Enter the (Komodo) Dragon

I went to the Shed Aquarium the other day with my sister and my nephews. I’m trying to do a bunch of fun, little activities during the week before I have to go back to my real job. They have a lizard exhibit in town, which includes the infamous Komodo dragon. The komodo in Chicago did not move a muscle while we there, despite the ENORMOUS area he had to run around in. However, the video above him showed two of them wrestling on their hind legs. They are fricking huge, and they do, in fact, look like f’ing dragons. The video also informed me that they can hunt and kill a DEER, and then proceed to eat the mothafucka HOOVES and all. They showed a feeding frenzy with like 10 of them going to town on some sort of carcass, and I couldn’t help but think that even Chuck Norris himself would be in trouble if he found himself in the middle of THAT.

If you ever find yourself on the island of Komodo, my advice to you is say a little prayer like Dionne Warwick. You’re not safe on the ground, cause they’re fast. Trees are out cause they can climb those. The water is out too, cause they’re really good swimmers. I’m starting to see why Billy Bob Thornton is deathly afraid of them:

Bizarre actor Billy Bob Thornton wants the world population of the endangered komodo dragon to be killed off. Thornton is petrified of the reptiles, one of which crushed the foot of Sharon Stone's husband Phil Bronstein last year. Billy Bob says, "More than anything on this earth, more than any being that exists, they are the creature that represents evil. If it were up to me, I'd just go to that island and kill them all. I would just shoot those sons of bitches." The actor says he once had a dream the creatures infested his house and woke up his wife Angelina Jolie, insisting they go to a hotel because his dream was so real.*

Well, this is coming from the same guy who has a fear of antique furniture, but they are damn scary. Billy, if you’re reading, pack your bags. We’re off to Komodo to “shoot those sons of bitches.” YEEEEEEH HAAW! Hey, America, I mean 7 readers, what animal do you fear, or better still, think should be eliminated from God’s green earth?

Recently my 4-year-old nephew walked in on my sister (his mom) while she was going to the bathroom. Then the following exchange occurred:

A: You pee out your butt?
Mom: No.
A: Your weiner?
Mom: No, mommies don’t have wieners.
A: (Pause) Whachyou got then?
Mom: (Longer pause) A vagina.
A: ‘Gina? I don’t know no ‘gina.

Hey, I'm sorry if I'm adding yet another cutesy kid story to the heap of others in the blogosphere, but I'll be damned if that conversation and the little wheels turning in his little head didn't bring a smile to my face, and I hope your's.


*"A" is the sleeping kid on the right wearing the incredibles jammies.

Non-porno Movies That Make a Guy Reach for the Tissues

My roomy and I were watching Remember the Titans the other day, and he said it’s on a short list of movies he can admit to crying during. This led me to assemble a list of the All Time Greatest Male Tear Jerker Films in no particular order.

1. Old Yeller (1957): Everyone has lost a dog at some point in his/her life. Sure, not all of us have shot our frothing at the mouth dog in our backyard, but I think you get the idea.

2. Hoosiers (1986): That scene at the end when Gene Hackman is giving his speech and they are zooming in on the picture . . . I’m dripping tears onto my flipping keyboard just thinking about it. Let’s just move on.

3. Field of Dream (1989): “Dad, do you want to have a catch?” That’s all I have to say, ladies and gents.

4. Brian’s Song (1971): I love when Billie D. says, with a tear in his eye, “I love Brian Piccalo.” Come on?! The heterosexual, man-love flowing between Lando Calrissian and Sonny Corleon (just look at him presenting in this photo) is so THICK in that movie, and it teeters at the brink of gayness. I’m surprised Billie D. didn’t slip him some Colt 45, take advantage of him, and say, “works every time.”

5. Rudy (1993): Didn’t we all want him to finally get in a game? And then when he gets that meaningless sack on the quarterback we are as happy for him as a fat Jon Favreau.

