John passed away this year. John was a veteran of the Coast Guard and although considerably mellowed with age, he had a salty streak. He had a hard time getting around for years with degeneration in the nerves in his legs. He hobbled about on canes until he stepped up to the motorized scooter a few years back. Through it all, John volunteered at the hospital three or four days a week and he also went to thirty or forty Rays games every year. He was the truest fan of the team I know. John was always ready to engage me or be engaged in baseball talk. What's more, John was a New Englander who was raised on the Red Sox, but made it very clear that his allegiance was squarely with the Rays (although John didn't make it to the season with us this year, so if he were making the mistake of throwing in the excised Devil into the team name, I would cut him a little slack, up there watching this madness unfold, probably digging into some well worn sea bag of quaint phrases and protestations).

Win or lose, John, I'm going to think of you tonight. If it weren't for baseball fans like you, and people like you, it really wouldn't be much fun at all to be here now. I just wish I had a chance to talk to you about it afterward.

Yesterday, I walked about eight miles. I did it out of necessity, as I had to leave my car at a friend's house, having totally overdone it, beerwise, at the football game (pre-, during and post-) on Sunday. The truth is, I didn't really have to walk to get my car. Barbara would have driven me over after work, and I was off all week, so I had absolutely nowhere that I needed go. The idea of walking to get the car implanted itself in my head sometime in the morning, or maybe even earlier, when I kept getting up to try and rehydrate so my tongue wouldn't feel like a dried out kitchen sponge in my mouth.

I sat around and avoided starting until about noon though, because I didn't really know if I was up to it, but the idea of doing it overpowered any physical reluctance eventually. I kind of psyched myself up a little by getting out my neglected mp3 player which I was all set to load up with some great sunshine pop mixes I just downloaded, but then I discovered that the mp3 player's battery will just go dead on it's own after sitting for a time. I was kind of bummed out about that, so I contemplated fishing out the walkman, but finally just said "fuck it, just go".

This was not a regular walk, then. This was more of a compulsive walk. I've been on these before. Not that that really matters so much, once you get started. (I'm remembering several times walking around Gainesville, all hours of the day or night, walking from La Crosse, Wisconsin, over the Mississippi so I could say I set foot in Minnesota [it's longer than you'd think], walking from North Reddington down to Madeira Beach, walking from Eagle Lake to Winter Haven [a three mile walk I'd driven thousands of times]...all because they just had to be done.)

Most of the walk was along the Pinellas Trail, which makes it's way through suburban sprawl virtually right to my friend's doorstep. (Perhaps the ready availability of this route made the idea stick when it first bubbled up.) I'd never gone more than half of this route before, since I usually don't have a car on the other end, so I was not sure what the part of the trail that actually gets into St Petersburg was going to be like. It's reasonably sedate up on my end, although the northern stretches just north of downtown Clearwater are a little sketchy. There was nothing too imposing though, with the exception of an abandoned, two-story apartment building whose windows seemed to have made nice targets for kids frequenting the trail. The people are usually the more interesting attractions along the trail. I saw some adult men on bikes, who, from the way they were dressed, were probably going to or coming home from work, a rollerblading babe of a mom with the toddler in the blade-ready stroller, groups of older folks biking together, some kids going home from school, etc., but nothing remarkable. There was a guy with a beard and a mullet and several children waiting for the one reluctant child to catch up. The reluctant child kept yelling over and over, "You suck!" He finally caught up and said something I couldn't quite hear to the man, who replied in a british accent, "Let's go to the candy shop." [Candy Shop?]

The last section of the trail before I got to my destination was the most interesting, because it went right through a cemetery. I could see how the prime spots out by the main road gave way to what was more or less a forest with older, smaller markers scattered around. I really had a compulsion to climb over the fence and walk around in there, but didn't succumb to the urge. I saw an SUV parked in among the somewhat remote part of the cemetery and was looking around intently to see where the person who drove it out there was, when I spotted him/her/them lying on the ground on a blanket. I didn't want to look to hard to see the make-up of the party or what was going on. I already had enough to work with.

My last encounter was a young girl on her cell phone. She was headed towards me as I was getting ready to turn onto the little spur that would take me where I was going. It looked like she was going to turn there too, so I had to make sure I got there before she did, because I didn't want to end up behind her and creep her out or anything. I was ahead of her enough to avoid this bit of awkwardness, as she did indeed turn where I did, but I was within earshot of her, so I heard most of her half of her conversation. It was dumb high school stuff about cliques in her school and other schools and who's cool to chill with and who isn't. What else is new?

This is from my first concert at the fabulous Lakeland Civic Center. The special guest was a band called Guiffria or something like that.

