“IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING!!!”-ROADKILL NIGHTS AT LUCKY 13

So I was at home enjoying a day off from the barbecue joint when my hotline rang. It was a lady friend of mine calling to extend a last minute invite to a night of hot chicks a-go-go, the first of a weekly party series called Roadkill Nights at Lucky 13 (in Brooklyn on 13th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues), a not-too-far away watering hole that has my respect for maintaining an exceptional jukebox fueled entirely by bands like Joan Jett & the Blackhearts. The Lunachicks, Fear, the Reverend Horton Heat, Nina Hagen, the Cramps, the Misfits, Suicidal Tendencies, the Sex Pistols, and of course my boys the Damned. You know, Bunche music. So how could I say no?

I donned my trusty coonskin cap and leather trench coat and ventured to Lucky 13, making it in just before the eleven o’clock start time. I was greeted by the event’s host, the refreshingly bizarre Scotty the Blue Bunny, a tall John Cleese-esque queen in six-inch heels and a skin-tight bunny suit that left nothing to the imagination; I last saw the guy at a friend’s performance in lower Manhattan and he was wearing a spectacular t-shirt that depicted a silhouette of one man being forcefully buttfucked by another, next to a logo that proclaimed, “I’d rather be cornholing.” Scotty happily welcomed me to the proceedings, and promptly left to work the other patrons.

As Scotty bunnyhopped away I was once more taken in by the divey atmosphere; a combination of rock ‘n’ roll posters, monster and horror memorabilia, signed photos of Elvira and Sid Haig, various implements of destruction like a Grim reaper-style scythe, an inspired portrait of Pope John Paul II with red eyes and horns sprouting from his red-beanied pate, and the inevitable photo of Bettie Page in her harem girl garb, her raven tresses cascading over her upraised hands past her untamed face. Once again, I marveled at how it feels like something I would have crafted for my own amusement if I had a decent-sized basement. And, fuck, how I want to steal those framed Coop lithographs!

I then was stunned by one of the performers, a lissome lass who has made me harder than Sanskrit algebra since the moment I met her nearly a year ago, bedecked in a smokin’ hot vinyl nurse’s outfit accented with black, stilettoed “fuck me” super-heroine boots, and the outfit was so scandalously short that my eyes discretely scanned for her nether-fur (which was sadly obscured by her cherry red panties). Her eyes sparkled when she saw me, and she ran over to give me a kiss and thank me for showing up. What, like I was gonna miss seeing a bunch of beautiful women in skimpy outfits shakin’ their goodness and pole dancing to music that I enjoy?

Her raw enthusiasm for the art of the terpsichorean gene-spliced with the inspiration of a stiff trouser trout
was clearly written across her face; before me stood a woman who embraced her own non-augmented female excellence and was not afraid to share it with the world. Thank you, Nursey. Thank you oh so much!

Presently this ecdysian avatar mounted the small go-go platform and lost herself to the rhythmic world within her head, her every luscious millimeter swiveling to the seductive tones put forth by the very talented DJ Hi-Speed Chase, and I must admit that very unchaste thoughts filled my head. Thankfully for my growing urge to “be alone for a while,” Nursey was soon replaced by the mighty Peekaboo Pointe, a tasty and tastefully tattooed brunette in a flapper bob and black bikini — with high-heeled Mary Janes!!! — who was hot as a motherfucker, but doesn’t inspire me the way that the Naughty Nurse did, but that is in no way a slight on her pulchritude or abilities; it’s simply a matter of taste, but I have to say that Miss Pointe does the splay-legged pole slide with a weightless aplomb that gives a rigid middle finger to the concept of gravity. Sure, she’s a hot lady splaying herself on a pole, but her professionalism and athletic style was what fascinated me. I’ll take pictures of her human scissors routine next time I’m there.

Then the show proper began, and Scotty did his emcee thing. The crowd sat riveted to the words of this towering azure lepus, and they smoldered in anticipation of the delights to come. Miss Pointe soon returned in a fetching 1920’s black number and seductively strolled about the pole that ran from the ceiling to the bar top, all eyes gazing at her lithe form with barely contained wonder; here was a slinky cat-woman whose undulations recalled the function of a spinning hypno-wheel, her every dip and pout fixing the observer like one of Medusa’s victims. Only in a good way. She soon ended up down to only her panties and a pair of very happy tasseled pasties, which she certainly knew how to operate, nearly causing whiplash in the onlookers, including yours truly.

