Happy Halloween

Happy Halloween everybody. May you get more treats than tricks.

My Shameful Mistake

In a recent episode of Live Wire I made the assertion that Huckleberry Hound wore a vest. It was part of a bit in which I was promoting “The Oregon Vest Fest,” an event celebrating everybody’s favorite torso adornment. I claimed that Huckleberry Hound chose one article of clothing to wear and it was a vest, believing that celebrity endorsement really said something about vests. Gales of knee-slapping laughter followed the bit, in my memory, and subsequent jokes carried us all down a delightful comedic path and away from the whole notion of Huckleberry Hound in a vest.

That should have been the end of the story…a story I would never have even told because had it really ended there, those to whom the story would have been told might well have asked “That’s it? What the eff kind of story was that?”

Well here’s the tragic twist. A nagging sense of doubt led me to do a little research. It turns out Huckleberry Hound never wore a vest. He wore a bow tie and a straw hat.

Sure, he occasionally wore a costume. One Google image result had him posing as a sheriff, replete with a vest and tin star. But he also wore a Santa outfit, a lion tamer getup and a dress. I don’t know where I got the idea he wore a vest. I couldn’t easily find another vest-wearing cartoon character to blame for the confusion. Yogi Bear? Nope, necktie and a shabby fedora. Quick Draw McGraw? McNaw! Bandana and a 10 gallon hat. His alter ego El Kabong? El no. Zorro hat and cape. Top Cat? Well yeah, but who the hell remembers Top Cat? Nobody. The joke would have tanked.

While I feel terrible, I don’t feel 100% responsible for this situation. The audience validated the whole thing by laughing. As soon as that happened they were all accessories to the crime. None of the other writers caught the mistake in any of our meetings…and they’re usually pretty good about that kind of thing. I once wrote a sketch about a device that would convert stomach gurgles into infotainment voice overs by Pat O’Brien. Courtenay pointed out a very similar device depicted in an old SNL sketch…ouch! Since then I’ve seen similar device ideas on the Simpsons and elsewhere. I actually hope to see more, so I can point to more examples for my “collective unconscious” excus--er, argument. Speaking of Simpsons, the TV must have been on during one of my 11th hour sketch edits because a Nelson Muntz line (temporarily) found its way into the script, word for frickin word. (Hey, Nelson wears a vest! Damn!) Sean caught that one, and I think he looked at my sketches sideways for a while. I don’t blame him.

On each of these occasions I was ashamed and embarrassed. This time is no different. I want to apologize to our fans that still follow this blog…both of you…and I vow to be better in the future.
And I sincerely apologize to Huckleberry Hound’s family who may have been deeply hurt by all of this. He died in Vietnam of course but if I'm not mistaken his wife is still living and I think I heard his kids followed him into show business. H.H. Jr. played Eddie on Frasier and his daughter played the love interest in one of the Air Bud movies. I’m pretty sure.

On the Road with Oregon Bounty and Bad Drivers

Back in August, Kate Sokoloff (Live Wire producer), fellow Faces For Radio Theater member Sean McGrath and I went on a big fat adventure through all seven regions of Oregon.

The trip was a collaboration between Live Wire and our totally-kickass-in-every-way sponsor, Travel Oregon. At each stop, we created a video blog (or vlog) introducing you to brewers, chefs, farmers, ranchers, and even the owner of an old-fashioned flour mill - all people who help create the amazing food, wine and beer that makes living in Oregon so damn tasty.

Greg Robeson, our experienced leader, showed us the way and Sean acted as his co-correspondent, utilizing his extensive journalism experience.* Videos will be up on the Oregon Bounty Website for a week starting September 27th- until then, check out this preview video to see the glory that is Sean McGrath. Oh, and I've posted a few photos as well.

Here are some of the lessons I learned along the way:

1. If someone screams in their sleep, don't go in their room and check on them. Really, what are the odds that they're being murdered? Minuscule.
2. The curry cheese torta from Rising Sun Farms is like crack cocaine for cheese lovers. Holy freakin' heck is that thing GOOD.
3. Sean drives like a person who's not afraid to die.
4. Kate drives like a person who's not afraid to kill everyone else in the car.
5. 100-degree heat turns me into a giant pile of whine with a side of wussy pie.

