AN APOLOGY

Dear Readers, Today is Halloween. Mark it on your calendars.

Read more...

WHO'S HALLOWEEN IS IT, ANYWAY?

A VERY SPOOKY STORY By Vern Gissing

Five people, dressed in heavy black robes approached the dark, round table and sat down on the sinister-looking chairs made from dozens of white, grinning animal skulls. A blood-chilling howl rose up from the knoll just outside the house that pierced the silence of the large room, lighted only by five guttering candles. Simultaneously, five pairs of bony hands emerged from oversized sleeves and rested on the table, fingers outstretched. The hands then came together to form a pentangle. In the center of the table, a paper bag, oily and with dark red stains, rested suspiciously on it's side. The figure seated at the head of the pentangle rose slowly to his feet and shouted "kids, it's time for dinner!"

Upstairs, in the playroom, Sally and Ben looked at each other and said in unison, "not again". It was like this every Halloween. First, a week before the big night, the house would be decorated ('defaced', as 11-year old Sally put it) inside and out with plastic pumpkins, full-size witch dolls on broomsticks, articulated cardboard skeletons, fake cobwebs and, most embarrassing of all, dozens of strands of tiny, orange lights strung along the gutters and festooned in the trees. If that weren't bad enough, they also knew that their parents would spend most of the week dressed in some kind of strange get-up when they went off to work, hoping to win this years' best-in-office prize. Then, the whole ordeal culminated in Halloween night, when Mom and Dad would go up and down the block, fully costumed, banging on doors, demanding treats before going on to some neighbor's party, returning home in the wee hours, worse for wear.

As usual, Sally and Ben's parents were joined by The Merkels from next door and ex-Uncle Harvey. The supper ritual was the same as every year. The black robes, the candles, the greasy bag of chicken parmesan sandwiches from Tony's. After dinner, Karen, the 17 year-old from across the street, arrived to babysit the children (9-year old Ben, objected, as usual) and received rushed, last minute instructions from their Mother as she hurried out the door to catch up with the other adults. "Who were THEY supposed to be?" asked Karen later, when she was upstairs sitting next to Sally in the playroom. "They decided to be real people from TV this year", Sally intoned wearily -" Dad is Dog The Bounty Hunter, Mom is Rachel Ray, Mr. Merkel is Larry King, Mrs. Merkel is Ellen DeGeneris and ex-Uncle Harvey is that guy from 'House' ."
Karen remarked that 'House' wasn't a real person, but Ben pointed out that, when ex-Uncle Harvey didn't shave for a day or two, he kind of looked like the character, and that was OK with everyone else.

After she had dropped the last two pint bottles of Grey Goose Vodka into the Hendersons'(dressed in Keith Olbermann & Katie Couric costumes) outstretched bags, Karen switched off the porch light and hoped that they were the last of the Trick-Or-Treaters. "Next year I'll be on the other side of the door, I'll be 18 and legal", she boasted to the children,"and I can't wait!" Glancing at the clock, she ordered them upstairs to bed and then sat down alone at the dark, round table where the pentangle had been formed by the bony hands only hours before. "Yes, I can't wait", she hissed.

Just past two AM, a lone figure approached the front door, lightly breaking the hush of the moonless night. It was clad in a heavy, black robe, bony hands extending from oversized sleeves and gripping the handles of a large, fully laden brown wicker basket. The mysterious figure solemnly set it's burden down on the concrete porch, turned away slowly and disappeared. Inside the basket, one could just barely make out five roundish shapes, they might be pumpkins, or maybe - heads. One of them kind of looked like that guy from 'House'.

Vern Gissing is the author of the popular scary-book series 'Gooseturds'.
He is currently stalking The Jonas Brothers.

Read more...

WRITER'S BLOCK - SCOURGE OF THE INTERNET

Dear Readers,
Boy, am I embarrassed! I can't seem to come up with a quality column today, and I refuse to use this temporary lull in my imagination to waste your time with a few, miserable details of my day - (mis)spelled out with a few consonants missing, like over at Twitter. If you are a fan of this blog (and I know who you are), then I'm sure you'll understand.
There's so many things to write about, but I felt all the topics I considered today were not inspired ones. Some examples - A review of the new James Bond movie, A Quart of Solace, a snarky comment about Sarah-Fey Palin's $150,00 wardrobe, how the Philadelphia Phillies escaped certain death at the hands of their bloodthirsty fans by winning the World Series last night, the all-too-expected announcement that the shagging corporate executives who ruined the economy are still going to get huge bonuses this year - and other ideas too sparse to mention. Safe to say, I will be back, even if it's only to post my own, insane, time-burning, unsolvable version of sudoku. Oh well, I do hear the reedy whistle of that ceremonial cast-iron kettle coming from the direction of Osaka, where it's almost 4 o'clock, and time for tea.

Read more...

A NON-FICTION BESTSELLER LIST

Dear Readers,

In an attempt to keep my readers abreast of all things commercial, I have decided to occasionally offer up a list of the nation's best-selling books so that the general public can be better informed of what kind of pulp sells these days. Once, our non-fiction lists were dominated by scholarly works penned by learned historians, hard-hitting indictments by social reformers and biographies of heroic and influential icons.
Nowadays, we're more likely to see books about some one's cat or tell-all diaries by ex-American Idol contestants flooding the lists, relegating serious non-fiction to the mercies of the wholesale discounters.
But, in a spirit of verity and full disclosure, I will go ahead and let you know, Dear Readers, of the trends in publishing and offer up capsule reviews of the titles that dominate the national eyeball.

