Uncooperative Deer is Being Uncooperative

Cartoon by Jack Ziegler

Little Known Facts # 19

Contrary to popular belief, Tchaikovsky was not displeased with the score he composed for The Nutcracker. Actually, after typing the last note into his laptop, the great composer let loose an exclamation that reverberated throughout Starbucks: “WOOT! I LIKE TOTALLY ROCK, ELEVENTY!1!!!1!!!!!

Similarly, it was the mischievous Tchaikovsky who insisted that the Christmas tree get big. This is why blushing grandmothers all over the world owe the great composer a debt of gratitude.

The more you know . . .

An Early Saturday Afternoon's Domestic Banality

Well folks, it’s snowing here in USDA Zone 6b. My head is full of Vince Guaraldi via Charlie Brown. I did the shoveling at four inches but they’re calling for eighteen. That’s okay. I had fun.

Breakfast was a bagel with orange marmalade. Some weeks ago I complained that it was too sweet. But I hadn’t realized that there’s actually such a thing as “sweet marmalade.” Now that I know, I don’t dislike it as much as I used to. Isn’t it funny how that works?

Let’s see, What else is there? I slept in this morning. The bathroom scale said I lost weight which made no sense since I’ve been indulging lately. I put out seed mix for the Juncos after I shoveled the patio. I did some commenting over at Althouse. I took a shower and I saved my genitals for last.

Oh! How about this? I had Italian wedding soup for lunch and I burned my tongue.

The dog got a meatball.

Cartoon by Sempé

Today's Domestic Banality: Photographic Division

Today's Domestic Banality

I just came from Home Depot. President Obama was not there.

I bought a bunch of stuff. All of it was made in China.

I struck up a conversation with one of the guys who work there. He told me he was a tradesman but he injured himself on the job. Now he can’t work his trade anymore so he’s been reduced to working at Home Depot. His wife left him. His kids won’t talk to him. He is a broken shell of a man.

I’ve been talking to guys at Home Depot for about fifteen years now. Plumbers. Carpenters. Electricians. Masons. The same thing happens to them all. They all tell the same story.

Well, except for the ruined life part. I made that up. But you can tell it’s true, anyway. You can see it in their eyes. Men who work with their hands are honest to a fault. They never ask for anything they haven’t already earned.

Mr. Obama, TEAR DOWN THIS WALL!!1!!1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

For Meade: One Good Fish Deserves Another

CAPTION: "The jig's up, sister! I'm Fletcher of the Bureau of Fisheries and Hatcheries!"

Six Domestic Banalities

I find myself inspired by this post at Althouse. Accordingly, I set forth six domestic banalities for your internet reading pleasure . . . or not.

(1) For my lunch today, Mrs. Bissage packed a chili dog, some raisins, some wasabi almonds and some Christmas cookies. Apple sauce. A multi-vitamin. A pill for my prostate; that would be Dongasil®. A napkin.

(2) I found out this morning that my prostate is acting up again. I thought I was done peeing, so I tucked everything back in my trousers. But then it started back up all by itself so I yanked it all back out again, real quick, but I ended up spraying stanky golden bladder juice all over the place.

Some of it got on my pants but I just ignored it and let it dry because I’m of Germanic heritage so I’m one of those lucky guys who appear to be much cleaner than they really are. No one will ever know.

(3) I’ve been sleeping with a dark blue bath towel on my pillow, lately, because I’m getting over a head cold and I woke up a few days ago with a nose bleed that surged like the Colorado River.

(4) When I get home from work today, I fully expect to find that Mrs. Bissage has mopped the kitchen floor. When I left this morning she had already moved the chairs out and she had the bucket and mop ready to go. She’s good that way.

(5) For dinner tonight I think we’re having sandwiches; grilled boneless chicken breast marinated in garlic stuff. I'll probably do the grilling. I always say I absolutely refuse but then I have a drink or two and then I end up doing it, anyway.

I like roasted green peppers and melted provolone on mine. There will be French fries. I like to dip them in spaghetti sauce with a shot of Tabasco. I'll probably skip dessert. I'm on a diet.

(6) After dinner, I’m going to brush the dog on the floor in front of the TV. That’s because it’s Wednesday. Usually, I take the dog’s hair and I make a little wig out of it and put it on one of the cats dozing on the sofa so he looks like a little four-legged George Washington.

Then Mrs. Bissage and I laugh at him. We will tell him that he has been "humili-catted." We think that's funny. We do it all the time.

My Favorite Fish

I used to keep tropical fish. I used to work in a fish store. I just asked myself an odd question while urinating: "All in all, what was your favorite fish?"

The answer surprised me. But I am absolutely certain of it, and I don’t know that I have ever been absolutely certain of anything else, ever in my entire life.

So you know it’s true. I wouldn't kid around about something this important.

My favorite fish? CLICK HERE.

Taking Stock

Specific body parts for which I have been complimented: (1) hair, (2) eyes, (3) nose, (4) teeth, (5) shoulders, (6) back, (7) chest, (8) arms, (9) stomach, (10) buttocks, (11) penis, and (12) legs.

Specific body parts for which I have been criticized: (1) ears, (2) skin, (3) teeth, (4) neck and (5) waist.

Specific body parts for which I have never been complimented but wish I had been: (1) hands, (2) feet, (3) anus and (4) testicles.

ADDED: Another body part for which I have been complimented: (13) cheeks. Apparently, my Aunt Martha thought them to be adorably rosey. Hey look, I'm just reporting these things. You don't have to care.

Ramble On

I’m pressed for time so this will be short and disorganized. I wanted to write a piece about “The Remains of the Day.” We watched it last night. Originally I thought I’d call this blog post “The Remains of My Dick” and work from there.

Anyway, I’ve seen the movie before but I didn’t remember it sucking so much. Truth be told, I recently watched bits of it on YouTube and we got the DVD just to get some decorating ideas.

What did we learn? Decorate with lots of stuff. Expensive stuff. Big gold picture frames. Big paintings. Expensive paintings. Big moldings. Expensive moldings. Wood can be white or stained or in combo. Nic Naks. Paddy waks. Give the frog a loan.

Wallpaper. Colors can be bright but don't show much of it because of all the stuff in front of it. The eye loves detail. Expensive detail. Lots of stuff. Jam it in. Lots of stuff. Expensive stuff.

But the movie . . . hmmmm, how to put this? . . . lacked subtlety. Especially with regard to that Lord Darlington dude. About as subtle as a flying mallet. Somewhere along the line I got the impression that "The Remains of the Day" was an intelligent film -- probably because I am dumb.

I’d say more but I don’t feel like it. Maybe later.

My Dog Suffers Like Jesus

Click to enlargicate.

(I assume that bit off to the side is a piece of tick poop.)

Jack Bauer Was Too Late

A Piece of My Mind

A Swing and a Miss

Last night, on Turner Classic Movies, they showed “The Mouse that Roared” (1959) with Peter Sellers. It was truly unwatchable. Just awful. I bailed after 20 minutes.

So what to do with my Saturday night? I could brush the dog, or read a book, or paint a closet, or clean up the garage, or discover a cure for cancer, or work on my time machine, or I could do any number of possible things, same as anybody else.

