So enough fluffing about, we really have to just press on through and put this one to bed, I am starting to have the Morrissey shakes.  I can feel it creeping in.  So let’s just put our heads down, keep chatting to a minimum, and I promise we’ll have this gig reviewed and out of here in no time.  

Look, I'm not saying they shouldn't keep writing. It's just that I didn't hear anything last night that is going to make me jump out and get their album. And to be fair, the lead singer and the drummer seemed pretty good together. I think the guitarist was also more good than not, but the bass and keys were not really well utilized and I am not saying they have to be, but the songs just weren't there and so you have to wonder if you are hearing a sound that is alright, but nothing new or seemingly special, and you see this bass and keys and you're listening to the track and you are like, what are they playing, what is their function and you realize that you kinda can't make out those sections very often, well you see where I am going with this. You band is more than the sum of its parts. Otherwise you are either an eutorage or a nuisance. Take your pick, I'm not bothered either way, I just need you to step aside so I can pay attention.

For those of you too tired to read review here is the quick cliff note review:  [Moz]+[Kansas City + Boredom]=[Doing things you are going to regret all the next day, even when you are suppose to be on stage performing] . . .(click more for the full version)

Okay, so thank you for clicking more.  It’s nice to know your utter curiousity about how actually insane I really am trumps anything else that you should be doing, laundry, watching daily show clips you got sent at work today, clean out the cat box, clean out the spare room, you know, life stuff.  It strange, this medium.  On the one hand you are completely portable and free to be read everywhere, but that depends on you leaving for somewhere.  I always like to think of people reading my stories or emails at some faraway locale, perhaps sipping a cocktail on a sunny shoreline somewhere near Malibu, or maybe in a park, under the pin oaks, drinking a smoothie from the student union food court and lazily wasting all her spare laptop battery so that tonight when she needs to do her paper she will reach for her plug in her laptop bag only to discover she has inadvertently left it at her boyfriend’s dorm room and now has the unsavory choice of driving all the way back to campus to retrieve it or just using the parents computer downstairs.  Reluctantly, she goes into the den, ignoring the piles of paper from her father’s import/export business and the fishing tackle boxes after fishing tackle boxes of glass bead and charms that her mother insists is just a “hobby” when clearly she means “addiction.”  Yeah, I mean I guess I always pick these images in my brain and clearly this most likely is being read where it was written, either stuck at work or late at night with a cat on your lap.  Still, I think we can all give it up for the college smoothie bar.  Would going 6 hours of lecture without food until you got back home be possible without it?  Me thinks not.  Jamba, you may be just pure fructose and seeds, but I love you still.  And your crazy wheat grass cousin as well.

I know I shouldn't say it, but don't you think Will Ferrell would do an excellent Morrissey if he wanted to. I mean, if Morrissey rose to such heights that the boys at SNL felt he needed to be taken down a peg. Which, with the success of all music vapid with big tits is showing, we probably don't have to ever worry about that, but still. I think it would be funny. I do.

Anyway, so yes.  The show.  Well I can say that the opening act was fair.  They didn’t sound special, but they didn’t embarrass themselves.  I mean not even close, these guys are completely valid and by all means, keep on trucking.  But it did make me wonder what to think of the entire state of music critique when the Guardian gives the Courteeners the album of the year award.  Not that the album is bad, its not.  Really.  But I just didn’t find it, year best.  So then what does that mean?  Am I just not smart or sophisticated a listener?  Or is the Guardian, a newspaper with a readership of millions, really hiring just horribly out of touch reviewers?  I would think the latter is not likely.  Say what you will about the state of criticism in general, you have to at least give newspapers, at least the old timers like the Guardian a bit of a benefit of the doubt, since you know, they do derive a lot of reputation for being taste makers, so they should have some sense of what is good and what isn’t.  At least with broadstrokes.  But sadly, these are the 2 choices I am left with after a thoroughly unremarkable performance.  And sure, people will come and refute me and say they sounded good and poppy and the song were strong.  But I would say they were being fooled by the jangly brit pop sound and not the guts that make the songs run.  That stripped down, the songs just weren’t “there.”

And you know, it can just be as simple as adding a bass line, as opposed to whatever horror show the bassist was playing instead, or maybe just giving some more emotionally connecting songs, something to give the audience pause, to make them care.  And obviously there are more than one way to skin a cat and I don’t doubt a fair number of albums will be sold. I mean they look cute and their stuff is completely inoffensive.  But if they are to have any longevity in America, they are going to need to cut away from the pack and that starts and ends with lyrics.  Its why Morrissey has 5,000 screaming fans in the Midwest singing about Tories and Labour like they know what the fuck their talking about.  It doesn’t matter the subject, it’s about being sincere.  In a way that says you spend more time chasing the demons in your head than on your perfectly sculpted and moosed hair style that goes so smashing with your gray jumper.  Oh and seriously, get the bassist to get a stage personality.  He doesn’t do his playing any favors by hiding behind the keys.

But no matter, they were just the warm up act.  And as such were perfectly fine.  I mean, after the balloon dress girl last time, I was prepared for anything.  I guess if anything I was a bit sad at the blandness of the selection.  I always prefer the eccentric to the staid.  And while these boys had their moments, I forget them.  But they weren’t horrible.  Just boring.  Okay, so moving on, it was then standard Morrissey fare, a bunch of videos of things that give Morrissey hard ons.  Which is not a knock, I think any man who puts his money where his mouth is and writes a book on James Dean gets carte blanche to show pictures of whatever he wants.  And there is no denying his sense of style is pleasing to the eye.  I have always warmed to his sense of deadpan kitsch. 

