Effluvia

Suck, talking about the kinds of authors who have book-signings:
"...from rugged authors who get lost at sea to willowy memoirists who got kissed by their uncles. "

The greatest band on earth.

Beth says that if you mention sex your hits go way, way up. Hence the title today. The "anal" doesn't really mean anything.

Buffy recaps. I totally missed it the other night 'cause of the concert. Do we all know what Oz's suggestion for resolving his relationship with Willow is going to be when he gets back? That's right: three-way sex.

Wal-Mart sucks. And it's true. I worked there, once. My first job after college, after Sonya and I blew through all our graduation money being unemployed for a month and a half. I worked in the photo lab, finally gave two weeks notice and left after one. I heard they weren't happy with me.

From Memepool:

• This is strangely pleasing.
• The fanboy.

Finish up your internet experience.

Bygone Days
Uncensored!

125 YEARS AGO
April 27, 1875

Swarms of buffalo gnats are reported throughout Shelby County and a large number of horses and mules have been killed by them.

But if a gnat the size of a buffalo came at you you'd probably die, too.

[Note: I really wish I had updated yesterday. There was this thing about a big shipment of strawberries coming in to town, and I was going to make reference to how happy this made the Ladies of Grace Church. It would have been a good running gag. I'm not worried, though. I think a hundred years ago news in Memphis centered around animals and strawberries. My time will come.]

Siobhanorama

Siohban wrote and said that she's going to quit stalking me if I don't update regularly. I realize this is an idle threat; I'm like crack to her.

And she says her hits are up lately. I wonder what popular page might have linked to her?

One Year Ago
Homoerotic hip-hop. I slap Sonya. Mitch Gaylord!

Okay, the Elian thing: if this happened in West Memphis, say, and a judge had told some family out in the county that they had to give a kid over to the kid's mother (and lets say the family in question was grandparents) and the grandparents said, "no, we know what's best for this kid" then the judge would say, "no, I know what's best for him" and the judge would send some deputies out there and they'd take the kid and if anyone got in their way the deputies would be justified in thumping some heads.

Whether you're from the country or Cuba, the rules still apply.

While it's true that I haven't updated in two days (which kind of violates the spirit of the whole "daily update" manifesto) I have very good reasons for doing so. Two good reasons, actually:

• Kiss, the greatest band in the world, and
• House-shopping.

See? Big things!

I left work Tuesday and I needed to get on home to begin the pre-Kiss party. Dawne, my sister, is a big Kiss fan from back in the day. I saw my first Kiss concert when I was six. Kiss concerts are a tradition in my family.

First, though, I had to drive by a couple of houses that our real estate agent (who will be called, for the purposes of this exercise, Biff Handey) was going to show us the next day. One had a tasteful paint job and a fucked-up back yard, the other had lots of rose bushes and no visible parking. I went home, unsure about either one.

The party had already started by the time I got home. Dawne was there, her face already Peter Criss-ed by her coworkers, by the time I got home. Jen joined us shortly afterwards and we commenced to drink beer and paint faces.

Yes, there are pictures. Yes, they'll be online eventually. For the record, Dawne was Peter Criss, Jen was Paul Stanley, I was Ace and Sonya was Gene. We rocked.

So we walked down to the Pyramid, getting honks and good-natured catcalls from passers-by.

"Gene Simmons!" someone yelled when they got a look at Sonya. She had the vinyl pants and the hair slicked back, too. She was "in the character."

"Where'd y'all park?" some doof pulling into the overstuffed Mud Island parking lot asked.

"We live here," I replied breezily.

Some confusion in the Pyramid, as the section we were sitting in didn't exist. They'd rolled it up pushed it aside to accomodate the gargantuan stage. We walked from usher to usher, trying to find our replacement seats, while Ted Nugent wailed away on his hits in the background. Apparently, he doesn't like Janet Reno very much. I never found out why, though.

We finally found our seats (one section up and over, still close enough to see the blood drip down Gene's chin) as Ted was wrapping up his set. No lie, y'all, he shot a flaming arrow into a guitar on stage. Then his band fanned him and led him away, James Brown-style. The lights came up.

"We're in for a show," Jen said, checking out the massive speakers and fly-rigs. She was right.

Between bands we were quite popular. Lots of faces were painted in the crowd, but very few had the complete set of all four painted faces. People hooted and hollered, drunks gave us high-fives. The rock-and-roll chick sitting behind us chatted and the two guys from Puerto Rico in front of us both had their pictures taken with us and offered us pot.

The show itself was as big a spectacle as you can possibly imagine. From the opening (Detroit Rock City and Deuce) to the encore (Beth and Rock and Roll All Night) there were more explosions, fireworks, gouts of flame, spit blood and fire, tounge waggling, flying band members and confetti than you can even get your head around. It was arena rock in all its hedonistic, unquestioning glory. Pure stimulation.

Sonya doesn't even like Kiss very much, but as the lights went down she squealed, "I'm so excited!"

Dawne and I danced and sang like crazy. We went through Kiss phases at similar times in our life and that kind of thing never really leaves you.

On the way out Jen said, "you know, if I didn't know Paul Stanley was a straight man..." We all agreed. The guy can move on those platforms.

It was a great night.

Yesterday was home buying-oriented. My coworker Buck and I went to Home Depot at lunch, where I boggled at the vast array of stuff you can get there. You can build an entire staircase, if you have a mind to. Amazing. We also test-pushed lawnmowers. I kept expecting some hard-selling Home Depot employee to come over and go into his spiel.

"Well, son, that little thing might mow your grass, but the fellas down the block aren't gonna admire it, and the wife ain't gonna tell you how good you look on it. Naw, son, you need something you can ride."

This guy never appeared.

I left work early to get a haircut (Nikki the receptionist and I compared notes on nipple piercings) and then I went tear-assing across the heart of Memphis, trying to make it to the first house I was supposed to look at. Sonya was being escorted by our buddy Glen to the same house. There, we met Biff Handey, real estate agent, for the first time. I like him. He's kind of, well...he's a real estate agent, you know? He's okay.

The first house was a cut little cottage. Unfortunately, it was a cute little cottage a block off of Jackson and within walking distance of Alex's, an ancient Memphis watering hole. I like Alex's, but the neighborhood scares me. And the house was just a touch too cozy. Sonya and I would have crap strewn everywhere in a house that size. Next!

This one was special. It's the bungalow with the good paint-job and the bad backyard that I'd seen the day before. New kitchen, new roof, good colors...they want a lot of money for it, though. It's a real possibility.

The third house had been owned by an eccentric old man who had covered his entire front yard with roses. And paving stones. And little bridges. Biff couldn't get any of the keys to open the house. We peeked in the windows and, after seeing moldy pile carpeting and splintery wood paneling, we were just as glad we didn't get inside.

This will require some thought.

Today I went with coworkers to Stonewall's, a Confederate general-themed restaurant in Bartlett. For all the beer signs and Nascar posters, though, it had tasty food - good fried okra!