Charles Nelson Reilly

(no subject)

After having done some "retooling" (I wish I could insert an appropriate Tim Allen joke here, but thinking of him gives me nervous gas), I've - again - changed the address of my new blog.

Follow me here:

Fast Hugs

(Yay!)
Charles Nelson Reilly

(no subject)

Look at me, back in the game!

Actually, I am back in the game ("the game" being blogging), but only after having figured out how to do so on my own "personal internet," if you will.

And you will.

Friends, please visit Honey I Punched The Baby. It's in its infancy, so please excuse any errors into which you may come into contact for the next year...or three?
Charles Nelson Reilly

(no subject)



Ezra Handlebar

Well, it's been a long time coming.

The photo above* manages to visually describe the following items of sentiment:

My appreciation of maintaining a job (albeit an amazing one).

My daily commute.

Slicing out time blocks to continue researching for and writing sketches and a script.

A lack of companionship.

My oft-daily trips to the gym, low-calorie diet, and the consequential loss of almost ten pounds.

An addiction to my brand new Powerbook G4.

The unlined notebook I continue to fill with endless ideas and long-term goals.

My newfound appreciation of fleece.

All that has lead to a minor collapse of youth, one in which has resulted in what I once feared:

Feeling like an Adult.

(*...And, subsequently, posing as a gay thirty year old, although it's not as easy as you think when you wear a stained hoodie the color of grape soda!)

I actually feel responsibility now, which doesn't mean that I look back on old entries (in the non-internet world, that means "memories") and feel a potent dosage of the heebie jeebies.

There has been an inevitable maturity in the way I perceive friends, family, neighbors, and strangers. I'm still only a kid - and a kid at heart, luckily, despite the grossness of the phrase - but I've been forced to shed any remaining layers of extroverted childishness for solid polos and fancy jeans. And I don't mind it. I especially don't mind it because I am still, on a day-to-day basis, allowed to wear my Vans and my hoodies and can talk about doing what I want in life.

But I just have to act a little older now, a little more grown-up with a tad more recognizable sense of independence.

It's not a problem, by any means, as much as it is a bit dissapointing.

While that all may or may not have made sense, the time has come for me to bid farewell to the three people who read this blog. It's been a pretty neat tool in keeping in touch with my pals ("The Toothbrush Kidz," as we originally titled it after melting toothbrushes onto our arms), but the time has where I feel it appropriate to pursue my goals through methods that feel slightly more "developed."

Thanks for reading and appreciating the last four years of my life, most of which was basically a day-to-day ode to manic depression, Bea Arthur, and Mexicans. Nonetheless, the last year or so of entries proved to be more of a hardened forway into actual writing, even if it meant donating all my time to revising a 500-word piece alleging Fergie of The Black Eyed Peas to have more penis on her face from surgery than extracurricular activity.

On that note, sweet dreams. I'll be around, likely checking out others' journals on a regular basis.

And I'll be back to lure all of you (one, two, three!) to what I hope to be a multi-platform website incorporating a blog, essays, pictures, videos, and tasteful nudes (of my dog).

Best,
Eliot

P.S. You won't get me that easy:

Legal in Kansas!

Charles Nelson Reilly

(no subject)

LJ Interests meme results



  1. baby geniuses:
    When a movie involves Christopher Lloyd, babies in horn-rimmed specs, and a plan for world destruction, it's what we call "gold. Fucking gold."
  2. crazies:
    From half-dressed, drugged-up elderly trannies on 42nd Street to fat women crossing the street in Elizabethian garb in Fredericksburg, Virginia, Crazies seem to pop up more and more in the most surprising of places. Ob-la-dee, ob-la-dah.
  3. elderly women:
    Bea Arthur, Penny Crone, Rue Maclanahan, Maya Angelou, Madeline Albright...they come en masse, they die en masse, yet whatever type of Old Lady - in a warm-up suit, upscale retail, or a past holiday sweater - they always manage to make me laugh. At them. Kinda?
  4. gynelogical examination chairs:
    When describing a chair as having "stirrups that allow easier access to the vaginal innards," you know you've solved one of God's many questions.
  5. labrador retrievers:
    Strong bones and jaws, soft fur, and a never-ending bounty of love and the desire to play makes these animals the one thing that the American majority got right.
  6. mom dancing:
    Up with the drink! Swing those arms in front of AND behind you! Let yourself go, Mom! Are you MOCKING hip-hop dance because I cannot tell! Don't you dare try to sit down! Can you hear that? No? Because I'm pretty sure I can hear the sound of you WIPING the floor with Aunt Gloria once the guido in a silk vest cues up Quad City DJ's!
  7. noggin:
    Noggin, the digital network sister of The N, is truly a day-long lullaby of gentle visuals and educationally appropriate material that completely does for the catnap what Laguna Beach does for the young and rich.
  8. robots:
    THEY-WALK-SLOW! THEY-TALK-WITH-A-MONO-TONE-AND-WHAT-COULD-BE-BETTER? THEY-TAKE-AWKWARD-PAUSES. AND-I'M-NOT-EVEN-SURE-THEY-EXIST.
  9. supersystem:
    "Everybody Sings" by Supersystem is a beautifully strange anthem that comes off as some sort of childish post-disco salute to arbitrary random questions. Can you "feel the connection?" You should.
  10. upright citizens brigade:
    Amy and friends created an even weirder version of "The State" that has managed to defy the odds and jumpstart a mini-revolution in the alternative New York comedy scene. When something called "Ass Pennies" manages to be a rocksteady inspiration for me, you know it's special.


