Spend a Day with West Coast Ray (WCR)

A client in sunny Southern California needed our assistance, so I donned my tights and cape and booked a flight on American Airlines. They made me take off the cape while going through security, but for the good of all mankind I was allowed to pass through with my tights on. I arrived at LAX Wednesday night, rented the Sid-Mobile (actually a Pontiac G6, the same kind Oprah gave away, so I guess it was more an Oprahmobile), and made my way to the Westin. Westin is branding the entire hotel experience as “heavenly”. It started with their new fancy heavenly beds, but now includes a heavenly check-in, heavenly elevators, heavenly key cards, heavenly thermostats, heavenly showerheads, heavenly wake-up calls, heavenly desks and heavenly bellboys. That last one sounded a little too gay porn and I made most of them up except for heavenly showerhead. They make it sound like when you die, St. Peter will check you into the great Westin in the sky where God is hosting a manager’s heavenly reception in the penthouse every evening. But I digress. It’s not a bad place, except for the Celine Dion, Donald Trump and creepy Alfred Molina billboards staring into my room. They were slightly offset by the Rebecca Romijjn as the up-and-coming, but klutzy, Pepper Dennis, who always gets her story billboard (Tuesdays 9/8C on the WB). After checking in I had a dinner at Second City Bistro in El Segundo. I went with the filet mignon with blackberry peppercorn sauce, port soaked cherries, mashed potatoes and spinach. It sounds good, but was all kind of piled together like a rugby scrum and all those distinct flavors got lost in the mess. It wasn’t bad, but would have been so much better if they weren’t trying to be so eclectic with the presentation and just served it up on one of those compartmentalized Chinet paper plates (I'm pretty low maintenance). I considered stopping at the Purple Orchid Exotic Tiki Lounge next door, but decided that fat, drunk and naked was not the best way to return to the Westin. If it had been a Monday I don’t think I would have been able to resist their famous manicure and martini night ($10).

The next day I managed to finish up business in El Segundo by 4 p.m., returned the Oprahmobile back to Hertz and was ready to return to DFW when I suddenly realized it was Holy Thursday. Holy Thursday is the most complex and profound of all religious observances, saving only the Easter Vigil. It celebrates both the institution by Christ Himself of the Eucharist and of the institution of the sacerdotal priesthood (as distinct from the "priesthood of all believers") for in this, His last supper with the disciples, a celebration of Passover, He is the self-offered Passover Victim, and every ordained priest to this day presents this same sacrifice, by Christ's authority and command, in exactly the same way. The Last Supper was also Christ's farewell to His assembled disciples, some of whom would betray, desert or deny Him before the sun rose again. (I stole all that verbiage from catholic.org since I’m a CCD dropout and didn’t readily know the significance of Holy Thursday.) But Holy Thursday also represents the day when West Coast Ray (WCR) and I would wash the feet of dancers at the local titty bars. I could not betray my friend by leaving So Cal without calling, so I rang him up, found out where he was, and grabbed the first cab to Santa Fe Springs. I found him at SB II, which I learned is short for the name of the sports bar Scoreboard II (since Scoreboard I was apparently a smashing success). He was waiting with a co-worker named Sarah. (Her real name is spelled Sarrah, but I’m leaving out the second “r” to protect her identity.) Sarah had come to have her favorite Leper Pop blog signed. It happened to be one of Moist Rub’s posts, so I signed it “Barry Manilow” and returned it with a smile. Since I missed the excitement of the crosswalk sting, in which Santa Fe Springs police would send little old ladies through the crosswalk of busy Firestone Avenue and then ticket drivers who hit them after failing to yield, we made plans for the next stop.

There were rumors of a mean, evil bartender at the Santa Fe Inn, so WCR wanted to take on the challenge of finding this troubled being and proving xe as just misunderstood. Just like Bumbles in Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The Santa Fe Inn was a classic dive with a diverse group of drunkards balanced precariously upon rickety stools. WCR’s stool threatened to face plant him into the bar, while mine threatened to body slam me back into the floor behind. The wicked barkeep of the west was off-duty, but on-premises with her head buried in a video poker machine. She did pop out to buy Sarah a drink and seemed harmless enough. The actual barkeep on duty was even friendlier and gave us the remote to one of the bar TV’s to try and find the Mighty Ducks game since all she could find were repeats of Friends and Yes, Dear. I wanted to watch Friends since it was one of the episodes where Ross had the monkey that was just so darn cute, but relented after the other patrons threatened to rape me on the pool table. We couldn’t find the hockey game and instead settled on an NBA game that nobody cared about, while Mrs. WCR sent text message updates on the Ducks from the homestead. But more importantly karaoke was awaiting, so we packed up and took off for Bruce’s.

Bruce’s karaoke was already in action and we took our seats at the bar as a woman who looked like she ate Shania Twain sang Still The One. WCR grabbed the songbook and flipped to the Elvis Presley section. The usual rotation of Frank Sinatra wannabes, blue jean country crooners, burned out classic rockers and other aberrant songsters rotated through the spotlight when WCR was finally called. The distinct opening bars of You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling played out as he took the stage.

“Yo, yo, yo, dawg, awright, awright, y’know it was a little pitchy in the beginning, y’know what I’m saying, but, dawg, you pulled it off.”

“Oh, WCR, I love watching you every week and you have the greatest voice and you can soil my hot tub anytime!”




