Gershon

12.2.2k1


The Fly - the remake. Not the one with the swapped heads. I like the one with the swapped heads, but it ain’t no David Cronenberg version of The Fly. That’s the way to remake a scary movie. John Carpenter did it with The Thing too; he took a great, old scary movie and made it shit-your-pants contemporary-scary. Both of these movies had the “on the surface” horror as well as your “lay awake at night hoping that creepy fly guy ain’t crawlin’ up yer wall” scary. Or the “god dang the cat’s been acting weird lately … I hope he doesn’t split in half and shoot out a tentacle that eats my face off” scary.
I really get into that psychological horror and the remake of The Fly sure deals it out. I seen it recently. Jeff Goldblum was born to play the part of that wacky scientist. That was his best work ever (until he started with the VO of them Apple Computer spots). Gina Whatserface did some terrific acting herownself. That part where she gives birth to the fly baby freaked me way out. I remember the first time I saw that scene and I remember thinking after seeing it: “No way I’m EVER gettin’ knocked up.” Then I remembered that there ain’t no biological way I can get knocked up ‘cause I’m a dude and what the hell was I thinking? Am I on dope? I concluded that Cronenberg is so dang good at scaring people that he can trick dudes into thinking that they can give birth to fly babies. Then the half-Jeff Goldblum/half-fly starts, well, “getting into” being the fly. And why not? He figured he was done for, so why not walk on the ceiling and such? And after all, he had the brain of a scientist, did he not? It was only when that red-haired rat pal of Gina Whatserface forced the fly to stop being wacky-scientist-fly-dude and become rampaging--gross-ass--killer--six-foot--fly-monster and chew the rat pal’s face off. That’s your last bit of horror – that you actually feel pity for oozy-insideout-fly-freaky. Normally one would like to see the 10th Armored Brigade shelling such a monster from the safety of the far riverbank. But here the hero is … a nasty mess. And poor Gina Whatserface. Has to shoot her lover, the fly. Love run amok. Science run amok. Woo-hoo! I’m gonna buy that sucker on DVD!

Tonight: Tosca

News: The Jamie Lee Curtis 14 won the Presidio Softball League Championship last Sunday. List Member/Team Members include: Jerry C., Anna B., (nameless) M., Woody T., Dave H. and Amy G. And Robot. We kicked the ass of a team that needed its ass kicked. And we drank a lot of booze. Congrats to Remote List Members DER and RCD for gettin' hitched. You make a Robot cry.

Tonight's Contest: Find the Reference! Yeh, well, last week’s winner was Founding Member John Metsker once again. The clue was the title of the venue announcement, “Cuckoo.” He guessed that it referred to me for thanking him for giving me a ride home the after previous Thursday’s meeting when in fact someone else had given me a ride home. I was “Cuckoo.” Well he’s right and he wins. He will enjoy a lovely prize. (Longtime List Member Bobo also questioned the Robot’s recollection of who drove his drunk ass home and he will enjoy the prize befitting “Honorable Mention.”)

Tonight's Dramatic Reenactment: Another history lesson: The Susan B. Anthony dollar coin was first minted on this day in 1978. Well we all know what the heck became of this lame idea: Payouts at the track. Change at the Post Office. Being second-guessed by the Frogger machine. Yep. Don’t ask me what I’ve done with all them Susan B’s. Kay Rough plays the Susan B. and we need a volunteer to play the minting machine.

Tonight's Singled-Out List Member: Kathleen Michaud. She’ll know why she’s singled out.

Porn Title of the Week: Keeping with the Xmas spirit, Porn Title of the Week Coordinator and Longtime List Member Tama says this one puts the XXX in Xmas: A Christmas Orgy

Satanic Word of the Week: this

The picture you see above of the martini was taken at Tosca’s by a dear friend, former List Member Guy Hudson. We could reenact the taking of that picture, for god’s sake. Meanwhile, bring your friends, I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!

Cuckoo

12.1.2k1


Are you the kind of person that notices when spooky stuff starts to happen to you? I ain’t talking about startling stuff, like a door slamming because of the wind. I ain’t talking about full-on supernatural phenomena like a chocolate cake baking itself either. I’m referring to low-lever spookiness. Give you an example.
Last year some time my bike light started to turn itself on in the middle of the night. I’ve got a cool bike rack that is not unlike a floor-to-ceiling stick with pegs to hang your bike, and I hung my bike on the upper of two pegs. Therefore my bike was head-high, if not shoulder-high. I got up late one night to hit the bathroom and blazing away in the pitch black (about head-high) was the little red blinky taillight on my bike. I thought this curious because I hadn’t ridden my bike that evening and hadn’t noticed the light on earlier that night. I switched the sucker off and went back to bed, the oddity of the mysteriously turned on lamp not quite getting through the fog of sleepiness.
I’ll tell you that the oddity of the mysteriously turned on lamp came home to poppa the next five nights in a row that it happened. A simple midnight bathroom visit turned into an exercise in spookiness. Why was that fucking light flicking itself on? How was it doing it … or … (and this is the truly spooky part) what entity unknown to me was flicking it on to spook me? Ghost? Goblin? Ghoul? Or was it just a mere haunted little red blinky bike light? I’ll never know now, ‘cause on night five I’d had enough and ripped that possessed bike light off my bike, threw open the kitchen winda and pitched that sucker into the black of night. Two things: The spooky bike light looked kinda pretty, sailing across the night shrouded Sutter Street, and, dang did my cats give me a strange look. A “the fucks got into daddy?” look.

