MAY 25TH, 1977: KICKED IN THE ASS BY THE FORCE

Remember when you were a little kid and your folks took you to the movies for the first time? I can’t speak for everyone else out there, but I still have clear memories of the first movie I saw in the theater, namely a now obscure animated feature called GULLIVER’S TRAVELS BEYOND THE MOON. I didn’t know at the time that it was a dubbed Japanese import, but I will never forget the feeling of having the movie theater’s Stygian blackness envelop me and remove me from the mundane world, placing me firmly in the fantasy world the flickered onscreen. The largeness of the space only accentuated my own three-year-old smallness in that big, cushioned seat, and being utterly sucked in by the storytelling made me feel a sense of magic and wonder unique to the movies for the first time in my life.

For me, going to the movies was that most special of treats, and having proven to my parents that I could be well-behaved and sit spellbound, I went to a hell of a lot of flicks in those pre-VCR days, even attractions that were distinctly not for kids (THE GODFATHER and SERPICO immediately spring to mind). My first favorite film was the lavish live action Disney version of 20,000 LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA (one of many influences that lead me to think of becoming a marine biologist, a field that I did not end up pursuing, but still study as an amateur to this day), eclipsed five years later by JAWS, and, yes, all those stories that you’ve heard about how it literally scared people off out of the oceans for years are absolutely the gospel truth (my mom tells me that after seeing Hitchcock’s PSYCHO in 1960 she was too terrified to take a shower if no one else was in the house for quite some time). Such was the power of cinema in the days before “films by committee.”

But no movie-going experience before or since has utterly shaken me to the core as both a film fan and a human being as seeing the original STAR WARS on opening night in May of 1977, an event that occurred quite by accident.

My father had recently moved back to the New York area after nearly two years near Washington, D.C. (where I had visited him during the Bicentennial and we had seen the legendary INFRA-MAN as a first-run movie), and in one of our many vain attempts to foster any kind of real parent/child relationship we drove into Manhattan one evening, intent on seeing Woody Allen’s ANNIE HALL. When we arrived in the city, we were dismayed to find that every theater that had the movie was sold out for all shows that night and we were simply shit out of luck.

We wandered about Times Square for some time, trying to figure out what to do next, when my dad spotted a movie poster outside the Astor Plaza for some film called STAR WARS. There were no people on line for it, and neither one of us was surprised by that since we’d never heard word one about it. Lacking anything better to do, my dad looked at me and said, “You want to give this a shot?” I said, “Why not?” and we entered the nearly deserted foyer. Once popcorn and sodas had been obtained, we took our seats among the roughly eighty people in the place. Soon the lights dimmed and we readied our selves for what would probably be another cheesy sci-fi potboiler (my parents may not have agreed on much, but neither of them ever forgave me for dragging them to see the horrendous Italian borefest WAR BETWEEN THE PLANETS). Assorted trailers came and went, and then the familiar signature tune and logo of 20th Century Fox pictures lit up the screen. Then the audio abruptly went silent and the screen went black, save for tiny blue letters that read, “A long time ago, in a galaxy, far, far away…”

Then BAM! A blaring musical sting exploded out of the speakers, swiftly cohering into a lush orchestral arrangement, as the camera pulled back on a massive star field to reveal the words “Star Wars.” As the title faded further into the distance, a text crawl like those found in the old Flash Gordon serial chapter plays that my father loved during his youth set the scene for the audience.

Then a multi-engined spacecraft hauled ass over the camera, firing blast after blast behind it, clearly in an attempt to shake off some pursuing menace. As the embattled cruiser flew into the horizon, the pointed white tip of an obviously bigger vessel loomed into view, itself returning volley after volley at its fleeing prey. And the huge, wedge-shaped ship loomed further onto the screen, giving a clue as to its massive scale. And it kept coming. And coming. And coming. How fucking big was the damned thing??? With hugeness like that on display, all I could think of was that this is what a space opera helmed by Cecil B. DeMille would have looked like.

And my initial perception was not far from the mark at all; the audience was dropped smack dab into a fully- realized universe of space fantasy, dripping with all manner of indescribable aliens, creatures, robots, spaceships, heroes — both competent and otherwise — lightsaber-wielding warriors, mind-boggling state-of-the-art visual effects, and an asthmatic black-clad villain whose helmet made his head look like a big cock. All of which got capped off with the most spectacular space battle ever seen on film up to that time. In short, everything a lad just a month short of his twelfth birthday would want to see, with the exception of some luscious boobies (which we kinda got anyway since Princess Leia was obviously unencumbered during her stay on the Death Star, especially when she was soaking wet in the trash compactor).

When the credits rolled, the entire audience stood and cheered like zealots at a revival meeting; without knowing it, we had become the first generation of STAR WARS cultists. Upon reaching the outer lobby I purchased the movie program, and pored over every minute detail of the photos that would soon become familiar across the globe. And as my dad and I drove back to his apartment in White Plains neither of us said a word. We were both simply too stunned by the experience.

When I returned to school in Westport that Monday, I ranted and raved like a religious fanatic about STAR WARS, and my sixth grade schoolmates looked at me as though they were witnessing my utter mental breakdown. The saddest part was that there was no way for my wild tales to be proven until the film opened in town, something that didn’t happen for another month since this was the days long before multiplexes and saturation openings. But in the end I was proven right, and all of my adolescent contemporaries fell under the spell of STAR WARS and “drank the Kool Aid,” so to speak. And the rest was history.

That’s my story, but please write in with your tale of seeing STAR WARS for the first time, especially if you saw it when it came out. It’s kind of hard to communicate what a kick in the ass that movie gave to the general public at the time, especially when trying to get it across to this current generation who are victims of George Lucas’ — and most of Hollywood’s, for that matter — creative bankruptcy.