“WCR. I thought it was well done, but….”
(audience boos… gets punched in arm by Paula)
“But…. you need to work the room a little more.”
(cue music)




Behind the scenes we learned that the karaoke DJ made a rookie error and cued up the Righteous Brothers version instead of the requested Elvis version (ahm sorry, DJ, but you’re just not roit for our house band). More determined than ever to win over the judges, WCR pulled out the songbook and knew exactly where he needed to go. He decidedly filled out the request sheet, turned it over the karaoke queen and confidently took a seat while waiting his turn. I took a long draw of diet coke from my glass and, full of aspartame courage, filled out my own song request. The karaoke queen was losing the crowd by approving When The Music’s Over by the Doors, turning the vibrant lounge into a poetry slam attended by a crowd of lizard killers wanting to rip the tail off the diminutive Jim Morrison imitator. With that WCR took the stage again and suddenly good times never seemed so good. I looked at the night and it didn’t seem so lonely.
Neil Diamond filled the air, the bar swayed, hands, touching hands. Randy named a wing of the dawg pound after him, Paula passed out in an orgasmic tizzy, Simon got caught doodling pictures of unicorns on his pad of paper, the barkeep bought a round of drinks on the house, and confetti dropped from the cork ceiling overhead. And when it was all over, they called Sid to the stage. Suddenly I knew what it was like to be JD on the Switched On tour. As the opening chords of the Clash’s Should I Stay or Should I Go filled the hall, I fluffed up my beard and dropped into my best leg splay. I channeled Joe Strummer and did the best damn version of the tune ever by a guy dressed in business casual wear and a fluffed up beard in a full leg splay at Bruce’s that night. Sarah attempted a photo, but I hear the battery ran out. So you’ll have to trust me. After I finished, the next singer sang a Chicago tune. That’s right… Chicago with lead singer Peter Cetera, who did a duet with none other than…….

Crystal Bernard.

Now that we owned Bruce’s we packed up and decided to conquer the unknown. WCR needed an evil looking, bearded sidekick to back him up just in case the locals weren’t too friendly during his first trip to a nearby roadside saloon. In a way, each of us has an El Guapo to face. For some, shyness might be their El Guapo. For others, a lack of education might be their El Guapo. For us, El Guapo is a big, dangerous man who wants to kill us. We pulled into the parking lot of Hedz or Tales and were greeted by the Karaoke banner flying haphazardly over the entrance. As soon as we walked through the door, we were greeted by a Latina porn star in a “Got Stiffy?” spaghetti strap tank top moonlighting as a bartender and currently in the middle of a hot hip-hop karaoke performance. Despite the assault on our high morals, we didn’t want to be rude and walk out so we took a seat at the bar right in front of the welcoming Wild Turkey sign. There were only about 10 other patrons, including a Jack Russell of Great White look-a-like. He took the mike and while we steadied ourselves for a hair metal classic, he busted unexpectedly into another hip-hop song and, as far as I could tell, nailed it with some fitting improv vocals of his own included. Neil Diamond would not fly here, so WCR dialed up some Green Day and took his turn at the mike. Soon the PA system burst forth with the Stone’s Midnight Rambler. WCR did his best Ashlee Simpson and jigged over to the DJ and slapped him upside the head, explaining the difference between Green Day and the Rolling Stones. The DJ seemed to understand and cued up some Pointer Sisters. And then some Judas Priest. And then some Garth Brooks. And then some Don Johnson, Eddie Murphy, Eddie Money, Marky Mark, Beastie Boys, and Slayer. Each time WCR rejected the opening bars like a vegetarian rejecting a Big Mac. Eventually, the DJ gave up and admitted he couldn’t find the song while WCR informed him he’s just not roit for our house band. Jack Russell jumped in, changed gears and offered up a fine rendition of some death metal classic about Lucifer taking his hand and going out for Thai food or something. Several minutes later, an excited Jack Russell came running over to us with a songbook to tell WCR that he found Green Day. WCR explained that he had found it as well, but the DJ was the one that got stoned and mislabeled his CD collection. Jack looked like somebody had just told him Oz Fest was cancelled because he forgot to reserve the arena. We couldn’t stand to watch the disappointment in his eyes anymore and departed for our next stop.

Group Therapy is WCR’s home bar and where I was introduced to everybody as Sid from Montana, where I lived among the grizzlies with my beard and a jar of peanut butter. That seemed to frighten them a bit, which gave me the opportunity to sit back and enjoy my selections on the jukebox (Garbage and Van Halen) without the distraction of idle chitchat. At one point WCR was outside keeping company with the smoker contingent when he sent over his buddy Melody to introduce herself to Sid (the guy with the beard). What he failed to realize was that a Jesus look-a-like was in the bar to re-enact The Last Binge. I enjoyed the confusion of the ensuing conversation between Melody and Jesus for a few moments before volunteering that she was probably looking for me and not the false idol before her. As WCR says, “All you bearded freaks look alike.” Although I had been reluctant to leave the Latina porn star bartender at the previous establishment, WCR made sure I was aware that the Group Therapy resident stripper was tending bar that evening. She wore a white fishing hat and hence earned the name Gilligan for the night, although I preferred to call her Maynard to further confuse things. I also learned that bartending is a great second gig for a stripper since all the drunken guys in the bar are more than happy to help restock the bar, sweep the floors, clean ashtrays and kiss your ass as 2 a.m. approaches. As the closing rituals progressed, we realized that we hadn’t eaten in the last 14 hours and planned a trip for some late night burritos.

We ordered up the burritos, then took them out the patio where there is usually something entertaining going on at 2:30 a.m. Upon our arrival, there was but one person out there. A girl of about 17, sitting with an order of french fries and a tall boy of Miller Genuine Draft. Greatness. We had a chat about closing times at area bars and the various food options after closing. Then we were joined by a group of about six college age guys, their leader a chatty fellow with a backpack who quickly christened WCR with the name Bill Gates for no apparent reason other than the fact that he was wearing glasses. Backpack Boy then entered a debate with Bill over computer technology, talk radio, politics, and geography that sounded more like dialogue from Pulp Fiction rather than a dweeb trying to impress a 17 year old girl by trying to annoy a couple of old farts out past their bedtime. The next several minutes consisted of some decked out club goers, the threat of a food fight, the threat of a real fight, a female bodybuilder and a peace agreement brokered by WCR before our departure. The patio never disappoints.

We took the 17 year old girl home with us, but Mrs. WCR made us take her back where we found her. We claimed that she just followed us home and asked if we could keep her, but the Mrs. wasn’t buying it. I made that last part up, so I hope you weren’t buying it, either. The rest, however, is my story and I’m sticking to it.

