My Mother asked if I would change the title of my blog to something that refrained from using the word "shitbag" in it. Request denied. I think the word shitbag is fantastic and it holds a sentimental place in my heart. The word was called out to a friend of mine at a bar years ago. The look of sheer terror on his face for having called that out to her was priceless. Now my friend and I always call each other shitbag as a term of endearment. I see nothing wrong with calling this a shitbag because in my book being called a shitbag is on par with being called super cool, or a rockstar. Now if I had called my blog "Tales from a busted shitsac" I could see how that could warrant some second thoughts. But as I didn't I am keeping it all shitbag, all the time.
I don't care what the news is going on about with the war on terror and all of that jazz, there are more serious issues at hand and a much more dastardly folks than Saddam or Osama threatening our safety here. People may look to the Bible to see that the end of the world is at hand but not me. No, I look towards one thing and I know that the Rapture is upon us..... I look towards the evil that is, The Pussycat Dolls.
The Pussycat Dolls stand as a symbol for a craze that is sweeping the Nation and slowly killing all of us... little by little. You may not think that a group of scantily clad women doing some sort of dry-humping while throwing jazz hands up in the air isn't a big deal, but it is my friends, it is. The Pussycat Dolls are a symptom of a much larger phenomenon.
People seemed to be noticing the new trend amongst seemingly normal young ladies around Halloween of last year. Whereas Halloween used to be a time for whimsical costumes and clever outfits it has now turned into a holiday where any girl uses it as an excuse to become a sexy -fill in the blank. I went to one party for Halloween and out of the 35 or so girls that were there, only three of us had not dressed as something sexy and that was because we were dressed as men. And not sexy men either.
The girls have in fact gone wild. If they aren't showing their tits and french kissing other coeds on late night infomercials then they are dressing like sexy stock car drivers on Halloween. And worse yet? It hasn't stopped at Holidays and jerk-off videos. No sir, these Pussycat Clones Gone Wild are infiltrating your neighborhood.
I was at Starbucks a while back, grabbing an apple cider, when what to my wandering eyes did appear? A fucking skank, is what. I am sure at some point in her life she was a real cute girl and quite wholesome. Now however, at the corner Starbucks, at 9 in the morning, she had opted to wear an outfit befitting someone getting off work at Babydolls. She was wearing a terry cloth hoodie, cropped legged cammo pants, an ed hardy trucker hat, a gucci purse, and stiletto heels that looked like they came from the 1993 Candies collection. Worst yet, she was sporting my pet peeve - the french manicure on her toes. Why would anyone want to paint them to look like they were long enough to have that much of a white area?That shit disgusts me. But I digress. The kicker to this outfit was that her face looked a mess - you could tell she just rolled out of bed with her boyfriend (to her credit was quite cute and didn't seem like a total douche) and went to get some coffee. So what? You just got done snuggling with the boyfriend after a night out at The Saddle Ranch (seems like her type of hang out) when you both get a hankering for a cuppa joe. So the thing you decide to put on is - stilettos? Stilettos and you don't even bother to wipe the mascara from last night off your face? You put on this outfit with the matching accessories but you still look a mess? I don't get it.
Sure people might think I am jealous. Jealous because I can't rock the sexy-deep-sea-diver Halloween costume. Jealous because my idea of a manicure involves understated tones and does not involve a bedazzaler. Jealous because when I go to Starbucks at 9am after a rough night I look like shit and I will still look like shit even if I haven't had a rough night. That's my lot in life and I am ok with it. I will never be the hottest chick in a group of girls at a club, but baby take me to the local sci fi convention and I will get those nerds rocks off faster than you can jump to lightspeed. They don't call me the hobbit of hotness for nothing.
So ladies, have fun while you can. Go and dry hump the closest dude with gel in his hair an un-tucked dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and obligatory jaeger bomb in hand on the dance floor when the newest Rhianna song plays. It won't phase me anymore. This Halloween go all out and try and make even the un-sexiest thing sexy. Try being the Gorden's Fisherman. Or an Amish person. Or a Troll. Be my guest. I am sure you will score tons of ass when you can figure out how to make a troll outfit sexy. Go and hit up the closest Charlotte Russe, Forever 21 and American Apparel for the sexiest ensembles you can find. Go and blend in with all the other Pussycat Dolls at the clubs, vet clinics, targets and farmers markets. Have fun realizing you look like everyone else and that when you get over the whole trend you are going to have one helluva time taking out those Jessica Simpson extensions.