Tonight: Annie’s

News: Yes we always go to Annie’s, but why not? It’s kind to folks who need to park, and the juke! Nice turnout at the el Bobo last week. Thank’s to all List Members for coming. The Robot had a lot of domestic light beers and started functioning strangely. Thanks to Founding Member Mr. Metsker for the lift home! New features are soon to grace the pages of the TNSC site. Stay tuned!

TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: Tonight’s Dramatic Reenactment pays tribute to automotive history. Today in automotive history a National standard for license plates was adopted. Previous to 06 December 1955 states designed their own plates, the results being myriad variations. Fifty List Members will play the fifty states’ plates. Some standouts will be Marc Hochman playing Iowa’s pre-’55 plate, which was shaped like an ear of corn; Amy Gatzert playing Texas (a gushing oil well); and Dave Hindley playing Washington State (a Microsoft logo (them ancient-Washingtonians knew a lot about divining the future)).

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Mary Haring. There’s a picture of her on my fridge and it reminds me that she’s nice. Wonder what she’s up to?

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: Porn Title of the Week Coordinator Tama coughed up a host of Christmas-related porn titles and here’s the first: Tits a Wonderful Life.

The dude on the radio said yesterday, “No rain until Sunday.” What an idiot. I’m pretty sure it rained all day yesterday. And he still has a job. Okay. See ya at the bar later. Bring yer pals. I’ll try. See you there! bye-ee!

Lima Bean

11.4.2k1


Back by pop-ee-lar demand, it’s the Thursday Night Social Club Venue Announcement!! If yer one to pay attention, you might have noticed that two whole weeks have gone by with no VA! Ayiiiieee! I reckon that’s the first time that’s happened in more than two years! Ya, sure, there was a holiday in there, but we usually have a not-so-secret Secret Meeting at the Owl Tree. Who knows? Mebbe there was one. This Founding Member was not remiss in his duty to hoist one or two last Thursday, and I’m sure y’all did too. Turkey Day is a great opportunity to hoist several, you ask me. You need one or two merely to take the edge off the travel. Or if you didn’t travel, you had the cooking. Or the parents. Or the sibs. Or the In-Laws. Or the Dee-Troit RockCity Lions game. It usedta be the Bears always played on Turkey Day, but that seems to have gone the way of the Dodo. Anyway, I enjoyed my Thanksgiving drinks in a land far from my own, where the holiday is seldom celebrated, even then only by ex-Pats or tourists. I hoisted my beers in Peru!
Boy was it cool! The weather was great and the Incan ruins were neat. The beer down there is named after the city it is brewed in. For example, the city of Cuzco served Cuzquena beer and the city of Arequipa served Arequipena. I’m not sure why we’re not doing that up here. If yer drinkin’ beer in a foreign land while on vacation or business, it’s handy to have a reminder of what town yer in right in your hand. “Let’s see … are we in Lima? Ollayantytambo? Urubamba? Oh (looking at beer bottle), we’re in Puno! Mmmmmmmm … this Punoquena sure is good.” Anyway … the trip was really wonderful, despite the frustration of the language barrier. I don’t speak the Espanol very well at all. I can form crude sentences and ask and answer generic tourist-speak questions, but aside from that I’m not too good. I had a semester of the Espanol back when I was a freshman in college and only a bit has stayed with me in the fifty-or-so years since then. I made a mess out of communication, but I documented my clumsiness to share with you today. What follows are some of the Spanglish sentences I said, crammed back into English. In the cases where I didn’t know the Spanish word, I did what every silly tourist does, I did me some word fabrication.

Hello. I am to be liking some beers, please.
Why is that wall with mildew?
Is this water of the tap?
Please, where is the bar (barro) in that town?
Thank you, no more guinea pig.
They are not with me.
Is this the National fruit?
She is true.
What is it? Beans? OK!
Please to open this bottle.
I have fire in the caboose.
I cannot buy this for fifty soles (Peruvian money). Sixty. (Haggling up the price.)
My name is Melissa.

I figure I’ll take me another class then go back and apologise. And I already know where the bar is.