After a brief pause, out strolled “the Officer,” a toothsome beauty in a cop suit with hot pants and a baton who made me long for an immediate felony collaring that would get me next to her lips that promised untold admonitions for my naughty ways. She mounted the platform, produced a bullhorn and announced, “If you see something, say something!!!”
Well, let me tell you that I saw something delicious, and I said, “God DAMN!!!” several times during her routine.

This authoritarian Aphrodite soon took to the pole, losing her jacket and revealing her lovely sweater-goblins, both of which had their suckleable bits obscured by a pair of black tape x’es. This image was both hot and fierce, and clearly appreciated by patrons other than myself. And all too soon, it ended.

The rest of the evening consisted of all sorts of naughty hijinx, all overseen by a fierce, brace-faced, fire-breathing Joan Jett/Chrissie Hynde hybrid named Taryn. So I humbly suggest that you check out Roadkill Mondays, especially if you need a dose of the naughty along with $3.00 shots of tequila all night long. TRUST YER BUNCHE!!!

RESTLESS

3:30AM-
I awake after losing yet another battle with insomnia and reach for the television’s remote control. Not surprisingly, the offerings on the telly aren’t worth a squirt of rat’s piss — Cinemax is unfortunately not running one of its myriad of softcore porno flicks, but is airing Spike Lee’s execrable GIRL 6, to be followed by the Elvis Presley turd EASY COME, EASY GO — so I resort to a tape of MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATER 3000: THE MOVIE to hopefully entertain me and lull me to sleep. No such luck.

5AM-
Now wide-awake, I begin to realize that I’m hungry, and slowly I crawl from beneath my thick, warm comforters. I pull on my thermal shirt, put my ear baffles in place and lace up my Frankenstein-like hiking boots; presently I am ready to brave the chilly outdoors in search of eats.

5:30AM-
The remains of Sunday’s record-breaking blizzard have turned Park Slope into a frozen wasteland, resembling a movie set that has been cleared for the day. The usually teeming streets are empty and silent, eerie in a strange way, accentuated by the pre-dawn darkness and full moon. Theoretically the buses are running, but why wait when I only have a thirteen- block walk to the diner? As I trudge up Fifth Avenue I attempt to avoid breaking my ass by falling on the ice, and I pass by the infamous alky bar Jackie’s Fifth Amendment; I have passed this wretched hive of scum and villainy both very late and insanely early during the day and had believed that it never closed its doors. As I walk past it expecting to once more see an old man who looks like Popeye passed out in a pool of his own piss, I am shocked to see that the place is actually shuttered.

5:50AM-
I finally arrive at Daisy’s Diner, a mediocre greasy spoon that makes up for it’s culinary shortcomings by being comfortable and staffed by a friendly wait-staff that speaks questionable English. As I sit down I am greeted by the flaming waiter who usually serves me when I eat there after getting out late from the barbecue joint. He’s friendly as hell, and reminds me that today is St. Valentine’s Day, after which he mimes puking and says, “Fuck, I hate being single!” Then my waitress shows up; let me tell you, it was worth the early morning effort of getting there just to see this chick. She’s a six-foot-four bleached blonde Puerto Rican Amazon who’s pretty fucking hot, and I have decided to save my visits to Daisy’s for whenever she’s on duty. Deciding that I need more of a snack rather than a full meal, I order a bowl of Yankee bean soup and a side order of sausages. As usual, the soup is lukewarm, but tasty.

6:20AM-
As I return home I pass by several of the closed neighborhood bars and marvel at the sight of cars still buried beneath the snow, a white blanket highlighted by the crystallized vomit of fubar drunkards. In some areas the dispersal of puke brings to mind what it would look like if someone loaded a scattergun with corned beef hash and let fly.

6:30AM-
I now sit down to chronicle my non-adventure and realize that I love these occasional near-dawn jaunts, relishing the all-too-rare silence of my neighborhood. The sun is coming up and before I go to bed and attempt sleep once more, I will drop off my laundry when the local Laundromat opens at 7AM.