But here’s what I actually did. I got myself a little glass of brandy, and I found myself a comfy chair in a darkened room, and I sat myself down and I put my feet up and I closed my eyes.

And then I went to the cashier's window and I bought myself a ticket for a ride on the imagination train. It pulls up to the platform, the conductor gives me a smile and and I hop on board.

Jessica Simpson has a nice penis and she’s using it on Tiger Woods, who has a vagina and a nice set of jugs. They’re doing it doggie-style and having a wonderful time of it.

And everyone gets off at the next station.

This Morning's Disgustication

I am getting over a head cold which might be morphing into a sinus infection.

This morning’s prodigious sniffing, snorting and hacking eventually produced an entity both magnificent and moist that closely resembled a sticky yellow oyster nestled against bloody scabs.

If I’m going to get serious about this blogging thing, I’m really going to have to remember to keep a camera by the bedside.

A picture is worth a thousand words.

Cartoon by Bud Grace

Morning Serenade

I am a strange person to live with. I admit this freely even though it embarasses me horribly.

No matter. I am precisely the way God made me so what other choice do I have? Believing in free will is for moral cowards, women and children; not for serious men.

Behold! What a piece of work is me: how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties; in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god!

Wait a minute . . . hold on . . . where was I?

Oh yes, at the breakfast table this morning I ended up serenading Mrs. Bissage with as much of this song as I could remember.



She said she never heard of it. What's all this about a fried egg?

This attempt at deflection annoyed me as I was obviously asking the musical question "Do you want to get a divorce?" Stated squarely thus, her immediate response was "no" as usual, which always comes as a bit of a disappointment.

Anyway, I thereupon felt obliged to take her to the computer to show her this 5th Dimension YouTube clip. She said it sounds like elevator music, but she likes the way that scoop neck leotard shapes that guy's junk.

Who can argue with that?

Tonight's Gastrointestinal Forecast

I have a cold. Pretty sure about that – with a fever and headache and chills and body aches. I feel like crap. It’s been about two days. Maybe it’s the flu or a head cold or a sinus infection. Who knows?

Who cares? The point is, my appetite has been all out of whack. Yesterday, I ate hardly a thing. Today for breakfast I had a scrambled egg and a bagel and a whole lot of cookies washed down with diet Dr. Pepper. Then for lunch I had very little appetite so I had a bowl of Chinese hot and sour soup. Later on I had some peanut brittle from Trader Joe’s that was truly awful.

Anyway, for dinner, Mrs. Bissage is now in the kitchen making chili and cornbread. Why she does this, fairly regularly, I have no idea.

But I do know this: I will consume vast quantities of her chili. I know this for certain because I have been drinking brandy.

Wish me luck.

Double Your Pleasure

God Punishes the Wicked

You See Me See You

Maybe I Should Zap This One a Little?

Everyone Likes Their Own Brand

Mrs. Robinson Majored in Art

Not All of Our Cats Are So Very Bright

The Road Less Travelled

The Remains of the Deer (2009)

Cartoon by B. Kliban

Lucky There's a Family Guy

Teenage daughter Meg Griffin is about to go on a date with Michael, the nice boy she met at the hospital. Mother Lois Griffin is fine with the situation but father Peter Griffin has become overprotective. He is convinced that the boy is a “possible rapist” or perhaps he is actually “two dwarves in an overcoat wanting to see what sex is like with a big person.”

Peter states his position: “Guys that age all they care about is putting their thing in everything. I’m not gonna let Meg turn out like my Nerf football in the hall closet.” But Lois prevails upon Peter to sit down with Michael and get to know him by having a little chat.

PETER: So, you are here to take out my daughter. What are your intentions?

MICHAEL: I just think Meg is really cool and I just want to get to know her better.

PETER: You know, Michael, my daughter’s womb is not a wildfire for you to douse with your adolescent seed. Neither is her lower back or her hair.

MICHAEL: I understand.

PETER: Do you, Michael? Do you? We’ll see. Let me ask you a question. You ever sit on your arm until it falls asleep and then play with yourself and pretend like somebody else is doing it?

MICHAEL: Honestly? Yes.

PETER: [offering a congratulatory handshake] Not anymore you don’t cause you’re going out with my daughter!

-- “Peter’s Daughter” (2007)

Bissage Answers Your Questions

The mailman has brought yet another huge sack of fan mail; a veritable, palatable and moveable feast of adoration from near and from far. How about I reach deep down inside here, and remove a letter at random, and we can all read it together?

Dear Bissage,

I am a law student and your biggest fan. You are quite the hero among my study group and we were all hoping that you would settle a bet. It is common knowledge that your sexual powers go all the way to eleven and we were wondering if you have any particular playlist of music to accompany your virtuoso performances.

Some of us say “no” because you are a true carnal genius of godlike proportions and any music would seem puny by comparison and farcically incongruous. However, some of us say that you are still a mortal man, despite your magnificence, and that the more mind-blowing sections of symphonies by, say, Dvořák, Mahler or Holst, could – at least in theory – keep a respectable pace and maybe even emphasize all of the gloriousness that attends, necessarily, your amorous attentions.

I hope you will find the time in your busy, busy schedule to respond to our request. As I said before, you are our hero. And there is much riding on this wager. When we all pass our bar exams, whoever losses the bet has to pay for the steaks and the Löwenbräu.

Sincerely Yours,

Joe Shlabotnik, 3L

Well, well, well, Mr. Shlabotnik, thank you for that and I can see that not much has changed since my days at law school, when I was often asked such questions by admiring fans of all sizes, shapes, colors, genders, appetites and configurations. I guess certain fascinations are an integral part of the human condition.

To answer your question, I must begin by explaining that it is now only Mrs. Bissage to whom I give every inch of my love. When I am banging her doggy-style -- with my rock hard boner -- oftentimes things get so loud that I can hardly hear myself think, what with her constantly barking orders for me to serve it up harder, faster and deeper. I accommodate her demands, of course. Providing for her total happinesss requires only a mere fraction of my astonishing talent. I hope that doesn’t sound immodest because it is simply true.

Anyway, there are indeed times when I seek a kind of musical refuge from the supernatural vaginal pounding that has become my spousal obligation. While my lower body performs exactly like the mighty diesel engines that power a Royal Caribbean® cruise ship, sometimes the head above my shoulders listens to “Gymnopédie No. 1” by Erik Satie.

It is peaceful, nice and quiet – slow and sorrowful -- and it lasts three minutes which is plenty long enough.

The Cold of Winter's Shadow Draws Near

Say it like Sir Ian McKellen playing Gandalf the White.You can thank me later, after we've saved Middle Earth.

(Photo by Mrs. Bissage a/k/a the Ghost of Summer Past a/k/a the Ghost of Summer Yet to Come.)

Same-Sex Marriage

I got home early from work, which gave me some daylight, so I took the dog for a romp. She liked getting out and so did I. Seems we both had some demons to exercise. Hers were far less sinister than my own, I should imagine.

Anyway, I pondered the subject of same-sex marriage for all the time I wasn't dodging traffic or minding the dog or picking up poop. I was trying to figure out what "equality" has to do with it.

