I don't how many of you shop at Home Depot, but this may be useful to
know. I am posting this to you to warn you of something that happened to
me, as I have become a victim of a clever scam while out shopping. This
happened to me at Home Depot and it could happen to you.
Here's how the scam works:
Two seriously good-looking 25-year-old hunks come over as you are
loading what you bought in the bed of your truck. I mean very VERY hot
muscular guys. They wash your windshield with a rag and Windex, with
their cocks almost hanging out of their tight cut off shorts. It is
impossible not to look.
When you thank them and offer them a tip, they say 'No' and instead ask
you for a ride to another Home Depot. You agree and they get in the back
seat. On the way, they start having sex with each other. Then one of
them climbs over into the front seat and performs oral sex on you, while
the other one steals your wallet.
I had my wallet stolen last Tuesday, Wednesday, twice on Thursday, again
on Saturday, and also yesterday. Maybe tomorrow too!
So please be careful!!
Friday, March 31, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Generation Gap ...
As with many people my age, part of being raised as a child was having your mom or dad plop you down infront of the television and having your brain scrambled with images of makebelieve neighborhoods, corny esteem-building songs and oversized singing and talking animals.
With my father being a model railroading buff and myself having
an over-the-top collection of Matchbox cars and Hot Wheels, one of my favorite shows was Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. The fascination wasn't in the lessons learned in the Land of Makebelieve or the short film clips inserted into Picture-Picture, but the opening and closing credits, when the camera would pan over the cardboard lawns and plastic houses of "The Neighborhood". I can remember sneaking into my father's workshop while he was at work, climbing up on a high stool, reaching into the cabinet above the extra freezer, and carefully pulling down the two large boxes of delicately assembled and painted houses stored inside. (Dad was/is a model railroader, but still, all these years later, has never completely finished a working display)
Anyway, I would empty the boxes onto the family room floor and construct my own neighborhood, using the funky geometric pattern in the 60's style carpeting as my street grid. It was fun playing God and ruling over this tiny town I've created, pushing my Matchbox cars along the streets and pulling up into driveways. Who was I going to visit today and what was I going to find happening in my "neighbor's" house? Oops! Mrs. Johnson didn't see the stop sign as she sped her Hot Wheels dune buggy through the intersection and--CRASH!--slammed right into Mr. Peters' oil truck and--
BOOM!!
...The whole neighborhood goes up in flames just in time for me to pack up and put away the houses before my dad got home from work and found me fooling around with his stuff.
I know...I know...dimented imagination.
But at least Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood got my imagination (as sick as it is) working.
Another show I was fascinated with (although I don't know why) was The Ne
w Zoo Review. As I said, I can't explain my fascination with this program, but I remember 3:00 every weekday afternoon, sitting infront of the television in my parents' bedroom and staring at Frederick, the Frog and Henrietta Hippo and the owl (can't remember his name). I can even remember the lyrics to the opening theme (algthough I won't write them here. You'll just think I'm wierd. Maybe I got glued to that show because I knew that "The Hood" was on afterward. I don't know, but I bring up "The Zoo" to explain the reason for this writing.
This morning (as with every morning), I'm sitting on the sofa, legs folded up next to me with C-Rex curled up in a tight ball behind my knees and softly snoring, coffee in one and and remote control in the other. I'm flipping through the channels and come across a familiar cast of characters. There's Henrietta Hippo, her tight floral print dress twirling around as she bounced across the soundstage. Her southern accent, strong and squeaky, I was suddenly reminded of Delta Burke and the way she ballooned up during her last year of Designing Women.
My God, I thought. Is this show still on? I watched in morbid curiosity, making sure the livingroom blinds were closed so no one would peak in and see what was on my television screen. My question was soon answered when Doug and Emmy-Jo, the only "humans" on the show appeared on screen and were dressed in the loud wardrobe you can only find if your turned back the clock 35 years (or walked into a vintage clothing store).
