scary_manilow: (Default)
...literally, moving on! Spending this week saying farewell to my beloved home in exile, DISGRACELAND (Take the tour!), while also preparing to merge with my current galpal, Emily. We've got our claws in a late-50's ranch house straight out of my interior-design wet-dreams: 3 bedrooms, 2 living rooms, 1.5 bathrooms, a breakfast nook, a giant back yard, and a swinging patio area. More than enough space to host three people, 4 cats, a movie studio, and about nine states' worth of glitzy thriftstore bounty. We're going to spend the week polishing wood floors and painting the walls aquamarine.

The new house is away from East Lawrence, which is strictly terra incognito for me... But I hope that a move out of my old stomping grounds, away from downtown and all of its psychological guideposts, will finally help divorce me from the last decade of my life. Moving on, indeed.

Wrapping up a week of three shows from both bands: Two with SEXTAPES, one with PALE HEARTS, (which ended with a drug fueled vomit sesh under some bushes in North Larry)...Now I'm taking a week or two off to focus on TEEN TROUBLES instead.

Hopefully we'll have this last bit wrapped up by October, ready to edit, so we can start scripting our next project, a shot-for-shot remake of TEENAGE STRANGLER:

The plan is to start shooting in the spring, with an eye towards breaking in cast and crew for our reboot of THE GALACTIC JUNGLE, which, despite all odds, I'm still hoping to finish before I die.
scary_manilow: (Default)
Old friends turn rotten? Destroy them and grow new ones. Works for Lawrence, works for me. Burn those bridges before they burn you, kids!
scary_manilow: (Default)
Shooting one movie, writing two more. Two bands playing three separate shows this week. Two jobs, one of which I called in from this morning just so I would have time to MAKE FOOD. A car that needs worked on, a computer that needs worked on. Four cats. An outline for a novel. Enrollment fees due for my daughter's 5th grade year. Utilities in the balance. Diversion fees still pending from January's epic domestic battle. A drinking problem, a drug problem. The looming possibility of another move.

No time. No money.No friends. NO REGRETS.
scary_manilow: (Default)
Two stray observations:

1) Either you're in a band, or you aren't. After that, the JUDGEMENT begins.

2) Lawrence is a great town for afficianados of crimes against hair.

3) It feels good to be back on Livejournal.


Jul. 19th, 2012 11:56 pm
scary_manilow: (ghoul days)
The tide rolls in, the tide rolls out...the phases of the moon wax and wane... but all things come full circle in the end.

Thusly, Yours Truly returns to Livejournal.

I've had a few adventures, but you I never forgot you, friends.

scary_manilow: (Default)
It was fucking surreal. And by surreal, I mind THE MOST MIND EXPANDING ROCK-N-ROLL EXPERIENCE OF MY LIFETIME.

Check out some pics:

In other news:

I'm shutting my Livejournal down. I really have no time or motivation to keep updating it these days.

If you want to keep up with me, I'll be active on the Spook Lights Livejournal (which is going to get a big overhaul reeeeal soon):

I'm also on Facebook:

So it's not like I'm vanishing off the face of the Earth or anything. Come find me out in the inter-world!

Fare-the-well (for now)...

--Scary M!
scary_manilow: (wishman)
It has been presented that what we view as reality is simply a construct, that we interact with a shared intelligence to enshroud ourselves within a prison of symbols. Wiser minds than my own have acknowledged that peering through this veil of symbols is akin to waking from a form of cultural amnesia-- but it requires no small effort to chip through the shell of languages, logos, credos, and gestures that define our species, especially when our senses are constantly bombarded with text messages, reality shows, energy drinks, celebrity gossip, extra value meals, and meaningless political cock-flashing. It's easier to just give in, to absorb the flashing lights around us, and let the talking heads deliver information in tightly controlled bursts.

Priests, politicians, and witch doctors of all stripes have historically staked their claim to the access points of "The Divine," merely adding their own brand of symbology to the mix. In this way, the layers of our reality-construct have become more elaborate, and the greater truths have become more obscured. The hologram of reality is defined by its symbols-- thus, whoever can manipulate these symbols can manipulate reality. This practice is known as "magic," or in some circles, "marketing."

