The Bubble Bath, Part 12

Editor's Note: The Bubble Ship has departed Atlantic City, racing back to Philly. Terry and Bubbles are ensconced in the front set of the car, having had less alcohol than me and therefore in a more subdued mood. I have been banished to the back seat, where I am supposed to be blogging, and I am doing that from time to time. But I'm also singing. There are two reasons for my one-part harmony...


One, Bubbles does not have AC in her car. So the windows are down. Since we are traveling at roughly the speed of light, gale-force winds are whipping around in the back of the car, creating a nice sonic shield to muffle my warbling. I don't have to be anywhere near the right key, and no one will care. Two, singing is one of the few distractions I can think of to help me not ponder the fact that the evil wind is ripping the hair from my skull.


Eventually, we roll into Philly and other activities arise...

  First, we have to get beer.

  This is a primary directive in any successful social situation. There must be beer, preferably tons of it so that no one has to make that critical decision about whether or not to swipe the one remaining bottle in the otherwise empty refrigerator. Entire branches of my family no longer speak to one another specifically because someone made the wrong move with that last bottle. There are rules to follow. Perhaps someday I will distribute a brochure to my lesser friends who don’t understand this.

  Anyway, we’re searching for beer, and there are some complications. The most obvious setback is that Terry and I don’t live in Philly. We have no idea where to procure brewskis. Since it is Philadelphia, the natural assumption is that beer surely must be freely available, once one figures out where to get it. We must now depend on our friend Bubbles, especially since she is navigating the rocket ship.

  Trouble is, Bubbles is not well-versed in beer obtainment. Not that she’s not familiar with alcohol, by any means, she just prefers the harder stuff that she can sip while entertaining her guests. She does not indulge in guzzling as the boys from Texas do. So she only knows where to find the hard liquor. Complicating this is the timing issue. There are different hours of availability for liquor and for beer. Bubbles can tell you the precise second when you can no longer score a bottle of gin. She doesn’t have the faintest idea about the deadline for longnecks.

  It is, however, starting to get late. The general consensus is that the beer deadline, whatever it may be, is surely approaching. Decisions must be made. I put aside my netbook with the latest blog draft, something about how lonely my hand is when it’s not holding a chilled bottle, and try to assist in the search for grain-based intoxicants.

  As mentioned, I am not familiar with the area. But it sure seems to me that we are zipping past several establishments that could possibly satisfy our needs. Then again, I am not familiar with any of these store names. I don’t want to holler out a suggestion, only to find that we have turned into the parking lot of an acupuncturist with a fondness for neon Budweiser signs.

  Suddenly, Bubbles spies a venue that meets her needs, and we rocket across several lanes filled with death-cars. She slams the vehicle to a halt and leaps out. She and Terry thunder inside the small convenience store. I climb out of the floorboard and back onto the seat, removing the netbook from my ear, where it had lodged when Bubbles violently terminated all velocity. Initially, I decide to just wait patiently. I’m sure the two of them have the skill set required to adequately complete the purchase.

  Time ticks, and I start to get concerned. Why is it taking so long? Something must be amiss.

  Then I start surveying my surroundings. Have we managed to pull up to a colorful crack house of some kind? Is there a possibility of drive-by violence and irritated people performing rude hand gestures? Perhaps I should investigate. Stealthily, of course. No sense in walking up to that guy standing on the corner over there, asking “Is this the type of place where people get killed?”, as if I were interested in being serviced in that way.

  The door to the store suddenly pops open, and Bubbles trots forth. She comes up to my window. “Do you think a 12-pack will be enough?”

  Good Lord, woman, are you insane? “We need at least a case.” (Only because no one should be forced to make that last-beer decision, you understand. I’m just looking at it from an etiquette perspective, of course.)

  Bubbles nods her head. Got it. Then she adds “It’s packed in there. They stop selling at ten.” Then she turned and dove back into the apparent melee.

  I glanced at my netbook. 9:50p. Holy cow. The drama that would have erupted if we’d been forced to head back to Bubbles’ place empty-handed. I craned my neck to get a better look inside the store, and could see Bubbles and Terry, clutching items, way at the back of a line. I had some time to kill. Great. I could get a smoke in before the rocket ship lifted off once more.

  And I could watch the desperation and mayhem as the local citizenry raced to beat the beer deadline. There’s a dark side of me that enjoys watching panic-stricken people take extraordinary steps to feed their addictions, especially when my own habit-provisions are already relatively secure and en route to my waiting arms. It’s fun.

  And these people did not disappoint me.

  I had barely stepped out of the car when this pickup truck, that couldn’t possibly still be running but somehow was, basically jumped the curb, sailed through the air, and slid to a halt about two inches from my nose. My jaw hadn’t even stopped dropping before the two occupants were out of the truck, bumping into each other as they ran toward the store, and knocking over a newspaper box as they vanished inside. One of them let out a celebratory squeal of triumph as the door closed.

  Well, then. Perhaps I should be making my performance appraisal from a safer location. Such as back in Texas.

  I walked slightly around the side of the building, to a little area where motorcycles and bikes could park. These modes of transport were smaller and I had a better chance of survival. I really didn’t relish the thought of being massacred by another airborne pickup, my last sounds on Earth being the rattle of empty beer cans in the truck bed.

  Once positioned, I lit my cigarette, and things were instantly better, because that’s how nicotine works. Almost instantly, several previously-unnoticed shadowy figures began appearing from other parts of the parking lot, wandering my direction.

  Terrific. I just wanted a quick smoke. I really wasn’t interested in the bonus plan where I get accosted and/or utilized in nefarious means for someone else’s entertainment.

  I considered my options. I could scream and run into the store, but that seemed a little excessive. I could jump back in the car, but since all the windows were down, these cretins could still lunge through the openings like Cujo after Dee Wallace Stone. (And Bubbles would not appreciate the stains on her upholstery.) Or I could just stand there. And I really wanted to finish my cigarette.

  Two of the figures broke off from the shadowy pack and stepped forward into the light from a nearby pole…


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Searching For Signal: #173 - “Survivor: Nicaragua” - Episode 3

We start out at the La Flor camp, with the pre-schoolers returning from Tribal. They’re all confused and stunned about what happened, muttering things like “That blew my mind!” and “That was crazy!” Well, yeah, you got to watch Shannon completely melt down on national television, to the point where most of you couldn’t even pretend to be his friend anymore and you sent his ass home. (Good for you. Well, except for the few folks that didn’t vote to get rid of Shannon Palin.)

Speaking of, NaOnka has some special words for those few in a sidebar: “Everybody acting all cool with it, but they not. Alina, Kelly B and Jud, this is gonna bite you in the ass.” I already can’t stand NaOnka, she’s just got too much attitude for no reason, but in this particular case she’s right. You’re going to stick with a racist bigot and do his bidding? Then you need to go. Sadly, some of these youngsters will get distracted easily and forget, like when the kindergarten teacher comes in and hands out juice boxes.

Roll opening credits.

Cut to the Espada camp, where the older folks are all traipsing through the jungle. They can hear howler monkeys whooping it up somewhere, so they’ve decided to find the monkeys, since the monkeys should be near food in the trees. They finally find the irritating howlers, and Jimmy Johnson proceeds to make animal noises that the monkeys understand. The monkeys shut up and gaze at Jimmy as if Lazarus just stepped out of a cave and said “I was only kidding. I was just taking a nap.”

Cue Marty in a sidebar, where he proceeds to rip at Jimmy J. Marty can’t stand Jimmy J, because people are paying attention to him and not Marty. And Jimmy J has special talents like the ability to carry on conversations with other species. (After all, he worked for Jerry Jones for how many years?) Marty hates Jimmy. HATES him.

Then we have scenes with Jimmy J teaching most of the tribe how to fish. His advice proves quite useful, and suddenly everybody is successful. Fish are practically jumping out of the ocean and into the arms of the fishers. This pisses off Marty even more, with another sidebar where he tears at Jimmy J again. (Dude, he’s helping your people get food. And it’s working. What happened in your childhood that made you so bitter?)

Side note: You really need to pause your DVR when Holly is talking to Jimmy J. Study her one-piece swimsuit. Is that thing on backwards? Why does the crotch look that way? That’s not right. Seriously, really not right. Holly scares me.

A few scenes with Jill and Marty. He’s fussing about Jimmy J (big surprise). She tells him to chill, that people like Jimmy and hatin’ on him could be a problem. But then she blurts that he should show the Idol he has to everybody.

What? Showing the Idol can cost you.

Cut to the La Flor camp, where we are treated to scenes of Jud/Fabio starting a fire, but then forgetting to move his head back when the fire catches and he nearly asphyxiates himself with smoke inhalation. Then we see him in a sidebar: “I wanna be kept around for my mentality.” Kind of a big leap, don’t you think? (NaOnka in her own sidebar: His hair got on my nerves on Day 1.)

Back to Espada, with everyone sitting around eating, and Marty states “I have an announcement”. (An announcement? Is this a board meeting? No, it’s not.) He shows the Idol, they all clap. Marty: “We’ll play it when we need it.”

Jimmy T in a sidebar, with his ugly-ass hair: I love Marty!

Tyrone in a sidebar, um, without any hair: Maybe he got team points by sharing about the Idol, but Marty is shady.

Word.

Marty in a sidebar: In the end “the Idol belongs to me”. Have you told Jill that? Because she’s the one that really found it. She has red hair. This means she will cut you if you do her wrong.

Then we have Dan in a sidebar. He’s really hungry and tired. Then we have scenes of him being really hungry and tired, limping about and feeling sorry for himself. (Yve in a sidebar about Dan’s gumption: “He doesn’t have it.”) More shots of Dan being unable to lift a twig or stand up while peeing. But hey, if somebody’s cooking something, he’s the first in line at the simmering pot.

Over to the La Flor tribe, where several of the kiddies have gathered on a beach. They’re discussing the fate of Alina and Kelly B. They have to go. (Hello? What about Jud? He voted the same way.) Alina in a sidebar: “I’m not in the best position.” NaOnka in a sidebar: “We gotta get Alina out.” Jud in a sidebar…. Oh wait, he still doesn’t really understand what that is. Stay tuned.

