Castor Oil...sickeningly good

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

The genius of Ali Baba

So I’m hoping that Ali Baba is going to make his way down from the Rotten Apple for the show this Friday night. Things are always a tad more interesting when Ali Baba is around. He delivers a certain element of uncertainty and insanity about it all that really gives a special zest to an evening. He’s like the hot sauce in a Bloody Mary or the wild-eyed crazy foul mouthed stripper at a dumpy T&A joint; a single ingredient that can really kick the crap out of something that can be mundane otherwise. Not that our shows are mundane ever. I mean to think that is just ridiculous. As you all know we’re awesome and deeply sexy at ALL times. Ali Baba just brings it to a new level of massive fabulousness.

I met Ali Baba a number of years ago when I joined the dot-com revolution. I was sitting in an auditorium with a bunch of other soon to be zillionaires all rubbing ourselves enthuiastically over our stock options and early retirements and getting orientated into our new lives as revolutionary and horrendously brilliant thinkers. I tell you we were going to do business in a whole new way and get rich as shit for our troubles. Oh, we were quite the cognoscenti!. The brain matter was leaking out of our Mensa deserving assholes and squishing around in our big clunky black shoes. We were making an E-TENSIFIED effort to be INNOVATORS and deliver the CUBE OF CONSOLIDATED SERVICES that would DRIVE A NEW GENERATION OF E-BUSINESSES to unforeseen heights of E-XPONENTIAL REVENUE GROWTH!!!!! It was sweet.

This company did our dry cleaning for us. They bought us, (well contributed to a lease anyway), fancy cars and leased fat apartments in Battery Park and mansions in Beverly Hills for the staffers. There was no way we could fail….except for not making any money which it turned out we were exceptionally good at and the down the tubes we all went.

It was a good ride though and the company was chock full of super smart people. It was the dopes at the top that couldn’t think their way out of a bag of shit that brought it all down. Seriously, we had an executive VP in charge of consulting services whose resume consisted of being an accountant for Circuit City, a dog groomer, and the little brother of the CEO. I exaggerate on here like my life depends on it but that last part, 100% factual and no bullshit. But to get back on track one of the brightest, and by far the most entertaining of characters, I met that day in the auditorium was my now good friend Ali Baba.

He’s the son of immigrants, has a fun last name, is a champion Brazilian Jui-Jitsu fighter, a brilliant storyteller, terrifying drinker, stalwart companion and recurring partner-in-crime for the trouble I seem to get myself into at times. We have had some really maddening adventures and I love to tell those stories. Ali gets portrayed on here as a one-dimensional buccaneer at times which is my fault but it’s just so damn fun to cover that side of his personality.

The thing that gets lost in all these tales of madness and frivolity with Ali Baba is that he is, no fail, one of the deep-down smartest sons a bitches I have ever known. Like, crazy ass Howard Hughes style smart with a brain that works on multiple levels, (thankfully one of those levels has a bar that's always open). He’s not a big talker about being a big old brainiac at all. We shoot the shit about stuff like how good my hair looks and this and that and out of the blue every once in a while he will pop up with something that is on a mental plateau that makes my head spin.

To wit, check this thing out that he sprung on me one recent day when we were talking. He says he does, "Hey...go to this site and tell me what you think. I think I figured out the stock market."

Hardly an original claim but when I looked at it, Ok when I looked at it I was totally confused, but when a couple of my buddies who know much of these things looked at it they were confounded. One said it gave him a boner and the other said it scared the shit out of him and I thought, "Holy jesus, Ali Baba has created the Iron Maiden of websites! Scary and boner inducing all at the same time! AWESOME!!!” I'm all for his brain, I'm counting on it to put my kids through college. See for yourself, I don’t totally get it but to think that he just thought of this whole thing in his cranium and turned it into a real bonafide business is pretty wild.

Here's what I'm talking about: MechanicalSwingTrader

I think it's pretty wild anyway, (and a purty purty website). The name is cool too, it sounds like a robot sex party night at an S&M club.

Speaking of which….

Several years ago the Mrs. and I went up to New York for a weekend to hang out and indulge in some mirth and frivolity with Ali Baba and the rest of our pals up there. My wife went to school in the Village at a place called Parson’s School of Design that’s supposedly the cat’s ass when it comes to artsy designer stuff. She’s something else Mrs. Castor….fo rill. Suff.

So we like going up there and walking around and staying up late and looking sexy and fabulous and all that great Metropolitan stuff. I love New York, where else can you buy a slice of pizza, an eight dollar pack of smokes and a triple-headed strap-on with blinking lights at 4:00 A.M. all from the same store? (Not that I have…….but I could if I wanna).

Anyway, me and Ali Baba had somehow heard about this bondage themed French bistro around St. Mark’s place and figured it would be a hoot and a whistle to take my lovely there as a surprise. It was ball-pinchingly cold that night and of course we got lost so by the time we got to the unmarked door the Mrs. was a tad testy. The hope, (my hope anyway), was that the insides were going to be so fantastically cool and sexy that she would totally want to retreat back to our cruddy hotel and sham-a-lama-ding-dong and freak-a-lacka-ping-pong and nudge nudge winky winky, (Ali would be excused if this turned out to be the case. I’m crazy but I ain’t no DAMN FREAK!!!!”)