The problem with magic is that our most successful practitioners-- specifically heads of state, business leaders, and clergymen-- only seem to extract the information that benefits them most, that reinforces their power-position in the world. Hence, the Nike swoosh, the Jesus cross, and the printed text in most history books. Your teacher, your pastor, and your nightly newscaster are the only intermediary between the symbol-makers and the symbols themselves. Any actual, meaningful contacts with a "higher reality"-- such as dreams, deja vu, out-of-body experiences, hauntings, extraterrestrial contact, or the occasional psychedelic freakout-- are immediately explained away, filed in the "discard" rack, and summarily forgotten. If it doesn't fit within the parameters of our assured (read: DICTATED) headspace, it didn't REALLY happen. Case closed.

But what happens to this knowledge after we cast it aside? The forbidden history, the forgotten names and experiences, where does it all go when the warlocks-in-charge seal it behind the plaster wall of illusory status-quo? Does it vanish forever? Or does it continue to exist somewhere, in the supercontext beyond this shared hallucination we call "life"?

The answer, I think, is quite obvious. That knowledge is still there. Information never dies. Quite the opposite, in fact-- it grows faster and larger with each ticking second. It remains, sometimes hiding, but always waiting to be absorbed by the right minds. This is the realm of the occult.

I like to peer through cracks in walls. I like to overhear snippets of passing conversations on the street. I love digging through trash for discarded treasures, reclaiming forgotten bits of this world and recycling them into something new. This is a vital part of my daily existence-- I wrap myself in the fringed edges of our culture and crawl through the public eye like a beautiful scab. I pore over record bins and junk drawers in thrift stores in every town I visit. I will bury myself for hours in the dingiest corridors of abandoned buildings, memorizing every layer of graffiti, every ancient shoeprint, every oily rag and empty can. I visit these lost corners of culture and mind and I bring something back every time. Sometimes my brain is so full that is spills over at the sides, staining every lyric I write, every story I tell, every movie I shoot, every drawing, every thought, every movement, every breath. The information I collect is re-introduced into the world, and my reality shifts accordingly. The larger my projects become, the greater my sphere of influence-- you see where this is going?-- until eventually, I hope to channel this information in such a way that the group mind is altered on a mass scale. This is what the Situationists referred to as "seizing control of the Spectacle." I can do this through music, through images, through words. All I need is a little charisma and a willing audience.

Do I consider myself a magician? I am proud to say that I do-- although not in the most traditional sense of the word. To me, books like THE PSYCHOTRONIC ENCYCLOPEDIA OF FILM or THE RE/SEARCH GUIDE TO INCREDIBLY STRANGE MUSIC carry as much esoteric weight as anything churned out by Crowley or Regardie. I derive as much hidden meaning from a viewing of GLEN OR GLENDA as I do from my daily tarot readings. And while I don't hitch myself to haughty, antiquated rituals as a means of directing my will, I do see an immediate correlation between musical performance and spellcasting-- both involve inducing a trancelike mood to bestow information upon the attendant group. Leading a band and screening a movie is just another form of wizardry, in my opinion, and the more practiced I become, the more arcane knowledge I project into my work, the more of a change I can effect on the external world.

scary_manilow: (Default)
Yesterday was one of those days, one of those long, wearying days. One of those "strung-out homeless guy comes into the bar on your shift, starts screaming at a customer who politely declined his offer of a free drink, threatens to fight everyone in the bar when you tell him to get the fuck out, so you hose him down with water from the soda gun hoping the merest touch of moisture will cause him to disintegrate but it only pisses him off even more, and while you're on the phone with the cops asking them to come down and arrest him he gets into a fistfight with one of the regulars, so you set the phone down and hop over the bar and help push him outside, but he won't let go of the other guy's shirt so you have to smash his wrists with your elbow until he screams and calls you a faggot and runs away, then you hop back over the bar, accidentally knocking the phone into the sink and destroying it, then get back to pouring drinks for all the shlubs who sat around without offering to help" kind of days. You know the ones I'm talking about.