Enter your LJ user name, and 10 interests will be selected from your interest list.



Charles Nelson Reilly

Fart Soup

So you think you know me?

Read on, twinkletoes, read on.

*

Cute 'stache!

Who's this lovely lady?

A. Les, a mean, socially-stunted former boss
B. Helen, a bus driver
C. Wes, a salesman for mustache creme
D. Shelley, Professional Children's Entertainer
E. None of the above

FEEL THE RAIGE!

What makes this picture so scary?

A. This man's spleen is about to burst
B. This man is an English teacher
C. This man is wearing heels
D. This man is a professional mime
E. This man is only half a man

Girlfriend

Of whom does this photo of my beloved dog, Emma, remind me?

A. Richard Simmons
B. Telma Hopkins
C. Nala from The Lion King
D. Jesus
E. Terry McMillan

Kids Inc.

What's so special about these kids?

A. They came from the ocean
B. They're all Chinese
C. Our president hates them all
D. Their faces look like the backs of their heads
E. I want to adopt each and every one

Hot Damn!

The photo below demonstrates my hatred for what natural occurrence?

A. PMS
B. Summer
C. Syphillis
D. Obese babies
E. Robots

Sunday in the Park with Pubes

Which is not a recurring item in Jackie's art?

A. Pubic hair
B. Deformation
C. The Alaskan landscape
D. Ill logic
E. The birthing canal

Gallagher?  Nnnnope!

How did Mary break her leg?

A. While volunteering at the Special Olympics
B. While participating in the Special Olympics
C. While looting a meat distribution truck
D. While dancing in the rain
E. She didn't break her leg - she just walks "funny"

Ma, this tastes wonderful!  What is it?

Who is my favorite Golden Girl?

A. Dorothy
B. Blanche
C. Rose
D. Sophia
E. Stan

He did sweatpants before Juicy

Which of the following isn't true of Alice's cousin, Homer?

A. He's pursuing a career in law
B. In the picture above, he is seventeen years old
C. He is in an "internet relationship"
D. He's performed interpretive dance for strangers. In a hotel room.
E. He wears jeans

I'm Chinese!

Of the following comedians, who is the most annoying/least talented?

A. Margaret Cho
B. Ant
C. Elayne Boosler
D. Caroline Rhea
E. The cast of Mad TV

One song.  They had one good song.

Which New York "landmark" do I put the most energy into avoiding at all cost?

A. Mamma Mia
B. The Naked Cowboy
C. The New York Post
D. Chelsea
E. Dr. Zizmor

Will I create another quiz like this one if my job becomes any more demanding?

A. Yes
B. No
C. Carnivore
D. Velcro pajamas
E. Fart soup
Charles Nelson Reilly

On what might be the worst natural disaster our country has ever witnessed:

"...It's as if the entire Gulf Coast were obliterated by a -- the worst kind of weapon you can imagine."

"My attitude is, if it's not going exactly right, we're going to make it go exactly right. If there's problems, we're going to address the problems."

"In order to make sure there's less violence, we've got to get food to people. And that's a primary mission, is to get food to people. And there's a lot of food moving."

"Now is the time to love a neighbor like you'd like to be loved yourselves."

"I'm not looking forward to this trip. I got a feel for it when I flew over before."

