Don't you got tits? Stick 'em out, for God's sake!

It came to light recently that a friend of mine has never seen a John Waters movie. He's not really a movie guy, but still - no reason to neglect the classics. He told me he does have one in his netflix queue, but it hasn't come up yet. I asked which one, and he said Pink Flamingos.

Oh, lord, no.

I don't know what happens to non-film-buff people whose first exposure to Mr. Waters is watching one of his filthy works without a guide along, but I suspect it involves psychiatric care. At the very least, they're not gong to wind up fans is my guess. You need to build up to something like that. So tomorrow he's coming over and we're going to watch Cry Baby, which I feel like is the perfect midpoint between his indie days and his Hollywood days.

Of course, more audience equals more fun, so a couple more friends (all well acquainted with Waters' genius) will be showing up at my house tomorrow for the screening. Since Cry Baby doesn't involve eating poop or graphic mom-on-son blow jobs, we'll probably want something to eat. Which is how I get to my real point, which is that I just threw stew fixins in the crock pot and my house now smells incredible. I'll probably dream of feasts all night. By tomorrow afternoon, deliciousness will be achieved.

Stew to Accompany Cry Baby:
- venison your brother-in-law bagged, cut into small pieces
- a can of sweet corn, because it was on sale at Publix
- two cans of stewed, diced tomatoes, ditto
- zucchini, because you need some green stuff
- a couple of carrots you find in the fridge that should have been eaten days ago
- a few potatoes that you remember at the last minute were in the cabinet
- fucktons of garlic
- a package of barley and mushroom soup from the Jewish section of the "ethnic" food aisle
- mushrooms, because I love mushrooms
- salt and pepper and that kind of stuff

Brown the deer in a pan. Dump the maters and corn and 3 or 4 cans of water into the crock pot. Add the browned venison and all that other stuff. Set on low for 10 or 12 hours. Done.

By the way, my favorite Waters movie with Divine is Female Trouble. My favorite without Divine is Desperate Living. You?


Fresh Ink

A million years ago or more, back when God laid an egg, back when dirt was clean, back when Superman rode a dinosaur, the mid to late 90s happened and I lived in Atlanta. Oh, a hell of a time was had. The tall buildings! The bright lights! The 24 hour gay sports bars!

I was in my early twenties and getting my ya-yas out at a rapid clip. For the most part - despite the alcohol, the strippers, the gunfire - I came away unscarred and unburdened with anything but a knapsack of stories and a handful of tattoos.

Like my interest in a septum ring (which I got at 21 and still gleefully wear, lo, these 14 years later), I'd wanted body art since I first knew it existed. As a kid, what did I associate tattoos with? Pirates. Strong men. Artists. Bikers. Freedom. As I got out of high school and actually started making friends, I fell in with the heavily decorated crowd. And so, no surprise, when I had the cash I got the ink. Most of which I still love today. And yet...

And yet, being the mid 90s and me being a bit of a fool, I got kanji on my forearms. Not big pieces, mind you, just one per arm. My only non-custom tattoos, and the only ones that show when I have my regular clothes and long pants on. In other words, what should have been my show pieces have been outdated, clich├ęd, plain, black crap.

For years - at least a decade - I've talked about getting them covered. Took a while to figure out what would hide them and still look good. Someone suggested old school roses, but that ain't my style. I briefly considered Scottish clan badges, but that seemed too... specific? I guess is the word I'm looking for here. Finally, it struck me. What tool do I love, collect, and use more than any other? Typewriters.

This year, mama got me a gift certificate to Sistine Skin for Christmas. So I put that together with a few bucks of my own and went and saw my friend Fronkie and she did me up right. Five hours in the chair, five different shades of grey and black, and one of those late 90s worth-nothing tats is gone, Daddy, gone. I walked out of that little wood frame house where she runs her business happy and hopped up on endorphins. That picture up there doesn't do it justice, by the way - it's fresh, shaved, and puffy. But I love it and it looks amazing.

All of a sudden, I'm one of the obviously tattooed. And it feels great. Remember folks, nothing else you can buy with be will you forever. Consider your ink well, pick your artist carefully, but if you want it in your heart, get it on your skin.

Thank you, Fronkie. Thank you, Mama.


keep drinking, start thinking

Have I mentioned that I've started running a trivia night at the Rusty Bucket, a local dive/biker bar? I delight in trivia. I roll in it. I keep buckets of it under my bed. As they say, I don't know everything about anything, but I know a little something about everything.

As I've written about before, for years I met up with my team - go, Drinkin' 'Bout It! - once a week to down beers and test our knowledge base against other boozy brainiacs. I mean, it makes sense that this would be my main outside hobby - it combines two of my favorite things on Earth. If I could find a bar trivia night run by hot gals in small clothes, my life would be complete.

But when the trivia night I'd grown used to shut down late last year, I called it quits. I needed a break. Had to have some time off. Recently I felt the old pull, so I spoke to the owner of the Bucket, a bar my friends and I have made our smoky home. She loved the idea, we settled on Mondays from 8 to 10, I decided on my format, and we were off to the races.

It's only been a few weeks now, but I get a real kick out of being Trivia Master. Five rounds of ten questions each means I spend my Sunday evenings putting together 50 questions about everything from weird sports (chessboxing! wife carrying!) to marine biology. The folks who have been playing seem to enjoy it (I had some grumbles about my Salma Hayek round, in honor of the golden globes, ahem, but it was all in fun). The bar's making money. And I get to play with my brain and drink for free. What could be better?

Anyway, long story longer, if you're in the Tallahassee area you should think of coming by some Monday soon. Get a team (5 people or less, please) or fly solo. I'll be happy to see you. And if you mention that you saw this blog post, I'll give you an extra point the first time you play.


Advance Warning

It's a little early, but I wanted to make a flier so here it is. BYOB.


monday all week

I feel dragged out thin and like the inside of my brain got rubbed smeary with soft cloth. Tired, bored, confined, no adventure, no smoke on the horizon, no sails billowing in salt winds that clean your face and clean my mood and push us out to sea.

Taken to pieces, the engine runs fine. Fine apartment, fine job, fine friends, fine hobbies, there's fine beer in the fine fridge and I just can't bring myself to give a tinker's damn about any of it today.

The engine runs fine, but the wheels don't turn.