( More )

Date:	2006-11-06 21:52
Subject:	Arlo
Security:	Public
Mood:	nostalgic

Today at work, Dennis walks by and he's singing "City of New Orleans" by Arlo Guthrie. He picked it up from the craptastic radio station that is the only thing we can receive/bear to listen to on the little radio in the office. Now "City of New Orleans" is really the only Arlo Guthrie song that you will ever hear on The Dove (that's the radio station), but you will probably hear it once a day. I sang the chorus, which is really all I could quote with any certainty ("good moring America, how are you") and Dennis said he was trying to pick up the lyrics, but it wasn't a good time to be standing at the radio right about then, so he had left the office and Arlo behind. This is where I save the day, because I happen to have a cassette tape of The Best of Arlo Guthrie at home and he can check it out at his leisure (okay, forget that it's not, like, 1988, and you can get the lyrics to everything from some site or other, even at work when 95% of the lyrics sites are blocked). Dennis is low tech, and I've got two obscenely huge boxes of gen-u-ine cassette tapes in the garage (I don't regularly store them out there, they're just at a waypoint while Office remodel 2.0 is in progress) and I'll bring him the cassette and he can check it out and listen to "City of New Orleans" all he wants. (I guess there's a tape player somewhere in Dennisland.)

Arlo Guthrie was one of the first artists in my earliest collection of VINYL. I mean alongside Snoopy & the Red Baron's Christmas, Alvin & the Chipmunks, Sesame Street, Mr. Rogers, etc., back when the vinyl was spun on a little plasticky suitcasey monophonic RECORD PLAYER. Dad bought me and my sister a 45 of Arlo Guthrie singing "The Motorcycle Song" (I don't want a pickle, I just wanna ride on my motorsickle). I can't really remember why. We must have heard it on the radio and found it amusing, so Dad decided to give us our own copy. The only other non-kiddie type record I remember in the collection back then was Sammy Davis Jr. singing "The Candyman". But anyway, I loved listening to that Arlo Guthrie 45 (although I'm sure I listened to it at 33 and a 1/3 a few times, they gave you all the speeds, you HAD to use them). Arlo was the coolest guy I'd ever heard, and at the age of five, the image of a guy roaring down the side of a mountain on a motorcycle, guitar in hand, composing a song, was pretty compelling.

Speaking of The Dove (that's the radio station that plays one song by Arlo Guthrie once a day), by using their website, I can discern pretty much to the minute when I had the conversation with Dennis. Here's what played around 3:00 PM:

3:12 p.m. Have You Seen Her Chi Lites
3:07 p.m. Holding Back The Years Simply Red
3:04 p.m. The Long And Winding Road Beatles
3:00 p.m. The City Of New Orleans Arlo Guthrie
2:57 p.m. Cupid Sam Cooke
2:53 p.m. Blue Bayou Linda Ronstadt
2:49 p.m. A Whole New World Peabo Bryson & Regina Belle
2:46 p.m. Morning Has Broken Cat Stevens

Simply wonderful, eh? The Dove is really a snooze, but they do have an announcer in the morning (I can't bring myself to call him a DJ) named Dick Ring. Hee hee, Dick Ring. No joke.

I searched through all the available last played songs (just 48 hours worth) to see when they last played "Washington Square" by The Village Stompers, and apparently they haven't played it in the last two days. It seems as if that one used to be in an almost daily rotation, but some time has gone by and some minute adjustments to the Dove playlist have taken place over the last few years. For example, "A Day in the Life" by the Beatles suddenly started appearing, and it was jarring to me at first. That particular song seemed a bit out of place with the more melodious and safer Beatles tunes they usually relied on. Maybe it directly replaced "Washington Square" in an attempt to make The Dove hipper? At any rate, it could be days before I hear "Washington Square" again, but (again thanks to the website) I can rest easier knowing that "Alley Cat" by Bent Fabric was played at 2:35 am today. I don't think hipness is an objective for The Dove. Oh yeah, who has The Village Stompers and Bent Fabric on vinyl? I do, I do!

I yanked another randon tape out of the big box of tapes and it was Barabajagal by Donovan. I am too cool for school. I was buying these tapes at the same time as I was buying Fugazi and Big Black tapes. Really.