Big Easy Sid

Upon my arrival to New Orleans a couple weeks ago, I immediately took a walk to Bourbon Street. Well, not immediately… I rented a car and drove downtown and checked into my hotel. If you haven’t been to New Orleans it’s really not feasible to walk from the airport to downtown unless you have a full day to blow and not much luggage. Additionally, it wouldn’t look that cool walking around Bourbon Street with a duffel bag and a laptop, and I’m all about looking cool. So to recap, I rented a car, drove downtown, checked in, dropped off my bags, and called Mrs. F’er to let her know I didn’t die in a fiery plane crash and that I would now be heading down to Bourbon Street to find nourishment. Well, not really. You see, there’s not much to eat on Bourbon Street proper unless you want a slice of pizza from the frozen drink storefronts or a hot dog from Ignatius Reilly and his Lucky Dog cart. Newly inspired by Moist Rub’s graph of my weight in an earlier post, I bypassed those options and instead decided to just check out the scene and walk around a bit before starting my quest for a somewhat healthful meal. Finding that in New Orleans is like going to Afghanistan to find a Christian. But CNN found one there, so I held out hope.

Bourbon Street is more alive each time I visit, and most of the hurricane debris in the Quarter has been cleared and aptly replaced with a lighter than usual layer of crud leftover from a lighter than usual Mardi Gras crowd. On my walk I decided to peruse the music scene and perhaps take in some of that famous Zydeco music I dig so much. Here is what I found:

Bar #1: A house band I recognize from previous trips with a very bored looking girl singer performing You Really Got Me by the Kinks (or Van Halen, depending on when you were born) for a group of drunken frat boys on spring break spilling beer and looking for the cast of Girls Gone Wild. The singer looked like she was in her car stuck in traffic and just subconciously singing along to the radio. Not sure what the band name was, but for our purposes they shall now be known simply as Ennui.

Bar #2: Band with a drunken looking singer trying to interpret Drops of Jupiter by Train, but sounding like his vocal cords were destroyed in the hurricane. I placed a blue tarp across his throat and moved on.

Bar #3: Finally, I hear the strains of the Zydeco classic Mississippi Queen emanating from the next bar. The rhythm section is tight and a girl is laying down a bad-ass cowbell beat with the zeal of Will Ferrell, although she looks about 10 years too old to be participating in such activities. They start to pass the tip jar around, but I can’t find it in my soul to tip somebody for doing Mountain covers no matter how bad-ass the cowbell.

The only true Zydeco music seems to be coming from PA systems with blown speakers in front of each of the 547 t-shirt shops that line the street. I continue to mill about smartly, alternately passing Larry Flynt’s Barely Legal strip emporiums and people who look like they’re one bad decision away from re-enacting a Nick Nolte mugshot.

I finally decided that it might not be the best night for music and finally peeled off the main drag down a side street to clear my head and begin my search for food. Unable to escape the music, I get passed by a white Escalade, pimped out and bass thumping. But instead of an unrecognizable rap song it was none other than the sweet sounds of Andy Gibb caressing the evening air. I gave the driver the devil horns and rocked down to Decatur Street. Maybe it’s hip to be square again.

As I made the turn up Decatur Street, I saw a tour bus and trailer parked out front of the House of Blues, so decided to check it out. I hoped that in a freak coincidence it might be the Lovehammer bus and that Marty would jump on my back and invite me in for some Parcheesi, but it was just Bonnie Raitt. I can roll with the changes, so I waited for her to run out and jump on my back and invite in for a game of Scrabble but she was still rocking out inside the club. I was pissed that I didn’t get there early enough to hit the show, but I wasn’t going to wait around for her so I continued my quest for sustenance. Then I saw it – Attiki Bar & Grill.

Mediterranean sounded healthier than Cajun, so I bellied up to the bar and ordered a cold one. The barkeep somehow must have been aware of the conditions of my parole and brought me an O’Doul’s. It was as icy as the stares I got the last time I wore my Snidely Whiplash t-shirt to the Mountie convention. I perused the menu like an illiterate at the Library of Congress, realizing that I didn’t have Mrs. F’er to translate these exotic entrees for me. I played it safe and narrowed it down to a gyro sandwich or something called a shawarma sandwich. I deferred to my loyal barkeep Joelle, who highly recommended the shawarma, so who was I to disagree. She rocked, the sandwich perfectly appeased my hunger, and I sauntered back to Room 420. Upon check-in I had been assigned to Room 420 again, ironically a non-smoking room, and despite the room number I couldn’t find a stash anywhere. Nary a seed nor stem to be found, but I did enjoy the platter of trippy brownies.

Next day I set up in my temporary office adjacent to a computer closet containing a piece of equipment that was emitting a constant beeping sound. I pretended I was in a busy urban ER, saving gangbangers from gunshot wounds so that they could return to the streets to be a public nuisance. Lunchtime rolled around and I decided to begin my new diet program. If successful, I was hoping that I would be able to crack the New York Times non-fiction best sellers list with The New Orleans Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce Diet. In case you’re wondering, I think it will work if you commit to doing one-handed cartwheels for three hours in the afternoon after eating but I’m still waiting for the results of the clinical trial.

After a hard day’s work I walked through the lobby and in the lounge I found my muse at the piano. I had worked off the bread pudding by this time, so I had to abandon her with the promise to return after re-nourishing. I donned my beads and party hat and walked back to Bourbon Street. I considered a Cajun dinner to complement my attire, but found myself back at Attiki. The O’Doul’s was still icy and this time I added the stuffed grape leaves appetizer to my shawarma sandwich, and then in a temporary bout of narcissistic surfeit I found myself asking Joelle for the dessert list. I again deferred to my culinary representative and ended up with a slice of hot fudge sundae cheesecake in front of me. When she asked me how it was, I suddenly had a chance to quote one of my favorite movie scenes (slightly modified to fit the situation) – “That’s some pretty fucking good cheesecake.” Now that I was a regular, I was introduced to the rest of the staff, including the lunch bartender Cameron, who, as far as I can tell, moves to the other side of the bar after his shift and spends the rest of his day drinking and smoking with a pained expression on his face. I was tempted to sample the rest of the dessert menu, but I had a date with a dame and a piano and had to ramble back.

Upon my arrival, my muse asked what I wanted to hear and seemed pleased with my request for some Gottschalk. She enthusiastically pulled out her book of oldies and, since the bar was as crowded as the granny panty booth at a stripper convention, I got my own personal performance of songs from the 19th and early 20th century. She decided to test my knowledge and asked me when I thought Someday My Prince Will Come was written. I surmised 1937 and shocked her and myself with the correct answer, and was presented with a deli platter from Rupert Jee’s Hello Deli. I took the deli platter to my room and retired for the evening.

