Working so many late nights lately, I’ve been listening to a lot of music. I’ve got roughly thirty gigs of music on my machine at work–a lot of it completely new to me when it comes up on iTunes. Last night, I was in the mood for some Tubes. When “Don’t Touch Me There” came up, I was reminded how much I love it. It’s a spot-on, campy goof on a Phil Spector-produced paean to teenage leather and lust. Co-written by Jane Dornacker (pictured above), “DTMT” appeared on The Tubes’ 1976 album Young & Rich. Give it a listen.

Download The Tubes - Don’t Touch Me There

Singer Re Styles saying “Uh-huh.” after Fee Waybill asks “When I reach for your waist?”? Hot.

It is never actually explained where “there” is. The listener is left to ponder the question.

Here’s a pretty awful live version:

Sadly, Dornacker’s real-life story ends tragically.

In a previous blog entry, I talked about a CNN anchor who gave me a call out of the blue. In order to protect his identity, I referred to him as “Vic Blackstar.” I didn’t come up with that name out of thin air. Someone else made it up years ago.

Back in the late eighties, in Columbus, Ohio, I met a roommate of friends of mine, a Columbus native named Vic Fishman. As you may have surmised by his surname, Vic was Jewish. He was hyper-aware of his Jewishness and brought it up in a comical way almost daily. “Play football? Jews don’t play football.” “I am a Jew and, as such, I have secret Jew powers.”

I remember vividly sitting in their living room one evening with Vic and my friend John. Another of our friends was downstairs arguing loudly with his girlfriend. These two were a complete disaster as a couple. They were the kind of couple that amplified each other’s worst qualities. As the fight became louder and more boisterous, those of us in the living room began to feel awkward. The television show we were watching had taken a back seat to the battle raging downstairs. Suddenly, we heard a massive crash and the screaming reached a crescendo. Up the stairs, the girlfriend screamed “VIC! VICTOR!” Our gazes snapped immediately to Vic. He sprung forward in his seat and looked at us with horror. “What? What? Did she say my name? Why is she calling my name?” he shouted at us. “I’m not going down there!” he sputtered. “Why me of all people? What the hell can I do?” On the list of people who should have been called to intervene, Vic was third, at best. Both John and myself had known the couple for years–much longer than Vic. We never found out why the girlfriend shouted for Vic. Fortunately, the fight was over soon after that. No injuries were reported and the whole ordeal was chalked up to two idiots in their early twenties bringing out the worst in each other.

(more…)

Back in 1999, my pal Mark and his girlfriend had an idea: “Let’s run off to Vegas and get married!” Sounds like fun, right? A couple of kooky kids throwing convention out the window and jetting off to Vegas to tie the knot. Problem was, Mark and Mary Beth weren’t impetuous kids. Mark was a senior executive at a prosperous IT firm and Mary Beth was a med student finishing school. Running off to Vegas, getting married, then telling everyone after the fact was not in their respective makeups. Ten years prior? Maybe.

So, things started to get complicated. The Vegas wedding became a Vegas wedding with a few close friends. Mark asked me to be his best man, so I was on the hook. I’d never been to Las Vegas, nor had I been so honored to serve as a best man, so I was ready and willing. I was under no illusion that Las Vegas was anything like the idyllic Rat-Pack-at-The-Sands-era Vegas Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau dreamed about in Swingers. In fact, the words “Vegas, baby!” never crossed my lips. I hadn’t been any farther west than Iowa, so I was excited to see a new part of the country.

The Vegas wedding with a few close friends quickly became a Vegas wedding with a few close friends and immediate family. Then, it became a Vegas wedding with friends and family. Then, it became a regular wedding–best man, maid-of-honor, groomsmen, bride’s maids, a priest, a church, a reception hall, a cake, a bartender, a DJ, the whole kit and kaboodle–only in Las Vegas. The “running off to Las Vegas” part was the only part that never changed.