While I'm waxing all nostalgic here, while I was writing this, I was listen to an episode of Word Jazz by Ken Nordine on the radio. This was pretty much what I lived for on Friday (or possibly Saturday) nights on WUSF back in the early 80s. I heard a promo that they were doing a retrospective of Word Jazz on WMNF so I tuned in. It sounded just like I remember it, weird and goofy and just a cool thing to space out to while your stereo glowed blue in a darkened room. Ken popped on at the end and implored me to go to the website and check out the blog. That was weird, I figured this was an intact document from twentysomething years ago and he was going to to give me an address and maybe an 800 number if I wanted to order a cassette, but I guess Ken is still out there, plugging this stuff and cutting new tags to stick on the end of the old shows. "Stare with your ears....."

Date:	2006-09-13 23:42
Subject:
Security:	Public
Mood:	pensive

Am I the only one who finds that you have to buy coffee filter in such large quantities (like 500 in a pack) that it's impossible to remember what your supply on hand is? Like, do I have a current supply that will get me through Thanksgiving, or will I be scrounging around early next week at 6 in the moring to brew coffee to get the day started?

Just a thought. Hi everyone who reads this!

( ever popular graphical music meme )

Okay, so I did this meme in the previous entry and it set off a chain reaction of realizations and memories. Since I'm in a sharing mood, I'll proceed with another entry! ( Ta Da! )

From sleestak

1. The Beatles
2. The Kinks
3. Tom Waits
4. Talking Heads
5. The Who
6. Guided By Voices
7. XTC
8. Elvis Costello
9. Mudhoney
10. Robyn Hitchcock

( Read more )

These tunes are bubbling under according to VinylFuck Magazine (a division of RimCo):

Horseshit on the Doorknob - Gay Bobbin and the Merrigold Five
Your Sister's Full of Beans - The Clip Top Trio
Roll Over and Do That Monkey Thing - Ebeneezer "Borscht Belt" Hanratty
Canvas Underwear and Three Alarm Chili - Doug Dickey and the Torquemada Mountain Boys
Blowin' 2.2 on 301 - "Uncle" Teddy and the Waldo Playboys
Leather Pants Factory Serenade - The Guy LaFleur Experience
You Pissed in My Cornflakes So I Threatened Your Lawyer With an Icepick - Ol' Lemonballs
Grandpappy's Secret Stash - Blind Birdbath McKinley
Risque Tomato Soup - Tits McGee and "Stupid" Tammy Fleshcurtains
Truckstop Tuna Surprise - Sir Tinkles-A-Lot
Pork From Above - The Hoss Bamburger Quintet
Livin' at Wendy's - Duckbutter Sunrise
Science Fiction Candle Party - The Nurksville Throbbers
Open Up, Bitch - Oprah's Handbag
This Sedation Isn't Taking - Plumb-Bob Hairshirt
Have You Met My Horse, Dr. Mephisto? - Colleen Dewhurst's Mississippi Munchkin Choir
The Ballad of Larry Tate - L Rob Picklepuncher
Brainiac's Second Cousin Larry's Theme - The Lenny's Pub Light Opera Society
Semester in Waukeegan - His Name is Knobache
Elegy for a Turd Sandwich - The Steampowered Hacksaw
Are You Absolutely Sure This Is Medically Necessary? - Pinetar Jacoby & The Sasquatch Trio
Mellow Kielbasa - The John Birch Society Summer Youth Volunteer Dude Ranch Glee Club
You Spackled Over My Third Eye - Johnny Kundalini's Eau Gallie Hotentots
Goddammit, That Hurts - Claypipe Aiken & Lowdown Jones
Mein Kampf Melody - The Franklin Mints
Smells Like Three Bean Salad - The Second Hand Gravy Boat
That Fries My Bacon - Ralph Lungworm
You're My Occasional Piece - The Ed Gein Band

I've been cleaning sinks and toilets all morning in
between bouts of oinking. The bleach fumes are not
conducive to composition. (Ah but dems de ol' rules,
young soldier. The new order is kicking in the door
and no amount of bleach will clean up the swipe of
unmerciful literary bloodshed that's to follow. You
thought you were embarking on a three hour
pseudojournalistic tour, but it grew into something
unending and perversely infinite [Huh?] Pull on your
boots, we're wading through a stinking sty, hip deep
in the oinker ejectamenta. Beat your plowshares back
into ink cartridges and clean the cat hair out of you
USB ports, we've got some serious sledgehammer
reporting to do. The ill wind of Republidematarians
blows through the open windows in our breakfast nook
and sours our grapefruit. Fight back the nausea and
swallow the oatmeal of liberation. Your metaphorical
cornflakes won't get you into heaven anymore, nor will
your poetic yearnings for glory land you a spot on Jay
Leno's couch. Bite the hand that high fives you. Loose
tips, pink slips, give a pig some pone. The revolution
will not be available in widescreen format with
director's commentary and hilarious outtakes. Sing a
song of shit pants, a pocket full of lies, four and
twenty war pigs, squealing in a sty. When I get to the
bottom I go back to the top of my Mrs. Wagner pie, my
hair pie, my Kenny shoe, my heartbeat of America. Your
corporation t-shirt upsets my sensibilities so you
shouldn't walk down ninth street anymore. Hair peace,
hair piece, herpes, Ravi Chancre, BTK supersized value
meal. A partial grocery list of vague concepts
bubbling in the cauldron of our collective paranormal
sense memories. A brain salad sandwich [Shit
Sandwich!] with a side of special BTK sauce, hold the
pickle [where do you want me to hold it?], hold back
the night, rage, rage, against denial of De-Lite. My
monkey wrote back and denied he had something to hide,
leaving only me, me and my Winston, we got a real good
thing. And here's another clue for you all, my walrus
lacks balls [he's the soul of indolence.])