If I had a readily available turd-on-a-stick next to the beer cooler, these kinds of things wouldn't happen.

Enjoy these stills from "Five Dolls For An August Moon." For some reason, none of our peers seem to find this movie as amazing as we do. I understand it's not Bava's finest, not by a long shot... but it's hardly his worst (that honor belongs to Dr. Goldfoot and the Girl Bombs, I believe), and even shitty Bava is better than current best-renters like "Shoot 'em Up" or the live-action "Underdog."


Legend has it Bava hated the script but was forbidden by his studio to change anything. So, rather than focus on the schematics of narrative storytelling, he opted to pack every scene with as much stylistic flair as he could muster... What remains on screen is a candy-colored satire of giallo conventions, celebrating the drywall-thin characters and meaninglessly convoluted plot with as much enthusiasm as the ultravivid sets and breezy Eurotrash soundtrack.

CLICK HERE for your listening pleasure!

Again, hardly a "classic" movie, but probably the most delicious slice of pulp trash I've digested in a long time.
scary_manilow: (Default)
Why send your leftover holiday cash to some worthless charity? Dig deep into your hearts and wallets and donate to a truly worthwhile cause-- by making all of my X-mess dreams come true!

Here's what I need to complete my list:


Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

I like to refer to my new fashion aesthetic as "Dangerous Dandy." I enjoy being able to pull off my scarf and gloves the moment I walk through the door, wad them into a jaunty pile, and toss them into the bowels of my upturned top hat. If only I had a slicked-back manservant to accept my coat with a nod of curt indifference, the entire ensemble would be complete... Except for one key unmentionable: SOCK GARTERS. Suspenders and flouncy ties are all well and good, I suppose, but nothing quite says "I'm a deservedly pretentious arse" like a pair of elastic sock garters riding your shins. For a while, I considered just having them tattooed on my legs, but then I realized I would also have to get socks tattooed, and once you've gone that far why even bother donning footwear anymore?


I might also find it helpful to incorporate the following into my new, dashing lifestyle:

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at PhotobucketPhoto Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket


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Sandwiches always look much tastier in illustrated form than in real life. Why is that, I wonder? So help me, I intend to find out.


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What better way to unwind and dwell upon the greatness that is me? If I could spend up to seventy minutes a day absorbed in the womblike blackness of an isolation chamber, my creative nature would flourish, and as a result, all of humanity could be healed by the omnipotent influence of my artistic genius.

I couldn't find a picture to accompany this request, but Google Image Search for "wall safe" produced this astounding (yet inexplicable) piece of work:

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket


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Most of us got over Huey Lewis at an early age. Some of us (myself included) never fell under his spell in the first place. An even smaller percentage of us were born after Huey's reign over the musical charts had come to a screeching halt. Having never been exposed to his particular variety of blues-rock assholery in the first place, they see nothing wrong with the occasional scan of "SPORTS" or "FORE" at top volume in the middle of the day. As you might have guessed, I work with some of these people, and their nonchalant attempts to chip through my crumbling layer of sanity will not be tolerated any longer. If I could only send them a signal-- say, by mounting Sir Lewis's head on a pointed stake outside my workstation-- perhaps these shenanigans would come to an end. I'd hate for this situation to evolve into some kind of headlines-generating shooting spree.
scary_manilow: (Default)
In the midst of fourteen straight days of work (which, between two jobs, grants me precious little time of my own), I find myself clinging to fleeting moments of inspiration to help me maintain some sembelence of sanity. Today, I was granted three such moments...

I received THIS in the mail, which I am incredibly excited about:

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I stole the neighbor's paper and saw THIS on the comics page:

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I witnessed the aftermath of THIS on my way to Job Number One:

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

What did I do to deserve such a fun day?
scary_manilow: (weird-0)
As I've mentioned a few times recently, I'm shooting a movie next spring and I'm very excited about it-- this is gonna be my first REAL solo flight as a director, and the anticipation is really starting to fry me from the inside out.

