, who, he knew, could climb trees better than anyone else in the world. He determined to ask the monkey to help him, and set out to find him.

Running crab-fashion up the stony river bank, over the pathways into the shadowy forest, the crab at last found the monkey taking an afternoon nap in his favorite pine-tree, with his tail curled tight around a branch to prevent him from falling off in his dreams. He was soon wide awake, however, when he heard himself called, and eagerly listening to what the crab told him. When he heard that the seed which he had long ago exchanged for a rice-dumpling had grown into a tree and was now bearing good fruit, he was delighted, for he at once devised a cunning plan which would give him all the persimmons for himself.

He consented to go with the crab to pick the fruit for him. When they both reached the spot, the monkey was astonished to see what a fine tree had sprung from the seed, and with what a number of ripe persimmons the branches were loaded.

He quickly climbed the tree and began to pluck and eat, as fast as he could, one persimmon after another. Each time he chose the best and ripest he could find, and went on eating till he could eat no more. Not one would he give to the poor hungry crab waiting below, and when he had finished there was little but the hard, unripe fruit left.

You can imagine the feelings of the poor crab after waiting patiently, for so long as he had done, for the tree to grow and the fruit to ripen, when he saw the monkey devouring all the good persimmons. He was so disappointed that he ran round and round the tree calling to the monkey to remember his promise. The monkey at first took no notice of the crab's complaints, but at last he picked out the hardest, greenest persimmon he could find and aimed it at the crab's head. The persimmon is as hard as stone when it is unripe. The monkey's missile struck home and the crab was sorely hurt by the blow. Again and again, as fast as he could pick them, the monkey pulled off the hard persimmons and threw them at the defenseless crab till he dropped dead, covered with wounds all over his body. There he lay a pitiful sight at the foot of the tree he had himself planted.

When the wicked monkey saw that he had killed the crab he ran away from the spot as fast as he could, in fear and trembling, like a coward as he was.

Now the crab had a son who had been playing with a friend not far from the spot where this sad work had taken place. On the way home he came across his father dead, in a most dreadful condition - his head was smashed and his shell broken in several places, and around his body lay the unripe persimmons which had done their deadly work. At this dreadful sight the poor young crab sat down and wept.

But when he had wept for some time he told himself that this crying would do no good; it was his duty to avenge his father's murder, and this he determined to do. He looked about for some clue which would lead him to discover the murderer. Looking up at the tree he noticed that the best fruit had gone, and that all around lay bits of peel and numerous seeds strewn on the ground as well as the unripe persimmons which had evidently been thrown at his father. Then he understood that the monkey was the murderer, for he now remembered that his father had once told him the story of the rice-dumpling and the persimmon-seed. The young crab knew that monkeys liked persimmons above all other fruit, and he felt sure that his greed for the coveted fruit had been the cause of the old crab's death. Alas!

He at first thought of going to attack the monkey at once, for he burned with rage. Second thoughts, however, told him that this was useless, for the monkey was an old and cunning animal and would be hard to overcome. He must meet cunning with cunning and ask some of his friends to help him, for he knew it would be quite out of his power to kill him alone.

The young crab set out at once to call on the mortar, his father's old friend, and told him of all that had happened. He besought the mortar with tears to help him avenge his father's death. The mortar was very sorry when he heard the woful tale and promised at once to help the young crab punish the monkey to death. He warned him that he must be very careful in what he did, for the monkey was a strong and cunning enemy. The mortar now sent to fetch the bee and the chestnut (also the crab's old friends) to consult them about the matter. In a short time the bee and the chestnut arrived. When they were told all the details of the old crab's death and of the monkey's wickedness and greed, they both gladly consented to help the young crab in his revenge.

After talking for a long time as to the ways and means of carrying out their plans they separated, and Mr. Mortar went home with the young crab to help him bury his poor father.

While all this was taking place the monkey was congratulating himself (as the wicked often do before their punishment comes upon them) on all he had done so neatly. He thought it quite a fine thing that he had robbed his friend of all his ripe persimmons and then that he had killed him. Still, smile as hard as he might, he could not banish altogether the fear of the consequences should his evil deeds be discovered. IF he were found out (and he told himself that this could not be for he had escaped unseen) the crab's family would be sure to bear him hatred and seek to take revenge on him. So he would not go out, and kept himself at home for several days. He found this kind of life, however, extremely dull, accustomed as he was to the free life of the woods, and at last he said:

"No one knows that it was I who killed the crab! I am sure that the old thing breathed his last before I left him. Dead crabs have no mouths! Who is there to tell that I am the murderer? Since no one knows, what is the use of shutting myself up and brooding over the matter? What is done cannot be undone!"