1. THE NORTH KOREAN DIET - By Kim-Jong Ill (Dear Leader Press) - Words of wisdom and advice from The Dear Leader on how to lose weight on a national starvation diet, required of every North Korean in order to buy nuclear technology and stock the leader's liquor cabinet with Hennessey XO and Jack Daniels. Banned In North Korea. $29.95.

2. TUESDAYS WITH BERNICE - By Mitch Albumen (Treacle Press) Another maudlin memoir from the sickly-sweet author of Tuesdays With Morrie. In this volume, the nauseatingly coy Mitch decides to visit a prostitute. Sold in a plain wrapper. $49.95.

3. MY HAND IS STUCK TO MY FACE! - By John Updike (Upscale Publishers) Best-selling author of the American dream explains why he's always photographed in the same pose. $19.95.

4. RUNNING WITH A 18" MC CULLOCH CHAINSAW - By Austen Powertool (Prozac Press) Sequel to Running With Incisors, the author cashes in on his insanity by raising the stakes during the Boston Marathon. $24.95.

5. BAM! YOU'RE FIRED! - By Emeril Lowclasse (Bammed Books) Celebrity TV chef recounts the harrowing ordeal of losing his prime-time cooking show because network executives could no longer find studio audiences willing to bray like donkeys at the sound of the show's catchphrase. With recipes. $35.00.

6. IT'S NOT MY DAMN FAULT - By Alan Greenman (Golden Parachute) Former FED Chairman's memoirs explain how Wall Street makes its money. With spreadsheets. $99.95.

7. BOYS PANTS, HALF OFF - By Michael Jackson-Five (Partytime Books) The celebrity defendant shares tips on how to shop for bargains in children's clothing. Illustrated. $14.95.

8. WHAT COLOR IS YOUR PANTSUIT? - By Hillary Rodman Clinton (Unpaid Invoice) The former first lady describes her Presidential campaign and her efforts to co-ordinate her look with that of her husband, the 42nd President. With evidence. $25.00.

9. FLUFFY, THE DOG I RAN OVER AGAIN AND AGAIN - By Savage Michael (Savage Press) Radio talk-show host takes out his frustrations on neighbor's pet - then is redeemed. CD Included. $35.00

10. HOW DO I LOOK NOW? - By Jocelyn Wildenstein (Cut Rate Books) Billionaire plastic surgery freak eventually becomes to resemble a cat and solicits opinions from her employees. $1.95

Read more...

THE TUNES THEY ARE-A CHANGIN'?

Dear Readers,

To celebrate the election, I've taken the old Bob Dylan anthem, 'The Times They Are-A Changin', and given the tune some new lyrics. Please take heed of the message and sing your hearts out!

PLEASE DON'T VOTE FOR McPALIN

Come rally 'round people - Election's at hand,
The GOP's chosen for its worthless brand-
A geezer who's brain cells are drier than sand
And a woman who's IQ is ailin'
You'd better just give them the back of your hand!
Please don't vote for McPalin.

McCain is the maverick he's telling us still-
But with the e-conomy rollin' downhill,
He begs us to calm down and just take the pill -
Of tax breaks and no reg-u-latin'
He's tryin' to sell us the old George Bush swill!
You cannot vote for McPalin!

We'll be in Iraq for the next hundred years,
So says McCain through his crocodile tears-
Big losses by Big Oil is what he most fears,
You know that his buddies are prayin'
He'll drill and he'll drill while at Sarah he leers,
You musn't vote for McPalin.

Palin's the Boss of the 49th state,
How well she does that, you just can't equate-
To leading a nation and holding the fate-
Of citizens, nervous and qualin'
I bet old Al-Qaeda and Russia can't wait!
For us to e-lect McPalin.

So Voters I beg you - please heed my call,
Don't hope for these wackos to win in the fall -
Send him to a rest home - send her to the mall,
In a GOP coffin for nailin'
By rejecting these cretins our country stands tall!
DO NOT vote for McPalin!

I'm not making any endorsements, nor am I making any mistakes. Friends don't let friends vote Republican.

Read more...