After eating some rolled up ham and cheddar squares for breakfast, I headed downstairs for work. The beeping persisted and I pretended I was the new star of 24, chasing down the beeping improvised explosive device before it destroys the rest of New Orleans. Then I drifted off for a moment and started thinking about Ashleigh Banfield. She was a local anchor here in Dallas, but also sang in a band and I occasionally saw her around town just hanging out and shooting pool. Always thought that was pretty cool since I never ran into Walter Cronkite while I was out drinking. Then she disappeared from my life, found a really cool pair of glasses, booked a ticket to Afghanistan and got famous when we started exploding the crap out of that country a few years ago. Shortly thereafter she fell off my radar screen since I’m not typically a news channel junkie unless the lovely and talented Robin Meade is gracing my screen on Headline News Monday through Fridays from 6 to 10 am ET. But I digress. And with that digression it was time for lunch and I was forced back to the lavish buffet where I strictly adhered to my innovative New Orleans Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce Diet. After a few more hours of work and some one-handed cartwheels, I locked up and went back to the room to freshen up. I was never really sure what that meant, so I rubbed some wilted lettuce from the deli tray on my forehead and hit the streets for some dinner.

I decided I would indulge in the local cuisine and found a casual corner joint that offered up an appealing combo platter of jambalaya, red beans and rice, creole, a whole blackened walrus and a 50# sack of crawfish. The food was decent, but I had failed to heed my own rule of using caution at places with Help Wanted signs in the window. Like many other service establishments, they are woefully understaffed due to the lack of housing for hourly labor and I believe my server that night forgot about me like a broken toy two weeks after Christmas. It wasn’t like she was sitting at the bar reading a Hardy Boys mystery, but was so in the weeds that I couldn’t get too upset. Instead she got a generous tip courtesy of my expense account that hopefully helped redeem her night and I started the trek back to the hotel. However, like a moth drawn to a flame I was sucked into the swirling vortex of Attiki and the only way to escape was to eat the magical hot fudge sundae cheesecake. As soon as I finished, the ride came to a complete stop, I exited to the right and proceeded back to the hotel, slightly woozy but satisfied.

I stopped in the lounge to wind down with some chillin’ music and found my pianist accompanied by a banjo player. I worked with a girl once that decided to pursue her dream and started taking banjo lessons. It was just odd enough to be kind of sexy. But I digress. This banjo player was an old German guy and not that sexy. I don’t mind the banjo most of the time, but it just seemed to be in the way that night. They played Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey, and after that every song in which he accompanied her sounded like Bill Bailey. I wasn’t alone with that observation, as she transitioned into Bill Bailey a couple times after that much to my amusement and his annoyance. This night the bar was as crowded as a Brokeback Mountain screening at the White House, so when break time came down my muse joined me at my table where we discussed Europe, crime rates, music, suicide, and Bette Midler. Then she dutifully returned to the ivories for her last set, after which she rewarded me with a complimentary CD for my attention. I got back to Room 420, mainlined the complimentary conditioning shampoo and called it a night.

Next morning, the incessant beeping finally broke me and it now became a representation of my life ticking away at my godforsaken job. I wrapped up business, had a final serving of New Orleans Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce and got myself back to the still depressingly desolate New Orleans airport. The flight was delayed, so I perused my complimentary USA Today and just like a plate of shrimp, there’s Ashleigh Banfield on the front page of Section D because she didn’t wear a dress when she got married in 2004, but instead dressed up as Ace Frehley from KISS. OK, I made that last part up, but she did don a wedding pantsuit rather than a dress and inspired a collective gasp from the apparently emphysemic audience as she walked down the aisle. Technically I guess it was really a dock since she got married on a boat. It wasn’t really clear because I didn’t really give a hoot and was just reading the story to avoid a possible conversation with any nearby passengers.

Eventually my plane showed up and I dreamed of the day I would return for more bread pudding.

Surgery

Hey everybody, I have a condition called Latent Epiglottial Profuius, and I need to have an experimental surgery to get rid of it. The procedure will probably kill me.

I will keep you posted.

Oliver's Army

Sorry for the lack of posts, but lots going on outside of the Leper Pop domain. We're still writing, but like to post something more than a daily diary of how bad our jobs suck and what the deal is with Jessica Simpson. In between posts, drop by Leper House - the official message board of Leper Pop. Always nice to hear from new people or you perpetual lurkers.

Damn, I wish I was a Brady. I really wasn’t old enough to watch during the original run as I was busy making ashtrays out of Play-Doh and running an imaginary tavern in my bedroom. This was before modern technology gave us wonders such as the Fuzzy Pumper Barbershop or the slightly disturbing Dentist Set, so you had to use your imagination. But I digress.

In 1974, the great Robert Reed finally went mad after giving up a promising stage career to play Mike Brady in 117 half hour episodes of television greatness. The series ended after Reed barricaded himself in Mike Brady’s old den after Greg had turned it into a groovy bachelor pad, holding Mike Lookinland (Bobby) and Susan Olsen (Cindy) hostage until Dr. Bombay was called over from the Bewitched set to negotiate a deal that would spare the two youngest Bradys. Dr. Bombay (Calling Dr. Bombay, Calling Dr. Bombay, Emergency, Emergency, come right away!) had been through a similar experience on the Bewitched set when the first Darrin (Dick York) got a hold of some PCP laced brownies that a mischievous crew member mistakenly left out on the buffet table, and Bombay had to talk York down from a lighting truss high above the set where he was readying to fly around on a stagehand’s push broom. York was too ashamed to return and producers replaced him with another actor named Dick (Sargent) hoping that the viewers wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately it didn’t work, although Darrin’s boss Larry Tate didn’t notice. The backlash meant that Brady creator Sherwood Schwartz would have to scrap his plans to replace Robert Reed with another actor named Robert (Redford). Redford was disappointed (oh, and Florence Henderson wasn’t?), but instead Redford accepted a role in The Sting, for which he received an Academy Award nomination in 1974. Sherwood also considered replacing Reed with an actor named Dick, but that would have led to incessant giggles from the young cast and he scrapped that plan as well.