Tonight: The el Bobo. “The Idiot.”

News: One lovely list member had some problems and ended up going to Bing’s two weeks in a row because the VA had not changed. That is part Robots fault for not changing the page, but pls. be sure to note the date of the VA and if it’s last week’s date, it’s an old, outdated Venue Announcement. That said, sorry about the confusion.

TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: I would say that for Tonight’s Dramatic Reenactment we will collectively reenact the 23 1/2 hours of travel time it took to get from Arequipa, Peru to SF, USA, but it sucked, so let’s not.

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Jimi Simmons. A hell of a guy. Do you know him? You’re lucky if you do.

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: Pimped by an Angel


I'm sure you all have a lot of great Turkey Day stories to tell. Tonight's venue is a great place to share the hilarity. And after a two week drought of NO meetings, I'm sure you're all dying. I know I am. So c'mon out! Bring yer bumpershoots and bring yer pals. I know I will. See you there. bye-ee!

11.3.2k1

>>>>>>>>>> Or rather, the CAT ate my Venue Announcement!
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Go to the Zeitgeist.
>> http://bayarea.citysearch.com/profile/868351/
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>
>
>
>
> See you there! bye-ee!

>
>
>

Butch

11.2.2k1


You likea the Lipton Cold Brew Iced Tea drink? I'm not bein’ paid for endorsing that product, but I think it’s all right. Throw in a slicey of lemon and it tastes just like weak-ass tea with lemon. Good enough for dopey freelance Robots.

Yeh, so, I had a dream the other night that I was an ace car mechanic. I could tear ‘em down and build ‘em back up faster than anyone in the Tri-state area. I’d build ‘em to be slick and quick and tear-ass. They’d fly off the line and blow the doors off anything they raced. Legal race or not. I woke up and thought of how far off the dream was.
I know nothin’ about cars. Well, very little at most. The obvious stuff, sure. How to flick on the wipers, how to check the oil, how to do donuts. Peel outs. Lawn jobs. What have you. I know so little about cars that when the horn on the family station wag I was driving to and from school some fifty years back went shit-crazy nuts I had no idea how to disable it.
I was on a camping trip up in the mountains when it first started to go South. I was high-tailing it back to town in the cold, cold morning air when the horn started to go off whenever I’d turn the wheel past 10 or 2 o’clock. This was often, mind you, coming down the twisty mountain road. The horn gave a mighty bellow too. Must have woke up lots of campers and mountain critters on that drive. But the day warmed up and the horn stopped its monkey-business. However, a couple days later the goddamn thing went ballistic again. By now I was back home in the city. This time the thing went off when I turned the engine over – didn’t need to turn the wheel or anything. I popped the hood and stood there like a dope looking at a big V8. Hoses, tubes, belts, wires … uh … there’s that’s that ya put the jumper cables on … I was at a loss. And god it was loud. It’s going to town for a good five minutes and I’m standing there going deaf when this little old nonagenarian blue-haired widow comes walking from three doors down and stops right next to me. She stands there for a moment and stares at me going deaf and staring at the engine, then gives me a look that says, “pathetic.” She reaches somewhere into the engineering marvel that is the engine of the 1985 Olds Custom Cruiser and yanks! The din stops except for the ringing in my ears. Gladys turns on her heel and goes on home without even a word. I know less now about cars than I did then.

Tonight: Mr. Bings


News: I don't know about you folks, but I'm feeling pretty good about things. Some stuff is still terrible, sure, but things within

TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: Your parents dancing to crappy music. You know who you are. Your parents liked some really terrible music and when they were young they danced to it. It's bad enough to knock you down today. (nameless) will be dancing to her folks' bad music, Tama will be dancing to her folks' bad music, as will Jerry, Dee and Ced. It'll be a hoot.

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Long Time List Members in attendance after a long drought.

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: Terms of Endowment

The Founding Members hope you are all in the mood for a dive-bar, because with Bing's, it's the divey-est. Just remember, drink from the bottle and don't touch anything. Who's in? I know I am. See you there. bye-ee!