What a way to start a day off…

HERE I SIT, BROKEN-HEARTED, AND OTHER CLASSICS OF THE YORE

The classy iteration.

Here I sit, broken-hearted
Tried to shit, but only farted

No Matter how you shake and dance
The last drop falls into your pants

Goddamn motherfucking two-ball bitch
Every time I see you my two balls itch

If it smells like a fish, it’s a good dish
If it smells like cologne, leave it alone

-Authors unknown

You are no doubt familiar with the timeless classics above, what with them being standards found in restrooms in public schools and dump stations all over the nation for at least sixty years, including the now outdated second line, “Paid my dime, but only farted.” Sheer, universal poetry, rendered deathless thanks to lovers of sophomoric stupidity, such as yours truly. Most of such odes are first encountered during our early grade school years, when we are first truly old enough to understand dirty/ toilet humor and perhaps even pen our own offensive lyrics. Staples of the genre include such topics as farts, doo-doo, pee-pee, racial slurs/stereotypes, disrespect of religion, television theme song/pop music parodies, and of course preadolescent misconceptions about sex. You know, intellectual stuff.

My own first exposure to such erudite wit was the classic of body-function awareness, “Milk, milk, lemonade,” used to spectacular effect last season on “Will & Grace” in a puerile pas de deux between Megan Mullaly and Jack Black as a doctor who confirms the piece’s biological validity:

Milk, Milk (pointing to each nipple)
Lemonade (pointing to urethra)
Around the corner (turning around)
Fudge is made (pointing to ass)

To a five-year-old, that shit is a comedy goldmine.

Perhaps the granddaddy of the genre of poetic juvenilia is Benny Bell’s recording of “Shaving Cream,” a Dr. Demento show perennial that burned itself into the collective cerebral cortex of children everywhere. The basic gag has the singer recount a particular situation that would end in a rhyme leading the listener to expect the word “shit” to end the line, but the listener is consistently faked out when the naughty word is instead replaced with “shaving cream.” For example:

Way back when I was in the army
I reached down into my kit
Expecting to find me a sandwich
I pulled out a huge pile of
Shaving cream!
Be nice and clean!
Shave every day and you’ll always look keen!

As you would imagine, the variations to this are nearly infinite, and Bell recorded it several times to escalating idiotic effect. My own favorite versions are as follows:

Our baby fell out of the window
You’d think that her head would be split
But luck was with her that morning
‘Cause she fell in a truckload of
Shaving cream!
Be nice and clean!
Shave every day and you’ll always look keen!

Along with:

And now folks my story is over
I think that it’s time I should quit
If any of you feel offended
Stick your head in a bucket of
Shaving cream!
Be nice and clean!
Shave every day and you’ll always look keen!

Even the youngest verbal smut artist could come up with a cornucopia of words that could lead up to the “shit” fake out, ensuring that cross-country trips with the parents became interminable torture for the grownups. And you could totally get away with it because you weren’t guilty of cussing! God bless you, Benny Bell. God fucking bless you.

Proving that such dumbass endeavors transcend the generations, I remember first hearing this when I was six years old from my beloved grandfather, Ozane, who was a huge fan of Tarzan:

Tarzan the monkey man
Swinging on a rubber band
Lost his pants in a hula dance
Aaaah-Ah-AAAAA (imitation of the Tarzan yell, after which Ozane and I would laugh like a couple of morons)

Then I moved to Westport, Connecticunt (misspelling intended) and heard this one on the playground:

Under the cherry tree
That’s where she showed it to me
It was hairy and black
And it had a huge crack
But it looked like a jungle to me
So I took out my hairy banana
And stuck it in her crack
She let out a scream
And I gave her some cream
Then I took my banana back

Armed with such examples it was only a matter of nanoseconds before our filthy little minds advanced to more complex expression of smuttiness, and where better to start than with the corruption of familiar songs from our favorite babysitter, the television? The beginner’s corrupted TV song is unquestionably the following:

I’m Popeye the sailor man
I live in a garbage can
I eat all the worms and spit out the germs
I’m Popeye the sailor man

Sure, it was based on a theme song first heard in the movies during the 1930’s, but the majority of us were first introduced to the incomprehensible mariner via the glass teat, and as times changed and kids became naughtier, the Popeye song was altered into:

I’m Popeye the sailor man
I live in a garbage can
I like to go swimmin’ with bow-legged wimmen
I’m Popeye the sailor man

Then there was the Adam West “Batman” television series, a genuine phenomenon in its day (and the first time I remember my little pee-pee standing at attention thanks to Julie Newmar as Catwoman), with one of the all-time catchiest signature tunes in TV history, instantly dooming it to parody victimization. We all know the holiday classic “Jingle Bells, Batman smells,” but for the purposes of this article I’m sticking to riffs on the Neal Hefti theme, the best of which is easily:

Batman!
Took me to his house
Batman!
Laid me on the couch
Batman!
Stuck it in greasy
Batman!
Pulled it out easy
Batman!
Batman!
Batman!

Most kids thought this was from the point of view of some hot Batman groupie, but I prefer to think of it as being Robin’s recounting of really goes on at Stately Wayne Manor. But where the hell was Alfred?

And of course you know this parody of another 1960’s cult fave:

The Addams Family started
When Uncle Fester farted
They all became retarded
The Addams Family

But the undisputed champion of TV parodies goes to this horrifying version of “The Beverly Hillbillies, “ which transforms the inspiring tale of a poor mountaineer’s discovery of a rich vein of oil and subsequent Croesus-like wealth into a humorous tale of incestuous rape and the inevitable inbred progeny:

Let me tell you a story ‘bout a man named Jed
He grabbed Ellie-Mae and he threw her on the bed
Down came the zipper and out came the Worm
And out of the Worm come the bubblin’ sperm

Well the next thing you know
Ol’ Ellie-Mae’s knocked up
The kinfolk said, “Jed, you’re such a horny pup!”
Nine months later, she began to scream
And out of her twat slid Jethro Beaudine!

What makes this song a classic is the blunting of the incest/rape angle by presenting the visually ludicrous image of Ellie-Mae giving birth to her hulking, L’il Abner-lookalike cousin as played by the huge Max Baer, Jr., complete with overalls and shitkicker boots.

Largely forgotten nowadays is the Fess Parker vehicle “Daniel Boone,” a much less successful follow-up to the monster hit from the 1950’s, “Davy Crockett.” This TV parody may be unique because it blends the forms of playground lyrics and outright, out-of-nowhere racism:

Daniel Boone was a man
He was a big man
But the bear was bigger
So he ran like a nigger
Up a tree

Which seamlessly segues us into the realm of ethnically offensive rhymes and songs!

My earliest exposure to this subgenre surprisingly happened before I moved to the ultra-racist Westport, occurring during my very early days in California, featuring an utterly weak slam at the two major Asian groups in the States at the time:

Chinese, Japanese (while pulling eyes to simulate epicanthic folds)
Dirty knees (miming appraising dirty laundry)
Look at these! (miming lifting of titties)

Now from what has been explained to me, that one can be seen as helping the ignorant to differentiate between the Chinese and the Japanese, namely one group is fit only to do your laundry and the other has awesome prossies who know exactly how to display the dairy goods.

Another slam against the Chinese that I never quite got was the following:

Ching chong Chinaman
Sitting on a fence
Trying to make a dollar
Out of fifteen cents

Exactly what the fuck does that mean?

And let us not forget the classic of American black/white confrontation:

A fight! A Fight! A Nigger and a white!
If the nigger/white guy doesn’t win
Then we all jump in!

Or the more offensive version:

A fight! A Fight! A Nigger and a white!
The White guy had a gun
The nigger had none
The white guy pulled the trigger
And then there was no nigger
Hooray!

Then there was the classic necrophile poem from when the infamous Ed Gein murder case was current in the late 1950’s (google Ed Gein and be ready to be chilled to the soul):

I fucked an old gal in a graveyard
God damn her old soul, she was dead
The maggots crawled out of her asshole
And the hair slipped off of her head
When I finished my job there
I seen I’d committed a sin
So I reached in my pocket and drew me a straw
And I sucked out the load I shot in

And two from the Catholics I knew back in the days:

Hail Mary, full of grace
Won’t you sit upon my face?

And this British gem that contemplates the duality of Christ as both man and God:

Two in one, one in two
Flush ‘em both down the loo

So with that I invite all of you to write in with your own rhymes and such, and always remember that the more juvenile, the better!