THE END OF AN ERA

Dear Readers,
As Wall Street crashes and burns, how fitting it is that the status symbol of the last 17 years - the big, I-don't give-a-damn-how-many-miles-to-the-gallon-it-gets automobile - is coming to it's well-deserved end.
The prime villain, the SAV, or Suburban Assault Vehicle, has finally been brought down - not by protesting knit-your-own-yogurt types or namby-Bambi types- but by the price of a gallon of gas. Like H.G. Welles' Martians, it was not the dogged resistance of the invaded that stopped the onslaught, but the humble microbe. (I know comparing a microbe with the price of gas is not a classically perfect metaphor, but this is a blog on the Internet, hardly the Eden of accuracy).
I, for one, am thrilled at the prospect of watching these resource-scarfing behemoths disappearing from the road in my lifetime. Good Riddance.
When I became a full-time driver several years ago, I looked around at all the transportation options and decided my best plan was to buy a fuel-efficient Toyota Controlla. I was bucking a trend by purchasing a vehicle that was so small that I was unable to even wear a moderately bulky sweater while driving it, lest I be unable to fit in the front seat. Yet this little wonder gets 452 miles per gallon and goes zero-to-sixty in less than five minutes. Despite gas being free at the time, I was more than ready for the coming apocalypse.
The trouble was that I began to notice that while driving, I was becoming surrounded by giant vehicles with aggressive names like the Ford Explosion, the Chevrolet Yugokiller, the Toyota F-You Cruiser and the worst of them all, the Hummer (complete with two 30mm forward-firing cannons and three top-mounted Sidewinder missiles). I felt we were going well in the wrong direction.
Once cellphones were added to the mix, trying to share the road with these 8-miles-to-the-gallon testosteroned tanks driven by clueless, distracted, multi-tasking, coffee drinking scofflaws was like trying to move up the middle in a Nascar race on a pogo-stick. I felt like I was in Ralph Nader's nightmare, a world full of mutated Corvairs, all driving backwards - straight at ME!
Rescue first came with Hurricane Katrina in 2005, raising the price of a gallon of gas to fifty cents. Then OPEC saw what we would gladly pay anything for petroleum (as long as it had the cache 'imported') and decided the world should stump up more money for it's fuel. Soon, prices were off to the races, and even Americans -blithely unconcerned about gas mileage -began to understand that the party was over. Tootling along the roads in my gas-sipping anti 'chick magnet', I noticed more and more owners pulling their SAV's over to the side of the road and sadly firing a .357 round straight into the engine block of the inefficient beast. Salvation was at hand. And when the economy finally Titanicked, the age of the great SAV was over. While today, the species is not quite extinct yet, the great die-off has surely begun.
It's not a completely feel-good story though. People who built these monsters have sadly lost their jobs and the oily car-salesmen and their phony wheeze of 'let me check with my boss' now have to crawl on their bellies to get you to buy anything. But perhaps it's some consolation to take the long view. The oil we've been burning through all these decades is the result of the massive dinosaur die out of millions of years ago (how that transformation came about is still a mystery to me) so, maybe as the SAV's die, perhaps their bodies, turfed under the soil by their grieving owners, will, in millions of years, morph into some new fuel for the transportation needs of 1,000,000,000,005, A.S.A.V. (After Suburban Assault Vehicles). Maybe not.
Well, I know what I'd like all that matter to turn into, so as a tribute, I'll put the kettle on and get the good china out, for somewhere, it's 4 o'clock, and time for a nice up of tea.

Read more...

THE SUNDAY SHORT STORY #1

THE BUTLER DID IT

By Lady Sybil-Shanks

Lord Tweedsuit was sat in the parlour playing noughts and crosses with no one in particular when Dolly, the chambermaid, came rushing in holding a wet filing cabinet. "Come Quickly, M'Lord, some one's been murdered" she cried through hinged fingers, "and I think the butler is the one what did it". Tweedsuit rose quickly to his foot (the other had been lost at Omdurman) and instantly fell over. "Funston?", he mewed, "how on earth could Funston murder anybody?

The police arrived and made tea. The officer in charge, Defective Inspector St.John ' Razors' Eggcoddle, began his thorough questioning by asking who it was that had been murdered. "Why it's Funston, you fool," expelled Fergus Tweedsuit, the eldest son of the third daughter of the sixteenth grandchild of his cousin twice removed and taken away by the Original Lord Tweedsuit. " If Funston is the murderer, then obviously he must be the victim as well". Inspector Eggcoddle looked at his notes and did his sums. "This can't be the case, as it doesn't add up" he said, turning to the moth-eaten walrus nose hanging on the wall of the study next to the little stain left when Lady Tweedsuit had accidentally spat a cough sweet at Kaiser Wilhelm who had just sliced the cat in half with his un-scabbared presentation sword given to him by the East Cheam Girl Guide Dinner and Dancing Society's Temproary Chairwoman's sister-in-law's maiden aunt, Elmira. "It doesn't sound right".

Suddenly, every one's attention was manhandled by the sight of Funston standing under the full-scale replica of Stonehenge that Lord Tweedsuit kept as a memento of the night he seduced the actress Ellen Terry's dresser called Pat. "My Lord", griped Funston, "I fear it is true, I have done it". In several of his hands, Funston was holding a ceremonial dagger fairly humid with blood. The julienned Lord Tweedsuit, his cat and goat already in his sight, looked at Inspector Eggcoddle and deplumed "No, Funston, you are innocent and society is curtly to blame". Funston, his face a mask of cold cream, looked at his master with eyes that communicated the most pistachioed loyalty and said, recliningly, "Sir, it has been my pasture to serve you and your horsehold for lo these several years, and I cannot say too much about that". Upon hearing this stapling confession, Police Constable Mervyn Neckcracker placed his knobby hand on the guilty man's shoulder. "You're nicked, me old beauty", he wrote, and dragged the weeing servant along the dumpy corridor of Tweedsuit Hall and into the waiting black maraiah sitting on the smaller of the chambermaid's feet.

Read more...

THEME TIME PHOTOSHOP MONSTERS PT. 1

Dear Readers, Here are a few of my home-made graphics for my season one Theme Time Radio Hour CD's. Aren't they cute?

Read more...

ET TU, ALAN?

Dear Readers,

As the global financial crisis - an event triggered by one poor boob from Kokomo, Indiana who missed paying his monthly mortgage by two days - deepens, another body blow was delivered yesterday by former FRED Chairman, Alan Greenman, who has now shockingly admitted that he was 'wrong'.