The script isn't quite finished yet, but everything is pushing ahead at a rapid pace. I already have some of the principal roles cast-- not enough that I feel comfortable posting names in the credits, obviously, but enough to make this project feel solid-- and the opening murder sequence is firmly IN THE CAN.

I had to shoot this scene ahead of schedule because the industrial area I had in mind when I wrote it is scheduled for gentrification sometime next spring... I wanted to make sure I could capture some of that run-down atmosphere in its full glory before The Man swoops in to lay a nest full of condominium eggs. Fortunately, I had a couple of actors ready to go-- thank you to Mr. Franklin and Mr. Cadman, respectively-- and one brisk afternoon, we wisked up a bucket of stage blood and slapped together the following death scene:

Please keep in mind that, being Youtube, this video clip has been compressed to near-incomprehension, so if you blow it up to full screen everything turns to shit.

I did the soudtrack on an old Casio I found at the thrift store for twelve bucks, and I paid my actors in coffee and ginger snaps. Hopefully I was able to milk a little something extra from this no-budget scenario.

I post a link to the script when I finish, just in case someone wants to give me some feedback. It's gonna be a satirical murder mystery-- think Paul Morissey does Giallo thriller-- although I'm pretty sure that sensibility fails to come across in this sequence. I thought it would be best to start things off with a nice, gory murder, hence the title.

Any thoughts/ criticisms?
scary_manilow: (Default)
A few images from my daughter's awesome visit over Thanksgiving:

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We had a fabulous time-- making sock puppets, reading scary stories, playing "Centipede," quoting "Airplane!"... All the usual things people do to bond with their children over the holidays.

Four days came and went faster than I expected, though. It never seems like enough time, but it would feel that way to me even if we spent the rest of our lives hanging out together. The clock is always ticking.

In other news, I started shooting my movie! I'll have some footage for you all to gawk at soon...


Nov. 18th, 2007 12:36 am
scary_manilow: (weird-0)
Well, it's been 12 long years since the day I slipped on my trusty pair of Bad Idea jeans, waltzed into a low-rent tattoo joint, and got this immortal word scarred across the back of my neck:

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

As a snarling, speed-addled young punk, my nihilistic sentiments seemed perfectly natural: I HATE SOCIETY! AND I'VE GOT THE TATTOO TO PROVE IT!!! Unfortunately, I never foresaw the day that I would blossom into adulthood, develop sophisticated tastes, and adopt a more mature worldview. Does that make me a sellout? So be it.

As of Friday, November 16th, that faded badge of middle-finger posturing was finally raked over for good:

new tattoo 2
new tattoo

Don't get me wrong, there's still plenty of hate to go around. In fact, the list grows longer every day: People who idle their car on the crosswalk. Guys who hold up the line ordering fast food because they can't stop talking on their cell phones. Anyone who has ever willingly listened to an Insane Clown Posse song. Energy drink connoisseurs. College sports superfans. That guy on the infomercials who has question marks all over his suit. The person who invented Go-Gurt. I could go on and on, but the internet just isn't big enough to contain so much scorn.


Oct. 1st, 2007 01:14 pm
scary_manilow: (weird-0)
There's this magazine called DETAILS that has been around forever, but I've never troubled myself to peruse an issue. Until yesterday, that is, whilst lingering in the dressing room area of a local resale shop. Kelly was trying on clothes, I was sitting on a couch, and there was a big stack of magazines sitting on the table beside me. Right on top was an issue of DETAILS. Figuring, What the fuck?, I picked it up and flipped ot a random page.

The article was 10 SIGNS YOUR WIFE MAY BE CHEATING ON YOU. Some of the red alerts on the list included SHE STOPS NAGGING YOU and SHE GETS AN UNEXPECTED WAX JOB. Ya-a-a-wn. I flipped to the next page.