After our Lewis and Clark style trek we were finally there. Ali rang the bell and after a moment the door creaked slowly open and a big menacing harlot in leather asked us in. The place was kinda cool looking with torture racks and manacles and that kind of crap but except for the busboy walking around in pleather hotpants it was totally empty. I guess we should have thought that 7:30 at an S&M bistro in Manhattan was a tad early to show for dinner but we didn’t so we sheepishly sat down in the emptiness and perused the menu.

The food looked good, standard overpriced French bistro fare but it was the extras that really gave the spice to the offerings. Where else can you order foie gras with a side of verbal humiliation? Roasted duck with ass lashings from a dominatrix? Seared beef in wine sauce with a penis slap topped off with a swift kick to the ass? It’s kinda like Medieval Times for the ball-gag set.

The Mrs. doesn’t drink, (I’ll give you a second to process that fact and climb get back into your chair), so she went through the next couple of hours stone sober while Ali Baba and I drank like our lives depended on it. The food was great actually and we were having a grand old time gradually getting more and more feisty along the way. I went to the can and a harridan in a leather bustier smacked my ass with a riding crop as I passed by her. It was so surprising I thought a little pee might have sneaked out when I yelped "EEK!" but I was able to hold it all together utilizing my fabulous powers of urinary self-control. Ali was infatuated with a waitress that was not our waitress which caused some grief from our assigned server as he kept talking to the object of his affection. After a bit our grumbly wench came to the table, tied a knot in a napkin, shoved it in Ali's mouth and tied it tightly around his head. Nonplussed he grabbed a straw and drank around the gag to our server’s annoyance and the cheers of the (now full) restaurant. After we left he worked the napkin out of his mouth and slung it round his neck like a jaunty cravat for the rest of the evening. Ali Baba is chock full of ingenuity and panache, it’s an integral part of his charm.

Eventually stuffed and spanked and sotted we left and continued carousing through St. Mark’s. It’s a fun neighborhood made better by having a friend that owns a bar there. The hours they were long and the times were good. That night ended like many others with big hugs from Ali and a wave as he rode off into the night with dawn just on the horizon.

My wife loves him like a brother and actually encourages our adventures together. He’s just that kind of guy. So if you want to meet Ali Baba and get your liver destroyed in the process it would be worth your while. Characters like him are few and far between and the more you meet the better off you are. Any of you brainy money types that want to know more about the swing trader thing drop me a line and I can put you in touch.

Here’s to Ali, long may he reign.

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Lord of the Dicks

Before I get started on a day in the life of Kidner Transport let me touch briefly on the events of last evening.

I stopped by the Galaxy Hut to see a show that some folks I knew were playing and lo and behold I went on the wrong night. The drummer I went to see, (who has a nifty little teeny-tiny drumset) plays in two bands and I was planning to see his band A when in actuality he was there to play with his band B. Not a big deal except my friend John was also supposed to play the same night as band A with his own entirely different band. They’re called Gleek.

Anyway, I was there and happy to see band B regardless and just chatting away with a friendly English dude and a guy named Gordon when the opening act started. Out of the men’s room came a body shambling along with a blanket over his (presumably his) head. Shambles the Blanket starts talking into a wireless mic (strike one) in a Darth Vadery style voice about how he was about to blow my mind, (along with everyone else’s in the room). Yeah…..

He got to the front of the room and WHOOSH with a dramatic flourish off spins the cape and emerges Lord of the Yum Yum or Something or Other, (strike two). His schtick is to be a “WHACKY” performance art douchebag in an ill-fitting powder blue tux, singing and beat-boxing through a digital delay machine, (strike three). If the Gong Show and Napoleon Dynamite hadn’t been done already it could have been pretty interesting, (interesting good), instead it was sorta amusing at first and simply irritating shortly thereafter, (irritating not so good. Strike Four). Thankfully the Breakfast Club was on closed caption above the bar and I had a good sight line so I could tune it out but it just got me to thinking bad thoughts, (surprise. Strike Five for the aggravation). Soon Shambles the Blanket Lord of the Yum Yum was running around the room like a nitiwit beat-boxing and generally being an asshole while I was trying to drink a beer and relax and it was just not going my way. I couldn’t even enjoy the beer for the caterwauling going on around me (strikes Six through Ten).

Lest you think I am not a fan of the avant garde and the delicate artiste let it be known that the lovely Mrs. attended the Parsons School of Design and is as artsy as you could imagine and I do dearly love her for it. I just get pestered when artsiness becomes a commodity that some fuckhole feels compelled to shove down my throat. It seems acting like a stupid wang has somehow gotten confused with being funny. As stated so eloquently in Spinal Tap, “there’s a fine line between clever and stupid.” and the problem seems to be that only stupid motherfuckers seem to want to walk that line. So what happens, I get continually subjected to Adam Sandler wannabes and the bastard son of Chuck Barris when I could be hearing actual decent music or listening to the rednecks opine on a movie like, “Red Heat”

“That ain’t Schwarzenegger’s ass, that’s a stuntman’s ass!!!!!”

