Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Kingside Hassling

I realise that by exposing what I, and those near and dear to me, do on our spare time might subject our claim to being cool dudes to tremendous ridicule, but I'll risk it anyway.

For many months now one of my oldest and dearest friends (the drummer for The Constantines, who appears here occasionally as D), my twin brother C, and I have been playing chess using seperate chess boards and emailing algebraic moves to each other. Recently, we took the next step and started a blog to post past games on:

Sans Passant

Funny name, huh?
(if you laughed at the name of the blog, you're a nerd)

To complete the transformation from Teen Wolf to dateless wonder Scott Howard, we also built a league page to log wins and losses on.

801 Chessmasters

Any aspiring chessmasters are welcome.
But if I meet you on a chess board, expect me to treat your ass like grass, and smoke it.

Danza Gonna Make You Mona!

Beer shows are populated by colourful individuals.
But, like a Corpse Flower, these individuals bloom only rarely; and the result is usually equal measures of the sublime and the horrible.

Perhaps it was because both my brother and I were sporting muttonchops. Maybe it was the matching bowling shirts with our names on them. Or it may have been the magical combination of the two that coaxed one such Homo Amorphophallus to come over and confide in us his most intimate secrets. The secret of his special sexual maneuver--a procedure so edgy that some of the continent's most liberal sex columnists have cautioned against its application in the bedroom.

A- (addressing my brother, C)"You guys look like guys who know what a donkey punch is, eh?"
C- (realising, quite correctly, that the path of least resistance is to agree)"Certainly we do!"
B- (nod in compliance)
A- "You fellas" (leaning on our table like it's the last stop before landing on the floor, snickering)". . .you fellas ever hear tell of the 'Tony Danza Donkey Punch'?"
B&C- (shake heads "no" in unison)
A- "Okay. . . "(snickering, near uncontrollably)". . . so you're doin' you lady from behind, right?"
B&C- (nod in unison, smiling--it's already getting good)
A- "So. . ." (more snickering)". . . while you're doin' her, you yell out, 'Whose the boss, bitch?'--but you keep doin' her, right?"
B&C- (nod in unison)
A- "And when she looks over her shoulder and says, 'What?'"(snicker snicker)"You punch her in the face and say, 'Tony Danza's the motherfuckin' boss, bitch!'" (unrestrained belly laughing)
B&C- (nod in unison)

This is where the story passes from merely an amusing encounter with domestic abuse, and make the leap to 'truly surreal domestic abuse'--the guy's girlfriend chimes in (oh yes--she was there the whole time, grinning away with the last three teeth God gave her)
G- "First couple times I dinn't git it!"

Now everyone is laughing hysterically. . . well, they are. C and I feel like police officers watching a very intoxicated man do field sobriety tests. The spectacle is funny, but it's hard to enjoy because you can't stop thinking about what could have been (or may still occur).

I know it seems almost too outrageous to believe; and had I created it in my mind, I would have likely chosen the "Scott Baio Donkey Punch" ("Whose in charge? Charles is in Charge, bitch!"). It just goes to show, well, two things: there are plenty of opportunities to entertain yourself without sitting in front of the television; and, what people will say in do in public has ceased to amaze me.

Michael Hutchense preferred "Hangin' With Mr. Cooper Autoerotic Asphyxiation"--and just like the show, it happened while no one else was watching.

Friday, November 24, 2006

Not in my backyard

I doubt it will come as any kind of surprise to those who know me, that when recently presented with the opportunity to make MY HOUSE the location of a 'Theory of a Deadman' afterparty (yes--with the band--who else would masquerade as 'Theory of a Deadman' if not the band?)

(no one)

Yes--I said "no". Or I may have said, "Absolutely not".

If the idea of hosting Theory of a Deadman in your house sounds even remotely appealing I hope that you've stumbled across my blog by way of clicking the "Next Blog" option in the menu bar at the top of some Spanish blog. If not, trust me when I say that we two will never speak again. And like ToaD, you are also not welcome in my house.