And as a final note, here’s a great Beatles parody:

Hey, Jude
I saw you nude
Don’t try to fake it
I saw you naked

"Don't try to fake it..."

COMING SOON!!!

Dear readers-

I'm sorry that I haven't posted lately but I have been one busy sumbitch, what with the barbecue joint, and my freelance stuff and all that shit. I'm currently working on researching a fun article that some of you have been contacted for input on, and it's sure to open a floodgate of comments. Anyway, give me a few days and I promise that you will have fun with it. Just bear with me.

Oh, and for those of you out there in the internet ether who are fellow fans of international comics, avoid — AVOID LIKE THE MOTHERFUCKING PLAGUE!!! — the new Asterix book, namely ASTERIX AND THE FALLING SKY. I have been a rabid fan of the Asterix books since 1973, and while I have not read all of the 33 entries in the series, this is the first one that makes me say that the series is seriously dead and creatively bankrupt, and that breaks my heart. CAVEAT EMPTOR, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!

And one last thing: check out the old band Radio Birdman, a group that predates and sounds a hell of a lot like my second favorite band, the Damned. I HIGHLY recommend the SUB POP compilation RADIO BIRDMAN: THE ESSENTIAL (1974-1978); If the Damned ever claim that they never heard these guys, then they are outright liars. I may love them, but they sound a LOT like Radio Birdman, both musically — to a certain extent — and vocally. But then the vocal thing can also be applied to Glen Danzig's work with the Misfits, since he clearly was biting off of the Damned's Dave Vanian... and Elvis.

ASS-KIN ROBBINS

Travel back with me now to my misspent youth in Westport, Connecticut, during the late summer of 1979 for one of my fondest childhood memories.

It was a beautiful, sunny day and my friend Enrico and I had just gotten out of a matinee at the long-gone Fine Arts IV movie theater, our young heads full of zest for life and a driving desire for some post-movie ice cream. Luckily for us, the local Baskin and Robbins ice cream parlor was two doors down from the movie house.

We shelled out our money and walked onto the streets of downtown Westport with our chocolate cones held high, frosty cocoa orbs mounted upon hard cones, truly scepters for two young kings of New England existence such as ourselves. Yeah, it was a terrific day and nothing — I mean NOTHING — could ruin it for us.

Heading back to Enrico’s house, we waited at the curb for the light to change. Suddenly, we heard a loud voice yell, “Hey! Hey, you kids!” Our heads whipped around and we beheld a naked, hairy white ass protruding from the passenger side of a dilapidated Chevy; the exhibitionist in question had actually sidled out of the driver’s seat and stuffed his turd factory out of the window for our shocked delight.

Never one to miss an opportunity for mischief, Enrico’s evil mind instantaneously formed a plan of action and with speed that would have made the Flash green with envy his arm shot out and lodged his ice cream, hard-shelled cone and all, right up the driver’s unprepared ass. The cone shattered with a sickening crunch, and the frozen dairy confection mingled with the shrapnel elicited a scream of pain and horror from the mooner.

The air turned chartreuse as a litany of profane language spewed forth from the car, highlighted by the sight of the guy stuck at the now green stoplight as he clawed great hunks of chocolate ice cream from his violated ass-crack like a grizzly bear digging its way into an underground beehive. The honking of annoyed drivers stranded behind the buttcheek miner nearly drowned out our own raucous laughter as we ran to Enrico’s house.

Ah, sweet bird of youth…

POPEYE SPEAKS

A phenomenon I have observed since moving to NYC sixteen years ago — !!! It’s been that long? — is that of older men drunkenly hanging around all day, shooting the shit at local Spanish-run convenience stores, or “bodegas” as we locals call them. Similar in concept to but more liquored up than the black-run barber shop where dudes sit around philosophizing (read “bullshitting”), these salsa-salons can be quite something to see, even to those of us who do not habla Espanol. For example, while living on Manhattan’s Upper West Side I had the singular pleasure of witnessing several Hispanic homeboys ranging between fifty and seventy-some-odd years of age singing a Heineken-fueled rendition of Meatloaf’s then-current hit “I Would Do Anything For Love,” or as they slurred it, “I Wuh Too Ennytin For Luff (But I Hwon Do Dat).” And let us not forget the just as fondly remembered sight of a would be mugger snatching an old lady’s purse while not watching where he was going and consequently running nuts-first into one of those solidly-rooted metal stumps for anchoring fire engines when the high-powered hose is in use. Upon hitting the pavement in testicular agony, the moron was jumped by about twelve bodega philosophers and beaten within an inch of his life while the old lady, whose stolen bag had been returned, laughed at his biblical ass-whuppin’.

