The Key Steakholder

So, can you name some songs that have the word "walk" in the title or prominently in the lyrics? (And I'll mail an open can of sardines to the first smartass who says "yes, I can" or anything similar without actually identifying the song.)

I grew up in a wonderful era when you could still have shag carpet in your house and your friends wouldn't mock you.

Let me tell you, that shit produced oodles of static electricity. I knew that my asshole older brothers could shuffle their feet through the carpet and electrocute my little hide with a sneaky poke of the finger. (The eldest of the Two Assholes absolutely loved electricity as a form of mischief ... I was 3 years old when he gave me a 9-volt battery and said "put your tongue on that - it'll taste like raspberry.")

Still, I didn't know all the stuff static electricity could do, and I nearly shit myself (I was still not 10 yet) when I shuffled through some carpet, walked close to this lamp thing my mother had recently bought, and watched all these crazy hangy-fringey things rise up toward my completely of their own volition like a bunch of tiny little cobras!

If the phrase WTF had been around, I definitely would've said it. I had never in my young life seen anything like that. Fortunately, Eldest Asshole - who was, in reality, the least-asshole of the Two Assholes - explained it to me. I am now somewhat ashamed to admit that I found way too much entertainment value in that lamp. I would build up a charge and raise my hand at the fringe-snakes like Luke Skywalker and make those little bastards move all over.

The scary thing is, I'd probably still do that today if I had that lamp ... and floors that weren't entirely made of cork and ceramic tile.

Thank the heavens, the Ethiopian food farts are wearing off.

I've been drinking a lot of Belgian beers, and am jonesing for a skunky, mean, West Coast IPA.

It's a rough year for furry feline friends. First, Chairman Meow died. Today, it was a good friend's cat. Another friend's cat is ailing.

Man, this always makes me sad. Appreciate your furry friends, ya'll, no matter how annoying they might've just been. Because it's better to have a live buddy who drives you a little batshit now and again than to not have that little buddy at all.

Well, naturally ... who else is going to be seated for a four-hour flight behind a Pomeranian with mismatched testicles but but yours truly? And really, I should be required to wear a warning sticker: "Caution: Do not tell this man about your Pomeranian's mismatched testicles ... unless you want him to blog about it/them."

These are my World Cup tickets. Much fancier than I expected.
And the usher people didn't do anything stupid like have to tear part of it off. They make a cool souvenir.

So I'm listening to the soundtrack to "Alexander Nevsky" right now. There are a bunch of bits in Battle on the Ice that sound way too much like the score from "The Wrath of Khan."

Makes me wonder if James Horner said "Da, Comrade, I will rip off your riffs."

These guys just pile-drived the fun back into Christmas for me. Two goofballs, one motorbike, one headless Santa ... they erased decades of seething about Salvation Army bell ringers and the commercial crush. Well done.

Four days in Vietnam, and I've developed a "thousand-motorbike" stare. Good God ...

Want to have fun? Use a Dremel
tool to shave a bunch of styrofoam. The spray of particles is like jizz ... it gets everywhere.

 

I still have some work to do on the end result (astronaut helmets). But it's a good start.