You can read Greg's Blog here.

Sean ready for a fishing trip in Depoe Bay.


Flowers at Rising Sun Farms.


The Bend sky at dusk.


The well-worn bar at the Rainbow Cafe in Pendleton, est. 1893.

*3 months at the Columbia School of Journalism in Bogata. Unfortunately, Sean doesn't speak Spanish.

This is just...wow.

Holy crap, it's the Maria Bamford Show! To watch all eight hilariously wrong episodes, go here.

The Worst Jobs Ever

1. Richard Simmons' shorts seamstress. (No one sells those anymore. They have to be custom-made. By someone.)

2. Post-St. Patrick's Day Cleanup Crew: Vomit Division.

3. Whoever's in charge of telling George Lucas that his latest script is awesome.

4. President of the United States.*

5. Those guys who die for crab legs.

*This is only a bad job if you didn't pay a lot of attention in school and therefore have difficulty grasping complex ideas and sometimes can't remember the names of all the continents.

This One's For Father Rick

Due to a comment from our one fan, El Padre Rico, lamenting our lack of updates to this blog, Faces for Radio Theater presents:

The Dog Ate My...Something That Would Keep Me From
Being Able to Write a Blog Entry
(a.k.a. The 1st Annual Festival of Excuses)

1.) We've been really busy. Sweeps were just last month, and the damn TV's not gonna watch itself, Rick.

2.) We've lost the capacity to experience joy.

3.) Most of us are Amish now.

4.) The way Bush and Cheney are pissing people off all willy-nilly-like, we're all gonna blow up soon anyway. So what's the point of some pithy blog?

5.) Aunt Flo came to visit.

6.) Also, we got our period.

7.) We were passed out from a tequila binge and our ferret mistook us for dead and chewed off our fingers. Again.

8.) We're out there living life, not sitting in front of a glowing computer screen! Just yesterday we all went to Costco. We got som mayonnaise. (See picture at left)

9.) Do you know there are over 50 million blogs out there? Dag. That's a lot of competition. So, we're thinking of getting into the roofing business or studying the dental arts.

10.) We got stuck on the word blog. Blog. Blog. It doesn't even sound real. Sounds like a sound a muppet might make. Blog blog blog blog blog blog! Then we started doing a muppet sketch and we got distracted. But now we're back. Sorry.

Love,
Faces For Radio Theater

A Rose City Roller by Any Other Name...

In a recent episode of Live Wire we did a little game show type thingy. Our guests were Barfly, Viva Vendetta, Slaybia and several other Roller Girls from the Rose City Rollers. In our game show we asked audience members to compete by telling the real Roller Girl names from a bunch of fake ones. It was a bit of a challenge. The real names, like Intensive Scare, The Harmacist and Scratcher in the Eye, disappeared amongst the fakes like a polar bear in a snowstorm.

Here’s a big old list of our fake Roller Girl handles, for your possible enjoyment.

Rep. Karen Meanness
Gov. Barbara RobHURTS
PortlanD.O.A.
Upper Cut-prial and John
Janet Reno Means No
Ugly Betty Ford
Rachel "Death" Ray
Audrey Hipburn
Gouged Inez
Eva Battle
Junior Misdemeanor
Violent No-Regard
The Vulvarizer
Saucy Rejoinder
Ladybird Flu
Ginger Lee Hurling
Statutory Spelling
Felony Griffith
Poison Grace
Maternity Liv
Paloma Finger
Crazy Astronaut in a Diaper
Jackie the Ripper
Cruella DeWheelz
Gone-o-Rita
Princess Die
Killer Bea Arthur
Stabby Von Killingham
Knee to the Groin
My Little Dead Pony
Hello Hittie!
Mrs. Eloise P. Satan
Shmoopy
Hug It Out, Bitch
Menses Approaches
Paula Bearer
Val Catraz
Perish Hilton
Nicole Bitchie
Va Va Va Gina
EriKaboom!
Assaultin’ Pepper
Aunt Flow
Curbstomp Bettie
Slasher Spice
Holly Hunt 'N Destroy
Moo Goo Guys Suck
Thumbelina in your Eyeball
Hold Me Closer, Necromancer
G. Gordon Lydia

As you can see, there are some gems in there and the best thing to do with a gem is to give it to a special lady. There are a lot of rising stars in Roller Derby, just fixing to take off, and they’re all going to need names. So if any of those special ladies want to grab a handle off our list, that would just be our pleasure. We fear and respect the ladies of the RCR League and hope their continued happiness and future success means the asses they kick will be asses other than our own.