WHEN TO GO ANAL. Subtitled: NOW THAT ANAL SEX HAS GONE MAINSTREAM, MORE MEN ARE STARTING TO DEMAND IT ON THE FIRST DATE... AND HERE'S WHY! This article was illustrated by an image of a woman's ass with a photshopped trail tunnel blasting between the cheeks.

I closed the magazine. In less than thirty seconds, I was able to identify the target demographic for DETAILS magazine: Passive-aggressive closet-cases whose wives are cheating on them because they compulsively force anal sex upon them every night. Am I mistaken about this?

Here's my tentative list for this month's 80'S VHS HORROR FEST... THis isn't set in stone by any means, and I'm certainly open to comments and suggestions!


I kind of blew my load last year-- RE-ANIMATOR,FRANKENHOOKER, TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE 2, and MOTLE HELL. How can I hope to match an all-star lineup like that one?
scary_manilow: (Default)
I've been toting around a state-issued ID for the past ten years because my Driver's License was suspended. Now that I've finally paid off the thousands of dollars required to get it out of hock, I'm finally a legal road pilot again.

I just got my new license in the mail, and now I'm playing a depressing game of "Watch my Jowls Take Over My Face" by placing each of my ID photos together in chronological order:

ID pics

Who knows what the next four years have in store for my sagging booze chin?

In other news, I no longer feel any shame over being REJECTED by the folks at CMJ-- turns out they didn't even listen to some of the submissions before turning them away. Here's the scoop, courtesy of my least favorite site on the internet, Pitchfork:

"Did CMJ Reject Artists Without Even Listening to Them?

Though it seems as though, like, everybody plays the CMJ Music Marathon-- the annual musicstravaganza going down on the streets of New York October 16-20-- the real purpose is to highlight acts slightly lower on the radar. Thousands of bands from all over the musical landscape apply for the chance to score a slot on any one of dozens upon dozens of bills, but there's only so many hours in the long weekend, and only so many clubs in New York City. Eventually, something's gotta give.

But a rather sizable group of artists who had sent in their application materials to CMJ were turned away from the conference in a couple of peculiar ways. First, when they received their rejection emails, they found that CMJ had forgotten to use the BCC function. Thus, the identity of hundreds of rejects was revealed.

CMJ blamed Sonicbids, the MySpace-like site they employed to let bands submit songs and press kits electronically. Sonicbids' system allows the artist to see how many times their songs have been played. Many CMJ applicants were furious to discover that their songs had received zero plays, and called foul on CMJ for not even giving them-- or their $45 application fees-- any consideration.

When we contacted CMJ about this, we received the following statement from Matt McDonald, Vice President, Artists & Events:

"We very much appreciate the amount of blood, sweat, and tears that each artist puts into his/her music, and the CMJ Music Marathon wouldn't have lasted for 27 years if that appreciation were not in clear focus for everyone involved in the event. As head of the staff who reviews the music and selects the artists for the marathon, I can tell you firsthand that we do in fact listen to at least two songs from every single artist who applies. For the ease of listening, the showcase department downloads mp3s from Sonicbids EPKs and drops them into our iTunes player. Sonicbids has recently changed their system to track streamed plays, however it does not currently track these mp3 downloads, making it appear that we did not listen when in fact we did. We can report back which specific songs were reviewed. Our review process is extremely thorough and difficult and with or without payment for submissions, I cannot even fathom the injustice of ignoring any submissions. I can reassure you that each and every artist was given the same respect and critique."

So, in an effort to get to the bottom of all this, we threw a track that sounds an awful lot like "Chocolate Rain" onto SonicBids under our new Pitchfork office band name, Solarski and the Solarskies (, rec'd, not yet BNM). We then proceeded to stream and download the track a number of times, watching the play count all the while. To say the SonicBids software is erratic is an understatement: our play count was, at one point, as high as nine, but currently sits at zero. But we downloaded a lot more than we streamed, and SonicBids appeared to be logging each download. For a while, at least.

