Knowing about the following song won us a small victory at trivia last night (we took second place because I thought the movie “Poseidon” took place on Christmas rather than New Year’s).
The question in question: Name one of two songs that had the word “disco” in it that hit #1 in 1976. I swore that this song was the best option aside from “Disco Inferno” and “Disco Fever” (which I don’t even think is a real song):
Turned out I was right. Turns out the other song option was “Disco Lady” (?)
Shadoe Stevens... A Hollywood Square
Rick Dees... Weekly Top Dorky
The biggest mistake I made (aside from the upside-down boat holiday movie inquiry) was thinking the song was song by this (<–) guy:
And not this (–>) guy:
In conclusion, here’s some random 70’s awesomeness from the Midnight Special that I’m so inclined to buy on DVD (damn you infomercials and my insatiable DVD addiction!) It’s either that or the Dean Martin Variety Show.
For further trivia thrills (ha! yeah right), try to name everyone in the cast on “Futurama.” I bet you’ll miss at least two, like we did.
For further betting thrills, go to the race track.
Last night was a night spent in three four bars, and it kept me sleeping until 5pm today.
Some highlights:
First stop was the Bronx Bar, a Detroit hole-in-the-wall down near Wayne State University. My sisters wanted to visit an old friend. They chatted while “Poison” played on the jukebox. BBD’s song, not the group. “Crazy” also played. Not Britney Spears… Patsy Cline. That’s about right for a Detroit joint.
Second stop was the Magic Stick. There was a concert going on upstairs, so we stayed on the main floor and saw a show of our own. It probably made as much sense as the punk bands upstairs might, but here’s what it involved: a man with a big beard, a woman with only her bra on, a skinny kid with his shirt off, and another skinny girl holding her bloody nose. They came out of the bowling area and swept through the place until security escorted them out. They actually tried to come back later. We met up with my cousin Liz who was there to see the show on the second floor. Some of my sisters’ friends that are getting married next year dropped in (congrats again Beth and Ben), and another of Tammie’s friends from grade school was hanging out with his friends (hey P-funk). A stranger drew pictures of us in green crayon on the back of concert flyers. My sister, Tammie, ordered some pizza. I quizzed her on the latest Killers song that was playing. Becky and I drank 24 oz. beers. We wondered why the word dapper isn’t used more. That’s about right for a Detroit joint.
Third stop lead us into Greektown, across from the casino, to The Well. Tammie’s other old friend, Joe, was down there with his crew. Some girls were dancing on the bar. The DJ was right behind us playing T.I. The area we were in was about 12’x12′. They flashed the lights at about 1:45am for last call. We all finished our drinks and headed next door to…
The Baltimore, our final stop. We ran into a family member we haven’t seen for years. Tears were spilled over some more beers. Becky took forever putting all our numbers in our cousin’s phone. The music playing was Journey or some other 80’s band. A half hour or so later, we all departed into the winter rain. We bid our farewells and journeyed home. That’s about right for a Detroit joint.
Monday Night Football Trivia was in full effect last night, and I learned that there were more U.S. soldiers in the Korean War vs. the Vietnam War, Turkey was not only a part of the Ottoman Empire and Iran was not only Persia (they were both a part of Mesopotamia), and prior to “Titanic,” the highest grossing Best Picture winner was “Forrest Gump.”
While the competition occurred (we were in third place before the last question, but we wagered all of our points on “Gone With the Wind” on guess-which-question), these were some of the topics of discussion:
I have had a song stuck in my head for a few days. I had the melody and this lyric: And somebody picked on me. It turns out that the lyric is actually: And somebody snitched on me. The song was “I’m Getting Nothing for Christmas.” (Thanks to Kelly for playing Scooby Doo on that one.)
Talk about holiday parties began, and about how cool it would be to hire a waiter or waitress for New Year’s Eve. I thought it’d be funny to hire one for any day. Have a couple of friends over… the waiter/waitress can change the channel, get us beers and snacks… you know, stuff like that. When nothing was going on, the waiter/waitress could play video games with us, or watch the season finale of “Lost” with us. We wouldn’t be dicks about it. It would be for the sake of uncomfortable awkwardness and a good story to tell.
Speaking of dicks – this store’s name brought us grown infants a heaping amount of joy:
I originally saved this file as ‘dicks,’ but changed it for obvious reasons.
We talked about how their midnight madness sales could be called “nocturnal emissions” and that the idea for the event “came to them at night.” This was the least crass example – trust me.
