RIP Gary Coleman

"I parody myself every chance I get. I try to make fun of myself and let people know that I'm a human being, and these things that have happened to me are real. I'm not just some cartoon who exists and suddenly doesn't exist."

RIP Art Linkletter

"The four stages of man are infancy, childhood, adolescence, and obsolescence."

RIP Ronnie James Deo

Catch The Rainbow
When evening falls
She'll run to me
Like whispered dreams
Your eyes can't see
Soft and warm
She'll touch my face
A bed of straw
Against the lace

We believed we'd catch the rainbow
Ride the wind to the sun
Sail away or ships of wonder
But life's not a wheel

With chains made of steel
So bless me come the down
Come the down

We believed we'd catch the rainbow
Ride the wind to the sun
Sail away on ships of wonder
But life's not a wheel

RIP Dennis Hopper

Dorothy goes into the kitchen to get Frank his drink. As she passes the closet, Jeffrey can see the fear in her face.

She returns with a small glass of bourbon and hands it to Frank. Frank sips on it.

FRANK

. sit down. get your chair.

Dorothy brings a small chair over from the wall and sits down. She adjusts her robe.

FRANK

(studying her)

. spread your legs.

Dorothy slowly spreads her legs. She can see Jeffrey staring out of the darkness of the closet at her.

FRANK

wider.

She opens her legs wider. Frank looks at her crotch and drinks his bourbon. He stares at the floor for a moment, then slowly looks back at Dorothy, her body - her crotch. Dorothy looks up at the ceiling, waiting. Frank suddenly reaches to his belt, where he has a small canister and a mask. He opens a valve on the

canister and places the mask over his nose and mouth. The canister is filled with helium, which makes Frank's voice very high and strange sounding. The result is frightening.

FRANK

(high voice)

. mommy.

Dorothy jumps. She keeps looking at the ceiling.

FRANK

(continuing, with high voice)

. MOMMY!.

DOROTHY

(frightened)

. mommy's here.

FRANK

(high voice)

Baby wants to fuck.

Then, Frank's voice goes to normal.

FRANK

(normal voice, but loud - like

an army order to himself)

GET READY TO FUCK!

Frank goes to Dorothy and kneels down in front of her. He takes one more gasp of helium.

FRANK

(high voice)

Baby wants blue velvet.

Dorothy opens her robe and gives a part of the robe to Frank.

DOROTHY

(whispering)

Okay.

Frank slowly moves Frank slowly moves his mouth to the robe and runs his lips along the texture of the velvet. His hands rub the velvet and feel Dorothy's body underneath. His hands start feeling her breasts as he sucks and bites the velvet robe. Dorothy is very frightened but she is getting hot in spite of her fear.Then Frank, in a sort of sickening way, pulls Dorothy down to rug. He warns her.

FRANK

Don't look at me!

He begins stuffing part of the robe into her mouth. Then, he pushes her arms back and she keeps them back,

letting Frank have his way. Frank sucks and bites the velvet coming out of her mouth, while he pinches and feels her breasts in a strange, compulsive, timidly sickening way. Dorothy is moaning. Frank is breathing very heavily. He feels her crotch.

FRANK

Don't look at me!!!

(heavy breathing)

Daddy's home.

He starts stuffing the robe in his mouth now and he gets on top of Dorothy. He starts humping her and pulling her nude body up and down him. Faster and faster, then he has a climax in his pants. Dorothy's head is falling

back. She can see Jeffrey blurred in the distance - in the closet. Cautiously, she looks sideways at Frank.

FRANK

(screaming)

Don't look at me!!!

He slugs her in the face. His nose is running and he's stifling sobs from deep within him. On his hands and knees, he moves away. The robe pulls out of his mouth. His breathing is even heavier now. He stands and begins to move around the apartment. He goes to a wall, turns off the lights, then turns and walks into the bathroom, all the while breathing big, heavy breaths, trying to stop the crying. Dorothy moans softly. It gets very quiet and still for a moment. Then, Jeffrey hears Frank with his high helium voice talking to himself in the bathroom. The high, strange sound reverberates in the distance. Jeffrey can't make it out - soon, he hears Frank's high laughing. Frank comes back into the living room. The mask is around his face. All his breathing - every sound is high . He laughs a little and crosses the darkened room to the door.

FRANK

Stay alive baby. See you next Christmas!

Frank leaves and shuts the door. The apartment is silent except for Dorothy's moans.

Monster? May ass!

Who cares WTF it actually is.


Something dead, bloated and 30 cm long can hardly be called a monster.

People have had goiters chopped off that are bigger and probably far more frightening.

I doubt I would even flee from it alive.

Looks like somebody found a dead animal, shaved its face and left it out to be "discovered."

Prank or naturally occurring, this thing is hardly more monstrous than any day roadkill.

Fight against the darkness, Gary.

This is my personal vigil for Gary Colemen, who CNN just told me is critically ill in a Utah hospital.

We grew up together, you in your Penthouse apartment and me in my parents living room. And for better or worse, I always stuck with you.