Coming to Gropes with the Past

Live Wire is a not-too-distant descendant of vaudeville and is closely tied to several historic theaters. The beautiful old Hollywood Theater on Sandy was an early venue for the radio variety show and it’s easy to imagine the Hollywood's vaudeville days when you gaze up at that intricate old façade out front. The Aladdin Theater off Powell in SE is the current haunt of Live Wire and while its more notorious past is well known (Deep Throat is mentioned often) the Aladdin was also one of the Rose City’s vaudeville houses.

A less direct tie Live Wire has to another theater steeped in late vaudeville history is with the Rialto Theater in Deer Lodge, MT. That’s because in the early 80’s in the dark, sticky seats down front I copped my first feel. I’m sure more significant and historic events happened there since it opened in 1921, but the clumsy fumbling I achieved that night was sure a milestone for me.

My earliest movie-going experiences were at the Rialto and the same can be said for thousands of Deer Lodge natives. I remember cartoons before the movie and my folks recall the newsreels. When I was a kid you could still see live acts there too, and I remember magicians, hypnotists, concerts and the odd beauty pageant…and if you know the ladies of Deer Lodge you know what I mean by odd.

The Rialto was the cultural center of our little town and in recent years citizens rallied around it, raising money, maintaining, restoring, and improving the theater for generations to come. But tragically late last year it burned down. Compounding that tragic event was the subsequent (unrelated) death of one Jim Gilbert, this old-timer I knew in town who was instrumental in caring for the theater and bringing back a certain measure of its former glory. I can’t think of any other unfortunate event that has united the small town in shock and grief since…well…wars and such.

Maybe it’s because I make my living in theaters, but many of them, especially the old historic ones, seem like hallowed ground to me. There are in fact many churches in theaters and vice versa. I suppose there’s kind of a fine line between the two sometimes. Sure, that doesn’t stop pervy punks like I was from copping feels or sucking face down front, it just makes the worshipful element of the experience a bit more pagan. Understandably I’ve been able to appreciate these old theaters a little better lately. When we perform in the beautiful Aladdin I think of how lucky we are it still stands. Same goes for the Hollywood, Bagdad, Elsinore and other (relatively) ancient old temples of stagecraft and cinema…there’s nothing like them, and when they go, they’re gone. All we have left are memories. I was going to say history, but really, describing these places and our good old fashioned going-to-the-theater experiences is nothing compared to going to the theaters themselves. To flirt with the maudlin: now that it’s burned the people who really know the Rialto are numbered. We’re as finite as the decades of feel-copping, popcorn throwing, seat kicking, noise shushing, slack jawed wonder at the magic of movies and theater.

Now when I perform in the Aladdin or the Hollywood or attend any of the others, I look up a lot; at the chandeliers and ornate decor. I check out the dark and mysterious places backstage. I imagine all the famous and not so famous people who’ve graced the stage, had sex in the dressing rooms or shot up in the john. I try to soak it all up, to memorize it (except for those last things) because someday (maudlin again) it’ll all be gone, and memories like mine will go too, in time.

I’m thankful to be a part of Live Wire, a radio show that somehow brings people to the theater, in an age of cheesily apportioned multiplexes, cable movies on demand and Netflix.

(Incidentally, on the topic of theaters passing on, before the Rialto there was the Orpheum at 517 Main St. I don’t know how it met its demise, but the building still stands and is now the home of DL Auto Supply, my parents’ business. You can still see hints of ornate décor and even the old proscenium back by the storeroom where my dad keeps all the life-size cardboard stand-ups of chicks in bikinis wielding drills and hawking snap-on tools.)