The night ended not at the bar, but playing “Call of Duty 4” once again. As we were leaving, paintball was brought up, and one friend stated he would wait in a tree outside my other friend’s house in order to ambush him. Due to the cold weather we’re experiencing, it was also brought up how he would freeze to death waiting. Since this particular friend is leaving the state for a new job, everyone would think he left early, and no one would notice he was missing until the spring. But since my friend didn’t clean all the leaves that are awaiting under two feet of snow, his body would get lost in the leaves… yada yada… I’ll stop there. This is what video games are doing to adult minds – imagine what they do to the kids.
2008 was a tough year for everyone. It was especially tough on the “malternative” nation. A few months back, MillerCoors announcing they were canning Zima (no, not taking out of bottles and putting into aluminum… they’re scrapping it altogether).
The plan was to push Sparks in its place, but assholes across America had other ideas (from AP):
MillerCoors agreed to remove caffeine, taurine, guarana and ginseng from Sparks and not produce caffeinated alcohol beverages in the future…in a deal with 13 states and the city of San Francisco, who had contended the drink targeted young drinkers.
The company must also eliminate all references in advertising to caffeinated formulations and not promote Sparks as a mixer for caffeinated drinks. It will remove the plus and minus symbols — which evoke a battery — found on the blue and orange cans for the product. The company also agrees not to use batteries, rockets, lightning bolts, or the terms “powered by” or “ignite” in marketing the new formulation.
The MillerCoors settlement… includes the attorneys general of Arizona, California, Connecticut, Idaho, Illinois, Iowa, Maine, Maryland, Mississippi, New Mexico, Ohio and Oklahoma and the city attorney of San Francisco.
“It’s a devil’s brew of a product because it combines caffeine with alcohol,” (Steve Gardner, litigation director for public advocacy group the Center for Science in the Public Interest) said.
If Sparks is the devil’s brew, what are Jaeger Bombs? Rum and Cokes? Hell, what’s a Long Island Iced Latte? (Okay, that last one doesn’t exist, but I’d try it.)
All of this is like a version of “Field of Dreams.” In that movie, “If you build it, they will come.” In this situation, it’s “If you change the formula, they’ll just find something else.” Stupid.
Sparks was more than just a drink. It was truly a BRAND. It was more than ‘just another product.’ When I think of Sparks, I think of a lifestyle. I think of good times. I can honestly not think of another beverage with a brand stronger than SPARKS. After a night of Sparks, I could not fall asleep. My heart felt like it wanted to burst of out my chest. My tongue would be orange the next day. Another memory of the previous night–I would look in the mirror, stick out my tongue and smile…
Save one can. Hide it somewhere–this is now your forbidden fruit. In the next few years, something will go wrong or you will feel down. Treat yourself to the sweet nectar that is Sparks…
Honestly. I would give anything for one more SPARKS vomit.
You have until January 10th to get the old-school Sparks.
After having bee trapped in my home for the last sixty hours (57.5 of which were probably spent on the couch) due to a snow storm, I finally ventured out last night. Grant it, my car got stuck in the driveway, but I still managed to head out to one of my old dives.
While there, my friend, Jay, and I watched football highlights and waxed poetic about the old days in the joint. We talked about whether the Lions would fail us and actually win a game. And we laughed at the amateurs playing in a televised poker tournament (one woman named Ellen had no poker face, but she was kicking aces!)
On the ride back to the neighborhood, a conversation came up about Under Armour. Don’t know how, but it proabably had to do with insulated clothing in the cold. He brought up how they have cold weather lines and hot weather lines. I wondered if I should invest in the hot weather line when I play soccer, yada yada. The part that made me laugh was when Jay described the technology they use.
“Wicket,” I thought he said first.
“Like the Ewok?” I asked.
“Wicked,” he repeated.
“Like the porn company?” I wondered.
We didn’t get to me mishearing Wiccan, and I think we decided on Wicket (I can’t find anything about this on their site or Wiki page), but it reminded me of one of my all time favorite comedy scenes in a movie. It’s from “Roxanne.”
It’s subtle – sure. But I love misheard-based humor. Here’s the lyrics for a song I wrote when I had a band named Monkey Spank Monkey Do that eventually became oddcookie. (This sight was thatclose to having the original band name, but I was afraid of what type of people might visit). We never did much as a band anyway. Sorry I’m not attaching the music. Whatever you make up in your head will probably be better anyway.