Nothing was resolved.

So it goes.

Time for Another Post

Cartoon by William Steig

The Best Theater Joke I Was Ever Told

Of this there can be no doubt. I have been keeping it close for about twenty-five years. It was told to me in confidence, a special gift from a transient mentor.

Now, please understand that the theater is full of transients and that nearly all of them are dim and pushy and annoying because of it. But there are a precious few who are so absolutely brilliant that being in their presence is to recall vividly all of the deeply sincere thoughts both innocent and honest that one had to forfeit in exchange for adulthood. At the same time, one is caused to feel a peculiar sense of shame for having ever been called upon to make the exchange in the first place. What if maybe I had cared more and worked harder? Is it that I am incapable of love?

Wait a minute. I seem to have drifted. Where was I? Ah, yes . . . the joke.

I pass it on to you now because I may very well die unexpectedly. It is as follows:

Techs are frustrated Designers.

Designers are frustrated Directors.

Directors are frustrated Producers.

Producers are frustrated Actors.

And Actors are frustrated people.

What? You didn’t think that was all that clever or funny? Well, maybe you had to be there.

Or not.

Oh, go to hell . . . and suck on this.

I Read the News Today, Oh Boy

Drawing by the great Lee Lorenz. See also Buddy Holly.

ACHTUNG!!! ACHTUNG!!! ACHTUNG!!!

It has been recently observed that the internet interjection “heeeee” is gaining currency.

This must end. Fully grown adults do not laugh by saying “heeeee.” The most that can be said for this sound is that it is the noise a tiny infant makes upon seeing a puppy. Copious amounts of spit and dribble accompany the flow of air used to produce this sound. It is a squeal. Grown-ups do not squeal. They laugh. A laugh is the sound of delight made by humans with a fully-functioning brain who do not crap themselves.

It has been suggested that “heeeee” is a variant form of “tee hee.” If this were so, then any ordinarily intelligent person would, in fact, actually say “tee hee.” It is easy to do. But do not, under any circumstances, ever actually say “tee hee.” It is not permitted.

There is an exception to this general rule. You are permitted to say “tee hee” if you are a girl character in a comic book produced during the 1950s, or perhaps the 1960s so long as you are destined to become a square. Examples would be Lucy, Violet or Sally; maybe Marcy, but never Peppermint Patty. Both Veronica and Betty said “tee hee” so read into that what you will.

Let it be known henceforth that acceptable forms of internet laughter or similar expressions of internet delight are to be substantially as follows: LOL, LMAO, ROFL, Heh, Hah, and Ha. Exclamation points are within the exercise of sound discretion and preference should be given to punctuation that is, in and of itself, comical as self-mocking. The cat-eating, furry space alien named Alf sucked ben-wah balls but at least he was good for something.

Ha!

WARNING: DO NOT READ THIS BLOG POST!!!

And do not click this music video. Do not watch. Do not listen. It is three minutes and thirteen seconds of cringing embarassment. Truly awful, it is nothing less than execrable.Plodding. Leaden. Lethargic. Lazy. It is the pop rock equivalent of Jacob Marley dragging yard after yard of heavy chain, cashboxes and ledgers, except nothing good will ever come of it, whatsoever.

This is the kind of musical performance that demonstrates in graphic detail exactly what too much cocaine did to you back in the early 1980s, even if you were young and in your prime. Kids, just say no.

And, truth be told, these guys didn't really get laid all that much. They were way too geeky and the slutty chicks were dumb but not so dumb that they didn't remember being in high school. What made the difference, of course, was lots and lots of cocaine. But these were the kind of guys who didn't share, the selfish bastards. Given the choice, they'd rather have the blow.

I will, however, say something in their defense. They were clean and they were well-groomed. At least that's something.

What NERDS!!1!!!!!

And you know what? Marshall Suck-My-Craw was so absolutely terrible, even his wikipedia entry is a pile of steaming crap.

And why the hell are you reading this, anyway? I told you not to, dammit. Now go away. That's right. Get the fuck out of here. NOW!!!

P.S. Marshall Crenshaw sings like a girl!1!!!!!1!!!!!!

B. Kliban Speaks

“There’s a lot of sham, pretense, greed, narrowness, and stupidity in the art business, probably as much as you’d find in medicine or insurance. A ‘legitimate’ painter who does something mildly amusing is suddenly a great humorist, like ‘serious’ novelists who cop an idea science fiction writers have been kicking around for years are suddenly startling visionaries.

“I consider myself a surrealist who happens to like the area of humor. If I didn’t, I’d probably do bizarre things that were deadly serious. I was a very serious painter. That was bullshit.

“Somehow, the idea of art and really funny stuff doesn’t fit. I’d love to see a fine painting by Titian or Leonardo that was really silly; a Venus with false nose and glasses and duck feet. Those esthetic assholes would be going crazy forever, wondering, is it art?

“Steinberg, the greatest cartoonist ever, had a big show at the Whitney Museum. Hilton Kramer, the art critic for the New York Times was wondering is it really art? And he’s one of these turkeys who will accept as art an Andy Warhol copy of a Brillo box that Andy Warhol never touched. And so what if he did, anyhow?

-- Jumping Up and Down on the Roof, Throwing Bags of Water on People, by Mark Jacobs, Doubleday & Co., Inc. (1980), pp. 57-58.

ADDED: For some strange reason, I recall this post at Althouse.

Bissage Achieves Greatness!!1!!!!!1!!!!!!!!!

I just did a Google search for "The Habanero Train Whistles."

Here's what I got: Results 1 - 2 of 2 for “The Habanero Train Whistles”. (0.18 seconds)

Both of those were returns to this post at Suddenly Bissage!!!

And to think my mother told me I was no good for anything but sex.

Oh, how wrong you can be!

Deeper Meanings # 11

You might think you have what it takes to draw a cartoon like this.

And you know what?

You are correct!!!

And yet you have never even so much as tried.

Now, why is that?

(Cartoon by the great Saul Steinberg.)

Words Fail, Buildings Tumble

I Guess You Had to Be There # 5

(1) Shakira Ricketts;
(2) 186 lbs.;
(3) The ostinato riff from “Go to the Mirror";
(4) Portuguese Flannel Spaniel;
(5) “Closet Receptacles R Us”;
(6) Paw-paw new guinea hen;
(7) Beat me, daddy, eight to the Burberry trench coat;
(8) Ground, down, town, clown, frown;
(9) Burping-tupperware-taxicab-plane-fare-brandy-lamb; and
(10) “The Habanero Train Whistles.”

Mrs. Bissage Has an Affair

My car is in the shop this morning. So I take Mrs. Bissage’s car to work.

And what do I find? Lipstick on her collar? A single, long blond hair?

No.

I find something much, much worse. There they were. All loaded in the CD player. Laughing at me. Bobby Sherman. Donny Osmond! David Cassidy!! Andy Gibb!!! Leif Garrett!!1!!!!!!!1!!!!!

I sit there in stunned silence. My world comes crashing down around me. Short of breath. Head spinning. Heart pounding. Palms sweating. What to do? WHAT TO DO???