You know real solid entertainment.

Mercifully lord of the shit stains kept it pretty short, (and still managed to drive more than half of the folks out of the room). By the time he was done and band B was set up and ready to roll it was time for me to roll as well so my trip out was pretty poor. I did get a blog and a spike in my blood pressure out of it though so I guess it’s all for the good. I still want to stab him in the face with a Galaxian machine but other than that I’m pretty much over it. I mean if the good lord wants to damn him and his stupid ass suit to the eternal fires of hell just for shits and grins that’s fine with me.

But that’s just the way I am.

Friday, March 25, 2005

Appetite for Liver Destruction

Oh my lord, my body is weary. I have not slept for more than seven hours in a week and during that time I have soused my blood with alcohol to the point of ruin and my bones they are achy. I had a lot of fun though so all in all it was worth it. I mentioned that I went to Dallas for work and did the whole hotel convention thing. Creepy McFathands was there and he apparently still has hard feelings about our little miscommunication. He perped me with a hateful glare on a couple of occasions. Poor Creepy, I guess it’s true, you really can’t be friends with someone who broke your heart. Anyhoo….

The lovely Mrs. took my two lovely wee childs to Deep Creek Lake for the week so I was home alone yesterday. This is not a good thing for me as I tend to process boredom in a predictable manner. “Hmmm, this is boring. I think I’ll go get drunk.” After work I went up to the local yokel bar and watched “Final Analysis” with the retards in attendance. Listening to incredibly stupid motherfuckers make their banal commentary and predictions on what’s coming next is more entertaining than what is on the tube most of the time. To refresh, the movie is about a psychiatrist (Richard Gere) who starts banging the sister (Kim Basinger) of his disturbed but massively hot patient (Uma Thurman). So a murder happens and they go to trial and the black dad from “Something about Mary” (he got the beans over the franks and whatnot) is the detective trying to figure the whole thing out. Decent enough movie, very early 90’s, extremely easy to see where the plot is going. My compatriots piped up with these bits of wisdom throughout –

“Hey ain’t the doctor a fag or something?”
“Awww I bet they ain’t sisters, I bet they’re dykes!”
“Tell you what, the black feller is up to his ass in this nonsense”
“Thet girl was in the Fifth Element, she’s from Norway or something.”
“Do they show tits on this channel?”
“Damn Boob, did you fart?”
“See, I told you they was dykes…what do you mean they ain’t!”
“Awww shit she’s going to shoot him in his dick!”

Really, that’s only the tip of the iceberg. I left them during reruns of kickboxing from the Bellagio. It was just too much to take…..

I ended up at Dr. Dremo’s last night late, late, late and had a pretty good time at the old open mic night. It was like old home week with a bunch of people I actually like showing up, (rare) to counter-balance the loathsome creatures that I frequently see there Of course I could talk about the good people but what fun is that? So on to the dicks….

For the second time in my life I was subjected to a total clown that looks like Hagrid from Harry Potter destroying the sonic harmony with his stupid Korg keyboard renditions of classic rock songs. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds monotone with a ticky-tack keyboard drumbeat…..not so good. There was a dude in a cowboy hat that was pretty terrifying. He was drunk, angry, and eventually down stripped down to a wife beater as he kept flexing up. I’m not sure if he was there alone but he was solitary most of the night just throwing darts really really really hard at the dart board and glaring around like a maniac. I kept my distance accordingly. All in all though things were going well and I was jolly (and massively intoxicated) until comedian open mic guy got up to play. I get it OK, Adam Sandler and Tenacious D., funny. It makes me laugh. Unfortunately their presence has spawned legions of douchebags who write their witty songs about fucking and fat girls and how pathetic they are…blah blah blah. It’s awful and endless going on and on and on and on and on and on and on like this sentence on and on. If I want comedy I’ll go to a comedy club or watch Tom Delay trying to appear sincere on C-Span. Lovely Ann was getting pretty tired of the whole thing and it looked like she might spray the guy with kerosene and lead a match flicking party but she held back…..too bad. Hey, burning alive worked for Richard Pryor, maybe it could work for this guy too!

Philito got up and played with his band and they sounded good. I dig that vibe.

Anyway, I’m tired and hungry. I have posts in the works about the Kidner life and the genius of Ali Baba so I should be back up to my expected level of brilliance and outright sexiness soon. Thanks for bearing with me. My hair still looks fantastic, in case you were wondering.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005


Was in Dallas for the better part of a week. Saw Creepy McFathnds but he's still acting like a scorned woman and won't talk to me. I have to go get my dog.


Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Kidner Transport Roll Call - Part Three

Rich - The Harvester of Sorrows

From deep in the dark wastelands of Pennsylvania there was born a force of nature unable to be retrained by the mores of polite society. Yea, this beast, this Krakken amongst mortals strode with heavy purpose and a deathly glare and fear split wide before him like a parting sea. The gross part was that he did all that striding and glaring in cutoff jean shorts that were so skimpy that his nuts would peek out when he sat down.

Rich, (aka the Harvester of Sorrows), was one half of the Rich and D.J. imbecile troupe. He was by far one of the scariest, most backwards ass, and explosively violent fuckers I have ever known. While Mike and Jeff from previous posts could be violent and somewhat scary by act of circumstance Rich made being ill-tempered and mean a full time job. He had spent time in jail where he purported that he went to law school even though he had never graduated high school or earned a G.E.D. Someone once questioned him on the truthfulness of that and got his face knocked off in the middle of the Clarendon 7-11. Being that he had a driver’s license when he started Rich became a crew chief and wielded whatever implied authority that brought like a Nordic war-hammer. “YOU…PICK THAT UP…NOW…YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER GET OFF MY TRUCK!!!” These were the routine managerial techniques he employed. After his second D.U.I. he lost his license and his title and became ever more surly, especially towards sawed off little shits like me that had some sort of design on a life beyond diesel fumes and stealing change from a widow’s kitchen drawer. His disdain for me and my little cadre of dorks that worked there was clear and his threats on our lives were neither infrequent nor veiled. How I escaped getting beaten to death by him I have no idea other than he actually was scared of our boss John Kidner and John always made it apparent to the rednecks that beating my ass was not a good way to stay employed, (I was one of the only people that could read, drive, do simple math and operate a telephone…invaluable assets to Kidner).

Rich loved music as long as it was Metallica, Sabbath, Judas Priest or Ozzy. He received his nickname shortly after he got his first Walkman (stolen from a customer of course). We were at a retirement home unloading some old codger’s things so he could get ready to die and Rich was headbanging wildly in the truck with his oversized headphones perched atop his fuzzy blonde mullet. I guess the metal just overwhelmed when he ran down the ramp and started flailing the truck with both fists and berserker style screaming, “HARVESTER OF SORROWS, HARVESTER OF SORROWS….YAAAAAAAAWWWWWOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH!!!!!!!” If no octogenarians died of a massive heart attack because of that berserker war cry that nursing home either had the best difribulators or the worst hearing aids ever produced by man. Rich did passionately love his heavy metal and equally despised, “stupid faggot music” which seemed to encompass anything I ever listened to. He just wasn’t the kind of guy to get into the Hanoi Rocks vibe I suppose.

He loved Black Sabbath so much that he had a jailhouse style India ink tattoo of an iron cross with the names of the four original members inside each prong on his arm. It’s a good thing for the guy that inked it on that Rich was functionally illiterate because if he knew that Ozzy didn’t spell his last name “Osborne” as it was displayed he most likely would have killed the artist with a good old fashioned curb sandwich followed by a cleaver to the face. Rich had other great tattoos as well; “hate” and “kill” across the knuckles and the pizza de la reezistance a faded green outline of Garfield the Cat with no stripes holding up a big smoking joint. That ruled. He would talk about his next round of tats incessantly. He wanted to get Elmer Fudd on his ass cheek pointing an elephant gun at his asshole with a voice balloon saying “come on out you wascally wabbit” and a pair of squirrels on his legs, one running up towards his sack and the other running down with a nut in its mouth.

Rich was a class act I’ll tell ya.

If you can’t guess Rich was a terrible racist and homophobe and generally was just a nasty shit to be around. He was bad sober and much worse drunk, the only thing that made him tolerable was weed and only when both of us were smoking it. He punched my buddy Russell so hard in the leg one day after some innocuous comment that we thought amputation might be in order due to the huge black spot that enveloped his thigh for days afterwards. While Rich never beat me up per se he did trip me, kick me, slap me, hit me with the hanger to a wardrobe box, snap me on my bare back with a moving strap, burp directly into my face, piss on my sandwich, steal my cigarettes and throw my car keys out the window of the truck while it was moving. I would implore Kidner to not make me work with him and John would always say, “awww, you’re crazy. Rich really likes you. He tells me so all the time!” That was scarier than all the abuse combined.

Kidner and Rich had an all-out fist throwing blowout over something one day (rarely have I been happier than when Kidner blew Rich’s nose up with a straight right hand to the face) and the cops were called by the people in the office next door. Did I fail to mention that all of this insanity occurred in a legitimate office building where legitimate businesses were trying to exist and prosper? I’m sure, “listening to screaming racist maniacs hurling invectives at each other all day”, wasn’t included in their lease agreements. Ah well, caveat emptor motherfucker. Anyway, John beat Rich’s ass until the cops showed up and when the constables arrived and ran the ID’s of both m’boys it became clear that Rich had several open invitations to stay as an all expense paid guest of the state in numerous locales. So off he went with a banshee shriek and a bloody face and I didn’t see him anymore. I wonder if he ever got that squirrel tattoo? Maybe that would have made him happy, like Citizen Kane with Rosebud. Only way more disgusting.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Kidner Transport Roll Call - Part Two

Jeff of the Powers of Pain – Jeff was the elder of the Payne Brothers (hence the cutesy Powers of Pain moniker).