And I’d like to thank that girl upon whom my feel was copped…a red head named Julie I think.

You can see pictures and stories about the Rialto and the fire at http://www.deerlodgerialto.com/index.htm.

True Stories II: Now with even more humiliation.

It's back.

A night of almost completely true tales from five writers (Marc Acito, Chelsea Cain, Stacy Bolt, Courtenay Hameister and Scott Poole) and two musicians (Jim Brunberg and Willy Vlautin of Richmond Fontaine).

Last time these truth-tellers imparted stories of lost love, lost lives and lost lunches. I think the only way to go from there is up.

New additions to the group? Well, there's Mr. Scott Poole (author of Hiding from Salesmen), our favorite poet...pretty much ever. If you've never seen Scott before and you're not a fan of poetry, come to True Stories. See him read. You'll become a fan. He's David Sedaris meets e.e. cummings, but with proper capitalizations and punctuation. Not that you'd be able to hear those last two things.

And we're really excited about the addition this time of Willy Vlautin. Willy's always been known for great storytelling in his songs, but he's just published his first novel, The Motel Life, which will release in the U.S. in April. Just like Jim, Willy be both singing and telling stories.

Last time we played to a sold-out Mississippi Studios and it was a remarkable night, thanks largely to a highly receptive audience. But we can't have that if you don't get your tickets and go. See? It all depends on you. And I don't want to make you feel guilty, but I was hoping it would go really well, so...yeah. No pressure.

Info: True Stories II, Wednesday, January 31 at 7 p.m. at Mississippi Studios. Tickets are $8 in advance and $10 at the door. You can get them here. Hope to see you there!

Space Talk From Dimension Eugene

Not much to say about this, except WOW. If you're not a Eugene Mirman fan, you'll hate this. If you are, it's a delicious nugget of Wrong.

WARNING: NSFW - LOTS 'O' F BOMBS BEING DROPPED.

The Recipe from "Regrecipes": Chocolate Peanut Butter Balls

Ah, yes. The Balls.

If you attended Live Wire's December 14th taping at the Aladdin Theater, you were there to see my mother, the charming and fabulous Sally, take great joy in giving me the what-for in front of 500 people.

That's her above, laughing uproariously after zinging the crap out of me. Watch out, kids! If you don't clean your room, then when you're (ostensibly) a grown-up, your mother might show up on the radio variety show you host and, in the sweetest of ways, tear you a new one. (To mom's right is Shelley Besemann, a therapist, who offered some really helpful advice for surviving the holidays, including multi-purpose one-liners such as, "I love you too much to talk about that right now.")

Anyhoodily doodily, regardless of the destruction that happened in the making of them, these balls are the best thing you'll put in your mouth all year.

Chocolate Peanut Butter Balls (a.k.a. Buckeyes), courtesy of Sally Hameister

MIX WITH HANDS:
3 cups Rice Krispies
1 stick of butter or margerine (very soft)
1 box (2 cups) confectioner's sugar
2 cups chunky peanut butter

After mixed, chill for one hour. Take out of refrigerator and roll mixture into 1-inch balls. Chill for one more hour.

MELT IN DOUBLE BOILER:
1 large Hershey bar (the BIG one - 8 0z.)
1 6 oz. bag of bittersweet chocolate chips
1/4 to 1/2 bar household paraffin*

Take a spoon and drop balls into above mixture until fully coated and place on wax paper. Refrigerate until set, and serve. Not necessary to keep cookies refrigerated, but recommended.

*Yes, it's wax. It sounds weird, but it keeps the chocolate from melting in your hand. You've eaten wax before, really. It's fine.



Enjoy the balls. And enjoy the back of Sally's Christmas sweater. See how there's real stockings that hang off that thing? This is a woman who loves Christmas.

Thanks, Mom, for zinging me when I needed be zinged. And thanks for making every Christmas in our house the world's largest, tinsel-iest, chocolate-covered-ball of happy holiday cheer. We were the luckiest kids ever.