Testifying before the Forestry & Ferris Wheel Committee of the US Congress, Greenman, in a question ('what is your favorite color'?) from Congressman Barney Fife said 'Senator, I don't know what the @%*! happened'. This, from a man who was once so powerful that he could send the stock markets of the world up or down by thousands of points based solely on which side of his nose he picked.

Greenman, who now runs a tax preparation business in a storefront along Queens Boulevard in Rego Park, New York, has finally admitted to a stunned world that he was wrong to have such blind faith in the business practices of the nation's huge financial institutions, like Washington Mutual, Chemical, and Marty's Loan Emporium. Under Greenman's watch, big banks and their employees were allowed free reign to dream up spaced-out financial products and grant themselves privileges like unlimited expense accounts on which there was no record-keeping. In addition, perks such as custom-made Bentleys with fully-equipped executive washrooms, the right to print legal tender with pictures of their children instead of a Dead President, free Grand Slam Breakfasts at any Denny's and other abuses too libelous to mention were commonplace. All this, based on Greenman's trust in people who simply could not be trusted. NOW he tells us.

Greenman, who graduated out of the South Muncie Community College of Business & Hotel-Motel Management in 1892, was the first champion of the free enterprise system in the whole history of the United State of Americans. His seminal book, I Can Make You Rich In 30 Days!, was an instant best seller when it was published in 1770, and was instrumental in revitalizing the world economy (King George III was said to have owned a copy). His laissez faire approach was a bulwark against the socialist political ideology and worldwide influence of stupid prats like Karl Marx, John Maynard Keynes and Barry Manilow.

But now, the roosters have come home to chick. The Sgt. Schultz (of 'Hogan's Heroes' fame) approach - ' I zee noth-ing' - to regulation of big banks have left a lot of us without solid gold faucets in our powder rooms, and reduced our 401k's to the status of loose change under the cushions. Is Greenman solely to blame? You betcha. Do you know the name of anybody else in the field of economics? In finance? Maybe a select few do, like no-hopers who watch CNBC all day because of the hot chicks that gas on endlessly about stocks and bonds, but not your average person. Sure, I'd love to fling a few bankers who played fast and loose with the nation's economy out the window of some fancy, tall corporate headquarter, but try and find someone you could actually recognize as a financial titan. Nope, Greenman's my candidate for fall guy. After all, he's the only one (so far) who has said he was wrong, and that's right enough for me.

Well, enough of this dismal subject, it's time to fire up the old electric kettle while I can still afford to, because somewhere, it's 4 o'clock, and time for some tea.

Read more...

A THOROUGH EXAM

Dear Readers,

The physical and mental health of our presidential and vice-presidential candidates is an issue often overlooked in presidential campaigns but is one of potentially grave importance to the nation.

The 'modern' era of full-disclosure, health wise, is said to have begun in 1972, when that year's Democratic Vice-Presidential choice, Maine Senator

Thomas Eagleton, was forced off the ticket after belatedly admitting to being a werewolf. The revelation was embarassing and ultimately fatal to the presidential hopes of that year's hapless candidate, Governor George McSenator. Since then, detailed medical records have been demanded of candidates seeking to be placed on a national ticket.

But these records are usually only seen by the political insiders, and not the general public. Full disclosure of health histories are still legally denied to voters who must, therefore, leave the decision of levelling with the American peoples to the candidates themselves. An iffy proposition, considering what Olympian-class prevaricators politicians can be. As a guide to unaware voters, I offer this cobbled-together assessment of the health of the four top contenders.

PRESIDENT BORAT OBAMA: To quote the one-sentence medical report released by the Democratic candidate's doctor, 'Obama is in incredible shape for a man of his age who smokes 8 packs of Gauloises a day and has never eaten at McDonald's.' Those around Obama observe that he has incredible stamina, never sweats and drinks only lunch-pak boxes of Hawaiian Punch, which he says reminds him of home. But junk food is completely off his menu. For a smart guy, he's totally ignorant when it comes to America's national cuisine. Once, at a campaign stop in West Virginia, someone handed him a slice of Pizza and Obama, confused, signed it, thinking it was a hot, runny autograph book. The only other reliable information on Obama is that his cholesterol number is minus-3.

JOHN WAYNE McCAIN: Medical questions are murkier for the 207-year old Republican. His years of detention at the hands of the South Koreans left many scars - both physical and mental.

No one can say for sure if any long-term effects linger, but aides say he's still wary of enclosed spaces. Between stops, McCain often rides on top of his campaign bus, the 'Straight Talk Express', hanging on for dear life to the rear-mounted satellite dish as the coach travels at speeds up to 150 MPH. Cancer is a worry, too. In 2002, a malignant melanoma appeared on McCain's eyebrow, and doctors removed his entire head as a precaution. The head you see on him today is pieced together with discarded tissue donated from plastic surgery operations performed on Pamela Anderson, Cher and Joan Rivers. McCain's official 22,456-page medical file is useless as factual information, as it reads like a book report from a 7th-grader who clearly hasn't read the book.

