Ah, Valentine’s Day.

I suppose it’s as good a time as any to formally announce I’ve somehow managed to land an actual girlfriend. She’s biologically female, sane, responsible, smart, witty and so attractive she makes me pretty much legally retarded when I’m around her. (Seriously. When she answered the door the last time I visited, all I could think to say was “ICE CREAM!”) I am gratuitously, sickeningly, shockingly nuts about her. Inexplicably, she feels the same way about me.

Of course, if I’m going to blog blogs on my blog about our adventures, she needs a nom du Internet. Long-time readers of RiF and RRC know the folks in my neighborhood—Uck, Spike, Miss Black, my traveling companions, Cookie and Jens. My girlfriend needs a moniker, too. We discussed it over coffee last Sunday. That’s how much of a dork I am. I was compelled to discuss with my actual flesh and blood girlfriend what Internet name she would like while we sat in her real, actual living room. I’ve called her Missy D, Hamslice, Hamsizzle, Hamslizzle, and a bunch of sweety-poopy-moopy-doopy-type names, but nothing seems to stand out. I’d open it up to the floor, but I don’t think she’d appreciate a nickname like “You Poor, Poor Woman.” So, until I can come up with something better, I’m going to call her MK. You got that? My girlfriend is MK.

Back to Valentine’s Day.

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Here’s a closer view of “Calvin”

I happened to see it again the other day and snapped a photo.

You can’t make this stuff up, people.

I went to CVS last night to pick up some cock lotion, or, as my dad calls it, PeterCetera. A lady was already speaking to the pharmacist when I arrived. I queued up behind her with ample distance between us, giving her a pharmacy-appropriate privacy zone. (I don’t want anyone listening in on my cock lotion order, so why would I crowd her?) It so happens that the privacy zone caused me to stand about ten feet into an aisle–the “Family Planning” aisle, actually.

I stood there, absent-mindedly gazing at the rubbers and the gels and the lubes and the creams while the lady finished her business. It barely registered I was looking at the stuff, in fact, until the lady had finished her business and turned around to walk out. The route she chose was between me and the sex goodies. She quickly glanced at the goodies, then at me, then slouched down and slunk past with this awkward half-smile/half scowl that seemed to say “I am visibly uncomfortable due to my intrusion on your selection of items designed specifically for sexual intercourse. Don’t get any ideas.” I snapped out of my stupor long enough to look at her slinking past, then at the goodies, then to think “Hey! This lady thinks I’m browsing for sex items! And I’ve been here the entire time she was at the counter yakking it up with the pharmacist! She thinks I’m putting a lot of thought into this!” I wanted to yell “But I…I was just…I needed to…” but I stuttered in my brain just like I would have had I spoken out loud.

When the pharmacist asked if he could help me, I explained to him that I was picking up a prescription. He told me I was in the wrong line–that prescription pickup was at the other end of the counter.

Stupid PeterCetera.

Nice.

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 the comments section of the last post, Sluggo said “Roundisgettinglaidagain” to which I say “Roundwishes.”

Sluggo, your comment is innacurate in two ways: A.) It suggests that I am “gettinglaid,” which I am not and B.) it speculates that I am “gettinglaidagain,” which suggests that I’ve been laid recently. Now, were I to get laid, I would technically be getting laid “again” as I have, in fact, gotten laid in the past. But, let’s not get bogged down in semantics.

How have you motherhunchers been, anyway? I’ve missed you guys! Me? Sure, I might have put on a few over the holidays. Yeah, yeah, I let the beard grow in. You look good! I don’t remember that sweater. Really? When? No kidding! That’s great. Glad to hear it. Oh, Lord, I haven’t seen that guy in forever. What’s he up to? No shit? Wow. No, no, good to see you, too! Let’s get together soon! It’s been too long! I know we always say that, but this time I mean it!

So, yeah. Between Thanksgiving and, well, now, there are all of those holidays, all of those holiday get-togethers, and damn near every one of my friends’ birthdays. That’s a lot of running around and gift buying and whatnot. This is probably what most people call “life.” Not me, Jack. I’m not used to all of this doing (and reeing. <–There’s a joke for about three people.)

On top of all of that, my editor insisted that the new Web site for work be launched before Christmas, so I’ve been putting in a ton of hours working on that. Or maybe I’ve been putting in a ton of hours thinking and worrying about working on that. It’s all a blur, man.

Snow. Sleet. Frozen rain. Wind chill. We’ve got it all here in the heart of Ohio. My fingers are only now starting to thaw and I’ve been indoors for the better part of an hour.

I’ve got no complaints, though. As I say fairly often, I’ll take the cold over the heat any day. To paraphrase Dave Attell (from when he was funny), there’s nothing more uncomfortable looking than a fat guy on a hot day. He always looks lost or as if he’s forgotten something. A fat guy on a cold day, however, looks prepared.

The cats have taken up new wintertime spots—Olivia in a corner in my office, Oscar in a box where I tossed a coat last winter, and Nelson amidst the folds of a comforter on the couch. I don’t know what makes them switch their hangout spots—probably nothing, really. Their brains are the size of walnuts. Oscar enjoyed warming his nutsack on the register in the bathroom last winter. He seems to have lost interest in it this year.

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Thanksgiving 2007 - Simon at the Table - Photo by me - Caption by RRC forum member DB Hunter

When I walked into my dad’s house on Thanksgiving, I was surprised to be welcomed by my sister, live via Skype on my dad’s iMac. A year ago, using his old PC running Windows ME, my dad could barely cut and paste. Nowadays, thanks to Apple, he is Skyping my sister in California, shooting photos, scanning old photos and computering like a pro. To anyone struggling with a Boomer parent and a PC: Get an Apple, download Thunderbird and Firefox, and watch ‘em go.

Two years ago, Dad cooked Thanksgiving dinner–a turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, gravy, rolls, and cranberry sauce in a can (which is the best cranberry sauce, by the way.) Cooking all of that stuff is a massive effort and a massiver pain in the ass, especially for just two people (and seven hungry animals). Last year, Dad decided to cut down on the effort and order one of those pre-made dinners from Kroger. Guess what? It was every bit the pain in the ass that making everything from scratch was. You still had to warm up the turkey and the kitchen and get all hot and sweaty and uncomfortable and stressed out. Since we wouldn’t have felt comfortable hanging out together shirtless, we decided we’d skip all of the kitchen madness this year and simply go out to a restaurant.

We settled on The Barnsider. We’ve been to the place several times before. It’s strictly an old -school-leather-booth-Tom-Collins-and-iceberg-lettuce-salad type of place but they serve a good steak. I wouldn’t be surprised if they still served a “Diet Plate” for lunch consisting of a scoop of tuna salad in the middle of a bunch of fruit and lettuce. We debated all week about getting steak or a traditional Thanksgiving meal. We knew the steak was good but were we willing to throw tradition out the window?

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*Sniff* AW, MAN!

I haven’t updated my old site, Rock And Roll Confidential, in nearly four years. That doesn’t stop people from sending me photos for enshrinement in the Hall of Douchebags. In fact, the shirtless mic sniffer pictured above was sent to me just a few days ago. (He’s got a whole album of photos documenting his shirtless mic handling skills. Enjoy!)

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times: There, but for the grace of God, go I. There was no such thing as The Internet when I was a band dude. And thank Christ for that. I was every bit the attention whore Shirtless McSniff up there is. I would have posted every musical noodling I conceived, every thought that crossed my mind, and several photographic examples of every outfit I owned in every imaginable badass pose. I would have had a MySpace account, a Facebook account, a Twitter account, a Flickr photostream, a LiveJournal, a blog–oh, right.

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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.

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