SAILA

11.1.2k1

Yeah I guess I’m sorta sick to death of them email surveys or questionnaires or whatever you call ‘em. Those unsolicited, invasive two-dozen questions that reveal the number eleven is behind every single bad thing that ever happened in the history of the universe. The 20 poignant queries that determine without a doubt that you are (or are not): A racist, a Commie, in love with yer ma, going to die within five years, too stupid to graduate from grammar school or if you are better suited as a career horticulturist.
I delete most of these emails unread, but sometimes I read ‘em through if they come from a creditable source (e.g., brother, girlfriend, etc.). I got one the other day and one of the questions was “Person least likely to respond to this email.” Their answer was “Josh.” Heh heh. The long string of bullshit questions reminded me of something that happened a long, long time ago.
A pal and I were driving around really late one Saturday night. The kegger we were at ran out of beer, or we were on a smoke run or something. The point here is that it was late and we were driving around. We happened down one street and were surprised to see lights on in a strip mall storefront. (The town I grew up in went to bed at 8pm every night. Even Saturday.) My friend and I (it wasn’t Phil) looked at each other and laughed because it seemed the scientologists were the only ones up this late aside from us. Not-Phil said, “Let’s go see if we can bum some smokes from the scientologists.” What the hell, I thought. I said, “What the hell.” So we parked and went in.
Three or four rather normal “looking” folks were sitting around chatting and not looking the least bit sleepy. “Oh, no. We don’t have any cigarettes, boys,” they said, “but we do have coffee. Would you like a cup?” I’ve loved coffee for a long time, even way back then, so I said, “Hell yeah, I’ll have some coffee.” The coffee sucked. I mean it was terrible. But I wasn’t expecting much. They asked us what we were doing up so late and we told them we were on a smoke run. I asked them what they were doing up so late, and they said they were reading over the new “questionnaires” that just got back from the printers. “Would you like to fill one out,” one of them asked. “Sure,” I said, thinking that it would be a gag: “Are you a scientologist, Y/N. Wanna be a scientologist, Y/N. How much money do you make, wink-wink, $ _____.” I would answer, “No, No, Nothin’,” and laugh. Well here we were being handed this booklet with more questions than the SAT verbal and math combined. Oh! And how queer some of them were: “Do you ever read the phone book?” (A: Yes.) “Do your neighbors talk to you about your yard?” (A: What?) “Have you ever stood on the top step of the ladder, even though it says not to?” (A: What the hell does this have to do with anything?) It was 25 minutes into the bullshit questions and the suck-ass coffee had gone right through me. I had to pee like a racehorse. So I didn’t even read most of the last questions, but I sorta mumbled interest and checked off Y, N, N, Y, N, Y, Y, Y, N, N, blah, blah, blah.
I jumped up and said, “All done, fellas, c’mon, Not-Phil, let’s beat it. S’gettin’ late.” I think he had the same idea as me because he was faking the last couple answers himself. The scientologists said they would calculate our answers and the scores would determine how much training we would need or some such nonsense. When asked for my address, I put down the address of the Catholic high school I was attending and as Not-Phil and I had been using fake names, I used that name on the “Attention to” line. This was funny because my fake name was a real person at my school who I didn’t care for and would most likely be asked by a priest why he was getting personal mail AT SCHOOL and more importantly why he was getting it FROM THE SCIENTOLOGISTS. Hardy har.

Tonight: POW!

News: Well the redesign of the site is underway. Soon there will be all sorts of interesting and fun things, but the design has been revealed. Founding Member and Linkey-Loo Coordinator Alan J. Chimenti reported that he had come to despise the Spartan layout. The aforementioned Founding Member and Linkey-Loo Coordinator Alan J. Chimenti is on a work-related hiatus from coordinating the weekly Linkey-Loo, so Longtime List Member and Porn Title of the Week Coordinator Tama is filling in.

TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: The origin of the Hokey Pokey. While most people are familiar with the beloved song/dance, the Hokey Pokey, many do not know that the composer labored intensely to find the perfect body parts to put in, out, in, out and then shake all about. Tonight our players will demonstrate some of the tried and failed alternate body parts. Don’t miss this one. Really.

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Any list member who was laid off this week.

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: Nymphomercial

SATANIC WORD OF THE WEEK: had

Okey then. Here's the non-Spartan layout. Hope you like it. Or not. I sorta don't care either way. It was fun. Anyhoo ... Get your asses in gear and head on over to POW! for a pop. Bring your friends. I'm sure I will. See you there! bye-ee!

Odyssey

10.4.2k1

I am writing this message under adverse conditions: There is a twelve pound cat sitting on my keyboard. Now he is sitting on one hand. He is moving again. Rubbing his head on the desk, my hand, the keyboard, my other hand, back to the first hand, now he is just leaving his head in the middle of my hands. I suppose I'm not paying him enough attention, because he is looking up into my eyes - pitifully - as if he is on the verge of speaking English. He would probably say, "How 'bout some pets, baby." I'm sure he'd call me "baby." I'm certain of few things these days, but one thing I'm certain of is that he'd call me baby.
Don't start thinking that I don't give this cat enough pets. This sucker has been the boss for 11 and a half years now. We as humans might think we "have cats," or "own a cat," but I'm beginning to think we factor only slightly into the equation. We feed them and clean up after them (a lot) and keep them from running out the front door and that's about it. Oh yeah ... we do bring 'em the pets, too. It seems that we could hire a staff of sixteen to come over and pet the little sucker all day, what with his insatiable appetite.
I was gearin' up to launch into a rant about space exploration, or the war, or the beautiful sunny days but that fuzzball had other ideas about what I was gonna be writing about.

