Song For My Penis

+


=
My horribly altered version of Willie Nelson's Always On My Mind that I re-wrote exclusively to sing to my penis:

"Baby I could have rubbed you,

All those lonely desperate times,

Maybe I should have drugged you

I'm so sorry that you're mine

If I had a tube of Astro-Glide

I would stroke you till I'm blind

But you were always on my mind

You were always on my mind"

......................................................................................

Here's a Willie track that DOESN'T suck. That pedal steel is pretty sweet.

Dude, You've Got A Little Something Right There...

As I returned from the microwave with my lunch, a co-worker stopped me with a quizzical look on his face.
"What's up with Igor's face?" (Igor is not his real name)
"Uh... What do you mean?" I replied, instantly thinking of about twelve ways I could make fun of Igor for being born ugly and aging poorly into an even more hideous visage.
"It looks like he has a marker smudge on his forehead."
"That's weird. Oh wait! It must be Ash Wednesday."
Additional confused look from Nikolai. (Also not his real name)
"You know, Ash Wednesday?" I asked.
No look of comprehension from Nikolai.
"The beginning of Lent?"
Still no recognition. Seriously? Dude, you're 40 and live in a state where phone books list more churches than bars. How can you NOT know about Ash Wednesday?
Hey, it must be time to fuck with Nikolai.
"Ok, you've heard of Mardi Gras, right?"
Instant recognition.
"Cool. Well the reason everyone parties balls on Fat Tuesday is because the next day, Ash Wednesday, is the beginning of Lent. Lent is that long period of time between Ash Wednesday and Easter where people make promises to God to do or not do certain things, but only during that short time period instead of year round, because apparently everyone's willpower sucks over the long haul. So everyone switches their shit fully on during Fat Tuesday and Mardi Gras and they get tore up like a burning pub full of Irishmen in a hurricane. Because starting the following morning, they have to clean up their act for two months."
Nikolai is nodding his head.
"Well everyone smears ash on their foreheads to help them remember that Jesus gave up smoking for Lent, but the night before he quit he tried to smoke an entire carton of Parliaments. The next morning, he woke up passed out in an ashtray full of puke, ash and cigarette butts. No one told him he had that crap all over his face and stuck in his beard until a few days later. So now everyone smudges ash on their foreheads to honor that memory."
Nikolai is no longer nodding his head, but is instead looking at me through rapidly narrowing and suspicious eyes.
"Hey man, my lunch is getting cold. Good talking to you."

..................................................................

While Tim and Tubbs were here this weekend, we made a few trips around town. Tim observed aloud that there sure were a lot of churches in town.
"Church is big business around here," I replied.
"Shit, speaking of church and business, have you heard about the mega-churches that are putting ATMs on premises so that parishioners can donate that way?"
"What? That sounds....wrong."
"Yeah apparently the machines don't dispense money. You just get a receipt for your donation, which you then toss into the collection tray."
"Wait, isn't there some allegory about 'money changers' in the Bible? I seem to recall there was some anger and muttering and stuff. Don't these people READ the book they follow?"
"Apparently not," replied Tim, "Or at least not the part where their hippie leader, old Capitan Whatshisname, threw a bitch fit on the church bankers."

..................................................................................................

If you're going to hell anyway, you might as well angle for the good seats.

Here's some relevant Jethro Tull.

A friend turned me on to ZDZISŁAW BEKSIŃSKI, so I thought I'd share. I think he may be more disturbing than Mark Ryden.

....................................................................................

Just like a midget stripper, my weekend was fantastic, but far too short. Tubbs and Tim and I managed to consume 95% of my kitchen's edible matter (and 3% of it's non-edible matter) by late Friday evening, so Saturday morning (read: noon) included a trip to the grocery store.

Somewhere in the past years of marriage, I had forgotten that food comes in prepackaged, ready-to-eat form. My friends reminded me by example that a person can live for quite a while on such food, even for days at a time if necessary. "Open package, pour contents into mouth. Repeat."