Time for the Immunity/Reward Challenge.

In this one, the teams have to race out and collect 10 barrels, roll them back to a staging area where they have to arrange them on platforms, then they have to throw sandbags so that one lands on each barrel. (The Reward part of it is the “Survivor Garden”, a mess of spices, fruits, vegetables, and such.) The La Flor tribe opts to not use their Medallion of Advantage. Benry: “We don’t need it.” Really? After you guys made fun of the older tribe for not using it that one time? Uh huh. Hope you lose just because of your arrogance. And the fact that I can’t stand any of you.

Off we go. The younger tribe initially surges, but the older tribe catches up and it’s very tight, with everyone trying to do their best. (Except for Dan. Jeff actually yells at one point: “Dan, you need to do something.”) During the last bit, with the sandbag tossing, the older tribe initially takes the lead, with Tyrone hitting target after target. Then he falters, and Jimmy T starts yelling for Tyrone to step back and let him have a shot. Tyrone ignores him (this will prove a critical point later) until Jimmy J convinces Tyrone to let Jimmy T try.

But it’s too late. The younger La Flor tribe, with Benry doing the throwing, hits all of the marks first. They win.

While the Espada tribe marches back home empty-handed, the La Flor tribe runs to fetch their reward. Kelly B purposely lunges for the basket of fruit, convinced that there might be a clue to an Idol. As she hoists it in her arms, we see that she’s right. There’s a little scroll tucked into the winnings. Trouble is, NaOnka sees this as well, and immediately decides that she and Kelly B are going to be best friends and carry the basket together. (NaOnka in a sidebar: “I’m going for the paper!”)

The La Flor tribe marches back to camp, and as soon as they reach the clearing, NaOnka turns all linebacker and knocks Kelly out of the way so she can grab the tiny scroll. (In the process, bananas get smashed, a harbinger of doom.) NaOnka dashes off to the beach and into a sidebar: “You could say I got all hood on Kelly B. But I did not get ghetto.”

There’s a difference? I guess I need to pay more attention.

Later, NaOnka drags Brenda on a walk, and shows her the Idol clue. They try to figure it out, but they can’t quite get it. Then “The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City” comes on the Coconut TV and they get all distracted.

Cut to the Espada camp, where things are a bit tense with the fact that Tyrone initially did not let anyone else try tossing the sandbags. Jimmy T to the group: “My talent is being wasted!” (Say, Jimmy T, can you actually define talent?) It does appear that most of the tribe is at least slightly miffed with Tyrone not letting someone else try until it was too late.

Jimmy T in a sidebar: “I’m a born leader. I should be leading this tribe.” (Oh, puh-leeze.)

Tyrone in a sidebar: “Everybody can’t touch the ball.” (This distracts me a little bit, with my mind going places that don’t really apply.)

Marty in a sidebar: “I’m looking forward to Tribal. It will force the tribe to start playing this game.” (Dude, you want to go to Tribal? Do you not watch the show? I mean, I’m assuming that they get the broadcast signal on your planet.)

Cut to Marty and Jimmy J splashing around in the surf, strategizing. As usual. Jimmy J is telling it like it is. As usual, Marty is seething with jealousy that Jimmy J is able to both handle and speak the truth. (Marty in a sidebar: “I need to remove JJ so people will lose their daddy.”) Seriously, are we in elementary school here?

Scene with Marty and Jill talking. Marty: “Coach has to go.” Jill: To me, Holly, Dan and JJ are all the same. Whichever one needs to go. Just tell me what to do. (But in a sidebar, Jill fesses that she’s only trying to appease Marty because of the Idol thing, and that she thinks Marty is way too focused on the wrong person. Then she finds a seashell shaped like Rosie O’Donnell and we’ve lost her.)

Marty runs to tell Dan to vote for Jimmy J. Of course Dan agrees. (Dan in a sidebar: “I’m in much better shape than JJ.” You’re kidding, right? Because we’ve seen you lying on your sorry butt in the hut while JJ is out harpooning whales.)

Marty runs to tell Jimmy T to vote for Jimmy J. No problem. Jimmy T is firmly convinced that he has been anointed by God to save the world, despite his unfamiliarity with washing his own hair or having any social skills.

Scene with Jane and Holly, where they basically agree to look out for one another, and they don’t think that Jimmy J should go home. (Jane in a sidebar: “JJ’s my fishing buddy!”) This is followed by a scene with Jimmy J, Yve and Holly as they fish. Jimmy J fesses they “might not see me for a while”, because he knows what’s going on with Marty. Both of the women act like Jimmy J is going nowhere. Especially Yve, who tells Jimmy J that she is her favorite person in the tribe.

Marty runs to Tyrone. Marty: “Write Coach’s name down.” Tyrone: “I don’t know about that.” (Tyrone in a sidebar: “Marty’s paranoid. I think Marty’s all about Marty. I’m more worried about Danny.”)

Marty in a sidebar: “These people are not thinking the game through. Do NOT mess around with me.”

Really can’t stand Marty. Not as much as I hated Oompa Loompa Russell during his two seasons, but still. Don’t care for him.

Time for Tribal.

Jeff: “Today’s challenge. What happened?”

Jimmy T immediately seizes this opportunity to let everyone know that if Tyrone hadn’t been such a stubborn pig, Jimmy T could have saved the day. It’s all Jimmy J’s fault for not sending him in sooner. Really? Jeff’s not buying that, so he digs deeper. Jeff to Jimmy T: “How are you getting along with Jimmy J?” Jimmy T: “Maybe I’m a threat to his leadership role.”

Tyrone rolls his eyes. “I’m baffled by that statement.”

Jimmy J about Jimmy T: “I thought we had a good relationship.”

Jeff to Dan: “Are you a strong player?” Dan: I’m pretty good. Jill: I’m not so sure about that. Jane: Ditto.

Jeff to Jimmy T: “Who are the weakest players?” Jimmy T: “I won’t say, but there’s three or four.”

Jeff: Fine. Let’s do a roll call. He asks each of the tribe members if they think they are weak. The only one who admits to that is Jimmy Johnson. Again, he’s being honest, while in reality, half the tribe is lying, especially Dan and Jimmy T.

Marty: “These people need to wake up.” There’s a whole lot going on that they don’t realize.

Jeff: You really want to say that right now? At Tribal?

Time to vote.

Two things. One is that Jeff is clearly trying to steer the heat away from Jimmy Johnson. I normally don’t like it when Jeff tries to insert his own opinions or influence the vote, but in this case I’m fine with it. Second, based on everything that the producers have shown us in this episode, and the way key players are acting at Tribal, Jimmy Johnson shouldn’t be in any trouble.

Yet when the vote comes back, it’s unanimous against Jimmy J.

He’s very gracious in his exit.

But clearly, something monumental happened at the Espada camp that would make everyone vote for JJ. Every single one of them, despite appearances that only Marty, JT, and Dan had an issue with JJ. Obviously, this was a totally manipulated episode. But I shouldn’t be surprised, right?

Jeff: “You just voted out a proven leader.”

Marty smirks.

Backup Dancers from Hell: Chris Brown featuring Tyga & Kevin McCall - “Deuces”

Well, the first scene has some big-ass titles informing us that “Collin Tilley Presents”, like this is going to be some fancy foreign movie where bitchy people make each other suffer about past indiscretions. But we know that’s not the case, because it’s a 4-minute music video, with guest rap stars, so there’s not going to be any intricate story or clever dialogue. Then we see Chris Brown’s name in even bigger-ass letters, and I get it. He wants us to think of him as an artist and not as someone who would get angry at Rihanna for changing her hair color yet another time.

We’ll see.

While the credits are still rolling (yes, there are more of them), we are shown three important plot points. One is that there is a woman walking along in one of those concrete waterway things, like where they did the car race in “Grease”. (I’m fully expecting Rizzo to walk in front of the camera, babbling about a defective typewriter.) She looks sad and is walking very slowly, so maybe she needs to speak to her doctor about her mood stabilizers. Other than that, we don’t know much about her, except that she’s wearing a flimsy shirt that is kind of pointless. We can already clearly see what she has to offer.

We also have three guys (I’m assuming this would be Chris, Tyga and Kevin) hanging out all street-like. We can’t tell if they’re also sad, or if they’re just bored, but all of them are staring at the ground like they just learned that they didn’t get any Grammy nominations this year. The final plotline centers around just Chris. He’s standing on the sloping wall of the concrete gulch and practicing “Karate Kid” moves.

Chris starts with the singing, sitting on a car and doing hand movements that remind me of my scary fourth-grade music teacher that always smelled like old baby powder. But he’s also singing in between high-kicks on the sloping wall, and the Sad Woman is still walking slowly. We start cutting between the three so we can understand that everybody is still doing what they’re supposed to do, and we shouldn’t get anxious about that.

Sudden close-up shot of Sad Woman’s eyes, then another shot of her smelling her hair. Maybe her sadness is coming from the fact that her apricot shampoo didn’t deliver on its promise to smell fruity and fresh. Then she turns and looks behind her, concerned about something, which is kind of confusing. If she’s trying to get away from somebody, shouldn’t she be running instead of just shuffling along and wondering where Olivia Newton-John was sitting during the car race?

Back to Chris and his boys, where we learn that every time somebody sings “deuces” in the song, they all hold two fingers up to the sky. Well, that’s really original. Was somebody actually paid to come up with that?

Oh look, now Chris is by himself in some tunnel, with the bright sky at the other end of the tunnel making a cute little box around Chris so that he appears in silhouette. He starts doing more of the odd poses, like he’s training for a Lady Gaga cover shoot.

And we go like this for a while, cutting between the guys sitting on the car, waiting for anything at all to happen in their lives, Chris in the tunnel channeling Liza Minnelli, and Sad Woman trudging through the gulch, not really getting anywhere. (Why does she insist on walking right where the thin layer of water is flowing, instead of on the 97% of the concrete that is DRY. Does she think there’s a prize at the end of this trail? Poor thing.)