You’ve probably heard the term “jumped the shark” by now. It refers to that moment when your favorite TV show begins wasting away into a shell of what it once was. The term is inspired by Happy Days, which many people believe started its downward spiral when Fonzie decided to jump the shark tank on water skis. Like we hadn’t already seen that at the Tommy Bartlett Water Show in Wisconsin Dells every summer. For anyone that didn’t understand that regional reference, Wisconsin Dells is kind of like Orlando without Disney World. And it’s in Wisconsin and not Florida. It’s been years since I’ve been there, but that’s how I remember it. They also have the above referenced water show, during which they plaster an official Tommy Bartlett Water Show window sticker on your rear windshield while you’re distracted by the pyramid of water skiers motoring around the lake dressed up in used Vegas showgirl costumes. But I digress.

If you were a fan of the Brady Bunch, you might remember Cousin Oliver. His appearances in the final season are considered by many as the moment when the series “jumped the shark” and eventually ended production. Unfortunately for Oliver, his name became synonymous with the addition of a cute kid to a television show in an attempt to stave off a lack of fresh ideas and waning interest from the home audience. Future “Cousin Olivers” would include Stephanie (All in the Family), Sam (Different Strokes), Andy (Family Ties), Captain Break-It (Leper Pop), and even Scrappy-Doo (Scooby-Doo). Personally, I enjoyed the final six episodes with Cousin Oliver. Who didn’t want to have a whip-crème pie fight like the Bradys did after Oliver ended the jinx? I’d rather have had a private whip crème session with Maureen McCormick (Marcia, Marcia, Marcia), but that was a given for any guy my age. By the way, she aged well and I still would. Oliver also was there when Cindy attempted a career as a Shirley Temple impersonator and when Bobby started cruising pool halls to hustle people while Mike and Carol thought he was at the library. Oliver also uncovered the international spy plot that linked Sam the Butcher to the Russians. If the series wasn’t cancelled after the next episode, I’m sure that Oliver would have helped Peter discover Alice’s secret life as a madam for high class call girls in the area. The conspiracy theorist in me wants to believe that there are unreleased episodes that were considered too edgy that will soon be released in some sort of DVD compilation any day now.

Back in the early 90’s, the Annoyance Theater in Chicago presented the wildly popular Real Live Brady Bunch plays, which consisted of live performances of actual Brady Bunch episodes. I got to see the Davy Jones episode, with special guest Emo Philips playing the part of Mr. Jones, but I think there was a part of me that secretly wanted to see an Oliver episode. Philip Seymour Hoffman was relatively unknown back then and would have been great in the role. Not sure he would have earned an Emmy to sit next to that Oscar he just got, but it would have been a good story for me to tell. Does anyone even know who the hell Emo Philips is anymore or whatever happened to him?

In their heyday, the Bradys put together a pretty impressive list of guest stars including Desi Arnez Jr (he’s so dreamy), Mr. Howell from Gilligan’s Island, Don Drysdale, Don Ho, Davy and Deacon Jones (Are you guys brothers?), Gordon Jump (WKRP), Joe Namath, and Vincent Price. I was especially resentful that my dad, unlike Mr. Brady, could not get Joe Namath to come over to our house to toss the ball around the backyard. I let go of that resentment a few years later when former Chicago Bears quarterback Bobby Douglas showed up at our football practice in high school and damn near broke my hand with one of his passes (Now I'll never be a hand model!). Yes, I dropped it and ruined my chances for a Division I scholarship, but the pass was a little high. It’s not like the guy is a Hall of Famer. Honestly, I wasn’t even qualified for a Division II or Division III scholarship. OK, so I wasn’t even allowed to fill the water bottles at the local community college, but that doesn’t mean I sucked. The recruiters just overlooked my bulimic physique and turtle-like speed. But I digress.

I kept waiting for Robbie Rist, the actor who played Oliver, to show up on an E! True Hollywood Story to tell how the Brady experience warped him and led him to a life of sniffing glue and transvestite whoring. But nothing. Barry Williams (Greg Brady) showed up on Celebrity Boxing to fight Danny Bonaduce (Partridge), but no sign of Robbie reprising his role for a cage fight against Chris from the Partridge Family. Then Christopher Knight (Peter) showed up on The Surreal Life to dispel any myths that his life might have turned out normal. I kept waiting for a Robbie Rist arrest and subsequent mugshot on The Smoking Gun. No luck. I was starting to get pissed, so I decided to do some research. I was expecting to have to dig my Peter Brady detective kit out of the attic (the same one used in The Great Earring Caper episode), but Robbie made it rather easy for me with his www.robbierist.com website.

It appears the guy is doing well. He’s done some voice-over work and is now working on his music career (both playing and producing). Personally I think the Marty Casey & Lovehammers should have had Robbie produce the new album. His Brady experience might have related well to Marty who, with his own five siblings, might have participated in a potato sack race or two.

In any case, drop by Robbie’s site and check out his work. He hasn’t updated his home page in a while, but if activity on the message board picks up maybe it will help expedite the site re-design he’s talking about. There is some more activity and pictures on his myspace page if you’re curious. If you like his music, maybe we can hire his band to play Leperpalooza. What could be more fun?

The Devil's Business

I’m going to start a business. Being a shrewd entrepreneur, I will search for a line of business where my chief competitor will exploit my operations to bolster her/his success. In fact, the mission of my business will be to deter customers from patronizing my product, while reinforcing the attraction of my competitor’s product line. I stand to make millions, nay, billions. I’m surprised no one has yet adopted this idea.

Does this sound like a good plan? No, it doesn’t. It sounds like a moronic plan. It is a moronic plan. But, it has been attempted, and it continues to be used today (depending upon your mythological beliefs, that is. If your beliefs do not coincide with the following verbiage, humor me, and suspend those beliefs until I am through.)

What kind of a numbskull would be so bold as to employ the previously described strategy? Look no further than the nearest pit of eternal damnation in your neighborhood. That’s right, the genius I speak of is none other than the devil, himself. Or herself. As a devout feminist (as convenience calls), I firmly believe that a woman can achieve the depths of dastardly infamy as well as any man. In this scenario, though, it seems more fitting to present the classical male image of old gooseberry. Consider the stereotypical image of a man’s dumbfounded expression when he is caught in a dubious and imbecilic activity. That is the look I imagine the devil would express if he eventually realizes he is being played for a fool and is damned (pun intended) good at it.