Drop by: Specs'

News: Who's got a job? Who's pounding the pavement? Who's hiring? Oh and I need volunteers to be Pinch Linkey-Loo Coordinators. Moss? Tama? Oh yeah: Two shoppping months till Xmas.


Last Week’s Contest results: The VA's title, "Turkey," rhymes with "No Workey," and y'all know what that means. Honorable mention to Founding Member John Metsker, who dug up a cat-devoted website featuring a cat named Mog who likes the turkey.

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBERS: All of last weeks' attendees.

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: (Still more Halloween fun) Intercourse with the Vampire.

Come down to North Beach, grab a hunk of cheese and saltines and wash 'em down with sweet sweet beer. Bring your comrades and religious icons. I know I will. See you there!

bye-ee!

Turkey

10.3.2k1

PalmPILOT let me down. I didn't know I had an appointment to pet and feed the cats at 4am. Surely I did, though, because they woke me up to remind me. They did it a bit less gracefully than PalmPILOT would have. PalmPILOT would have issued a polite "buh-da-beep, buh-da-beep," I would have blurrily read the display that said, "ALARM. 4am Pet/Feed Cats," and I would have petted and fed them. Fats and Mog, on the other hand, employed a slightly more invasive method of waking me: They stood on my head and howled. Ugh. The PalmPILOT's mode would have been preferred, but I guess I “forgot” to note the appointment.
Wouldn't that be great if you had a magic PalmPILOT that would schedule those difficult ones? I could see myself checking the calendar: "Lessee ... I got an appointment to get punched in the eye by some jackass at the park this Saturday." I'd look at that one and say, "uh, yeah. I think I'll be missing that." Or how about, “2pm, today, bump head really hard.” That would be great to skip. Then there are the bigger things: “Quit current job, get new one FAST; ride in NO cars today; do NOT eat that enchilada.” I’m sure that such a tricked out PalmPILOT would come in handy quite often.
(After all is said and done, I rather didn't mind getting woken up by the little jerks. I was having disturbing dreams about two people I don't care for who had shacked up together and dreams about a totally insolent and unapologetic asshole who resells AVIDS.)

PalmPILOT does have tonight’s venue noted: Make-Out Room

News: As many may have gathered, the venerable Western Images has gone outta business, leaving many former and current employees eager to get together and laugh about the glory days. Tonight is the night. (The meeting ain’t exclusive to Western folks, of course.) Robot is hoping to recruit new list members.


Last Week’s Contest results: The VA's title, Laid, refered to "Laid Off, like we all were. However, other correct answers include, "euphemism for sex, also known as fucking, or getting fucked, like we are," and, "them IKEA bed slats." All good guesses, all winners.

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBERS: All non-ex-Western employees.

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: (More Halloween fun) Hung Wankenstein

Last week's Annie's meeting brought a shit-ton of folks. I think tonight will bring more. Drink beer, do some networking. Bring your pals! I sure will!

bye-ee!

Laid

10.2.2k1

I wish I was born in a donut factory. That way I would have eaten so many I’d certainly be sick of them by now. I ain’t, though. I’m not at all sick of donuts. I could eat donuts from now till doomsday. I was sittin’ on the bus the other day and passed one “HappyDonutChineseDinner” after the other and that got me to thinking about the almighty Donut.

If yer one of the two dopes that reads alla way through this mess each and every week you might remember a short time ago when I pledged my love and devotion to the brownie. There was a sad tale about a brownie that went missing? Anyone remember? Yeh, well, if you read that and remembered it while you were reading the previous paragraph you might be thinking about a conflict of interest. Like, “Oh, what a fickle Robot: One moment it’s the brownie, then it’s the donut. What’s next? The Bugle filled with Rooster sauce? The Number 11? Another story about fuckin’ nachos instead about my fucking belly-dance troupe? What, Robot, is the junk food of choice? And why write about that crap anyway? Some other worthy subjects come to mind immediately: Beer, scissors, buttons, sleeves that are too long, pencil cacti, webcams, quilts, lighters, booty calls, saying “oof” in the middle of the night, film festivals, iron on’s, morning wood, and asparagus-pee-stench.” (All this begs the question, did anyone read the previous paragraph in the first place?) Robot answers his self-perceived critics: Donut is worthy subject matter. Read on and see the influence Donut has had over the years …


When I was a child I saw some after-school special that had this donut machine going shit-crazy-nuts and spitting out enough donuts to fill one room, then another, then the whole building, eventually flooding the world with donuts. That scared the shit outta me, but also inspired me to vow not to ever let that happen. With ample supplies of hot black coffee and ice-cold milk I would lead a group of volunteer 2nd and 3rd graders against the rampaging toroidal carbohydrate units!