With this he wandered out into the crab settlement and crept about as slyly as possible near the crab's house and tried to hear the neighbors' gossip round about. He wanted to find out what the crabs were saying about their chief's death, for the old crab had been the chief of the tribe. But he heard nothing and said to himself:

"They are all such fools that they don't know and don't care who murdered their chief!"

Little did he know in his so-called "monkey's wisdom" that this seeming unconcern was part of the young crab's plan. He purposely pretended not to know who killed his father, and also to believe that he had met his death through his own fault. By this means he could the better keep secret the revenge on the monkey, which he was meditating.

So the monkey returned home from his walk quite content. He told himself he had nothing now to fear.

One fine day, when the monkey was sitting at home, he was surprised by the appearance of a messenger from the young crab. While he was wondering what this might mean, the messenger bowed before him and said:

"I have been sent by my master to inform you that his father died the other day in falling from a persimmon tree while trying to climb the tree after fruit. This, being the seventh day, is the first anniversary after his death, and my master has prepared a little festival in his father's honor, and bids you come to participate in it as you were one of his best friends. My master hopes you will honor his house with your kind visit."

When the monkey heard these words he rejoiced in his inmost heart, for all his fears of being suspected were now at rest. He could not guess that a plot had just been set in motion against him. He pretended to be very surprised at the news of the crab's death, and said:

"I am, indeed, very sorry to hear of your chief's death. We were great friends as you know. I remember that we once exchanged a rice- dumpling for a persimmon-seed. It grieves me much to think that that seed was in the end the cause of his death. I accept your kind invitation with many thanks. I shall be delighted to do honor to my poor old friend!" And he screwed some false tears from his eyes.

The messenger laughed inwardly and thought, "The wicked monkey is now dropping false tears, but within a short time he shall shed real ones." But aloud he thanked the monkey politely and went home.

When he had gone, the wicked monkey laughed aloud at what he thought was the young crab's innocence, and without the least feeling began to look forward to the feast to be held that day in honor of the dead crab, to which he had been invited. He changed his dress and set out solemnly to visit the young crab.

He found all the members of the crab's family and his relatives waiting to receive and welcome him. As soon as the bows of meeting were over they led him to a hall. Here the young chief mourner came to receive him. Expressions of condolence and thanks were exchanged between them, and then they all sat down to a luxurious feast and entertained the monkey as the guest of honor.

The feast over, he was next invited to the tea-ceremony room to drink a cup of tea. When the young crab had conducted the monkey to the tearoom he left him and retired. Time passed and still he did not return. At last the monkey became impatient. He said to himself:

"This tea ceremony is always a very slow affair. I am tired of waiting so long. I am very thirsty after drinking so much sake at the dinner!"

He then approached the charcoal fire-place and began to pour out some hot water from the kettle boiling there, when something burst out from the ashes with a great pop and hit the monkey right in the neck. It was the chestnut, one of the crab's friends, who had hidden himself in the fireplace. The monkey, taken by surprise, jumped backward, and then started to run out of the room.

The bee, who was hiding outside the screens, now flew out and stung him on the cheek. The monkey was in great pain, his neck was burned by the chestnut and his face badly stung by the bee, but he ran on screaming and chattering with rage.

Now the stone mortar had hidden himself with several other stones on the top of the crab's gate, and as the monkey ran underneath, the mortar and all fell down on the top of the monkey's head. Was it possible for the monkey to bear the weight of the mortar falling on him from the top of the gate? He lay crushed and in great pain, quite unable to get up. As he lay there helpless the young crab came up, and, holding his great claw scissors over the monkey, he said:

"Do you now remember that you murdered my father?"

"Then you--are--my--enemy?" gasped the monkey brokenly.

"Of course," said the young crab.

"It--was--your--father's--fault--not--mine!" gasped the unrepentant monkey.