6. Electric Horseman (1979): This one gets me every time when Robert Redford talks about his reasoning for setting the horse free, and there is a likeness between the aging rodeo star and the aging racehorse. Okay, this one wouldn’t make anyone else’s list, but I can’t discount a movie that gets the waterworks going every, damn time.

So, what are the commonalities of the male tear jerkers? It appears as if a guy needs an animal or sports to justify crying, which means Ed (1996) and Gus (1976) are the ULTIMATE male tear jerkers. If only Both films had taken a page from Old Yeller, and culminated with both animals being 'put down' by means of shotgun.

DOES ANYONE WANT TO WEIGH IN HERE? WHICH FILMS HAVE I MISSED.

Robot Breast Missiles

Classyandfancy, a friend of mine and one hell of a blogger, uses this picture for her blog profile. She picked it because she likes pandas, but I pointed out to her that the wings look like Tranzor Z’s. She, of course, had no idea what the hell I was talking about, and to her credit few do. However, as it turns out, the picture IS Tranzor Z related in that the character is called Panda Z, or something like that, and he is based on the robot character made famous, or somewhat famous anyway, from the cartoon and toy from my youth.

This led me to hark back to the Tranzor Z toy and the lucky friends of mine who had him. He stood about three feet tall, and he shot missiles from his fingers. Then I started to think about the girl robot in the cartoon who shot missiles from her boobies. I did a little research, and found these pictures, since I had to see for myself that my twisted little brain didn’t conjure up this unique form of attack. Sure enough, her name was Aphrodite, and as the picture below will prove, she DID in fact shoot titty missiles. Aphrodite the goddess was a all about love and beauty, but this robot was all about blowing shit up with her tits.

Then I discovered that there is a top-secret plan, so don’t tell anyone, to resolve all conflicts in the Middle East. At this very moment, our fine and wise president, Mr. George W. Bush, has his finger on a button that will unleash a giant Aphrodite robot upon Iraq and all the surrounding countries. She will then discharge a bevy of mammary missiles that will nuke the whole region of the globe back to the Stone Age. Most of these nations will not only hate that they are getting attacked by a giant robot, but the fact that she is scantily clad will be a form of cultural genocide. I mean, never mind the fact that her breasts are weapons, but she is showing her ANKLES! With just the right titty trajectory, spraying her fun bags of fury will in one fell swoop not only resolve all conflicts in the Middle East, but it will lower gas prices, balance the budget, find Nicole Brown Simpson’s “real” killer, and Christopher Reeves will come back from the dead and walk again. Now those are some magic titties.

Lollapalooza: 3 Days of Music and Short People

Okay, at long last, I’m going to sit down with my hot chips and my liter of Diet Pepsi, and I’m going to bang out a blog. I’m very bent about the promotion for free ring tones being over on the cap of this Diet Pepsi. Alas, I had to pay for Everything She Wants by Wham! to chime in when someone buzzes me. Don’t ask me why I picked that song. So, on to the topic at hand . . .

Lollapalooza, holy crap, that didn’t come up on spell check, was in town over the weekend. Have you seen the line-up? Despite the fact that almost all of my favorite bands were at this thing, for a myriad of reasons, I still couldn’t bring myself to buy tickets.

While working at Navy Pier I could hear the show faintly. I distinctly heard The Violent Femmes as well as Gnarles Barkley. After work I pedaled over to the show and watched what I could see of The Flaming Lips through the back entrance. They were the perfect band for peeping in on because I could see the fuzzy, animal suit people jumping around and the enormous inflatable Santa bouncing to the music. As I was rocking to the set on my bike, a girl handed me an Adidas sweatband, which I promptly put on my head. Where I was positioned turned out to be ideal for people watching. These guys on all terrain golf carts were driving V.I.P.’s around the enclosed area from one end of the stage to the other. I saw the singer from Gnarles Barkley and Matt Pinfield from MTV get rides, and they are both tiny, little, gnomes. I would never want to live in L.A. because I think it would be disheartening to spot all these famous people and see that they are no taller than Emanuel Lewis from Webster. Two different professional photographers took photos of me; I guess to document that there was a weirdo with a headband, sitting on his bike, trying to get something for free.