My fellow Americans. I have in my breast pocket the Constitution. Not a copy, mind you, but the actual original draft. Y'know, the one that Abraham Lincoln wrote when he met with Napoleon at Pottsdam. Now, I've been studying this thing, and I don't see anywhere in here where it says I can't take a peek around wherever I want, especially when we are at war. Remember when President Andrew McCarthy suspended the Writ of Corpus Collosum after the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? It's kinda like that deal. Now there was some partisanship back in those days. As I recall the Crips and the Whigs duked it out pretty good, but all Americans came to recognize that consolidation of power without checks or balances sometimes is the only way things get done, or as one great statesman once said, "makes the trains run on time" (I think that was Archduke Marmaduke of the Franco American Hittite Party. I think he's here tonight. Take a bow Duke.)
As I was saying, in order to truly be free, there must be sacrifice. Just like the great manager of our nation's capital's ball team Frank Robinson would do be sacrificing Satchel Page over to second when he played for the Seattle Pilots against the Denver Broncos for the Stanley Cup. Take a bow Frank. Of course, when I say sacrifice, I mean sacrifice for many, but not neccessarily all. I think of Kenneth Lay, a man that I'd never heard of until a few months ago when I heard about him on television. At first, I assume he was responsible for those potato chips, which are damned tasty. I like the barbeque flavored ones best. Now this Ken Lay guy, who I don't know, have never met, and as I mentioned hadn't ever heard of until a few days ago obviously displayed a talent for consolidating business and downsizing and outsourcing and profit sharing and brush clearing and many other modern day business strategery. Sacrifices are made, but people still win. I mean some people win. That's the way it goes. Ken? Are you up there? He's not here? Okay, lets move on.
I want to talk about the Supreme Court. As you know, it's been my honor to forward three individuals as nominees to the court while I've been in office. I know that my good friend Harriet Meyers didn't get the job and that's too bad. She's a smart lady. She was always there to explain stuff to me and read over warranties and such. I want to say hi to Harriet, who couldn't be here tonight. Hi Harriet, I got your Christmas card. The picture of the puppy is adorable. I want to give a shout out to John Roberts and Sammy Alito too. These are my guys on the court, my Oscar Robertson and Michael Jordan if you will. America likes slam dunks, right? Nobody likes crisp passing and open jumpers or backdoor cuts, right? We like to drive strong to the hoop and slam it home. That's what I want to leave as my legacy on the Supreme Court. Slam DUNK! IN YO FACE! BOO-YAH! The ACLU is MY BITCH!
I want to recognize a few American Heroes tonight. There should be some firemen and some paramedics up there. Hi guys! There's some soldiers and totally straight cowboys and cable news pundits. How's it hangin' fellas? And working moms and insurance adjusters and rodeo clowns. I salute you all. You guys are da bomb. I love this country and I love you all.
I want to talk about terrorists too. Now terrorists are bad people. I think we all agree on that. They're bad. Lots of people ask me all the time, why do they hate us, these terrorists, why do they want to hurt us, are they nuts. As I have mantained, they hate our freedom. I'm free to ride my bike and they hate that. When I was a kid, I wanted a cool bike to ride, but my father wouldn't buy me one. Then this kid across the street got a cool bike just like the one I wanted, so I hated that kid. So I told my dad, and he called up some of his friends and a launched an airstrike against this neighbor kids house, only they made it look accidental. So I can see kinda where these terrorists are coming from, except that they are bad and we are free so they must be chased down and caught and made to pay, then we can get back to just being free and enjoying our freedom without freedom haters trying to be all hatey and attacking our freedom with their implements of terrible anti-freedom.
That reminds me of the liberty bell, a symbol of our freedom. Let freedom ring, they say. If you feel free, ring a bell and everyone else will know you feel free. But if it's like early in the morning and other people are trying to get some sleep, they may not like your freedom as much as you at that particular time, so they might say, HEY! stop ringing that bell. Here's what you should do: You should say, this is the bell of freedom and I'm gonna ring it as long and as loud as I want because I'm free to do so and no terrorist is gonna tell me that I ain't. You can get you friends to get bells too and you can point to them and say, see they all have feedom bells too and they're gonna ring 'em to sound out real freedom. There is only real freedom, not symbolic freedom likes words on paper like this here constitution that I'm working my way through (some of it is kinda hard to make out...which is why I like the liberty bell better, it's easier to understand....ringing equals free, telling me to stop ringing is anti-free, or terroristic, if you will).
In conclusion, let me say, ring a bell, be free, don't be a terrorist, if you are a terrorist, we will get you, ride your bike, slam dunk, hug your kids, evolution is dumb, Ted Kennedy is a doodoo head, I like potato chips, stay strong, keep on being free, not being free is being terroristic, you're all doing a heck of a job, especially those of you that love freedom and not you freedom haters, nosiree, not you. I hate that you hate freedom, you haters of freedom, you shouldn't even watch this because I already know what you're gonna say. You're gonna be all "waa waa waa, he's expressing his freedom and we don't like that and all waa waa waa, my son got killed and instead of loving him for the freedom seeking way he died you're all wah wah wah, I hate freedom and I want to tell people why and I want to take away the freedom of the freedom lovers and be all anti-freedom terroriffic and wah wah wah freedom's just another word for nothing left to do wah wah wah." So if you know anybody like that, tell them to shut up. Drown out their anti-fredom with your freedom bell. Just go like DONG DONG DONG, I can't hear you because I'm ringing my freedom bell! DONG DONG DONG Noam Chomsky! DONG DONG DONG Howard Zinn! DONG DONG DONG Cindy Sheehan! From sea to shining sea baby. Three cheers and a tiger for me! Woo hoo! In your face. Phi Slamma Jamma. FREE-DOM! FREE-DOM! FREE-DOM! YAAAAAA!!