So then he comes out and the show starts.  Okay, so first, the band are all dressed like navy sailors.  They have navy blue long sleeve shirts that have been rolled up, gray high waisted, flair bottomed navy pants, with black dress shoes.  No belts.  Which is when you start to appreciate the attention to detail that Morrissey puts into his performances.  I mean, you look at all the band, and the set up is perfectly symmetrical, 2 on stage right, the drum kit with huge ass gong, and 2 on stage left, with Morrissey and his mic cord tail whipping away in the center.  And the backdrop of a beefy sailor with his arms in the bicep flexing position.  It was perfectly set up to be just high enough that the top of Morrissey’s head just brushed underneath the armpit.  So when you see everybody except the lead guitarist, who happens to be a little heavier than the others, but not so much so that a belt was necessary.  So the first question you ask yourself is why does he get to wear a belt and none of the others?  Which could be for a variety of reasons, so I reasoned them all out, a tedious task I would not like to subject you to, but suffice to say came up with the most plausible explanation that the rigors of touring had slimmed him down since the start of the tour and his pants were no longer fitting and they didn’t have time to get them taken in on the road.  Or if that wasn’t it, it could just be that he is a little heavy and he probably was like, dude, the fat guy doesn’t go on stage without a belt.  And Morrissey was like, yeah, okay, you win.  But the other boys, you know they had to sign a contract before they came on tour.  And Article 1 was like, you boys best not be wearing anything on stage except the following.  A then it would have a detailed list of their costume.  And you know what.  It is a professional business and these guys showed they were pros.  I mean, the playing was tight, everyone sounded great, the bassist was absolutely stunning.  I mean he is seriously like a cuter Paul Bettany.  And you know, I’m not even gay, so the fact that I would fuck him should at least make you appreciate how much he rocked.  He gave as they say, “great stage.” 

Look, I'm not saying I wanted to see Morrissey in that position. I know it must have been awkward for the kid, I mean you expect to just hand over your cross stich pillow sham and then next thing your living the dream and blowing the Messiah, but hey, curve ball alert, you have to do it in front of 5,000 people. Thank god for the crop tool.

And Morrissey.  Oh Morrissey how thee has aged and yet never looking better.  He seems to have grown into his old age with a calmer, yet still quiet cantankerous demeanor.  Gone is the petty.  Not that there was ever much, but his youthful resistance has given way to calm defiance.  It’s still a joy for him, and that shines through in his playful strutting about during songs and the use of his mic cord to imitate at various times, his tail, his penis, his third arm, his imaginary thought bubble, and I think at one point he even managed to slap his own face all in a manner of a cool, calm entertainer that has been on a lot of stages.  The way he played to the audience was fully engaging to watch, even if I wasn’t taken by the force that he is enough to swoon.  I was the only one.  Everywhere around me, the shrill shrieks of the fan girl and for about 6 songs and the encore a legion of diehard fans found to the bloody death over the carcass of his dress shirt he tossed into the crowd.  We tried moving away from the surge, but as these things are never a perfect science, we somehow ended up right in front of it, so that every few beats there was an 8 person force of pressure aimed squarely in the middle of my shoulders.  I had nowhere to go since there were just people all around me, so I just stood there, bracing against my companion’s back and two total strangers next to me.  It was a kinda bonding moment, me, placing my hands hard on a stranger’s shoulder, stranger, turning around and assessing the situation and the look of sheer panic on my face, allows me to continue to use his shoulder and just pretend to ignore you.  Which is really all you can ask for in the moment, cause the music is playing and people are screaming, so an actual conversation is no good.  But anyway, I digress.  Where were we?  Oh yes, all of this combined for me in a moment of pure zen.  I stared straight ahead at this graying wildebeest of a man and his honest to god expression and it hit me.  Morrissey is the gay Tom Jones.  And while you may debate the style and substance of Tom Jones is nothing like Morrissey, the effect it has on the audience is the same.

So the setlist was good.  It hit all the sweet spots.  And the band was admirable.  And the great thing about the tour was that clearly they were packing heat for a big venue, as I am sure they are bound to do in some bigger city.  And since the Pageant is good sized, but not huge by any means, the light rig was this big fuck off rig that could light the god damn Hollywood Bowl and when you put that in an intimate venue like the Pageant you get such an amazing light display.  I really have to hand it to Morrissey for the great theater he provides.  It is a man who is really at the top of his game.  Even if you can’t get through the lyrics or the sometimes hard to appreciate song structure, his nasally voice, or even the type of fangirl and fanboy he attracts puts you off the bloke, you can’t deny his talent for expressing his vision through music and stage and image and it is an act that looks better now than at any time before.  I kinda get this sense that he is one or two hits away from going to pasture and being lauded to superstar status of even greater acclaim than before.  You get the sense that he is due for a breakout a la U2 that will allow him to enter into rock royalty.  He will get to be knighted, he gets the bbc2 string orchestra treatment for his album, he gets a few blow job reviews from the highest names in the critic business, and we all play there is a light that will never go out at his funeral.  But clearly there is no rush.  He is fine where he is, a man stuck between his youthful indulgences of his past and his sober-eyed heartbreaks of his future.

I think he looks better today than back 2 years ago. Or maybe I'm just really into old guys. You know, this is why you can't trust me. At least not around senior centers.