Whatever the source of the wonkiness, the artists, understandably, are pretty pissed. Those who have contacted us feel as though their time and money were wasted on this effort. A little multiplication would suggest that CMJ is netting over $30,000 from these rejectees, and that's assuming every rejectee received the e-mail with the faulty BCC.

Even without the computer glitch, many are complaining that CMJ should've capped the number of applications it accepted to something closer to the number of available slots. Most are demanding a reimbursement.

As consolation, CMJ is offering those bands whose applications were denied a discounted pass to the marathon. Think they'll take it?"
scary_manilow: (Starring... ME!)
I plan to start shooting my new movie in a couple of weeks (my first REAL solo mission!), and I'm terrified from brain to balls. I want to get this first scene under my belt before the cold weather hits, then tinker with sets all winter long so I'm all set to dive into the main plot next spring. I'll be utilizing an actor I don't personally like (this being the "murder" part of the murder mystery, his screen time will be blissfully and brutally short), I have yet to cast any principal leads... fuck, the script hasn't even been completely written yet. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

I guess I have to begin somewhere. And besides, if I can't bring myself to start this thing, what hope do I ever have of finishing it?

Three months left in 2007, and I have to admit that this has been one of the top five worst years of my life. Some of you may have noticed a steep decline in Livejournal posts these past 9 months... The moments of glory have been few and far between, I'm afraid, and I resolved long ago to stop boring my Friends List with the intimate details of my most depressing moments.

On the other hand, 2007 has been my most lucrative year, creatively... Whoever said there was no correlation between psychic misery and artistic output must have been a shill for some global antidepressant company. If unrelenting stress and a soul-wrenching blue streak translates into higher creative returns, then bring on the heartache, man!

Here are my resolutions for 2008 (three months in advance, even!):

1. Condense and compartmentalize. I have too much stuff-- movies, books, clothes and knick-knacks-- and too little of it is relevant to my lifestyle. CLEAN IT OUT! This goes for friends, too... If you aren't on my "A" list, you'd better start watching your step. (kidding) (not really)

2. Chill on the booze. Scale back from an every day drunk to a mildly social imbiber. Too many of this year's problems were alcohol-related, and I'm getting too old to harbor and wild Bukowski-esque fantasies about myself. Scale back on the sauce, and scale back on the friendships with people who do nothing else but drink.

3. The Spook Lights go NATIONAL. For real this time. We're recording next week, and I want to tour like a motherfucker next spring. Kelly and I can dump any dead weight we deem necessary-- It's time to take this show on the road, with or without the current lineup.

4. Work on this all-ages club thing. Some kids I know in town are trying to wrangle the funds to open one up, and I've offered to help set up a few benefit shows at the bar for them. Also maybe do some flier work and see about booking a few bands from time to time. This music scene has treated me pretty fucking good for the past 15 years-- I figure it's high time I gave something back to it. Plus, if I'm really planning on moving away in a couple of years, ti would be nice to leave something more behind than just a fashionable memory.

5. Stop caring so much. Look, just because I'm your pal doesn't mean I give a shit about your wanky poetry or lame-ass jam band. Likewise, just because I'm your bartender doesn't mean I care about your meaningless problems. I'm sorry to hear you don't have a home or any money to feed yourself... But riddle me this: How the fuck can you afford to sit in the bar and bitch to me every afternoon? Take it on down the road, buddy-- preferably to the job placement office.
scary_manilow: (Default)
Excited about the upcoming special edition DVD of the critically panned Al Pacino leatherboy oddity CRUISING, I found myself on in hopes of pre-ordering a copy for myself.

Scrolling towards the bottom of the page, I saw THIS...

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..and almost wet myself laughing. Grievous computer error, or intentional editorial mishap? Either way, comedy gold.
scary_manilow: (Default)
September 11th, 2007:

Vladmir Putin dissolves the Russian Government. Shinzo Abe steps down as prime minister of Japan. Israel resumes its missle bombardment of Palestinian settlements along the Gaza Strip.

Also, Kelly Nightengale and Rob Gillaspie are featured in the latest "Style Scout."