Even so, I did end up doing a bit of cooking, as did Tubbs, who took it upon himself to purchase and cook three pounds of bacon. We had eaten it all by about eleven that evening.

As for the music and recording and all that affiliated nonsense, well we did a lot of that too. Even the accordion got a little action. I managed to get Tubbs to do a little guest work on a song I've been spitballing. It's now a thing of wonder. In return, I showed him 75-80% of what I know about recording. A bargain at twice the price.

......................................................................................

Here's Rip This Joint by the world's greatest rock band.

Everybody's Working For The Weekend

A few friends are coming in from out of town for the weekend, including the guy who got the best Valentine's Day gift(s) in recent memory. That gift consisted of roughly 1K worth of musical recording equipment, equipment which he is bringing to my house for instructions on how to operate. I hope I can figure it out quickly, because I'd rather spend the time ACTUALLY RECORDING the music we play instead of setting up his system. Tube preamp, recording/mixing software, shock-mount condenser mic, new laptop, and cables and a mic stand. His mixing board hasn't arrived yet, but we can use mine for the weekend.


Maybe I'll have some recordings to post here after the weekend is over. I promise it won't sound like Loverboy.

Pray for my liver.

Gonna Be A Big Star

This morning, coworkers and I had a conversation about the merits of owning a crocodile instead of a chimpanzee, which obviously segued into the merits and pitfalls of being Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice.

From there, we posed an interesting question to one another: If you could lead the life of any fictional TV persona, whom would you chose (the character, NOT the actor/actress)?

I momentarily found myself torn between longing to be Mr Roarke from Fantasy Island or Buck Rogers. While the prospect of ordering a midget around using my sexy Latin accent and getting to peek into peoples disturbing fetishes was very appealing, it didn't stack up to 80s era Erin Gray in skin-tight "Futurewear". Not even close.

The future never looked so bright.

I had the most massive crush on Col. Wilma Deering in the late 70s and early 80s. She was smokin' back in the day. Come to think of it, she's still smokin' hawt.

Who would YOU be?

Kittens

See, it's awesome/dumb stuff like this that makes me want to actually have children. For a few minutes anyway.

Dysfunctional

The Dysfunctional Family Circus Archives are hilarious. Do yourself a favor and pay them a little visit. Here's an example:


"Okay. So we all eat rat poison so Daddy will feel bad about spending the night with his secretary. I got that part. What I want to know is why there isn't a bowl for you."

or....

"So what I'm saying is don't you feel your life is an endless, meaningless parade of preparing meals for ungrateful children and a distant, unspeaking spouse?"

Page Pimp

I've found a link that makes ANY webpage better. Even if the webpage is already the pinnacle of Internet achievement. I can already smell the improvement.

Friday Fotos

Various photos taken at various times and places and then presented in no particular order and without explanation.

The Perils Of Inbreeding

It is well documented that I have a small portion of my brain devoted exclusively to Gary Busey. So imagine my delight when I opened an email Friday afternoon and beheld the jewel pictured below.
I particularly relish the way that "mom" Busey looks more disheveled and frazzled than the rest, as if "mom" has run herself (himself? hermself?) ragged trying to look after three other rambunctious and clinically psychotic Buseys all while dealing with herm own internal batch of nuanced psychoses.

Further, that image is a master stroke of humor and insanity. I am fairly certain that image is the EXACT pinnacle of Photoshop, and precisely what developers had in mind when they created the program. "Dude, you could like, take a shitty Olan Mills portrait, ya know? And like, put a bunch a Busey heads on em! Fuckin' sweet, right?"

My clearest revelation came when I tried to polish the image using Paint Shop Pro. You see, I noticed that there were some pixel discrepancies that I wanted to clean up. So I tried an old standby, the "One Step Photo Fix" command.

Nothing happened. A bit confused, I tried it again. Still nothing.

And then it hit me: THERE IS NO FIX FOR BEING BUSEY.

.......................................................................................

Here's Palmitos Park by El Guincho