And so that is what I can tell you.  Overall it was delicious.  Except the shirt tearing part.  Which was a little annoying.  No, it was a lot annoying.  I mean it’s hard to enjoy anything with 8 people pounding on your back.  I said 8 people, that is more than sexy, that is crush your thorax frightening, get your minds out of the gutter.  It was made better by the fact no one got the stupid shirt.  The bouncers came and ripped it away once a bic lighter was gotten out to try and set the shirt on fire.  Because you know, keys aren’t in fashion anymore for makeshift cutting tools anymore.  Jackasses.

Oh and the best part of the night was when Morrissey was feeling all happy for a brief spell and looked out into the audience and saw his adoring fans trying to hand him a 45 single.  And you see Morrissey can’t make out the title since it was in plastic and he has a spotlight on his back which of course makes it hard to read through plastic.  And he bends down and picks it up and is reading it and saying thank you with his mouth at the same time and just then a magic marker pops up from the hands that are all clawing at him and Morrissey’s face just drops to the floor with annoyance that he is holding a record that is not a gift for him, but a request for an autograph.  Oh he is pissed.  As he should.  You go to ebay and it is jackasses selling his signature to fangirls and fanboys for stupid amounts of money and it is not like that money goes anywhere useful.  It’s not saving baby tigers.  It’s probably buying pizza and blow for the loser whose job it is to go to concerts and try and trick celebrities into giving up an autograph.

So Morrissey sees the pen, his face drops, he picks it out of the fan’s hand and reluctantly starts to sign, and the best part is that the person clearly got a new pen from the store so it would have plenty of ink, and clearly hadn’t tested it or opened the cap much because it was stuck on there really hard, and he couldn’t open it up at first.  And as he is struggling, you can tell his face start to turn and its like he is about to throw the whole thing back and be like, fuck you, you can’t even get me a pen that opens, and just as that face starts to get made, the pen opens.  So now he has to sign, but he was starting to make the choice not to, so clearly he is signing it under some duress at this point.  After he is done he hands the record back, caps the pen in a very dramatic fashion and throws it back in a very contemptuous way and really, from that moment on, we lost him.  I mean he is not going to be telling the next audience how amazing St. Louis was.  You just got that feeling like we went out with a girl too pretty for us and we blew it.  Not horribly, but you know, can we really blame him for choosing Chicago over us?  Or New York? Or Austin and every other city that kicks are ass in the cool quotient?  ::sigh::  I am starting to feel all sad now.  I think it’s time for a little Smiths.  They soothe the soul.  Night.

No longer content to sit on the sidelines, Morrissey's Navy has now given up the tour and are now currently patrolling the Gulf of Aden in search of Somalia Pirates

One of the few truly wonderful things about St. Louis is the fact that no one lives here.  It’s like being the only one at Disneyland, except instead of being able to finally realize your childhood dream of making a porno inside the Lincoln Theater, you get really reasonable parking where ever you go.  So let me just say right off the bat, any concert in St. Louis is a good concert.  Even if I’ve just paid $38.50 plus service charge to watch Carrot Top’s nephew, at least I could get a drink without standing in line for 2 hours.  And honest to god, this is not a lie, but I have only had to wait in line for a toilet in St. Louis twice in the entire time I’ve been here.  So after growing up in Los Angeles concert scene, which for a kid in the suburbs meant 30 block parking, huge lines for shitty clubs with shitty bands with no air and never even a place to fucking lean.  Oh man, the Troubadour?  That place is great, a wonderful place.  But you can’t park anywhere around the place cause it’s all residential, so you have to valet, which isn’t so much about the money but the fact that everyone valets and so the line to go home is like, stupid ridiculous.  And of course the Palladium is about the size of a football stadium.  So you are standing in a sea, a vast sea, a multitude of people and just waiting.  Standing.  Not drinking so you don’t have to pee.  Waiting.  For fucking ever.  Cause shit is always running late.  Anyway, the point is that I approach this Morrissey performance from the viewpoint that is blew the fucking doors off the Tea Bag Party they threw outside my office the other day.  You should wait for that.  It will be the entry titled, Reason to Leave St. Louis, #1.  My god those folks looked stupid.  I mean, really stupid.

 I was shocked.  Not that I was expecting a bunch of lawyers and doctors, who you know,  also always vote republican, but the only people coming out to this shindig were like those kids in flower in the attic, all pale and eating arsenic cookies and drinking each other’s blood, you know, not healthy.  These kids needed sun.  They looked like cave dwellers.  And again, I’m not saying all republicans are cave dwellers.  But I am saying, if you’re a cave dweller, you’re gonna be a republican.  And that is cool, they need representation too.  But you know, kinda like how we give D.C. representation.  A seat at the table, but they don’t get a gavel.  Like the Secretary of Veteran Affairs.  You know.  Eric Shinseki? 

Look, Im not saying its anything other than a coicidence, but this guy is born in Hawaii just like Obama. But I want you to ask yourself, honestly, do you put it past Hawaii to try and infiltrate our government? I mean they had to have seen what Alaska did. And sure, she lost, but perhaps that was just too close for comfort. Now they have started making a play to get their share when we go into liquidation. You know you're doomed as a nation when the parts of you that arent attached to you are fighting over your carcass. Seriously, the body isnt even cold yet and they already installing a wave pool in the Rose Garden.