Bottom line - I don't wish I was hot like you. Because just because you are hot doesn't make you immune to the clap. True story.
My friend Jenny and I normally do not share the same viewpoints when it comes to our taste in music and celebrities.
Jenny enjoys music from the country and western duo of Big and Rich. Their redneck lyrics paired with left-over beats from a rejected Kid Rock song pretty much make her feel better than homemade methamphetamines. She basically listens to them 24/7 and only takes a break from them to pop on the self titled debut "Enrique" by Enrique Iglesias. She says nothing calms her nerves after a long day betting on dogs up at the Greyhound track up in Janzten Beach more than smoking a Newport Lite on on the stoop of her mobile home, drinking an ice cold Zima and listening to that Dynamic Duo sing country-rock anthems.
I on the other hand am much more of a Vivaldi, Chopin, and Miles Davis "Blue" girl. I prefer to sit at home in my smoking jacket, drinking a fine glass of port, reading Proust and listening to Eine Klein Nacht Musik on the Victrola I keep in my study. This is of course after I have spent the evening entertaining dignitaries and the most up and coming of artists and musicians.What can I say? I am just a high class broad.
So you see, Jenny and I have very different ideas of what we consider to be fine art. We are like Ebony and Ivory. Seperate yet equal. There is one thing however, that she and I do agree on And that one thing happens to be named Mario Lopez.
Yes, the one thing we agree on is that Mario Lopez - Mr. AC Slater himself - is the finest thespian to hit the television since the debut of Diagnosis Murder. The first we saw of Mr. Lopez was as a rocking drummer on Kids Incorporated! Sure he was in the background but you couldn't take your eyes off of him. Each musical sequence we focused on what new moves he would be using on the percussion instruments. I recall a certain bongo solo during a Miami Sound Machine song that almost tore the "Place" down. Riley looked like he almost got a hard on from it. I know I did. It didn't matter if Martika was belting out "Point of No Return" because when Mario was on the drums nothing else mattered. Sometimes, to appease the fans, they would throw him on the keytar and it was panamonium. The keytar is a hard instrument to master - but he did. And how!
Then of course there was his star turn on Saved By The Bell. They should have based the entire show around Mario's character AC Slater but I am sure the execs were weary of not getting Mario burnt out. It is hard when you exude such sex appeal and amazing acting to not become exhausted. The execs I am sure had so much admiration for Mario that they wouldn't let that be his fate. Instead they balanced the show out with the lesser talented, Rick Schroder rip off Mark Paul Gosslar. His generic looks and over the top acting was only appeased by Mario's natural elegance as an actor. Whereas Zach was forced to dress up to make him seem more handsome, Mario was able to wear Jams and hyper-color tanks and make it look effortless. All the girls on the show wanted to be the love interest of AC Slater but Elizabeth Berkley was the only one who could hold her own against Mario. And if you of course view her classic film "Showgirls" you will see her at her finest, understated work. Witness this classic exchange between sweethearts Jesse Spano and AC Slater."Slater, haven't you heard of the Women's Movement?" "Sure. Put on something cute and MOVE it into the kitchen."Can you just hear how he put the right inflection in "move"? That is something you can't teach. That is instinct. Basic theatrical instinct.
Mario stole every scene he was in. Whether wrestling, helping Zach outwit Mr Belding or going head to head with Jessie, he was the obvious star of the show. Seeing him in the show must have been what the Three Wise Men felt when they saw the Star guiding them to the Christ child. Anyone who has ever seen his work would have to agree that he is the finest actor of our generation. What man could pull off the curled mullet coupled with high waisted multicolored hammer pants and silk shirt like he could? No man. Only Mario.
