August 2007 Archives

Back when I was a kid, a bunch of teachers at my school got together and decided that we sixth graders were the last best hope for mankind. Vietnam had been a huge bummer for all concerned and the Watergate scandal had just about killed off whatever respect anybody still had for the system. It was up to them, these educators reasoned, to instill in us kids the proper ideals to build a better tomorrow before we left for the cold, cynical world of junior high.

They tried to convince us that Joan Baez songs didn't suck and wanted us to pick up trash that other people had thrown on the ground, but their crowning achievement was organizing a student art fair called "Visions of Hope." Participation was compulsory and no prizes were to be awarded because we were supposed to "all win together."

Well, the teachers quickly changed their tune after a bunch of us turned in peace signs scrawled on construction paper, showing our solidarity in not giving a shit. So they sweetened the deal. The winner and a parent or guardian would get free tickets to Knott's Berry Farm. Peace-sign scrawlers got their work handed back to them and were told to try harder.

That was good enough for me. My parents were always too busy yelling at each other ("having a discussion," they called it) to take me anyplace fun. I hadn't been to an amusement park in years so the closest thing I got to a thrill ride was vandalizing construction sites and then hauling ass when a builder showed up in his beat-to-fuck pickup truck.

I did not know much about the world at the time, but figured that things were going to get a whole lot worse before they got better and I wanted to be around for all of it. Now what was needed to win this contest was a depiction of humanity in a pretty sorry state but with a message that we can redeem ourselves. Fortunately, even as a youth, I was a visionary.

The idea for my art project came to me quickly. Using my GI Joe, a Barbie doll I stole from my sister, and a tee snagged from Dad's gold bag, I was ready to get to work. I jammed the point of the golf tee into Barbie's eye and glued the other end to GI Joe's crotch. GI Joe was standing with his little plastic M16 raised by one hand above his head and Barbie was down on all fours with her clothes removed because I thought she would look sexier that way.

To comply with the "Visions of Hope" theme, I ripped off my teacher's label maker to create this message:

THERE'S GOT TO BE A BETTER WAY

My work of art was unbeatable, or so I thought.

The contest was held in the playground on a hot spring afternoon during a first-stage smog alert. Kids stood near their projects, checking to see if the judges were nearby, and hoping to win. Parents stood by their children, checking their watches, and hoping to get out of there soon. My folks did not come because the note from the teacher went straight into the trash. I knew if they saw my artwork, they'd send me back to that child psychologist with bags under her eyes and cottage-cheese legs.

The entries were, by and large, pretty lame. There were watercolor rainbows galore, paper mache doves holding little leafy twigs in their beaks, clay figurines of Snoopy and Charlie Brown hugging each other, and flowers fashioned from dipping napkins in Easter-egg dye spelling "love," or worse, "luv." One kid from the retard class apparently pulled a "If you love something, let it go free" poster from the wall stapled a photo of himself in the upper left-hand corner.

As far as I could tell, I was the only only one who dared to remind the world that we the people had a higher calling than eye-socket rape.

And then the unthinkable happened. The award went to Myron Thorness and his unrecognizable mass of Popsicle sticks, glitter, and melted crayons. Earlier on, I noticed Myron's mother gently reminding the judges that her son has terminal cancer and wouldn't be nice if he could be as happy as possible in the time he had left.

I honestly thought they would see right through her bullshit. After all, the whole point of this art contest was celebrate a better future, so why would you crown a champion who was going to drop dead before got his first boner?

When I saw Myron standing there beaming with his bald head and baseball cap, I just couldn't take it anymore and decided to wipe that smug I've-got-six-months-to-live look right off his face. There was a lump of dog shit on the grass nearby, dried in the sun to make an excellent projectile. I walked over, picked it up, and let fly.

Unfortunately, I threw like a girl so the turd hit Denise Braunschauer instead, making her cry. I felt really bad about that. Denise was beginning to grow tits and I had just blown my chances of her ever letting me get close enough to give one of them a twist.

Raise your glasses, dear friends.

"Here's to the blood-stained bunny slope of the Special Winter Olympics biathlon."

Now drink your drinks. Refill and repeat until you think I'm cute and clever.