Exactly my point.  You don’t even know who hell he is.  Even though he’s the most awesome cabinet pick of them all, I mean he got his foot maimed from his time in ‘nam.  Which is more than I will ever give for this country.  Not that a maimed foot should get you ahead of the line, but I think if it’s your turn and you’ve got a maimed foot, you can always just play that foot card at board meetings.  Oh yeah, I gave a foot for this place, what have you given Frank?  What, 2 years in the reserves, oh poor Frank, I hope you didn’t have to miss SNL for the one weekend a year you were gone.  And I don’t mean to belittle his stature.  I mean, I know just being in the cabinet is a big deal, you *do* get to talk to the president a lot, that’s cool.  And it’s not like Shinseki is looking to take a lot of responsibility, I mean he has been in the army for like 38 years.  But still, this guy is so awesome.  He was the *only* son of a bitch who stood up to Rumsfield on record and said it was going to take several hundred thousand troops to secure Iraq and he was vilified and beaten back by Rummy and Wolfowitz and was thrown to the wolves at Fox and the right wing hate machine and they tore this guy up and knocked everything he ever did and mocked and ridiculed him until finally, three months into the occupation he retired because he had to get away from the crazys.  So that fact that he, Eric Shinseki, gets to sit in the fucking cabinet and talk to Obama.  That is pretty sweet.  I am happy for that dude.  And who doesn’t think Obama isn’t going to throw the Veterans a bunch of love.  I mean if Obama ends the Drug War there will be a lot, tons, of extra money swilling around the till.  So yeah, Eric Shinseki, that man should be making decisions.  To think that is how our president is choosing cabinet members instead of just giving them to his friends is just so lovely.  Thank god the insanity is over.  Let it never happen again.  Ever.

Anyway, the point is if you needed to make some more tea baggers the formula is quite simple:   crazy+ flowers in the attic= sean hannity or, if you are south of the equator, dracula.  Remeber, their summer is your winter.

Anyway, the real point was the concert.  And can I just say, oh my god, going to concerts in the lou is a treat.  Clean bathrooms, no lines, nice staff, easy access, great views, great air conditioning, cocktail service, always toilet paper and hand towels.  Well I will admit sometimes the Pageant runs out, but really that’s why god invented cocktail napkins.  I mean sure, one is pretty inadequate, but a stack of like 20 will hold a cup of water.  No, it’s not a sham wow, but wtf, I never said I was McGuyver.  The point is we got their late, got a drink right away and got to within 4 places of the stage all before the most boring band in the world came out, the courteens, who opened, but more about that later.

Anyway, the first thing I would say about this particular Morrissey concert, as opposed to his last concert in St. Louis 2 years ago, was that 2 years ago it was packed, and this time, I was offered $10 tickets before I got to the door.  And they weren’t scammers.  These were 2 really cold emo kids who clearly had a situation where one of the boys had bought 3 tickets on his card and then was expecting to get his friends to cover the other tickets and one of the friends either a) flaked out, b) had some life changing event, i.e., new baby, lost job, family wedding, term paper due or c) chicks just don’t like you that much that you couldn’t find anyone in your address book to give that ticket to.  I mean excuse me for a moment here, because this is important.  I feel I need to just spill just a few words of wisdom from a man who once was a boy with a lot of spare tickets to concert events.   Seriously why would you sell a ticket for $10?  At that price you are getting one round at the bar.  And who are you going to get drunk with that?  Your other dude friend?  See the golden opportunity.  A girl who wouldn’t sniff in your direction, may be tempted by the concert to give fate a chance and say yes.  Especially if she is a big Morrissey fan.  Or recently had a natter with her girlfriend about how she doesn’t do anything anymore and now that she is out of college a few years she feels stagnant.  And really, what girl hasn’t had a brief flirtation with the Smiths at some point in their lives?  So go for broke my friends.  Time is running out.  And that is a great first date because it is low commitment, the music will make long awkward pauses obsolete.  And you can show off your manly skills by fetching her drinks, getting her a good spot on the floor, moving your body to protect your girl from the drunk asshole who is dancing waay too excitedly for a straight man at a Morrissey show, giving her your jacket when she is cold on the walk back to the car, offering her a copy of your favorite Morrissey album, Vauxhall and I obviously, because you don’t want to give off to much of your creepy guy love for Morrissey with his shirt off on Your Arsenal.  But you know, the point is get desperate emo kids.  Just buck up and grow a pair and start asking girls to things.  Don’t offer to sell your tickets for $10 to me, the dude who already is going on a $20 ticket because the scalping agency just couldn’t sell them.  So yeah, when the scalpers are taking a hit on a show, its time to start making new friends.  Morrissey would approve.  He actual does have sex you know.  With men.  He just says he doesn’t because it’s a funny joke.  So if he approves, you should just do it.

So we get to the door and they are screaming, why? Fuck knows, I guess cause we ignore them so they feel like they can.  Anyway, no cameras or recorders.  That is what their screaming.  Which made me feel good.  Cause I was hoping to bring my pocket camcorder and take footage. Because nothing is funner than video.  But when I saw the ticket say no camera I thought better of it and clearly realized I was a little too stoned if my ticket was now talking to me.  Story of my life.  Always a little too stoned.  Like Goldilocks, I can never get it quite right.  Anyway, no cameras.  No video.  There must have been a meeting about it because all the staffers were on the same page.  Which clearly was all well and good for the jackasses outside doing “crowd control” (of what, the throngs of 12?) but for the poor ladies checking bags it was their worst nightmare.  Because everything is a fucking camera these days.  Phones, Ipods, keychains, nail files.  I mean who is really going to enforce no cell phones?  Which is what I realized when I was searched, because the poor lady feels my right pocket, then the left, the goes back to the right, and starts making out the outline in the fabric.  I’m like, it’s just my blackberry, to which she lifts her eyes off my package area, and with these really beat down eyes just says, please don’t take pictures.  I felt so sorry immediately for her. I was like, okay.  Which was of course a total lie.  But I told her I would behave anyway.  What a horrible job.