TALES OF FAIRFIELD COUNTY: GOIN' SPOOKIN'

Just another Saturday night in Fairfield County.

The squeal of tires peeling out cut through the silence of the night like a bone saw through a cadaver’s chest. To Duffy it was a trumpet’s blare heralding a night of intoxicant-fueled adventure, and with his pal, Root, at the wheel the evening was pregnant with possibility, dude.

They’d been prowling the privileged back streets of Westport in search of any sort of diversion; slutty girls in three-sizes-too-small Led Zepplin T’s who might sloppily suck their dicks if plied with some peach schnapps, scoring a connection for booger sugar at the local arcade — provided they could get past the rinky-dink security set up by that faggot gangster pedophile who owned the place and had kicked them out two weeks previous for booting beer foam and half-digested light-bulb-warmed pizza all over the Space Invaders console — , spray-painting pejorative graffiti against their high school administrators on the outer wall of the high school's field house, spraying accelerants into mailboxes and sparking them up, ragging on all those fuckin’ homos and dykes coming out of the Brook Café…

Man, any of that shit could happen and be awesome, but the boys needed something special. Really special, but what’d be totally fucking perfect?

The repeating strobe blur of affluent suburbia’s demi-mansions looming, all bright and ostentatious in front of them, swept swiftly past and smeared across the windows as they faded into the rear, only to start over again. The glow-in-the-dark orange of the too-close full moon.

Yeah… The acid’s wrestlin’ with the pot, and with a backseat cooler full of beers and hard liquor, there was a whole world of epic thrills to be conquered. They were fuckin’ heroes, man, scouring the badlands for boredom so they could kick it in the fuckin’ ass! All they needed was a sign from the gods of partyin’, and their task would be made clear.

The car wound its way through the labyrinth of Valley Road, and it took all of Root’s skills as a drunk driver to keep it on the right side of the street. Rounding a sharp corner, the pairs' addled vision spotted a white-lipped nigger in what looked like a foxhunting jacket holding out his arm, offering a rusty metal ring. And wouldn’t you know it? Fucking coon isn’t getting out of our way, and he’s mockin’ us, standin’ like a fuckin’ faggot!

The car swerved into a shrub arrangement in an effort to avoid running over the stupid spook and Root killed the engine with a bitter flick of his wrist, twisting the key free from the dash. He half-leapt, half-fell from the vehicle onto the lawn and hollered, “What’s yer fuckin’ problem, boy?” at the ebony figure. Then the boys realized it was just a cement lawn jockey, but it was oh-so-much more than just that. It was their sign. Tonight they would head out of Westport and go spookin’!

As Witchfinder General’s imaginatively titled “Witchfinder General” bansheed out of the car’s speakers, their Camaro crossed the Saugatuck Bridge, nearing the border of Norwalk, specifically South Norwalk. The place was totally without morals, man, and stuffed with all the spooks they’d need for their little bit of entertainment.

Spookin’ was a game of timing and skill, definitely not for pussies. The object was to find a nigger, drive up right next to him and yell, “Hey, nigger!” as loud as possible, and then haul ass. You had to haul ass because otherwise the spook might haul you out of the car and kill you. Then they’d fuck you, and whatever else they do to lead up to one of their cannibal feasts. And for the really brave, the perfect way to spice up spookin’ was to drive as fast as possible after a likely boogie and chase the fucker, even all over the sidewalk. And who cared if you fucked up one of their lawns, or fences, or even a front porch? Their houses were all fucking rat traps anyway. And if you hit one of the chocolate folks, the local cops couldn’t care less; just one more of them offa the streets so they don’t have to bother with arresting them in the first place. It was a win/win any way you looked at it.

As the last of his twelfth Coors trickled down his gullet, Duffy tossed the beer can over his shoulder, adding to the mountain of discarded aluminum in the back seat, and began rolling a fat joint. He sparked the end and inhaled deeply, eventually passing the illicit smoke to Root. A navigator needed to be sharp, and a good hit was just what the doctor ordered. Root sucked down several lungfulls, washed them down with a slug of peach schnapps, and complemented the thick liquor with a beer chaser. Soon now, very soon…

Duffy slapped Root on the shoulder and pointed to a teen spook on the sidewalk ahead of them. Root smiled like a Jack ‘o lantern and gunned the engine. With a roar, the Camaro accelerated at the kid like a shot, and the wide-eyed smudge ran for his life.

Knocking over trash cans, Root and Duffy whooped and hollered as the car bore them on their hunt, every nerve alive, every sense sharp; so sharp that the boy they pursued looked like three people, and when all three lined up the target would be had.

The kid dove over a flimsy picket fence and landed face first into a soggy bag of raked leaves, narrowly missing being clipped by the speeding Camaro. The car halted, and the boys stuck out their heads to yell, “Hey, nigger!” Laughing, they peeled out into the street at eighty miles per hour, looking over their shoulders through the rear window at the spooked spook.

The boys were thrown forward by the sledgehammer impact as the front end of the Camaro wrapped itself around the street lamp they swerved into. Duffy’s football-thug bulk torpedoed through the windshield, crushing his skull and shredding the flesh from his face, his corpse rolling to an eventual stop in the garbage-strewn street. Root’s teeth were savagely wrenched from his mouth and dispersed into his esophagus upon making contact with the unyielding steering wheel. His neck snapped back and he began to choke on the blood and dental fragments.

Soon the Camaro ignited, and the unconscious Root's flesh fused with the now-molten pleather seat cushions.

Just another Saturday night in Fairfield County.