It’s time for Tyga to do his solo, and he’s conveniently moved to another location so we can understand that someone else is singing now. He’s sitting on one of those concrete support beams, and he also likes to move his hands. This time I’m reminded of my Grandpa who would make those same motions before he lost his Italian temper and the Thanksgiving turkey would go flying throw the air, leaving a trail of cornbread stuffing as everybody dove under the table. Again.

Wow, Tyga sure has a long solo. (We get shots of Chris standing off in the background, reminding us that this is HIS video, people, don’t forget it. We also get more clips of Sad Woman on her mysterious journey, but I’m starting to not care if she ever gets where she’s going.)

Well, it seems we have a new development, as we start seeing snippets of the three guys walking down an alley while some hoopty car is bouncing along behind them. The boys seem to be having a lot more fun with this bit, strutting along, waving their arms, and grabbing their crotches. In fact, they almost crack a smile, which is forbidden if you want to retain your street cred, so we’re in dangerous territory here.

Tyga finally finishes up, and the film editor really ramps up the jump-cutting. We’re leaping all over the place in a frenzy, with the jumping only slowing down when Sad Woman’s breasts are in attendance. (And with the way Chris is bouncing off the walls in the tunnel, it’s safe to assume that he had Mexican for lunch, with extra jalapeños. What else would make a grown man jump in the air and do the splits like that?)

And here comes Kevin with his guest rap, and he’s really invested in that “holding up two fingers” thing, doing this at least 400 times during his cameo, shoving his fingers at us like one of the Three Stooges got lost in the San Fernando Valley. He seems to be really angry. Maybe because a certain woman’s appendages are getting more screen time than he is? And she’s not even singing. Or sure of where she’s at.

Shot of Sad Woman just standing there in the gulch, not even moving at all. (Well, to be fair, silicone never really stops moving, but that’s a minor technicality. Wait, maybe that’s why she’s following the water. She sprung a leak and is trying to figure out where it happened.)

Kevin goes on for a long time as well. In fact, between Kevin and Tyga, they’ve basically carried the whole song. Chris only warbled a few lines at the beginning, and then he ran off to play in that tunnel, whispering “deuces” in the background every once in a while. Maybe Chris just didn’t have enough time to learn all the lyrics, busy with that community service business like he was. Who knows.

Whoops, I just lied. Chris comes back and bellows some more, as we see shots of him ripping off his shirt in the tunnel and apparently tearing the thing into rags. (Did he pick up some fashion tips from Rihanna?) I guess the shock of wind on his nipples has a strong effect on him, because he suddenly does a back flip for no other apparent reason.

And that’s really it. As the song winds down, we jump-cut some more, with the guys and the gulch and the hoopty and Chris auditioning for Cirque du Soleil in that tunnel. Sadly, Woman With Breasts never makes it very far, still in the concrete riverbed, splashing endlessly along her trail of cosmetic tears and starting to lose her balance…

　

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10 Reasons Why Having The Flu Completely Sucks

1. The massive, pounding headache.

  Your sinuses have swollen to the size of grapefruits, forcing everything else in your head to adjust, and nobody is really happy about that. Every single pain receptor in your noggin is reporting the dissatisfaction. It’s an overload of misery every waking second, leading to dark moments when you actually consider just cutting your head off, because that can’t possibly hurt any worse. Maybe somebody can staple your head back on later, but for now, you just want the pain to go away, even if it takes a machete. (You can get these at Army Surplus. I checked the Internet one desperate morning at 3am.)

2. The non-productive cough.

  So, you get all this fluid buildup in your lungs. This is not a good thing. You want to get all of the goopy stuff out, because it’s cutting off your oxygen and making your extremities turn blue. But does this crap cooperate? Of course not. Apparently there’s some Velcro action going on, because the evil clumps will NOT MOVE. No matter what you do. They cling with determination, laughing wickedly.

  Yet your body continues the attempts at evacuation, repeatedly sending pointless signals to your interior coughing mechanism, triggering that whooping, hippopotamus-in-heat, throat-slicing bray that produces nothing. And you can’t stop, because when you try to suck in air and keep from passing out, that satanic tickle in your throat and/or lungs kicks off another round of donkey noises. Every five minutes you’re dying another tiny death. It’s enough to make you lose your freaking mind.

3. The destruction of the rain forest.

  At first, you try to have some cultural decency and utilize actual tissues when performing maintenance on your constantly-dripping nose and hacking mouth. This, however, doesn’t last very long, at least for me. Those miniscule tissues don’t hold squat, especially when that nasty phlegm finally gets bored and lets go of your lungs. You need something with a higher storage capacity. This means industrial-strength toilet paper, rolls of it, stacked around your sickbed like an army of casket-bearers.

  Now you can rip off great swaths of the toilet paper, hefty amounts that can professionally receive your unsightly shipment. I use far more than I should, because I don’t want that mess touching me after it has left my body. I’m done with it. I don’t want to see it again. We will not be sending each other Christmas cards.

  By the end of my standard flu bout, I will have used roughly 300 rolls of toilet paper. I understand that this is somewhat selfish, and that certain people will look at my with disdain over my apparent disregard for the environment. I’m sorry, Bono. But I’m sick and I don’t care. Let the trees die.

4. The nose confetti.

  As a companion to Number 3, this mess appears toward the end of the flu cycle, and can continue for up to a week after you are finally healthy again. Your poor nose, rubbed and abraded repeatedly for several days, is now in rehab. It is transforming itself back into a regular nose again. This means it is shedding its former skin. These bits of skin, peppering your honker, will make it look like you shoved your nose up a scarecrow’s ass. It’s not pretty.

  But there’s not anything you can do about it other than just deal. Wait for the snowfall to stop. In the interim, try to avoid other people, for their own safety. All it can take is a brief gust of wind to stir things up, and everyone around you could lose an eye from the flying debris. Be kind, don’t blind.

5. The bed becomes your enemy.

  It doesn’t matter what position you assume in your sickbed, it’s not going to be comfortable. This is one of the rules of flu life. You will not find the comfort zone, so just arrange your ass in the least painful manner, and then just lay there and suffer. There’s no other way to get through it. If being sick was fun, we’d have amusement parks like Worlds of Mucus and Six Hacks Over Texas. We don’t.
 
6. The crazed appetite.

  If you have any type of hunger for sustenance during your down time (and most of the time you will not), it will be for obscure and bizarre things. You won’t want normal food. During this current round of misery, the only thing I’m wanting to eat are Strawberry Pop-Tarts and Reese’s cups, both of them beacons of nutrition. I don’t want anything else. Yes, I’ve been shoving minimal bits of protein in my mouth from time to time, because I really would like to continue living, but I’m not happy about the arrangement.  I want fake pastry and chocolate-covered peanut butter. End of story.

7. You grow to hate people that you love.

  I know that my partner is only trying to show support and compassion by checking on me from time to time. I really do. But constantly asking me if “I’m feeling better” only reminds me that I am not, especially if I have finally managed to drift off right at the second you come clattering into the room. I’ll send you a telegram if there’s a status change. In the mean time, if you should peek in the room and I have my middle finger fully extended in your direction, don’t take it personally. It’s the fever. Really.

8. The loss of time.

  Wait, what day is it? Why isn’t the sun out? Is it time for more medicine? Have I bathed today? Hey, who the hell USED UP ALL MY TOILET PAPER!

9. The religious conversion.

  Nothing puts you in a spiritual place quite like twenty minutes of non-stop coughing, convinced that you are never going to breathe again, and will perish right here in your bed that smells like a locker room. You will promise anything to the god of your choice. Anything. Of course, the second that you start to feel better, you will go right back to sinning and drinking, because we’re flawed humans who screw up all the time and are destroying the planet. Our bad.

10. The incredible pain.

  Every single bone, muscle and tissue in my body is screaming in agony from all the coughing and the not-breathing. It hurts to blink my eyelids. But the most painful thing of all? The fact that my healthcare provider offers flu shots. For free, no charge. They even sent me several mailers saying “Hey, might wanna get that free flu shot. Come on in! It’s free!” But did I?

  Of course not.

Backup Dancers From Hell: Far East Movement - “Like a G6”

And once again, I have no idea who this group might be. But they must have done something right because they’ve got a Top 10 hit and some buzz on the Internet. Let’s see what it’s all about, shall we?

We start off with some girl waltzing into a minimalist restaurant of some kind. We know it’s minimalist because they have simple, abstract art on the walls and disco is not playing. She holds up her iPad to check her “To Do” list, and it has four pointless things listed. I’m already not really satisfied with this video. You need an iPad to make a list? You can’t write on the back of a bill envelope like any normal person?

A subtitle informs us that it’s 8:00pm in Los Angeles. Oh, well that totally changes everything, and now I completely understand. (Not.) We watch as our heroine navigates the intricate hallways of the restaurant, her boobs so tightly winched into her dress that it’s got to be some type of major structural accomplishment. (We don’t know this woman’s name, so we’ll call her Nadine.)

Nadine stomps into a private dining room, where there’s a happy ethnic mix of various people shoving food in their faces and, more importantly, knocking back what looks like sake. Some girl on the right proffers a shot of sake to Nadine, and she sucks it down like she’s trying to get a poppy seed out of her teeth. Then she marches away, with the courteous girl on the right following her out of the room. Nothing like getting free alcohol and a hot date within 20 seconds of entering a restaurant.

We cut to more happy people wearing sunglasses at night and singing into the camera. For some reason, the director of this video found it necessary to create an image of Cheerios on the lenses of the glasses. I really don’t understand, and it’s very distracting. Then we see Nadine and her new partner (we’ll call her Bolivia) standing outside the restaurant, which is apparently Korean. Still with the not understanding.

More shots of the Sunglass People gettin’ down wit the music and bopping about. Is this the Far East Movement? Wow. There sure are a lot of them. This is totally not going to work if they make it big and start making some serious money. They’re gonna have to trim things down, just like The Dreamgirls. Nadine and Bolivia jump into a really nice car that we know they can’t afford, so somebody’s sleeping with somebody else.