When I was a 7th-grader, I had a knack for diagramming sentences. You remember that shit? Here’s a refresher:

I ate a bunch of donuts and gained about a million pounds.




I could diagram sentences like there was no tomorrow. Sadly for my best friend Phil and a lot of other 7th-graders, they were not so lucky. The kick to the nuts was that we had to diagram sentences from the first day of school to the last day of school and every day in between. Phil and the rest of the poor bastards had salvation, though: Tasty Pastry. Oh my gawd the glazed donuts from Tasty Pastry bakery were the best on the planet! They came in these wax paper bags and would kinda get squished and stomped in kids’ backpacks on the way to school. Why were they bringing donuts to school? Let’s just say that for a Tasty Pastry glazed I might let Phil have a look at my paper. Them donuts were legal tender.

My pal in high school who was to become the rock god known as Bob Log III had a cool old car with this bitchin hood ornament. I looked like a jet plane with a long nose-section and fuselage sticking out (kinda phallic-like) and the wings of the jet incorporated in the hood. My friend Danny put a donut on the hood ornament with the plane nose going right through the hole. Ha! Bobby liked it so much he left it until some bird ate it.

Founding Member and Linkey-Loo Coordinator Alan J. Chimenti brought a mess of donuts (from the Sanitary Bakery no less) in to work the morning his co-workers needed them most. The jelly-filled and long johns soothed anxious ex-employees.

Booze from this joint is sure to soothe too:

A N N I E 'S

Well there you have it. TNSC will live on! Fear not! And bid high!


Last Week’s Contest results: Yeh. "Oh La La" is the name of the coffee kiosk. Tama wins. Oh, and Founding Member and Linkey-Loo Coordinator Alan J. Chimenti won the "Bales of Cocaine" reference a week before.

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBERS: All ex-Western employees.

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: (Gearing up for Halloween) Ejacula

Big turnout. Tonight. Bring yer resumes. Bring your pals! I sure will!

bye-ee!

Oh La La!

10.1.2k1

Who remembers that game Mousetrap? It’s the one where your play piece is a little plastic mouse, and you go around the board and assemble this crazy-ass mousetrap contraption that has steel balls rolling, springs springing and various other bits affecting the end, which is a cage dropping down on your opponent’s plastic mouse. I had the game when I was a kid and I loved it. Today I recognize that it was a very good educational tool: In it, there were lessons about engineering, gravity and simple machines like the inclined plane, the wheel and axle, and the lever. I don’t know if it’s still sold today, but it should be. My only qualm is that there is but one way to build the trap. All the pieces of the contraption were molded plastic that fit into the board. The thing could only be built one way. Seeing the thing work and being unable to try different configurations of the pieces led me to augmenting the game play with one of nature’s most amazing products: The Lego.
With a bunch of Legos, I had that thing stretching across the room. My brother and I got some hand-me-down Legos that were “technical” Legos for big kids. They had gears and differentials and even some electronics. Here I learned lessons about resistance, capacitance, acceleration and velocity. I learned hard lessons regarding the load-bearing capability of Legos. (The bowling ball kept breaking the Lego ramp until I epoxied the Legos together.) However, I think the most important thing I took away from all those long days and nights is the ability to be crafty. To avoid being the mouse in the mousetrap. I could see my brother’s mousetrap begin to take shape and move my mouse away from the nail-gun. That type of craftiness. Which brings me to the point of this walk down memory lane: The other day I narrowly avoided being the mouse in the mousetrap!
I rode Chuck into work as usual, and locked him up in the cage in the garage. I came up into the building and there in the lobby was another collection of bad art … sculpture, if you can call it that. There were towers of Qtips, a dance floor made of bark and rusty nails, a huge collection of rubber bands stretched all over the place, metal poles turning, fans blowing big tarps, various train parts welded together, ball bearings being flung into cans by automated mannequin arms – a gigantic loud ugly mess! I’ve already ranted about my dislike of these installations, so I won’t bore you with it again, but this time was different because as I was taking in this horrific spectacle, I noticed a strange bare spot in the middle of all the machinations. In the bare spot was a steamin’ coffee pot and a stack of Styrofoam cups. Oohhh … but the coffee smelled good! I was in a Homer-Simpson-and-the-donut-like trance going toward the coffee when suddenly it hit me! The sculpture was a giant mousetrap and the coffee was the cheese! That could only mean … I was the mouse! Well fuck that, I thought, and ran for it, startling a bunch of dorks chatting with the bagel-kiosk dude. I could get coffee upstairs and relax in a safe environment. There I could try to figure out who was trying to trap me.

Tonightr: Lucky 13

New to the list: Steve Wood and returning to the list is Woody! How ‘bout that. Now that we have sufficient wood, we can continue with the Venue Announcement.