THE BEST LAID PLANS...

Wouldja believe that already the major plan I had for my time off has fallen through? Yes, I took my time off when I did out of severe need for some R&R, but I took it during this week so I could spend some quality time with a favorite lady-friend while she was in the country for the first time in over a year. We had a variety of plans ready to go — including some much needed osh-osh — but now that’s all moot.

The lady in question was coming back to the States so she could visit with her elder sister in New Jersey and then head up toward Maine to spend Passover with the rest of her family and visit with her brother who has thankfully kicked ass on a very serious illness and is now engaged to be married (You GO, Jeffrey!!!), all while fitting in time to see me for few days. All great, but upon returning to the US, she was informed that the father of a mutual friend of ours who had been visiting her in London had died, apparently during his daughter’s time with lady-friend, and the friend came home to find him there and was understandably devastated. So, my lady-friend called me to let me know that her friend had asked her to stay on for a bit and lend emotional support, which I totally understand, thereby cutting out one of our two days together. Then today she calls me from her sister’s place and tells me that her nephew is very sick and her sister has asked her to stay another day, thereby killing our time together outright. She apologized and hoped that we could perhaps meet up during the summer — who knows when or where? —but let’s face it, what can she do? Family is, after all, family.

So, so much for my surprise reservations at a Manhattan hot tub and at an exquisite Chinatown eatery, to say nothing of some very expensive "leafy inhalables" purchased for the occasion, but shit happens. Perhaps it's for the best since what little time we would have had together would have been overshadowed by the spectre of drama. I’m not angry about it, but now I have no reason to stay in Brooklyn for the remainder of my vacation.

VACATION! (ALL I EVER WANTED)

After enduring a long week of barbecuing and dealing with the public, my much-needed time off begins. As previously stated, with the exceptions of a pre-planned ten days in the UK last May, my regular days off per week and exactly one sick day, I have been at the barbecue joint every single day since a week before it opened last year on St. Patrick’s Day, occasionally covering for my boss or the other kitchen guy, and I have reached my limit. I need to detox.

Ever since my career in comics came to an abrupt and unceremonious end, I have endeavored to figure out “what next?” and as a result I have neglected several aspects of my personal, non-professional life, and during my break I intend to remedy that. I’m not traveling, but am instead going to concentrate on actually organizing my apartment for the first time in about three years, going out to the movies, doing some more writing, spending quality time with a favorite lady friend, hanging out with a pal from high school who is for all intents and purposes my brother, and getting as motherfucking stoned as humanly possible via some seriously stinky buds that can be smelled from across the room — just the smell of my backpack after obtaining said smokables is enough to get me arrested — and simultaneously breaking in a spectacular new hookah. And if the mood strikes me I may also brew up a batch of my famous fully loaded gumbo (hopefully Alaskan King Crab legs will be available at the local fish market).

So, my time off will amount to putting things in order, pussy, and partyin’, and, MAN, am I ready for all of it!

ONE YEAR LATER: A BAD MOOD, AMATEUR NIGHT, AND A VERY APPRECIATIVE CUSTOMER

A few days ago I sat at the barbecue joint's bar, lost in a very deep funk. You see, during the earlier portions of the day, from when we open to serve food until the dinner rush gets off to a proper start, there is a bit of down time, and during that time one's mind can turn on them with a vengeance they had never known (thanks for that one, Gary Numan). I stared into space while mulling over my current in-the-shitter mind-state, was unintentionally grouchy to my co-workers, and was just a general living buzzkill. It was also the day before St. Patrick's Day — which is, coincidentally and rather appropriately, our one year anniversary — and I, for one, was dreading it like an imminent prostate exam; we all know that St. Patrick's Day is "amateur night," namely the night when the general public goes nuts in what has become a sort of National Drunkenness Day while those of us who can handle our libations want to get off of the streets as soon as humanly possible.

Soon the dinner rush arrived and my somber reverie came to an end. I began dishing up our signature culinary delights, and eventually ended up serving a Southern-accented cutie who was a recent addition to the bar. The lady in question was from the south, and like many such expatriates went on for quite a while on how she was "from the south/knows good barbecue/will tell me how it stacks up to what she grew up with," a recital I hear all the time, so I politely brushed her off with "I hope you enjoy it!" The lady went back to her dinner, which she was sharing with a friend, and I returned to my work, eventually finding more down time and plopping myself down at an empty table to continue reading a book.

Suddenly there was a blur of motion to my left, and a pair of arms was thrown around my neck. As I turned to see just what the hell was going on, my cheek was sweetly kissed and I heard a purring "Mmmmm" next to my ear. It was the southern gal, totally overcome by barbecue lust, and her pal at the bar saluted from the bar with a frothing Carlsberg glass. She happily gushed about how much she and her friend enjoyed the meal, promising to return with more teachers in the future (she does Outward Bound training for the local schools). Then she returned to the bar where she and her pal wiled away the hours in harmlessly drunken revelry.

That small act of sweetness shook me out of my wretched mood for the rest of the evening.

Then came St. Patrick's Day, and I am somewhat surprised to say that while lucrative for the establishment, the night itself was rather sedate and very easy to handle; the previous year was like a zoo on LSD exploding out of Satan's asshole, replete with crazy drunks, deafening music, and an endless array of kitchen orders that nearly killed me. Now, one year later, the anticipated food rush came and went without the two-man kitchen staff going mad, in fact I have dealt with far worse on any given weekend. It just goes to show you how you can develop polished skills over a period of time and not even notice it.