"Can you still lie? I will soon put an end to your breath!" and with that he cut off the monkey's head with his pincer claws. Thus the wicked monkey met his well-merited punishment, and the young crab avenged his father's death.

This is the end of the story of the monkey, the crab, and the persimmon-seed.

(from Japanese Fairy Tales, compiled by Yei Theodora Ozaki)

Today's Guest Blog

2012-01-25T15:09:00.000-06:00

I got nothing today.

That's a goose egg, if you didn't know.

I can't squeeze a single idea out of my brain today. Maybe it's empty. Maybe I'm out of brain. That would be sad.

Likely to deter zombies, however.

What I need is a guest blogger. Lots of blogs do that. Right? OK, so someone out there, do me a favor: Write today's post for me. Just put it up here when you're finished. That would be great. If you do a good job, I'll let you fill in for me whenever I need a day off.

See days marked.

What? That's not how guest blogging works?

Well, crap.

I still got nothing.

Oy.

So...I guess...talk amongst yourselves today. Or read some of my old posts. Look at monkey pictures. Listen to depressing music. Amuse yourselves.

And if anybody wants to be a guest blogger, you know, get in touch. It's cbaudelaire(at)always-drunk(dot)com. You're a little late for today, though. We're going to have to work on your deadline skills.

Shape up, is what I'm saying.

Yeah, I got nothing.

I Didn't Think My Breast Was So Savage

2012-01-24T14:14:00.000-06:00

Last night I was online chatting with a friend and listening to a pretty cool playlist I had put together on Rhapsody. Some quote-alternative-unquote rock from the nineties mixed with some newer stuff. I was listening to it with dinky little earphones instead of real headphones, or it would have been perfect.

At least they weren't "earbuds." Do you want to hear me rant about earbuds?

You want me to put these where?

In the beginning were headphones. They weighed a hundred pounds and made you look like a radio operator in a bad sci-fi movie.

Ground Control to Major Dork.
(bracing myself for complaints from Daddy, who probably owned
these headphones and this radio, too)

But there was nothing like kicking back and listening to your White Album or your Dark Side of the Moon with a good set of 'phones.

Or whatever the hell Jack is listening to.

Then in the 80s the Walkman was invented, and headphones started to shrink.

Tubular.

They didn't actually sound so great, although we all pretended they did because they were "modern" and "cool" and "didn't make your ears sweat." But since all you could listen to on a Walkman were *choke* cassettes, it didn't really matter.

Then Steve Jobs came along and screwed everything up, as he so often did, yeah yeah, God rest his soul, get over it already. But he gave us the iPod, and when he did, he gave us iPod earbuds. And earbuds are like suppositories for your ears, except that in addition to feeling horrible going in, they don't actually cure your hemorrhoids.

Believe it or not, there was not a single picture

related to a search for "suppository" or "hemorrhoids"

that I could post without losing my lunch.

And the frequency response on your average set of earbuds falls between a medium-high Mariah Carey arepeggio and whistles only dogs can hear.

Tinny, is what I'm saying.

Anyway, I'm currently in the market for a good pair of Koss headphones like I used to wear over my perm back in the day. But until I get them, I've got a pair of actually not-too-bad earphones - the kind that are flat instead of capsule-shaped. They got the job done for my cool playlist last night.

None of this has anything to do with the story I'm about to tell.

Srsly?

So...I'm chatting with my friend, and listening to my tunes, and I start to get crazy depressed. Like oh-my-God-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life? depressed. It wasn't my friend's fault; we were talking about Kids Today and How Funny Is Craig Ferguson, keeping it light. All of a sudden - boom! - I'm feeling like a no-talent hack in a world of geniuses, an outcast in a world where everyone is cooler and better than me.

Don't do it, man. We love you.

Not that this kind of thing doesn't happen to me all the time. It just usually doesn't hit me out of nowhere. I'm insecure, not insane. Mostly.

After I had logged off - because I was too depressed to type, and really how freaking depressed to you have to be to not want to type? - I started to wonder if the music that had playing in my ears for the last two hours had anything to do with my feelings. Believe me, I get hugely affected by music.

Another song featuring Adam Levine??

So I decided to go back and have another listen to my playlist. And I decided to subject you to it, as well, because otherwise I'd have wasted a lot of time on this shit and not ended up with anything to post today.