"We got a lot of rebuilding to do. First, we're going to save lives and stabilize the situation. And then we're going to help these communities rebuild. The good news is -- and it's hard for some to see it now -- that out of this chaos is going to come a fantastic Gulf Coast, like it was before. Out of the rubbles of Trent Lott's house -- he's lost his entire house -- there's going to be a fantastic house. And I'm looking forward to sitting on the porch."

Calvalry arrives!

This photo is from yesterday.


Source: Wonkette
Charles Nelson Reilly

Penny Goes Gold

In an update of my original piece about Miss Penny Crone, this morning's shennanigans are well-deserving of an update:

Today, Penny visited a candy factory in New Jersey (like Willie Wonka with underpaid minorities!). First, she asked a young factory worker to bite off a piece from her candy necklace...

...

Brother, can you spare a Penny?


Then, she picked up an enormous bucket that was being filled to the brim with Smarties and, out of absolutely nowhere (you could tell that nobody saw this coming), she picked up the bucket from its bottom and began POURING CANDY INTO HER MOUTH like a truckload (and, thus, all over the floor).

THEN (!) she flashed the camera a wide smile, her mouth and tongue FILLED with white candy (now in powdered form).

And THEN (!!) she started pulling excess Smarties out of her bra, nearly flashing tit on morning television.

Amid mass chaos, they cut away while she was babbling to a shot of the anchors who truly frightened and horrified. Pure gold.

Even my dad said that it's like she has "dementia, but no one seems to realize it."

Or care, Dad. Or care.
Charles Nelson Reilly

New York's Finest: Laughter, Fear, and Penny Crone

Most people engage in some sort of activity that energizes them each morning in preperation for the day ahead. Some drink coffee, others take a long shower, some hit the gym or go for a run. Until recently, my morning routine involved nothing more than some sit-ups and a bowl of cereal. But beginning about a month ago, I found myself spending each morning glued to the television between around 7:30 and 7:45. It's precisely 7:38 AM that has become my "appointment television," the time during which I watch Good Day New York religiously, five days a week. GDNY, a locally-produced morning show that, somehow, manages to equal on a low-budgeted, local-news scale, the saccharine, lame quality of network competition Today and Good Morning America, wouldn't hold my interest for a moment if not for one reason, and one reason alone:

Penny Crone, Field Reporter.


Brother, can you spare a Penny?


Mention Crone's name to any New Yorker, and they'll likely respond with a lip bite and a smirk that says Best. Inside Joke. Ever. A woman who, many would agree, seems to have been a fixture on New York's local news since its inception, Penny Crone is probably best known for her "commanding" presence. And by "commanding," I mean "loud, shrill, and butch." In the past few years, I'd initally caught some of her reports on both WLNY/Fox 5 and WCBS/2 and only marveled at how much she seemed to lack as a TV News reporter. Instead of reporting a story, Crone (whose audibly harsh surname is especially appropriate when followed by the dainty "Penny," a childish name reminiscent of a Cold War-era comic strip...or a pet guinea pig) somehow combined the chutzpah of an investigative reporter with the balls-to-the-wall, I'm-gonna-get-you-sucka machismo of Bea Arthur in Maude (that very much includes the voice, too).

And therein lies the beauty of Penny Crone. In other words, watching Crone report a story was, in itself, a laugh riot as she managed to take the super-serious -- murders, criminals, and other dark tales of a nightswept gotham -- and unintentionally suck out the substance by diverting all attention to her quasi-threatening presence, her booming metallic bark, and a urine-colored buzzcut more dykey than a fanny pack sale in Northhampton.

But that was then.

Somewhere along the way, perhaps as an incentive for dropping Crone from the network for about five minutes, Fox 5 made her the morning feature reporter on Good Day New York (although I'm still not quite sure who profits here). What this means is that every morning at exactly 7:38, give or take a minute, all of New York has the chance to bear witness to some of the most actively uncalculated, mentally harrowing, mad awkward moments on television. I <3 NY.

Since the first time I saw Penny Crone in a multi-colored nylon body suit and face paint, sadly attempting to flirt with a very, very gay member of Cirque du Soleil, I was hooked. This was bad TV at its best, and likely too good to last.

I've since watched almost every day.

I've faithfully watched every morning as Penny rushes -- literally running -- in and out of frame, trying to fill three minutes with far too much content while, for instance, visiting an Italian meat shop in Newark (and flirting with the elderly butcher and his grandson, leaving both visibly confused), drumming with Senegalese tribes in a multicultural off-Broadway show (and flirting with a young African man who spoke little English, but was left visibly confused), and cheering with a Bergen County group of adolescent cheerleaders while donning fake pigtails and a white miniskirt (!), before getting in the act herself, only to be dropped to the floor by five girls (and, consequently, flashing us nothing we'd like to see, thus leaving us confused and, perhaps, a tad nauseous).