And then . . . I know what to do.

Pedal to the metal, off I go, driving like a maniac to the nearest Tower Records. I am in and out in an instant, and off I drive to a secluded spot where I can be alone, by myself.

I put my newest purchase in the CD player. And I climb into the back seat.

Katy Perry kissed a girl . . . and she liked it.

And so did I, my dear internet friends. So did I.

And now . . . and now . . . Mrs. Bissage and I . . . are . . . even.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery

(Just not nearly as good!)

Cartoon by Bill Woodman

IM IN UR HATBOXWAITIN MAI TURNZ

It's a Mystery

Overnight, this blog's "link" and "visited link" colors seem to have changed themselves.

This defies reason.

I changed them back.

We'll see what happens.

I Photograph What I See

Teh Sexxxy Kitty Katz!!!

Do any of my fellow Althousians remember this old comment?

Yes, this is the cat.

And remember, folks, it's not incest is you're from different species!

All This Useless Talent

So here’s what happened. This morning I’m all jubilant over last night’s blog entry and I throw caution to the wind and I decide to keep the party rolling. I get in the car and I’m driving to work and I put “Chicago IX - Chicago's Greatest Hits” in the CD player.

LOUD!!!

And what do I discover, completely unbeknownst to me?

That’s right. You guessed it.

With absolutely no musical training whatsoever, I can do every trumpet part from “25 or 6 to 4” all the way to “Saturday in the Park.” And when I say “do” I mean do perfectly, with an over-the-top, strident, blaring vocal falsetto that resonates with the door panels and rattles the moon roof!

I am so impressed with myself that I crank it to 11 and roll down all the windows. People at red lights are looking in their rear view mirrors for an ambulance. Dogs are barking at me. Several parked cars had their burglar alarms go off by accident.

What a buzz! I am a horn section GOD!1!!!!!!!!

Even if I’m really supposed to be playing flugelhorn, it makes no difference.

I am a middle-aged, completely ordinary guy overwhelmed by indifference and the promise of an early bed.

And I ROCK!!1!!!!!!1!!!!!!

I Do Believe in You

And I know you believe in me.Oh, yeah!

Hey, come on now. I took that photo all by my little old self.

Is it really so very bad?

Well, no matter. Life is full of ups and downs. And if my tiny, little old life has taught me anything, it's taught me that there are few things better than feeling stronger every day!

Won't you join me?

COME ON!!11!!!1!!!!!

Ha!

Bissage Wrestles with Matters of Great Importance

Believe it or not, gentle blog reader, verily, as I type, some of my fellow Althousians have worked themselves into a froth and are insulting each other over matters collateral to duct tape and frostbite at the tail end of this comment thread. Such diversions are both highly amusing and highly satisfying, I should imagine.

Nevertheless, if you keep very still, and if you listen very carefully, you just might hear the soft voice of reason somewhere off in the vanishing distance.

Oh well. So it goes.

But enough of that!!! I have important work to do, seeing as how I am a very busy man.

Yes, my many astoundingly cultured internet friends, as in the olden days of yore, now is the time to take the music CDs from my car and put them back on the shelves WHERE THEY BELONG!!1!!!!1!!!!!!!

(1) The Who, “My Generation (Deluxe Edition)”;
(2) Elvis Costello, “The Best of Elvis Costello and the Attractions”;
(3) Eric Dolphy, “Out to Lunch!”;
(4) Elvis Costello, “Armed Forces”;
(5) Badfinger, “Straight Up”;
(6) Bill Evans, “Verve Jazz Masters 5”;
(7) Everclear, “The Vegas Years”;
(8) Julian Bream, “J.S. Bach: Chaconne, etc.”;
(9) The Strokes, “First Impressions of Earth”;
(10) The Smashing Pumpkins, “Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness”; and
(11) Green Day, “American Idiot”.

There you have it, folks, yet again!

And . . . finally . . . MY PENIS IS HUGE!1!!!!1!!!!!!!!!!!

Television Serials # 6

(1) In the Studio.

(2) On the Stage.

(3) We’ve been watching “The Prisoner” on AMC. Their website is obnoxious so I won’t link to it. WIN A SUBARU SWEEPSTAKES!!!1!!!!! And it posts spoilers which is dirty pool in my book.

But I can say this: Gandolf is evil. Jesus is kind of lame, which is to say ordinary. The doctor chick needs to have her eyebrows steam-pressed back to normal. Hayley Atwell plays Lucy/415 and she must be a great actress because she sure looks better-looking than she looks.

I’m reserving judgment on the show, itself, until I see the final two episodes which air tonight. But so far, so good. It’s not the original nor should it be. The underlying theme is what’s important and that’s fully intact, so good for them!

(4) Be seeing you.

Bissage Cringes, Part II

Way back in the 1970s, my father put a little black and white poster of Frank Sinatra on the wall of our rec room.

It was a photo of Mr. Sinatra, on stage, in front of the musicians, holding a glass of booze in one hand and a microphone in the other. He looked like a bloated corpse in a business suit.

I’m not sure if he was holding a cigarette in the same hand as the booze, but he probably was. Such accomplished manual dexterity was considered an awesome mark of sophistication, back in the day.

IIRC, that poster had on it the words “Ole Blue Eyes is Back.”

I’m pretty sure you got that poster for free when you purchased the latest Sinatra album.

My father stuck it to the wall with thumbtacks.

Bissage Cringes, Part I

Last night we watched “Faces” by John Cassavetes, largely because of the great and powerful Althouse.

I found myself completely baffled.

I can’t even begin to explain "Faces" except to say that it’s about romantic relationships that are way effed-up and that old-timers back in the late 1960s sure couldn’t hold their liquor very well. Oh, and they sure smoked a lot of cigarettes.

Was Gena Rowlands a prostitute? Were the men all supposed to be outlier jerkoffs or was misogyny the order of the day? Hadn't anybody yet invented the concept of walking out of a fucked-up scene, populated by weirdos? Did everyone back in those days wear business suits all the time like a living, breathing New Yorker cartoon, set in a comfortable suburban psychiatric ward? What kind of man reads Playboy? Where’s Darrin Stephens when you need him?

That movie made me remember with a shudder what it was like to be a little kid back in the late-1960s wondering why the grown-ups were all acting like little kids. They told me at the time it was just my childish stupidity but now I’m not so sure about that.

Anyway, here’s something written by somebody smart to explain the movie much better than I can. LINK. Please note that I didn’t read it and that I recommend you don’t read it, either.

P.S. Wait! I can’t let this thing go without my standard-issue observation about how much of a super-misfit I was back in my half-assed theater days. “Faces” is chock-full of actors acting like they’re non-actors acting like actors. Singing songs. Impromptu dance numbers. Hokey histrionics. That stuff embarrasses the crap out of me.

BLEEECH!!! I think I watched half the movie peeking through the spaces between the fingers of my right hand. I was trying to protect myself from embarrassment by covering my face.

HEY, WAIT A MINUTE!!! Maybe that’s how they came up with the title of the film! You know . . . FACES!!! When you go to see it, everybody in the cinema will be covering their faces.

That’s the best explanation I’ve come up with so far.