Anyway, about an hour ago I strolled over to Jany’s meat market, a combination bodega/butcher shop, in search of beer and custom-sliced breakfast bacon, and while I waited for Chato the butcher to work his magic, who should wander over from the crowded gathering in the rear of the store but Popeye, a neighborhood rummy so nicknamed because of his physical and linguistic resemblance to the beloved and often incomprehensible cartoon sailor. Popeye is the lone white member of the back area cast of characters, and until today I thought he was Irish, but more on that shortly.

When he wandered over to me he shakily clutched two dollars in anticipation of his next bottle of freezer-chilled Heineken, and then he stared directly at me, recognition bringing his attention into focus.

“The whole fucking world is crazy,” he said. I nodded in agreement as he amended his comment with “The whole two-legged race is crazy. The Lord gave us a fucking brain, and look at how we use it…” It was then that I noticed his accent was kind of odd, perhaps middle-European or something.

He continued: “I mean, look at Martin Luther; he had a great idea and look at what they did to him. I’ve been to more countries before I was thirty than I can remember… Fucking Iraq…Iran…I lived in both and they fucking stink!!! If you believe in the stories, they say that paradise was right there, but for what? They’re just killing each other over it… Fucking two-legged race… That’s why I love my cats…”

“Why, them soldiers, they’d make us walk on a plank about two feet wide…for exercise! Exercise! I had them on one side, and the fucking Germans on the other… On a fucking two foot plank? And you know the Jews? If they could not produce… as a woman, you know? The old ways say that she must give you another woman, for having the children, you know? Even if you get the ugliest bitch in town…”

“And rather than walk the plank, what if you ran off into the desert? You know that when a woman can’t produce they call her cunt ‘the underneath,’ like the desert? Well they wanted to give me the ugliest bitch around and I just said forget that; I’ll just jerk off and shoot my cum in the desert. Right into the sand! You hear me? Right into the fucking desert sand!!! Aha ha ha ha haha hahh!!!”

I had absolutely no fucking idea what the hell he was talking about, so I just stood there nodding in feigned understanding, praying for the swift arrival of my bacon. It soon arrived and as Popeye bought himself another libation he shouted to me, “Hey! Stay safe and don’t let the two-legged race make you crazy! Ha ha ha ha!!!” Too late for poor Popeye, apparently.

OOH, THAT SMELL: MOUSE WARS 2006

Sorry about not posting for a while, but I had to work a week long shift to allow a co-worker to spend time with his mom before she returns to the old country; no major adventures to report anyway, so no big.

Anyway, for the past few days I noticed a pungent stench within my tiny abode, namely the scent of the enemy gone tits ups. You guessed it, another mouse went on to meet its maker and left the mini-stink bomb that was itself as a final “fuck you.” The problem was finding the tiny corpse in my notoriously cluttered flat and disposing of it ASAP.

As well as I could I tore my place apart, searching out the usual trap-laden areas and came up with bubkes. It went on like that for days; pulling out my stove, book cases and refrigerator to no avail, burning incensce all the while and tearing out sizable chunks of my Jim Kelly tribute ‘fro in frustration. Then, tonight, just rummaging around under my horribly crowded sink cabinet, I found Mickey Mort, half-cannibalized by one of his brethren, lying on his side like some rodential odelisque.

Rather than be overjoyed by the discovery I was rather confused since no traps were laid under the sink; that space was a labyrinth of cleaning solution bottles, plastic shopping bags for garbage or recycling uses and assorted junk, so I figured that a trap would be wasted there since it would be a bit of an obstacle course even for one of my diminutive foes. Lesson learned: do not underestimate the very tiny. Hell, I should’ve know that after all the stories I’ve read or seen about Ray Palmer, Hank Pym, Salu Digby, the crew of the Proteus (they traveled through a dude's venous system and destroyed a tumor in his brain!), and even the Borrowers, for fuck’s sake… But I wouldn't want to kill any of them!