So the staff of the barbecue joint has survived its first year, despite some staffing upheavals, the day-to-day crazy shit inherent to the restaurant biz, local urchins chucking stink bombs through our door for yucks, wasted and annoying patrons, asshole distributors, screaming children and their uncaring parents, and the dysfunctional family unit that is the staff itself. Business has picked up like a motherfucker, and finally the crew's efforts are amounting to more than just diligence and professionalism, so let's see where it all leads.

SICK OF IT ALL: THE LITANY OF JOB BURNOUT

People —

I love what I do, but I am absolutely fucking sick of my work routine and I have reached a point of job burnout that verges on madness. One of my many personal flaws is the fact that I am an incorrigible workaholic; I have done the math, and excluding a ten day trip abroad in May, my regular two days off per week and exactly one sick day, I have been at the barbecue joint every single day since a week before it opened on Saint Patrick’s day, 2005.

In short, I need a break. NOW.

If you have been reading my posts regarding the barbecue joint you are aware of the day to day travails that I and the rest of the staff face, and much like a front line soldier one adapts to life under fire, but one also starts to suffer from battle fatigue. Many factors have contributed to my current state of edginess and downright bad mood from Hell, and what follows is an attempt to sort them out for the record.

I am absolutely fucking sick of:

1. THE SUNDAY SHIFT. I arrive on Sunday morning at 10:30 to make sure that everything is ready to roll for when we open at noon, and we barely get any traffic at the joint until 5PM, so the bartender and I basically sit around with our thumbs up our asses for hours. During those hours time moves backwards, and since I don’t get out of work on Saturday nights until fairly late, I’m too wound up to really get any sleep, so by the time I actually konk out I have maybe an hour or two of rest before the vicious cycle begins anew and I show up to work looking and acting like a lurching zombie. And the day DOES NOT END.

2. IRRITATING NEIGHBORHOOD MOOKS. Every neighborhood has them, but it seems like Greenwood Heights has a disproportionate amount of provincial local douchebags who not only feel a sense of unearned entitlement, but they also embody every negative stereotype about Brooklynites. Bad accents, loudmouthed obnoxiousness, low class clothes, tacky jewelry that they think is chic, open hostility to any newcomers in the neighborhood, casually racist stupidity uttered directly to my face, and the nerve to show up to the place already loaded and belligerent, all elements that add up to a big lump of neighborhood shit. I loathe and despise each and every one of you, and I hope that someday someone will mercilessly irritate you the way that your mere presence sends me into apoplexy.

3. SOME OF OUR REGULARS. They say that familiarity breeds contempt, and, brother, I am just brimming with it. I honestly am dearly fond of certain regulars — you know who you are — and I am happy to be cordial to the rest of you who come in nearly every day, but to be honest I am totally sick of the mere sight of some of you. Seeing your faces every single day only serves to reinforce the fact that my life has become stuck in a rut, and some of your personalities have begun to affect me like when a rusty three-tined fork is slowly scraped down my face. Unless I ask, I do not give a flying fuck about how your day went, I do not want to hear about your vacation plans while I am stuck here, and I definitely do not want to hear about the extravagant raise that you have just been granted. And if I tell you that I am not in a mood to talk, please respect that and do not bore me with whatever mundane tripe you want to recount. And to those of you who think you’re slick and imagine that we don’t notice when you try to scam free drinks: we DO notice, and we’d slap the shit out of you for it if we could get away with it.

4. WORK-RELATED INJURIES. My hands and arms bear the evidence of a thousand cuts and burns that go with the territory, but I need a week or two away from bleeding and blistering.

5. “THURSDAY NIGHT IS KID’S NIGHT.” Kids eat for free on Thursday nights, and predictably the parents come out of the woodwork with an army of squalling, hyperactive brats. The kids invariably shriek like banshees and run around totally out of control, spilling food all over the floor and knocking over chairs while mum and dad ignore them and suck down another round of vodka and cranberry juice, and the staff grits its collective teeth and pulls out its collective hair. I don’t blame the kids for any of this, it’s clearly a lack of any sort of parenting that is to blame for this mini-Bedlam, and that irks me like a motherfucker. One parent in particular really gets on my wick, namely a repeat offender whom I have nicknamed “Dickhead Dad;” this asshole has been repeatedly told to keep his obnoxious spawn away from the bar, where they have been known to bother the patrons, and he acts sheepishly surprised every single time myself or the bartender remind him of this.

6. MENU ITEMS THAT ARE SHEER TORMENT TO PREPARE. The two items that I would love to avoid making for the rest of my time in any kitchen are the pulled chicken sandwich and our white bean potato salad; both are messy as all fuck, and the potato salad takes a looooong time to make, what with boiling the potatoes the day before prep, letting them cool, and then cutting literally a few hundred spuds into bite-sized chunks, all punctuating the sheer tedium of the process.

7. MY DORMANT SOCIAL LIFE. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it, but thanks to the nighttime schedule intrinsic to the restaurant biz my leisure time no longer corresponds to that of my friends, and the only women I meet are found during my work hours. And most of those women are young enough to be my daughters, which is indeed a sobering thought. Not being able to date at conventional times has thrown a major monkey wrench into my quest for a mate and for a bit of lovin’ I have to rely on the periodic kindness of a couple of favorite bedmates when and if they are currently available and able to meet for some late night osh-osh. No offense to my benevolent goddesses, but I need me some regular pussy, god dammit!!!