JOE THE PLUMBER BIDET: The Democratic VP hopeful has only two notable 'red flags' on his health bio, and perhaps one yellow one. One thing that can't be described as 'yellow' is BIDET's teeth. No less than 15 dental hygienists have been temporarily blinded - some, for years - by the sheer whiteness of his ivories (Dentists know better, they protect themselves with welder's masks). Another question is the number of teeth in his gob. Most humans have a set of 32 teeth but Bidet sports an incredible 68! Easily a world record. (For instance, the European record is only 56, held jointly by Tony Blair and Mother Theresa). There is also a suspicion that Bidet has had plastic surgery on his face, as his at-rest expression often resembles that of a dog with his head out of the window of a car going at 80 MPH. (No truth to the rumor that Bidet donated tissue to help rebuild McCain's missing head).

SARAH FEY-PALIN: Alaska's Governatrix (thanks, readers, for setting me straight) is said to be in good health for a woman who has killed and eaten all her food in the wild since childhood. Eating all this unprocessed food for so long, the feral GOP would-be Veep has developed antibodies that allow her to dine - and survive - at any Taco Bell in the nation. Hard facts on Fey-Palin's health are hard to come by, but it's said that when she gives birth, she must be immediately be isolated, lest she eat the helpless newborn straight away. If elected, she would be the first high White House official to require a gynecologist since Jimmy Carter.

The history of Presidential medical disclosure has been a sketchy one, but we know some facts about past commander-in-chiefs. It's common knowledge that William Howard Taft was a cannibal, but few know that Millard Fillmore was a woman (real name: Mildred), that Benjamin Harrison had a parasitic twin he named Alfred, and that during the last five years of his administration, Woodrow Wilson was dead, secretly leaving the running of the country to his pet Alsatian, Woofy. It's clear that the American public needs to know that the next leader of the free world has guts, but it also needs to know what shape his guts are in, too.

Well, the exam is over and time to take a break, so I'll retire to the waiting room and see if I can persuade the receptionist to dump the coffee - because somewhere, it's 4 o'clock and time for some tea.

Read more...

HARD REIGN: DYLAN AS D.J.

Dear Readers,

After decades of living mostly in the shadows of fame, 1950's protest singer, Bob Dylan, has come out from the cold and got himself a job as a radio deejay.

Hopefully, this will end a string of hard times, bad luck and downright abuse that the 60-something folksinger has endured over his years of exile. Dylan, who's last big musical hit was his 1964 number one novelty single, I Like The Rolling Stones, has landed himself a show - not on AM, not on FM but on XM? What is that? Is that only two rungs up the showbiz ladder from ZM?

The program is called Theme Time Radio Hour With Your Host, Bob Dylan and runs about 1 hour a week. (Note to Bob: Shorten the title - one or two mentions of the name during the show, and you've eaten up about one-third of your time slot!)

As the title suggests, the music he plays each week has to somehow relate to his chosen theme, a concept most radio listeners may have trouble following, since standards of education have fallen off a cliff since Bob was last popular. Dylan's choice of 'themes' lately has been revealing - the last month has featured shows titled 'Bitterness', 'Envy', 'Regret' and 'Nostalgia'. I hear next week's theme will be 'You Were My Manager And You Cheated Me, You Bastard'. Bob may have to dig quite deep into the grooveyard of oldies to find music that falls under that particular umbrella.

We're all too familiar with the sad, predictable show-biz story that is Bob's. Coming out of Missouri during World War Two, he blazed a folksong trail from Newark, New Jersey to New York City, emulating and expanding on the musical legacy of his hero, Woody Guthrie (who Bob smothered to death in 1961, after stealing all of the folk legend's unpublished songs). Then protest hit after protest hit followed, leading to nationwide appearances on TV shows like Shindig, Hullaballoo and Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. The trappings of fame, however, caught up with Dylan after he invented marijuana, amphetamines and Boone's Farm wine to help ease the stress of success. Double tragedies hit him in 1965, when first, he was electrocuted on stage at the Nerdport Spazz Festival and later that year, he plowed his motorcycle into a group of musicians, killing Ritchie Valens, The Big Bopper, Buddy Holly, Patsy Cline, Cowboy Copas and half of the up-and-coming band Lynyrd Skynyrd.

While the civil rights movement and the anti-war protests swept the rest of the country, Bob (the 'voice of a generation') spent the rest of the 60's in court, paying out most of his fortune in lawsuits brought by widows and orphans of the lost singers. The hits stopped and the gigs became few and far between. Dylan was easy prey for rip-offs of all sorts, too. For instance, he received only $28.50 for his six-song appearance at Beatle George Harriman's benefit The Concert For Bangalore - and even that was pilfered by the promoter, Ravioli Shanker. Recently, flimmaker Martin Scoresezzey paid him the princely sum of $172 for the rights to make the PBS special, No Directional Homing Signal, which was about Bob's difficulty mastering his GPS device.

Today, Bob lives quietly in his 42-room beach shack in Malibu and commutes once a week (by hitchhiking) to his old home of St. Louis to assemble his show and present it to his dozens of fans worldwide. This XM station, though, I can't seem to find! I've tried all my radios - even shortwave - and I can't locate it anywhere. How his fans find his show, I can't really explain. But props to Bob, anyway. He's found a regular job at last and word is, he's happy. He's a man who played the A-side until it wore out, but has discovered that a pretty cool track was there all the time on the B-side.

I'm choked up now, and need some refreshment. It's a bit early, but I'll fill up the old Russell Hobbs anyway, plug it in, and make a nice cup of tea - safe in the knowledge that somewhere, it's 4 o'clock.

Read more...