Succinctly, the arrangement, as I understand it, is this. God offers to people an afterlife of euphoria, marked by constant bliss and everlasting pomp. In return, all he, or she (again, as with the devil, it is my belief that the “almighty” has every right and possibility of being female. My generation has been taught to believe that god, if in fact there is one, is male. But in the interests of equality, those of us who think of ourselves as “sensitive to the issue”, in an attempt to flaunt our righteousness, will use the phrase, “or her/she” in situations like this [if you believe the lord can be either/both genders], where the sex of the object of the pronoun is ambiguous or unknown. Contrarily, we are not being “sensitive to the issue” because we are still putting the “male” first. The possibility of womanhood filling the role at hand is merely an afterthought in these circumstances. It is rare to see the opposite phrase [her, or him] written where the object is assumed female first and male as the afterthought. An effort needs to be made to split time equally between the sexes when making references. Better yet, a neutral pronoun, similar to “it”, needs to be created which will encompass both female and male forms. I propose the word “xe”, pronounced zheh, which can be used as a subject, noun, possessive, whatever [very versatile – kinda like the “f” word]. I chose this word because we don’t have enough words beginning with the letter x and it sounds silly. For example, “The teacher reached to pull down the map, and xe ripped xe’s drawers”. Okay, now back to the original sentence:) asks is that we remain true to xe and be good. It seems like an equitable deal.

Lucifer takes a different approach. His intent is to corrupt souls by coercing people to perform sinister activities in opposition to god’s will. It’s easy work and not a bad foundation for a strong company, because being bad is generally more convenient and is definitely more fun (provided the conscience is discounted) than being a goody-two-shoes. With a large sales force, consisting of various demons and tortured spirits, and an extensive legal staff (input crooked lawyer joke here), satan has positioned himself and his operation to procure innumerable clients.

One major flaw exists (and it is a doozy) in his scheme. Our buddy, the archfiend, does not provide fair compensation for those who fall prey to his enticing sales pitch. To those that honor his solicitation, he rewards an eternity of anguish and a seat on a Bunsen burner. This is no incentive to be bad. Sure, some of us will be roped in by the diversions available inherent in an ignominious temporal existence he claims to provide, but when it comes to closing time, most of us will realize the implications of the final sale and choose to shop elsewhere. Would you patronize a car dealer who, in an attempt to attract your business, promises to jab you with a pitchfork forever if you buy his car, even if the car can do zero to sixty in a nanosecond?

The silliest part of this whole set up is that the essence of satan’s promotion initiates impetus for people to favor the virtuous path (based on an average score throughout a life span. All of us stop in at Beelzebub’s Boutique to pick up a few things every now and again. It’s like a convenience store.) Satan’s payoff is a deterrent to the presence of the behavior his wishes to promote. His product drives customers away, directly to the door of his competitor.

Please do not mistake me for a holy roller. My intent is to examine this strange arrangement between the ethereal worlds. I am not taking sides on this matter. It befuddles me to think the devil would agree to this pact. He has got to be an idiot. Unless, he is working with god to compel people to goodness. Can he be taking kick backs from god? If this is a case, I have a newfound respect for old scratch. I don’t remember reading anything in the Bible about the creator and the fallen angel being in cahoots. Then again, I haven’t read much of the Bible. I can’t seem to get beyond the book of Genesis where they are explaining who begat whom, and how long everybody lived. It seems as if the writers did not have a clear direction of where they wanted to go with the book. I think, initially, they were just trying to fill space to meet the publisher’s first draft deadline.

This conspiracy theory involving an alliance between god and satan may be worth investigating. It may lead to another business idea. I think the government may already be employing it. I will contact my congressxe.

Call Me Kitty V - Martini Night

If you've come here looking for Lovehammer stuff, there's plenty a little further down. Well worth the effort to scroll down. Just be sure to stop back for Martini Time! and make the Reverend Horton Heat proud. This is the fifth installment in the Call Me Kitty series. Our hero Dave has been known to be a connoiseur of the finer things as the following observations will attest to.

Small, perfect spheres of water formed on the surface of the stemmed martini glass that was set on the bar. Within its empty chamber, a pile of ice was quickly stacked, rising several inches above the rim. The individual cubes melded loosely to one another and formed a haphazard ice sculpture atop the glass. A quick jet stream of dry vermouth collapsed against the icy sculpture with a small splash, and after rebounding in all directions it joined the drops of the slowly dissolving ice host and slowly found its way down to the glass. As the walls of the spotless stemware chilled in one spot, a stainless steel cup down the bar began its own chores. It readily accepted a long pour of gin from the baby blue glass bottle that had been waiting on the shelf against the mirrored wall and then received a hearty scoop of ice that was retrieved from the bin below with a recognizable crunch. Unlike their counterparts in the showcase martini glass standing in the bar’s spotlight, these cubes would not bond and form any such sculpture. Almost immediately, the contents were covered and the steel chamber was shaken violently. The cubes cracked against the unforgiving steel walls with each toss, oblivious to the chill they were losing to the potent liquid that had been waiting on the bottom of the cup prior to the disturbance. Now the once calm gin that had been showcased on the mirrored wall, tossed and turned like the sea in the storm that shipwrecked the Minnow on Gilligan’s Island. Finally the storm subsided, but instead of making a radio out of coconuts, the distilled gin, now clouded, settled and found itself amidst miniature icebergs floating scatteredly across its surface. Across the bar, its glass mate had developed a small pool in the vortex of its chamber, collected from the run-off of the miniature mountain of ice upon it. Not sharing the permanence of nature’s mountains, the tip of the barkeep’s index finger prompted a single rotation of the glacial mass within the glass. With the glass now coated with the icy mountain rivers that flowed down its side, flavored with a hint of the vermouth that had visited, the structure’s contents were quickly dumped into a waiting sink, and the glass again placed on the bar well-prepared for the main event. A matching strainer placed over the stainless steel cup served as a cue for it’s temporarily settled contents. A quick swirl softly stirred the solution before it slid down the side of the cup and through the gated jaws of the wire strainer, which denied access to any cubes despite their cracked condition. As the chilled alcohol formed a brief waterfall over the edge, the chilled glass accepted it at the same temperature, and together they knew that they were meant for one another. A refined mixture, it politely pulled up short of the rim and waited distinguishedly. Two olives, one with a small rectangular pimento almost flush with the hole, and another that had somewhere been separated from its filling, were each subsequently stabbed with a small skewer, complete with the cool little sword adornment on the end. Instead of being drowned in the waiting cocktail, the skewer was balanced in a scale-like fashion on the edge of the glass, one olive on the inside rim, one on the outside, forming a symbol of jurisprudence one might find on an attorney’s stationery.