Backyard Sightings # 15

This is Marvin.

He's a Northern Saw-whet owl.

He's claimed our Limber Pine for his own.

He doesn't ask for much.

Weezers beware.

Bissage Gets Cheated by Life

Last night I resolved to create a bloggable dream. Idiosyncratic sleep interruption is where it’s at, so I rigged up an elaborate contraption in the bedroom that would have made Rube Goldberg proud. It had a timer, and there were wires and pulleys and gears and levers all over the place.

At 1:00 AM, it pulled back the covers and smeared Vicks VapoRub on my genitals.

At 2:00 AM, it dumped a can of tuna on my forehead and then it let the cats into the bedroom wearing little pirate costumes.

At 3:00 AM, it let loose the robotic French waiter who recommended the pheasant à la Reine.

At 4:00 AM, it played a CD of studio sound effects, including, but not limited to, a steam locomotive, audience applause, a dentist’s drill and incestuous anteaters performing oral sex.

At 5:00 AM, it pantomimed Anne Hathaway, stuck in an elevator, trying to order Chinese take-out from a Spanish midget (don’t ask).

At 6:00 AM, it turned on the electrodes attached to the gerbil (look, I said don’t ask).

Okay. So what did I get for all my trouble?

Absolute squat!!! I had a lousy, fucking, crap-ass dream that I was shaving my face at a bathroom sink with an old-fashioned safety razor! And I always use kerosene and a propane torch!

WHAT A RIP-OFF, MAN!!1!!!!1!!!!!!!!!!

(Lucky I didn’t say anything about the dirty knife.)

Yank My Doodle, It's a Dandy

Lately, my rectum-fruit have become black, like sidewalk tar in summer, which is a development I’ve attributed largely to the recent up-tick in my morning input of horse-grade oatmeal. People, we’re talking 5 to 7 mini-loads a day; high pressure extrusion process.

Truly immense quantities of nylon reinforced, industrial strength toilet paper and Comet® are now required to scour my balloon knot. And, from time to time, I’ve felt the urge to simply be done with it all and use the hand-held shower sprayer to administer the mother of all enemas. First, I’ll need to check my insurance.

On the plus side, my thoracic blood pump feels heart-smarter than ever and I can whistle “Yankee Doodle” using nothing but a fully loaded bladder and my prostate, which has become oddly prehensile in recent days. Mrs. Bissage now calls me fife dick.

All I need is an old guy and a young guy to play drums and I can take my show on the road. I already have a sucking head wound.

P.S. That guy in the lower right-hand corner wants to know if we take requests. The answer to that would be “Nope, not even for James Cagney.”

Untitled Poem by Roberto Juarroz

I don't know how to make a man.
Maybe my hands make one while I am asleep
and when it's finished
they wake me up, completely,
and show it to me.

Relatório de Manhã

(1) Two weeks, three and one-half pounds, and counting.

(2) I loved this song way before I ever saw the film "Black Orpheus."I was disappointed to learn I got it all wrong. Speaking not a single word of Portuguese, I was going with the theory that the song expressed the bittersweet reflections of a man who got dumped by a girl the night before at carnaval and that he was also acceptingly wistful about the inevitability of death -- after the carnaval. Get it?

But I was wrong. There's no arguing with subtitles.

Some Things Ought Not Be Lost

This comment at Althouse reminded me of a poem I saw on a city bus way back when. I’ve been remembering it and forgetting it – off and on – for more than twenty years.

I don’t know how to make a man.
Maybe my hands make one while I'm asleep
And when it is finished
They wake me up completely
And show it to me.

I seriously doubt I’m remembering it exactly. I couldn’t find it on the internet. I believe the credited author was a man with an Hispanic name. I envy him.

ADDED: In the comments, the one and only Triangle Man identified the poet, Roberto Juarroz. I'm going to do another blog entry for the poem, to get it right. The bus poster I saw years ago was part of the Streetfare Journal Poetry Collection.

Canon PowerShot Readymade #13

Pretty Women Out Walking with Gorillas

Last night we watched Woody Allen’s “Take the Money and Run.” It co-stars Janet Margolin and I thought she was really great-looking so I looked for photos of her on the intertunnel.

I got to IMDb which described her as “pretty” and “demure-looking.” So I looked up the definition of “demure.” Merriam-Webster gives two contradictory definitions: (1) “reserved, modest” and (2) “affectedly modest, reserved, or serious : coy.” Of course, in the phony baloney world of show-biz, the difference hardly matters.

In the practice of civil law, a “demurrer” is a request made to the court to toss out an adversary's claim on the basis of “So what?”

That reminded me of this tasty tidbit from “A Streetcar Named Desire,” as follows:

BLANCHE: Oh, in my youth I excited some admiration. But look at me now. Would you think it possible that I was once considered to be attractive?

STANLEY: Your looks are okay.

BLANCHE: I was fishing for a compliment, Stanley.

STANLEY: I don't go in for that stuff.

BLANCHE: What?

STANLEY: Compliments to women about their looks. I never met a dame yet that didn't know if she was good-looking or not without being told. And some of them give themselves credit for more than they got. I once went out with a dame who told me, “I'm the glamorous type.” She says, “I am the glamorous type.” I say, “So what?”

BLANCHE: And what did she say then?

STANLEY: She didn't say nothing. That shut her up like a clam.

BLANCHE: Did it end the romance?

STANLEY: Well, it ended the conversation. That was all.

And that, gentle blog reader, pretty much sums up your humble blog correspondent's pre-marriage love life except that, with me, it always ended everything. But that’s okay. It really never, ever started to begin with. I don't go for the glamorous type.

Which is not to say that things are not substantially more complicated than that.

B.F. Skinner Meets the Free Market Economy

It's easier to read the message board if you click the image thus enabling maximum largification. I could simply tell you the punchline but you'll appreciate it more if you have to work for it.

The cartoon is by George Booth. He supposedly draws with an ordinary BIC ballpoint pen. I really don't know.

Apocalypto Now

DAAAAY-OOOO!!! DAY-AAA-AAA-OH!
Daylight come and me wan' go home.

Last night, Mrs. Bissage and I watched Mel Gibson’s “Apocalypto.” It was all right, I guess. It looked good. Lots of attention to detail.

But it amounted to little more than a chase movie. Think stone-age "Predator" without Carl Weathers but with a lot more body piercings and tattoos. If you're looking for a chase movie, then start at the beginning with “The Naked Prey.” Otherwise, give me a good, old-fashioned Road Runner cartoon.

Anyway, something was missing. The movie needed something. Maybe more testicle eating. Maybe more throat slitting. Maybe more Magua eating the heart of Monro. Maybe more Orcs, Goblins and Uruk-hai. Maybe more burning genitalia jokes. Something.

I will say this: It was kind of cool when the jaguar got that guy by the head and you could hear his skull cracking. Yeah, there was that.