Comments: tnsc@therein-lies.com

Last Week’s Contest results: Nobody got the reference to The Reverend Horton Heat’s song Bales of Cocaine. Too bad. I bet former list member Uriah would have gotten it.

Dramatic Reenactment: The Amazon dot com bend-over job. Have you ever innocently browsed Amazon’s huge site and happened upon something you want? Perhaps you knew that the new Stereolab record came out and remembered that you told your boyfriend that you would get it for him but never did and maybe he forgot that it’s out and that you said you’d buy it for him but knowing him he’s probably not forgotten and is at this minute waiting for you to hand it over? Amazon dot com is a great place to buy CD’s and whatnot. However, one must beware the Amazon dot com bend-over job. This is when one, like my brother, attempts to buy a book and per usage, adds it to his cart, specifies a shipping address, specifies a credit card and waits for a confirmation – only to be booted off the site! Trying again yields a boot at confirmation! Only the third attempt is successful. Or is it? The email In Box has three messages from Amazon: Thanks for ordering (1), Thanks for ordering (2) and Thanks for ordering (3). Great. Three copies. Thanks. Our players in the Dramatic Reenactment: Bobo plays my brother as he is rapidly losing his patience with the ordering process; Moss plays my brother as he checks his email and flies into a rage; Alan plays his computer; Teensy plays a defiant and defective Amazon dot com; and Mark Bobek plays the three copies of the book my brother ordered: No Shit Sherlock: A Practical Man’s Guide to Being Practical in 2001.

Tonight’s Satanic Word: for

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Mary Haring

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: 5 Card Slut

Well okey. Who wants to meet a real live Australian? There will be one at the 13 tonight and tonight only! Do yourself a favor and come have drinks and listen to someone talk really funny! It’s almost not English! Bring your pals! I sure will!

bye-ee!

A farm down in Peru

9.4.2k1

Mysteries. I sure like reading mysteries. Or seein' them on the big screen. Little screen, laptop screen ... doesn't matter. I like watching mystery movies. Based-on-real-life mysteries are cool too. Hard to believe some of that shit happens. Justice files, Law and Order, anything with Bill Curtis on the Discovery Channel counts. Interesting stuff. I like when the bad guy gets caught and gets the chair. There's a show on the Home BO called Autopsy. If you haven’t seen it, you might be right to guess that it’s about autopsys. These ain’t yer average autopsys, though, these are case studies about how the Medical Examiner done solved the crime with the bag of bones and his or her forensic skills. Normally this kind of stuff – (real) blood and guts and slicing and dicing and bone saws and maggots and such – really turns my stomach. I mean I want to puke. Really. However, I don’t really feel so much like reverse-eating when I watch this show because it’s so frikkin’ cool that some scientist can figger out whodoneit just by analyzing a bathtub full of goo. The bastard doesn’t get away with it. All this fascinates me and I still sorta hate the low-level "real-life" mysteries. For example: The Disappearing Brownie.

Well I was working on my farm ‘round 1982 – or rather – I was on my way to school one day in ’85 or ‘6. My friend Phil (not my best friend Phil … my other friend Phil) had him a car and he was kind enough to slow down on his way past my house so I could jump in. We’re high-tailing it to school because, like usual, we were running late. Knowing that we are usually running late, I took to skipping breakfast but for coffee and some portable something – Pop Tart, toast, cereal bar or on this day, Brownie!
This was the last brownie from the batch. Fresh from the oven, the thing was half-devoured in record time by my brother and sister. I protested the feeding-frenzy but, as she pointed out, my sister did in fact make them. She preheated the oven, opened the box, tore the plastic sac, dumped the mix in the bowl, added the eggs, oil and water, mixed the proto-brownie, greased the pan, dumped the mix in the pan, threw the pan in the oven then sat on her hands for 35 minutes. I guess they were rightly hers.
The gracious person she was then, despite being honked off at me for something, she saw fit to let me have a brownie. I was about to chow down when I thought of what a wonderful breakfast treat it would make. So I wrapped the fucker in foil and hid it.
I dig it out the next morning just before Phil shows up. He honk-honks at me and I haul ass to meet him. Soon enough we're on the way down the street toward school. Our route takes us through this elementary school zone where the speed limit is 15 mph. The cops threw the book at you if you sped through, so everyone took it at 15. Once folks got beyond the zone, however, it was Daytona Speedway. Phil punched it, as did everyone else, and we were making tracks toward our right turn onto Bethany Home Road. Phil slows to make the turn and WHAM! We get popped from behind. All I know is my brownie went flying just as I was about to chomp it. Phil looks at me and says, "What do I do?" I told him to pull over, stupid. Perfect excuse to lay out and smoke cigarettes for an hour before going in. We pull over and the person who hit us is getting out of her car. She is stacked. We just got run over by Famke Janssen. (Well, not quite FJ, but still pretty.)
Phil looks at his car - no damage. Her car - no damage. The girl is saying, "Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" Phil is in Hound Dog mode: "Oh we're okay, are youuuu okay?" I'm disgusted and figure now's the time for a smoke.
Phil gets the girl's number and we're off. I suddenly realise that my brownie went flying. As the windows were all closed and a search of the car was fruitless (and it didn't fall out of my lap onto the street as I got out of the car or I would have certainly noticed goddamn it), the mystery of the Disappearing Brownie was born. I'm sure stranger things have happened, but where that brownie went ... nobody knows. Haunts me to this day. (Oh, and Phil got an STD from that girl and I've since quit smoking.)