As I recall he was a wiry, bug-eyed, feather haired, hard drinking and drugging loose cannon that kinda took me under his badly tattooed and powerful wing when I entered the world of Kidner Transport. Jeff was small in frame but could, and frequently did, beat the holy shit out of anyone that roiled his sense of right and wrong (fluid at best, warped beyond belief most consistently). I have seen a lot of fights and have never seen anyone that could fight like Jeff. It was surreal, he was like Riki Tiki Tavi with India ink tattoos and a 70’s porn mustache.

One time Jeff was having a tit-for-tat disagreement in the truck parking lot with one of the slabs of meat that worked at the company. Jeff was standing outside the truck and the wall-eyed soon to be beaten lard of crap that he was arguing with was in the passenger seat of one of the trucks. When the switch flicked in Jeff’s head that this verbal “fuck you asshole” style diplomacy was getting nowhere he snapped and in a bare instant the door to the truck was yanked open and Jeff had the 300 pound antagonistic redneck out on the pavement and beaten unconscious with a flurry of punches to the face before the fat slob even had a chance to flap his meaty jowls in defense of his position. He was a scary little man but damn it if he liked you, “he was good people” as the lower-class likes to say. I never had to worry when I was out boozing it up with Jeff, we may have been stupid but I was insulated and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Jeff was all about women with a proclivity to early middle-aged alcoholic sluts that liked to drink and screw dudes they met at the bar in chain restaurants. Many were the day that I stopped the truck illegally on Duke Street so Jeff could hop out into traffic and scurry up the hill to Bennigan’s where, “some real fucking sluts like to hang out.” He always had a cadre of sobbing whores waiting for him at work and driving our boss John Kidner insane by calling the office looking for him every five minutes. John would yell at him but Jeff would just smile and say, “hey Johnny, you can’t blame me for doing them so good I drive them crazy. I was just born natural.” In the face of that kind of self-confidence can you really hope to win an argument? So we put up with his whores, some of them would come out to the jobs (drunk) in their piece of shit cars all dolled up like clowns from Hades and bring lunch for the crew. Jeff would boss everybody around and take his shirt off and generally be the head rooster for a while. I didn’t really give a shit as when he was showing off he got a tremendous amount of really heavy furniture moved which meant I didn’t have to do it. Point to the whores!

Jeff was full of knowledge about everything under the sun and loved to share his observations with those around him whether he knew them or not. While in line at 7-11 he gave me some time-honored advice on love and relationships. He said he did, “You know what you do…you stick your tongue up a woman’s ass and she’ll never leave you. You can beat that bitch with a two by four and she’ll keep coming back for more.” While the rest of the consumers were horrified I just had to smile and nod in agreement. Really, can Dr. Phil hold a candle to that kind of homespun wisdom? He was like a perverted Methed out Yoda with advice on love and how to get rid of STD’s for all his young Padwans.

Jeff had lost his license years and years before I met him and it bugged the crap out of him that he wasn’t the offiicial crew-chief on the moving jobs. That title was reserved for nitiwits like myself who had a valid driver’s license and not enough sense to avoid getting behind the wheel of the death-traps that we took to the job everyday. Whenever we got to a job Jeff would bound his boozy ass out of the truck and scamper to the customer’s door to intorudce himself as the “head mover in charge.” If the customer were female he would return to the truck and the rest of us how bad she wanted to fuck him. If the customer was a guy Jeff would laugh at what a homo he was. It was pretty much like clockwork and I just filed it away as part of the routine. He never really hurt anybody (except for the people he beat the crap out of) and honestly he had a good heart, he was just fucked up and couldn’t really do any better.

When Kidner died I saw Jeff at the funeral and introduced him to the Mrs. He leered respectfully and gave me a big hug and after we chatted about the old days for a bit he said he had to go. He pointed to a car parked across the lot. “My old lady’s waiting to drive me home.” I asked him why she was waiting in the car and he said without a hint of irony, “awww, it would be disrespectful to bring a drunk bitch in here.” Well he was right. Sometimes in life the more things change the more the drunk bar sluts stay the same.

Next stop – the Harvester of Sorrow

Monday, March 14, 2005

Kidner Transport Roll Call - Part One

Profiles of the Kidner Tranport luminaries presents Mike Back.

Born and raised in the wilds of Western Pennsylvania Michael was a pill-popping Roid’ maniac who would carry loaded file cabinets on his head for recreation. Michael used to be in the army and was discharged after his parachute didn’t open causing him to crash into the Bolivian jungle with survivable but terrifying injuries. His right foot had telescoped up to his knee, he had the scars to prove it and credited the army for introducing him to the “awesome” world of steroids and high-grade pain medication during his rehab and recovery.