After the masterpiece completed a short slide across the bar, the olive barbell was immediately dunked in a blatant disregard of justice and the drink pounded by the thirsty inebriate. It was nearly enough to make the martini artist cry, but the generous tip helped him overlook the mockery of the spirited consumption.

Tale of Two Lard Asses

Each year, Sid and I vow to lose weight and get in shape. Well, maybe we don’t vow as much as decide to graph our weight to see if we lose any. We haven’t lost any weight. But we do have a graph. Our past graphs show us we don’t lose weight and so do our taut pants. We usually stop graphing by June, when we give up and decide to don our Speedos in spite of our repulsive rolls, folds and/or general physical droopiness. This shows the world that we have accepted our non-Adonisness. People respect that. We can tell by the way they are afraid to approach us while we are wearing out our nut pouches. Besides, skin covering fat tans just as easily as skin covering muscle, and we feel a responsibility to uphold our bronze god reputations for the ladies. Yes, I’m speaking about the ladies in our local burn units, Edna and Lorraine. They look forward to our visits, welcoming us with copious amounts of balm and aloe. But this year, of course, it is going to be different. We will lose weight or, at least, get in shape. And we will have less skin to be balmed.

As you can see from this year’s graph, we are both off to a fabulous start. Don’t be fooled by the horizontal movement of our reality lines. In years past, by March, we had each packed on at least ten pounds. But, not this year. There’s not much to do during the winter months, and we both lead very active lives in the summer. Consequently, we like to store as much energy as possible prior to the end of May, so that we can survive a summer of rigorous peach-picking and power country lane strolling. Some years, when we fail to store excess fat, we are plum tuckered out by mid-August, at which time we start storing body fat for the following summer by binging on bacon fat and Funyuns. It’s good to plan ahead. Although, as promising as our current weight maintaining seems, I fear we will be drowning in lethargy by the end of July, since we have failed to lard up, as expected. That’s a chance we are willing to take.

We are right on pace, even if our goal lines may contradict this. We will not be oppressed by some imaginary lines on a graph, though we are the ones who determined them. Those lines have nothing to do with our ultimate goal, which is to not be bothered by the tribulations of life, like maintaining health. You may wonder, if that is the case, why we bother to attempt to lose weight. WE HAVE A GRAPH! Didn’t you see it? Here it is again.


The goal lines act more like fodder for hopeful imagination than they do to document actual goals. Establishing these goal lines is similar to buying lottery tickets. You know you are not going to win. But it is worth the hundred dollars you spend on them each week so you can imagine what you would do with all that money if you won, and how it would improve your life and how important actors may even consider allowing you to eat in the same restaurants as they do, and how you won’t smell anymore, and how you will become better than most people (but not important actors), and how a lot of people will want to have sex with you, or maybe at least somebody other than crack whores, and how you could look forward to finding better friends, and maybe buy that frock you always wanted. You can’t find that kind of entertainment anywhere else than inside your own head. The same can be said for the goal lines on the graph. We use them to help us imagine what it would be like if we could fit in those pants we bought fifteen years ago, or, if we could ever tuck our shirts in comfortably, again, or, if our asses ever became small enough to stop inadvertently bumping into the faces of old ladies sitting at bus stops. If we could, undoubtedly our lives would improve, and important actors may consider allowing us to eat in the same restaurants as they do, and we wouldn’t smell anymore, and we would become better than most people (but not important actors), and a lot of people will want to have sex with us, or maybe at least somebody other than crack whores would, and we could find better friends, and maybe some rich person would buy for us that frock we always wanted.

Speaking of smacking my big ass into the faces of old ladies sitting at bus stops, why is it that it seems that every time I inadvertently smack somebody sitting at a bus stop in the face with my ass, it’s an old lady? Don't you hate that? Then the old lady looks at me like I meant to do it. Like anybody ever purposely smacks somebody else in the face with his/her ass at a bus stop. Sure, that kind of thing may happen in Congress, but not at bus stops. “Excuse me, madam,” I’ll say, “I had no idea my buttocks protruded to such an assaulting extent.” “You need to keep tabs on that thing, sonny” they’ll usually reply. Then, I’ll tell them about my graph, and they’ll give me a cookie.

In defense of the old ladies sitting at bus stops, it’s not always them I posterior pummel. It seems like it, but to be sure, I created a spreadsheet to monitor these incidents over a year’s time. I compiled the data into a pie chart to illustrate who has been inflicted with my growing rear end. Not surprisingly, old ladies are victims the majority of the time. The rest of the results bring up two significant questions: 1. Why aren’t there any hot chicks at bus stops? 2. Why do I spend so much time at bus stops considering I’ve never ridden a public bus? I don’t have time to gather correlating data, but I’m guessing the answer to question two is associated with my burgeoning behind (and probably the first question, too).


Hence, the need for the graph – to improve the life quality of old ladies sitting at bus stops, although the pie chart looks more appetizing. As part of my fitness regimen, I’ve capped my bus stop loitering to only twice a week, with the hopes of reducing that frequency over time. It’s difficult to quit cold turkey with this habit, as you might imagine. Following is a list of the other weight loss/exercise measures I’ve incorporated into my life:

• walk to the bathroom instead of having somebody push me on an office chair


• stand up during the first two minutes of every conference call at work


• eat twice as much fast food at lunch so I’m not hungry at dinner time


• eat all of the snack food in my house so that I’m not tempted to eat it later, and then restock so I can test my willpower (and fail, but not let it ruin my spirit)


• wear more clothes and stop using antiperspirant so I sweat more to lose water weight
  
• spread butter with a heavier knife to build strong arm muscles


• park one spot further than intended at Wal-Mart to increase walking activity


• chew more vigorously to burn more calories


• clean off my weight bench and pray for divine inspiration


• wear foam rubber muscle shaped shirts


• towel dry instead of air dry after showers (aerobic exercise)


• speaking of showers, stand up in shower instead of lying down


• limit midnight snack to whatever I can hold in one hand instead of two


• no more mayonnaise bongs (ok, maybe on holidays, only)


• find out what metabolism means

I’m not sure what Sid is doing to keep his graph line from running off the top of the page. Since Sid is an avid biker, I suggested to him that he try bike riding on flat land, not just down hills, and then eventually trying riding up the hills. That may be asking a lot. He did say something about getting rid of his L’il Debbie intravenous machine. Good for him. I don’t expect him to keep as an ambitious regimen as I have itemized above. He’s not Superman, ya know (but he may be one of the Wonder Twins).