You WILL pull through. You can't die, you just cannot die...or part of me will die with you

It's not your time Gary. Fight against the darkness.

Bowel Buddy and other friends

I saw this product in a drug store and had to buy it. Wouldn't you?

It was expensive, yes. But intriguing.


Abundance Naturally, the makers of Bowel Buddy, is a family business run by father/daughter team of Shannon O’Brien and Bill O’Brien.

Abundance of what? In the case of Bowel Buddy, I can guess.

Seems the company is in Australia, and they make a number of health conscious natural products. They have several product lines, but when I check the Abundance Naturally line, there is nothing else with a name even close Bowel Buddy.

Then I thought, this is a company that I could work with, and who could profit from my creative mind. Here are some other product names I am suggesting for future Abundance all natural products:


PROSTATE PAL: Bombards the prostate with the goodness of the American dwarf palm tree, opens the road and helps remove tolls from the piss highway.

ANAL ALLY: A concoction using pureed oak bark in some concentration, works to retract and level hemorrhoids, and occasionally bloody stools.

MAMMARY MATE: During lactation, this product containing barley and swamp grass can increase the milk load and swell those baby boob taps to the maximum.

COLON COMRADE: Amp up the colon into a roller coaster of poo processing. Flax seeds, milkthistle extract and fermented goat urine prove a powerful engine of evacuation.

Toyota and Tesla Team Up

So, I was scrolling through the CNN home page again, but this time my browser did not crash and I double checked the headline. It without doubt read:

"Toyota and Tesla team up."

Well, that's utterly insane, as Nikola Tesla died in New York in 1943.

I know that you had a massive recall and your company is desperate. I know green cars are all the rage and that Tesla was an innovator of electricity. I know electric seems to equal green. Maybe it's better than gasoline, but a lot of electricity comes from coal, so is the green alternative really electricity?

Can't we find green in vegetable oil, watermelon rind, urine?

Why should I believe you Toyota?

When the gas peddle of my Camry stuck, and I smashed straight through the killing floor of my local pork abattoir, was Toyota there? Hell no, my insurance adjuster was there. The cops were there. The paramedics were there. The ESPCA were there, and the farm saftey board showed up too. But I saw no representative of Toyota dropping by the accident site, where my car was submerged in pig gore, giving me a belated heads up about the recall.

Have you heard of Trichinosis? I don't know what they call it in Japan, but here, we call it worms split my stomach open and I bleed out and I die.

I wouldn't leave a Toyota to my neighborhood pedaphile in my will.

Toyota, after the horrifying "Carrie" experience your company put me through, I am driving a Chevy. I took your wretched car and dumped it in a river. My only hope is that is will not injure the fish.

Toyota, if I abide by this corporate fantasy, I should also be expecting the following CNN headlines?

Bang and Olufsen team up with Beethoven?
Apple teams up with Turing?
Nikon teams up with Dagurre?
Sony Pictures Classics has teamed with Muybridge?
Air France teames up with Wilbur Wright?

Oh no. I am de-wormed now and thinking clearly.

First the gas pedal cover up and now this.

Will the lies never cease?

The Original Thugs

I find this truly freaky. I have no idea how I came across the following information. But it is very scary, the stuff of nightmares really. It makes the North American paranoia of serial killing, cult murder and gang violence look a lot more benign.

"Although the Thuggee probably originated sometime in the sixteenth century, they were not uncovered by British authorities until about 1812. Great Britain was beginning to expand its territories in India, and the British administrators were becoming increasingly alarmed by reports of bands of stranglers that were roving the countryside murdering travelers. At first there appeared to be no connection between the bizarre killings, but then the bodies of 50 victims were found hidden in a series of wells in the Ganges area. Such large-scale mass murder could not have been kept secret for so long unless special pains had been taken to dispose of the victims' corpses. Examination of the bodies revealed that the murderers had broken all joints of their victims' limbs to speed up the process of decomposition and to prevent the swelling of the graves that would attract scavenging jackals and other wild animals. Such evidence convinced the authorities that they were dealing with one secret society, the Thuggee.

The murderous craft of the Thuggee was hereditary. Its practitioners were trained from earliest childhood to murder by the quick, quiet method of a strong cloth noose tightened about the neck of their victims. This weapon, the "Rumal," was worn knotted about the waist of each member of the Thuggee.

The Thuggee gloried in silent and efficient acts of murder above any other earthly accomplishment, and they traveled often in the guise of traders, pilgrims, and even as soldiers marching to or from service. On occasion, the more flamboyant would pretend to be a rajah with a large retinue of followers. Each band of Thuggee had a small unit of scouts and inveiglers who would loiter about hotels and market places gaining information regarding travelers and the weight of their coin purses. The inveiglers posed as travelers headed for the same destination as their intended victims. They would worm themselves into the confidences of their prey, pleading the old adage of safety in numbers.