Michael talked in a sing-song cigarette scarred lunatic’s chortle and drove at absolutely maniacal speeds at all times. He saw weight and height limits on the highways as a challenge and not a mandate and would challenge them frequently yelling, “we’re not gonna make it we’re not gonna make it we’re not gonna make it…..OMIGOD BUD CAN YOU BELIEVE WE MADE IT!!!!” then do it all over again. He was constantly high on the job and behind the wheel and would find excruciatingly painful circumstances attached to his good times which, after he regained consciousness he would question with a, “why’s the world so mean Bud, I was just having fun!”

To wit – Once at the Crystal City restaurant (low-grade Viriginia strip bar) he hopped up on the stage and started dancing around like a chimp complete with one hand on top of his head and the other under his arm. After a few seconds he leapt from the stage and ran out the door followed first by the bouncers and then by his colleagues, (myself included). They bouncers ran Michael down in a gravel parking lot and commenced with the shit-beating they were after. I stood on the fringes as my cohorts jumped in and smashed the faces, knees and groins of the bouncers to pulp proving the point that having a tight black t-shirt, big arms and a Gold’s gym membership has nothing on being a good old beaten since birth low-thinking redneck when it comes to ass-whipping capability. I figured to have a reasonable excuse for not engaging in the fisticuffs and cock-kicking I had better tend to Michael who was gasping and wheezing from several broken ribs and a huge amount of gravel and dust that had been forced into his lungs during the fray. He was spitting up blood and had lost a tooth, all in all the boy was in pretty bad shape, He smiled a wan smile and whispered, “Did you see it bud, I did it during Bon FUCKING Jovi…that was awesome!!!” Then he passed out. He woke up in the ambulance with a tube down his throat…laughing hysterically.

To wit again – Michael and his brother-in-law Jeff (more about him in a future post) once took a moving trip to a small town in South Carolina. As was the norm they were drunk and high on the ride down and upon arrival at their destination quickly found a bar to wash down the dust from the road. Things happened as they sometimes do between loving families and soon Jeff and Michael were beating the crap out of each other and smashing furniture and generally making a mess. The local constabulary was called and stepped in with hob-nailed boots at the ready. Well…just because they had been trying to kill each other doesn’t mean Michael and Jeff weren’t family and goddamn if some hick deputy was going to lay hands on a family member. Soon Jeff and Michael were back-to-back fighting the deputies, the barstaff, assorted patrons and anyone else they could get their hands on and doing pretty well from all accounts. Finally under a hail of whacking sticks they were cuffed, bloodied and battered but undaunted. A deputy read the rights off the little plastic card and asked Michael, “do you have any questions?”. Michael (laughing as always) replied, “yeah Bud, when do I get to meet Boss Hogg”. The humor was lost on the local boys in blue and after he sustained four broken ribs and a concussion I had to go to South Carolina to pick up my yahoos and the moving truck. The charges were dropped after Kidner agreed to pay for damages and the lads were free to go. I got in the truck with Michael and his swollen, blackened face and asked how he was. He said, “Bud I’m fine but I’ll tell ya, people in the South have no sense of humor”

Next up – the Powers of Pain.

Friday, March 11, 2005


I was chatting with Iron Mike earlier today about the awesomeness of Shitrocket. After about five seconds we started discussing what a bunch of cocks the other two imaginary Shitrocket dudes were so we said fuck those a-holes and formed a new band on the spot called DickNickel. So Shitrocket is yesterday's papers and we're all DickNickel for life now. I'll go get our cool ass logo tattooed on my ass this weekend. It's the letters DN in a circle, totally original bro....not at all like the gay OBX stickers that you're thinking of. Pretty soon I'll order a bunch of stickers to plaster on the stop signs near my mom and dad's house and get some band photos taken. It's going to kick ass. I think Iron Mike is under the impression that he'll be the front-man but I'll get that straightened out soon enough. I mean really, should this hair be wasted on playing bass?

Anybody want to gig out with the awesome spectacle that is mother fucking DickNickel?

Have a good weekend. I just dropped a drippy ass chicken wing on my keyboard so this entry should smell like hot sauce.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Who am I?

A new feature on the blog. First correct guess gets a kiss in the crotch from the sycophant of my choosing.

Who am I?

I was born in January of 1931. I grew up in the Bronx. My mother was a belligerent Swede who rarely left the house without a baseball bat. She had ethnic slurs for nearly every race, and she'd shout them regularly from the safety of her apartment window. My father was a henpecked Irish Catholic, a brush artist for movie posters at Paramount studios. When the studio started hiring photographers to design their posters, brush artists fell out of favor. My father lost his job and became an alcoholic.

I was, admittedly, a weak child in a tough neighborhood. A sickly, nearsighted boy, I’d climb into my mother's sewing basket and create puppet shows. I had no interest in sports, and he wasn't always able to hide the mannerisms and persona which marked me unmistakably as homosexual -- earning me the nickname of "Mary" from my immediate peer group.