8. MUSICAL TORTURE. Key to this list of grievances is the endless musical torture at the barbecue joint; my boss and one of our bartenders in particular have the ability to render me near-homicidal when they get near the CD player because they both play the same handful of discs over and over and over again, ad nauseam, much of which is artificial-sounding modern country music and horrible, fake-assed white man blues like the incredibly self-indulgent works of the Blues Brothers (I love the movie, but hate their music; if I want to hear any of the songs they perform, I’ll listen to the ORIGINALS, thank you very much, and adding insult to injury, neither John Belushi or Dan Ackroyd could sing worth a shit, nor did they possess even the slightest modicum of soul). But the Torquemada award has to go to our otherwise lovely and sweet bartender who plays the same handful of five to ten depressing or just plain bad CDs, discs so awful that one of our patrons actually told her to her face that while being subjected to her music a part of him was dying, and our waitress/goddess, Tracey, is quoted as stating, “it causes me spontaneous menstruation.” In fact, she has turned me against Johnny Cash thanks to constant repetition of the same couple of albums, and that is an assault that I cannot forgive. I have since taken to bringing my boom box to keep me sane in the kitchen, but since I spend my downtime at the bar either reading or writing — like I’m doing right now — I am still caught in the firing zone. However, to the bartender’s credit, she is trying not to make me kill her and slow roast her body parts, so at least there is some progress on this particular issue.

9. CHEAPASS HIPSTER SHITHEADS. The area is rife with twenty-something hipsters, would-be writers, poets, actors and musicians who often come in, order the cheapest items on the menu and then they leave the waitress or bartender a tip that wouldn’t even pay for bus fare. Such behavior doesn’t affect me personally since I don’t depend on tips to survive, but the rest of the non-kitchen staff does, and it hurts to see them bow and scrape for these wimp turds only to receive a pitiful pittance. These are the people who deserved to be beaten up every day by the school bully, only the ones that I see have obviously not had their asses kicked enough to teach them even a semblance of usefulness to society at large. And the worst part is that some of them actually take pleasure in mistreating the staff out of some sense of superiority because they fancy themselves “artistes.” Well I’d like to stuff my size 13 tabi shoe right up your “artiste” arse, ya bastids!

10. WASTED IDIOTS WHO EXPECT US TO ENDURE WHATEVER DRIVEL COMES OUT OF THEIR SLURRING MOUTHS. There are few things more soul-destroying than having to put up with the dissipated rummies that periodically stagger in and irritate the staff and other patrons with their wasted antics, replete with histrionics that often involve much screaming, crying and wild gesticulations. We have actually called the police to deal with one such example, but usually they are at least non-dangerous enough to hope that they will eventually stagger out once more into the night and inflict themselves upon a more appropriate venue, such as the truly horrifying alky bar Jackie’s Fifth Amendment.

And that’s what has been eating away at my state of mind and driving me to nearly climb a bell tower with a thirty-aught-six and sniper scope and start picking off people, Charlie Starkweather-style. I am taking the first week in April off and staying in Brooklyn since I can’t afford to take a proper vacation, but a week of no barbecuing is definitely what is required.

BAD KARMA WEEKEND: A SUCKASS CONVENTION AND VIOLENCE IN THE STREET

Folks, this a long one, so you have been warned.
 
Ever have a weekend that looked utterly promising turn into outright horseshit? For the first time in over a decade, the Jacob Javits Center hosted a massive New York Comicon, a massive East Coast expo featuring everything that a comic book fan could want to encounter, including hard-to-find back issues, rare original art pages, collectible toys and tchochkes of all manner of description, cult movie and TV t-shirts, enough free promotional shit to choke a goat, and the chance to hobnob with and get autographs/sketches from comic book artists and writers both up-and-coming and legendary; in short, Byzantium to a dyed-in-the-wool geek or wide-eyed kid.

I heard about the event weeks in advance and, thanks to one of my freelance gigs, was able to score a press pass that allowed me free access to the whole shebang for the entire weekend (big thanks to Ace and Calvin for that one!). Thus armed, I arranged to arrive late at the barbecue asylum on Friday and Saturday — no big deal since I’m pretty much there all the goddamned time — and loaded up my courier’s bag with the essential convention items that any geek should have at the ready: sketchbook, pens for autographs, camera, and notebook for making sure one gets it right for the blog. And so, I set off to geek Mecca.

The Comicon — how I LOATHE such cutesy terms for any sort of event!!! — opened for the press early on Friday, with the public gaining entry at 4PM, plenty of time in which to get first crack at the cornucopia of goods for sale and whatever artists were kind enough to show up early. Now, for those of you who have never beheld the Javits center, it’s a MOTHERFUCKINGLY HUGE convention hall that is regularly host to all sorts of toy, media, technology, boat and car shows, all of which are spread out over several rooms and levels — including one ginormous room that serves at the real display epicenter of the affair — in order to facilitate movement by the massive crowds in attendance.

Over a decade ago, during the dreaded Giuliani administration (read “police state”), there were at least two absolutely wondrous and fun conventions held at the place that are still discussed fondly by us con veterans to this day, and the reason that the event didn’t continue annually was because the Giuliani administration was convinced that the whole thing was run by the Mob, and therefore had to be shut down for good. That move simultaneously pissed off the fans and industry folk, and also screwed the city in the ass by cutting off tens of thousands of potential attendees, all of whom were eager to shell out plenty of filthy lucre to fuel the fannish monkey on their backs. So, needless to say, anyone with half a brain could have foreseen the multitude of rabid faithful who would brave even a torrential rainstorm of pus, vomit and ear wax to once more enjoy such a Woodstock of four-color wonderment.

Everyone, that is, except the event planners.

Upon arrival at the center I was overwhelmed with pleasant nostalgia, the air pregnant with excitement as I crossed the threshold into an edifice reminiscent of a precursor to the dome city in LOGAN’S RUN, the anxious children waiting to shake hands and be photographed with their favorite comics characters — there used to be this zaftig chick who portrayed She-Hulk back in the Nineties… — the smelly adult geeks who would otherwise never have left their parents’ basements, all enough to kindle the flames in my evil little heart. And here I was, ready to experience all of that once more.