Musings

Possible names for my first child

Zippy

Cha Cha Cha Charles

Bulgur

Mr. Greenjeans

Fugly

Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini

Tapioca Puddin’ Head

Urinary Tract Infection

Punny McKnock Knock

Drapery

Thomas



People or things I would trust to run the country at this point

My dentist

Pamela Anderson

That guy who seems to know everything about meat at New Seasons

Tommy Lee

Bacteria

Anyone from Motley Crue

Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini

My cat

Dick Cheney’s assistant’s mother

The devil



Titles for a film about my life

Yawny Yawn Yawn Yawn

What’s the Point?

Carrie

The Girl Who Never Cleaned the Catbox

That One Movie About The Woman Who Seemed Like She Would Never Amount To Anything, but Then Sort of Seemed Like She Might Amount to Something For a Minute, then Went Back to Probably Not Amounting to Anything But Now It Was Slightly More Tragic Because You Had Hope For a Minute

Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini

Who becomes a legend most?

Classy dudes, that’s who.

When our Technical Producer, Jim Brunberg, suggested Dave Frishberg as a musical guest for Live Wire, it was daunting. Terrifying, even. He’s got the word “legend” attached to him. And rightly so. He’s Cole Porter-esque. He’s Woody Allen with a piano. He’s Dave Frickin’ Frishberg.

But we worked through that fear, and decided that as long as we had the man who wrote “I’m Just a Bill,” why not write some Schoolhouse Rock songs for a new millennium? And why not ask Dave to accompany us on one of them? Oh, but he’d never do that, right? He’s all important and stuff so there’s no way he’d...HOLY CRAP HE’S GONNA DO IT!!

And he did. And you should listen to the show on OPB on Saturday night to hear how it all came out. Tyler Hughs and Ralph Huntley wrote some stellar lyrics (and like the girl in the Shake ‘n’ Bake commercial, I helped). Ralph—whose skills as a sketch writer, songwriter, Faces For Radio Theater member and house band leader makes us think he might be an alien from The Planet of the Overextended Creative Types—learned a squillion Schoolhouse Rock songs in a couple minutes, and the whole thing was pretty cool. From what we understand, it may be the only time Dave Frishberg has ever played “I’m Just a Bill” in front of a live audience. We felt pretty honored to be there to see it. Not to mention his other two songs – the hilarious “Quality Time” and “I Wanna Be a Sideman.” He is one cool cat.

Oh, and if you want to see him in action again, he’ll be one of Susannah Mars’ special guests for Mars on Life: The Holiday Edition on December 16th at Artist’s Rep.

Peace on earth? Oh, screw that.

On Monday afternoon, I got an email with an intriguing subject line. It asked the question, “Is Pagosa Springs anti-peace?”

Pagosa Springs is a rather conservative town of about 1700 people in the southern mountains of Colorado. I lived there nine years ago, right before moving to the lefty, pinko, neverending- carnival-of-hedonism that is Portland, Oregon. The email, sent by fellow Portland hedonist Pat Janowski, included a link to a story: a couple in Pagosa Springs had been asked by their homeowners’ association to take down their Christmas wreath. Why? Because the wreath was shaped like a peace sign.

Some residents saw the wreath as anti-war. Bob Kearns, the president of the Homeowners’ Association said, "The peace sign has a lot of negativity associated with it. It's also an anti-Christ sign. That's how it started."

The peace sign was actually created in 1958 by British designer Gerald Holtom for a nuclear disarmament protest, but that’s not really the point. The point is: divisiveness. A divisiveness now so ingrained in our culture, that a wish for “Peace on Earth” at Christmastime is a trigger for partisan bickering. A wish for peace is anti-troops, and even anti-Christ. Divisiveness has deemed a Christmas wreath…anti-Christmas.

Perhaps it’s time we looked at some other traditional holiday sentiments, like what about these “Good will toward men” people? How would supporters of this decidedly sexist sentiment feel if I walked around during the holidays greeting women with a slap on the face and a kick in the ass? I doubt it would bother them, they’re clearly women-haters.

And what of the proponents of “Happy Holidays”? What are they trying to say to the 17 million Americans who suffer from depression? Are they trying to rub it in? Because that’s just mean.