"A History of Magic Markers" is a landmark achievement in modern prose,
ranking with Gamblepuddy's "The Death of Lawn Darts" and Von Fistenburg's
"Death by Lawn Darts" as classic examples of neoromantic haberdashery. Not
since Soupy Sales unfurled his banner of pseudosyndicalist rhetorical mash
notes (writing under the nom de plume Penis Van Lesbian) has the world of
postmodern screed crackled and gyrated with such fierce (yet nearly
indecipherable) rage.
Cerveny's mastery of the pun and double entendre have never been so evident
as his dual use of the terms "handjob" and "potato salad". One recalls the
scandalous correspondence between a young General William Westmoreland and
his Laotian houseboy Sum Dum Guy, in which the General expressed undying
love and an unendurable burning sensation. For the burning is not in our
urinary tract, but in the pits of hell from which this wellspring of raw,
unrequited confusion spews forth.
Casual readers may read these as cautionary tales of a world gone wrong (or
if not wrong, perhaps a bit mushy in the middle), but those with a trained
eye for detail will catch the musky hints of a style that is truly "soaking
in it." For when we soak, do we not wrinkle? Does not emotion create a
unique puckering in the extremities, one that requires repeated use of Dead
Sea lotion? And if the lotion be not applied liberally to affected region,
will not severe chaffing be the inevitable result? Should one not consult
their doctor before beginning the regimen, or, failing that, at least test
on an inconspicuous area? These questions form a lietmotif around which
Cerveny wraps layers of irony and weltschmerz, like onion skin wrapped
around a Milky Way bar.
A disconnect between readers' traditional appetites and Mr. Cerveny's
unwillingness to explore traditional "plots" and "characterizations" was
described in Bill Bennett's seminal tract, "Wah Wah, Nobody Listens To Me
Anymore!" This was largely ignored by literary society as poopoo. As a
matter of fact, literary society has been disinterested of late in most
everything, with the exception of the latest poorly lit, out-of-focus sex
romps of Donald Rumsfeld and the corpse of Bubbles the Chimp. Literary
society is eating this up like Jell-O pudding and coming back for seconds.
(Sometimes literary society stays hold-up in it's apartment for weeks on end
making crank phone calls to Vladimir Putin, pretending to be Ruslan
Fedotenko, up-and-coming star of the NHL's Tampa Bay Lightning, asking, "are
you Putin," then snickering into the receiver. This digression was sponsored
by the NHL...The NHL. Hey, Remember Us?)
So if you're looking for a good read when catching a transatlantic flight to
Antwerp, by all means to do not try to tackle Cerveny's latest opus. (One
might be best to opt instead for John Grisham's latest, "Not So Fast, Tort
Boy!" or the latest memoir from Big Daddy Don Garlits, "Hey, Am I Still
Famous?") However, if you'd like to have your scalp peeled back by the
stench of rotting minds, Cerveny isn't for you either. Don't you get it? You
should probably stick to the racing form or keep rereading Tolkein. Are you
still here? Hasn't this review belittled you into oblivion, you sniveling
piece of fetid moose dropping? You're lost in the woods here without a
compass. All you have is army surplus maps of Western Canada, dating from
when British Columbia was know as Mooseshit Acres, and how appropriate,