As I entered, I navigated past the impressive life-size Lego statue of Batman through the massive lines of ticket buyers, made my way to the press room, and picked up my all-access pass. Then I was directed to the entrance to the main room, and was immediately horrified by a pre-general admission throng. Bear in mind that I got there at noon and they had already begun to allow the public to line up for the 4PM gate. Refusing to stand in that queue, I shouldered my way past the masses, quelling any cries of protest with my press credentials as prominently displayed as a CIA photo ID, and breezed through the security with nary a raised eyebrow.

The expected garden of geekly delights sprawled before my eyes. Everywhere I looked there were endless displays of comics, toys, posters and other such items that are guaranteed not to get most people laid, surmounted with the occasional cosplay girl (short for “costume play,” as per Japanese geekery culture), and I felt like I had returned home. Then I noticed that everyone and their brother had a press pass, so much so that even before being opened to the public the place was uncomfortably crowded. Realizing the state of affairs, my internal battle computer kicked into high gear and I made a focused beeline around the place, one that if rendered as a Sunday page would have looked like Billy’s neighborhood trail in “The Family Circus,” and scoped out the artists and available junk.

First item of business was to check out Artist’s Alley and see if any of the people I knew or worked with were about, and the only one I found on Friday who wasn’t inundated with dick-in-hand fanboys was the incredibly talented Kyle Baker. The lack of a fanboy army was no shock since this was the pre-public scanning, and he had the good sense to get his own booth rather than be stuck in the Artist’s Alley which he was in the process of setting up when I saw him. During my Vertigo days I had the pleasure of working with him on a few projects, but I first met him during the Marvel Comics years when my fellow bullpen goons would go drinking at Sophie’s bar on 5th Street just around the corner on Avenue A. The crazy bastard was such a consummate professional that he could imbibe Viking-style and then shut off the alcohol effects and return to his drawing board to get the job done. And done WELL.

So there he was, setting up his display with his wife, Liz, and eldest daughter, Lillian, providing able assistance. I hadn’t seen Liz or Lillian for a few years, and the last time I saw Lillian she left an indelible impression of adorableness by being a sweet-faced little brunette in a Supergirl outfit, complete with cape. What comics geek wouldn’t find that charming as all get out?

We all shot the shit for a while, and soon enough I wandered over to the table where one of the all-time greats of the business held court. There before my idolizing gaze stood the legendary Gentleman Jim Steranko, the visual innovator whose run on “Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.” in STRANGE TALES and later its own book truly showed what could be done when pushing the envelope with experimental design, psychedelic colors/effects and mildly adult content. (If you’ve never seen his work, I urge you to look him up on Google immediately.) Two things surprised me when I met him, namely the fact that he was pretty short, perhaps five-foot six inches, and that he had clearly used his own image when rendering one-eyed superspy Nick Fury. I had previously figured that he’d modeled the character after Jack “Hawaii Five-O” Lord, thanks to the sculpted pompadour and chiseled features, but it was Steranko’s own hipster mug.

I told him that I had worked in the Marvel Bullpen during the 1990’s, and he welcomed me like an old friend, truly living up to his “gentleman” nickname. He then regaled me and a few other gushing fanboys with the story of how he delivered the famous cover for an INCREDIBLE HULK annual, a tale involving him crafting the piece from start to finish overnight, while the book’s interior artist produced perhaps one sixteenth of a page in the same time. Then, as he drove the cover into Manhattan the next day, he had forgotten to shave and decided to do so while his car idled at the inevitable succession of red lights. He was soon rear-ended by some inattentive motorist, and consequently slashed open his upper lip, so when he arrived at the Marvel offices he looked like he’d been in a knife fight and lost. When he finished, he signed a couple of prints for me and I traipsed away, happy as a lark.

Next I sought out Stephen Silver, an incredibly talented caricaturist/animator who’s the design genius behind the Disney Channel series “Kim Possible,” and recent support designer on Nickelodeon’s “Danny Phantom.” He’s originally from England but settled on these shores when he was a kid, so he has that melded English/Californian accent and the basic friendliness that I have experienced from nearly every Brit that I have met. I bought his sketchbook — which I made sure to get signed — and we chatted about what he was currently up to before getting down to the real business of why I sought him out. My old friend Wendy is a HUGE fan of “Kim Possible” and if I didn’t get her an original sketch of the character while I had the opportunity she would never let me live it down. I also wanted a sketch for myself of another character from that series, namely She-Go, the lime green femme fatale, so I handed him the cash for two sketches and left my sketchbook with him to be retrieved the next day.

I bade Silver farewell and left the venue at 4PM, in an effort to make it to work in Brooklyn on time, hopefully avoiding rush hour traffic and the usual train delays associated with weekend track work. As I exited, I was shocked to see just how huge the line was. It was literally about two thousand people who had queued up for hours and I was relieved to be able to beat a hasty retreat. So far, so good, right?

Then Saturday rolled around.

Accompanied by Big Mikey, a friend from the barbecue joint, I braved the subway and eventually disembarked at 34th Street, where I received the first omen that the day was about to veer into the Twilight Zone. Big Mikey and I bore witness to a super-buff Hispanic, wife-beater-wearing dwarf Michael Jackson impersonator who performed the rote Jacko choreography to “Billie Jean,” resembling nothing so much as Frodo Baggins having utterly lost his shit thanks to the Ring thing and getting his finger unceremoniously torn off and having a seizure. Thus was a strange tone set.