A creative child, but very, very weird child as well. Not as in like a uni-bomber type of kid who would kill animals or collect fingernail clippings and listen to GWAR or anything. But I did dance to the beat of a very, very different drummer. While other kids were experimenting with makeup and figuring out that boys didn't have cooties I would be busy creating ten to twenty mini landfills in my front yard that housed bits and pieces of fruit and legos in an attempt to see how long it would take them to decompose. Of course my mom loved this. She also loved when I used to play pioneers, evangelical church and mental institution.
Not too long after my cat Baby had some kittens I happened upon an episode of Circus of the Stars and suddenly my destiny became clear. I was to be a world famous and quite foxy ring-master. I chose a kitten as the star animal for the center ring and that kitten was solid white and it's name was Neon (it was the late 80's and I am sure I was sporting some heinous neon pink wind shorts at their birth or something - i was easily inspired) Did I also mention I was an only child? I would start with Neon and I figured eventually, with a lot of training, incorporate my other animals into the act and then set out on tour. I was always looking for my big break into showbiz and this seemed like a fool proof plan.
So I set about training Neon - who was like a month or two old - to go through hula-hoops, walk up weird towers I built and then jump off things. It wasn't much of a show I realized. So I added something else. Me in my baton uniform and a "Princess Marguerite" official captain's hat that I had gotten on a ship to Canada (that was during my "tour guide" phase).I looked snappy and yes, I took baton twirling lessons. Because nothing is more applicable to your daily life than baton twirling. I use those skills almost everyday. The outfit was a red leotard with black bloomer things and it was from a recital I had at the local art fair when a fellow baton twirler and I did a choreographed routine to Bananarama's "Cruel Summer". I added my tap shoes as well because they completed the outfit well and when paired with the hat it looked quite showbizy. Plus the shoes were shiny - which as any good ring leader knows is an important accessory. One must shine to be a star.
After a day or two of practicing I showed my Mom the act and it didn't go over so well. I knew I wasn't the dud and God knows no one could turn down a chance to see a kitten named Neon crawl around. I decided that the thing it was missing was just what the baton recital rocked the house with - a bitchin' song. Now of course I realized by that time Bananarama was played out. In my mind there was only one band who could really complete my act and convey the sense of excitement and danger that my circus act was all about. And that band was Wilson Phillips.
Wilson Phillips was of comprised of the morbidly obese Carnie Wilson, the angelic future wife to a Baldwin Chyna Phillips and the lesser known but my personal favorite Wendy Wilson. My preference of Wendy over the others played a huge part in the song I chose for my act.
So anyway, I asked my Mom a few days later to watch my act and told her that I had really stepped it up a notch. This was important because I knew she wouldn't support my addition of other household pets (ie - the salamanders and gerbils) if I didn't show her I could blow the crowd away. The cat was ready (and by ready I mean trapped under a clothes hamper so it couldn't split before the big show) and my outfit was on, my baton (which was now used as a pointing stick to guide the cat) was polished. I walked over, let out the cat and then took out my Wilson Phillips cassette single. Instead of putting on "Hold On"- which was a great song and all but not fitting for this setting. I flipped it over to the B-Side - "Impulsive" - which was Wendy's song where she was able to sing lead.
I started my act but considering how slow and lame the song was my act derailed quite rapidly before my eyes. With the slower tempo the cat lost direction and decided to climb willie nilly, which got me upset. And eventually, after a couple of minutes of trying to get the cat back on track and going into a fit of tears after slipping on the wood floors with my tap shoes, I realized not only had my Mom left the room but my love for Wendy left the room with her.
I always wanted to support Wendy because Chyna always outshone them on the songs but it was at that moment, when the high pitched singing of Wendy threw my act into the shitter, I realized why Chyna got the star billing. It was because she didn't suck.
I tapped my way back to my room, but the baton down next to me and popped back in the cassette into my stereo. This time back to side one. The opening chords played and I nursed my wounds with the power of positivity delivered by one Chyna Phillips and backed up the lesser talented Carnie and Wendy. Through their mantra of : "I know that there is pain but you hold on for one more day and you break free of the chains. Yea, I know that there is pain but you - you hold on for one more day. And you break free. Break from the chains." I realized that maybe being a ring-leader of a small animal carnival might not be my destiny but I was sure that there was something bigger and better out there. Wilson Phillips man, they were the Walt Whitman's of the late 80's early 90's pop scene. True story.