I'll post something more substantive tomorrow.

I have good news, gentle readers. Meatmarket has graciously agreed to fill the Monday slot on an ongoing basis. "Meatmarket Monday" is here to stay.

This is particularly fortuitous because if Meat had decided to back out, the slot would have gone to Inga, my Teutonic escort/bodyguard who kills with her thighs. Poor Inga. Though she is quite adept at the breaking of ribs and spines, her prose reads like The Katzenjammer Kids.

I'm sorry, Inga. You have every right to think I've been a very bad boy. I know. Why don't you come by my place at, let's say, eightish? The cash will be in an envelope on the coffee table and you'll find me whimpering under the bed, just like last time. Danke schön.

Dear Meatmarket,

You seem to know a lot about the Hollywood scene so I was hoping you could give me some celebrity-stalking advice.

If I'm sitting in a tree staring into Rosie O'Donnell's bedroom window with a knife in my teeth, which direction should the blade point for maximum dramatic effect?

I suppose I could just ask Rosie since she is an expert in theater arts but my guess is that she would find the experience too sexually arousing to formulate a reasoned response.

Sincerely,

Dave Jennings
Editor and Publisher
Poison Spur

Poison Spur is wholly owned subsidiary of TMI Media Enterprises Inc. Any resemblance of this website to the venomous spike on the hind feet of the male platypus is purely coincidental. In addition, no part of the above missive should be construed in any way to be either a desire or intent to stalk Ms. O'Donnell even though she's pretty hot.

It's an honor to be a guest writer at the internationally known Poison Spur. I hope to bring this blog to new heights of sophistication and glamor as I dish out the insiders' Hollywood scoop. We'll prove that money is the root of all evil (not really, if you've got the money, I've got the roots). I'd like to thank all six of you for reading this. A special "hello" to Dave's mom. I'm sure you were proud of the "Pug Room". Seriously, were you a strict disciplinarian? Did you put his hair in ringlets? I have a son, I'm a little curious, no biggy. Dave's a nice boy, just save the story in case this job doesn't work out and he needs to go on disability.

I'm SO anxious for the loathsome Phil Spector to be found guilty. He sits there in court with his Peter Tork wig, 8 attorneys, eyes half shut, occasionally licking his lips. Hit the lizard with a stick. The victim, Lana Clarkson was a great big horse. If she were a pony girl, she'd be a draft horse. This 40 year old Clydesdale with fat knees and thick ankles whined to anybody that would listen about her acting career being on the skids. So, she takes a $9.00 an hour hostessing job at the House of Blues. $9.00! No tips! Have some dignity, strap on a dildo and be a pro domme. But no. So, she proceeds to seat Phil Spector at the VIP room, never ever hearing of him, and kept calling him MRS. Spector all night. An hour later, the 6 foot tall gold digger finds all 5'4" of Spector attractive enough to go home with him. Nobody deserves to get shot in the mouth. I'm just saying.

What if he GETS OFF?!! I'll slash my face with razor blades. O.J., Jacko, Robert Blake. They all skated. Who am I forgetting? Oh! Captain Kirk. He comes home and "finds his wife floating in the pool." It that's not murder, what is? They didn't even investigate. Beam me up, Scottie.

I should address the harsh and vicious treatment these darling Hollywood starlets are getting for partying a little bit. Brittany, Lindsay, Paris, Lionel Ritchie's daughter who looks white. These poor girls are under a cruel microscope. They weigh 90lbs, their tolerance is ZILCH, what should we expect? The cops were all over Lindsay Lohan's butt for driving the wrong way down the expressway. Who hasn't done that? I drove across the Ambassador Bridge to Canada on the wrong side of the road, all these cars honking and swerving; we were peeing our pants laughing. But I didn't have the paparrazzi after me. And poor, poor bald-head Brittany, in trouble for giving her kids Doritos and soda. Kids are atrocious brats. If she cooked them a chicken dinner, they'd cry and shove it away. Why shouldn't she toss handfuls of Doritos on the ground? I wish them all well.

Don't miss a day of the Poison Spur. You want to be able to say you read it "back in the day", besides Dave may be writing from a clock tower with a sniper rifle by his side soon, you never know. Champagne wishes and caviar dreams, or the cash equivalent!