Then we focus on just one of the bouncing Sunglass People, a guy who apparently has been given a solo in the song and likes to purse his lips, make street hand gestures, and mistakenly believes that the “ladies” can’t wait to jump into his bed. I don’t know where he went to school, but he took the wrong classes, because he is SO not hot.

Nadine and Bolivia are now at a liquor store, wandering around the aisles in slight confusion. (We’ve all been in that predicament, where the sheer number of alcoholic options is overwhelming, especially if you’ve already had a nip or two on the car-ride over.) To help the girls make their selections, we are treated to several members of the Far East Movement rapping and shoving their faces at the camera. Here’s a tip, folks. If you want me to like your song, don’t shove your faces at the camera. Especially if you’re not all the cute. Don’t care for that.

While Nadine and Bolivia traipse about the store, laughing a lot and fondling bottles, we get to see some female member of the Far East Movement doing her own rap. She actually seems to have a decent voice, so I guess she’s the Diana Ross of the group, and will soon leave the band to start a solo career, leaving the rest of the band to eventually appear on the Biography channel in a documentary about drug abuse and bitterness.

This girl (we’ll call her Copacabana) sings for a while, as we watch Nadine and Bolivia haul their purchases to the fancy car and start driving around the town. (Other members of the Far East Movement perform hand gestures and pretend to know how to dance, but I don’t care and I’m over them.) Even the director of the video knows he or she is dealing with some questionable talent, so they start blurring the video like it’s artsy instead of just boring.

Nadine and Bolivia arrive at some building (with Nadine still waving around that stupid and pointless iPad), where you can only gain access by putting your hand on a scanner that reads your palm print. This is unsettling. Why would you want to go into a building like that? I wouldn’t. If you want to scan my skin topography, I’ll just go down to the corner bar where people don’t make you do this type of thing. Have these people not seen “Gattaca”?

More shots of the male members of Far East Movement being obnoxious. More faces in the camera and irritating hand gestures. Seriously, that is SO annoying.

The high-security door leads to a radio station (“CherryTree Radio”, subtly implying that these girls are somehow virgins, which is clearly not the case). I don’t know what’s happened to Nadine, because I don’t see her, but Bolivia is leading another girl with a skanky black halter-top into the studio. (It might be Nadine, but when did she have time to change clothes?)

Some production assistant comes out to meet Bolivia and Whoever, and I immediately don’t trust this person because she has creepy blue highlights in her hair and has far too many colors involved in her eye-shadow. Then Nadine suddenly reappears, still wearing the too-tight red outfit from the beginning of the video, so I really don’t know who The Lady in Black might be.

This doesn’t seem to be important, because we cut back to the massive Far East Movement, and the one girl who can actually sing has knocked everybody away and is rapping again. (Sadly, this doesn’t stop the male members of Far East from trying to jump in front of the cameras and commit to videotape the fact that they have no rhythm whatsoever.)

Now we cut to some party somewhere else, where everybody seems really happy that Nadine, Bolivia and Mysterious Black Girl have arrived to work their groove thang. Oh wait, this appears to be the place where the entire, massive roster of the Far East Movement have been partying and wearing sunglasses, unaware that this video is not as hip and cool as they think it is.

And THIS will really surprise you: the Far East Movement taunts everybody to “put yo hands up”, and everybody does, with the camera capturing this activity from various angles. Perhaps, in my lifetime, there will be a moratorium on drunken people in a bar putting their hands up. It’s just not very inspiring. Can we move on?

But for now, much to my chagrin, all of these people are putting their hands up. This goes on forever. And yet record executives and music producers are totally stunned that CD sales are down. Hello? Who the hell approved this video? Or this song? Let’s start there.

And finally we have the one decent vocalist back on the audio track, trying to salvage things, but the train has already wrecked. The director tries to save his career with some fancy editing, but at the end of the day, it’s just not very pretty.

Speaking of day, it’s suddenly the next morning, and we have some slo-mo shots of the Far East Movement at an airport, marching toward a plane. Are they really going to unleash these people on the rest of the world?

And more importantly…

What the hell is a G6?

　

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The Bubble Bath, Part 11

  Editor’s Note:  In a sad moment of mortification, I have stupidly unrolled the still-damp legs of my jeans, not realizing that the ocean detritus trapped in the folds would create an alarming seascape under my chair as we sat in a swanky bar…

  I try informing my drink mates of the developing real estate.

  Terry and Bubbles don’t care. They are in the midst of reliving some high school incident wherein they liberated a fake cow. They are greatly enjoying the memories. Any needs that I might have at this point are truly secondary in the scheme of things.

  Fine. I’ll just people-watch until someone cares enough to check on my emotional status.

  Almost immediately, my pain is distracted by the arrival of a quartet of people who promptly proceed to the exclusive “high rollers” roped-off section of the bar. Oh? What’s this? Do I get to see Big Money in action? This could be fun.

  Three of the four are clearly quests, sporting those enormous grins that indicate aggressive alcohol consumption. There’s some stumbling, although, to be fair, they may have just tripped over the pile of broken seashells I had unknowingly transported from the beach. The three, two men and a woman, arrange themselves comfortably on the decadent seating in the “I’m much better than you” area. The fourth member of the party is clearly another hostess, sporting a clingy outfit similar to the attire of our own hostess.

  And Hostess #1 is none too impressed with the co-worker invading her assigned territory. She glares at the evil invader with enough fury that her facial muscles actually fight off the Botox injections and create an expression. Why are you here? If you don’t leave soon, I will cut you.

  The new hostess couldn’t care less. There’s money to be made, and she will do it wherever she needs to do it. She continues pampering the trio, ensuring that the seat cushions are pleasing and that snacky bits have been placed in the crystal bowl on the table. She also bends over a lot, making it easier for those who glance and care to realize that there has been a Brazilian wax in her recent past. We can see so much more than France.

  Our hostess gets fed up. Heaving a dramatic sigh, she and her immobile breasts stomp to the back of the room, slipping through a previously artfully-concealed door. She is most likely on a mission to find and berate employees with a lesser social standing than she, just because it feels good. I can imagine an innocent cleaning person, caught in Boobles’ wrath, cowering in a dimly-lit service corridor, clutching her rosary and sending up prayers to St. Housekeepia. Please protect me from the unnatural cleavage.

  Back at our table, Bubbles: “Are you blogging in your head?”

  Me: “What?” Feigned total innocence is always the best reaction. Always.

  Bubbles: “Quit blogging! We talked about this. When we are drinking or eating you must pay attention to ME. Only me.”

  I just sigh, too tired to argue. I reach for my drink, completely forgetting that I have already sucked it dry with aerodynamic precision. There’s not a drop of moisture left. This saddens me to an incredible degree, and I just don’t know if I can go on with life.

  Bubbles sighs as well. She shoves her nearly-full drink at me. “Take this. I don’t really want it anymore.” I make a very feeble protest, out of sheer politeness, and then lunge. I have nectar again. I light a cigarette to inform the world that I am once again in the throes of a subtle orgasm. I now love Bubbles more than anything in the world. At least until I need another drink.

  “So, anyway,” says Bubbles, continuing her conversation with Terry, the subject of which I had lost somewhere about the time beaver had been exposed to my left, “we need to go to New York City.”

  “Now?” I ask, stupidly. I normally know better than to submit queries when I haven’t been following the topic on the floor, but I erred. Blame the free cocktail. I hugged the glass closer to me. It was my only real friend. The rest of these people didn’t understand me.

  “No,” scoffed Bubbles. “We can go in the morning.”

  Terry made only a very slight noise of possible dissatisfaction.

  Bubbles whirled on him with lightning speed, because any contradiction of her decrees was subject to severe and painful punishment. “I want to go to New York City! I hate Philly!”

  Terry, trying to be sweet: “But we came to Philly to see Philly. Not New York City.”

  Bubbles: “You came to see ME.”

  And that right there, Ladies and Gentlemen, is the defining keystone in the architecture of the Planet Bubbles. A two-letter word that trumps any other thoughts, feelings or suggestions:  ME. If you can accept this, and act accordingly, you might be allowed to live.

  Terry knows this, has known for a very long time, since back in the day when they were still in high-school and Bubbles was just beginning to formulate her plans for world domination. But he had been drinking cocktails as well, and very nearly slid into the Pool of Damnation with another blasphemous contradiction. “But I…”

  Bubbles cut him short. “I can find other husbands!”

  Well, this was a considerable threat to our social standing in the Bubbles’ Dominion, and could result in very serious consequences. If we fell out of favor with Bubbles, there was no telling how heinous our lives might become. We could be living under a bridge within a week, forced to make friends with people who hadn’t bathed since Bill Gates was poor.

  Just then, I noticed a well-coiffed older lady at the bar, discreetly leaning our way, trying to get more details on this “plural usage of the word husband” thing. Her eyes were alight with the tantalizing possibility of multiple husbands and the boost to her personal inventory that this might entail. I quickly caught her eye, and made the universal hand signal for “oh, sweetie, you really don’t want to know, get out while there’s still time”. The woman looked crestfallen, but she understood, and turned back to her gin and tonic.

  I was just about to rejoin the conversation at our table, despite my hesitance and fear of losing a limb, when there came a drunken cackle from the fancy high-roller area. I glanced at the party of three, which had now become the party of two, with the lone woman (girlfriend, wife, whatever) having been summarily banished, leaving just the two men. Two apparently horny men. They were flirting up a storm with Hostess #2, and she was along for the ride because a good tip is a good tip. In fact, she was flashing her chi-chi’s with such rapidity you’d think she was sending a Morse Code telegram. Dot-dot, flash-flash.

  I really wasn’t in the mood for that.

  “Say,” I said to Terry and Bubbles, interrupting their glare-fest. “It’s still early. Why don’t we head back to Philly, get some beer, and just spend the evening talking? Then we can get up tomorrow and go do whatever.” I left tomorrow’s options vague on purpose, because I had only known these two for 10 years. They had known each other for decades, and that made me the most expendable. I knew my place.

  They stared at me for a second, not sure if my proffered option was viable. After all, they were in the midst of a heated disagreement, full of blood-lust and vengeance, and the only truly satisfying way to calm such emotions is if somebody dies. No one was dead yet. Ergo, an issue.