The mass slaughters of large groups of merchants and travelers were usually committed when all were encamped. Working in groups of three, one Thuggee would loop the Rumal around the victim's neck, another would press his head forward, and the third would grab his legs and throw him to the ground. In the rare instance when an intended victim escaped the nooses in the death area, he would run into scouts posted at the edge of the jungle. One hundred percent mortality of their victims was the goal of the Thuggee.

In spite of what first appeared to be indiscriminate murder on a very large scale, the Thuggee had a peculiar code of ethics whose rules forbade the killing of fakirs, musicians, dancers, sweepers, oil vendors, carpenters, blacksmiths, maimed or leprous persons, Ganges water-carriers, and women. Despite the restriction against the murder of females, however, the presence of wives traveling with their husbands often necessitated the strangling of a woman to protect the secrecy of the society.

The strongest rule of the brotherhood was the one prohibiting the shedding of blood. According to Thuggee beliefs, the goddess Kali taught the fathers of thuggery to strangle with a noose and to kill without permitting the flow of blood. All victims of the Thuggee were sacrificed to Kali, and the members of the secret society would have been greatly incensed by an accusation that they killed only for booty.

With the exception of a small number of boys who may have been captured or spared during a raid, a man had to be born into the cult in order to become an initiate. The minimum age for initiation into the society was 10, and the young candidates were allowed to watch their elders at work from hidden points some distance from the site of the attack. At the age of 18, they were permitted to make their first human sacrifices to Kali.

The Thuggee had their female counterparts in a secret sect of Tantrists who held that it was only by a constant indulgence in passion that a human could ever achieve total union with Kali. Only indulgence in the five vices that corrupt the soul of humankind— wine, meat, fish, mystical gesticulations, and sexual indulgence—could drive the poisons out of the human body and purify the soul.

In 1822, William Sleeman, an officer in the Bengal Army who had transferred to civil service, was appointed by Governor General Lord Bentinck to rid India of the society of stranglers. Fluent in four Indian dialects, Sleeman had been the British official who had first confirmed the growing suspicion that the murders were committed throughout central India by the Thuggee. He was well aware that it would be no easy task putting a halt to such large-scale murders, for the members of the secret society were indistinguishable from any other of the many bands of outlaws who infested the country's roads. And what made the job of identifying the Thugs even more difficult was the fact that they were indistinguishable from any of the travelers and merchants who were their victims. As their name implied, they were master deceivers.

Finally, by meticulously marking the scene of each discovered attack site on a map and by maintaining careful records of the dates, Sleeman was able to begin to predict the areas where the next mass murders were likely to take place. When his agents and informants brought him word that known members of the Thuggee had been seen in a certain region, Sleeman sent his personally recruited police officers out disguised as merchants in order to ambush the Thugs who appeared to attack what they believed was a group of harmless travelers.

Between 1830 and 1841, Sleeman's police captured at least 3,700 Thugs, breaking forever the back of the infamous secret society. Of this total, only 50 received a pardon for supplying valuable information that had been utilized in destroying the secret society. The remainder of those apprehended were imprisoned for life and 500 were hanged. Without exception, the Thuggee condemned to be hanged went to their own deaths with the same lack of emotion with which they had murdered their victims. In many instances, their final request from the hangman was that they be permitted to place the noose around their own neck.

Trials of Thuggee brought out many ghastly facts about the deadly skills of some of its members. A band of 20 confessed that they had participated in 5,200 murders. An individual named Buhram, who had been a strangler for 40 years, had the highest lifetime score to his discredit—931. When asked if he experienced any feelings of remorse or guilt, he answered sharply that no man should ever feel compunction in following his trade.

Although isolated cases of a Thug's proficiency with a noose still exist in India and in other parts of the world, the stranglers of the goddess Kali no longer exist as a secret society. The designation of "thug," however, remains as a negative term applied to brutish criminals."

When you misread CNN

I was scanning the CNN home page tonight and caught a video headline which I thought read,

"Madeleine Albright, I'm pregnant." Just then, my firefox froze and had to be restarted.

In the 30 or so seconds it took to restart, I was reeling in disbelief. Madeleine Albright preggo?

Jesus, not you Bill...you are an unfathomable horn dog. But, can't blame you for thinking she'd be well past the point of fertilization.

Bill Richardson? Bill Cohen?

Jesus. Can this really be happening?

Who, what, where, how, why?

David Crosby? Mel Gibson?

Not Henry Kissinger and a turkey baster? No, that can't be.

Firefox is back and I am going straight to CNN...

Oh.

Yes. That explains it.

It says "Madeleine Albright: I'm an immigrant."

OK, silly me, my mistake.

Wait. What? Madeleine Albright is an immigrant?

I switch to Google. Well, plow me under, so she is.

She's a Czech. Born in Prague. Arrived in the USA in 1948 at age 11.

I had no idea. I could almost weep.

Why...because Madeleine Albright is not pregnant at 73?

No, because I am spiritually Czech myself. I was adopted by a Czech family and my son is 1/2 Czech and I did not know we had so much in common.