Simianuff
That day that you told me You didn’t want to see me
Anymore I just didn’t know
I wanted to ask you why
You didn’t even start to cry
Up and out you gave this reply:
You never simianuff, you never simianuff, you never simianuff
After that I had went on home
My mind so far it had been blown
Away by your rationale
I wanted to ask what you
Meant by saying “simianuff”
But I didn’t want to piss you off
So in turn I became primate
And bought myself a monkey suit
Bananas and “Tree Climbing Monthly”
I hope I’m simian enough, I hope I’m simian enough, I hope I’m simian enough
I started hanging around you
Quite often literally
Being my new simian self
You acted like I was
Insane, was what you called me
I only did what I was told
So you said, “I’ll see you around”
Mumbled something under your breath
I haven’t ever seen you since
You never see me enough, you never see me enough, you never see me enough
You’re never seein’ me enough, you never simian enough, you never simianuff…
Oh fuck…
(P.S. I must also have a fascination with monkeys.)
I’m going to let everyone in on a little secret about the mysterious workings behind this blog. I wake up at the crack of dawn everyday (I just love beating the sun) and walk to my corner gas station to pick up a local paper. Sure, I could have the delivery boy bring it, but the exercise keeps the ol’ pumper pumping (besides, I leave the paper boy a tip every Christmas as if I subscribed to help make up for his losses). As I mill through the ink print to discover what’s going on in this world, I pour myself some whole grain cereal and organic milk, with a side of orange juice and toast (I use real butter to lather my heated wheat treat – it’s my only vice!) I even slice up bananas and strawberries to put on top, like in the commercials. After immediately washing the dishes and separating my recyclables, I ready the tub for a nice bubble bath and who am I kidding… I barely wake up on time to get to work at 10:30ish. I should be there at 9! This is the case due to the habit of my evening imbibing of carbonated, fermented brown water.
While at the draft tap establishments, conversations erupt, and often I’m reminded of something clever to write about, and I make a note in my cell phone. Usually, I can translate. Most times, I find messages like this:
dancing caveman jukebox
baby jacket
think straw when see
deli 25 bux
whoprvirgins baby coat
mr. wizard
getn away w murdr
angus young black
martha quinn med woman
kidbits
There are other notes of which I do remember, and will be inevitable posts, but these strike little or no chord. Or I remember having a drunken laugh about them, such as 3, 8, and 9. I believe 3 refers to how when I see a straw in somebody else’s drink at the table, I move toward my drink as though it also has a straw (I don’t drink beer with a straw anymore… not since I got rid of my “Cast Away” Halloween costume beard… although at times I have joined many straws so I wouldn’t have to pick up my mug). 8 and 9 were common mix-ups I have about AC/DC’s lead singer and the old MTV VJ.
1 and 4 were going to be big to-do’s, but I really had no fodder. I cannot stand the dancing Geico caveman on digital jukeboxes, and I love how you don’t have to sign credit card statements on things less than $25. I have no idea what the “deli” has to do with anything. Much like number 7 – that one scares me because I’m 100% clueless about it.
2 and 5 repeated the theme of those stupid small coats that the ladies wear nowadays. I wanted to bring up how pointless and stupid and trendy they are – much like Uggs boots. I don’t know why I jotted down the Burger King website in conjunction with the jacket, though.
6 and 10 probably had to do with the same chit chat about childhood TV science shows. I don’t know “Mr. Wizard,” per se, but “Kidbits” taught me how to make a chair out of three baseball bats (I also believe the demonstration was with knives or forks… I’m leaning toward knives though) and how to poke a straw through a potato.
See, you punch it, and it gives you a score... what do you mean what else does it do?
I hate this thing. I really do.
I wish I never set my eyes upon it. I’ll go one better and wish my friends’ eyes had never set upon it, because they’re the facilitators of the addiction.
Meet Punch! Or BoxClub… or Boxing… or whatever version the bar has. They’re all over the place, like a drunk girl on me (I wish). And they have been for awhile, but I’ve managed to keep my distance from what I designated as the Douchebag Machine. The higher the number you can hit on the dangling nutsack, the bigger the nutsack you are.
Or so I used to pretend. Now it’s almost like a Holy Grail when I step into a gin joint. Whomever spots it first begins the murmurs – “Did you see? Did you see?” And every unit is different. Ssome bags are soft, some are hard. Some respond well to running at it and others don’t.
So am I a douchebag for playing? Nope. And neither are my friends.
Ah, the universal question… why do I get so philosophical when I get drunk? (Okay, it may not be universal to you, but it certainly is to me.) Is it that maybe I’m always so deeply lost in thought, that the suppression of ideas spill out when my tongue’s been freed by liquid courage? Or do I talk out my ass and sell the shit out of my bullshit?