  But, happily, the fury in their eyes dimmed, and all agreed that it was time to motor. We gathered up our things, and marched out of the bar. Just before I slipped around the corner, I think I saw and heard a woman dropping to her knees near my vacated chair, convinced that she had just seen Jesus in the pile of sand. That’s nice. Glad I could at least provide someone with spiritual guidance, however inadvertent.

  Once in the parking lot, we hoisted our belongings into Bubbles’ car, securing items for what was sure to be an exciting and zippy journey. As I closed the door, I’m fairly certain I spotted the government helicopter flying overhead and racing into the night, intent on evacuating the city of Philadelphia before we got there….


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Backup Dancers From Hell: Adam Lambert - “If I Had You”

We start off with a nice thumping beat as Adam prances around in what might be his apartment or could be a sleep deprivation facility. It’s awfully dark and hard to tell what’s going on. What IS clear is that Adam is apparently shilling Sony products, because we have one front and center. Scrolling across the screen of this product placement is what appears to be encouraging words about a gig that Adam has tonight. All of his fans are convinced that the world is going to change as soon as Adam steps on stage.

And it just might happen. If Adam hits enough high notes, buildings could crumble.

Next thing we know, Adam is trudging down some dirt road in the forest. I’m really surprised that he’s doing this, because it can’t be good for all the makeup that we know he’s going to be wearing. Anyway, he marches toward us, really proud that he’s got his boots on and the “right amout of leather”. (What IS the right amount of leather? I’ve often wondered this. It keeps me awake at night.) He’s also “working my strut”, which kind of throws me. I just had one of those replaced on my car, and there certainly wasn’t any singing while that mess was going on. And we weren’t in a forest. That I recall. I’ll just let it go for now.

Then the sky suddenly changes from late afternoon to full-on night, which means we’ve lost a few hours. (This happens all the time with rock stars, so don’t be scared.) We’re still in the forest, but now things have an odd greenish tint to them. It looks kind of outer-spacey (as opposed to Kevin-Spacey, because we all know he does his thing near parks and not forests). Perhaps E.T. will drive by on a bicycle, tossing about trial size packets of Reese’s Pieces.

Adam is still trudging along, all glam, but we catch glimpses of other people darting through the trees, so he’s not alone. We don’t know if these people are his friends or they want to kill him, it’s not clear. Oh, and I think laser-like weapons are being fired, because green flashes shoot across the screen from time to time. Or maybe they’re just setting up Adam’s stage nearby and somebody is dicking around with the stage lighting.

Anyway, Adam gets to a point in the forest where it’s really important that he scratch his back on a tree. This allows the other people to catch up with him, and since they all start dancing, I guess they weren’t seeking his death after all. But the dance is kind of sad, really, because it looks like nobody could afford a complete set of clothes, so they just made do with things they found by the side of the road.

The music picks up, so the poor people dance faster, and Adam takes this as his cue to show us his profile bathed in the green light. There seems to be something wrong with the camera, because his image flickers a bit. Or maybe he’s just being artsy. I understand that this condition can happen when you only make it to Number Two on “American Idol”.

More laser beams shoot through the crowd, but since nobody is exploding in a shower of sparks and hair product, I guess we’re dealing with friendly fire. Adam bops around and shows us that his leather jacket has ginormous metal spikes on the shoulders. I guess this helps keep away exuberant fans who want to know more about his fashion tips.

More dancing, and more profile-flickering. Not sure that I like that profile business. It makes me think I’m having small strokes, and at my age, you really shouldn’t ignore a sensation like that. (Quick close-up of what looks like Alan Cumming being very jealous that his own couture does not have deadly accessories.)

Adam doesn’t care and keeps singing. Let Alan get his own army of stylists.

Then we switch to another part of the forest, where Adam is now dolled up like Fred Astaire on acid. This is probably another artsy thing that only makes sense if you have read some obscure book that was banned in France when it was first published in 1931. Adam fiddles with his top hat and does a few choreographed dance steps with the poor people. I’m not sure what the theme of this dance might be, but it looks like you must have an extensive sexual history before you can adequately perform some of the moves.

Oh wait, now that I study things, maybe this is a re-imagining of the “Cats” musical. Some of the people do look distinctly feline, including Adam and his hat, and others are making clawing motions like it’s time to change the litter box. I’ll look into this further and let you know.

And we’re back to the chorus again, with the editing getting really frenetic and H.R. Pufnstuf making a brief cameo. (Not kidding. Pause it at 1:52 or so. What the hell?) It also looks like somebody raided a taxidermy shop, because suddenly lots of the poor people have an inordinate amount of feathers in their hair. Through all of this, Adam keeps bouncing around and showing us the odd green profile where he gazes at his home planet in the night sky.

More dancing, lasers, sex-tinged movements, and sparkly outfits. (How did we end up in a gay bar? But as long as happy hour prices are still in effect, I’m golden…)

Then the song slows down a little bit, and the scenes start transitioning from the forest to… I don’t know. Somewhere that’s not the forest and looks more like a real stage. Now somebody is playing with a strobe light, making everybody move in that jerky way that people do when Grandpa shows 8-millimeter home movies. (Side note: The drummer appears to be naked, so I guess he was too good to dress in burlap, throw rugs and old newspapers like everybody else. But no one cares, because young people today just accept and move on, and they keep dancing.)

The strobe light thing goes on for a while, but we can see enough to realize that Adam forgot to wipe the Clearasil off the right side of this face. This doesn’t affect his dancing and singing, though, so that’s good.

Then the music gets really slow, and we have a close-up of Adam thinking he’s Greta Garbo. (Except for, you know, those spikes.) The camera lovingly lingers on his face, so that we can see the emotional pain in his eyes from having to hug Randy Jackson week after week.

And the music speeds up again, complete with crotch shots showing that Adam may have misplaced one of the props on the set. (Wait, is THAT where the lasers are coming from?) We also see that Adam is sporting some platform boots that are bigger than some of my cousins. (He sure leads an exciting and dangerous life.) I guess the boots are a little pinchy, because he tries to kick them off at one point, but this doesn’t work, so he goes back to singing and wiggling his shoulders.

And that’s about it. The song winds down while the “Cats” cast continues to leap and frolic. (I hope Betty Buckley isn’t watching this, poor thing.) The song finally ends, Adam smirks at us because he knows we know he’s odd but hot, and then he turns and marches off into the forest.

I wonder if anybody told Adam that his hairdo looks like something people wore in lesbian bars in the 80’s. Because I think he should know, don’t you?

　

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Backup Dancers From Hell: Flo Rida featuring Dave Guetta - “Club Can’t Handle Me”

Well, with “club” right there in the title, we’re basically guaranteed that this will be yet another video where happy, pretty people are bouncing around like idiots in a nameless bar, but I’ll try to be nice about it until I can’t stand it anymore.

We start out with two really fancy cars parked in front of a nightclub. These vehicles are so fancy that the car doors open UP instead of out like cars driven by poor people who can’t sing. And get this: the car doors open at the same time, just like synchronized swimming, except there’s not any water and no one is wearing bathing caps. There’s a line of people waiting to get into the bar, and every one of them is mesmerized by the auto choreography. Three people fall to their knees in tears and worship.

And there’s Flo, trying to look all hip as he clamors out of one of the cars, but he’s having a bit of a struggle because the cars are so low to the ground. (And really, what’s the point of having a car that requires a crane to get your ass out of?) One of the people in line just happens to have some WD-40 in her purse, so they use that to help Flo escape. Once free, Flo raises his hands in the air, praising Jesus or at least synthetic lubricants.

Quick scene where some creepy stalker with a camera is chasing after some girl. They appear to be in one of those funhouse “hall of mirrors” things where you completely lose your dignity by smacking into a clear wall that you didn’t realize was there. I’m not sure what this means, but the girl seems to be smiling and doesn’t mind creepy guys with cameras, so that’s good.

Back outside, Flo Rida is apparently so wealthy that he can just throw huge amounts of money in the air, making it look like we’re in a giant snow globe as the rectangles of paper flutter about. I don’t understand why the people in line don’t make a dash for the cash, because that’s what I would do. (Somebody throws something in the air, it’s fair game, right?) Maybe the line-people are just too drunk to run and clutch. Who knows.

Flo goes inside and says “hey” to David Guetta, because that’s what everyone should do when they first enter a nightclub. Then Flo gets serious about his singing, and here we go with four hundred people joining him on the dance floor, jumping up and down instead of actually dancing. This always bugs me. It’s a dance floor, not a trampoline. What do these people not understand?

Oh, and they make sure that Flo is sandwiched in between two supermodels who are barely wearing anything, so we can assume that he is having sex with both of them. Flo keeps grabbing his crotch in case we don’t understand that he is an amazing stud.

The bouncing continues for a while, inter-cut with what I’m assuming are scenes from the movie “Step Up 3D”. (I haven’t seen the movie, but based on the number of people who are twirling and writhing on the floor, it looks like a lot of people have stupidly stepped on downed power lines and/or not taken their seizure medication. No other discernible plot. I think I’ll just wait for the movie to come out on DVD, and then never buy it.)

Then they actually do something interesting, which startles me. Several trampy girls come marching across the dance floor, holding aloft champagne bottles that appear to have lit sparklers jammed in their corks. No idea what this means, but it’s pretty. Then we’re back to the bouncing around and I drift off again.

More scenes from the movie, wherein attractive people are learning how to dance so that they can one day be in a Flo Rida video while David Guetta does something with a turntable.

Quick shot of a boring woman reading a book in a laundromat. (No idea.) Then some guy with fingerless gloves is practicing to be a mime. More bouncing. Then another quick shot of people standing in what might be a liquor store, and I want to join them with all my heart because I’m going to need a drink after this video.

Hey, this nightclub must be pretty damn big, because now Flo is standing in the middle of 4 billion people. Everyone has their hands in the air, because apparently no new dance moves have been invented in the last 20 years. This is followed by some rude people crashing through the wall of the liquor store (maybe they need some beef jerky), and some more movie scenes where some chick in a yellow top shows us that she can cartwheel onto the back of this guy. Sweet.