The Ointment in Hollywood's Fly,
meat

It was perhaps unsporting of me in my last post to lampoon the appalling of writing in other people's Usenet posts. Not only that, it was an egregious case of throwing stones in glass houses. Back then, when I was arguably still young and undeniably immature, I fancied myself a poet and posted my stuff on the net.

If anyone is inclined to blackmail me, they don't have to have gotten a hold of that photo of me jumping naked out of a cake at Pablo Escobar's bachelor party (which isn't even all that damning because I had a cute butt back then). They need only do a newsgroup-archive search on Google to find poetry of mine that would make a Vogon blush. Can't this information be sealed in the interests of national security?

Actually, there was poem I wrote back then that isn't completely worthless. I think the reason it turned out to be something other than complete drivel was the subject matter. For once, I decided to shift focus away from my usual existential "woe is me" crap that plagued my other work.

Much of the credit goes to my friend Kirk for this. We were hanging out talking one night, up late after ingesting large amounts of...uh...caffeine, yeah, that's it. He told me of a news story he read about a young girl who died on a merry-go-round.

What happened was that a poisonous snake had crawled inside one of the wooden horses before it was crated and shipped. When the horse was attached to the carousel, the snake was still inside. The girl got on and the ride started. The snake, irritated by all the commotion, decided to register a complaint in her exposed leg. The girl called out to her father, claiming the horse was biting her. The father, realizing that children are frequently full of shit, decided to ignore her. The ride ended and she fell over dead.

How awfully tragic. How delectably Freudian. Here was a poem that was just dying to be written. Enjoy:


The Biting Horse
"The horse keeps biting me Daddy," she cried
As the carousel went around and around
Her father just waved as the horses swept by
As he heard her call out, he made this reply
"Hush yourself girl; try enjoying the ride."
"But the horse keeps biting me Daddy," she cried

And the horse that she rode went up and went down
Where inside lay snakes in the hollowed-out wood.
The motion upset them and they struck where they could
"The horse keeps biting me Daddy," she cried
"Wooden horses can't bite," so her pleas were denied

And after that, she made not a sound
But the serpents kept biting and tears filled her eyes
As poisonous fangs penetrated her thighs
Darkness consumed her from a numbness inside
As she felt the horse biting on that horrible ride

When the ride stopped, she slid to the ground
Her father ran to her and knelt on the floor
The poor little girl was breathing no more
The words haunt his life from the day that she died
"The horse keeps biting me Daddy," she cried.

The year is 1991. Halfway around the world, the shores of Kuwait are in flames, but you don't care. The boss has gone for the day, leaving you to kick back in your cubicle listening to the cool sounds of Deee-Lite on your Sony Discman. You decide to put your xterm to better use than generating huge financial reports on greenbar that no one will ever read. Your favorite newsgroup, alt.sex.stories, beckons you. Yeah, baby. When it comes to a good read, this is the shit.

Passing Ships Not Forgotten

I met her at the art museum. She looked a lot like Meg Ryan so I therefore thought she was hot. She was looking at a drawing by George Grosz that showed how Weimar-era Berlin was bad. She ran her hand between her legs and moaned.

"That's Grosz," I said.

That made her look sad. She must have thought my comment insulted her mating dance. This was not true. I bet it got her lots of action at frat parties and biker bars and it was beginning to work on me.

"That's George Grosz," I clarified. "There is a lot of passion in his work but not as much as I have for you."

"Really?" she said.

"Yes," I said. "I would like to take you home and stick my large man meat into your tight fish hole."

She said yes because I know a lot about art.

After foreplay, we had sex and it was hot. While we went at it, I licked her face and whispered "give it up, baby" into her ear. Her hot legs wrapped around my waist and held me tight.

"Careful, baby," I said. "If you squeeze me too hard, you will make me fart."

She laughed at this while she had one of her many orgasms.

I'm going to turn 45 on Saturday. Looking back on my four and a half decades, I'd sum up my life as at least a partial success. My lack of accomplishments is offset by my lack of a prison record and I've even managed to have some fun during the journey. I can claim to be self-actualized, at least in a Zaphod Beeblebrox sort of way.