Oh Madeleine, I am sorry. I wish I had given you more kind thoughts when you were in office. I didn't really think you were ugly. I was really depressed during the Clinton administration and I was so ugly on the inside. Looking out through those eyes, everything else looked ugly too.

But all along, you were a beautiful Czech-American flower.

Dekuji. Dobrou Noc. Boli me tadi.

Sleeping solution for women (or men) with implants

I often lay sleepless at night, the same image running through my mind like a film clip...the same recurring concern...or nightmare as some might call it.

This is what I see: the painful nocturnal plight of women with breast implants. And the bigger their breasts, the greater my anxiety.

Have you ever heard of a support network for women with enormous fake breasts? Is there a foundation? A charity run? Even a Facebook page?

I see a looming epidemic. Women who stuffed their chests in youth will experience 3 times the health burden as women who kept their breasts au natural.

And if I were to go Larry King deep, I would ask the following question.

Are your spectacularly large breasts worth the pain? Did they get you everything you hoped for? Is there any post surgical angst?

I used to read about these women when I was a teenager. There were a handful of magazines in which they would appear. Their stories were often short, limited to a few lines in the centrefold. They tended to sound the same. "Cheerleader in high school, athletic, loves to ride horses, ballet trained, loves hiking and sunsets."

In their reality, I guess that life seemed better with artificial orbs ranging in size from vollyballs to beach balls. With that, I am sure they thought, I should be able to rule the world. But time catches yp, especially the artificially bodily modified.

Why is there no advocacy group for women with fake breasts. After all, there are millions of women with breast implants; half of them in the LA basin.

I can understand the burden of carrying around mammoth silicone globes, sometimes weighing pounds, stretching your skin taut and straining your back. I admire you for your perseverance.

For years I have been contemplating starting my own charity whose proceeds would help alleviate the suffering of women with fake breasts.

A friend from California recently mailed this advert.

Obviously, someone with the same concerns was also lying awake at night and measuring the cost of human misery. They offered some solution when all I could offer was sympathy.

It's a small step, but an vital one towards the salvation of implanted women everywhere.

Toad Man by Blonde Sabbath

Toad Man lyrics:

I am Toad Man

Has he lost his mind
He could drink a drunkard blind
Can he talk at all
If he walks will he just fall

He's a man apart,
Smokes his doobies in the dark
Offends all he sees
Takes a leak in company

Is he straight or drunk
Used to work by crushing junk
Drops his pants in the hall
Will he trip upon his balls

Nobody wants him
They just turn their heads
Nobody helps him
Now he has revenge

If you saw his dick
It would shock you to the quick
Shabby beard and crazy hair
Lives his life without a care

Baseball cap on his head
Brings a can of beer to bed
It's no use to fight
Toad will take you in the night

Bigfoot in Trent Hills Ontario

I came across Russell Cornith after a Google search combining "Bigfoot" and my home town of "Campbellford." Google linked up Russell and Bigfoot.

Russell, who holds a PHD in cryptozoology from a Northern University, is researching what he considers to be the true home of Bigfoot. Far from the Pacific Northwest, Russel has focused his research on a region of Central Southern Ontario, just North of the American border. He would not reveal to me what led him to this specific longitude and latitude, but he tells me he has made several satisfying discoveries in Bigfoot research since he arrived in January, 2010.

I asked him if he would be willing to summarize some findings on this blog. Lucky for us, he was more than happy to share:

"My name is Russel Cornith . I am a Cryptozoolager and dedicated Bigfoot researcher. I was drawn to the small town called Campbellford in the hopes of transforming decades of folklore into scientific evidence.

Campbellford traces its history back to 1834, when the first homesteaders arrived in the area. Once very wealthy, it is still known today for its many fine Victorian homes. The Bigfoot folklore seems to date orally from about the same time.

The impetus for my journey here is two fold. First, the abundant rumours and undocumented accounts of Bigfoot which stem from the late 1800's. Secondly, that most of the local population are unwilling to talk to me about Bigfoot, not necessarily from disbelief, but I believe, from some communal desire to protect the creatures.

After four months of on site research, I am even more convinced that Bigfoot lives in the geography surrounding Campbellford. I have managed to establish an eyewitness account that stretches back at least 80 years. And I have interviewed subjects whose Bigfoot encounters are as recent as 2009. Many others relate stories passed down through the generations, recounting stories that their Grandfathers told them, and which they swear are faithfull retellings from their own grandfathers generations before.

Here is a selection of interviews with local residents, which takes the science of Bigfoot way, way back. Well before that douche bag hoaxer Roger Patterson filmed his fake Bigfoot in 1967.

Jack Dooher, a life long resident of Campbellford, now in his 70's, was willing to tell me a story that was passed down to him from his grandfather.

As he told it:

"In the late 1800's, logging was the main business around the new town of Campbellford. Logging meant a team of guys would go into the brush, set up camp, chop trees and send the logs back down the river. My Grandad said that this happened in August of 1860.