The episode that was airing had something to do with putting on a circus, and each character happily displayed their talents with the props they were given by the stage-hands. Emmy-Jo displayed her skills equestrian skills riding a sawhorse. I listened to the cheers from the rest of the cast and suddenly found myself bursting into uncontrolable laughter at what was being said on the screen. C-Rex was so startled, he jumped into the air, off the couch and darted into the kitchen.
It took a long time getting here, but this was where I was heading with the title of this post: "Generation Gap". The way a simple turn of phrase can be used more than three decades ago in a children's show is now a porn industry term. This is what I mean...
Cheers from the other characters as Emmy-Jo rode the sawhorse:
* "Look at her ride!"
* "Go Emmy-Jo!"
* "Show 'em how you ride bareback!"
Emmy-Jo whips off the small red cape she was wearing.
* "Oh yeah! Look at how she rides bareback!"
" "You're a great bareback rider!"
" "Look how pretty she looks bareback!"
I'm still chuckling and wiping a tear from my eye...
With my father being a model railroading buff and myself having
an over-the-top collection of Matchbox cars and Hot Wheels, one of my favorite shows was Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. The fascination wasn't in the lessons learned in the Land of Makebelieve or the short film clips inserted into Picture-Picture, but the opening and closing credits, when the camera would pan over the cardboard lawns and plastic houses of "The Neighborhood". I can remember sneaking into my father's workshop while he was at work, climbing up on a high stool, reaching into the cabinet above the extra freezer, and carefully pulling down the two large boxes of delicately assembled and painted houses stored inside. (Dad was/is a model railroader, but still, all these years later, has never completely finished a working display)Anyway, I would empty the boxes onto the family room floor and construct my own neighborhood, using the funky geometric pattern in the 60's style carpeting as my street grid. It was fun playing God and ruling over this tiny town I've created, pushing my Matchbox cars along the streets and pulling up into driveways. Who was I going to visit today and what was I going to find happening in my "neighbor's" house? Oops! Mrs. Johnson didn't see the stop sign as she sped her Hot Wheels dune buggy through the intersection and--CRASH!--slammed right into Mr. Peters' oil truck and--
BOOM!!
...The whole neighborhood goes up in flames just in time for me to pack up and put away the houses before my dad got home from work and found me fooling around with his stuff.
I know...I know...dimented imagination.
But at least Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood got my imagination (as sick as it is) working.
Another show I was fascinated with (although I don't know why) was The Ne
w Zoo Review. As I said, I can't explain my fascination with this program, but I remember 3:00 every weekday afternoon, sitting infront of the television in my parents' bedroom and staring at Frederick, the Frog and Henrietta Hippo and the owl (can't remember his name). I can even remember the lyrics to the opening theme (algthough I won't write them here. You'll just think I'm wierd. Maybe I got glued to that show because I knew that "The Hood" was on afterward. I don't know, but I bring up "The Zoo" to explain the reason for this writing.This morning (as with every morning), I'm sitting on the sofa, legs folded up next to me with C-Rex curled up in a tight ball behind my knees and softly snoring, coffee in one and and remote control in the other. I'm flipping through the channels and come across a familiar cast of characters. There's Henrietta Hippo, her tight floral print dress twirling around as she bounced across the soundstage. Her southern accent, strong and squeaky, I was suddenly reminded of Delta Burke and the way she ballooned up during her last year of Designing Women.
My God, I thought. Is this show still on? I watched in morbid curiosity, making sure the livingroom blinds were closed so no one would peak in and see what was on my television screen. My question was soon answered when Doug and Emmy-Jo, the only "humans" on the show appeared on screen and were dressed in the loud wardrobe you can only find if your turned back the clock 35 years (or walked into a vintage clothing store).
The episode that was airing had something to do with putting on a circus, and each character happily displayed their talents with the props they were given by the stage-hands. Emmy-Jo displayed her skills equestrian skills riding a sawhorse. I listened to the cheers from the rest of the cast and suddenly found myself bursting into uncontrolable laughter at what was being said on the screen. C-Rex was so startled, he jumped into the air, off the couch and darted into the kitchen.
It took a long time getting here, but this was where I was heading with the title of this post: "Generation Gap". The way a simple turn of phrase can be used more than three decades ago in a children's show is now a porn industry term. This is what I mean...