Anyway, the fact is, she, and Morrissey as well, have nothing to be afraid of with either my or my companion’s cell phones.  Mine are a little bigger, but what I thought was a photo showing just how close we were actually looks like a ball of pure energy at 100 yards.  But suffice to say, we were super close, like 4 people back.  I could not only see the spit fly out of his mouth when he said kick, but also where that spit landed on stage.  It was perfect.  And we got there at 7:50, just in time for the most boring band ever, the Courteens, which I will get to in a sec, but first this is what my phone produced of the show:

So really, I have knackered myself out and I haven’t gotten to the review yet, or even what this concert has taught me about life in the bigger picture.  But I realized something just now.  This is not a novel.  Its a blog.  So you know what.  I’m stopping here.  I’ll start up again tomorrow.  But I think I’ve written myself out for the day.  Hey, you’re not happy about no review, I’m not happy about the fact that I already have like 5 stories backed up waiting to be written, its not an ideal situation, but screaming at me isn’t going to make the review be written any faster.  I’ll get to it tomorrow.  Promise.

I know what your thinking.  And the answer is no.  You cannot substitute your own feces in place of the elephants.   I mean you can, of course you are free to do whatever you want, and if that means spending a lazy sunday with a saucepan of your own boiling feces, hey knock yourself out.  But just don’t think you can spread it out over that free burlap sac you got last year at the harvest festival and make some beautiful paper products.  Because it doesn’t work too well.  Also don’t think you will ever get that smell out of your kitchen.  Ugh.  That is the last fucking time I surf the web tweeked out on mini-thins.

Anyway, this whole concept excites me beyond belief.  No, not making paper out of my own fecal matter, but of elephants and pandas.  Watch.

For those of you too lazy to watch a 7 min video on the finer art of boiling shit, let me break it down for you.  Take some shit, preferably elephant, but in a pinch panda will do.  Boil it with hydrogen peroxide, which as we all well know is the only thing stronger than a tampon the school nurse is able to administer.  Seriously, what was the point?  Has anyone ever said, well, if it wasn’t for the school nurse, Billy would be carrying a colostomy bag  to school right now instead of a book bag.  No.  Because clearly the whole point of the bowel is to hold your feces for you.  So you don’t have to.  Being forced to carry your own bag of feces around is not just embarrassing, it’s inefficent.   I mean if we can invent the maya wrap to keep from holding babies surely there is….nevermind.

The point is that you boil the feces with the peroxide until, I guess its done?  I mean from the looks of the facility I can’t say it matters.  They are making this stuff in converted barn, so whatever, these are not city elephants, their shit is clean.  After the boiling, you take the dung, weigh it out into the proper size ball, and then spread it out over a screen and let it dry.

The results are amazing.  I say this as the proud owner of not one, but two elephant dung paper products.  And the best part, it is dirt cheap.  Seriously, folks it is April and you could have your entire Christmas shopping list done by weeks end.  Just go here and take a look at all the pretty things you can buy.

Like:

I like the fact it comes with a pencil. But not one that you can use, a tiny stub of a pencil, like the kind they give you at the dog track. With no eraser. Thanks guys. Next time I forget my keno crayon I'll remember this.

And this:

For when simply telling someone, "hey you're a piece of shit" isn't enough, now you can cover their entire face in it and hang it on your wall. Perfect for Valentine's Day.

And of course this:

Wow, remember phone books? I mean the kind your mom use to keep in the kitchen? The one that was last updated in the early 80's and will never give you anything close the right number? Yeah, I miss mine too. Stupid Blackberries.

Now you may think that the fun stops here.  That I have effectively beaten this joke into the earth and that no more good will come of reading this post.  And while you may be right, you also may be horribly, horribly wrong.  Because what is better than merely producing thousands of reams of 100 percent hydroponically grown elephant dung paper?  What about making those same elephants then finger paint on their own feces paper?  Oh yes, watch the genius:

And the best part, they are selling these works of art for $200 on up.

This one’s on my Amazon wishlist, if your reading this Santa:
 

So you think you are better than an elephant? Would anybody pay you $200 for a piece of your feces smeared in watercolors? Exactly. Point dog.

But all this elephant dung paper and art aside, that is not actually what has got me all hot and bothered.  No, far from it.  What really excites me is that this means we are one step closer to my dream come true.  A Mad Max 3: Beyond Thunderdome world where a leather clad Tina Turner screams at me that we don’t need another hero, all we need is some more pig shit.   And I know what your thinking.  You’re thinking, god damn that was a good song, I should go get that soundtrack.  Well, don’t bother getting it at the store, cause it is out of production and copies are going for $100 at Amazon, link here

Apparently they are now making a Mad Max 4....anime version. Because the Japanese just stopped giving a fuck after about 1945.

