Heyy LumPRGF M”IT’S THE LENIN SISTYERS
‘Gilbert what’re ya starin at
By the time my 21st birthday finally rolled around, it had been pretty well established that I was something of a problem drinker. To put that in perspective, it was my junior year in college. If a bunch of college kids think you’re a problem drinker, that’s saying something. But I was looking forward to turning 21, because that meant I could finally really start to drink the right way — the way God intended me to.
However, a big birthday blowout didn’t seem to be in the offing for me.
It seemed like my buddies sort of wanted to blow it off totally, because I had long since acquired the aforementioned reputation, and God only knew what kind of disgraceful episode a night of free drinks at bars for yours truly would entail.
Fortunately for me, there was a guy in our group who wasn’t so much in college as he was in the Navy. And Mark wasn’t just in the Navy — he was on a submarine, and I guess those guys are known as extra psycho. This guy fancied himself quite the dignitary at one of the local nudie bars, and once he realized that my upcoming Big Day was being met with anemic response, he stepped up and insisted that I mark my 21st as his very special guest at Pacers, on Midway Drive across from the Sports Arena, in the shitty Loma Portal section of San Diego. Nudie bars and naked-lady stuff in general had always fascinated me, so while I was a little leery of what this guy’s VIP treatment might entail, I was pumped to go along.
A couple of the stoner buds in tow, we headed out for the big night. Keep in mind also that there had been considerable “pre-gaming” going on that afternoon. I don’t know whose idea it was, but it seemed like a good idea at the time to stop off and load up at Arby’s on the way to the nudie bar. If I recall correctly, Arby’s had some kind of promotion going to compete with the concurrent “2 Big Macs for $2” deal at McDonald’s. The bottom line is I probably loaded up with 4 or 5 pounds of processed reconstituted glop, inhaled hastily in the back seat of my roommate’s ’82 Civic.
I don’t know how long we actually lasted at Pacers. I do know that Mark’s idea of really doing it up right for a guy’s 21st included forcibly pouring into me a lot of alcoholic drinks that even I considered questionable. The kinds that featured a lot of watermelon liquer, and that you set on fire. And they all had porno names — there was the Screaming Orgasm, the Pussy Lips, the Throbbing Boner, the Money Shot, the Double Penetration…I’m sure there were others.
After a couple or 30 of those, I somehow made it to the men’s room, where all of the Chocolate Fetishes — along with the 5 pounds of Arby’s salinated meat-product agglomerate (with zesty cheesy BBQ sauce!) — promptly wound up on the floor of one of the stalls.
I take it I emerged from the men’s room around the time one of the bouncers, with a kind of resigned annoyance, took Mark aside and said “Man, you gotta get your friend outta here. He’s scaring the girls.”
These days, I’ve managed to steer clear permanently of the watermelon liquer. But I’m still working on the scaring-girls thing.
Nearly a full two decades before an erstwhile (and now again) Darius Rucker decided not to tie his Timberland boots, proto-Hootie Dobie Gray came up with a full-voiced good-timey chorus and not much else, and conquered MOR radio.
Playing now at a Safeway near you, “Drift Away” politely announces itself with something that sounds like a generic ringtone, followed by some dead space in which one would assume is contained the first verse of the song. There likely are words to this verse, too, but whatever they are is anyone’s guess. In fact, the lyrics to the verses of “Drift Away” could likely be lost to history. But no matter, because soon enough here comes Dobie, calling on his “boys” to give him “the beat”, because of course he wants to get lost in their rock & roll and . . . yeah. Whoops — I guess the boys didn’t hear him. Hey boys — give Dobie the beat and free his soul already, so he’ll shut the hell up.
At this point you may be saying to yourself, “Who in the hell is Dobie Gray??” Nobody seems to know. After releasing his opus on the pre-Mayer masses, he was never heard from again.
As each repetition of the wordy exhortation gets lost and drifts a-waaayyyy, it’s followed by a sort of pregnant pause, which suggests nothing more than an aspiring Dobie/Hootie, sitting on a bean bag chair someplace trying to come up with the rest of the song and drawing the proverbial blank. But after three minutes and change of such fruitless attempts, the whole extravaganza does, mercifully, drift away.
THEY CALL IT JELLO BELLOW
Ever seen a 60-year-old man crowd-surf? Well, I have. Last night. Wait…I figure he’s gotta be at least 50…let me check Google.
Back. OK, he’s 53. But Eric Reed Boucher a.k.a. Jello Biafra showed a bunch of largely puzzled kids at the Boardwalk in Orangevale Wednesday night that, while resembling someone who just finished nine holes at the local muni, he can still get up there and flagellate quasi-political-revolutionary shtick that blew by barriers of credulity thirty years ago, and now seems quaint amidst a landscape of pugnacious thugs like Bill O’Reilly and Nancy Grace.
Purple-haired, mascara-smeared kids — who likely weren’t even born yet when the Dead Kennedys broke up — perhaps were expecting someone a bit more iconoclastic to represent the “DK” patches they proudly sported on the backs of their ripped jean jackets. They gamely attempted to look interested as Jello stopped in between songs to yell about Dianne Feinstein. I asked the guy next to me, “Do you know who Dianne Feinstein is?” He shook his head.
“Holiday in Cambodia”? Try “Holiday When You Find One Person Here Who Can Find Cambodia On A Map”. No, he’s actually saying “Pol Pot”, not “Grow Pot”. See, Pol Pot was…never mind.
Interestingly, when Biafra and backing band the Melvins (uber-professional bog-rock boilermakers who frankly ought to know better) came on for an encore nobody seemed to want, the guy removed his shirt (!) to reveal a physique which resembled a landslide while launching into a tirade to introduce “Rock & Roll McDonald’s”, which is about how fast food is bad for you and makes money for big corporations. “A BIG MAC HAS 26 GRAMS OF FAT! A QUARTER-POUNDER — 28 GRAMS!!”
From: Business Services, Helpdesk
Sent: Thursday, September 29, 2011 3:50 PM
To: [gov’t office] -All Users
Subject: Building Restroom Cleaning
Business Services has received a number of complaints, from the Department of [redacted] housekeeping staff, concerning *** staff’s disregard for the closed sign during restroom cleaning (various floors). If the closed sign is up and housekeeping verbally requests that you find another restroom, please, go to another floor to use the facilities. It is disrespectful and discourteous to bypass the sign and use the facilities while they’re in the process of cleaning.
If you have any questions, please contact the Business Services Help Desk at xxx-3100.
Thank you in advance for your cooperation!
insulting someone’s intelligence right off the bat, whether playfully-intentioned or not, is neither coy nor funny; it’s a turn-off. just fyi. while i agree that “humor is subjective” (and i think actually i have a pretty good sense of humor), but you might want to make sure any future attempts have a bit more universal appeal.
also: no matter how engaging your “opener” is, it means crap if the other person is simply not attracted to you. you could use any one of those generic, lame opening lines, and if a girl found you attractive, she’d reply. i hate to sound shallow, but those are the basic rules of attraction.
also: admitting to reading those cheesy internet dating how-tos? kind of pathetic.