Whatever the answer, the fact that remains is this: why am I doing this when I’m at the strip club local ballet?
Now before you go getting all judgmentallyish on me, know that I’m going to blame it on my friends. I’m always going to say they dragged me there. It’s besides the point that they actually did have to drag me there the first time I went (I was still a very, very devout Catholic back then), but nowadays there’s a little less arm twisting (it’s usually bribery that gets me). So anyhoohah, to my point – what was my point?
A couple of my friends recently happened upon a local ballerina establishment. (Actually, it was the night of my Sober Recollection… that was the next stop I could not be bribed into.) One of them later recounted to me that one of the ladies claimed to be a palm reader. He swore she got his name, his occupation, and a few other things right, to which I decried “balogna” (would “baloney” have had more of a visual impact?) I figured our other friend had to give her a heads-up because I don’t believe palm reading works that way (if at all).
This story he told me while at a different joint (oh yeah, this was where I was going). It lead me to ponder (okay it’s not quite philosophizing, but I do that a lot as well) about what I would like to have happen if I ever got my palm read. I would be so excited if the reader started looking over my lines, and then immediately stood up and backed away. “Go! You must leave! Now!” The reader’s voice would crack as they cowered into the corner, crying. Man, that would give me the biggest smile.
Another scenario I always daydream about is more of a prank. I need to find a good recording of screaming demons so that I could call my friends and when they answered, I’d just play the burning in fire and brimstone response.
I also pretend I’m Wolverine or John McClane when I’m in my hallways at work. Man, this post went off rail… must be because of this beer I’m palm reading.
The towel with which he wiped his face left this image
As the wise and sage-like Gary Busey once said, “Son of a bitch everything’s real,” I too spent my eve teetotaling, and realized there is much to learn while the mind is clean and the thoughts are clear. Namely, I have to write in a pretentious tone, and make use of odd phrasings and word choices.
Fuck that. Here’s some things I learned the night I decided not to drink and still hit four bars. (Maybe that’s how I lasted for four bars… I can get sleepy when I do the brew.) (Image from Drawastar)
Chapter One – Buffalo Wild Wings
Sarcasm doesn’t work in text messages. I knew this was the case with emails, but for some reason that didn’t translate in my brain. Basically, I hurt sumbuwy’s feewings.
Edith Bunker was the first TV character to experience menopause, and not Maude. Who knew that Norman Lear spread the wealth of taboo around? (FYI: Maude was the first to have an abortion.)
Paying cover for a band sucks when you show up right before their set ends, and the group decides to leave before the next set starts because the overall scene is lame. Even if it’s $3. And even though you didn’t pay it (thanks Doctor J).
The Trivia Jockey from my usual Wednesday stop hits this bar after leaving the other bar. Not a big deal. Just if I was a couple pillow cases to the wind I wouldn’t have noticed.
Everybody knows a dude that looks like Al Pacino.
Chapter Three – Kickers Complex (I just learned that’s what it’s called!)
It’s equally nice and sad to be recognized by bartenders.
You never want to hear a man sing Sara Bareilles’ “Love Song.” Not even in an ironic way. Trust me.
This song is supposedly popular, although I’ve never heard of it.
I know it’s country, but I’m familiar with the biggies. This one? I never even heard of its name. Also, the two dudes singing David Allen Coe no favors.
Karaoke in an empty bar sucks.
Chapter Four – Plymouth Roadhouse
It’s equally nice and sad to be recognized by the bartender and the waitress.
When big screen projection TV’s are on their last legs, they look like crooked bootleg DVD’s of movies, minus people walking in front.
In theory, nobody knows shit about what’s going to happen to the Big Three Automakers. The proof (as if you need it) is in the fact that everybody heard and knows something different. Some of my favorite speculations: Ford will be picking up Jeep from GM, Chrysler will go bye-bye, GM will absorb Chrysler’s minivan division and make Dodge Ram their only truck, and Ford will get bought out by the Chinese but will keep the family name as part of the agreement.
And in closing, I learned that what Cerebus did in securing Chrysler was a lot like what Richard Gere’s character did in “Pretty Woman.” They both bought a product at a reduced cost solely to strip it down and liquidate it for profit. In essence – treat it like a whore (a regular one though… not Julia Roberts).