And let's not forget that life isn't over. No doctors have told me that I have six months to live and I intend on keeping it that way by avoiding them whenever possible. However, if I see a physician bust out his prescription pad and shout "who wants to party?" I might be persuaded to soften my position on the matter.

Anyway, I'm going to celebrate having lasted this long at the Argus Lounge on Saturday, August 25, starting at 8 pm. I have already invited a bunch of my my friends and would like to extend that invitation to you, my cherished readers. So if you're in the neighborhood and feel like stopping in to say hello to the guy responsible for Poison Spur, please do. You'll make this attention slut very happy.

Poison Spur officially endorses Mike Gravel for president in 2008.

Sorry all you Clinton, Obama, and Edwards supporters. I'm sure one of these front runners will get the nomination and I'll vote for him or her next November. Or to be more precise, I'll vote against the Republican nominee, whichever jingoistic dipshit gets the nod. Go Dems, yay team, and all that.

In the primaries, I'll have the option of voting my conscience. In my case, that means Mike Gravel. He's progressive but not a statist weenie like Dennis Kucinich. He wants us out of Iraq and unlike the current Democrats in congress, isn't content to open cans of wuss ass with non-binding resolutions. He called Hillary Clinton on her shit over her contemptible states-rights stand on gay marriage. His disdain for the War on Drugs weighs in just to the right of lighting my bong for me.

Oh, and I forgot to mention he filibustered to get our troops out of Vietnam and read the Pentagon Papers into the Congressional Record. How fucking cool is that?

This is not to say I agree with him about everything. His call for universal health-care vouchers is well intended but begs the question of how we're going to pay for it and he's more protectionist than I am when it comes to immigrant labor. That's OK. Under President Mike, I can still own a gun if I own a license and have completed my "don't shoot your foot off" training.

The best thing about supporting Mike Gravel though is that I will never be called to task for it. He's way behind in the polls and his candor will keep him there. And even if he miraculously wins both in the primaries and the general election, he'll be 78 years old by Inauguration Day and therefore about as dangerous as Grandpa trying to swing that hammer in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2.

On Monday, August 27, Poison Spur's readers will be treated to a guest blogger. I have no idea what her real name is and frankly, I don't care because:

• she can write.
• if my muse suffers alcohol poisoning after my birthday party on Saturday, she will be there to pick up the slack.

So who is this mysterious person? Well, she goes by the handle "Meatmarket" and lives somewhere in the wilds of Michigan where auto plant closures make it easier to hear the crackle of Ted Nugent's small-arms fire off in the distance. If she cares to share any other personal data, that's up to her.

Welcome aboard, Meat. Glad to have you on the team.

I thought my Spanish was pretty good. I made no claim of fluency but believed I could get by should the need arise. I did OK years ago in Bolivia and Guatemala, after all.

I was disabused of that notion this morning when trying to communicate with my house cleaner. Betty took the day off and was still sacked out so I asked if the bedroom could be cleaned last. I remembered the Spanish word for "last" is último and assumed the rest would be easy. It wasn't. I wanted to tell her that Betty was almost finished sleeping. For "almost," I used the word bijna, which is correct if you happen to be speaking Dutch (another language I suck at).

It wasn't long before I resorted to monkey-boy pantomime while she nodded politely and then continued doing what she had planned on from the get go.

If I were of a nativist bent, I suppose I could get all huffy that she hasn't leaned English. She probably should learn English, but more for her sake than mine. Then again, if she did, she would be able to tell me exactly what she thinks of cleaning my pigsty of an apartment.

I therefore support a multilingual America, especially when it means I don't have to hear about how my bathroom is as filthy as a Tijuana bus station's, how half-eaten Chinese food should go in the fridge or the trash, and how the boxer shorts strewn across my bedroom floor crackle like bubble wrap when you give them a twist.

I have an excuse for my meager offering yesterday. I sat in a dentist chair for three hours. That can take its toll on one's muse, not to mention the available credit on one's Visa card.

I thought I was through the worst of it. Really I did. During my last visit, I had a syringe jabbed directly into the pulp of my molar during a root canal. When it was all over, the nerve was gone. I assumed what was left of my tooth was in a persistent vegetative state.