Just outside of what is now known as Tweed, a camp of Loggers shot an animal while hunting for Elk. It was like nothing they had ever seen before. Much hairier than bear, but long armed. More like themselves than an animal. They bled the creature and hung it on game racks.

One man, Jerry Polty, had to ride the utility wagon out of the camp and meet the supply wagon at the main road. These old lumber paths were rugged, and it took hours to get in and out of camp. He returned to the camp at dusk. All was quiet. The fires were extinguished. He walked into the mess tent and found everyone dead, all 15 men bludgeoned to death and heaped into a bloody pile. The creature the crew had hung on the game racks was gone."

1998. "I was driving home from Havelock after getting a coffee and some cigarettes at the 24hr, it was just after day break and the fog was lifting. I was driving slow just enjoying the morning when I saw something on the side of the road next to a cornfield so I slowed down thinking it was a deer. I still had my head lights on and could see perfectly. But what I saw was not a deer it stood up to its full height which I estimate to be 8ft and looked right at me. It had a bunch of corn in its arms and I mean a hands like a human's hand. It looked like a human being with hair all over it. I stopped my truck and just starred at it as it did me. After a long moment, it started to throw the ears of corn at the truck. A few hit the windshield, then it took off and jumped across the road and into the woods. I called the police but they laughed at me. The Ministry of Natural Resources took my information but never called me back. But I swear on everything I know, what I saw that morning was a Bigfoot."

Wayne Jr. Casey.

1983. Russell Spurgeon has baled hay all his life. In the spring and summer, he moves from farm to farm, baling hay to feed to local dairy cattle for the year. In a good year, where all the climactic conditions are favourable, he can get three cuts from each farm. He doesn't like to talk about the bad years.

Russell is now 85 and lives in a retirement home on the Trent River. He is still very independent and stays in a small unit by himself. He is proud to point out that he walks at least 5 km a day and cooks his own meals. He was very reluctant at first to talk with me, but my persistence paid off. Here's how Russell told it to me.

"Well, I usually arrive before the farmers are even out of bed. I have the tractor and bailer outside the field the day before, all ready to go. I get up at four and drive the truck down to the tractor, give her a look, kick at the tires, and if the dew ain't too thick, I get bailing by 7am. If we have to wait for wet grass, I usually smoke a few pipes and have breakfast with the family. Once the sun burns up the moisture a bit, we get bailing.

Well, this day was early in the season, probably June. It was on the old Hoakes place, which ain't there no more. I bailed that property for about 17 years. Turned into a golf coarse now. And a shame too cause that was some real nice land. Now, it's got the ding dongs all over it who pay to whack their balls around for an afternoon. What an unholy waste of time I find that game of golf.

But, as I said, back on the day, I was getting ready bale the back fields on one of the nicest farms in the county. I'm about to start the tractor and I hear this Ungodly screeching just into the field. I have never heard a sound like that since. It was like some opera lady and a Gorilla were both screaming and those screams got laid over each other. I remember it giving me the chills just to listen. I went a bit into the field and up ahead, I saw something moving in the grass. I grabbed my .38. I always carried a .38 in case I bailed up something that needed to be put down. It happens. Half dead with it's guts all twisted out. So, I had my .38 ready and crept forward and that's when I saw it.

I don't know which was on top or the other way, but two of these big hairy beasts were going at it right there in the grass in front of me. The one was face down in the dirt, and the other had a hold of it's hair, and was humping it something fierce. Right there in front of my eyes, two of these Goddamned creatures they call the Bigfoot, so busy in their devilry and humping that they never even seen me.

I nearly pissed myself on the spot. I cocked that damn .38 alright, cause I figured it they ever heard a rustle, they'd be up and on me. But I didn't need the gun. I crept back and they never noticed me.

Well, I got the hell off that farm, because I don't need to deal with no Bigfoots, or whatever that unholiness was. And I never went back to that place.

Those ding dong's can have their damn golf course. And at least once a day I still get a good giggle out of thinkin what's gonna happen if one of them pink shirted bastards comes across a couple of those humping beasts. That's a story just waitin' to happen, if you ask me."

2004. "One night around 11:30-12:00 me and my boyfriend were parked out in a pasture at my boyfriends grandpas land, just making out and talking. My boyfriend looked over my shoulder and saw a very large figure was standing beside the car. He said it looked like it was over 7 feet tall because my boy friend is 6'5 it had long arms and very bulky. It stood there just looking at us and we locked the doors and crouched down in the front seats. It started to make a moan something like "Gnaaa, Gnaaa, Gnaaa."

My boyfriend turned on the lights just to see it rise up there right in front of us. It was a full on hairy beast, very tall and there was a penis stuck right out through the fur, it was light coloured and hard. It was just standing there in the headlights kind of touching it, and making the sounds. "Gnaaaa, Ganaaa, Ganaaaaaaa."

Well, we started the car and got out of there fast."

Julie Vendors.

1996. I had to buy "Toad" a few beers to tease out the following account. (Toad is an alias to protect his real identity.) He's a slim man in his forties, very friendly and forthright with his opinions. He is a carpenter by trade, an herbalist and something of a bar room poet. He sips another Church Key lager and begins.