And don’t even get me started on “Joy to the World.”

I’m actually grateful to Mr. Kearns, the future former president of the Loma Linda Homeowners' Association. He’s taught me a lesson about perspective, and what the lack of it can cause a person to do. In this case, lack of perspective and blind loyalty to his side of an ongoing, underlying cultural war caused him to do something I’m sure he never dreamed he’d do: to fight against peace.

And now, after a healthy dose of perspective from CNN, The New York Times, and...well, the whole country, he came to his senses and dropped the Case of the Anti-Christmas Wreath.

Peace has returned to Pagosa Springs. And not a moment too soon, because the holidays are just around the corner, and no one wants to be at war during the holidays, right?

Photo courtesy of Randi Pierce, Durango Herald.

A Shocking Thanksgiving

November 22,1979 is the Thanksgiving I'll never forget. My family was spending the week in a hotel at Willow Beach on Lake Mojave. Stupid names, because Willow Beach is a small hotel, campground, boat ramp and bait shop, there is no beach and Lake Mojave is part of the Colorado River. How the Hell can you have a lake in the middle of a river?

I was a freshman in high school and had just turned fourteen. My family at the time consisted of my Mom, my stepfather Ed and my stepbrother Bill, who was the same age as me. Ed decided we should spend the Week of Thanksgiving water-skiing, so off we went to Willow Beach.

Ed's brother Carl and his family also came along for the trip. Carl had two incredibly hot daughters around my age. Bill, and I had many a discussion about how it would be OK if I made out with one of them because we weren't really related. The Lords of teen lust blessed Bill and I even more that week, Carl's two hot daughters each brought a hot friend.

Consequently I became an extraordinary water-skier that week. The only way my hormone filled teen body could keep from getting a boner around four girls in bikinis was to get into the freezing cold river. Every time the boat stopped I was in the water ready to ski. The rest of the time I sat at the back of the boat wearing my mirrored sunglasses with a life vest on my lap.

I didn't think I had a great shot at making out with one of the hot girls, I wasn't the best looking kid around, but I was on the football team. I sat on the bench for two games then broke my finger in practice and never played a down, but they still gave me a Letter! I had a good sense of humor, I knew a lot of dirty jokes and I had great hair. My hair feathered like a Tiger Beat cover model, like Parker Stevenson, as if the Fairy Queen of the seventies had drifted down from the clouds and blew perfect hair plus twenty on my head.

Thanksgiving day arrived. I was getting ready for the big night and had just stepped out of the shower. I put on my best jeans and favorite shirt. (Property of Saugus Football, 1979.) I gazed in the mirror thinking how good I was going to look after I feathered my hair. I plugged in the blow dryer and turned it on. Unfortunately for me I was standing in a puddle of water and there was a small crack in the cord of the blow dryer. When I turned the damn thing on the electricity raced through the cord, but instead of powering the blow dryer, it shot out the cracked cord and hit me on the right side of the stomach like a bolt of lightning. A bolt of lightning that lasted for six seconds. The arc of electricity that hit me must have been a foot long. The lights flickered, the outlet blew and I was thrown to the floor. I got up shaking. There was a hole the size of a silver dollar in my shirt with black smoke rising from it and my skin was bright red.

The night got worse from there. I had ruined my favorite shirt, my hair wouldn't feather without the blow dryer. Without my favorite shirt and perfect hair I had no confidence. The tremendous shock had also upset my stomach so I couldn't eat. I was afraid to tell my mother what happened and she got mad because I wasn't eating. Then she embarrassed me in front of everyone by sending me to bed. I didn't make out with any girls on that Thanksgiving.

What's even weirder about this story is that three months later hair started to grow on the spot where I was shocked and to this very day I have a hair patch on the right side of my stomach.

(Click on the image to see more hairy detail.)

The hair patch isn’t so bad. What really sucks, is now I like getting shocked. Carpet static is like foreplay, I always test 9-volt batteries with my tongue (even when they're new), and I secretly hope that someday I'll be struck by lightning. Worst of all though, is I just can’t eat on Thanksgiving without giving myself a good jolt of electricity first.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody, and don't panic if your lights start to flicker. It's just me getting ready for the big meal.