Also on the up-side, there weren’t any dirty, rotten, stinking, no-good Jews in it, stealing U.S. military secrets, foreclosing on mortgages and murdering Christian babies to make their matzah. I guess that’s all part of Mr. Gibson’s creative vision, auteur that he is. But there was a Jesus, in dreadlocks, and he kicked some serious Pagan ass. And he loved his nascent family with a tenderness not seen since Mrs. Bissage jabbed a bunch of fork holes in my tube steak and rubbed in some Adolph’s® Meat Tenderizer, a half-teaspoon per pound.

One final thing. For some strange reason, the movie had a kookalamonza little orphan girl in it to deliver a spooky prophecy of doom -- the rapidly approaching Spanish Conquest -- as the One True God's punishment for the Mayan Wickedness®.

And that's enough reason for your humble (and generous) correspondent to give Mel Gibson's "Apocalypto" a halfway decent rating on his brand new, proprietary scale . . . two and a half "Deeps."

Rosemary's Bissage

Last night Mrs. Bissage and I watched “Rosemary’s Baby.” We did this motivated largely by the recent controversy surrounding the arrest of internationally acclaimed movie director Roman Polanski.

Mrs. Bissage asked me why they had that bit in the movie about Rosemary cutting her hair.I gave a long-winded, rambling, pointless answer. That’s what I do.

But here’s the short version: Part of it was to capitalize on the “swinging London” phenomenon and appropriate it for New York City. Part of it was to turn the audience against her husband, Guy Woodhouse, because he sees the haircut for the first time and reacts like a true cad.

But mostly, cutting Mia Farrow’s hair made her look like a vulnerable little girl; a child, really, who would soon enough end up drugged and raped by no one less evil than your Dark Lord, and mine, Satan, himself.

Reality is the stuff of fiction, after all, no matter how grandiose it might seem.

Call it artistic license.

And this is how you can tell you are looking at a work of true genius, when you see one.

Sad, Sad, Sad, Sad, Why Must I Be Sad?

Halloween night went badly here in USDA zone 6b and I have to admit I’m feeling a little bit sad and lonely this morning.

You see, we wanted to do something extra-special for all the little trick-or-treaters. So I dressed up like Jacque Pepin and Mrs. Bissage dressed up like Julia Child and we had an omelet station set up on the driveway. Three cheeses, mushrooms, red peppers, green peppers, green onions, asparagus, bacon, ham and sausage. Melon slices and lots of different herbs. Lots of pleasant, witty banter -- or so I thought.

Not one kid showed up! Not one!!!

All we got were local cops. Several of them complained that our selection of exotic teas was naïve and one of them insulted me, saying his omelet lacked volume and was more suited to a field hand’s lunch than a Halloween treat.

HARRRUMPH!!!

The nerve!

Well, that's it. We're not dressing up and giving out treats for Halloween anymore. No more Mr. Nice Guy!!!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

P.S. Full disclosure: I already posted this as a comment on this thread over at Althouse. I reproduce it here because I've shot my load this morning and I'm fully spent. No new ideas.

Well, maybe one: CLICK HERE.

See ya!

Canon PowerShot Readymade # 12

This one is dedicated to Jason (the commenter).

NEIL DIAMOND ROCKS!!!1!!!!!1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You will find this same enthralling video right here all embiggenated. I highly recommend clicking so you can fully appreciate the fine details. The suspender snapping, alone, is worth it.

Maybe someday I'll get around to blogging about the brief time I spent taking ballet lessons. Until then, you can spend a tiny moment or two of your fulsome life right here. Ouch!!!

Unexpected Bodily Expulsions # 8

When I was a little kid, I got sick and my mom took me to the doctor. He used one of those wooden tongue depressors to look down my throat.

That made me cough and gag at the exact same time. It was like a little explosion in the back of my throat and a fusillade of these little white spongy things came flying out of my mouth and they hit the doctor right in his face.

I saw it all in slow-motion and I could actually see some of them bouncing off poor Dr. Stein’s forehead and a few of them stuck to his glasses. Even at my tender age, I thought he comported himself with a tremendous amount of personal dignity and that admiration has not faded, even to this very day.

MOM: “Oh my Dear Lord, I’m so very sorry, Dr. Stein!”

DR. STEIN: “Your son has tonsillitis.”

And then he very calmly took out his handkerchief, wiped his face and then he cleaned off his glasses.

Me? I just sat there on the examination table feeling like I was going to die. And I wondered if maybe Dr. Stein wasn’t living a double life and that he was really a rocket ship test pilot, professional football player and secret agent, all rolled into one -- a real life hero.

We Report. You Decide.

I just felt something tickle in my right ear and then it felt like something was working its way to the outside.

So I reached in and pulled out an orangey-brown pellet of ear wax about the size of a pea.

It smelled funny so I didn’t taste it.

But, yeah, I was a little curious.

Intertubes Confessional # 5

I didn’t shave this morning and my secretary noticed and she asked why and I told her that I overslept but that was a lie because I simply forgot because I broke out of my normal bathroom routine this morning because I finally decided that enough is enough and I used the dog’s mat breaker to comb out the impenetrable jungle thicket that had formed between my ass cheeks and I wasn’t about to volunteer that information and tell her that I would have used a machete if only I had one handy even though doing so would have posed a considerable risk since it can be hard sometimes to see the forest for the trees.

Let's Go Exploring . . . In Real Time!

How about an adventure? Here’s what I’m going to do. I’ve got a hardcopy of a judicial opinion on my desk. It’s stapled and folded back to somewhere in the middle. From the right-hand column, from the first full paragraph, I’m going to take the second word. Then, from the second paragraph, I’ll take the third word, and so on, until I get to the bottom.

Then I’ll Google the result and I’ll link to the hit that is one more than the number of search terms.

Ready? Let’s go!

<< it . . . versus . . . ratify . . . Atlantic >>

Here is the Google results list.

And here is the result one greater than four.

Okay, I lied . . . so sue me.

Found Scribbled on the Back of an Envelope

THIS sounds like a job for . . .
Nonsense Rhyme Cheerleader Man!!!
(A copyrighted feature of this blog):

Kitty cat, butter fat, Simoniz® a car.
Sow an oat, Float a boat, drink a glass of tar.

Gooooooooooooo TEAM!!!

Random Movie Lines # 31

"Hyman Roth always makes money for his partners. One by one, our old friends are gone; death (natural or not), prison, deported. Hyman Roth is the only one left because he always made money for his partners."

Penumbral Emanations

This cartoon is by the tremendously talented John Caldwell, one of my absolute all-time favorites.

Canon PowerShot Readymade # 11

Thunder Blender # 17

(1) Baby bump

(2) Significant other

(3) 192.5 pounds

(4) "Man Bites Man"

(5) Mirror --> Decision --> Ostrich --> Saul Steinberg

(6) "The Disturbing Case of the Formidable Vagina"

(7) William F. George

(8) Walnut vernacular spectacular

(9) Ticky bugs timepieces of eighteen wheeler

(10) Every inch of my love

Unspeakable Visions of the Individual # 6

The theme song to “Curb Your Enthusiasm” morphs seamlessly into “A Man and a Woman” in my miiiiiiiiiiiiind!!!!1!!!!!1!!!!

You don't say!