At age nine, I got the lead in a school play about Christopher Columbus. My teacher told my mother that I was the only true actor she'd ever known. When I was eleven, a friend and I went to the circus in Hartford, Connecticut and a fire started under the circus tent. We escaped, but 168 people, including many children, died in the stampede to evacuate. For that reason, I have not sat in an audience for anything -- including a movie -- since July 6, 1944.

I decided to work backstage instead, and by the time I was 18, I was studying with Uta Hagen. My classmates included Jack Lemmon, Charles Grodin, Gene Hackman, Shelley Berman and Jason Robards. I remember that they couldn't act for shit! They stunk! If we had to watch Hal Holbrook and Steve McQueen do the brothers scene from Death of a Salesman once more, I thought we'd go out of our minds!

Between 1950 and 1960, I landed parts in twenty-two off-Broadway shows, including minor roles in Bye Bye Birdie, serving as the understudy for Dick Van Dyke and Paul Lynde. As
Bud Frump in the Pulitzer Prize-winning musical How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, I earned a Tony Award -- and in 1964, I received the New York Critic's Circle award for my work as juvenile lead Cornelius Hackel in Hello, Dolly. Herald Tribune critic Walter Kerr wrote, "If I see his young, energetic face in one more opening number, I'm going to be sick."

When Dick Van Dyke left Bye Bye Birdie, he was replaced by Gene Rayburn, later the host of Match Game and long-time friend of mine. As Match Game grew in popularity, I was invited onto TattleTales and Hollywood Squares -- and somehow I ended up on every game show in town. I became a bigger personality than an actor. One night in the early 1970s, I realized that I was going to be appearing on game shows 27 times that week.

I was told years ago that I would never be allowed on television now I had to try to find out who you have to fuck to get off.

Who am I?

Riding the Shitrocket

Well I’m back. After playing a moribund and decidedly odd set at the Galaxy Hut on Monday and working to resurrect this stupid piece of shit computer all week I’m in an overall craptastic mood. Plus, my feet are cold. But will I let that bring me down? NO! I’m ready to rock and roll daddy.

The word of the day is shittiness.

Dudes in bands are really kinda shitty by nature for the most part. We resent the shit out of everything and anyone that doesn’t pertain directly to having our own egos stroked and live a life full of expectations for people to worship us. What, I’m a dick for admitting it? You think Joe Pious and his indie rock punk schtick of wholsomeness and humility isn’t roiling with hatred when not presented with appropriate accolades and bunghole washing by the feebs at the local watering hole? Booshit. I’ve met a lot of truly humble musicians before but band dudes are an entirely different animal. It’s a whole world of “LOOK AT ME LOOKE AT ME YOU’RE MY BEST FRIEND YOU’RE NOT LOOKING FUCK YOU GODDAMIT YOU BASTARD SON OF A BITCH!!!!!” Sure we have friends but we totally begrudge them success late at night when we’re alone with our thoughts and dirty parts. It’s just human nature for the band dude. It can’t be helped. Look, for those of you not in bands try this exercise. Find a band dude and ask him about a mutual friend’s band. This is what will happen –

You – Hey what do you think of Shitrocket?
Dood – Aw, those guys are tight. They’re my bros!!!
You – Yeah I think they’re great. THEY are my FAVORITE local band.
Dood – mmmmmm…….
You – I love them!!!!
Dood – Yeah..umm, you know I’ve known those guys for a long time and they’re cool I guess but y’know….
You – What? Is there something wrong with Shitrocket?
Dood – Ahh, y’know it’s just not really my thing…..the EASY pop song. I mean I love those guys but….
You – What do you mean?
You – Wow, I guess I never thought of it that way…
Dood – Don’t get me wrong I like them even though they suck.
You – Yeah.
Dood – Hey. We’re playing a show with them in two weeks at Club Pizza. You should come out it’ll be fucking great. Y’know Shitrocket will finish up the night after we headline at 9:15.
You – yeah, I got that email from Shitrocket already. I’m on their street Team. Oh…..I thought Shitrocket was the headliner? That’s what the ad in the paper says.
You – Ummm…OK, man. I gotta go wait out front for the limo.

It’s the nature of the beast. The best part is when Dood is asked to join Shitrocket after Shitrocket’s bass player leaves because his wife told him to stop being a fucking dildo and get busy on that Associate’s Degree.

Dood – Hey man, guess what??!?!?! I’m the new bass player for Shitrocket!!!!
You – I thought you hated those guys?
Dood – Are you crazy man…Shitrocket fucking ROCKS!!!!!
You – But……..
Dood – Hey man, I got some Street Team shit that needs to get done. YOU THE MAN NOW DAWG!!!!!!

And on and on and on….

Monday, March 07, 2005


My computer totally smooshed itself down to the operating system so I am, in a word, fucked for extended blogging for a bit. I borrowed this machine so I can tell you this much.

Me and Philito are playing at the Galaxy Hut tonight.

NYC with Ali Baba was fun. We got tanked and fell over. Good times.

Kidner tales are in process so when I get my tech crap straightened out I will post a bunch.