On Sunday my friend Brendan called me up and offered me two, free V.I.P. passes, which, for a very high fee, allow you to eat and drink all you like, all day. I got off work at 6 and Queens of the Stone Age went on at 6:30, so I had to run my ass around the lake, and over the river to the entrance, which turned out to be the wrong entrance, since my buddy with the passes was at the OTHER entrance. So I RAN my ass all the way around the stadium in my Chuck Taylor’s, and I have to go on record now and say those shoes, while they are very stylish, offer ZERO support. When we got into the stadium, my buddy went off to see Wilco, and me and my swollen feat made our way to the other stage to see Queens. I got myself a fruity, frozen drink for free and settled in for some rock. A beer is a far more manly libation to enjoy when you’re ‘raising the goblet of rock,’ but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t a refreshing cocktail on a balmy, Chicago night. The band was great, but I was hating on the moshing and crowd surfing. The latter ends with an idiot surfing to the stage, getting escorted around the side, then this asshole thinks he can barrel his way past me back to his friends. Mosh pits I don’t like because I can’t watch the band while keeping my eyes peeled for stray elbows. One idiot did fall down and hit me in the shin, which I was not happy about. I think my disdain for the pit was evident, and they eventually stayed clear of me.

My cohort and I opted to meet up, stay in the V.I.P. lounge, and drink our way through the Red Hot Chili Peppers. It was pretty far away from the stage, but the free booze was too tempting. The other option was watching staple surgery poster boy John Popper and Blues Traveler, but I’ll hold out for next summer when they split a Ribfest bill with Eddy Money.

On our way into the V.I.P. lounge entrance, we saw a guy dressed in all white with black eye makeup trying to reason with the staff to let him in. It was bazaar because he looked at me like he knew me, and I looked back at him since I was pretty sure I knew him. I thought maybe I went to high school with him, but then it occurred to me that it was Jared Leto, who I WATCHED go to high school on My So Called Life. As it happens, his shitty band played a no doubt shitty set at Lollapalooza. Ladies, I’m sorry to break this to you, but while he does have captivating eyes, he too is a gnome, hobbit, or some other form of hafling. I remember thinking, “Hey Jared, you keep trying to argue with these folks. I’m going to go inside and have myself a couple of girly drinks, because I’m a V.I.P. and you’re not. And, oh yeah, your acting career is floundering, your band is getting horrible reviews, and you’re short.”

Pedaling His Way Through a Second Puberty

Floyd Landis*, Tour de France winner, has been accused of taking performance-enhancing drugs. “In his first public appearance since a urine test showing a testosterone imbalance cast his title into doubt, the American said his body's natural metabolism -- not doping of any kind -- caused the result, and that he would soon have the test results to prove it.”

In other words, “I have an ‘abnormally high testosterone ratio’ because I have a steady stream of testosterone pumping through me at all times. I’m ALL MAN! I had chest hair when I was four, my balls dropped when I was 5, and I banged my kindergarten teacher in between snack time and nap time when I was 6!”

This got me thinking about tests for abnormally high levels of estrogen in men. Shouldn’t someone test Chris Carrabba from Dashboard Confessional? I think that Mr. Carrabba has been doping with estrogen for years to churn out puss rock of the worst order, and someone needs to ween him off of the stuff, fast.