A Modest Tribute to Ben-Hur Gazzara

It was here that Althouse said she found “The Killing of a Chinese Bookie” to be a boring movie. I can see where she’s coming from. The pacing was designed to more closely approximate that of real life and if you don’t find Ben Gazzara’s portrayal engrossing, then there’s not much else to hold your attention. If you don’t like watching a baseball game from the stands then skip this one. There is no chariot race.

But Mrs. Bissage and I both thought it was a really good movie. I liked how Mr. Gazzara played an earthy guy who was, at first blush, a scuzzball but who was actually a gentleman. He’s no wimp, but he gets into trouble with the mob because he is naïve in how he lives his seedy life and in how he runs his sleazy business.

What’s his business? Well, it’s a smallish nightclub, and patrons come for the topless burlesque show. It occurred to me from time to time that some of the T & A in the movie was gratuitous. But it worked overall because it showed that Mr. Gazzara’s character was rather ordinary as neither a letch nor a saint.

And maybe that’s what I liked most about “The Killing of a Chinese Bookie” and “A Woman Under the Influence.” They run counter to those movie conventions we’re all so very used to like the hunky Charlton Heston enunciating with his booming stage voice and pantomiming his emotions for the back of the house. That clichéd showbiz command for actors to MAKE-IT-BIG holds no validity and the command is instead to “lose the cornball.” The result is an inverse kind of cinema, a negative kind of cinema, where you have to understand the situation to fully appreciate what IS NOT being said and done.

Consistent with this, the movie ends with a life-or-death struggle that has no resolution and I’m a real sucker for that sort of thing. After all, reality is the stuff of fiction.

Bissage Says Relax

My Apologies

I would be posting more often except I am suffering from mid-life crisis and have become overwhelmed by indecision.

The good news is I have it narrowed down to: (1) becoming a civil war reenactor or (2) starting up an aquarium for fancy goldfish.

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp or what's a heaven for?

Deep.

Morning's Delight

Yesterday I enjoyed a great big heaping breakfast bowl of oatmeal. It was the first of the cold weather season.

Then there was dinnertime’s liberal application of Tabasco sauce.

Afterwards, I consumed a couple of Fig Newtons while watching the Phillies clobber the Dodgers.

A troublesome night’s sleep, some nightmares, and then today’s breakfast of shredded wheat.

That would bring us up to the present, except for that tumultuous event that occurred between the shredded wheat and the time I finally got to sit down at the computer to type this out.

Stupendous!

Bissage Learns to Dress Himself

This post at Sippican Cottage, caused me to write what follows:

I was a high school kid back in the 1970s. There was this kiosk at the mall where you bought a tee-shirt and they’d use an iron to put a rubbery decal on it. I picked one that purported to have something to do with the current Rolling Stones world tour. It was a flying eagle with jet engines under its wings and I thought it looked pretty cool.

That tee-shirt was something I could barely afford and I certainly didn’t have the money to go to a Rolling Stones concert. After a handful of wearings, I finally decided I was acting like a phony. Besides, the picture was starting to seem kind of dumb and it was peeling off, anyway.

The biggest problem, though, was the tee-shirt, itself. It was too tight and it had really small arm holes and I’d get these enormous, dark, smelly, pit stains under my arms the size of dinner plates. I existed in a clingy state of perpetual dampness. I had become a human swamp.

So it turned out I’d wasted money, which stung. But I learned a valuable lesson and there was a bright side. At least I didn’t splurge at that mall kiosk and buy the Rolling Stones world tour underpants.

Canon PowerShot Readymade # 10

Cartoon by Christopher Browne

Some Saturday Morning Unpleasantness

Because of this post at the wonderfully wide-ranging Althouse, I got curious about the films of John Cassavetes. Last night, Mrs. Bissage and I watched “A Woman Under the Influence” (1974).

It was maybe a little bit too long (2 ½ hours) and it is not for everyone. By that I mean . . . well, what am I trying to say? Well, I'm not quite sure. How about this: You know how they say people eat hot chiles or go bungie jumping or rock climbing and stuff because they need to experience a more primal and dangerous world? They get a buzz from the danger?

Well, you can watch "A Woman Under the Influence" for pretty much the same effect. I got the following from Wikipedia:

When Richard Dreyfuss appeared on “The Mike Douglas Show” with Peter Falk, he described the film as “the most incredible, disturbing, scary, brilliant, dark, sad, depressing movie” and added, “I went crazy. I went home and vomited,” which prompted curious audiences to seek out the film capable of making Dreyfuss ill.

Now, it’s pretty much a cliché for actors to say things like that – and a lot of ordinary people get turned off by that sort of crafty boast – but that’s not too far off the mark, IMHO. If you grew up in an emotionally chaotic, fucked-up family, you’ll relate to the movie probably too much. Maybe it'll work out the same even if you didn't.

In the scene that follows, run-of-the-mill housewife Gena Rowlands has just come home from a psychiatric hospital and her family is having a little get-together. It goes badly. Peter Falk is her husband. The guy with the glasses and the slicked back hair is the physician who committed her (a lovely scene, that) and the guy at the end of the table is her asswipe of a father. The kind, but weak, lady is her mother.

Everyone is packing her in too tight and she can't breathe. Feel the claustrophobia. Feel the selfishness. Feel the utter cluelessness. Feel the dysfuntion, the desperation, and the way some invisible but tremendous force -- beyond anyone’s control -- crashes people together, and then hurls them apart, again and again and again.

As I said before, it’s unpleasant. You have to be fairly serious about cinema and willing to take a risk to seek this stuff out. Personally, I recommend you don’t click on the link. Here it is, anyway.

P.S. We watched the Criterion documentary on Cassavetes' maybe a week ago. It was unhelpful. We eventually shut it off because it was little more than a parade of interviews with actors saying how much Cassavetes' work was all about LOVE. Well, it took me a long time to figure out what those actors were all talking about. That force I mentioned a second ago? That force that crashes people into each other and then tears them apart? Actors call that LOVE. And that's pretty much why I got out of "THE THEATER."

Paying It Forward

There are people who make this world a much more interesting place.

You seldom get to know anything at all about these people or what they do; the problem being largely a matter of time and space.

But now there's the internet, so things are getting better.

Case in point: RUNNING FROM CAMERA.

Dig it.

Our Affair was a Bust

The photograph is by Diane Keaton. It is Plate IX from her book "Reservations." It is entitled "The Doral Hotel on the Ocean, Miami Beach."

A Morning's Lament

Today’s breakfast was a crappy supermarket bagel with crappy unsalted butter and crappy orange marmalade. It all got washed down with an imperial pint of diet Dr. Pepper, which tastes pretty crappy.

My stomach is a toxic waste dump.

I oughta be shot.

Be Gone, Foul Temptress!!1!!!1!!!!!!!!

Same as all of us enpenised individuals, we know he struggled valiently to maintain his virtue but . . .Oh, I know that she . . . has made a fool of him . . . like girls have done so many nights before . . . time and time again.

There's gonna be no dancing when they get home.

And remember people, you can't spell Cynthia without a little sin.

Time Flies Like an Arrow

And fruit flies like a banana. Good grief. Here it is Tuesday and my last post was last Friday. Whodathunkit?