I was wrong. You see, there are a lot of nerves in that part of the lower jaw, all of them drama queens. When the dentist went in for round two, they sang out in a four-part harmony of pain.

My dentist has a method for a patient communicating when the discomfort level gets too high. You raise your hand. This makes perfect sense since you can't adequate voice your concerns with a hand shoved down your mouth.

However, if the dentist doesn't notice or chooses not to, this method is far from perfect. In my case, he just kept on drilling while my arm went up and down so many times I felt like an extra in Triumph of the Will.

Maybe I should just let my teeth rot and move to England. A jack o' lantern smile carries little social stigma there and when flashed at prospective employers or immigration officials, is accepted as proof of citizenship.

Despite a dry evening last night and waking up early this morning, life got in the way of my blogging today. I apologize for that. Fear not. By this time tomorrow, Poison Spur will once again provide the sort of rib-tickling goodness you've come to expect.

In the meantime, try hitting someone over the head with a pig's bladder. The level of humor is about the same.

You simply can't afford to do both.

I was sitting at the Argus, talking with a friend on Saturday night. A TV ad caught his attention.

"539 bucks a month? What the fuck?" he said.

That's how much, according to the commercial, it cost to lease a high-end SUV. It dawned on me that this about the same amount as my monthly bar tab. It was a sobering thought. Well, it would have been if I hadn't already downed three whiskeys.

Tonight I'm going to go home directly after work and stay there. There are plenty of unread and partially read books in my apartment. There are still leftovers from last night's Chinese food delivery. There are smutty websites I haven't check out yet (not to mention those that merit a second visit).

I can be a homebody for one night. Maybe I'll even like it. Doubtful, but maybe.

I recently found out about MyDeathSpace.com and out of morbid curiosity, went to visit the site. I was expecting something assholish and tasteless, including commentary like "What a dumbass. His car hit a tree. Har dee har har." Fortunately, this wasn't the case. Other than the Tim Burtonesque skull at the top of each page, the tone was somber and respectful.

Perusing the site is quite different from reading the obituaries in a newspaper. For one thing, there are literally thousands of people listed on MyDeathSpace, complete with photos and the cause of death. And like the living members of MySpace, they were almost always younger than I am, the majority ranging from their teens to mid twenties.

The site made me feel both old and lucky.

What held my interest going page through page of the departed was how they died. When old people keel over, it's their legacy that matters, not what did them in. For the young, there are decades of life that are never going to happen and it's natural to wonder why.

Just to be clear, my findings are in no way scientific. I didn't tally causes of death onto a scorecard that I could later use to render pie charts and projections for the next fiscal quarter. I'll leave that for the ghoulish statisticians out there. I'm sure there are plenty of them. I simply browsed and saw what I saw.

There were victims of cancer, congenital heart defects, and a surprising number of deaths from cystic fibrosis. If you want proof that life isn't fair, you need look no further.

Given the age group, it should come as no surprise that lapses in judgment caused a lot of deaths. Accidental drug overdoses, chugging hard alcohol, and driving like a maniac claimed a lot of lives. Most people live through their moments of stupidity. These folks did not.

With the state of the world these days, there are also war fatalities. I personally hate our involvement in Iraq, but still honor these service men and women for their sacrifice. With that honor comes anger. The old and powerful have always started wars so the young and powerless can go die in them. These kids, and a lot of them are just that, lost their lives in the service of their country. Those lives were worth something. Our government, and ultimately ourselves, bear the responsibility of taking them away. It better be for a damn good reason.

Even more senseless were all the people on the site who died by murder or suicide. I must have led a sheltered life when I was young because when arguments and fights broke out, nobody pulled a gun. Am I missing something? Since when did owing someone money for drugs or staring at his girlfriend's butt become grounds for justifiable homicide?

This is not to say that those who took their own lives were any wiser in their motives. Getting dumped by lovers or experiencing financial troubles were reason enough to eat a bullet. One poor, misguided kid of 14 actually killed himself because his iPod was stolen. I'm sure if his parents knew beforehand, they would have gladly given him another iPod. Or better yet, a set of priorities.