Watching Penny Crone "in the field" is much more than watching a car crash in slow motion. What happens when Crone makes passes at a blank, rigid governmental dog-trainer before she reveals him to be a former CIA agent, is more like God shining His light on all His children to prove that misfortune comes in many, many forms. Four seconds is a common time lapse in the world of Penny Crone -- four glorious units of silent situations during which nobody -- neither Penny, her interview subject(s), or the desk anchors with whom she communicates over a split screen (but whom she can never seem to actually hear) -- seems certain as to who actually controls the situation. What makes dead air so enjoyable when it falls under the helm of Capt'n Penny is that she immediately chooses to fill it with, if not awkward flirting, one of two solutions: a loud, gruff "YEAH, BABY!" (entirely separate from the context of Austin Powers...or anything else for that matter) or a misdirected reference to the Yankees. For example, the same day I wrote this, Penny spent the morning at a used auto parts shop in the Bronx where she was encouraged to damage cars for fun before they met their own respective "natural" deaths. Suddenly, before barely cracking a windshield, Crone squatted, held out her bat, and yelled into the camera, "Yo, guys! Do I look like A'Rod?" Naturally, what followed were those precious beats of dead air, which was only heightened for me by the fact that she was wearing what may have been a smock. Why? Who knows, but that's The Magic of Penny.

It isn't a secret that local news is, to a degree, somewhat of a sham. Anchorman brilliantly pointed out that after the 1970's, content rarely matters as much as do personality and programming. The people who deliver the stories, be they about our president's politics or how he spends his six-week vacation (because, boy, does he need it! "MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!"), have become enormously important to the whole show, as has the pattern and flow of how we are fed that which the producers decide are valid, air-worthy stories (three words: babies, dogs, and babies). Fox 5 is regionally notorious for employing scare tactics and MTV-style editing while delivering an unequal amount of stories that "matter" and those that, simply, don't. On Good Day New York, hard news has never been the main focus, and although there have been feature reporters on the show as far back as I can remember, someone at GDNY decided, at some point, that it was time to award Penny Crone the opportunity to capture the places and characters that make our area so colorful. Although it gives people like myself the chance to marvel at the genius of such harmless, inadvertent disaster (I literally gawk until I realize I should close my mouth), the same person who made this choice also forgot that Penny Crone, herself, is a character. She's a bumbling, shouting buffoon whose lack of self-realization (just watch her hands shake and try to convince yourself that it isn't an offshoot of vertigo) makes for an irreverent several minutes of television that make me never want to leave New York.

In an age of states assigned colors, I'm afraid that the rest of the country just wouldn't get the accidental splendor that comes each and every time Penny Crone participates in a "human wheelbarrow" race on live TV. In a way, it almost makes sense that The New York State Shields (I'm sorry, who??) awarded her with this year's honor for "Integrity In Journalism." Clearly, they must have caught the segment where Penny interviewed volunteers for a dog shelter and wrapped up everything by asking a burly, unattractive man if he was, in fact, up for adoption. Because that's the kind of technique they don't teach you in journalism school.

Is Penny Crone the best reporter in New York? By no means.

Is seeing Penny Crone in a sarongue and baseball cap my idea of some guilt-free, delicious television? The answer, in her very own words:

"YEAH, BABY!"
Charles Nelson Reilly

Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood?

Having returned home for an extended amount of time has forced me to recognize that I am, in fact, once again living in suburban St. James, New York, the town to which we moved eastward after a short time in my mom's native Queens.

I'm completely here, laughing at the crazy neighbors, including both the not-actually-Southern transplants next door with American flag paraphenalia from driveway to backyard, people who, without guile, play "God Bless The U.S.A." at full blast on the outside speakers come Saturday mornings. I 'm entirely devoted to avoiding eye contact with Old Ed down the street, the old man who for years has looked furious, jerecurl-length lnosehairs and tube socks in tact, a gnome of a man who once asked me if I was, in fact, the "nice Jewish boy" several houses away. He's right, though - how should he recognize me if he can't see my horns?