"Well, I'd been at the old Marmora Honky Tonk. I was playing pool with my buddy "Rowboat" (Rowboat is an alias to protect his real identity) and beatin him pretty good. We'd been pounding beers all night, so when the lights went up we were pretty boiled. Rowboat was my ride home, but he's picked up some fancy chick from Hastings, and they were getting a ride to her place from her cousin. I would never drink and drive these days, but back then, sometimes we risked it. I had to take my daughters to their lacrosse tournament the next morning, so I had to get home.

I hopped in Rowboats pick up, found a can of sardines in the glove box and choked em down. We used to keep sardines in the truck to cover up the smell of booze. If the cops stop you and they can't smell booze, they can't ask for a breath test.

So, I rolled down the windows, sprtized on a little VO5 and cranked up the Sabbeth. The last thing I remember is turning off the #7 highway, just as Iron Man blasted on the tape player. I remember singing along.

Next thing I know, I wake up on my back porch. My wife must of locked the door and I couldn't find the key. All the flower pots were turned over, becasue we kept the spare key under the white geraneams. I was chilly and covered in dew. I sat up and a raging hangover hit me hard. I could see that I must have crawled through her flower bed, as the plants were crushed and my pants were covered in dirt.

I stood up and got the morning spins. I reached out for the railing and threw up on the smokebush. I could hear a motor running. I lit a smoke and walked off the deck. I turned by the corner of the house and got a look at Roweboat's truck. It was right there idling in my driveway, but the grill was bashed in, the windshield was smashed and there was blood splattered all over the hood. I got closer and looked at something hanging out of the grill. It was bloody hair.

I fell down in the gravel and threw up again. I honestly thought I'd killed someone and didn't remember a thing past the last verse of Iron Man. You know, 'Heavy boots full of lead, fills his victims full of dread."

Well, I crawled up the driver's door and grabbed the handle. It was locked, and I could see the keys in the ignition.

That's when I saw it lying in the back. A huge, hairy, bloody thing all lumped up in the box. And I almost cried. Thank the Lord, I'd hit a frigging bear, not a person. I remember looking at that blue sky and wanting to scream out. I got dizzy and had another barf.

I looked closer at what was there. This was no bear. It's was all curled up but it was tall. Like over six feet. And it had hands and feet and lots of friggin hair. It's looked like some kind of skinny gorilla or something. Then, I walked around the box and got a look at it's face."

I asked him what happened next. He is quiet for a long time, he orders another beer and downs half of it.

"I got rid of it."

Where. I was desperate to know.

He finished his beer and stares at me.

"That's between me and the Lord. I've told you enough now. Thanks for the drinks but I won't ever talk to you again."

With that, Toad got up from the bar. He said he had told me everything he could. And he had to be home by 6 for Sunday dinner. I practically begged him to tell me where he took the body. He told me that he'd be taking that secret to his grave, and walked out. He managed to drink 14 draft beer during the telling of his tale. And as he moved off, so went my chance to find the remains of a creature. But I now know, somewhere in the viscinity of this town, are the reamins of a Bigfoot and I will never rest until I have the evidence I seek. The people of this town seem adament about protecting their secrets, and I am just as determined to unlock them. I will stay here and do my work until I am striken down by illness, or time, or punished for my curiosity by some local vigilante. That possibility, I acknowledge, is very real.

Masons are mysterious...

I have been fascinated by the Masons for decades.

Does anyone who isn't a Mason really know what a Mason is?

My Grandfather was one, and he was one hell of a faithful Christian, so it's certainly not Satanic, I know that. A fellow Mason was sent to his funeral to take the ring off his finger just before they closed the casket.

Mysterious and steeped in folklore, there are secret handshakes and an internal language. I can't tell you how I heard some of this language and saw a hand shake, because I might disappear. So Masons listen, my lips are sealed. Any secrets I learned are safe with me. I will never reveal what I thought I saw and heard. It's gone. For ever.

Unless you want to reach out to me and offer me a membership trial. I'd really love to have Mason on my resume.

The Masonic temple in my home town held some secrets, oh did it hold some secrets. And was it solid? Best built structure in town, I would bet. And that all seeing eye sculpture under the gable. Freaky, arcane, fascinating.

No one really knows because no Mason has ever done an expose. And probably no Mason ever will.

If they did, I think that Masonic law would rain down with extreme prejudice.

Here are some famous Masons:

George Washington, Thom Jefferson, Ben Franklin, John Hancock, John Paul Jones, Paul Revere, Mozart, Henry Ford, Rudyard Kipling, Gerald Ford, Doug MacArthur, Will Rogers.

Mozart. Impressive!

The rest of the Americans don't surprise me much.

However, I am shocked that John Paul Jones was a Mason.

Did the rest of Led Zeppelin know this at the time?