I removed the critter and searched for clues that would explain the site of death, finally cleaning the place out in the process, and found an unexpected answer. About two months ago I grew ever more irritated at the building’s annual rodent infestation and went to the store for my usual round of traps. I purchased a box of what I thought were Tomcat brand glue traps — yeah, yeah, I know you activists out there are gonna bitch, but get it through your heads: I love animals, but on the subject of vermin infesting my residence I AM NOT ON YOUR SIDE, so deal with it. And besides, every single one of you has cats, so I really do not want to hear about it — but what I purchased turned out to be those poison pebbles that you can just spread around and I have a problem with poisons since you never know where they can turn up, so I just chucked the unopened box under the sink and forgot about it. Why I didn’t just toss it into the trash is beyond me…

Well, apparently the claims on the box proved true and the little sumbitch couldn’t resist chewing through the box for the tasty-yet-lethal munchies within, and consequently paid with his life. And in doing so, shared the poison with his family who had clearly feasted upon his mortal remains. I have not heard any of the frequent nighttime skitterings, so I would guess that the other mouse/mice have also joined the Choir Invisible.

Anyway, thank you Tomcat brand. Please send me a promotional t-shirt and i will proudly wear the motherfucker!

PRECINCT CHICKEN

The other day I had a hankering for one of my periodic infusions of KFC, better known to those of us who are unafraid to date ourselves as Kentucky Fried Chicken, and I knew of one such location near the barbecue joint where I work, perhaps not so coincidentally near Greenwood Cemetery. Sadly, a large number of NYC chicken joints attract the dregs of humanity in the form of junkies, beggars and sundry criminal types, most of whom are, sadly and embarrassingly, my fellow highly rhythmic individuals. Many such establishments are frequently held up by firearms-wielding latter day Zulus, and since it’s perceived as “boogie-on-schvuggie” crime no one really cares, so the locals who frequent these establishments have adapted and learned to accept the unscrubbed interiors and six-inch-thick bulletproof glass battlements, along with the uncouth antics of the walking minstrel show rejects who infest them. If you want an in-your-face catalog of every negative black stereotype go to nearly any KFC in Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx — not so much Manhattan anymore since most of them have been co-opted into the Reise restaurant conglomerate and can now be found in areas frequented by tourists and other such white people — and be prepared to cringe.

So anyway, I got off the bus near 28th street and trekked over to the KFC on Fourth Avenue. I entered and was astonished by the gleaming, obviously germ-free surfaces and floor, and the complete and utter lack of bulletproof shielding. The clientele consisted of a handful of Asians — who actually cleaned up after themselves when they finished their meal, unlike most of my highly rhythmic brethren at the one near my apartment — several elderly Hispanics and three black people (myself included, and the other two were an elegant lady and her well-behaved four-year-old), and the staff were all white kids…

“Have I stumbled into an alternate plane of reality?” I asked myself as my mind frantically grasped for an explanation as to how a chicken joint that was fit for humans could exist in this location, just a stone’s throw from an equally immaculate White Castle, the infamous burger chain/colonic Chernobyl that also caters to an unsavory segment of the population.

And then I realized what was up: located directly between the two restaurants was the neighborhood police precinct. The local cops appeared to be a well-fed lot ó there is also a Dunkin Donuts across the street, and Heaven forfend that anyone should fuck with a gorging-source for our Boys in Blue…

These restaurants had to be the safest places in the area, and the staff of both smile cheerfully, secure in the knowledge that only the most cracked-out idiot with a death wish would ever entertain the thought of robbing them at gunpoint. So if you’re in the area and in the mood for secure bad eating, do drop in.

WELCOME TO MY WORLD

One of the fun things about maintaining this blog is having some of the regulars at the barbecue joint as fervent readers of my ramblings, presumably entertained by the true-life narrative revolving around the place where many of them eat their fill and get soused on an almost daily basis. However, with a few exceptions, most of the regulars do not ever get to witness the parade of lunatics and losers that I often chronicle, and some began to wonder if my tales of drunkenness and mental illness were merely figments of my febrile imagination. Allow me to provide a case in point: two of my regular attendees and readers are Chez and Jayne, a charming and genteel couple with whom I hit it off immediately. I'd say that I see either or both of them on about four out of my five days/nights on duty, and they had yet to behold the spectacle of the random loonies who periodically cross over into our little barbecue world.