So yes, the point of this long winded post is simply that dung paper today, dung fuel tomorrow, global warming today, Tina Turner with a blonde wig and an alcholic anti-semite tomorrow.  And you said you didn’t want to have any kids.

Of course the best part of the Mad Max trilogy wasn’t Max, or even Tina.  No, it was the poor pig killer who gets treated like a common criminal when really, let’s face it, we all would have done the same thing.  Hell, I’d kill a pig right now if work said I could wear jeans tomorrow.  So you know, he killed a pig.  Big flipping deal.  Bernie Madoff destroyed Kevin Bacon, he doesn’t have to walk around with this on his chest, does he?

Bacon killer is more like it.

‘Nuff said

Gumshoes are called such because back in the day they had soft, gum soled shoes, and this made them quiet see. So no one could hear them sneaking up on you. The gumshoe became the sneaker. So next time you're on the court, be like, hey, nice gumshoes you gots, homey. Or don't. Cause that sounds totally offensive and you'll probably get hit. Or at least fouled really hard. Or at the most least, a scowl? Yeah, I said it. Sue me.

Admit it, you kinda always wanted to be a secret agent, maybe even took a brochure or two at the job fair when you passed by the FBI table.  Probably had that moment where you are naked and filthy dirty, in a ditch somewhere in Mexico, with a half bottle of peppermint schnapps and a dead hooker and thought to yourself, this is it, this is the day I officially rule out becoming a G-man.  Well, my friends, now’s your chance to go hog wild and start that home business up. Now I know what your thinking, don’t I need customers? And where am I going to get them? Look, I can’t do everything for you people. Remember, I’m trying to get the hell out of this Popsicle stand? Look, I know this guy. Back in California. He teaches nude yoga for a living. Yoga. In the nude. And he doesn’t have to go to a crappy 9 to 5 job. Its your life people, make of it what you will. But if some dude in Cali can make a living doing the downward dog buck naked, then how I’m I suppose to believe you can’t figure out a money making angle from this here kit?

What is the kit? Oh yeah, I guess I did leave that part out. Well, listen, the whole point of a gumshoe is to go around and ask questions while secretly recording them. Then he goes back to the office and gives the tape to his trusty secretary, who most likely also is in charge of keeping the scotch bottle filled and the soda charged. And after this lovely angel of a secretary transcribes said messages, the gumshoe then calls the afflicted party, throws the pages into their lap and promptly becomes a target for the mob because he knows too much. Or something. I don’t remember the whole plot I was stoned. The point is you can’t secretly record nothing unless you’ve got a handheld recorder. So that is part one of the kit. I mean this of course isn’t the only use for the micro-cassette recorder. You can also get crazy high and talk out loud into it and record your demented thoughts. Also if you are an aspiring Studs Terkel you can record your subjects while you pretend to listen but in the back of your mind work on your shopping list safe in the comfort of knowing all the precious words are being nicely transcribed for future playback. Oh and you know if you’re in school there is nothing better. Just put a tape in, press record and then sleep for your first two periods. Pull out all the tapes before the final, do an all night cramming session and bingo, you’re on your way to a BA in some bullshit subject and all the job prospects of only the 2.8 billion other stoners who did the exact same thing.

Or even just for the aspiring poet/writer/musician/pot belly pig farmer who just really never knows when a good idea will hit him, have this little bad boy on your body at all time and let creativity flow. But for my purposes this was obviously bought for my failed gumshoe business and has only been used twice, once to record my girlfriend snoring, and then put away to collect dust in a cabinet somewhere.

And so you say, what else be this kit contain? And I would say, stop talking funny. And then I would tell you. Its all good to have a micro-cassette but how do you get that into the computer as words? You might think, oh, I’ll just play back the tape with the built in speaker and then listen to a sentence, press stop and then type that sentence and then continue. Yay! And you would be a person who has never tried to transcribe a tape before. Because anyone who has had to transcribe a 45 min tape without a foot pedal would tell you that they wouldn’t wish it on their worst enemy. And you don’t believe me? Go ask them! Look at me all fierce. I like it. I should drink heavily on anti-depressants every time I write. Anyway, the point is, the point is my dear, dear reader that the missing part to fame and fortune with the hand held recorder is how do you transcribe it? And that is part 2 of the kit. A Sony totally bitch ass, professional grade, transcriber, with foot pedal and stereo jack headphone outputs. This is important. Why? Because old transcribers were made all proprietary with stupid jacks for inputs, kinda like how the airlines use to do? So you would have to get all your headphones from the company that sold you the machine. Just like hoover making its money on the bags, not the cleaner. Anyway, this is new technology, so it has an LCD screen, a kick ass foot pedal and regular jacks so you can use whatever headphones you use with your ipod. And it has an erase feature, and it has a whole speed, pitch adjustment that can make anybody sound like the chipmunks and it doesn’t mess anything up! I know. I use to do that trick all the time with my old cassette player but I would always feel bad because you knew it wasn’t right. No one told you, but you just knew.

Anyway, the foot pedal is key, because it allows you to type and stop the tape at the same time. And when you lift up your foot not only does the tape stop, but it goes back, which is adjustable, so you can always be typing and never have to lift your hands off the keyboard. Even if you are a hunt and pecker, this is totally going to save you way more time. Trust me, I have done more tapes than most men and I can say, it helps.