We made it back to the Javits Center just after 10:30AM and abandoned Mikey to fend for himself amidst the sea of rabid ticket buyers. Brandishing my press pass like a crucifix-wielding vampire hunter in a pack of slavering undead, I once more swept into the showroom, but this time I felt like I had walked onto the set of SOYLENT GREEN. People were milling about slowly, like something out of a George Romero flick, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder in what can best be described as a claustrophobic’s nightmare. I ducked into Artist’s Alley in futile hope of avoiding the crushing mob, but whoever set up the artist’s space had arranged the signing tables so that the artists were pressed up against the wall like ass-cheeks to a windshield, with about three feet between the edge of any given table and the eight foot partition that stretched all the way to the back of the voluminous hall. Sadly, this tiny space was also allotted for the fans that would line up en masse for their favorite cartooning luminaries while the general foot traffic was expected to maneuver through as well. It felt like one of those death traps in an old movie serial when the heroes would try to stop the walls from moving in and squashing them flatter than Callista Flockhart’s so-called titties.

At least I was rewarded for making my way into that deodorant-optional bedlam by immediately running into my favorite comics-biz curmudgeon, the unsinkable Keith Giffen. Perhaps best known to fans for his landmark run on LEGION OF SUPER-HEROES during the 1980’s, I met him during my ill fated time at DC Comics, and I bonded with Keith due to our mutual general bitchiness and low tolerance of idiocy in those who think they are creative but haven’t created anything of note since the greasy turds that fell out of their hubris-filled asses that morning.

Keith and I chatted for a bit, and I must admit that I have neglected keeping in touch with him like I should. When I was let go from Vertigo editorial, Keith was one of a handful of pros who actually called to give me moral support during my involuntary transition back into civilian life after thirteen years in the trenches, and his wisdom/bitterness was like someone holding my hand and telling me in the most nurturing of tones, “Don’t let it get you down, and remember that some day the wheel of karma will turn and run over the motherfuckers like a monster truck demolishing an empty can of Piels beer.” I gotta admit, I love the guy.

I soon moved on, determined to retrieve my sketchbook, see one or two old friends, and get the ever-loving fuck out of there. The crowd was becoming thicker and more oppressive by the nano-second, and my fight-or-flight instincts had kicked into near-panicked overdrive. Eventually Big Mikey and I spotted each other, both clearly exasperated by the close space. Mikey had waited on the ticket line for nearly an hour, and about five minutes after he crossed into the showroom the fire marshal closed off entry, and posted state troopers to keep the peace. The troopers did a rather shoddy job of it, their incredibly surly and abusive behavior earning them the derogatory nickname of “carpet Nazis.” In solid agreement that we wanted out as soon as humanly possible, Mikey and I set up a rendezvous at 1:30 PM at the Lego Batman, leaving us with nearly an hour and a half to endure.

Making my way over to Stephen Silver’s table to retrieve my sketchbook and accompanying paid-for sketches nearly required a machete with which to hack my way through slowly meandering fanboys and girls, grotesquely obese shut-ins who could barely walk thanks to their own weight, and hordes of bewildered parents shepherding gaggles of squalling children. When I finally made it to the table, Silver noticed me and immediately produced my sketchbook; I flipped straight to the page where he drew an incredible Kim Possible for my friend, but was shocked to find that he didn’t do the other sketch I pre-paid for. My bet is that he was as overwhelmed by the whole shindig as everyone else and just forgot, but I was quietly irritated. He gave me his personal contact info, and soon I will contact him regarding the situation, but he was such a sweetheart that I couldn’t really be pissed at the guy. Thanking him for the work that he did, I wished him farewell and good luck, and headed off to get on line to see two old work friends, namely John and Virginia Romita.

When I entered the comics biz in February of 1990, I found myself part of the ranks of the legendary Marvel Bullpen, which at the time was headed by Virginia Romita, wife of “Jazzy John,” who was the company’s art director. Now, meeting a legend like John was a big enough deal to a lifetime geek, but to actually work with the guy on a daily basis? JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. It was awesome. In case you don’t know who he is, John’s the guy who took over after the original artist on THE AMAZING SPIDER-MAN, the lysergically talented Steve Ditko, and perhaps more than any other artist became perhaps the definitive delineator of everyone’s favorite friendly neighborhood wall-crawler. The guy has drawn about eleventy-jillion covers, designed the Punisher, Wolverine, and Spider-Man’s future bride, the scarlet-tressed Mary-Jane Watson, so even if you only have a cursory familiarity with comic books of the mid-1960’s onward, you have more than likely seen John’s work and would recognize his distinctive, clean style.

I settled in at the spot where John was said to be signing after he got off of a panel appearance at 1PM, and the wait began. Other fans began to line up behind me and I was assured by the volunteer “helper” that even though the signing position had been moved, I would still retain my space as first in line, which was fine with me since I just wanted out as soon as possible since I had to eventually get to work and I wanted to squeeze in some lunch. So I continued to wait, and the helper began to usher people over to the new signing spot while still assuring myself and the people who had gathered in back of me that we would still get first shot at talking with John. I even agreed to hold the place of a foreign fan who had to run a couple of other quick errands. One fan doing a courtesy for another, right?

Pretty soon it became obvious that the helper had no clue what he was doing so I called over to the signing organizer and asked him what was up. He told us not to worry, but clearly didn’t give a fuck about those of us who had patiently waited and began to tell the people on the other line how many autographs were allowed, how much they had to pay to get one, etc., so I said to him, “Excuse me, but what about us?” The jerk then sneered at me and said “These people were here before you, so you just have to wait.” I told him that that was not true and that his own assistant had asked us to wait while ensuring us that our places in line would be honored. The organizer then rudely told me that the helper obviously didn’t know what he was talking about and that we would basically have to grin and bear it, and shut up and read the company’s books that were on display.