(If you belong to Rhapsody and you want my actual playlist, it's here: Chuck's Rhapsody Playlist. Enjoy. Or get depressed. We shall see.)

So here's what I was listening to last night when I decided that life sucked.

"Blown Away," Tripping Daisy - Nah, it wasn't this. Tripping Daisy songs never make enough sense to get upset about.

"I Will Buy You a New Life," Everclear - "You say you wake up crying/Yes, and you don't know why." A song about financial and emotional bankruptcy. Hmmm...I'll have to think about it.

"I Come from the Water," Toadies - But...but everything by this band is so damn cheerful. And Todd Lewis' voice is nothing like fingernails on a blackboard.

"Feed the Tree," Belly - Happy, happy song about a squirrel. Or something. Next.

"Rearviewmirror," Pearl Jam - Uh-oh.

"This Is a Call," Foo Fighters - Fingernails are pretty. It says so right in the song. That's a happy thought. Not going to pin this on Dave Grohl & Co.

"We Are Young," fun - This...could be described as a little melancholy, I suppose. The title itself is a downer, when you think of it.

"Hey Man Nice Shot," Filter - Um. Yeah. Huh.

"I Miss You," blink-182 - How can a song that mentions Jack Skellington be depressing? Other than every other line being dark and sad, I mean.

"Harder to Breathe," Maroon 5 - Not only a pretty damn dark song, but it's kind of a bummer to think that Adam Levine mostly spends his time singing "Moves Like Jagger" these days.

"I Will Possess Your Heart," Death Cab for Cutie - Eight and a half minutes of Death Cab for Cutie. Enough said.

"Closer," Nine Inch Nails - O_o

OK, well, there's another 25 minutes of music or so after that, but I think you see my point. Which is that I'm really surprised I didn't jump off the roof after listening to all that. I mean, great music, every last song. But maybe I should have mixed in some Tom Jones or some Petula Clark. Maybe some Carpenters. I mean, not "Superstar," but you know. Is this how we all spent the last couple of decades? No wonder we elected George W. Bush twice. We were out of our freaking minds.

Note to self: Lighten up. Play some Chuzzle. Eat some pea soup. Pet a cat. Listen to something by Ringo.

Get some decent headphones and drag out the vinyl records. That's a happy thought.

The Most Random Fact I Could Find

2012-01-23T13:11:00.000-06:00

On this day in 1570, James Stewart, 1st Earl of Moray, was shot to death by a supporter of Mary, Queen of Scots. It was the first recorded instance of assassination by a firearm.

Ouch.

As far as I can tell, the 1st Earl of Moray has no connection with the Moray eel.

I hope my mom doesn't see this, because Moray eels
seriously, seriously freak her out. Seriously.

But I didn't really look that hard for a connection, so maybe there is one. *shrugs*

In the 1971 film Mary, Queen of Scots (which kicks ass and you should totally watch it), James Stewart was played by Patrick McGoohan, who happens to be my favorite actor in the entire universe.

The second most awesome Catholic ever. After Jesus.

Oh, and my second most-favoritest actor in the universe? James Stewart. Weird, huh?

I am so freaked out right now.

Anyway, Patrick McGoohan created and starred in "The Prisoner," the Best. TV show. Ever.

You either totally get what this picture means or you don't.

"The Prisoner" was remade as a basic-cable miniseries in 2009, and it was a piece of crap. Jim Caviezel played Patrick McGoohan's starring role of Number 6. He did an OK job considering he was in a piece of crap.

Little pink houses for you and me.
And by the way, the Village isn't real. WTF?

Caviezel also famously played Jesus in The Passion of the Christ, directed by Mel Gibson.

Here Gibson explains to Caviezel that Jesus is all bloody
because giant Jewish crabs attacked him.

Gibson also directed and starred in Braveheart. He played Scottish freedom fighter William Wallace.

Who some say also founded the Blue Man Group,
although this may be apocryphal.

Co-starring with Gibson in Braveheart as Edward Longshanks was...Patrick McGoohan.

Who has gotten awesomer since just a few paragraphs ago.

By the way, when Patrick McGoohan starred in "Secret Agent" (aka "Danger Man," aka the Second. Best. TV show. Ever.), he refused to carry a gun, preferring to show John Drake using his fists and his wits to defeat the bad guys.

Also by looking really hot.