Oh and of course what system would be complete without tapes? Right? Right. So I am setting you up with 100 free cassettes, all new, in shrink wrap, never been open. Now try and beat that? You can’t. Its perfect. I’ll even give you batteries for the hand held recorder. All you need to do is get up off your ass and start saving damsels in distress. Or just start your own dictation service with the local shrink. I don’t know. Seriously, its late, I’m tired. Your tired. Why are we fighting. Just buy it off me so I don’t have to lug it up to Chicago and you’ll figure it out. Oh and the links are provided for information purposes only, if you want to take me up on this offer, just email me and I can cut you a deal. I mean, if you want to buy it straight off, like you are one of those shy people who doesn’t want to talk to me. Okay, that’s cool too. I’m just saying.

UPDATE:  OMG, thank you guys so much.  I am totally sold out and now have to finally realize that I am through with any notion I once had of becoming a private dick.  While this is a sad day in America, it is a happy one for me.  Because this put me $200 net closer to reaching the ultimate goal.  Yes, yes my pretties.  Today the slow crawl to freedom officially has begun.

What this picture doesn't show is the enormous sense of self worth one acheives merely by basking in all its 1997 glory. Rad. Its all you can say, over and over again like a little prayer. Rad.

Transcriber
Please help me get to Chicago.

Sexy...and the best part, disease free. As are all the products I am selling. How many other retailer are even close to considering saying that? None. You know why? Because they are filthy. Filthy and full of horrible disease. Which is why we stopped shopping at the mall years ago. Now everything is QVC and then quarantined in the attic for 60 days. Mom thinks we're crazy, but we'll see how *crazy* we are when the first attack by the Chinese is anthrax in our toasters.

Hand held recorder
Pretty please?

Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat.  I mean no malice toward my people.  I mean I bought a house in the city rather than the county. I pay city tax for working downtown.  I’ve eaten a fried ravioli.  I mean for god sake it’s not like I don’t try.  And to be fair it is currently 41 degrees with snow showers, so yeah, not exactly the kind of climate that screams party time.  Except for maybe my father, who use to keep the house like a meat locker in the winter because his extra layer of walrus made him immune to such mortal ailments like frostbite. 

Anyway, the point is that this is not meant as a snark post.  It is what it is people.  If a city is going to base it’s entire self worth on a baseball team, a sport I might add that is so rife with steroids and cheating that to claim it is a *sport* actually strains the bonds of credibility to the point of….well, let’s just say that if the Rock ever wants to give up acting I’m sure Boras could fetch him a cool $100 million or so to *play* for a MLB team, but alas, I digress.

The point is that a city with so much “baseball fever” wouldn’t be deterred by a little harsh weather, right?  Not in a place that is only known for harsh weather.  Right?  Well…..

This was the scene a few hours before the game. Notice the blood red dye put into the fountain to prevent drunken fans from bathing and to scare the hell out of small children whose only recollection about today will be the cauldron of blood their parents forced them to take a picture in front of. Ahh, childhood memories.

 And this is the scene halfway through the game.  Apparently either someone got the memo that the streets of St. Louis are rolled up at 5 sharp or they simply didn’t want to pay the extra $50 an hour for the bouncy castle.

What this picture doesn't show is the faint smell of the churo truck and burning rubber as Paco and his son race downstate for the Ozark timberfest in Branson. Lumberjacks + churros = tuna in barrel

I apologize for the grainy phone camera pictures.  I was going to bring my camera with me today but something about the blinding snow that kept stinging my eyes told me it probably wasn’t going to end well if I did.  I did however, bring my reusable tote bags for the grocery store because I have apparently decided against ever having an active sex life again.

Now like I said, it’s not my intention of having a *go* at the people of the middle west.  But seriously, this is all you people care about.  I can’t even get a fucking grocery bag without a stupid red bird on it, the only places to eat in the city are steak houses owned by ex-ball players and this is the sole extent of your opening day festivities?  A flipping hackneyed disco cover band and a chance to win a free gym membership?  Well color me surprised.

And before you all go crazy saying that it’s just human nature and that this *really* is a baseball town and people do care, blah, blah, blah, may I just remind you of what a real party looks like:

Now this seems more like it. I wonder when we can start saying things like, as American as an Obama rally. Has a nice ring to it, no?

The sign screams Miami Vice, but the upstairs dungeon stays silent. Which really is the beauty of the ball gag.

The Bijou Theatre on Wells St. in Chicago is perhaps the most famous gay hang out in Chicago?  I don’t proclaim any sort of expertise in such areas but my internets resources seems to back this up.  

According to guidemag.com:

The legendary Bijiou Theater (1349 N. Wells) continues to present the latest and greatest porn films on their big screen theater. Convenient to downtown hotels, the Bijou presents a new double bill show every Friday with Bijou Classics featured every Monday. The theater also hosts live shows including a monthly appearance by Chicago Beef Dancers on the third Friday of every month and special appearances by top porn stars. By far the biggest attraction of the Bijou is the second-floor sex club. Guests can explore a gay man’s fantasy playground with tons of glory holes, dark corners, and a complete dungeon with slings, crosses, and more. Rent a locker, ditch you clothes, and feel free to get carried away. During Chicago’s warm months, guests can also enjoy the Bijou Gardens, a great outdoor oasis in the middle of the city. In the theater’s lobby there’s a huge selection of DVDs available for purchase. Browse at the counter or use the free computer set up to explore Bijou’s website listing over 14,000 titles. Watch for news of their big 40th anniversary coming this fall.

It's like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory...except gayer. You say, "Gayer than tiny orange painted dwarfs?" Yup. It's that gay.