Gee, my hair smells teriffic.



Wednesday, March 02, 2005

A man of constant wild eyed bungholery

You can pretty much blame him for a lot of it Posted by Hello

For the better part of a decade I worked at a madhouse in Clarendon, Virginia that disguised itself as a moving company. I detailed some of a moving trip I took out West with my bosom chum Russell when I first started this blog but didn't really go into depth about the frenetic Viking mofo that ran the whole show dee doh. I figured it was high time I did so before my long-term memory totally succumbs to the repeated bathings in pools of liquor that I subject it to. In drips and drabs I'll try to document the time in my life that was heavily influenced by one John C. Kidner, may he rest in peace, (at least enough to not call me in on a Sunday to move pool tables all day ever again).

From his official obit:
John Craig Kidner, 48, who owned and operated an Arlington moving company for 25 years before selling the business in 1997, died of cancer April 12 at his home in Arlington. At its peak, Kidner Transport had a fleet of five trucks and employed about 20 workers. Mr. Kidner was born in Norfolk, England, the son of a U.S. Air Force colonel. He moved with his family to Arlington in 1962 and graduated from Yorktown High School. He was a member of St. Andrew's Episcopal Church in Arlington and author of an online humor column about his job as a truck driver. Survivors include his wife, Maureen O'Leary Kidner of Arlington.

What it should have read:
John Craig Kidner, 48, who owned a local moving company that was a thinly veiled front for a rehab center/lunatic asylum and a frequent target of revenuers and the local constabulary until he suckered someone into buying the damn thing in 1997, died of cancer at his home in Arlington. At its height the company had five totally illegal death traps that Mr. Kidner would send out onto the highways with a haughty wave and a cry of, "drive big, if you crash I'll kick your fucking ass!", but usually without brakes, lights, or a sober operator. The company mantra of "deal with it" will forever be emblazoned in the hearts of those employees that had the minimal brain function to do so. Over the years Kinder Transport employed every dirty, worthless, jug-headed maniac Arlingtonian that couldn't exist elsewhere. Employee survivors include the Surf Nazis, Young Dave, Mike Back, the Pain brothers, Black Allan, Big Jim, Scrumptious Al, Skank Destiny, Cool Wayne Spriggs, Andy Six-Pack, Oz, Dumb Dan, Rhett Bone, Bartman, Inky, Pegleg George, the Clarendon Six, Tattoo Rich, Shiney Miney Moe, roy Punch, DJ nine-fingers, Underwood, Officer Looney, Jackhammer Sue, a cadre of various assorted shitheads, the better part of the Arlington chapter of the Pagans motorcycle gang and patients of the Arlington Hospital Detox and Outpatient facility and one scandalously good looking singer for local rock gods the Pharmacy Prophets. Mr. Kidner was born in Norfolk, England, the son of a U.S. Air Force colonel who was the most ornery dirty old man and nastily dispisitioned son of a bitch alive. He moved with his family to Arlington in 1962 and by some of act of perdition or simple fear of his continued enrollment by the school administration he graduated from Yorktown High School. In his itinerant youth he was a bus driver, a cab driver, a truck driver, a bouncer, and an astoundingly skilled ner' do well of much import to the local sherrif. Mr. Kidner was a member of St. Andrew's Episcopal Church in Arlington and enjoyed driving to services on his custom Harley called "Dirty Pictures" that had airbrushed pictures of naked bimbos all over it and scaring the shit out of the blue-haired ladies with his maniacal facial expressions, long-hair and lack of a muffler. Mr. Kidner was the author of an online humor column called Ask Trucker John that was rich with terminology like "wild eyed bungholery", "fantastic levels of sissiness", "making love like a Viking invader", "eat my ass you corporate jackals" and other such manglings of the language. Mr. Kidner was determined to be both the most frustrating and absolutely hilarious motherfucker to ever walk the planet by his long-suffering employee and dear friend, Castor Oil. Favorite past-times of Mr. Kidner involved eating nuclear-grade spicy foods, throwing handfuls of steel Pachinko machine balls at "asshole yuppies in their godddam Nazi BMW's" from moving vehicles, sticking a penis shaped squirt gun through the mail-slot of the corporate office, buying and detonating illegal fireworks that he bought from some one-eyed freak that lived in a barn, pornography, being loud, jamming out to Hendrix and Cream, punching those that deserved it, riding extremely loud motorcycles, damning the government and all of it's minions to the fire pits of hell, flirting shamelessly with the girlfriend's of his best employees and saving the lives of itinerant drunks and drug addicts that didn't deserve it.

Survivors include his wife, Maureen O'Leary Kidner of Arlington who was assigned sainthood the second she said "I do" and a very stupid golden retriever.

It's amazing that something as tiny as cancer did John in. All who knew him assumed he would go out in some sort of Butch and Sundance walk the plank hail of bullets and fainting damsels with heaving bosoms kinda way. I miss him a lot, the tales are many and grand and I look forward to getting them out of my brain and onto this blog.

See ya.