I’ve put ideas out into the collective unconscious before, only to have them robbed and bastardized without any input from me. Joe Piscopo’s stinker, “Dead Heat?” Mine first (“Harry Cadaver”). JCVD’s “Timecop?” I had the idea two years earlier with the same title (this one I’ll forgive because it’s not that creative). Eddie Murphy in Eddie Murphy in “Meet Dave?” I originally thought “Osmosis Jones” plucked my idea of having Robin Williams inside of Bill Murray’s spaceship body, but “Meet Dave” robbed us both (“The Neuron Conquest”). Even He-Man stole (or borrowed liberally) a character I entered into a contest. Their Snout Spout was my Elephantom.
Then I saw this commercial for Flagstar bank yesterday at the bar. I guess it premiered in this year’s Super Bowl, but since that game was so good (Giants spanked the ButtPats), I probably hit the can during the ads and missed it.
This reminded me of a story I wrote in high school and submitted to our literary journal called the Curio. No wonder I never dated.
B O X I N GY O U RH E A D
I feel deviated like a septum.Separated, apart from what it seems I should be a part of.Not fitting in, a circle in a world of squares.Here I, Lucas Pendleton, sit at the counter of Sigmund’s Soda Shop, and I watch my peers across the way, celebrating and playing by the jukebox.And I can’t be with them.I’ve tended to put my head in the proverbial box for years.So now’s the time to consider it for real.
Here’s a napkin and… here’s a pencil.I need to write this down or I’ll forget.If I did put a box on my head – cardboard being the only choice – it would need to have strategically placed eyeholes so I wouldn’t stumble through life (I do enough without a cube around my head).
As for eating, I would feed my mouth through the opening in the bottom.I wouldn’t need to talk with anyone.The only thing anyone cares about is your name, if even that, and I can have that printed across my forehead.If no one was asking that question anymore, I wouldn’t need earholes.There, the designs are finished.And I’ll never remove my perfect separator for any reason.
Rain.It’s raining outside now.I need to compensate for the dampening spirit that falls from time to time.I’ll draw a little umbrella that could be attached to the top.
Look at them standing over there.Not a care about my plans of seclusion.Will they be sorry, not at all.
They don’t know me anyway.That’s so clear.
Clear.I see clear because of my contacts.How will I remove them?I’ll get corrective surgery done on my eyes.That’s easy.
What’s another problem?
Hygiene.Well, I’ll deal with that as it comes along.
Sleeping comfort.I’ll pad the walls.
Television, movies, and music.How can I enjoy if I can’t hear?I’ll add earholes to the design, very small ones.
A sneeze, I just heard a sneeze.What if my nose runs, or I sneeze?That could get messy.But only I’d know, and only I-I-d–achooo!
“God bless you.”
–Care.Did someone say that to me, or the other guy?Maybe I’ll respond… just in case… to be polite.“Thanks.”See, it wasn’t–
“You’re welcome.”
Well, it’s a female voice, coming from behind me.Should I look?Or did the other fellow say thanks at the same time I did.I’ll say another thing to check.“That’s nice.Thanks.”Stupid, stupid…
“Really?You think so?”
It’s gotta be me.I’m gonna look.I grabbed the counter and hand over hand I turned around to see a woman standing behind me, beautiful as could be.She wore splashy hued shoes and a colorful box-pattern dress.Her flowing brown hair came down past her shoulders from beneath the box she wore on her head.I couldn’t believe it, I was in love.
“Whatcha doing?” she asked me as she tried to peak at my napkin.I just looked at her eyes shining through the sufficiently cut eyeholes.
I sighed in response to her question.She approached me, and I then noticed the earholes she had made.Her cute ears were exposed enough to easily hear me as well as the other man sneeze, yet she chose to ask God to bless me!
“A box, huh?That umbrella idea will never work.Believe me.Oh, believe me.”
She pointed out my flaws in design, and I didn’t care!She tilted her head to me and smiled.She cut out a space for her mouth… and her gorgeous smile.
“Why do you need a box on your head, anyway?”
“I’m thinking the same thing!” I said.I hope she thought I meant her.She brushed her right hand through the top of her flowing brown hair.I didn’t even notice the top and back portion of the box were missing.
“I mean, you’re attractive.”
“As well as are you.”I saw her cute nose wrinkle when I complimented her.
“And after all, you thanked me… twice.”She laughed an uplifting laugh.“Quit designing that box for your head.It’s a waste of time.Come on and dance with me.”Her smooth rosy cheeks lifted because of her smile.I could see her entire face.Her entire head.
She took my hand and did that twinkle thing with her eye.There was no box on this woman’s head.
With my free hand I crumbled the napkin.There was no box on this man’s head either.
I threw the napkin in a trash can – a trash can in which, as I was informed later, contained several wet pieces of cut cardboard… and a broken umbrella.
monkeyBLOG monkeyDO 