So you know, that would be reason *enough* to want to move to Chicago.  I mean have you ever seen the St. Louis Beef Dancers?  Not pretty.  As my grandmother would say, more gristle than brisket on them piggies.  Okay, maybe my grandmother never said that.  But she would have.  If I was 85.  And grew up in Arkansas.  Whatever.  The point is that if the Moviephone guy sounded like this I might actually waste $12 on whatever horrid Keanu Reeves as alien/closeted gay man/okay admit it he does kinda look cute in that dark suit with the skinny black tie flim is being flogged in the multiplexes this weekend.  

Call (312) 943-5397.  Its a pre-recorded message.  The contents of which you can be heard  below

listen here

and also transcribed for those too lazy to click the mouse:

 

[ring]

 

Thank you very much for calling the Bijou Theatre.  Spring is here and Chicago is beautiful.  The Bijou is proud to present this week, “The Deep Strokes” and “Suckers, Fuckers, and Strokers.” Yep.  Bijou has it all.  It’s a good time.  It’s a wonderful time.  It’s a good place to come to, a good place to meet people.  No place else like it in the country.  Chicago’s own Bijou.  Theatre.

We’re located 1349 N. Wells St. in the heart of old town.  Open 7 days a week, 24 hours a day.  Mayor Daly has sold the streets.  Parking meters belong to a private concession.  They’ve doubled the rates.  They made it more difficult for people to come into the city and shop.  We have the highest sales tax.  Now he’s changed, about 2 years ago he changed the rules; changed the building codes dealing with back porches.

Doesn’t sound like much.  But anyone who has a back porch, pretty much doesn’t fit a certain specification, which is new, which is most of the new code for the old buildings, have to put in all new back porches.  Costing $10, $20, $30, $40,000.  The man has absolutely concept about the economy, about what’s going bad.  About costs and expenses and all he’s doing is, he’s selling Chicago, selling the streets.  Sold the Skyway, wants to sell Midway.  And costing people tremendous amounts of money, because he needs to get money, instead of maybe getting rid of some pensions?  From people who don’t do any work in City Hall and get rid of incompetent city people who don’t do any work.  And maybe some of the alderman and the mayor should take a salary cut too.  Like the rest of the people in Chicago.

I’m beside myself with the back porch aspect of it.  The tens of thousands of dollars.  The code has been good for years.  I don’t know, 100 years?  It’s been changed in 100 years, but instead of working with the city, with building owners, he decided to just stick it up their whosiewhatits.  Change it drastically that they have to be torn down.  I’m absolutely pissed at the stupidity.  Somebody should cost this man $30 grand. 

Okay, that’s just the beginning of it.  But the city of Chicago is a wonderful place to live in, it really is.  But right now it’s gotten real difficult, they keep raising prices on anything and everything.  They keep raising the price on water tax, on inspections.  Now you have to pay for; you already have to pay for dumpster service, now you have to pay for a permit to get dumpster service which the dumpster service pays for.  Now they want to hit buildings for that too so they can get a double fee.  It doesn’t end and it has to end someplace.

Where’s the deal with?  The deal’s with the economy, but also the deal’s with stupid politicians.  Now.  I’m happy for the Obama’s and I’m happy for America.  We made, well a wonderful impression over there in Europe, we didn’t, he did.  And that impression reflects upon us here in the United States, we’re good people.  We have to teach the ones who are stupid in this country to be good.  Because one thing that the Obama’s will do and the people who voted for the Obama.  The will try to make it better for everybody.  Without restrictions or without punishment.  The other side is one that is so darned conservative and the republicans, what they want is, they want to be conservative and they want punishment.  I don’t want punishment anymore.  I want to have more freedom.  I want to have more choice. 

Bijou.  Bijou world, the world of sexuality.  If you can’t come to Bijou call 1-800-932-7111.  If you need any information about films, want to order poppers, about show times, about when is the best time to come cruising, here at the Bijou.  Thank you very much for calling, the Bijou Theatre.

Seriously, where else on earth are you going to get old timey gay jews dishing the latest in politics and poppers?  Exactly.  If there ever was a doubt in your mind that Chicago isn’t the place for me, I hope this post has silenced them.

The golden rule of gayness. One naked man, meh. One naked man and his mirror image? Yes, please.

 From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

A Piano: The Collection is a five-disc box set spanning the first 15 years of the solo career of American singer and song-writer Tori Amos. Released on September 26, 2006 by Rhino Records as part of the contract Amos negotiated with Warner Bros., the set consists of classics, rarities, demos, B-sides and a string of unreleased songs from album sessions.

Product Description
Intimate, confessional, poetic, and defiantly independent, Amos’ songs touch on self, family, religion, femininity, pain, and love with a searching spirit that translates powerfully into songcraft. This momentous box spans the depth and breadth of her extraordinary repertoire, spotlighting both album versions and a sprawling tapestry of rarities. Disc A – Little Earthquakes extended Disc B – Pink And Pele Disc C – Pele/Venus/Tales Disc D – Scarlet/Beekeeper/Choirgirl Disc E – Bonus B-sides.

Please  help me get out of this place. 

buy it here

If you want a rapidshare link leave your email in the comments and I will delete it after I email you.  Please remember that I am doing this the old fashioned way, by hand, so the process isn’t quick and it’s not easy, but it is complete, safe and virus free. Not to mention the overall goal of getting me out of this god forsaken hell hole.   Thank you.