And more people crashing through walls, this time back at the laundromat. The boring, geeky girl with her stupid book just sits there, mad that somebody got dust on her Harry Potter. Poor thing. No wonder she’s doing laundry by herself when all the cool people are running through the streets with flaming champagne.

Oh look, the cool kids brought the party to Boring Girl, and now everybody’s riding around in the laundry baskets and having sex in the tumbling dryers. Boring Girl’s life has now changed completely, so in celebration she gets a belly-button piercing, a nose ring AND a tattoo, all at the same time and before the rinse cycle is done.

And we start jumping around, from the laundromat to the nightclub to possibly a subway car. Everybody’s really happy and bouncing, because Flo Rida’s in da house, and this is apparently on the same level as The Pope showing up to hand out sexual-abuse settlement checks. (And hey, did you know that if you show enough cleavage and can flip your hair to the beat, Flo Popa will spank you on the butt? Cool, huh?)

More bouncing.

And now a construction crew is busting some moves on the dance floor. This makes sense, right? (Flo seems to think so, because he’s praising Jesus again.) One of the guys does this thing where he rolls back and balances on his head, and suddenly my college degree is meaningless because I can’t do THAT. Cut to an aerial shot, showing that everybody on the planet is racing to watch Flo and his backup band, The Heavy Days, continue to have a good time with complete strangers.

Another mime performance, this one from a very angry woman who needs extra straps on her arms to keep them from falling off. Or something. Then we have some group break-dancing where everybody spins on their faces while wearing colorful, matching outfits. (Quick shot of one lone woman, break-dancing by herself off in a corner. It’s probably Boring Girl from the laundromat, killing time while her whites dry.)

Then Flo Rida bangs on his chest, which signals some unseen person to flood the dance floor with water. A new group of dancers rushes out to stomp around in the water, getting everybody wet. The crowd cheers and claps at this, but you know it’s a lie. In the real world, if some dancing fool splashed water on some diva’s fishnet stockings, there’d be a rumble and two drive-by shootings within 5 minutes.

And that’s about it. People keep bouncing as the song winds down, and Flo Rida is spraying everyone with shaken champagne, because he couldn’t resist slipping in another reference to his unending and fertile manliness. One of the final shots is of an unexplained person smashing a guitar into the street in front of the club. Because nobody actually plays real instruments anymore. You just kick off a program on your netbook, and suddenly you have a hit single.

Progress, right?

　

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Live Blog #9 - Another Really, Really Live Blog - Final Version

  And we’re off. I posted on Facebook that we are ready, willing and able to take suggested topics and fully dissect them.

  That was 30 minutes ago. Right now, tumbleweeds are blowing through with nary a response. There’s been a little nibble from Brawn Flambee, hinting that he might suggest something, but so far this has not happened.

  We might be on the failblog here, and I will be forced to come up with topics on my own. This makes me sad. Perhaps if I drink enough, I will emotionally stabilize.

  Wait, one just came in.

Piza Bitsock: Rush hour traffic, Lady GaGa and people who eat at McDonalds.... GO

  Me: Um. That makes my brain hurt. Well, people sitting in rush hour shouldn’t be listening to Lady Gaga, because they won’t be able to drive fast enough to match the beat, and this will lead to emotional devastation. However, they can pull into a McDonald’s for something overly-sugared to eat and find their happy place once again.

  Apiphany: Rush hour traffic makes me want to contemplate taking my own life.

  Apiphany: About Gaga, I am nothing but excited about going to her concert. But I am not wearing meat of any kind.

  Sage: Make sure you have a clean change of underwear. (Sage is very hygiene-focused.)

  Me:  I’m thinking people are not really trying to combine the three. It’s so hard trying to wrangle people who are sucking down beer. No one loves me or wants to satisfy me. I should be used to this by now, but it still causes me pain.

 Suctionetta:  Apiphany WILL wear meat. I love double-cheeseburgers while stuck in traffic. This makes me special. Lady Gaga is queen.

  Apiphany: Do people really understand what they are eating when they eat at McDonald’s? Read the labels, people. This might be the real reason we’re in a recession. Wait, is that a mirror over there?

Brawn Flambee: Sexting everywhere you are.

  Me: I must be very unhip, because I’m really not sure what this means. Sexting? I really don’t want to do anything sexual with my phone. Does this make me shallow?

  Sage: Oh my God! (Um, perhaps Sage has secrets that shouldn’t really be revealed right now. Or he has a gas bubble. He IS eating chicken-fried steak. Things happen.)

  Apiphany:  Don’t do it! DON’T DO IT! Whatever you do, do NOT send naked pictures of yourself across the airwaves. Because the minute things go south, your ass is going to be on Facebook, MySpace, Twitter and National Geographic. Your booty isn’t so cute when Uncle Walter can see it when he checks his retirement emails.

  Sage: Man up or woman up. Sexting is so cheap. (I still think he has secrets. Just a hunch.)

  Tex:  Do I need to do it or what? I’m all for it.

  Bitsy:  As long as it’s good, honey.

  Kathee: No wonder Tex likes sexting. It rhymes.

Soara Popespan:  Am I too late for happy hour?

  Me: Happy hour? Why do people think we’re at happy hour? Just because we’re in a bar with frosty mugs sitting before us doesn’t necessarily mean that we are drinking. This could merely be research for our Sociology PHD. God, people judge so quickly.

  Me:  Okay, we’re drinking.

  Apiphany:  Ohhh, I wish Soara lived here. I miss her. Even though we’ve never actually met. We have touched and shared across the social network of life and we’ve…. What was the question again? Oh, happy hour can start at any time. Let’s go to Paris. It’s always happy hour there. That’s what I want to believe, anyway. Otherwise, I made a fool of myself in Paris.

  Sage:  It’s never too late for happy hour. Soara, you’re with us virtually. Right at this very minute I’m spilling a drink on you. Can you feel it?

Soara Popespan:  Order me a Bloody Mary with pepper vodka and wasabe, and pickled beans. TYVM

  Me: That is SO many kinds of wrong. I’m not sharing that one, because people won’t understand and I’m too tired to explain anything right now.

Brawn Flambee:  I think it has just begun....:)

  Me: I think he’s still talking about happy hour, but since he’s a horndog about the sexting, he could actually be talking about anything. I hope he’s wearing protection. Or at least taking names, because this will prove useful when the lawsuit happens after his junk appears on “Oprah”.

Brawn Flambee:  I will take a Martini while sexting mmm

  Me: See? Brawn is a whore. Said with love.

Piza Bitsock:  Patron.... what can I say, it's payday.

  Me:  One, apparently Piza gets paid very well, because that Patron is expensive. But she IS showing amazing style and refinement by indulging in such. Which shouldn’t be surprising, because everyone in this conversation shoots culture out their ass, sayin. And two, what the hell does “Patron” really mean. Is it just a name, or is it an old Spanish word meaning “drink me and you will feel amazingly sexy and limber”.

  Kathee:  Patron means a big, good-looking man.

  Me:  What dictionary is Kathee looking at? I might need to borrow it.

Soara Popeman:  (I'm actually sitting here with a big glass of ice water and popcorn - exciting, huh?)

  Me:  Soara, don’t destroy the illusion I have of you being a totally refined socialite who swills cocktails whilst directing servants to arrange the canapés to your liking. I can’t bear it if this isn’t true.

Brawn Flambee:  Anything you like no limits i take it here....LOL

  Me:  “No limits” only begins to describe the number of restraining orders that will be in place before this evening is over.

Soara Popespan:  Ron - I guess they are chewing on Piza's exciting suggestions. She's forcing me to bring my A game.

  Me: Chewing? Sexting? Patron? Is everything about sex these days? Or is it just me?

Brawn Flambee:  you could have made something up LOL laura laura laura bad girl....he he

  Me:  Why does everything coming out of Brawn’s mouth sound sexual? I’m beginning to think he’s either completely over-sexed or a total liar.

Soara Popespan:  If Bri-Bri is picking up the tab, I want to try that $1,000 Ice Cream Sundae made with gold leaf and stuff...

  Me:  Where in the world does Soara order takeout? Tiffany’s?

Piza Bitsock:  News Flash: My happy hour started around 4, at this point I feel a glowing warmth and am impressed I can still type, no A game required.

  Me: Awww. I want to go on a trip with Piza to a Greek island where buff, barely-clad attendants do everything they can to make us happy. This really isn’t too much to ask. I pay my taxes on time and try to be civil with people that I really can’t stand. I should be rewarded, yes?

  Editor’s Note:  I really am trying to get the other folks at the table to participate in the responses, but none of them seem very invested in fulfilling their duties. This shouldn’t surprise me, but it still hurts. I must drink more, it’s the only answer.


  And then some of our field correspondents get a little snippy with one another…

Soara Popespan:  Ron - how can I be bad? I haven't typed anything yet? Hahahaha...you just sense "the vibe", huh?

  Me: Soara hasn’t type anything yet? What’s in that popcorn she’s eating? She’s been typing with a frenzy that hasn’t been seen since the Hanging Chad incident some time back. And why the protests about being considered “bad”? There’s nothing wrong with that. Embrace your true nature, even if it means certain Christians can no longer speak to you.

  Jessica Rabbit (Apiphany):  Soara’s not bad, she’s just drawn that way.

  Me: She’s bad. I have critical evidence that I shall reveal at the appropriate moment.

Brawn Flambee:  yep the vibe is there ....lol im feeling it from here

  Me: Can’t help it, have to go there: Brawn, get you hands out of your pants. Seriously, this sexting thing has gone too far.

Soara Popespan:  Hahahaha...you must be a Scorpio too.

  Me: What the hell is going on here? Why are we now talking about desert creatures that will take your life if you step in the wrong place while slipping away to take a pee break? I really don’t get it. (Hey, Suctionetta, can I get another beer? What do you mean I’ve already had 10? I have not. I can count. Do you want a tip or not?)