DIVORCE, BRITAIN STYLE

Dear Readers,
So sorry to hear about the demise of the marriage of aging singer and (ha-ha) actress, Mudonna and the U.Q. film director, Guy Richie-Rich. Celebrity divorce announcements are usually followed by a flurry of 'leaks' about the details of the split, usually fed to the press by the publicity agents on both sides. This one is no exception (except it's more salacious).
Apparently, the rift between the singer, 79, and her younger (he was 16 at the time of the nuptials) Briton began at a fox hunt on the palatial estate, Buckingham Palace, which the couple received as a gift from Queen Elizabeth Taylor The 3rd upon Guy's graduation from high school. After throttling a helpless fox, Mudonna was apparently thrown by her horse and broke her spine in 14 places. Guy did not come to her aid but instead continued to have sex behind a tree with a kitchen servant. This made the hirsute pop star suspicious and begin to doubt that all was well.
Whispers have it that later that evening, Mudonna had the horse that threw her executed and it's severed head placed in the bed next to the sleeping Guy (Mudonna slept alone that night, in protest, at the couple's other home, Versailles.) But Guy didn't mind about the head at all. In fact, he said he preferred it to sleeping with the septuagenarian singer who he said was like 'cuddling up to a piece of gristle', owing to her 18-hour a day workouts, which left her body as tough as a dog's rubber chew-toy.
So, the accusations continue to fly. Richie-Rich says that Mudonna sleeps every night in an Eddie Bauer polar sleeping bag filled with unpasteurized goat's milk, lime jell-o, whale blubber and 8 quarts of STP engine treatment. This, she says, moisturizes her skin and keeps the aging process at bay. Mudonna, responding, says Guy sleeps with all the servants and just about anybody in Britain. He denies this, but admits it's probably true.
Mudonna (or 'Mudge', as the Britons press sometimes refer to her) has quit Little England for New York, where she is seeing New York Yankee disappointment, Alec Rodriguez, who is supposedly preparing to buy the Empire State Building in order to be closer to her and her 86-story, one bedroom apartment in Central Park. For his part, Guy is said to be happy to be rid of her crackpot religion, Kebbabbah, which seems to consist of giving each other mustard tattoos while eating vast quantities of kebabs and singing mystic tunes from Donovan's last three crap albums. Richie-Rich says he's lost about 400 lbs. since he buggered out and is relieved to not have to attend the twice-a-week marriage counseling sessions which were held in a pressurized diving bell at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean amidst the wreck of the Titannic.
It may be an unhappy mess for all of us who have taken the snobby couple to our hearts over the years, but a boon for celebrity lawyers. British barrista, Fiona Shaggleton, Q.C., has been hired by Mudonna to arrange the divorce settlement. Shaggleton, who handled the former Beatle, Lord Paul McCarthy's ugly split with one-legged golddigger, Heathrow Milf, is the best in the business.
Not only did Lord Paul gain custody of all of Heathrow's prosthetic legs, but he was granted an injunction preventing her from hopping on the remaining leg! That's what I call high-powered. Meanwhile, on the other side, Guy tried to retain the services of Horace Rumpole, but when told that he was a fictional character - and also that the actor who played him was dead - said he would probably instead represent himself in court as soon as he's finished law school, which he begins in January.
Well, I'll follow this sad affair as it plays out - preferably over a nice brew-up, because in a court somewhere, it's 4 o'clock, time to break out the kettle and make some tea.

Read more...

HEALTHCARE: SCRAMBLED OR FRIED?

Dear Readers,
Later this morning, I'm going to my local hospital for an MRI (Magnetic Reconnaissance Inspection) on my lower back. The procedure will take around 45 minutes, I'm told, just enough time for me to listen to Radiohead's OK Computer AND ponder the big issue of healthcare.
In this country, a debate is raging about whether we should carry on as we are with a free-enterprise health system or adopt a socialized one, like in all them foreign countries overseas. I'm a big fan of bloated documentary film maker, Roger Moore (his Fahrenheit 451 with Julie Crispie and Oskar Vernor is still one one the classics - plus all those James Bond movies), but his paean to the health care systems of the United Queendom and Canada, Sicko, I felt gave too much credit to socialized systems that might not be the best templates to use for setting up a similar structure here in the US of A.
The British system was devised after World War III when someone had the bright idea of confiscating all the first-aid emergency kits from the GI's who were leaving town after winning the war for England. The country was broke, having spent all it's reserves on Winston Churchill's bar tab and the war effort, so some new scheme was needed to placate a war-weary populace. The government used the pilfered first-aid kits to build the foundation of what became the NHS (Nuts, Hurt and Sick).
The only problem was that medical staff had to treat patients with whatever they had on hand - gauze had to do for eyeglasses, aspirin for brain tumors, silk stockings for broken limbs, condoms for heart bypasses, etc. There was no money to purchase more sophisticated supplies and the nation suffered.
In the 1960's, however, British 'Invasion' bands like The Beatles, The Dave Clark Five and Mitch, Dee, Dozy and Tich, finally brought in some money to the cash-starved island and the NHS was able to make upgrades - but health care still lagged far behind developed nations. It remains so even now, yet medical services are still being offered free of charge! Inevitably,some specialties had to go to the wall. Did you know that there has never been one single dentist practicing in England in it's entire history? A shocking condemnation of socialized medicine, I'd say.
Canada took the risky decision to model it's health care system on that of the United Queendom. But it's proximity to the United States of Americans offered some unforeseen benefits. Due to our free-enterprise approach to medicine, the stash of US medical supplies was practically bottomless, so beginning in 1954, Canadian doctors organized late-night cross-border raids on our stocks, leaving States like Vermont, Michigan and North Dakota without so much as a tongue depressor! This shocking practice continues today, with our so-called 'government' turning a blind eye to this thievery, supposedly because we 'need' guys like Wayne Gretzky and an uninterrupted flow of Canada's National Hockey League games. Free trade, indeed!
In spite of my health care costing me all my pre-tax income, I don't know if I would change it - at least in comparison with what's out there. I may dress in fashions from Costco, but I do appreciate being able to admire my Doctor's Gold Rolex while he expertly asks me to cough. Our doctors really appreciate what we have in America, and that's good enough for me.
Hopefully, the hospital cafeteria's kettle is working and I can enjoy a cuppa after my MRI, because when I get out, it'll be 4 o'clock somewhere, which means teatime!