I've still got nothing to say -- and I've already used a Beatles song to say that -- so let's go in another direction.Wait. Maybe I have something to say, after all.

Over at Althouse, there are sometimes blog posts that generate comments along the lines of "women are like this" or "men are like that."

Such generalizations need to be taken with a grain of salt.

Better they should be set to music.

For Science!!!

I have been conducting a scientific survey, so please let me begin this blog post with some actual survey responses from some actual survey respondents:

(1) “You idiot! You’ve really gone and done it this time.”
-- Mrs. Bissage

(2) “What the hell is wrong with you? Get that thing away from me!”
-- One of the women in Mrs. Bissage’s book club

(3) “Pull up your pants right now, you freak, or I swear to God I’ll call the cops!”
-- Some lady in a parking lot trying to put groceries in her car

Yes, my internet friends, as you have already surely surmised, I have been field-testing the results of my homemade penis ointment. Those 100% accurate quotes, set out above, prove beyond all reasonable doubt that I am well on my way to a Nobel Prize® in Chemistry.

You will all be pleased to hear that my dong has grown a full four inches in length (as well as four inches in girth!), and that it is now a frightening mottle of pink, white, greenish-blue and red. There are barbed spines as well as an array of bony, scale-like plates.

There has been some cracking and bleeding, and I wish I could get the thing to go back down so I can pee, but hey, who needs to consume liquids, anyway? And besides, the tailor has already altered all my business suits.

What matters most is that I am in proud possession of what is, incontestably, one of the world's great, supernaturally impressive, rock hard boners!

And that's what I call WINNING!!!1!!!1!!

Here’s some background, in case you think I am just making all this up.

Nobel prize committee, here we come!

One for [R]icpic

THIS sounds like a job for . . .
Nonsense Rhyme Cheerleader Man!!!
(a copyrighted feature of this blog):

Dopamine, Soft Machine, core aerate your lawn.
Wooden knob, get a job, lip sync “Delta Dawn.”

Gooooooooooooo TEAM!

My Burning Ring of Fire

Last night we watched the movie “Walk the Line.” It was about Johnny Cash and it was pretty bad -- one big show biz biopic cliché after another. Most of it was “Behind the Music” on VH1 without the redemptive self-parody. Bland, bland, bland. Mr. Cash’s estate must have had creative control with an eye toward marketing products like Folsom Prison Blue Jeans and Orange Blossom Special Air Freshener.

Joaquin Phoenix does a good enough job. But a lot of that seems to be the result of his spending weeks in the bathroom, drunk out of his mind, making slack-jawed scowls at himself in the mirror, repeating out loud, over and over again, “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash.”

Don’t get me started on Reese Witherspoon. Who knew June Carter was a reticent ditz in need of a chaperone? In all fairness to Ms. Witherspoon, I can’t blame her for fouling up the sex scene. Johnny Cash must have been hung like a bear.

Anyway, I hate to be a poop head, so let me say something nice. Some of the movie was okay. For example, I liked the “Man in Black” sequence. That was where they were driving in a car and it turns into a high tech rocket car and they play Elvis Presley while driving all over the ceiling of the Holland tunnel. “Elvis is not dead. He just went home.” Ha! That was great.

A Mutually Supportive Relationship

Canon PowerShot Readymade # 9

Where is Everybody?

The place is here. The time is now. And the journey into the shadows that we're about to watch could be our journey.

You see, we can feed the stomach with concentrates. We can supply microfilm for reading, recreation, even movies of a sort. We can pump oxygen in and waste material out.

But there's one thing we can't simulate that's a very basic need: Man's hunger for companionship. The barrier of loneliness. That's one thing we haven't licked yet.

So whoever you are -- out there in the real world -- reading this blog entry, I hope you are never too lonely.

I also hope you are a fan of the old "The Twilight Zone."

It turned 50 years old, today.

Roman Polanski Buggered My Sister!!!

The year was 1975. We were all just kids but we knew that Uncle Paul was a very busy man and it was always a special treat whenever he stopped by for a visit. He gave my Mom forty bucks and sent her out to pick up the Chinese food he ordered.

He said he was going to make my little sister a big star but I really couldn’t tell for sure what was going on in the bedroom. Maybe acting lessons or a screen test or something. All I know for sure is that Uncle Paul came out after a while, and then he made me a highball and let me smoke a cigarette. It was GREAT!!!

He left just before Mom got home and he said, “Consider yourself lucky, kid. If you can’t get a girl, then a cute, chubby boy will do. Remember that, kid.”

I might not be remembering that exactly right because I was pretty dizzy by then.

But I do remember that Mom was really pissed off when she got back home and saw that Uncle Paul didn’t leave an envelope on the kitchen counter like all the times before.

He never stopped by for a visit after that.

My Mom said he died in a plane crash over the ocean, but now I know that she told a lie.

Grownups are funny.

Canon PowerShot Readymade # 8

Sunday Morning Looking Down

I was walking across a highway overpass when I came across a tiny, little vole. It was on its back, moving its little legs in slow motion. It looked like it did not realize it was upside down with its little white belly facing straight up.

It had a tiny, little mouth that would open and close, in rhythmic synch with its little legs.

The poor, little vole was dying, on the cold, hard macadam of a pedestrian walkway off to the side of an immense overpass that spanned a six-lane highway that roared beneath us with traffic racing by at seventy miles per hour. It was all so incredibly noisy and the sky was grey and it was drizzling on a chilly Sunday morning.

I felt sorry for that helpless little vole so small it would have fit easily in the palm of my hand. And I wondered how it ever got to be so very far away from its home in the meadow.

There it was, gasping out its last breaths, upside down in the cold, the grey and the damp, all alone.

I saw myself in that rodent, and I gave thought to putting it out of its misery, but I never did. Instead I walked on hoping to reach the safety of the other side, asking myself a question: “Where is its guardian angel?”

A Poem for Mrs. Bissage

Your soul is a . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . FISH.

My heart is a . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . FISH.

Your mind is a . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . FISH.

My spleen is a . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . FISH.

Our love is a . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . FISH.

Biological Clock

Tales from a Suburban Backyard

In the garden, beneath the comforting shade of a grand old walnut tree, stood a tiny little tree named Shidare. She was a very pretty little Japanese maple, and she was very happy, because it was a beautiful Autumn day and her lacey red leaves fluttered gently in the cool afternoon breeze.

She was hoping that someone would come by, to see how pretty she looked, when she heard an odd sound from above. It started up high in Mr. Walnut and it made a swooshing, rustling noise that got closer and closer and so loud that Shidare became frightened and then her favorite branch was ripped clean away from her trunk and she began to cry.

“Please don’t cry, little Shidare,” said Mr. Walnut. “I am very sorry one of my walnuts fell from such a terrible height and hurt you, but you are young, and you are still very pretty, and now you will grow taller in the Springtime so that everyone in the garden can see you!”

Shidare brightened at the thought, and she set her mind to the serious task of forming callus tissue to close off her wound thus guarding against viral, bacterial and fungal infection. And she hoped that someday soon, Mr. Squirrel would fall out of Mr. Walnut and dash his brains out all over Mr. Rock, who was sitting right there beside her.

THE END