And on this day in 1570, James Stewart, 1st Earl of Moray, whom McGoohan portrayed on screen, became the first known public figure to be assassinated by a gun.

Still can't find a connection to the eel.

Yes, really.

And that's the most random fact I could find today. You're welcome.

Video Saturday: These Days

2012-01-21T10:25:00.000-06:00

Oh holy cow, do I love Foo Fighters.

Holy freaking cow.

Because Dave Grohl was clearly the one with all the talent in Nirvana. Yeah, I said it. And even if he weren't, hey, he's still around to cash in because he didn't have a hissy fit and punch his own ticket when he was 27.

RIP Kurt Cobain, shown here with the daughter to whom he said
"Fuck you" when she was 16 months old.

End rant. Back to Foo Fighters. This band gets it. Gets rock, gets musicianship, gets making albums that sound like albums and not individual data packets meant to be downloaded into some damn iPod. Their new album Wasting Light is amazing. Get it. What? Yes, you can download it, but you have to download all of it. There's a reason it's called AOR. Or used to be. Damn, I'm old. But you know what? Dave Grohl turned 43 last weekend - happy belated birthday, man. He's my age, and he rocks.

And he's hot. I mean, Dave Grohl is hot. Wow.

Anyway, their latest single is "These Days," and I love it. And because Foo Fighters is a band that sounds kick-ass live, here's a live performance of it. Also, because it's such an amazing performance overall, I'll forgive that Dave is a little flat on the verses. Also because he's hot. Yeah.

You Still Have Dick to Kick Around

2012-01-20T11:25:00.000-06:00

I just want to remind everybody that even though Governor Rick Perry has dropped out of the 2012 Presidential race, Dick Perry has not.

See, they're not the same person! Because Dick Perry is not a quitter. Unlike those other Republican nominee-wannabes who have dropped out because of scandal, lack of support, or sheer ineptitude, Dick Perry knows that scandal, lack of support, and sheer ineptitude have never kept anyone out of the White House. He intends to stay in the hunt long after all reasonable signs and signals indicate he should put away his gun and grab a beer.

Dick Perry never puts away his gun to grab a beer.
That's why God gave us two hands.

Dick Perry is running on a three-legged platform that he thought of while in the men's room of the Waffle House (note that one of the legs is much smaller than the other two):

1. God is great.
2. America is great.
3. Being President is the awesomest job ever.

Based on these ideas, Dick Perry is traveling across America in a Hummer that his cousin Larry converted to run on biofuel made from the grease trap at his fried chicken restaurant outside of Buffalo Gap, Texas.

It's green. Get it?

Every American who comes out to see Dick on his "Draggin' That Big Boy Across America" tour will get a shot of Jack Daniel's, an exclusive Dick Perry campaign button, and a handshake from the candidate himself. Just as soon as he or she successfully completes a background check and a cavity search.

His security detail is specially trained to be discreet, respectful,
and keep one hand in their ear at all times.

Because America is more important than any one man, and Dick Perry is more important than any American. That's why he's running for President of all the people he's more important than. Even the black ones and the ones who wear the beanies when they pray. Above all, Dick Perry respects diverse lifestyles, no matter how ridiculous they are.

So join me in supporting a true American citizen for President of the United States, which may or may not include New Hampshire or Massachusetts for very long if he has his way. Make him your candidate. Support your Dick.

Thank you.

You Didn't Ask, But Here's the Answer

2012-01-19T13:21:00.000-06:00

At the end of a conversation, someone said to me, "Take care of yourself."

Seems innocuous, doesn't it? But this is me we're talking about.

So when I heard those four little words, I became like one of those people who get all pissy when someone blesses them after a sneeze. (I'm not one of those people, by the way. I need all the blessing I can get - Christian, pagan, elvish, whatever.) I started to pretzelize the simple concept of "Take care of yourself" as it might apply to me with regard to being said by someone who may or may not have had ulterior motives or even have meant anything at all other than "This is how I chose to end our friendly conversation without giving any thought to how you might obsessively interpret the words for hours after I uttered them and promptly forgot about them."

Because that's what I do.

Hold on, I'm almost done cross-indexing every word you've ever said to me.

And so, although clearly "Take care of yourself" was not said with the expectation of a response, I crafted a dozen of them.

Yeah, it's probably not a good idea to tell me to "Have a nice day," either. Just saying.