I also started thinking about what my “doping” might be in terms of bike riding. Sure, the threat of being late for work gets the pedals moving, but I really think my ipod is the ace up my sleeve. I think if Lance Armstrong and I were racing along Lakeshore drive, myself with Feel Good Hit of the Summer by Queens of the Stone Age bumping and him with anything by Sheryl Crow polluting his ears, I do believe I’d blow by him quicker than he dumped his wife and started dating an aging rock star, despite the fact that his ex stuck with him through nut cancer, and left a good job to help him start his nut cancer foundation.**

*Jesus, look at his face! If a man embodies an overly productive, fully functional testosterone factory it is this guy.
**Perhaps I was a little hard on Lance, and my fact-finding may have been suspect, but I had to get a good analogy for the speed at which I’d kick his ass, given a good series of ipod songs.

All By Myself . . .

Sorry for the long absence. It’s a combination of blogger’s block, not having much time to spare, and not wanting to be in my apartment due to the broken air conditioning.

I became inspired to write a blog when I saw The Headphones Guy at the Cubs game the other day. My friends have had a nights and weekends season tickets package for a number of years, and I have been able to weasel my way to ball games fairly consistently, alternating weaseling with all of them. In these season ticket seats, two rows in front, and about seven seats to the left, without fail, sits a middle-aged man with one of those big, whopper, headphone radios. He has a very elaborate scorecard and sometimes he talks to himself while violently penciling in statistics. One thing we have noticed about him is that the outcome of the game is decided when he leaves. Whoever is leading when he leaves, and usually it’s whatever team is visiting at the time, even the shitty ones, that team will hold that lead. So, we’ll be like, “Oh, fuck. The Headphones Guy just left. It’s all over.

I took a picture of him on my cell phone with a dorky border around it that says, “Waz’ Up!?” but I don’t know how to get it into my computer. For now I had to settle for this Empire Strikes Back photo, but you’ll just have to trust me when I say that he looks like that guy at your work who doesn’t talk to anyone, and you suspect he may come to work tomorrow with an AK and mow down the entire office.

With one of my days off, I feel I should go during a day game to see if he’s there. Does he have a job or is he ALWAYS there? If I spot him I’m going to plant myself in a seat directly next to him and get the life story of The Headphones Guy. Either that or I’ll get a headset and a scorecard and not talk to a soul to see what it’s like to be in his headsetted dome . . .

Cornholing and Dilly Shops (Oh the Accidental Hits I Will Get For This Title)

I played in my bean bags league last night. ‘Bags is a game similar to horseshoes in which teams of two people throw beanbags at a board with a hole in it. A bag in the hole is 3 points and a bag resting on the board is 1 point. If you ask someone in Indiana what this game is called they will tell you, with a straight face, cornholing. In any event, I was riding high after winning 3 out of 4 games, propelling myself into sole possession of 2nd place, so I didn’t want to go home just yet. My mom told me she was reading about a new sex shop, The Pleasure Chest ™ on Lincoln Avenue in my neighborhood that was very controversial, in that the residents didn’t want it there. Many of these shops are in the “Boys Town” area, a heavily gay area of Chicago on Halsted Street, and those residents don’t seem to mind, but my area of Chicago has a lot of families, and evidently some conservative ones.

So, I popped in to have a look-see. What I found was a very classy, clean, little dilly shop. I call these types of places dilly shops. I made it up, so, of course, I think it’s very funny. Maybe classy isn’t the right term for a place that had like 12 of those leather shorts with a hole for the one-eyed monster to poke through, but again, they were nicely displayed on little mannequins that only went from above the knee to the navel. They also had a ball spreader. What the hell is that for? I know, to spread one’s balls, but for what purpose? Is it to isolate each ball? Anyway, the shop was the LEAST sleazy dilly shop I’ve ever been in.

You know me, or maybe you don’t, but I’m a curious man and a man of the people, so I chatted up the gal with numerous piercings at the counter. She told me that the shop moved out of the Halsted area because customers were complaining about the lack of parking. I guess when you have a need for certain items time is of the essence, and hunting for a spot might not be high on your list of things to do. What is on that list is not a list I care to see, but I’m glad they can now get their parking spot, get their items, and start checking things off theirs lists. She also told me about the complaints of the residents, but I assured her that I am one resident who has no problem with her dilly shop or anything her dilly shop stands for. While I did just stop in there for kicks, I am also a paying customer. Mom, if you’re reading this, my items were VERY basic and I am in no way a sexual deviant, I swear. Now, if I did buy one of those ball spreaders, and I’m not saying I did, you would have yourself to blame for telling me about the dilly shop.