A few weeks later, my Mom accidentally ran over Neon and killed her. I considered it a blessing in disguise that I disbanded my circus a prior to that event. Imagine all the blood sweat and tears and baton twirling that would have been down the drain after Neons demise. Besides I always like the salamanders better in the first place.
When I was but a youngster my cousin and I would watch this teen soap on Nick every chance we got. My cousin was about five years older than me so I thought this was the life she was living and was totally jealous. While she was discussing boyfriends and such I was busy borrowing my mom's blazers in an attempt to look cool in elementary school (which did not work).
Regardless, I loved this show. I knew at the time Ashley was a whiny brat but I still liked her and I felt her pain when her boyfriend, after consuming one beer, was sent to rehab. I loved the evil Brooke and her minions as well as the cookie cutter bad/hot boys.
Please enjoy a trip back to fake high school with a clip from Fifteen.
How to Rock the Puka's: A Visual Journey with Kenny Chesney.
This is the HS glamor Puka Shot. He is lounging and working the chest hair. Casual, slighty precocious. And just the littlest peek of his masculine fur. Leave the ladies wanting more -thats his motto. I also assume this is from Halloween in the tropics. Orange tank, black stetson hat and some white puka shells? Ghoul-tastic!
Hells yes, the Caribbean Queen look. Notice how the shirt is unbuttoned just at junk level. That my friends is product placement if you get my drift. Also, the use of the white hat to compliment the puka shell necklace and the white sandy beaches really touches me. This must have been taken by Ansel Adams or something because it is so artistic and makes me feel one with nature. It's the Wild Wild West meets The Rocking Rodeo. Once again Kenny is allowing us the slightest glimpse at his country and western junk. You can tell he is a rebel because he doesn't wear an undershirt - which is crazy. Then the hot Puka necklace. And you know he is a real man because out there on the ponderosa, with the sun beating down, I bet that those fucking shells really chafe your neck. This dude is a maniac.
I thought I would perk up the afternoon by showing you two things that make me want to vomit: #1) Emo kids. Maybe it was because I just got done going to an art school with youngsters who fancied themselves real sensitive but whatever the case is I freaking despise this whole emo trend. At least when the men in the 80's wore makeup they compensated for it by becoming alpha males and boned any bird within an 80 mile radius. Now these douches wear pink and black have lip rings, greasy black, flat-ironed hair with peg legged jeans and a ipod full of the most annoying music ever. Well not as annoying as Nickleback but close. Have you heard Panic At The Disco? Gross. #2) Puka Shell Necklaces. Top 2 reasons I don't like them? #1 - Kenny Chesney rocks the shit out of them and to make it worse couples the necklaces with sleeveless tanks. And although I love me some Kenny Chesney I do not love me some puka. Or sleeveless tanks. #2) Future Marines of America on vacation in New Orleans during Mardi Gras.
Wipe muskrat with damp cloth, pick off any hair. Separate hind from fore quarters, cutting across the back and just below the ribs. Fit into glass or enamel bowl. Add salt water enough to cover (l tbsp salt to 1 qt water), cover and place in refrigerator overnight.
Next day, drain off salt water and rinse with clear water. Drain well. Place in a kettle and add water., salt, onion, and poultry seasoning. Heat to boiling, reduce heat, cover and simmer for 20 minutes. Lift out parboiled muskrat, drain and cut into serving pieces. Make a batter by beating egg, milk, and flour with a rotary beater until smooth. Add salt and thyme. Dip pieces of muskrat in batter and brown slowly in heated shortening until golden on all sides. All l/4 cup water, cover and simmer for 20 minutes. Remove cover and cook 15 to 20 minutes until crisp again on outside, and tender. Serve with cream gravy if desired. 2 to 4 servings.
This weeks ailment is consumption, or as it is more commonly known, tuberculosis. It was called consumption back in the day because it literally consumed people from within giving them a bloody cough, pallor, chills and extreme fatigue.