My friend, Avi, took the train in from Manhattan for the weekend. Always able to maintain a calm disposition (which, surprisingly, only seemed to form after he gave up pot), Avi was more than willing to engage in a low-key weekend that involved barbeque, Italian ices, Sunday at the ocean, and the first full season of Arrested Development. However, the highlight of the weekend may have been the glorious hour we spent stupified, watching a low-budget clip collection of my sister's Senior Prom, a deliciously decadent journey into the world of what it means to live on the cusp of intellectual independence while surrounded by "Toughies" (future apprentices to mechanics) and IAPs or "Italian American Princesses" (future hairstylists exclusively employed between Long Island, Queens, Brooklyn, and New Jersey).

The night before, I'd admitted to Avi that my original plan was to bring him to the places which I dare not go, but only for the sake of gracing him with the presence of people who helped shape my youth. A Jewish enclave of suburban Philadelphia, where Avi attended high school, likely had nothing on the characters he would have met: grottos, packed like concentration camps, with a sea of girls whose tall, wet teased hair is as dark as their black asspants and platform heels; muscleboys sporting the homegrown phenomenon that is the "Gotti Cut", rowdily picking out which "fuckin' awesome" girl (she being Most Caked in Foundation) deserves to fondle the chain that lies upon their waxy orange chest ["you know what I'm sayin, guy/chief/boss/bro?"].

For Avi and myself, I'd planned a scheme during which we would spend thirty minutes at all the bars (all named after a midget once mistaken for a leprechaun by a beer-bellied frat boy within the walls of that particular establishment) whose names I'd heard tossed around on bad radio commercials and by Ginger, the lady who cuts my hair. Hurricane O'Malley's, Napper Tandy's, Flogging Molly's, Shamrocks, and Caroll O'Connor's (one of these things is not like the other!) all sounded incredibly tempting for a one-night outing by two snarky urbanites equipped with a digital camera and the will power to say no to Coors Light on tap.

Luckily, however, I realized that the joke would have lost its flavor after five minutes in a place like Napper Tandy's. Yes, we'd secretly be laughing, appalled and confused, by people like those with whom I went to high school and, unfortunately, spent the greater part of my adolescence trying to impress. Five minutes would be more than enough before we'd easily become one of two things: bored or nauseous.

Recently, I was tipped off to websites where I would find two former classmates who helped arrange my outlook during and now on my teenage years. Despite its awful cliche, it is very easy to blurt out, "Some things never change" when coming across pictures such as these.

BEWARE: HORRIFIC, GRAPHIC IMAGES MAY CAUSE REPULSION OR THE INABILITY TO EVER AGAIN TAKE THE QUEENS/MIDTOWN TUNNEL EAST.

Long Island's own Dawson and Pacey
Apparently, attending college for four years outside of Long Island did not guarantee "Matty Z" (right) the opportunity to be told that blond highlights on blond hair on pale skin will not make you look attractive, especially when pasty. Neither of the parties shown seem to understand that signaling the camera with strangely grotesque, yet unconsciously sexual gestures will prompt others who aren't them to take pity.

He's got boobies!
Forever a class act, "Matty Z" proudly posted pictures from a night during which he and his goomba pals hired a stripper - and, boy, is he pretty! - to make his penis move while seated on the same couch where his grandmother sits, week after week, babysitting his younger sister.

What can I say?  I love my job!
Nice choice, boys. You really lucked out with this one.
Heidi Fleiss + Rhea Perlman x Hugh Grant = The Lady Grinding On Your Genitals.
Congratulations, fellas, but take my advice: Go Asian.


His Mother's Son
Ah, "Ma Dukes" sits poolside, contemplating whether to spend the evening out at (I kid you not) Molly Blooms (intentionally lacking apostrophe) with Matt and his friends, or if she should just lay low for the night, instead not neglecting her younger daughter until 2:00am, at which point a stoned and drunken "Ma" will ride a bicycle to Taco Bell at 2:00am, but not before crashing into a telephone pole and breaking her ankle. Or so the story goes.

Um...your crotch...yeah, it's in my face...
MB (upside down), whose older sister went to NYU years before he would pursue a career in personal fitness/gay porn (?), was the kid who, in sixth grade, first informed me of Loveline, the Dr. Drew/Adam Corolla vehicle while still in its infancy as a late-night radio show. MB caught my ear when he started relaying the stories he'd heard on-air, and how much experience he actually had, even at 12, with female masturbation, kink, and kama sutra, all of which were only mere concepts to me. He was that good.