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at PhotobucketPhoto Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

CLICK HERE for the whole shocking story! )

And now, a story from my week of bartending:

Monday afternoon, a couple of meth-banging hags slithered through the Replay doors and forced themselves against the bar. One of them had a twitchy eye and several blood-crusted bald spots on her scalp; the other was missing several important teeth in the top part of her mouth. Like every other person I hate in the world, they stepped on the wrong foot straight off and ordered a shot of something called "Liquid Cocaine."

"Do you know what's in it?" I asked.

"How should I know?" one of them gasped. "You're the bartender!"

I shrugged. "Never heard of it, and if you don't know what goes in it, I'm not going to make it."

Her friend shouldered in, impatient and slobbery. "How about Kool-Aid? You know what goes in that?"

"Sugar, water, and powder from a packet."

They looked at each other, did a simultaneous eyebrow-pinch, and turned back to face me.

"Don't you know how to make anything?" Blad-Patch asked.

I shrugged again (I've gotten REAL used to shrugging at my job), then motioned to the row of whiskey bottles on the shelf behind me. "This is a real beer-and-bourbon shot bar, lady. Anything up there look good to you?"

Tooth-Gap licked the space in her blackened gums. "Sex on the Beach?"

"Never had it." At this point, I was just being obstinate. I know what a fucking Sex on the Beach is, I just don't like making them. Mainly because I don't like the people who drink them, and I want to discourage their patronage. This pair of jittery twats, for example. The only way I was gonna make Sex on the Beach for either of them was if the drink recipe called for a shot of draino in each glass. Unfortunately, the fella who wrote THAT particular bartending guide is probably behind bars by now. People don't appreciate a good population-thinning like they used to. So it goes.

They finally settled on Buttery Nipple shots, which I agreed to make in hopes of expediting their departure. Two shots each because, in the words of Bald-Patch, "They'll get you really fuckin' fucked up this way!"

Their faces hovered inches from the bottle as I tapped out a few drops of Irish cream. The shot glasses fogged up under their mutually heavy panting. Gap-Tooth was literally drooling on the bar, but I couldn't tell if it was from anticipation or because of her unfortunate dental impairment. Either way, the counter below her chin had slowly glazed over with a reflective pool of acrid saliva.

I pushed the shots over to them with one finger each.

Bald-Patch rubbed her paws together. "Oh yeah, oh shit, oh boy. This is the good stuff here. Lotsa booze in them Buttery Nipples. They will get you all kinds of fucked up."

I turned my head while they sucked them down. Call it professional courtesy-- I didn't think it was appropriate for me to vomit on the floor while they had their afternoon meal. When I looked back, all four glasses were empty, and Gap_Tooth was smearing a white glob from the corner of her lips.

"Mmm-MMM!" she belched. "I sure do love that buttery flavor! I tell you what, if my husband's nipples gave out that butter-stuff, he'd never leave the bedroom... and neither would I! HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW!" She clutched the bar with all of her might, as if the force of her laughter might send her rocketing through the wall.

Bald-Patch rolled to her feet and helped her friend upright. She looked me up and down with what I presumed to be her best bedroom gaze. "You're fine, but you ain't the finest." They collected their belongings and beat a sweaty path for the door. "We gotta catch a bus to the Crosstown Tavern... that's where the REAL hard stuff is!"

"Hard Stuff"= Crack or Cock? I turned this equation over in my brain as they vanished outside. Thankfully, no palatable answer presented itself. I poured myself a beer and glanced at the empty tip jar and I thought, Ah, well. Sometimes the money isn't worth it, anyway. Then I switched on the TV over the bar and flipped through channels, hoping to catch the end of "Golden Girls." Those ladies on that show, they were a REAL class act...
scary_manilow: (weird-0)
It's getting to be that time of year when [ profile] secret_malady and I plan our annual Get-The-Fuck-Outta-Lawrence voyage, but we're completely stumped for destinations.

What's going on in YOUR part of the world the first week in November?
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