Welcome to Drunkipedia

2012-01-18T09:58:00.000-06:00

The world is a signficantly dumber, albeit better researched, place today. Wikipedia has gone dark to protest the pending SOPA/PIPA legislation. Because a free and open Internet is critical to, uh, something or other. I should look it up on...oh, damn.

By the way, if you speak Spanish or Polish or Dutch or any of the myriad other languages in which Wikipedia publishes, you can go to town, boy. Those sites are up and running. Spaniards don't give a damn about free speech. And don't get me started on the French. I'll bet all of their entries are just anti-American rants, anyway. In French, so God-fearing Americans can't read them. If that's not censorship, I clearly have no idea what I'm talking about.

What was I talking about?

Oh yes, the web blackout. Did you know that ICanHasCheezburger.com is also participating? This is serious!

When I can't illustrate a point by appropriating pictures of LOLcats for my own use,

the terrorists win.

Anyway, as a public service, I thought I'd launch Drunkipedia. Because there is no information available anywhere else on the Internets today. So I carefully compiled the answers to every question that could conceivably be asked in the next 24 hours. I listed them below. Go ahead, peruse the list, and I'll bet you'll find the knowledge you were seeking. Just don't forget to properly attribute and compensate me, or I'll slap a C&D order on you faster than Diddy on a bottle of Ciroc. I ain't doing this for love, people.

Wait, I am doing this for love. Awwww, I love you guys. Much more than Wikipedia or Reddit, who only care about freedom of speech and the future of online communication. Pfffft. Whatevs. I got your communication right here. You're welcome.

Drunkipedia - All the Answers Are Here

1. Yes

2. George Washington Carver

3. Godzilla

4. That is not considered canon

5. Deoxyribonucleic acid

6. Magda, Zsa Zsa, and Eva

7. 165 degrees

8. Gary Gygax

9. 1/2 m vo^2 = m g h + 1/2 m v^2 vo^2 = 2 g h + v^2 --> vo =6.5m/s

10. Every four years, except for years ending in 00 that are divisible by four

11. They all had glass eyeballs

12. Fruit Brute

13. 23,924

14. À la recherche du temps perdu

15. Buddy Ebsen

16. Christiaan Huygens (1629-1695)

17. 16 ounces of phyllo dough and 1 cup of real butter

18. The Peace of Westphalia

19. Gethsemane

20. Properly made, blood sausage should not have the metallic taste that many people associate with blood

21.Clyde McPhatter

22. 16

23. Valentine Michael Smith (see also grok)

24. Julius

25. "Iron Eyes" Cody was actually an Italian immigrant named Espera diCorti.

26. Purple

27. 10cc (apocryphal)

28. Mary, Queen of Scots

29. Black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood

30. 1901

31. Up to 18.5 feet in length

32. Francis Bacon did not write Hamlet, you idiot

33. Yes, really

34. She cut off her heel to fit into the glass slipper

35. Butterfly McQueen

36. Hysteria was often treated with the aid of primitive electrical devices

37. The femur

38. The lemur

39. 1/4 c. prepared mesophylic starter

40. This has been the subject of intense debate since the mid-13th century

41. Friz Freleng

42. What do you get if you multiply six by nine?

There wasn't room for it on the list, but also: "No."

I hope the Internet is still here tomorrow. I really miss those humorous photos of cats with comical captions. And democracy. Yeah, that's good, too.

Ooh, Ooh, Go Here! IF YOU DARE

2012-01-17T13:41:00.000-06:00

OK, so today one of my Facebook friends shared a link from one of his Facebook friends that I thought was awesome.

Random aside: I've never actually met this particular Facebook friend. We have a mutual Facebook friend who once shared one of my posts with him, and he subsequently friended me, which I thought was really nice of him since he doesn't know me and also it's a lot cooler for me to have him as my Facebook friend than vice versa (because he's a professional musician and I'm a moron). The point is, the term "Facebook friend" has almost nothing to do with actual "friends" as most of us grew up with the concept, meaning people you would recognize if you saw them on the street and who would probably not have arrested if you started talking as if you knew personal details of their lives. But I digress.

I'll try to be less creepy from this point forward.