Girls' Night Out and Man Boobies

I went to this horrible bar last night because my roomy wanted to get with this one girl. This is always the start to a bad night, and this is no exception. We get to the bar to discover that we are intruding on a “Girls’ Night Out.” Translation: “A bunch of us are going to get dolled up the best we can possibly look, with our hair done, our newest outfit with our tits on display, but what we DON’T want is any guys talking to us. Our goal is to draw massive amounts of attention to ourselves, but fight off the advances of the hordes of men who try to hit on us. The best way for us to catch up with old friends is to dance seductively with one another. Talking? No way. My old friends and I can pick up right where we left off in college when she grinds herself on my crotch or when I slowly sink down to the floor and put my face in her crotch.”

Would you believe that one of these girls actually asked me to tell a guy to leave who sat down at the table with them? Hey, I barely know you girls. I’m not about to get my ass kicked because you decided to get dressed up and draw attention to yourself at a bar that brings in every stripe-shirted hardass in Chicago.

The guy that was the biggest hit was my engaged friend. These girls were ALL over him. Hey, he’s engaged, so the threat of him coming on to you is lowered, especially when his bride-to-be is in the room, but has it occurred to these women that chicks all on his jammy might make him have thoughts about the whole one woman for the rest of his life thing? Hey, never mind that. This is Girls Night Out! So, he’s dancing with his bride-to-be’s sister, and she gets behind him, reaches around him, and fondles his man-boobies. Shortly there after, he gets behind her, reaches around, and feels her woman-boobies. This led to bride to be hollering at him and storming out. Now, I don’t happen to have man-boobies, but if I did, I’m pretty sure I’d be self-conscious of them. I certainly wouldn’t want a chick trying to tune-in-Tokyo (movie reference?) in front of everyone, including a bunch of good-looking girls.* BECAUSE, I believe I’d be sensitive about something like this, I can’t say I’d blame a guy for thinking, “Fuck you. You’re grabbing my boobies, I’m grabbing yours.” I guess when it’s your bride-to-be’s sister, one has to keep those automatic thoughts and gut reactions in check. I remember him saying, over and over, "I think I'm in trouble." Gee, you think? I will say it made for some fun people watching and good blog fodder. Okay, I have to do some push-ups so that, God willing, I never have to discover how I’d react in that situation . . .

*Just as I was typing this, man-booby guy called me! It’s really strange because we don’t know each other that well, so it’s not that likely that he’d call me right as I type about his rather embarrassing affliction. I feel really bad now, and I have to be sure he never gets my blog address.

"Wouldn't You Miss Me?"

Syd Barrett, founding member of Pink Floyd, who even gave the band their name, died the other day at the age of 60. He was their lead singer, guitar player, and primary songwriter, writing the early singles Arnold Layne and See Emily Play as well as the entire first album, the highly influential psychedelic masterpiece, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn. Right when the Floyd stood at the door of world wide success, Syd became so erratic from LSD abuse and general insanity, both of which were probably heightening the effects of the other, that the band was left with no choice but to kick him out of the band. He made two solo albums, The Madcap Laughs and Barrett, which remain cult classics despite the fact that they were reportedly like pulling teeth to make given his condition at the time and full of cracking vocals and other apparent mishaps. Part of the reason these solo records have maintained cult status has to do with the mystique of Syd, being an acid casualty, but the records are laced with flashes of brilliance. He had a natural ability to write songs that could be incredibly simple yet at the same time highly complex with bazaar vocal melody patterns that only he could think of, and only he could pull off effectively. Much of the subject matter during his all too brief Pink Floyd tenure dealt with scarecrows, gnomes, and other far out fairy tales, but on his solo efforts there are tender moments that sometimes seem to hint at his struggles with mental illness, whether he was conscious of these references or not.