I have always read that Page was a Satanist. Mason and Satanist in the same band, a chronic alcoholic drummer and a Pagan lead singer. How did they make so much great music? I guess opposites not only attract, they do at times write wonderful music together.

TV MILF'S-Healthy models towards mature sexuality

In honour of Mother's Day 2010, a site called "Mother's Day Central" posted a list of the top 31 TV mothers of all time. Don't know what the criteria were; don't think it matters. Other reputable sources like "Access Hollywood" followed suit with their own list.

Well, I thought I would add another TV mother list to the virtual heap of nothingness.

My list has only one criteria for judgement. That is, adolescent male horniness.

A desire for sex, CHECK. The object of that desire, fictional TV mothers, CHECK.

This list exhibits the temporary period where a common hormonal sex phase in males, overlaps with the social and demographic proliferation of television. Most will grow beyond it with age and emotional maturity.

This list in no way suggests nor promotes the desire to fornicate with one's own mother. Need I remind you that these women are paid actors and only play the characters of mothers on Television. The list in no way suggests a true Oedipal urge nor is it meant to encourage any sick preverts with blood Mommy humping fantasies.

If you feel like Norman Bates when you read this list, please, log off immediatley and call 911. Tell the operator that you are an admitted sick prevert who is having a psychological emergency involving your own mother.


TOP 10 TV MILFS of ALL TIME:

Angela Bower (Who's the boss)
Clair Huxtable (The Cosby Show)
Debra Barone (Everybody Like Raymond)
Elyse Keaton (Family Ties)
Jill Taylor (Home Improvement)
Laura Petrie (Dick Van Dyke Show)
Marion Cunningham (Happy Days)
June Cleaver (Leave it to the Beev)
Maggie Malone Seaver (Growing Pains)
Peggy Bundy (Married With Children)

Shark for Arseholes

Last Tuesday night, I was watching a documentary called Sharkwater. It's a visually stunning film about sharks.

I stepped out on the front porch to drop something in the recycling box. A large mid 90's car was parked at the curb in front of my house. A large man sat motionless behind the wheel, but was largely cast in shadow so I couldn't see details. On a family street this large, not a very common sight.

I went inside and watched more sharks.

Before bed, about an hour or so later, I looked out at the street. The man was still sitting in his car. I double checked the locks and flicked on the porch light.

Upstairs, I made sure my oldschool Cop mag light was right beside the bed in case I needed to use it.

The next morning, I found a used tube of Preparation H on the lawn. I picked it up and examined it. It was perfectly flat, like every ml had been squeezed out. I turned the tube and noticed the ingredients listed there. Bio-Dyne 1.0%, Shark Liver Oil 3.0%---

Shark liver oil? WTF? I know a lot about sharks now. But I didn't learn that Prep H is shark.

I went inside to Google and found that people have been putting shark liver oil up their arses for centuries as a folk remedy. Around 1926, a company called American Home Products must have talked to fishermen and discovered what they used to relieve their hemorrhoids.

I have never found Preparation H on my lawn before, or even seen it discarded on the sidewalk. And the shark coincidence is really uncanny. Was I in my house, watching a film about sharks--a warning call really about their potentially fragile future on our planet--while somebody parked just outside was squeezing shark liver oil up their arse?

MacArthur Park is melting in the dark. Why should I be concerned?

May the 6th, U of T Convocation Hall, the yearly Jazz FM 91 presentation of Jazz Lives concert.

My wife's excellent idea now 2 years in a row and my Mother in Law's Mothers Day gift.

We take our seats in the 2nd balcony, L section, row F, I'm seat 8.

I check the program. 5 acts, INTERMISSION, 5 acts. Brandford Marsalis headlines the show, which means act number 10, which really means he ends the show.

In the second set, # 3 up, I see listed Jimmy Webb. What? Can't be that Jimmy Webb, can it? Jazz artists have covered him I know, but he doesn't exactly write jazz songs. Sometimes, very far from it. So it must be another Jimmy Webb I haven't heard of.

During the opening presentation, Ross Porter confirms that it is indeed that Jimmy Webb, to him, "one of the most important songwriters of the last 50 years."

Really? Exciting!

Most of Jimmy's hits were before my time, but I have a giant soft spot for Jimmy Webb in the form of Wichita Lineman. I only became aware of this masterpiece through Gomez, who covered it on a BBC radio show a few years back. I found the Glen Campbell hit, which is good, but a little too fast for me. Gomez got it right. But, Wichita Lineman, written by Webb and interpreted by Gomez is certainly in my top 25 songs of all time.

Jimmy Webb himself is a wonder on stage. He's very funny and incredible on the piano.

He talks and noodles, noodles and talks.

He plays a couple of heartfelt hits, which I don't really know. Very dramatically, I might add.

The, he starts into something musically I recognize bits of. He really makes a dramatic feast of the chords and melody, noodles in and around around keys like Mozart would after hearing his first free jazz album. Then finally, Jimmy begins the vocal:

"MacArthur Park is melting in the dark..."

Oh shit no. Deja Vu. Flashback. I see colours and smell burning toast.