Anyway, the link was to this anagram generator. You type your name in, and it gives you an anagram of the letters. Yeah, there are a gazillion of these things on the Internet. But this one cracked me up because it invariably spits out really good mashups of your name, which you can then post directly to Facebook and make yourself sound like a deviant.

So when I typed in my real name (which only has 10 letters), it gave me a pretty cute result. Then I typed in my full legal first-middle-maiden-last name, and the result was I AM KINKY AS STREAKIER WHOREDOM. Which was not only hilarious but also way damn more insightful than those high-priced psychics/therapists/priests would be willing to tell me, I'll bet.

But then I got paranoid that if I posted that result here, someone would be able to reverse-engineer my real name out of it. I mean, someone who reads this blog who doesn't already know my real name because they're actually a fan and not just a friend or relative who feels obligated to humor me. Of which there must be...three? So just to be on the safe side, I fed I AM KINKY AS STREAKIER WHOREDOM back into the anagram generator, and I got I'M AN OKAY, DARKSOME WIT SHRIEKER. And at that point I got freaked out, because it was like the thing was in my head, you know?

I wouldn't wish that on anyone, not even a computer algorithm.

Of course, I also entered my nom de blog, Chuck Baudelaire, and got A LUCKIER DEBAUCH. Shit, this thing is good.

But here's when things got totally gnarly. (Sorry, I watched Fast Times at Ridgemont High the other night. I love that movie.) Precocious Daughter and I like to play Slug Bug when we're out and about. You know, spot a Beetle and punch the other person on the arm and shout "Slug Bug blue!" I'm very mature. Well, eventually we got bored with that game, because sometimes you can go, like, a mile without seeing a Bug on the road. So I decided I would slug PDaughter whenever I saw a Kia Soul. Those damn things are everywhere. Then PDaughter decided she would slug me whenever she saw a Honda Accord. And there are 12 quinjillion of those things around, which means my daughter gets to punch her mother in the arm repeatedly on even the shortest car trip. Probably almost half as often as I deserve it.

When I entered Precocious Daughter in the anagram generator, it came back with...SUPER ACCORD TOUGHIE.

Weird.

Finally, I entered Beloved Spouse. The goddamn psyche-stalking seriously bizarre anagram generator from hell returned S.O.B. PEEVED SOUL. Which works on so many levels it's scary.

So, yeah. Check out the link. It's amazing, it's awesome, it's fucked up in the extreme. Thanks to my Facebook friend for getting me sucked into it. And to his Facebook friend who shared it with him, who is so many degrees of separation from me that we could be related and not know it. Although if he told me his anagram name, I bet we'd feel instantly bonded.

The First Sign of Spring

2012-01-16T15:33:00.000-06:00

Check out what I saw at the drugstore the other day:

Nom nom nom. Nom. Nom.

A veritable trough of Cadbury Creme Eggs. (Aside: Who can identify the movie that contains the line, "Bartender, bring this man a trough of spritzer"? Winner gets a Creme Egg.)

If the Creme Eggs are appearing, it means that Easter can't be more than, say, three months away, tops. Actually, I checked, and Easter is on April 8 this year. So once again I miss having my birthday on Easter Sunday by thismuch. The formula for determining when the holiday falls each year is ridiculously complex; if you ask me, Pope ~~Ben Affleck~~ Benedict could simplify the whole thing by just making it fall on the Sunday closest to my birthday every year, which would at least give me a predictable shot at having the Feast of the Glory of the Risen Lord be the same date as my birthday once in a while.

Because I really, really want a cake made out of jelly beans.

The point is, the Cadbury Creme Eggs have sprouted at my local drugstore like the tender daffodils that bloom in Spring, only tastier and filled with yolk-colored goo. And if Easter is coming up, that means Lent is about to begin. Well, on February 22, anyway. That gives me more than a month to consume obscene quantities of Creme Egg goodness before I give up eating chocolate. And since my birthday is literally the day after Easter this time around, I can go to the store on my birthday and buy extra-delicious heavily discounted candy. Everything tastes better when it's 50% off.

Except sauerkraut, which tastes best when there is 100% less of it.

Mmmm...Cadbury Creme Eggs. You know what would be good, too? Snickers Peanut Butter Ovoid. Someone needs to work on that. Just don't bring it out during Lent when I can't eat it. I'll throw jelly beans at you. Jelly beans aren't made of chocolate, right? Just checking.