Brawn Flambee:  nope leo....we tend to be on the wild side....mmm

  Me:  Again with Brawn on a desperate mission to prove that he is some overpowering sexual being who rules the planet. I think we have some validation issues.

  Apiphany:  I, too, like Prawn, have validation issues. I don’t understand why the people of this world do not accept my talents in a worshipful manner. When can I sing?

Soara Popespan:  Leo's and Scorpio's are a dangerous combination. Let the games begin... ;-)

  Me: Um, I’m thinking that this whole blog is slipping away from being about ME, and into something that only concerns other people. We can’t have this. Besides, “Leo’s and Scorpio’s” sounds like something that got cut out of “West Side Story”. They cut it for a reason. Let it go.

  Apiphany:  I’m still not singing. I don’t understand.

Soara Popespan:  I think we've lost Bri-Bri.

  Me: Bri-Bri was lost a long time ago. Along about the age of ten, when he realized that Charlie’s Angels did nothing for him, but the concept of an unseen man who loved him over the phone was very appealing. Issues developed from there.

  Apiphany: I wanted to be Jill on Charlie‘s Angels. Coincidentally, my alter ego is now named Jill. She only comes out when I do shots. Or want to bang the UPS delivery guy, sweating in his shorts in the Texas heat. Nothing can soothe that itch.

  Bitsy, to Apiphany:  You ARE Farrah Fawcett. You’re so sweet and beautiful. (Then Bitsy realizes that she doesn’t know where she is or what she’s doing. She gets quiet.)

  Kathee:  There was a bird outside that I tried to feed bread to but he didn’t want it so I threw it in the trash.

  Me:  Calgon, take me away.

  Bitsy:  Good for you. Who are you, again?

Tribeca Quartz:  I love Leo's. Too bad your a dude, Brawn. But life's like that.

  Me: Tribeca, just say no. We’ve already proven that Brawn has connection issues, making love over the airwaves with his cell phone, and that just can’t be right.

  Blinda:  Maybe he’ll be wearing a kilt!

  Me:  What?

  Apiphany:  Are you a midnight toker?

  Tex:  Well, it just depends on the night. I could be a toker, then a sinner, but probably the sinner is going to come first.

  Kathee:  Dirty, sinner, lover.

  Me: Things really aren’t right here. Do I know these people?

Soara Popespan:  Leo's are vain, arrogant, and exhibitionistic. And they usually have the goods to back it all up, unfortunately. :-(

  Me:  What does this mean? Do Leo’s have big pee-pees? Brawn?

  Apiphany:  Yo, Soara. Has something untoward happened in your past with a Leo? Talk to me, girl.

Prawn Flambee:  we have lost bri bri brian where are you? lol

  Me:  Why is everybody concerned about me NOW? I’m really not believing your concern right at the moment. But I’m not bitter. I just have issues with accessorizing and everything falls apart after that.

Soara Popespan:  Told you. Apiphany is probably wondering what is snoring on her foot under the table

  Me: I am NOT snoring. God. Oh wait, maybe I am. It’s been a long day.

  Apiphany:  I am SO glad that Soara cleared this up for me. I was about to call Animal Control. Or the local fire station to see if any bored men who slide down poles might want to branch out with their life experiences. I’m a giver.

Soara Popespan:  I'm going to go click on the side banner flaunting the dinosaur with 15 horns. Will be back...

  Me:  What in gay hell?

  Apiphany:  They say the fried-beer booth smelled like ass.

  Me:  I can only hope that Apip’s comment has something to do with Lolo and Wild Jenno wandering up, after having spent the day at the Texas State Fair. Otherwise, I’m kind of scared.

Brawn Flambee:  Goods what goods :) ?

  Me: No idea.

Soara Popespan:  The TASTY goods. BTW, the dinosaur is called a Kosmoceratops, and its horns served the same purpose as colorful foliage - like what Leo's use.

  Me: See, this is what happens with Soara. She knows things. Intimate, perceptive details that no one else has been able to retain. She’s WAY smart. I can only hope that if the Apocalypse happens tomorrow, Soara will work her way to my bunker in the now-devastated desert of Dallas, and teach me how to make tuna casserole out of three rocks and a roll of toilet paper. I’m sure that she can do it.

  Apiphany:  God, tuna casserole rawks my world. But not in the slap and tickle sense. More in the “I really love shoving things in my mouth where there’s no relationship commitment” kind of way. I love everybody. But when it comes to bedroom lovin’, I really hope there’s a sausage for the second course.

Brawn Flambee:  I am still single girls :(

  Me: So.

  Apiphany:  Brawn, there is nothing wrong with being single. You can do whatever you want, whenever you want. Like sexting.

Brawn Flambee:  I have been compared to dinosaurs OMG what the F...K....lol

  Me:  So.

  Apiphany:  Are you one of the dinosaurs with really big horns? Have we met? I like horns. Especially big ones. Call me.


Editor’s Note:  Brief break while we… I don’t know. Pretend to be responsible adults or some crap like that. 

  And we’re back. No surprise, Apiphany makes it all about her:

  Apiphany: I CAN SING. Carry on.

  Me:  This has never been proven, despite Apiphany’s firm belief that the world is simply waiting for her to warble a tune so that Jesus can return and bring us all closer to puffy clouds where angels do the lambada.

Tribeca Quartz:  Apiphany can sing!! Someone get me a seat as close as possible! I mean it!

  Me:  Oh, somebody is going to be disappointed in a few moments.

  Apiphany:  I am not taking requests, because anything I can possibly warble will be the most stunning thing that you little people have ever heard. Sit back, drink your cocktails, and bask in my magnificence. It’s okay if you cry, I’m used to people doing that. Praise me.

Apiphany:  Bex these conditions are just horrible. No one will get me a microphone.

  Me: Because they would greatly appreciate the opportunity to live to see another day. Is that so wrong? I don’t think so. Speak with your therapist.

Soara Popespan:  I can't find the blog. Am I BLIND?

  Me:  Yes. The blog is right there. Quit being difficult.

Soara Popespan;  Or maybe it's just Brawn's horns getting in the way...

  Me: I can’t really speak to this, but I’m sure that Brawn’s horn is a very admirable thing. After all, he’s been sexting his horn from one end of the planet to another, even while he’s driving, so one has to assume that his spank-monster is worthy of tribute. Because if it’s not, then, well, the whole situation is really kind of sad.

  Me:  Am I really typing things pertaining to horn status? How low can I sink?

Tribeca Quartz:  No worries Apiphany...I'm on it! *interrupting dragging a chair closer to find a serviceable microphone*

  Me:  Okay, Tribe, you really need to quit trying to appease Apiphany. Her needs are very specific. She requires  total praise without any possible fluctuation in the worship ceremony. It’s very nice that you have decided to move furniture, but really, Apiphany doesn’t care. She wants pomp and circumstance. Her needs are very complicated.

Tribeca Quartz:  I think I'm about to have a bit of an...emotional outbreak. I just want to hear Apiphany sing. Oh, and have a couple of beers. And now Soara is BLIND! WTF?

  Me:  Really, folks, I cannot stress enough that listening to Apiphany sing is really not the good time that you think it might be. Let’s stop investing so much energy in that avenue. Dead end street. There are people serving jail time for lesser offenses.

  Me: Now, as for Soara’s blindness, well, I can’t really speak to that. It’s shocking and sad, but no one forced her to do whatever it was that led to the Helen Keller tribute. Soara is a grown woman, and must take responsibility for her own actions.

Bitsy, to me:  Are you okay to drive?

  Me: Drive? Who said anything about driving? We can’t sleep here?

  Kathee:  But we have to go back to your house. I need to take stock of my hairspray inventory. I might need to expedite a shipment overnight.

  Sage:  Hairspray? You mean like what happens when you don’t trim? Hate that.

  Lolo:  I love that movie! The one with John… what’s his name? Can’t remember. Is this my shrimp? Wait. He was in the “Grease” movie. Where the hot dogs danced on the movie screen? That one.

  Wild Jenno, to Lolo:  I really can’t take you anywhere. What happened to you? And quit talking to the silverware. It can’t hear you.

  Suctionetta:  Does anybody want to touch my ass in these Wranglers? Go ahead. I don’t judge.

  Apiphany:  Why are we not talking about me?

  Me:  I always lose control of this crowd. Always.


And that, dear friends, seems like a good place to end things. Sweet dreams.

The Bubble Bath, Part 10

  Editor’s Note: We have just realized that more drinking is in order, since our buzz has been quashed by running about on the beach in Atlantic City, and then scarfing down funnel cakes like we don’t have any sense. After a brief bit of squabbling about our drinking destination, (Bubbles wanted to invade a fancy bar in the Trump Taj Mahal. When she informed us that the drinks were roughly 30 bucks apiece, Terry and I chose otherwise.) we headed back to Caesars, where our Atlantic City journey had begun…

  Once we re-breached the confines of Caesars, we all immediately headed for the bathroom. This was somewhat tacky and uncool, racing in the door and knocking people down to get to a toilet, but we really didn’t care, being white trash and all. I do have to say that the Men’s Room on the lower level was quite posh, with urns of expensive flowers and an attendant that was really invested in getting a nice tip (for what, the way he loaded the toilet paper dispenser?), but all it really meant is that the drinks in here weren’t going to be all that cheap, either. I can sense these things.

  There’s something to be said about cheap dive bars with peanuts in a bowl and people with dental issues. Sure, you might end up in a brawl with incestuous kinfolk fighting over bed partners, but at least the beer is inexpensive and you don’t have to put on any airs. I just want to drink. I don’t care if my couture is not Vogue-worthy or if the establishment is not on some queen’s “go-there-and-be-seen” list of hot spots. I don’t have a movie coming out, so why should I care who sees me where?

  Besides, inbred people can be quite fun to hang out with. Their expectations are already low, they aren’t concerned about what you smell like, they generally know where cheap but good food can be found, and they don’t judge, unless sports teams are involved. We can learn a lot from these folks. Try it.

  Anyway, Bubbles and I were most concerned with whether or not there was an area in the Caesars casino where we could both drink and smoke. (Back in the day, you could do this anywhere. Things change.) Bubbles cornered some guy who appeared to be somewhat official, and presented our requirements. He clearly stated that we should go up the escalator to the second floor and head to the left.

