I can’t wait for Paris Hilton to start driving drunk again. She needs to put one wine cooler too many down that deep throat of hers and start running red lights in her Porsche. Her last stint in the slammer was nothing but a tease but this time she’ll be going down, on her cell mate if I have anything to say about it…Angelina “Womb Raider” Jolie keeps adopting third-world babies. By outsourcing childbirth to women who have that as their core competency, she keeps that part of her I think about every night free from the ravages of squirting out pups. You’re a hero to me, Angelina. Call me…Venus Williams just won at Wimbledon. You rock, hot lady jock. Care to trade in that match point for love?…Dakota Fanning has three new films in the works. She’s still a little too green on the vine for my liking but she’ll ripen and I’m a patient man…Which brings us to the girls of Prussian Blue, speaking of jail bait. Those little heiling honeys need to erase the hate if they expect Uncle Ames to ask them for a date…And let’s not forget my favorite golden girls, those luscious lasses from days gone by…We haven’t heard much from Julie Andrews since that botched throat operation gave her a voice like a whoopie cushion. She stole my heart as Mary Poppins and I still care for her deeply. I hope that over the years, a spoonful of sugar helped the calcium go down so she won’t have to pay a lot of do-re-mi to treat her supercalifragilisticosteoporosis…And finally, I give a big Ames C. Pacer shout out to the Sunshine State for the former US Attorney General and avenging valkyrie of Waco, the lovely Janet Reno. Hey Parkinson’s Lady, you can shake it one time for me.
Betty came to my house yesterday morning. After a yummy brunch at The Last Supper Club, our bellies were too full to flop down on the couch and let digestion run its course. I reflected upon the problem of obesity in this country and found one detail puzzling. While I could certainly stand to lose a few pounds, why are most of the serious fat asses found in parts of America where the food sucks? This paradox made my brain hurt so decided to numb it with television.
I subscribe to basic cable, nothing fancy, but one nice feature is the on-demand free movies. There are plenty to choose from and some are even watchable.
The first choice was Six-String Samurai. I had high hopes for this one. World War III happened in 1957, Elvis became king of Las Vegas, and after his death 40 years later, a sword-wielding Buddy Holly lookalike travels through the post-apocalyptic wasteland on a quest to assume the throne. An awesome premise, right? Yes, and that’s all it was.
There were a few entertaining moments thrown in to make the trailers look enticing, but overall, the movie was a bland exercise by the filmmakers in trying to impress the viewer with how cool and edgy they were. Unfortuantely, they were neither. For one thing, sword battles and a PG-13 rating should not go together, not for the discerning patron who demands a flash flood of gore out of this genre. Then there was the annoying child who did nothing but scream. If his character were an altar boy in a movie called “Father McBugger,” he would have had pretty much all the same lines.
Next came Lifeforce, a Golan-Globus Production directed by Mr. Chainsaw himself, Tobe Hooper. The movie is about this hot naked space-alien vampire chick who comes to earth to…who cares, she’s a hot naked space-alien vampire chick.
Actually, there’s a lot more to this movie than her, ahem, charms. Though technically science fiction, it plays more like a Hammer film set in modern London. There is the same kind of tension and dry humor between scientists and figures of authority. There are also murderous zombies running amok. And have I mentioned the hot naked space-alien vampire chick?
I often ask myself how the eighties, that Reagan-era lung oyster of a decade, could produce such great splatter horror such as Lifeforce and Re-Animator. I have no definitive answer. Flashes of brilliance are better enjoyed than explained.
The bartenders at the Argus cannot be trusted. They have been puring huge amounts of liquor into my drinks, no doubt at the behest of the Global Managers who want to see me silenced. They may have succeeded temporarily but my liver will prevail, at least this time.
I’ll give you a full report tomorrow morning.
I said I wouldn’t post until Monday. I lied. Deal with it.
Right now, I’m cooped up at the office, waiting for a process to complete so we can launch the latest and greatest version of the software. It’ll be another hour before we can jump in and start making the magic happen. For now, I sit here and cut the cheese, living a life of silent-but-deadly desperation.
Since noon, I’ve brought myself up do date with my friends’ blogs, read a few op-ed pieces on Yahoo News, and learned that Jim Mitchell had died. Poor Jim. I admire his contributions to my local sleaze community but can’t bring myself to mourn his passing. He did murder his brother after all. My own brother Gordon has shown admirable restraint in that department and I applaud him for it.
I’m not sure when I’ll get to blow out of here. My guess is that it will be about eight this evening. Whatever time this happens, I’ll be at the Argus shortly thereafter. If you see me there, offering your sympathies would be greatly appreciated. Please remember that sympathies are most effective when offered in liquor form.
