Monday, June 28, 2010

Self-Proclaimed King

Michael Jackson is dead. He’s been dead for a year.

I was not a MJ fan. From the first time I saw him years ago on television (when I was a mere tyke) I thought there was something seriously wrong with him. He was creepy to me. Little did I know the depth of how creepy he would eventually prove himself to be... drugs, frightening plastic surgeries, little boys, publicity stunts, sham marriages, and dangling a baby over a balcony to name a few of his “quirks.”

Yet people adored him. It’s the marketing team that surrounded him that should be adored. Without them he would never have seen the level of success he had. Go ahead and boo me, I don’t care. The only reason he was nicknamed the “King of Pop” is because he gave himself that dubious title.

I made the mistake of getting caught up in the “Thriller” hysteria for about two minutes and in that weak moment I bought the album. Two listens later and I packed it up and hurried to the used record store. The clerk just laughed at me saying it wasn’t worth the vinyl it was recorded on. The store was getting way too many people wanting to dump the album.

There are a couple of his songs I will concede I like, but surprisingly those are the songs he didn’t write.

When he died of a drug overdose, which I’m sorry to say was his own fault, people wanted to turn him into a mythical saint. They want to blame everyone for what went wrong with him, but they need to do what he should have done: look at the man in the mirror.

A woman I met emphatically told me that MJ was “love.” She stammered on and on and on about how Love = Michael Jackson. I forgot to ask her to define “love.”

I’m all for remembering the good when someone meets their final destination, but MJ’s remembrances are as creepy as the man/boy himself.

And don’t get me started on how certain people, especially his father, are out whoring MJ’s name with fake tears and fake concern with a jaundice eye aimed at money to be made. Shameful.

I just proclaimed myself the King of Blogs.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

31 Inches

Through the years I’ve grown my facial hair, shaved it off, grown it again, and shaved, shaved, shaved.

First there was the mustache in the early 80s which made me look like I just got off the boat from Italy. My Irish roots went totally underground and my Italian roots took complete control. Bonjourno!

It wasn’t long before I shaved my hairy lip.

After that I sported a goatee for quite a while. I liked it a lot, and so did a lot of people, but it did have its downside. It I were not paying attention when I ate inevitably something would drip, droop, or detach itself from my fork and stick to my chin hairs.

Sadly my chin hairs grew in various colors: medium brown (my real color), golden, dark brown, blonde, and some gray. There’s only so much you can cover up with an eyebrow pencil, and if I had a food mishap I would end up wiping away all the color along with the semi-chewed food. Not a pretty picture.

So yet again I shaved my hairy chin.

I’ve even sported a soul patch a few times, but that always seemed to overstay its welcome and I would resort to a cleanly shaven face.

What I’ve never done is let my mustache grow to enormous proportions so I could have mustache wings.

I recently came across an article about Larry McClure and his totally hip mustache wings. From tip to tip they measure some 31 inches. Wow.

How is he able to get into a crowded elevator without poking someone’s eye out?

If you spin him around like a whirling dervish does he take flight and fly?

How kinky are those mustache wings? Do they tickle his wife in her special places?

Does he ever pull his wings together under his chin and braid them into a chin ponytail?

Do his mustache wings sag when he’s sad, and perk up when he’s aroused?

Does he hang Christmas ornaments on them to be holiday festive?

Oh the possibilities are endless...

I think I’m gonna grow a mustache again.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Something Missing on the Metro

Sunday I took the Los Angeles Metro Train to Little Tokyo in pursuit of tea and food. Actually I didn’t have tea at all, but the friend I travelled the train with did (white tea to be exact ).

I’m a total coffee man. I don’t love tea. I rarely drink it, and when I do it’s usually fresh rosemary tea I brew to help fight poor circulation, fever, flatulence, memory, and menstrual cramps.

But I digress...

The Los Angeles Metro experience is a truly lovely time. The trains are pretty and clean. They arrive on schedule. They’re not overly crowded. The ride is smooth. But there was something missing...

Rats. Where were the rats?

I leaned over the tracks searching desperately for vermin. Nothing. I’m a rat voyeur and was totally disappointed there were no rats to come out and put on a show. I did my near-perfect rat call (not one rat answered!), and then resorted to visualizing a family of rats nestled in the walls of the platform making there way onto the tracks. Still nothing.

When I lived in Boston I used to love watching all the rats scurrying around the subway tracks looking for food or a quick rat lay, and then scattering when the trains pulled up to the platform. I used to howl when people would freak out (scream) as if the rats were gonna leap from the tracks and bite them in the neck.

And let’s not forget New York subway rats. Hell, those suckers are big ones. I remember one time being in a Times Square subway and watching a rat as big as a cat race across the platform a few feet from where I was standing. It was something to behold; a memory I’ll always treasure.

Maybe next Metro trip.

Thursday, June 03, 2010

Sucker Punched In The...

Just when I thought it was safe to not wear a jockstrap I read there’s a new trend called “Sack Tapping.”

A teen in Crosby, MN was “sack tapped” recently and ended up having to have one of his testicles amputated. His right one. His poor left one is now lonely for its mate.

So what is “Sack Tapping”? It’s punching someone in the groin, and it seems to be a growing trend amongst teens.

Dr. Scott Wheeler, a Minnesota Urologist, says he performs three to four testicle removals a year as a direct result of someone being sucker punched in the pouch.

The sack tappee gets sudden pain, and possible loss of a prized ball. What does the sack tapper get? A thrill? An imprint of a scrotum on their fist?

And who’s doing the tapping? Cheerleaders? Jocks? Sarah Palin?

All I know is that there’ll be no more free-ballin’ for me. I just went out and purchased a steel enforced jockstrap. It might be a tad uncomfortable, but its protecting my jewels from a painful punch in the pouch.