At the time, I was making eight bucks an hour pulling data cable in Maryland. I was bringing home about $250.00 a week. My rent was $600.00 a month. Needless to say, I didn’t have a whole lot of extra mad money lying around. I didn’t have a whole lot of gum money lying around. Mark was nice enough to spring for a room for myself and my girlfriend, and I worked out a deal with my employer, who bought our airline tickets on the condition I pay them back through payroll deductions. After the gift and the tuxedo rental, we landed in Las Vegas with about two hundred dollars to blow. It’s a good thing I’d quit drinking the month before. Yeah, you read that right. I’d quit drinking the month before my best friend got married in Las Vegas, where I would be in the company of my old “runnin’ crew” from my twenties. In Las Vegas. Nice timing.

(more…)

This post was inspired by a conversation on the RRC forums about scary movies.

As a boy growing up in Dayton, Ohio, I spent many a Saturday evening (or afternoon) watching a show called “Shock Theater” which featured schlocky horror movies and was hosted by Dayton’s own “Dr. Creep“.

I remember one of the films distinctly, not because it was particularly good or scary–it wasn’t–but because my father scared the shit out of me during the movie. The film was called The Manster. The premise was too convoluted for a young boy to understand. In the movie, the protagonist, also known as “The Guy,” starts to grow a second head for some reason (Read the Wiki link if you want to know the actual reason. I certainly didn’t remember it.) The second head begins as an irritation on the guy’s shoulder. In one of the key scenes, the guy scratches the spot on his shoulder that is driving him nuts only to reveal an EYE sprouting there! So, that part did scare me.

My father was watching the movie with me and noticed my being visibly startled by the eye on the guy’s shoulder. This must have been during the afternoon because dad was wearing his blue, terry-cloth robe (he worked third shift, so he wouldn’t wake up until early afternoon on the weekends) and mom was in the bathroom putting on make-up. Engrossed in the movie, I didn’t notice dad slip into the bathroom with my mom and close the door. I didn’t notice him come back out a few minutes later, either.

I did notice when he started to groan a bit, as if he were in pain. I turned my attention back to the movie. Dad groaned a little more. Apparently, the pain was getting worse. I looked at him and watched as he rubbed his shoulder. I didn’t think much of it and turned back to the movie once more. Dad got off the couch and stood next to the television, grimacing in agony. He cried out in terrible pain. I began to get concerned. Both my sister and I watched as he grabbed the collar of his robe, let out a horrific wail, then ripped the collar off his shoulder to reveal–AN EYE!

“AAAAAHHHHHGHH!” my dad bellowed.

“AAAAAHHHHHGHH!” my sister and I screamed as we levitated off the floor.

“AAAAAHHHHHGHH!” my dad screamed again.

“AAAAAHHHHHGHH!” my sister and I screamed as we ran out of the room.

Dad chased us–all of us screaming–until he cornered us in our bedroom. He stopped screaming and started laughing. He then revealed to us that the “eye” on his shoulder was drawn on by my mother using eyebrow pencil.

I’d say this was the last time my dad scared the shit out of us, but I’d be lying.

I was taught from a very young age that nudity is not something to be ashamed of. I was taught that nudity is something hilarious. As toddlers, once my mother dried us off after our baths, we would run out into the living room, stark naked, just to hear my dad say, in an exaggerated voice, “Ooh La La!” We didn’t know what “Ooh La La!” meant, but it was always funny. We’d shriek and chortle, streak out to the living room, get dad’s attention, then run shrieking back to the warmth of our laughing mother’s towel.