An old friend of mine, who knew I was a long time fan of Syd’s, called this morning before I left for work to tell me the news of his death and my heart sunk. I decided to listen to all the stuff of his I have on my ipod on the bike ride to and from work. I discovered Interstellar Overdrive is the perfect song to accompany you if you ever find yourself late for work, pedaling your ass through a torrential downpour along Lake Michigan.

The sad tale of Syd Barrett’s rise to stardom and his eventual descent into madness fascinates me. It also fascinated Roger Waters, who wrote numerous songs about him. I have an expensive Syd Barrett original portrait hanging in my home, which was a gift some years ago. I have just about everything he has ever recorded, including the box set, Crazy Diamond. I have poured through just about everything ever written about him, because there is something about a promising rock star and gifted painter suddenly thrown into the lime light, pressured to write hits, and unsuccessfully trying to hold his sanity together that makes me sad. While other tragic rock heroes died at the end of their tale, Syd’s end left him insane, but until recently, alive! The simple fact you could listen to his music and think, ‘I wonder what the poor guy is doing right now’, is part of what fascinated me about him in comparison to other fallen rockers. I wasn’t alone here. Up until his death Syd would get numerous visits from fans who would usually be turned away by his family members because talk of the rock and roll period of his life upsets him. See, I just got sad typing that . . .

This turned into a much longer entry than I intended, but I did feel a need to do justice to him. I encourage you all to further do him justice by checking out some of his music or reading one of the most compelling rock and roll books ever: Saucerful of Secrets: The Pink Floyd Odyssey, which is full of tales of Syd despite the fact that he was in the band so briefly. Again, the author of the book, and anyone else for that matter, whether they are interested in rock or not, can’t help but be fascinated by the tragic life of Syd Barrett. I hope that if there is an after life Syd, or Roger, which he would more likely be called in an after life, is painting ideas he has conjured up in a completely clear, calm, sane mind, because he deserves that.

Asshole Bird on the Loose!

There is a bird dive-bombing people at Navy Pier on a daily basis. I have been attacked three times myself. He is a small, black bird with red lines on his wings. My dad is more than likely going to look it up, so I will soon be able to discern whether this is common practice for this species or if we have a rogue, psychotic bird on our hands. His assaults don’t hurt, but it scares the shit out of you. He comes swooping in from behind, hits you in the head, with what some have said his feet, but I don’t know how the hell they can tell, he lets out a squawk, and by the time you turn around he’s gone.

Some have said he may be protecting a nest, which I don’t buy. I mean, I’m just walking by with photographs to sell to people, and I’m not even looking at your nest. Now that you’re hitting me in the head I want to scramble up your unborn children and make a hobo skillet out of them, but If you had just left me alone I would have never entertained this notion. My theory is he’s just an asshole. I can tell by his little squawk that he’s an asshole. Keith, a coworker of mine, has been hit a few times too. He said one day he sensed he was coming, so he turned around just in time to see him come to a stop and backpedal flap away like a little bitch. So, we’ve learned that he only attacks those who don’t look. We thought about putting our sunglasses, which I lost the other day (shit!), on the back of our heads in the hopes that he will think we are looking. If that doesn’t work I’m going to get John Rambo on his ass.

I was all for settling this matter peacefully, but the other day I was hung-over and crabby and he delivered his hardest blow to date, knocking my sunglasses (which I need to buy now, damn!) off my head, and causing me to yell, “God damn it!” at the top of my lungs despite the fact that there were kids everywhere. I have come to the conclusion that the ultimate tool to send this little prick to birdie hell is a tennis racket, so I’ll be bringing a Head racket with shock absorbers tomorrow. Sorry if this offended any animal lovers out there, but he started it and I’m going to finish it.