Lift Weights At Own Risk Of Sudden Vomiting/Aneurisms
I guess there's that irresistable charm that's never gone away. MB was The Most Popular Kid In Eighth Grade, I distinctly remember, as for years he dated Meaghan Hickey, a bombshell of a ho who, ever since I'd known her, possessed eyebrows made of CaRtOOnS! She penciled in her eyebrows, which never really made sense to me, but apparently it was a big hit among the bambinos. Of course, maybe it had something to do with the fact that her dad was arrested and jailed for murder, which, considering he owned the area's major waste disposal company allegedly connected to mob crimes, slightly made sense. (OMG, HE'S LIKE TONY SOPRANO!)

When all is said and done, only time will tell how long these anecdotes of unique suburban material will last. I could barely stand looking at another souped-up royal blue Mustang during senior year of high school (especially when it belonged to Stephanie Mangino, an anorexic IAP who planned on modeling "as soon as [her] braces came off.") The pizzerias around town are often better than in the city, but is it worth it to have to listen to the entire album of Billy Joel's The Nylon Curtain every time I feel like a slice? How many times can I drive by Auto Rite-Aid, a mafia dig in which I've never seen anyone enter or leave (although the tall red gate in the back, plastered with the sign "Beware of Dogs," is often placed in front of rabid Doberman Pinschers waiting to help you...get an oil change?) before it stops becoming a point of reference for out-of-towners?

Possible places to call home in the future might include Astoria, Ditmas Park, Park Slope, or the Upper East Side. If the Don can sniff me out there, it will be at that point during which Northern California will forced to make way for one jaded New Yorker.
Charles Nelson Reilly

I Shall Overcome [the Dumpster with the pack of gum]

Between the middle of high school and my senior year of college was a period of time my during which friends and family will gladly agree was my "Homeless Stage." Without having to lay out the definition for the term, highlights include:

Homeless 2000, a backyard festival at Alice's house during which we were required to not wear shoes. Party activities included lighting things on fire, a neighborhood-wide scavenger hunt for garbage (we found a dilapidated volleyball net and a can of propane!), and races.

There was that short - very short, albeit for the sake of irony - amount of during during which friends bought me the generic gray Velcro sneakers from WalMart. I sported those shoes with pride before facing the realization that these sneakers were almost exclusively for the developmentally challenged, thus blackening the humor in the joke and leaving me laden with guilt. Give me your Mexican midgets and obese children, but spare me the retarded, as they live on a land of vulnerability onto which I dare not tread.

Before graduating high school, Alice and Jeff "surprised" me on my birthday with an ugly suitcase that was laid out to rest by a family several blocks westward, as well as a piece of wood. Not quite sure where to find the charm in these gifts, I immediately allowed my compulsive mom to send these items off to the same death as originally planned. There lies a fine line between being cheap and being ironic.

Sophomore year at NYU threw my fashion sense far, far off the scale of what fell between looking homeless and mental. Unfortuntely, I spent most of 2002 drowning in the latter, the year of my first (and last) foray into the world of D.I.Y. clothes-making:

Crazypants McGee

Something I'm not so crazy about? Dressing like a clown. Like an actual clown.

As of today, I'm anything but a Brooks Brothers, Seville Row type of fella. On the other hand, I've "cleaned up my act" a little bit.

Nearly gone are the days when I proudly pegged myself an "obese hobo manbaby dinosaur." But do I still wear sweatpants that I found lying in a gym locker for a week before I swiped 'em, washed 'em, and realized they were The Most Comfortable Garment In The World? Hell yes I do. Does gripping the neck of a bottle cheap pink champage sound that much better than sipping a stingy, sour ale to have a good time? You know it. Is the tee shirt in which I sleep night after night a tattered, barely-there bellyshirt customized by yours truly after receiving it as a freebie several years ago? Damn right, it is - and I ain't about to throw it away! (Although I'd never let my friends see me in it, either.)

There are reasons why I'll never let myself say goodbye to the silly little hobo that lives inside my soul. Things that are handed-down or torn to perfection and nestled into a safe nest of comfort, no matter how naturally repellent they may be to others, are truly priceless, no? They say that when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade.

Let me rephrase it for you:

When you find a 70's-era canvas on the street, propped up against a couch about to be destroyed (or adopted by immigrants, no doubt), you don't just drive by.

Hunting for Bats

You pick it up, hang it on a wall, and let that creepy elderly gaze of pity wash over you like the awful banana-colored background does the WASPy subject's canary yellow hunting blouse.

She Ain't Playin'!