Cheers from the other characters as Emmy-Jo rode the sawhorse:
* "Look at her ride!"
* "Go Emmy-Jo!"
* "Show 'em how you ride bareback!"
Emmy-Jo whips off the small red cape she was wearing.
* "Oh yeah! Look at how she rides bareback!"
" "You're a great bareback rider!"
" "Look how pretty she looks bareback!"
I'm still chuckling and wiping a tear from my eye...
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
The Post Bar (A Photo Essay) ...
As a continuing thanks to M, here are some long awaited pictures of The Post Bar. With the way things are going there, these could very well be some of the last pictures ever to be taken of the place. But then again, as the regulars are well aware, cockroaches and The Post have many things in common: they can both be found in dark dingy alleyways among piles of garbage, they are both more active after the sun goes down, you can try to kill either and somehow, you can't seem to get rid of them 100%, and both are said to be able to survive a nuclear explosion.
From the looks of the place, you'd think that the building is being held together by by construction paper and edible paste, or at least the sticky remnants of years of failed and removed livers...and you're probably right! But as the rumoured demise of the establishment circulates over the squeezed lemon wedges submerged in heavily poured drinks, rest assured that the phoenix shall rise again, its wings shaking off the dusty mouse turds, its claws grasping a fresh package of plastic stirrers like the talons of the American bald eagle gripping an olive branch. It shall rise above the ashes of its former self and shed new life upon all who slouch over its chipped and scarred bartop. The bathrooms will be blessed with hot and cold running water and a toilet that glistens NOT from fresh pee droplets, but from actual cleanliness. The walls shall emit heat in the winter and coolness in the summer, not vice versa. The lights shall shine as lights are meant to shine, from fixtures in the ceiling and not from strings leftover from Christmases past, plugged into the last remaining working outlet somewhere in the back office. The multiple televisions shall all play the same channel with sound.
Hear the harmonic (or homonic) voices of the alcoholic angels rise to a crescendo, their chorus lifting our inner spirits as we lift our own spirits to our lips; a toast to all those, past and present, who have tried to topple the kingdom that is The Post!
Yes! The Phoenix shall rise again, as it has done so many times before!
Then again....maybe not...
In the meantime, enjoy the pics...
More to come later on. It takes me a while to post these pics on here...
From the looks of the place, you'd think that the building is being held together by by construction paper and edible paste, or at least the sticky remnants of years of failed and removed livers...and you're probably right! But as the rumoured demise of the establishment circulates over the squeezed lemon wedges submerged in heavily poured drinks, rest assured that the phoenix shall rise again, its wings shaking off the dusty mouse turds, its claws grasping a fresh package of plastic stirrers like the talons of the American bald eagle gripping an olive branch. It shall rise above the ashes of its former self and shed new life upon all who slouch over its chipped and scarred bartop. The bathrooms will be blessed with hot and cold running water and a toilet that glistens NOT from fresh pee droplets, but from actual cleanliness. The walls shall emit heat in the winter and coolness in the summer, not vice versa. The lights shall shine as lights are meant to shine, from fixtures in the ceiling and not from strings leftover from Christmases past, plugged into the last remaining working outlet somewhere in the back office. The multiple televisions shall all play the same channel with sound.
Hear the harmonic (or homonic) voices of the alcoholic angels rise to a crescendo, their chorus lifting our inner spirits as we lift our own spirits to our lips; a toast to all those, past and present, who have tried to topple the kingdom that is The Post!
Yes! The Phoenix shall rise again, as it has done so many times before!
Then again....maybe not...
In the meantime, enjoy the pics...
The sign on the quaint streetlamp announcing your arrival...
Chancellor Street...
Welcome to The Post...
The mural. The one good physical characteristic the bar has to offer...
The...ummmmm...gameroom. it's been rumoured that more than just a cue ball has been shot across that red velvet...
Even the great chefs on The Food Network know when Happy Hour at The Post is...
The ceiling. The motif: Nuveau Decrepid...
More to come later on. It takes me a while to post these pics on here...
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