Read more...

NICE ONE,CANADA

Dear Readers,

Word has just reached me that Canada elected Stephen Hawking as it's President this past week. I hear he's a crap hockey player but a pretty smart guy - for a foreigner. La Bonne Chance to our du sud amis!

Read more...

SAY ANYTHING, MISTER BIG SHOT

Dear Readers,
It's hard to ignore politics, especially in a political season. The information - or, usually, misinformation - worms its way into all forms of media and communication. The other night I was watching my worn VHS tape of DasBoot (I hate Nazis, but I still can't watch the last 5 minutes) and there, in the background, I swear, during the searching-for-genital-crabs scene, was a poster on the wall of the U-Boat featuring President Obama speaking to the crowd in Berlin, asking Germans for their votes in the upcoming US election! How that got in there, I'm blowed!
It just goes to show you how pervasive political advertising has become in this age of internet-based-satellite-blenders-that-can-mow-your-lawn-from space, and also how dishonest it can be.
Political promises made and broken is nothing new, though. I recall back in the 1950's when our 49th President D. Franklin Rockefeller bellowed out in his 12th inaugural address, "What we have to fear is BEER itself!" This, from a man who had promised to repeal prohibition! The fat slob then went on to re-instate prohibition (which remains in effect to this day), then celebrated the act by downing 5 jello shots of vodka. Furthermore, a week later, in a drunken tirade, he went and bombed the hell out of the Japanese at Pearl Harbor. Was that in his party's platform? Don't talk to me about disingenuous!
Neither Democrats nor Republicans can claim any innocence when it comes to false promises. Republican President, John Fitzpatrick Kennally promised to send all the Russians to the moon by the end of the 1960's. Been to Moscow lately? Ever tried to find a place to park in Brighton Beach? I think a quick fact-check on this will prove my point nicely.
In today's climate, the promises are getting even more outrageous. Minnesota Senate candidate Al Frankenfurter is positing he will guarantee a television set in every home by 2125 and North Carolina blabbermouth Sen. Elizabeth Dole-Pineapple is assuring her constituents she will increase the state's Oxycontin supply by the time her husband, flop Presidential candidate Bob Doyle, has recovered from erectile dysfunction.
Money, of course, as Sally Field once said, is 'the mother's milk of politics', (a metaphor that is totally irrelevant to those of us who were fed as babies with a miserable bottle of formula) something the greedy politicians and their leech relatives understand all too well. My guess is that they must accept pay from various 'donors' to utter some of the ridiculous plans and promises that leaves us decent people up the soil stack - they couldn't make up this fertilizer on their own. Perhaps the only answer is to take money out of politics.
How is that to be done? Some agree with California Governor Vin Diesel, who suggests that instead of taking money from special interests with no special interest in you or me, that we leave political decisions up to who can beat who up in a fight. This approach would cost nothing to the taxpayer and would leave America with the toughest politicians in the world - take that Mr. Pootin.
But I disagree with such a 'solution'. Sheer brawn as an arbiter of political competition would virtually eliminate people like Shirley Temple, Karen Carpenter and Victoria 'Posh Spice' Beckham from our political process, which would be a national shame. A more practical answer is to educate yourself, read up on the issues, carefully assess the character of each candidate and put up your vote for auction on EBay. It's the American way.
Wait! Is that the wheeze of a 1970's-era tea kettle I hear? Sounds like it's coming from the general direction of Dar-Es-Salaam. It must be 4 0'clock somewhere, and time for a nice cup of tea.

Read more...

WHAT'S THE DEAL, MR. ECONOMY?