Either way, they pee themselves.

In a recent episode of Live Wire, Courtenay asked guest scaremeister Baron Von Goolo which was more satisfying: making people laugh or making them scared. For his answer you’ll have to go back in time and listen in, or go to iTunes and download the show. In the mean time I will satisfy you, readers, with my answer, though nobody asked me. I found Courtenay’s question strikingly evocative. As a performer I find both acts very satisfying and strangely similar. I’m reminded of a story…

Years ago I made a sizable portion of my impoverished thespian’s income by dressing up in animal costumes and entertaining kids and adults at various events That’s a whole other blog, which I’ll get to soon enough, and hopefully before Jonpaul thinks to do the same because I know very well that he did his plushy/furry turn as well.

One gig that stands out as pertinent was called “A Walk on the Wild Side” and was a fundraiser for the zoo or walking or the wilderness or something. I was hired (along with Jonpaul, coincidentally, and his old girlfriend who won’t be mentioned again because she was evil, stupid and boring) to dress as an animal and entertain participants as they walked along a secluded trail in Washington Park. The event organizers threw us into a van along with three furry costumes: a lovable tiger, a laughable lion and a horrible gorilla. I got the gorilla. It was as scary as the lion and tiger were not…which they were not…and that’s scary! It had red-lidded eyes and ghastly flared orifices and ragged looking fangs. It smelled pretty scary too.

They dropped me off along the trail somewhere with the instructions to hide in the bushes and pop out and ooga booga when wild-side-walkers passed by. That’s it. It was one of the greatest gigs of my life.

I remember sitting alone in the bushes on that sunny afternoon, birds singing and butterflies quietly fluttering by. I thought to myself, as I often did in that line of work, what the hell am I doing? How did I get here? What has become of my career? Then the first gaggle of walkers approached. I’m sure there was a good cross section of society involved, but all I recall are middle aged women. So, the first knot of middle aged women walked by, obliviously laughing and chatting as I suddenly leapt from hiding with a horrific human scream. This scream begat screams which begat more screams which begat my own deafening laughter inside that smelly rubber and fake fur head.

Women scattered up and down and off the trail. It was sick and cruel and beautiful. Had it been Halloween or even dark outside they might have been at least subconsciously prepared. But they had no clue. For all they knew I was a deranged hairy transient, rabid dog or Bigfoot. Regardless, I’d been given a license to terrorize and was just doing my job.

That same scene replayed itself again and again for hours as clueless victims wandered into my thicket of fear. Sometimes people would laugh or even stop to snap a photo. But mostly it was a lot of screams, fear and anger. It never got old and it was immensely satisfying. The peak of enjoyment came when by twist of fate my high school vice principal walked into my trap. She was as big a pants-wetting rube as the rest. I wanted so much to tell her it was me, and that now we were even for that whole Saturday school thing. But I didn’t. And I’m glad.

Time flew by and before I knew it the van had returned to take me away from my wooded parlour of panic.

It turned out my fellow manimals hadn’t had such a great time. Their plush and huggable outfits were more conducive to cute photo-ops with runny-nosed toddlers and some minor babysitting by the porta-potties.

Incidentally Jonpaul did get a little taste of my experience that day. A young child was inconsolably traumatized by the sight of Jonpaul’s face peeking out the lion’s mouth, as if the beast were in the act of swallowing him. That was pretty cool.

So, I’d rank them thusly: 1. Making them scream 2. Making them laugh.

Okay, I’ll tell you (but you still have to listen to the show). Baron Von Goolo said his favorite thing is to first make them laugh, then, when they are disarmed and vulnerable, make them soil themselves. That bastard is sicker than I am.

Mission Accomplished

It’s confession time.

The family had gone to sleep. I was still up, alone and feeling curious. I found myself at the computer with a crazy desire to explore. My mind wandered along with my fingers, and I’m a little embarrassed to admit…I googled myself again. I guess I just can’t stop. I know it’s supposedly a natural thing to want to do, and I’m not the only one doing it, but still, it feels kind of naughty.