NOTE: it was not said in those exact words, but the gist was crystal clear.

Then John and Virginia showed up and I called out to them. Their eyes bugged out in recognition and Virginia ran over and gave me a big bear hug, quickly followed by John. We briefly caught up on what we’d all been doing, and I agreed to talk with them shortly. Once they left to settled, the fans who were waiting patiently behind me looked at me like I had just grown an extra head and asked, “You know THEM??? We didn’t know you were a luminary!” A luminary. Me. Yeah, right. I explained to them in brief the story of my years in the biz, peppered with anecdotes about Bullpen life, John Romita’s simple human excellence, and answered any questions they may have had. Presently, Virginia called me over to keep her company while John did his thing for the line-jumpers. After we filled each other in a several points of mutual interest, I told Virginia I’d see her and John again in a few minutes and returned to my space on the screwed-over line.

That’s when I noticed that the foreign guy whose place I was holding had skipped onto the other line and was getting a sketch from John. I called over to the guy that it wasn’t cool to screw people over like that, and the jerky organizer came over to me and attempted to admonish me with, “You know, John’s appearances at these shows are very rare” — a flagrant lie — “and I want to make things as pleasant for him as possible, so I’d appreciate some cooperation from you.” At that, I told him that he should be trying to make things pleasant for the many fans who had not only waited politely but were also about to shell out a minimum of sixty bucks each for an autographed copy of the book on sale. He retorted with, “Well, that guy was on the other line since before you got here!” The fans in back of me rallied to my aid and called the guy out for being full of shit and he eventually realized that we were not going to take his bullshit, eventually moving us to our rightful place in the queue. By the time I reached the Romitas I no longer had enough time left to get a sketch, so I just settled for a quick snapshot of the three of us together, all the while wishing that I could kick the organizer in the balls so hard that they’d ricochet off of his palate. I got their current email address, promised Virginia I’d keep in touch, and left the overcrowded nightmare in search of Mikey at the Batman statue.

By the time I got out to the statue, the crowd situation was openly hostile, disappointment practically dripping from the air. The state trooper presence now looked like something from a fascist state, and one female officer in particular was haranguing the crowd with Nuremburg-style intensity. The potential fire hazard was such that no one else was being admitted, which is a bit of a problem since that included celebrity guests, panelists and various industry bigwigs, ensuring no new friends being made at either DC or Marvel Comics. Even people who had pre-registered and paid for their tickets were turned away, including some friends of mine from upstate and even an unfortunate group who had flown in from England specifically for the event.

Anyway, I soon spotted Mikey — who, at six-foot-six and four hundred and twenty-five pounds is rather difficult to miss — we disgruntledly headed off to lunch in the Manhattan Mall.

Mikey summed up the whole experience thusly: “Well, that was fun… No, wait. It wasn’t.”

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, that night while on my way to the bus to get home from work I witnessed the horrifying sight of some huge Hispanic dude beating the living shit out of his girlfriend. The poor woman was screaming in terror and pain while her “man” kept brutally slugging her upside the head and bouncing her off of the parked cars that lined either side of the street, and in the scariest moment of this mess her boyfriend caromed her face off of a windshield.

Now I couldn’t just stand by and let this happen, but I was in no way stupid enough to physically intervene since the bastard may have had a knife or a firearm, but I did calmly approach him and say, “Dude, don’t do this. You’ll end up in jail. Please don’t do this.” My attempt at peacemaking was met with the Neanderthal whirling around, stuffing his gigantic ham fist into my face — a fist bearing a snubnose revolver —  and screaming, “YOU GET OUTTA MY FUCKIN’ FACE, OR I’LL SHOOT YOU IN THE FUCKIN’ HEAD!!!”

At that point I deduced that the guy was drunk, cracked/coked-out, or both, and my days of taking it to anybody in a non-sparring, hand-to-hand throw down are probably over due to being out of shape and practice, and I was never Bruce Lee in the first place (hell, not even Peggy Lee, but I did have my moments…). So I hauled ass over to Fifth Avenue and called the cops. Thankfully the local precinct is within spitting distance, and four rollers pulled up in no time, but, alas, the brute and his victim had disappeared from the street.

I gave the police full descriptions and wandered back to the bar, where a party thrown by our waitress/goddess, Tracey, was winding down. I sat at the further end of the bar, trying to avoid the party and not be a downer; fortunately, our statuesque bartender, Joy, decided to check in on me and that is when I lost it. I began to ramble and bawl over the fact that here was a woman being savagely beaten in front of me and I could do nothing to help her. I was nauseatingly overcome with a feeling of fear and utter helplessness that brought me back to events that happened over thirty years ago. (I will eventually get around to discussing that story, but not right now.) Anyway, Joy sweetly assured me that I had done the right thing and that even if I had gotten into it with the guy someone would have been seriously injured and most likely incarcerated, and in all likelihood his girlfriend would have sided with him despite the ass-kicking she had endured. Tracey soon came over and did the same, and while their wisdom did help somewhat, I still was crushed by my relative uselessness in that situation.

I walked home, making it through my door by 3:30AM and attempted to sleep, but to no avail, and then faced the grueling Sunday 10:30 through closing shift totally on autopilot, fueled during the post-family dinner rush by beer and tequila. Even that night’s rerun of “Drawn Together” didn’t make me laugh.

I guess I was due for a seriously suckass weekend for a while, but this one violated both my love of comics and my genuine need never to see domestic violence again, and let me be the first to tell you that that just plain fucking sucks.

“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..."