because you are Mooseshit and apparently, you're home. Taking your shoes off
and stay awhile. (If you'd like to read on, feel free, but this stuff is
really for grown-ups and I think you're looking for story time, or a change
of diapers.)
Now where was I? Oh yes, on the seldom imitated, often duplicated habit
Cerveny has of using the word "the" to indicate a sense of dread and the
word "dread" to indicate a sense of the. Why does he keep doing this?
Perhaps its because he feels a need to express the inexpressible. Perhaps
he's afraid of what might happen if he peed on the electric fence of
reality, if he dipped his toe in the shark infested waters of linear time
progression, if he stuck his finger in the dyke of orthodox narrative.
Perhaps he's hungry and would enjoy a delicious sub from Hogan's Heroes.
Perhaps the barmaid's name is Wendy and she's a nineteen year old Tri Delt
from Boca Raton with a killer rack and an infectious laugh. Perhaps she's
listening to Outkast in her apartment will experimenting with new means of
expressing her sexuality with older men, older men who have none of the
surface gloss of the tanned and cut party boys she traditionally favors, but
whose depth of feeling and penchant for slinging pseudoliterary diarrhea
bags make them quite "the catch". Perhaps she has a friend.... These
questions and many more are answered if one has the stamina to make it past
the extraordinarily long-winded acknowledgement (among the acknowledged are:
Soupy Sales, Chairman Mao, Jeff Gorden, Trini Lopez, Ruslan Fedotenko, Bat
Masterson, Cuba Gooding Sr. and Jr., Al Hirt, June Cleaver, Ernie Keebler,
Eddie Deezen, Barry Gordy, Chuck Yeager, Keith Hernandez, Wallace Warfield
Simpson, Abe Simpson, and someone known simply as Ted). There are other
goodies as well, but I shant spoil them here. I urge you to buy three copies
of this book today. You can only read one copy at a time but the other two
will offer comfort to those shadowy beings that "borrow" your things when
your back is turned. It is for these enigmatic figures that Cerveny's work
is really intended. Again, not to cause you a complex, but you know you'd
really rather curl up with some Seuss or some tried and true rememberences
from the pen of Andy Rooney. Remember when you used to do the Lindy Hop at
the grand ballroom with the sweetest gal in town? Remember when a peck on
the cheek on the front porch sent you sailing up to your room, as if bourne
on the very air? No? Well I don't either, because the shock of Cerveny's
masterwork has fried all my synapses and left me huddled in the corner like
Tex Watson in his post-family lockdown, drooling in a cup and asking for
more pudding. We could have had it all, the dune buggies and the chicks,
free love and perfect understanding. It was all there for the taking. Then,
something changed when we pressed beyong the cataloging-in-publication data
of the verso of the title page. Now we were in his web as he spun furiously,
knitting these fine details with his mysterious thoracic processes, further
entangling us with literary allusions and foul language. Sucked into this
morass, our breath is taken away. We tremble. We are literary Quakers and he
is the guy with the powdered wig pictured on the box. Oh, the sly grin, the
mischievous eyes, the unprecedented source of dietary fiber...these things
we cannot discount, for they produce in us all a deeper understanding and a
relieving sense of regularity.