Until the other evening.

Chez pulled up a seat at the bar shortly after 5PM and proceeded to get his drink on while waiting for Jayne to join him after getting off from work. About a half hour later a rotund, middle-aged man appeared at the door and stared at it quizzically for a few moments; I could almost see the mice running on the treadmill in his cranium in an attempt to fire up his synapses enough to process exactly how to gain entry into the joint. His ham hand unsteadily grasped at the space opposite the door handle, and after about a minute of my boss and I gazing in wonder at his futile efforts to open the door from the wrong angle he sussed out the problem and stumbled in.

In one of those rip-the-needle-off-the-record moments the fellow blearily scanned his surroundings and presently locked his gaze on my boss, who was behind the bar and therefore the man to talk to in order to obtain volatile libations. My boss and I exchanged a knowing glance in agreement over the guy's fucked up state, a condition that he instantly verified by mumbling something rather unintelligible that was apparently "I want some more shots!!!"

Now let me tell you in no uncertain terms that this guy was majorly shitfaced — and I should know from such things — at a mere 5:30PM, so there was no way in hell that my boss was going to serve the dude; for those who do not know, it's against New York State law to serve liquor to someone who is visibly intoxicated, and this guy was in no way coherent.

My boss politely refused the guy any more liquor but made it clear that we would be happy to serve him soft drinks or food. Our ever-on-the-ball waitress/goddess, Tracey, breezed over to the table where the walking amalgam of gin sugars had situated himself and sweetly walked him through the menu with the patience of a saint, a task made all the more difficult by English being the guy's second language, and none of the staff are even remotely conversant in Polish. After Tracey successfully skirted the language barrier, the guy finally agreed upon a pulled pork sandwich with a side of macaroni and cheese.

While waiting for his sandwich the walking wasted gestured wildly, apparently irked because he thought our ceiling was dirty, and he suggested that he'd be willing to repaint it for us. That bit of grasping for work led to him asking if he could do general chores for us for cash (or so I thought), a notion politely rebuffed by my boss.

Presently his sandwich arrived, and when Tracey set it down in front of him he stared at it like it was a serpent, coiled and ready to strike at him. This standoff went on for the next ten minutes or so, and when he finally scarfed into the sweltering swine flesh I fervently placed a silent prayer to whatever barbecue gods there may be that the dude wouldn't blow Thunderbird-marinated chow all over the table.

During all of this Chez — remember him? One of the subjects of this entry? — sat wondering how the staff puts up with such nonsense on a daily basis, all while girding his sensibilities with steady doses of Budweiser. Soon, Jayne showed up and joined her husband at the bar, and was swiftly brought up to speed on the unfolding dramedy. At that point Tracey gave our bombed guest his check, and the guy then managed to convey to us that he was homeless and had no cash. He wandered into the men's room, and upon coming out he spotted Jayne, whom he walked up to and said "I'll see you later," apparently confusing her for Saint Tracey of Greenwood. He then packed up his belongings and departed. What the fuck could we do but let him leave? My boss concluded that by letting the guy off he was scoring points for his own personal karma, so what the hell?

Once the deadbeat cleared out, Chez and Jayne went off for about a half hour about finally experiencing what I write about and extending kudos to the staff for our seemingly endless patience with this sort of shit.

Welcome to my world, motherfuckers.

2006 WILL BE A FUCKING GREAT YEAR FOR US HOKUTO NO KEN GEEKS

Folks, I believe that the new year will be great for a variety of reasons, but I just got the best piece of news I've heard in a hell of a long time: starting in March the will be a brand new FIST OF THE NORTH STAR - HOKUTO NO KEN to us purists - theatrical animated film for the next three years, finally doing justice to the awesomeness of the manga. The first of the new films focuses on what is in my opinion the most undeniably badassed segment in the warrior epic, namely Kenshiro versus Souther, a SERIOUSLY BADASS motherfucker if ever there was one. Go to http://www.hokuto-no-ken.jp/ and once you enter the site click on the trailer.

God DAMN, I wanna see this film!