Woe is pitiful me. There is a release tomorrow so I have to work. I suppose I should feel grateful for even having a job. A few years ago, it was grim. I hadn’t had a permanent job since 2002 and the gigs I was able to pick up were just enough to cover rent.
So how is this blog entry working for you? It sucks, doesn’t it. I couldn’t agree more.
My recent emphasis has been to post something to the blog every day, even if it’s drivel. I managed to pull that off at the expense of content quality. Something needs to be done if I want Poison Spur to be anything more than another blogosphere unreadable.
There won’t be any posts until Monday. Between now and then, I’ll be down at the tracks waiting for the clue train. I’ll report back what I find.
My brain is a bit frazzled so I can’t come up with any fresh material today. Just so I don’t leave y’all completely in the lurch, here’s a poem I wrote a couple of years ago making its Poison Spur debut.
Edward Scissorhands at the Petting Zoo
Pools of fresh blood
With fur afloat
And lamb and goat
Are spewing piss
His friendly touch
Has gone amiss
The bleats of pain
Have made him weep
And organs seep
“There there,” he says
And pats its head
Which comes clean off
O woe to him
With scissored hands
Now caked with gore,
Sinew, and glands
Do not assume
A spelling error
When reading this:
‘Twas shear terror
As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not much into sports. I’m not rabidly against them, much in the same way I’m not religious but don’t run around blowing up churches. I simply choose not have them affect my life. This works pretty well unless the All-Star game is being held locally and I work spitting distance from the ballpark.
Yesterday afternoon, I ducked out of the office and walked to the nearest corner store, about a block away. Security was heavy and the cops had blocked off several streets. Despite the increased police presence, scalpers were still in full force. I have no idea how much the tickets cost, but seeing that event parking was going for $45, they must not have been cheap. It was hours before the game started but the streets were packed with sports fans, milling around and buying knockoff hats and jerseys to show their support for their team.
This struck me as odd. It was the All-Star game. There were no teams in the usual sense of the word. Perhaps one was supposed to root for their favorite league, but I doubt many people have much of a preference. They like the Giants or Red Sox, and hate the Yankees, but that’s about it. The event is all about the individual talent, as evidenced by the the Home Run Derby the day before where top sluggers got pussy-pitched to see how many balls they could knock out of the park. This provided all the thrills of actual home runs without the inconvenience of there being any real challenge.
After work, the game was on as I sat in the Argus having an evening cocktail. One of the leagues was winning, but I didn’t pay much attention until the seventh-inning stretch. Two women took to the field then. One played an Uber-Casio keyboard thing while the other sang. The sound on the TV was off so I couldn’t tell what was going on. I hoped that since this was San Francisco, it would be some sort of performance art where the vocalist showed her disdain for the patriarchy by eating her own tampon. No such luck. The song ended and the camera cut to an outsized Old Glory blowing gently in the breeze.
This was way too wholesome for my liking so I ordered another drink.
At that moment, the door was kicked in and a shirtless fat man in leather pants and an executioner hood entered, leading a huge stallion by the reins. Hot steamy breath shot from the animal’s nostrils as one of its front hooves pawed at the hardwood floor.
“Time to party, bitch!” the man said. “I’d like you to meet my equine friend, Ball Lightning. He’s going to pop your little Christian cherry.”
“Eek!” she screamed. She stared with horror and disbelief at the beast’s huge, erect…
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I go to Playa Azul
You know I dance like a fool
And then I drink and then I pass out
In a puddle of drool
Playa Azul is a restaurant on Mission street, about a 10-15 minute walk from my house. It specializes in mariscos, including a yummy seafood cocktail and their signature nachos with crab meat and melted cheese on a bed of ceviche. They also have a full bar.
Despite the allure of these dishes, I usually go there for breakfast and order my usual huevos rancheros, served with rice, beans, and plenty of jalapeños in the sauce. It’s a little early to do any drinking so perhaps the above ditty I penned in honor of the place is a bit misleading. Going there is one of life’s joys though, even if I limit myself to coffee and food.
Since breakfast is the most important meal of the day (or so I’m told), I should, as a good nutritional citizen, get comparably excited every morning. But let’s face it. The pastry out of the vending machine or bagel I eat most mornings just isn’t going to get the same reaction. The same goes for bigger meals. A “Grand Slam” at Denny’s, while filling, is really nothing to get worked up about.
Not everybody shares my love for desayuno dyspeptico and that’s fine. There are plenty of breakfast options in San Francisco. We are not limited to Denny’s or iHop. Every time I waddle home from Playa Azul chewing antacid tablets and clutching my gut, I feel blessed to live in a town that has something more to offer than strip-mall America.