In Search of...Ass Wednesday Redux
I am still in search of a theme for the ass feature. While certain helpful people (Dutch) have asked that the subject to be something other than my ass I can assure the temptation never arose. Me acting like an ass maybe. I expect -wo to post on that inexhaustable subject.
I have considered, am considering, and will continue to consider subjecting the reader (Hi honey!) to puerile assessments of people in the news (other than, say, Pres. Shrub) whom I believe are the biggest asses of the week. Indeed they are many, too many. I fear this task is the analogous to a mouse attempting to kill and eat a herd of elephants. But not, like, Dumbo, more like the king who turns greean and dies at the beginning of Babar after eating some bad mushrooms, or licking the toad, or something. Oh, and you can probably come to similar conclusions regarding the folks in the news, the writers of the news, the readers of the news, in any event.
I will instead relate a brief tale about a gig I played with a band at a local venue I will euphemistically call the Potlicker, located in the chemical weirdness of Gastown at night. With any luck, I will convey the tie-in to the post's title detectably. You know me, Commodore Subtlety.
We took the show on short notice and short money. (But unlimited coffee for me. I had the vat to myself!) We agreed to play 4 or 5 sets, from 10 to 3. I voiced my usual concerns: Our songs suck! You suck! I suck! I'll crap my pants!
So there we were, playing away in a late night barful of miscreants, shemales, and schneehounds who, on the mean, would likely have danced to a dial tone if the phone was loud enough. I felt, let's see... like the brother from another planet, but without being Joe Morton, with that cool detachable eye recording device which I could leave in a potted plant somewhere to establish the perfidy of the stodgy po-faced civil servant before dealing out some interstellar justice (but in a tasteful, understated manner) or whatever happened there. At least in that movie there were no half-siblings having at one another in a tasteful, understated manner (damn you, John Sayles!).
Playing, playing, the monitor mix coming through like a wax cylinder played backwards in a wind-tunnel, people and aliens dancing, when I espy, below my ride cymbal, a 20-something white male, casually dressed, likely under the influence of some acronymic substance, dancing like a cross between catwoman and stripperella, and... giving his own ass the kind of love and attention you might expect from a frat boy at a..., well, he was groping himself, in a rhythmic, not very tasteful, and overstated manner. This went on for several songs and thus the Ass Dancer was born. It was all I could do to count to 4 repeatedly as Narcassus adored his fine self for what felt, and feels, like an interminable period of time. The end.
I have considered, am considering, and will continue to consider subjecting the reader (Hi honey!) to puerile assessments of people in the news (other than, say, Pres. Shrub) whom I believe are the biggest asses of the week. Indeed they are many, too many. I fear this task is the analogous to a mouse attempting to kill and eat a herd of elephants. But not, like, Dumbo, more like the king who turns greean and dies at the beginning of Babar after eating some bad mushrooms, or licking the toad, or something. Oh, and you can probably come to similar conclusions regarding the folks in the news, the writers of the news, the readers of the news, in any event.
I will instead relate a brief tale about a gig I played with a band at a local venue I will euphemistically call the Potlicker, located in the chemical weirdness of Gastown at night. With any luck, I will convey the tie-in to the post's title detectably. You know me, Commodore Subtlety.
We took the show on short notice and short money. (But unlimited coffee for me. I had the vat to myself!) We agreed to play 4 or 5 sets, from 10 to 3. I voiced my usual concerns: Our songs suck! You suck! I suck! I'll crap my pants!
So there we were, playing away in a late night barful of miscreants, shemales, and schneehounds who, on the mean, would likely have danced to a dial tone if the phone was loud enough. I felt, let's see... like the brother from another planet, but without being Joe Morton, with that cool detachable eye recording device which I could leave in a potted plant somewhere to establish the perfidy of the stodgy po-faced civil servant before dealing out some interstellar justice (but in a tasteful, understated manner) or whatever happened there. At least in that movie there were no half-siblings having at one another in a tasteful, understated manner (damn you, John Sayles!).
Playing, playing, the monitor mix coming through like a wax cylinder played backwards in a wind-tunnel, people and aliens dancing, when I espy, below my ride cymbal, a 20-something white male, casually dressed, likely under the influence of some acronymic substance, dancing like a cross between catwoman and stripperella, and... giving his own ass the kind of love and attention you might expect from a frat boy at a..., well, he was groping himself, in a rhythmic, not very tasteful, and overstated manner. This went on for several songs and thus the Ass Dancer was born. It was all I could do to count to 4 repeatedly as Narcassus adored his fine self for what felt, and feels, like an interminable period of time. The end.
posted by p-man at 9:45 p.m.
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