When we were young, my dad bowled in a league for work. On league nights, he’d get showered and shaved and begin his pre-bowling regimen, which included donning what looked to us to be the strangest pair of underwear we’d ever seen. The underwear had a front, but only thin strips of cloth on the back, so we could see our dad’s butt. We asked him what type of underwear they were and he told us, they were “Bowling Alley Underwear.” Since the only thing more funny than our dad’s butt was his singing and dancing, he bestowed upon us a Pickard Family legend: On league nights, after his shower, he’d emerge from the bedroom, clad only in his Bowling Alley Underwear and start to sing “Buh-buh-buh-buh! Bowling! Alley Underwear! Bowling! Alley Underwear! Bowling! Alley Underwear!” Then, he’d turn around and wiggle his ass faster than a rap video chick while he sang. Without fail, we would be in absolute hysterics. It was the greatest, most funny show on Earth at the time. Then, just as soon as he’d sprung out into the living room for his big number, he’d disappear back into the bedroom to finish getting ready. There were no encores. It was a weekly treat.

(more…)

Dad and I had a conversation the other night about a 1972 family trip to my grandparents’ place in Florida.

Dad asked me “Do you remember [your grandparents] trailer?” I answered “Absolutely!”

“It wasn’t that bad, right?”

“Well, I wasn’t much of a judge of construction quality or anything. I was only seven.”

“No, you weren’t seven yet. You were six.”

“Oh.”

“But you seemed older, for some reason.”

“Because I was so mature, right?”

“Oh, yeah. You used to do my taxes.”

“Haha! But I did them all wrong.”

“Yeah, you’d hand them back to me and they’d just have ‘taxes taxes taxes taxes taxes’ written all over them.”

Download

Marilyn Chambers - Benihana

A little throwback to the days of cocaine, pubic hair, and really corny disco.

Years ago, I worked at a men’s clothing store in a now-all but abandoned mall in Columbus. One day, I was dusting and straightening the shoe display at the front of the store. I was crouched down, engrossed in my stimulating work, when I saw a pair of feet approach. I followed the feet up to find them attached to Steve Perry, ex-singer of Journey. He wasn’t the first celebrity I’d met, but he was the first to whom I felt obliged to speak. I stood up and said “Oh, hi! You know, I stayed up until midnight the night Escape was released. WTUE played it in its entirety and I wanted to tape it because I loved you guys so much.” Steve grinned and replied “Yeah. That was a great time for music.”

I’ve never known what he meant by that cryptic remark. Did he mean 1979 was a great time for music? Surely, for Journey, it was. Did he mean midnight was a great time for music? He would have been correct on that score, as well.

I posted this anecdote for HazBeen. For some reason, he loves that story.

Ever watch Monster Quest on the History Channel? I can save you an hour if you follow these simple instructions: Tape, TiVO or DVR the program first. Watch the first five minutes. In the first five minutes the narrator will say something like “Scientists and cryptozoologists alike have searched for proof of the existence of [Bigfoot, Nessie, Mutant Dogs, Chupacabra, Yeti, etc.]” Now, fast forward to the last minute of the program. The narrator will say “In light of these findings, scientists and cryptozoologists still do not have conclusive proof that the [Bigfoot, Nessie, Mutant Dogs, Chupacabra, Yeti, etc.] exists.”

There. I just saved you fifty-six minutes.

There was a Monster Quest marathon playing Christmas night. It was on while dad and I looked at old photos. In addition to the Monster Quest-watching tip above, I also learned that, despite my having lived through them and being reasonably cognizant, I did not recall the seventies and early eighties being only these colors: Harvest gold, avocado, brown, and another kind of brown.

(more…)

My father’s parents were solidly lower-middle to middle class when dad was growing up. My grandfather was a policeman and my grandmother worked for the telephone company. Having lived through the Great Depression and World War II, they were notoriously frugal. Some—like my dad—might even call them cheap.

My dad still carps on the horrible gifts he got for Christmas. One of his classics was a toy train “that wasn’t even a train! The train wheels were printed on the stamped tin and it had these cheesy other wheels under it. It didn’t even go on a track! It was just a little tin box with wheels under it and a train painted on it! It could have been anything!”

(more…)