Betty's ex-boyfriend Jimmy was killed in a motorcycle accident Saturday shortly after leaving her house. Though they ceased being a couple some time ago, they remained close friends. She was devastated when she heard the news and has been in mourning since then.

Grieving the loss of a loved one is never easy and you take whatever comforts you can to ease the pain along the way. Betty is Jewish so sitting shiva, at least to the extent she can given practical necessities, can help. Faced with this kind of tragedy that is so maddeningly pointless, you can find yourself so sad and confused you're not sure what to do or even think. I'm glad there is some sort of cultural tradition and ritual that can cut down on the confusion, even if it does nothing to diminish the sadness.

She asked me how I dealt with bereavement. I told her I went out and drank myself stupid. She said that wouldn't work for her. I can hardly blame her. It never worked for me either.

I have to interview some guy at four this afternoon. Other than that, there's not much to do but read a Ruby on Rails book and wait for the shortcomings of my most recent code to be discovered by QA.

I was planning on posting something to this blog with some actual substance to it. I have a topic but lack the presence of mind to give it the attention it deserves. Tomorrow morning early, I'll get back to it instead of watching some YouTube bullshit.

But thank goodness for life's little distractions. I'm on a mailing list with a lot of my boozer friends, past and present. Chili, one of the old crew who years ago traded in daily hangovers for respectable married life, announced that he was planning a one-night lapse to his old wicked ways. There was some debate over the choice of venue and as often happens on this list, the thread got hijacked and we started discussing something really unsavory.

Today's unsavory topic happened to be peeling the skin off girls, and I approve of that. Not the act, mind you, but enjoying subject matter that is an anathema to the corporate world I work in. It's the kind of thing that makes me want to sing. Despite a decent knowledge of punk-rock lyrics, no tune came to mind so I borrowed one from Peter Frampton and tweaked the words a bit:

I woke up this morning with a fine lass in my bed
Ooh fine, how fine
What the hell, I'll be Ed Gein
Must've been a dream, can't believe I went there
Come on, let's upholster a chair

Do you...you, peel like I do...

Ah, I feel better already

Buddy, rest his soul, was one cool cat. Missing a leg, he turned his attentions to life's less strenuous pursuits. He ate. He purred. He stuck his nose in the ear or butt of any man or beast who would tolerate it. He considered all of creation to be his personal friend. He was a loved and loving member of Betty's household.

A couple of months ago, he died. It was sad, but he was an old guy in cat terms and, at least the latter part of his life, he was happy. He was survived by Betty and the other cat, Kitty.

Kitty mourned, as much as a cat can mourn anything. Of the feline population in the apartment, she was queen and her one loyal subject was gone. She moped about and hissed at empty space. It was hard to sit by and watch so Betty decided to take action.

Enter Buddy Junior, a tiny kitten rescued from a sinking boat at the Marina. Unlike his predecessor, Junior has all four limbs and a lot more energy. Betty and I both think he's cute as a button but Kitty is less impressed.

She growls, hisses, and swipes at him with her paw. He backs up, circles around, and charges her from another direction. She is not amused. He is delighted.

The monarchy is dead. Long live the free world.

You may have noticed that haven't been any blog posts in the past week. I'm sure the speculation over the reason for this runs the gamut from "Dave was too drunk" to "Dave was too incarcerated." Both are reasonable suspicions but in this case, I have a legitimate excuse involving a 17 year-old girl.

No, you sick bastards, it's not what you think. My friend Alex, who hosts this site, had his daughter visit from Florida. The spare bedroom in his house is downstairs, the same place he keeps servers, routers, and other equipment that makes the area about as loud as an airport runway. He had to unplug a few unneeded boxes and move stuff around to bring the decimal level down to where she could actually sleep.

It was a rush job, so there were a few problems. DNS resolution became spotty, rendering site access intermittent, and an either non-functioning or unreachable MySQL DB server made updates impossible.

Fortunately, everything is fixed now. Alex moved my site to a server in an actual data center where computers can be as loud as hell, only disturbing the slumber of people who shouldn't be sleeping on the job anyway.

Thank you, Alex. I owe you yet another drink.