Yours truly,
Delbert Peasprattle

Performance by an actor in a leading role
Horace Bamburger in THE WALTONS: BEYOND THUNDERDOME (Minnie Minoso Features)
Slappy McFlattbush in THE TROUBLE WITH EGGPLANT (Canadian Filmworks)
Zinc Martindale in THE KINDNESS OF WALLEYE (Slipshod Features)
Perry "Plunger" Fontaine in GIDDY IN GILGAMESH (Flushimax)
Hank Ziphel in LLAMA FEVER (Bittman Bros.)

Performance by an actor in a supporting role
Slats Kashmir in THERE'S A GIRL IN MY DUMBWAITER (Pig & Whistle)
Telly Turkmenistan in 37 YARDS TO PAYDIRT (Doorknob Features)
Gary Bumfuzzle in PINK EYE (20th Century Prune Danish)
Smitty Jones in LLAMA FEVER (Bittman Bros.)
Sterling Tinfoil in THE LAST WHEELBARROW (Tanker Bros.)

Performance by an actress in a leading role
Candy Lickskillet in HASSIDIC HANKY PANKY (Cranky Films)
Penny Fighammer in TERMINAL BRAINFART (Crackpipe Classics)
Karen Kremekrisper in PINK EYE (20th Century Prune Danish)
Lupe Mapquest in SUNRISE IN DETROIT (Hotdogwater Films)
Lottie Oompaloompa in 37 YARDS TO PAYDIRT (Doorknob Features)

Performance by an actress in a supporting role
Tawana Touche in THOSE TROUBLESOME EGGPLANTS (Canadian Filmworks)
Tillie Vas Deferens in SWEET POTATO GOLDMINE (Sheisheimer Filmwerk)
Petra Vomicia in AMISH MELTDOWN (Gephardt Cinema)
Buffy Minoxidil in PORK SALAD SANDWICH (Tort Claim Cinema)
Pinkie Knuckler in THE KINDNESS OF WALLEYE (Slipshod Features)

Best animated feature film of the year
MAKING NUMBER TWO (Dick Webber Films) Wolfgang Babaganoosh and Kenneth Lay
WAKING UP DEAD (Mighty Fine Features) Winston Gasbag
DOING IT TIL YOU'RE SORE (Pop Warner Bros.) Gavin Meerschaum

Achievement in art direction
JEWS HARP SUPREME (Almost Films)
Art Direction: Nurk Throbber
Set Decoration: Sydney Turdsburry
ALONE WITHOUT A CANTEEN (Skippy Films Ltd.)
Art Direction: Leslie "Poo" Wrangler
Set Decoration: Ulf Shart
PAP SMEAR II : THE RESULTS (Supreme Pudding Classics)
Art Direction: Gaston Lungbutter
Set Decoration: Thor Drizzler and Dizzy Plutarski
PASS THE ANTHRAX (Sour Cream and Chives)
Art Direction: Red Wiggler
Set Decoration: Betsy Widebutter
WELCOME TO MY VIVISECTION (Smurch/Kvetch/Broadnoodle)
Art Direction: Buster Fleshfolds
Set Decoration: Luke "Tiny" Cathurler

Achievement in cinematography
THE JOYS OF TOLIETING (Pink Sniper) Peter Cheese
THE KINDNESS OF WALLEYE (Slipshod Features) Darian Vealplow
JEWS HARP SUPREME (Almost Films) Chud Lumpkin
QUEST FOR ONION DIP (Sour Cream and Chives) Cranky Cadbury
WELCOME TO MY VIVISECTION (Smurch/Kvetch/Broadnoodle) Jason "Spatch"
Wilkommen

Achievement in costume design
JEWS HARP SUPREME (Almost Films) Connie von Liplauncher
POINTING IT ELSEWHERE (15th Century Douchebag) Citronella Fatbaxx
PAP SMEAR II : THE RESULTS (Supreme Pudding Classics) Louis Loogi and
Heironymous Peestain
ACTION BEFORE BREAKFAST (Severe Cinema) Doreen Unclean
THREE BEAN SALAD SURGERY (Smurch/Kvetch/Broadnoodle) Patricia Fromunda

Achievement in directing
THIRTEEN MINUTES OF UNBRIDLED APATHY (Pink Sniper) Desdemona Prudewanker
APPALACHIAN VICE SQUAD (Supreme Pudding Classics) Ulysses S. Pants
GIDDY IN GILGAMESH (Flushimax) Captain Ed Slipknot
PASS THE ANTHRAX (Sour Cream and Chives) Terrence Uvula
WHO'S AFRAID OF A THREE POUND POLYP? (Instant Classics) Franklin Sigmoid

Best documentary feature
SHEMP'S SHAMEFUL SECRET (Inappropriate Art Releasing)
A Bulemia Films S.L. Production
Tank McNamara and Hampton Maria Backhoe
DIDDLING THE HENDERSONS (Moonpie Pictures)
An Almost Worthy Production
Kendrick Ballwater and Mitch Ocelot
IF IT WASN'T FOR TOAST (Fat Tony Pictures Classics)
A Furrowed Brow Production
Ethyl Turnbuckle and Skeets Slagman
MY MOTHER THE REGIME CHANGE (New Hampshire State Police)
A Rupert Pupkin Project, Inc. Production
Merriwether Krab and Sheckie R. Shortwillie
THERE SHALL BE WON TONS (Krusty Distribution)
A Loose Stool Project Production
Sammy Moron and Billy Bob Schwartz