But you know what readers? I’m glad I did it, because I discovered something! The number one result of my googling is my first “Hello Internets!” blog entry! Mission accomplished! And when I say mission accomplished, I mean it!

I’ve come a long way in the land of the Googles and I owe it all to this blog. I want to thank everyone involved and apologize for claiming the whole enterprise was “a masturbatory waste of my time and talents.” I regret those comments, except for the masturbatory part, because it brings this humble blog entry full circle, back to its first paragraph and teasing set of images, all wrapped up tight and ready to post. Another success!

Now I’m going to look at internet porn and touch my privates.

Zing!

True Stories up on Powells.com!

Want to hear all the audio from the night Jonpaul McLellan called "A triumph..."? The night my mom called, "completely humiliating"? The night some guy in audience called, "Show us your tits!"?

Well, it's all up at the Powell's bookcast!

One warning - okay, three:
1) Again - at the very beginning of the very first piece..a swear word. The big one. El Cursola Grande.
2) You will learn more about feminine hygiene than you ever, EVER wanted to know from Chelsea Cain. And yet you will be tranfixed. How will it all end? You'll just have to keep listening to find out!
3) Don't eat anything before listening to Kristin Hersh's story.

Heed those warnings, and you'll be fine.

More hot costumes filled with...the hotness.

In response to my...we'll call it a rant, Live Wire's essayist extraordinaire Stacy Bolt sent me a link to this lovely piece 'o' bidness. It is very very funny to me.

Warning: not work friendly due to extensive use of El "F" word. (Which also makes it not computer-in-the-nursery friendly, Catholic seminary friendly or checking-out-the-internets-with-your-gammy friendly.)

Trick or treat, indeed.

Okay, so I have a question. WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO HALLOWEEN? When, exactly, did costume shops start stocking women's outfits straight off the set of Ron Jeremy's "Night of 1,000 Skank Hos"? Not that I have anything against sexy women. Sexy women rule. Sexy women are fun. Sexy women can get almost anything they want from men. Well, straight men. Gay men just tend to want to borrow their shoes.

The thing is, I want Halloween to go back to the way it was. Back to women in hobo costumes with their teeth blacked out. Women dressed as pumpkins. Or witches. I mean, REAL witches, with long black robes and green faces and bigass, ugly warts. Not THIS kind of witch:



This kind of witch can't cast a spell on anyone. She's too busy checking the seam on her fishnets and re-applying her strawberry-scented lip gloss. And this witch won't scare me, except if she uses my toilet. In that case, I'm disinfecting. You just never know.

But it doesn't stop at witches. It seems all women's costumes have been infected with the Sex Kitten Virus. (Think bird flu, but with less coughing and more cleavage.) Walking around a Halloween party circa 2006, you'll be surrounded by women whose clothing has rendered them all but completely ineffectual in their chosen profession.


"Nurse, can you hand me the...holy shmolies!!!!"


Imagine. She's standing on a beam on the 32nd floor, drilling in rivets. But the team on the 31st floor? Completely worthless, due to two things: one, they're all totally entranced by the full-on, all-day crotch shot. (Who wouldn't be?) And two, they're all slightly disturbed by the sexual ambiguity of being attracted to a woman with a drill.


"Slide! Slide! Sl...oh crap. That's gonna leave a mark."


First real fire? Third degree burns. Pretty much everywhere.


This one's my favorite. It's a cheerleader for death! Especially popular in cancer wards.

Listen, I understand that there are few opportunities for most women to dress like strippers (unless they are strippers - then they're endless!), but can we leave Halloween alone? Do we, as woman, want to start dreading Halloween like we do swimsuit season - dieting and exercising like crazy so our "Supreme Court Justice With a Whip" costume (Now, with mini-robe and thigh-highs!), will knock 'em dead at the church Halloween Bazaar?

No. We don't. So please. Let's have one freakin' day where the pressure to be pretty is lifted. Halloween should be scary and fun and free of low-self-esteem attacks caused by size 0 women in plasticene nurses costumes that are definitely NOT sanitized for your protection.

C'mon, people! Say it with me now: Keep Halloween Ugly!