In one small way I do agree with ToaD--at least the title of one of their songs off 'Gasoline'--"Hell Just Ain't the Same" since I came within a c-hair of having Theory of a Deadman in my house. In fact, this close call has taken a lot of the sting out of my eventual arrival in Hell.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

The Tongues of Navarone

Kissing the calibre of Bogart and Bergman in Casablanca does not exist at a booze show.
In fact, to use Casablanca as a frame of reference, kissing more on the level of Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre going at it is more of the type of eroticism one might witness at a booze show.

How do I know? What makes me the expert?

cheeky little bastards--I'll tell you!

Because at the last booze show I worked, I opened a Kissing Booth when we ran out of beer.
Don't believe me?

Unlike a blurry photo of a Sasquatch or some metal pie plates spotted "hovering" over Montana, this picture clearly shows what I will call "The Exposition" of this story.

The Building Action:

People began to mill around our booth, curious about the chalkboard; asking eagerly if we were "for real". We most certainly were. It helped stem the flow of drunk dudes staggering up to our booth, tickets in hand, looking for a sample; all we needed to do was point at the chalkboard and ask, "One ticket, or two, sir?" They were pretty quick to retreat.
People were laughing, taking photos, and what had initially been awkward and embarrassing (running out of beer an hour before the end of the show) became a triumph of the adage, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade!". . . only, I guess in this case, it would be, "When life gives you bitter Hallertau Hallertau Magnum hops, make beer!".

Everything is hilarious until someone loses an eye. Or their will to live. And their innocence.

A pair of fifty-something crones approached our booth, their cheeks rosey with gin blossoms.

A- "Oh! Tsk! I'm too old for something like that!"

the smaller one giggled.

D- "I'm not!!"

the bigger, slightly more hideous one bellowed.

And with that, D slammed her hand on the table, palm flat on our blue table cloth. She drew back her hand with the cold composure of a poker player turning up a Royal Flush--but, to my abject horror, I got two tickets on "the river". Two blessed little tickets, crumpled and curled from sweat. Two tickets happy to be free.

Two tickets meant "French Kiss"--but surely to God she didn't expect a French Kiss!? This whole Kissing Booth concept was a joke--HA HA HA--no one would want a French Kiss from me!

I looked to my brother--my older brother, I should point out--for help. But his ear-to-ear grin told me I was in a fix. A fix I had created by putting chalk to board, like the clever little jerk that I am, and advertising kisses at rock bottom prices.

The Climax:

It's fair to mention in my Victoria Cross citation that, in the face of enemy I showed great valour; I saw her mouth agape and a tongue floundering on the shores of her craggy, Dieppe-esque features, and I charged in anyway.

I have since described the ensuing 13 seconds thusly: imagine taking a broomstick, slathering it with vaseline, and ramming it into your mouth. For 13 seconds. And with the energy of someone in the throes of death. That's what this kiss was like

Even C, who had started out laughing, soon fell into a hushed horror.

The Denouement:

Deprived of oxygen for so long, I had hoped for some kind of brain damage to shield my mind against the memory of that kiss, but no such luck. Indeed, every time I brush my teeth I shutter. When others are enjoying French Stick bread, I can only excuse myself, draw a bath, and weep while I try to wash away the sin. If I happen past the butcher's counter and spy as beef tenderloin, my teeth clamp shut so tightly I'd swear that I had stepped on a rusty nail earlier in the day.

Our CFO has found the silver lining; as he points out, those two tickets represent 100% profit for the company, as no product was sampled.
No product, so long as my dignity isn't dispensed in green bottles.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

UNDRESED: Open Relationship

I pumped more iron shooting "Undressed" than at any other 2 week period in my entire life. On some shots, you can tell that we're on our umpteenth take.
(JP, my 'open relationship' boyfriend was super hot!!)
UNDRESSED: Gay Wedding

Sitting in a hot tub for 8 hours a day making out with dudes is harder than it looks.
Even harder, is trying to make crappy beer explode when opened.
UNDRESSED: Twins, part 1 of 2

My first foray into loving men for money. I loved that suit!
This is not the first episode of "gold" from the Undressed series.
UNDRESSED: Twins, part 2 of 2

I thought that some folks might get as much of a kick out of this old clip as I did finding it on YouTube. (the part where I'm talking with my mouth full of muffin was overdubbed in Toronto using a somewhat less-appealing mouthful of toilet paper).