Best documentary short subject
TORN BETWEEN TUNA AND SHADENFREUD
A Clammy Bum & Hatrack Production
Lyle Lipstick and Ginger Poonie
EXPLOSION AT EDDIE'S
A Winnepeg YMCA Documentaries Production
Maryann Mudpie
A GLASS OF WINE WITH GRANDMA AND HER FRIEND LENNY
A Bacon Salad Pictures Production
Katherine Plinko

Achievement in film editing
WHERE ARE MY BLUE TROUSERS? (Blank Slate Productions) Deek Horsehide
A POCKETFUL OF TEABAGS (Runny Features) Goofy Malone
THE TROUBLE WITH KNEE SURGERY (Supreme Pudding Classics) Helmut Hemp
PASS THE ANTHRAX (Sour Cream and Chives) Joey Jumpball
HOUSE OF TURDS (Smurch/Kvetch/Broadnoodle) Davey Conception

Best foreign language film of the year
THE NIGHT OF THE GOUDA
A Cinémamohair Inc. Production
Canada
SCORCHED TANG
A Pinescented Film & Television Production
Sweden
TOKYO TIPJAR
A Shochiku/Nippon Television
Network/Sumitomo/Hakuhodo/Nippon/Toyota/Bathysphere/Lenny Ono/Leon Redbone
Shuppan Hanbai/Buster Yamodo/Wantanabe Gooseflesh/Eisei Gekijo Production
Japan
THE MAN WHO THOUGHT HE WAS A TOE
An IdtV Smoked Fish Film Production
The Netherlands
ZELARY FARTZ
A TotalZ HelpArtZ T.H.A./Barrandov Studio
Production
Czech Republic

A Brief Review of Jack Blue Balls' "Dances With Homophobic Chicks"
by Jibs P. Ignorant
(reprinted from the March 2004 issue of Drag Strip Monthly)

The scene is a Days Inn in Tarpon Springs, Florida where our hero of dubious narrative perspective, Guillermo, ponders life while searching for vended candies in a fog of Captain Morgan fueled amorous longing. Okay, gentle reader, you've heard this before, right? Drunk and horny protagonists patrolling the halls of chain hotels, projecting their sexual frustration onto snack machines. It is a tried and true literary device, but one that hadn't fully blossomed until Blue Balls injected it with his peculiar brand of alcohol fueled, superstock funny car prose. Going from zero to sixty in one prepositional phrase, Blue Balls hurdles us down a quartermile strip like a Shirley Muldowny nitro pro stock nightmare, running headlong into a speedtrap of pent-up sexual urges. Guillermo takes us back (or is it Blue Balls taking us back - the mystery adds to the stew of clouded imagery) to a relationship that is anything but street legal, and the tale of the mysterious Jacaranda Droonblatt, Guillermo's (or Blue Ball's ...you get the point) muse and the inspiration for many a disjointed flashback. The briefly recounted relationship has all the earmarks of a top fuel, modified stock break-out, only without trim bars and with a poorly packed chute. The author takes us into the pits and bangs the blower before dialing under the clutch can of his hemi holeshot.


Jibs P. Ignorant is the literary correspondent for Drag Strip Monthly. His semi-irrregular columns also appear in such publications as The Thrushpipe Gazette, Wheelie Bar Weekly, and Foul Start Headers: A Journal for Transgendered Sportsmen.

Found this and wanted to do it:

1. Take first five novels from your bookshelf. 2. Book 1 -- first sentence. 3. Book 2 -- last sentence on page 50. 4. Book 3 -- second sentence on page 100. 5. Book 4 -- next to the last sentence on page 150. 6. Book 5 -- final sentence of the book. 7. Make the five sentences into a paragraph. 8. Feel free to "cheat" to make it a better paragraph. 9. Name your sources. 10.Post to your blog.

The bird, a pigeon was it? or a dove (she'd found there were doves here) flew through the air, its colour lost in what light remained. I slept like a zombie. That sounds feeble, but she did. 'There is no need', he said, 'for you to feel so ashamed.' I been away a long time.

Sources:
1. Carpenter's Gothic - William Gaddis
2. Budding Prospects - T. Coraghessan Boyle
3. High Fidelity - Nick Hornby
4. Money - Martin Amis
5. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey

Okay, it wasn't so cool. Whatever. How exactly would I cheat to make it better?