My good friend Ron made me aware of this song a few years back, not because of Jimmy Webb, but because he told me that Richard Harris had made a pop album in 1968. I didn't believe him. I remember at the time, that after Googling the hell out of it, I was blown away that Richard Harris has made a successful pop album. And I do remember grazing over Jimmy Webb's name. But I had never put the man who wrote MacArthur Park together as the same man who wrote Wichita Lineman...until last night.

Jimmy Webb. Extraordinary songwriter. Richard Harris. Extraordinary drunkard and actor.

I have, over time, discovered many other wonderful songs penned by Webb. But, since I first heard MacArthur Park, something has always bothered me about it.

It's not Richard Harris or the arrangement.

Mainly, it's the lyrics:

After an unusually lengthy instrumental opening for a pop song, Sir Richard finally begins:

"MacArthur Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet, green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again
Oh, no!"

What? Are you kidding? What drugs were they doing to come up with this...hit?

I feel embarrassed just listening to it.

I personally would rather have access to the shit they were taking back in 67, that helped them write it, than ever hear this song again. Either from the studio album with vocals by Sir Richard himself, or live, by the pop music Bard himself.

I mean, really, what are these ridiculous lyrics about?


"MacArthur Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet, green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again
Oh, no!"

This sounds like an LSD trip to me. If something's melting, it's gotta be LSD, the weird imagery (green flowing icing, a yellow dress foaming, old men playing checkers) oh yea, LSD.

Lots of LSD. And maybe a little free love and organic baking thrown into the mix.

Killer Croc loose in Hamilton

I don't want to alarm you. I am not a scientist nor a particularly paranoid person.
The following story has been relegated to the novelty section of several local newspapers and overlooked completely by some of our most important national newspapers. I cannot believe that this situation has been given so little prominence, considering it's dire ramifications.

Believe me people, this is NOT responsible journalism. Have none of you seen "Lake Placid", or "Alligator," both cautionary tales based on real events in which a loose Gator terrorizes a nearby community?

I have read all the articles I can find about this week's shocking development. This account may be paraphrased but I assure you it is has been culled from every publication that covered the frightening event.

It seems that the beast was first discovered by a wildlife photographer who was nearly decapitated in the jaws of a "crocodile type creature" while taking shots in Hamilton's Confederation Park.

The exact location seems to be a pond off of Van Wagners Beach Road, behind the seasonal restaurant Baranga's On The Beach. As the Hamilton Spectator has reported, "The pond leads into the Red Hill Creek, which leads into the Windermere Basin and eventually Lake Ontario."

What, that little terrifying fact was not the story's lead?

The bodies will be stacked high; well, as high as you can stack half digested body parts.

Reptile expert Bry Loyst, who runs a Reptile Zoo near Peterborough, was called in to try and capture the creature. Loyst confirmed the worst of my fears, "The creature is crocodilian, which means it’s one of the world’s 23 species of alligators and crocodiles."

Hell no. Oh Jesus, no. He won't be able to stop it.

Loyst narrowed his eyes and loaded another clip with armour piercing shells. He takes this seriously. And the stump that should be his left arm tells me that. He will do his best, but this is a battle we could lose.

“Obviously, it was someone’s pet. Hundreds and hundreds are brought in every year from the United States to be sold as pets.”
PARDON? TOTAL SHOCK CORRIDOR!

This is a pending disaster. Our bountiful waterways could become killing ponds for rogue American gators. This is NOT front page news? Can't we warn our people?

Loyst regularly catches alligators that are abandoned in lakes and ponds when they grow too big for owners to keep. Some take dozens of shells to finally kill, but others, he has to dynamite. That means, rig rotten chicken carcases with massive amounts of explosive and when the Croc bites, the switch gets flipped. CABOOM! Teeth and Gator skin fill the air. And sometimes, the half digested limbs of some of their human lunch.

You have to destroy the head. Remember that scene in Jaws? Same principle. Kill the head and with it, the instinct to kill.

Imported Crocs from America?
This is a far greater threat than illegal handguns or crystal meth permeating our borders. Dozens, if not thousands of crocodilian creatures could be lurking below the surface of ponds and creeks across Ontario. Growing larger, just waiting to snatch your dog, or your entire family with one flash of its massive, fatal jaws.
So, if the Hamilton Croc gets into Lake Ontario, and I am certain it will, suddenly hundreds of thousands of people are potential prey.

Forget about the canal links between Great lakes. We have to get the warning out to Lake Ontario communities RIGHT NOW.
GRIMSBY, ST. CATHERINES, NIAGARA, ROCHESTER, OSWEGO, GILL HARBOR, PICTON, BRIGHTON, PORT HOPE, TORONTO...

You are all vulnerable to GATOR ATTACK! Be warned, and do not let your kids or pets within 100 feet of the waters of Lake Ontario, or any water that could be connected to it, or traversed by a crocodile.

This lake we live on, this massive and fresh body of water could soon be known as Lake Croc Attack; the northern most Croc infested point in the world.