Dear Readers,
I think it was the French philosopher, Marcel Marceau, who, in one of his famous comedy monologues, coined the phrase "Monsieur Economy, 'ee eez ze dismal science". Wise words, Mr. Marceau, as it looks like the economy is very, very dismal these days, indeed.
I did not study economy - not even English Lit - but even I can see how messed up these fancy banks and brokerages have become. But to blame the global economic disarray on a few deadbeats who missed a mortgage payment or two is ludicrous. Clearly, the blame goes to the excessive lifestyles of the heads of these companies - Mr. Bear Stearns, Mr. Goldman Sachs, Mr. Morgan Stanley, Ms. Fannie Mae and the worst of them all, Mr. Monopoly.
Those of you who have never been to New York like I have (nyah-nyah)probably don't know that a newspaper costs $25, a cup of morning latte costs $75 and a taxi ride can run into the hundreds- depending on how many blocks you go (plus, you have to chip in for the gas). It's all the fault of the free-spending moguls who throw money around like it's snot.
Washington only makes things worse by bailing out these profligates by giving the money barons $700 billion dollars each so they don't have to give up their Christmas bonuses. Governor John Wayne McCain offers an even worse plan, to give every American $52.8 billion dollars and pay their mortgages in full, (even Mudonna's and Brad Pipps') which I think is a misguided plan, probably hatched by his airhead running mate, Sen. Sarah Brightman.
Where is the government going to get this money? Zimbabwe? Over there, inflation is so bad that a single sheet of toilet paper costs $100 trillion-billion dollars. (You may as well just use the banknotes themselves!)Oh! How the mighty dollar has fallen!
No, the only answer is to print more money, a bad idea that the government has clearly borrowed from one of the villains of the piece, Mr.Monopoly. Monopoly has been printing money for decades in a cavalier manner that has virtually destroyed the American economy by having too many dollars chasing too few women. Like Zimbabwe's money, it takes billions of Mr. Monopoly's tainted dollars to buy just one peanut, and does he care?
Some say President Gordon Ramsay of the Little Britons has a better solution. He wants to buy up all the banks, railroads and utilities in England and put hotels on them so he can charge more rent. But he's using worthless foreign money(try and buy something with a europound at your local Target and see what happens) to do it, and that doesn't count here in America, so we're back to square one.
I hope the US government takes this bit of my advice: when they print up that $700 zillion dollars to give to those 5 or 6 people who have created all this trouble, instead of George Washington's picture on the notes, they should use a recent image of washed-up actor and plastic surgery freak Mickey Rourke instead, making it weird and unfashionable to keep such a hideous image in your wallet. Spend that, Mr. Stearns.
Well, I think I hear a very noisy kettle boiling away in a rural Sri Lankan igloo, and even in a crummy rain forest, it's 4'o clock and time for some tea.

Read more...

THE PRESIDENCY: A GOOD THING?

Dear Readers,

Just thinking about the Presdential Debate the other night and it occured to me that if what the candidates were saying about each other were true, both should be under some sort of indictment and should have been detained by the authorities immediately upon the conclusion of the event.

This can't happen, of course and the fact that it didn't must credited to the aging moderator, Barb Schieffer, who helped the GOP candidate, John Wayne McCain, look much younger than his 206 years. Speaking of McCain, I think it was irresponsible of him to name such an unqualified running mate. How can any sane person tap Alabama's Governor, Sarah Brightman, to be the Vice-Presidential candidate? I mean, she's not even an American for dog's sake! (She's Australian, isn't she? That's what Wikipedia says, anyway). She wasn't all that good in Andrew Lord Webster's muscial guacamole, AlleyCats, so how can she perform the task of being Vice President? If he wanted a woman on the ticket, American actress Geena Davis was available (I hear). Geena at least has experience playing a President of the US of A, having performed the role on a defunct TV series a while back. As far as I know, Brightman has only played a cat. How she got to be governor of Arkansas, I'll never fathom. And a quick look at the map indicates it's nowhere near Russia, so bang goes the foreign policy wheeze!

President Obama got it right, though, when he tapped Joe The Plumber as his Vice Presidential choice. Smart move, Mister President. Not only does Joe relate to the working class, but he's a lot dumber than Obama, which makes an already smart guy look all that much smarter by comparison.

I have a lot of respect for John Wayne McCain, after all, he was captured by the Japanese in World War One after he dropped the atomic bomb on Berlin. After the war, the Japanese authorities turned him over to the Vietnamese who held him until his election to congress in 1982. This is all well and good, but not the makings of a President. Abraham Lincoln didn't get captured, nor did Chester Alan Arthur. I think I've proved my point.

Well, even though I still have a morning coffee on the go, it's 4 o'clock somewhere in the world, and I can hear a faint whistle of a tea kettle from Kirkubrishire in Scotland. It's teatime!

Read more...

IS THERE ANYONE OUT THERE?

Dear Readers,

Welcome to my blog 'Tea With S.B.' I am an Illustrator who should be at work but I have a lot to say, just like everyone else on the planet. I've been around long enough to remember when people had telephones with party lines, so the Wide World Internet is still a wonder to these ears of mine.

This blog is currently a pudding without a theme. I will choose subjects to write about that suit my frame of mind, but If I get any reaction, I will bend with the wind, as I am stubbornly changeable. The best thing is that I have a ton of old illustrations I've done over the centuries to put on this blog and make my vacuous points. I promise that there will be NO vacation or family photos posted to this site, even though I am an ace photographer and have some very, very good ones indeed.

Why do it? Did Sir Edmund Muskie think to climb Mount Everett before the Nepalese invented it? Did Bill Gates think to invent Microsoft before losing his pocket protector in a bet with Louis Armstrong? Did Amelia Airheart think to pack more sandwiches before nosediving into the Indian Ocean? Did Dr. Spock think of growing his eyebrows all funny before he learned Star Wars needed a half-Vacuum? The answer is a definite maybe, or perhaps, 42.

Anyway, keep me in mind, because I have some interesting opinions for a person with such a meek, mild profession as an artist. Take the debate last night between President Obama and Captain Queeg. I thought the carpet on the stage was just beautiful.

Well, I must away now because the ink ribbon on my compooter is running out and somewhere it's 4 o'clock and a kettle boils away signalling it's time for tea.

Read more...