  So we did.

  The people on the second floor had no idea what we were talking about. It was totally smoke-free up here. How dare we presume that the sinful suckage of nicotine would be allowed in their midst? Well, hell. Your homeboy downstairs said this was the place to be for us degenerates. Nope, we needed to head back down the escalator, and they would appreciate it if we didn’t breathe at all, so second-hand smoke wouldn’t annihilate all the Christians playing slots.

  As we made the march of shame back to the escalator, we encountered a kindred employee. He knew exactly where we could defile our bodies without unwelcome judgment. He accompanied us down the floating steps and pointed. Over there. That quadrant is a free-for-all of decadence and political uncorrectness.

  We raced to said quadrant.

  And found fellow sinners in a swanky bar area where no one cared what we did. The enormous bar was fairly packed, with most of the barstools occupied, and no place where three people could slip in with relative ease. There were, however, several counter-height tables surrounding the bar, but there were no barstools on which to place our weary and slightly sand-encrusted behinds. Bubbles took care of that. She marched up to the vacant barstools around the curvaceous bar, snatched three stools from various locations, and quickly made ourselves a home around one of the satellite round tables.

  Once ensconced, we waited for someone to pay attention to us, and proffer drinks.

   No one did.

  Well, then. So we surveyed our surroundings, trying to determine if there was some type of protocol to drink procurement that we didn’t really understand. Off to one side were a number of comfy looking couches and chairs, in what appeared to be an exclusive area where magical things happened. I say this because there were velvet ropes preventing the commoners from gaining access. Perhaps this was where the “high-rollers” consumed beverages when they weren’t placing bets that made my yearly salary look insignificant.

  No customers were currently in this drinking Nirvana, but there was a woman who appeared to be some type of serving person. She was tidying up a bit (I guess the last round of rich people had tossed things about and spilled caviar here and there), getting things ready for the next round of self-absorbed nouveau riche to wander by. We tried to get her attention, clearing our throats and attempting to look parched and needy.

  She and her surgically-enhanced breasts didn’t care. If we weren’t on THAT side of the velvet ropes, then we were nobody. She continued to fiddle with the comfy chairs, pushing them around just so and whisking away random peanut shells that had dared to infiltrate this land of opulence and drunken, exuberant tips. We hated her, even if her boobs did look cute in her semi-hooker outfit.

  Bubbles, who doesn’t put up with being ignored, lasted roughly 3 seconds before she stomped up to the bar to get us beverages. To her utter shock (and our absolute terror), the bartender on this side of the oval bar did not immediately run to her assistance. He stupidly chose to pay homage to the drunken rich  men already seated at the bar, lighting their over-priced cigars and generally offering up his bum to anyone who might be interested.

  Bubbles made an alarming noise of dissatisfaction, indicating that she was on the verge of ripping someone a new recycling portal.

  Terry and I, quivering, quickly analyzed our surroundings, making note of all escape routes and any public-defender lawyers that might be standing nearby. (We’ve learned that when Bubbles is on a rampage, you better be able to run like hell, and you don’t want to waste any time figuring out where to run. A few inactive seconds can lead to incarceration.)

  Luckily, Bubbles decided to use one of her non-aggressive charms on the clueless bartender, and was able to procure our drinks in a relatively short amount of time. She returned to our table, passed around our beverages, and only briefly spoke of her dislike for the dumb-ass bartender. She had allowed him to live only because he was so old.

  Oh? I made another inventory of the various bartenders rushing about, refilling drinks and shamelessly groping themselves for whatever tip it might bring. Bubbles was right. These guys were definitely on the AARP side of things. What was up with that?

  Then I studied the clientele. Got it. We were the youngest people in the room (aside from Implant Princess in the velvet rope area), and we are in our 40’s. This is the clear distinction between Atlantic City and Las Vegas, at least when it came to people with money. In Vegas, there’s a wide range of ages when you’re talking about fools with more money than they know what to do with. In Atlantic City, they lean toward people who can get a Senior Citizen Discount on an omelet at Denny’s.

  Anyway, we drank. Because we’re certified in that skill.

  Suddenly, it occurred to me that my jeans were still rolled up from our oceanic adventures. Great. I’d been running about the swanky casino like Ellie Mae Clampett on a bender. Not thinking things through, I reached down and unrolled the first cuff.

  Next thing I know, all kinds of crap is pouring down my leg and making a very noticeable pile under my chair. Gallons of sand, chunks of broken shells, what might have been a baby crab, and two cigarette butts.

  Oh. My. God.


Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series.

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Backup Dancers From Hell: Maroon 5 - “Misery”

Well, isn’t this nice. An abusive relationship set to a catchy beat. And here we go.

Lead singer Adam drops out of the sky and lands on his back in the middle of a street somewhere. I guess he’s fine, because he starts singing the song while gazing at us as if we were responsible for his situation. We’re not, but we’ll forgive him for now. Maybe he hit his head and isn’t thinking clearly.

Next thing you know, some Supermodel is astraddle his body, writhing about and such in a non-chaste manner. She might be performing CPR in a very friendly way, but it’s not clear. Suddenly, Supermodel pulls Adam off the ground and slams him into a chain-link fence. I guess he likes that, because he smirks and sings some more. They paw at each other in a way that might be lust-inspired, but could also just be a nervous condition. Adam touches her booty, but she doesn’t seem to care for that.

Without explanation, we’re suddenly up against some closed garage door, where the frenzied pawing continues, including a new variation where Supermodel chews on his lower lip. Then she jabs him in the forehead, which transports them to the middle of an alley where there’s some dust billowing around.

It seems the dust causes Supermodel to have an allergic reaction, because she sneezes really hard and head-butts Adam, knocking him to his knees. That’s fine with Adam, because now he can play with the waistband of her jeans while she slaps and kicks him. What is inspiring her to be so brutal is not clear. Maybe she’s just mean, or hates his outfit. He does seem to have more hair product than is really necessary.

Then she performs a really powerful high-kick, that somehow knocks Adam into the middle of another busy street. He scrambles to his feet to run away, but he’s not paying attention and gets hit by a car, driven by someone who’s in a hurry and doesn’t have time for pleasantries like stopping to see if they have killed someone. Adam survives, but, because he has issues, he runs into the abusive arms of Supermodel instead of the other way. This is how country songs are born.

Now we’re in a restaurant where there’s not any food on the table, but at least they have silverware because Supermodel is playing with a rather menacing knife, rubbing it about on her body and looking uncomfortably deranged. While Adam continues to sing to her, because not even vicious supermodels can stop the music in him, she places his hand on the table and starts stabbing at the spaces between his splayed-out fingers. (Personally, I’d be asking for the check at this point.)

Then crazy girl stabs the knife through a hand, but the hand seems too far away from Adam to really be his, so I’m guessing one of their dining neighbors can no longer play the piano or perform surgery. Crazy girl picks up Adam and throws him on the table, greatly irritating the unseen wait staff, and this transports them into a bathroom. Instead of just using the facilities like decent people, Super Crazy uses a stall door to smack Adam in the head. (Little trooper that he is, he never stops singing. The show must go on, despite masochism in the powder room.) Super then shoves Adam’s face in the sink water, so he must have gotten some Eggs Benedict on his chin during the brunch that they never finished because she has a stabbing fetish.

Then we’re back out in the dinner, even though all the tables are now missing because the restaurant manager has had enough of the roughhousing. Crazy is sitting in a chair and semi-impales Adam on one of her skinny-jeaned legs, then she kicks Adam through the front plate-glass window of the diner. (This girl is really mad about something.)

Out on the sidewalk, Adam sings amid the broken glass, while some other guy gets hit by a car, so maybe his luck is improving. Oh wait, maybe not. Now we’re on a fire escape, with Crazy Girl clearly still steamed about whatever it is. She throws him over the side, but he manages to cling to the edge of the platform, dangling several stories up, because he just can’t get enough of that dark lovin’. She doesn’t really care what he wants, so she stomps on his hand to show who writes the checks in this house, and he falls.

But instead of slamming into the pavement, he instead lands in a nice montage of further abuse in all the locations that we’ve visited. A recap of the pain, if you will. There he is getting walloped in the street where they first met, and the alley, and the diner, and, looking very much like something that George Michael would enjoy, in the diner bathroom. We cap off the review with Adam turning to the side and spitting out blood, just to help us understand that you shouldn’t try this at home.

Then Adam is standing on the street, and he spies Super Crazy with a bazooka. This can’t be good, so he finally wises up and runs. (Unfortunately, a slow-moving stranger is not quite as fleet on his feet, and catches the bazooka in the face. These are different times, people. You really shouldn’t be out sight-seeing unless you’ve been trained in evading missiles.) Then Adam gets stupid again, and follows Crazy up to the roof of some building, where she promptly throws him over the side and he lands on a car. Some people never learn.

Hey look, another montage. This one has scenes of Adam grinning while Crazy nibbles on his ear, interspersed with Crazy beating on him some more, other people getting hit by cars (what’s up with that obsession), Crazy knocking Adam off a motorcycle because he was dumb enough to driver near her on one, and Adam lying on the smashed windshield of the car he fell on, probably paralyzed, but at least his vocal cords are still working. Maybe he doesn’t get paid if he doesn’t finish the song. Or dies.

Oh, and shots of Crazy throwing knives at Adam, but hitting bystanders instead. That’s nice. (Out walking the dog and BAM, unwelcome personal penetration. Sort of like Saturday night in an Arkansas bar.) And more ear-nibbling. So those are the twin themes, murderous vehicles and lobe-snacking. The things that dreams are made of.

We wrap it up with Super Crazy, wearing some cute fingerless gloves, lighting a Molotov cocktail and hurling it at Adam, so he can run through the streets while on fire, which is something I’ve always wanted to do, so I’m a little jealous. Finally, Adam collapses to the ground, conveniently near a microphone so we can hear the last words of the song. Then Crazy and her combat boots stomp off into the sunset, looking for other lead singers in denial…

　

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