I do expect each of our reality lines on the graph to approach the goal lines eventually. It’s easy to go into the graph and adjust the goal line to go up. All you have to do is change the numbers in the spreadsheet. That should help us. However, if we ever do hit the existing goal lines and end up at the same weight, we have vowed to go ten rounds in the ring to determine who looks dorkier in boxing shorts. I don’t like to brag, but that is a competition I think I can win. Just keep the old ladies out of my corner so I don’t maim them.

Mr. F'er's Neighborhood

If you’re offended by salty language or enjoy burning books, then you might want to skip this post. Stop back in a week and we’ll try to be more genteel. If you’re here looking for the Lovehammer stuff, it’s a little further down so keep reading. If you’re looking for porn and you ended up here, you really suck at internet.


"That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you" right under your nose. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say "Holden Caulfield" on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it'll say "Fuck you." I'm positive."

More about that passage in a minute. I’m no geology major, but I’m pretty sure I’ve discovered a major fault line in North Texas and it happens to be located directly beneath my driveway. It was cleverly concealed under one continuous concrete slab when I bought the house, but a series of tremors has diminished my once viable driveway to a pile of rubble that would make a Sunni insurgent proud. Of course, since I live in Texas and own the requisite pick up truck I don’t have many problems navigating the rubble; however, Mrs. F’er and her sedan have significantly greater challenges and have recently required the use of a crane and elaborate pulley system to resolve the growing ingress and egress issues. Furthermore, I was concerned over the potential liability should a pizza guy fall into one of the cracks and dislocate an elbow or something. A particularly vengeful lawsuit could wrest control of Leper Pop Publishing from yours truly, in which case you would be reading the blog of Bill the Domino’s Pizza delivery guy and Moist Rub. Not that I order that crap from Domino’s, but maybe the off-duty delivery guy that keeps putting coupons on my door every other day might bust his sorry ass in my driveway. I suspect that blog would be even sorrier.

I considered getting a new driveway several years ago, but I thought that $1200 seemed excessive for a load of concrete and some day laborers. So I instead invested in some upgrades to our bicycle fleet. But a funny thing happened after that decision. It seems that China woke up one day and realized that they have a buttload of people there, but not much stuff. So they checked their savings account and found that they had some handsome dollars from selling Beanie Babies to a bunch of silly Americans several years ago. They swung by the ATM and took a major league withdrawal and bought a bunch of steel to build some stuff for themselves, but didn’t warn anyone and created a worldwide shortage of steel. I told you it was a major league withdrawal.

Suddenly my years of undergraduate study in Economics would pay off. I whipped out my pad of graph paper and carefully constructed a supply and demand graph. Taking into consideration the increased demand from China, I correspondingly shifted my demand curve outward and studied the results. Just as I had watched my professors do years before, I drew a dotted line from the intersection of the two curves and realized that the price of steel rebar in my future driveway was likely getting more expensive than a beer at a ballgame. Unfortunately it had to be done, so we called around for some new estimates and found that the price had nearly doubled. But fortunately we found a contractor that had apparently lost some big money betting on Sasha Cohen in the Olympics and needed some fast cash to pay off his bookie. This resulted in a significant cash discount.


The day they were scheduled to start, I wanted to take the day off of work and help out with the jackhammering. It seemed like a golden opportunity to be involved in a legal, yet wonderfully destructive activity. Mrs. F’er had other thoughts, handed me my brown bag lunch and sent me off to work where I would be out of the way. I suspect that she just didn’t want to have to split the jackhammer time with me. After the jackhammering was complete she, too, went off to work.

She arrived home later that day to a fresh spanking new driveway. With the words “fuck you” written across the bottom. She carefully reviewed the contract I signed with the contractor just to make sure I didn’t specifically request that feature, and called him to inquire about the best way to mitigate the damage. From what I can tell the conversation went something like this:

Mrs. F’er: Hi, this is Mrs. F’er and you did my driveway today – I came home and there is some profanity written in it.

Contractor: Son of a bitch!

Mrs. F’er: No, “fuck you”.

Contractor: Hey, that’s uncalled for… I didn’t do it!

Mrs. F’er: No, the profanity says “fuck you”.

Contractor: Son of a bitch!

They eventually sorted it out and he gave her instructions to wet it down, smooth it out as best as possible with a straight edge, and brush it again. She did a nice job and I’m thinking of setting her up with her own paving business, but when I came home I found the word “fuck” written in the driveway. I asked her why she did that, but she didn’t find much humor in my inquiry and set out to repair the new damage.

Why weren’t the damn kids inside playing video games instead of literally “fuck”-ing with my new driveway? I must live in the only neighborhood with kids that don’t own an X-Box and a drum of Cheetos. But even more disappointing was the total lack of creativity. If they were going to go through the effort of vandalizing my stuff, at least do something somewhat more thoughtful than the lowest common denominator of vulgarity. Based on my perception of the local school system, I'm pretty sure it wasn't a reference to Catcher in the Rye. They could have thrown down the anarchy logo. Or a political statement. A gang tag. A relief of Crystal Bernard. I only wish I would have driven up a few minutes earlier to catch them and perhaps stimulate the impotent right side of their brains with a leftover piece of 3/8” rebar.

"I kept picturing myself catching him at it, and how I'd smash his head on the stone steps till he was good and goddam dead and bloody. But I knew, too, I wouldn't have the guts to do it."

I’d probably just catch the little urchin and watch him rip his Green Day shirt in his effort to escape.


We kept a vigil over the project for the rest of the night and it appears to have dried free of any profanities. But now I'm thinking I should have paid the extra for that relief of Crystal.