Annie's Cocktail Lounge

Re: Last week: I ain't gonna try to trick anyone ever again. Promise.

Tonight's Contest: Finger the Reference!

Tonight's Singled Out List Member: How 'bout Dee? No Sho Ho.

Porn Title of the Week: Beetlejizum

Tired now. See you at Annie's! bye-ee!

Dill-hole

9.3.2k1

I’m sure I don’t know how I’ve ever had a plan come together. Especially if there’s some level of sneakiness involved. To witness: How badly I fokked up Anna’s bday/weddin’ surprise. A couple people noticed that the email that set up Anna’s surprise sort of, well, included Anna in the list of recipients. Uh … yeah. I meant to do that. What a dope. Some of you might remember the Todd Lindo kar-a-oke surprise a few years back. I’m sure the only reason that worked is because it was two months after his birthday that we sprang the party on him. He couldn’t possibly have been expecting it. I remember torrential rain, a fried fiesta and Ced and Greg singing a duet of Ebony and Ivory that should have turned Lionel Ritchie’s dead career over in the grave. (No, really, it wasn’t that bad.)
Regarding Anna’s aborted party, the planning got off to a bad start. We had intended on springing it next week, and had the monkey grinder, mariachi band and sky writer lined up for then. Rampant Ebola viruses, closed borders and illiterate pilots (Bjeldanes is hard to spell, I grant you that) crossed those off the list one by one. Also cramping the proposed date next week is the small detail that Miss Anna is already in San Diego and no where near Great America.
This maybe ought to plant the idea in your head that I am not the one you want to call when you’re planning your sweetheart’s or best pal’s surprise party. I’ll rent a can of air and blow up the balloons, but that’s where I draw the line.
So the surprise is ruined, but the party is not. Meet up at Zeitgeist and bring quarters: Anna loves the Area 51!

See you there! bye-ee!

shit

9.2.2k1

If I ever see anything like I saw on the TV on Tuesday morning it will be too soon. What a fucking world we live in.

Tonight we’ll raise a glass to the victims of these horrible events. Here: Hyde Out.

I don’t feel much like carrying on, so that’s all for now. See you next week.

**Meeting starts at 8 tonight.

Pismo

9.1.2k1

I got a bunch of projects I just can’t seem to get off the ground. I got others that are in various states of development: Some almost finished, some just started and others in a state of perpetual hold. Like my ship-in-a-bottle. Man, I was the happiest clam in the chowder when I found that sucker on the eBay. The listing claimed, “The romance of the tall sailing ships can be magically captured in a bottle,” and boy, by the look of the finished product on the scanned packaging they weren’t joking. Four big masts, lots of rigging, the sails fakey-full of air … one could almost taste the salt spray.
I’ve done a fair amount of internet auction buying. I was told early on how to win them: Wait until there’s ten seconds left in the auction then bid your max. That way you’ll certainly win if you are the highest bidder, as there is no time left for anyone to out-bid you. If your bid is not the highest, then: A. You make the other bidder pay more (which is sorta sneaky-cool), and B. You take solace in the fact that you’re not paying more than your max.
So this ship-in-a-bottle started at a great low price. I watched it for a few days as the price went up a little, then a little more, and still a little more. On the last day of the auction the price was still within my max and the minor bidding-war had subsided. Just noisy_pants331 left with a high bid of $33.45. I synced my PB’s clock with eBay’s and counted down the minutes – ten, five, one – then the seconds – 45, 30, 20, 15! Oh how exciting! At ten seconds to go I placed my bid: $44.51 and I became the high bidder! Moments later I won! Yee ha! Somewhere out there I heard noisy_pants331 scream in anguish – the plaintive, anguished lament of the recently-defeated in bidding. Sucker!
I paid electronically with the PayPal and a week later a rather large, heavy box arrived via the UPS. I cracked that sucker open and dang there were a lot of parts. And the bottle was bigger than I thought. A lot of parts, a big bottle with a small hole. This was going to take a while.
In anticipation of the project I had gone to the hardware store and upgraded my tweezer collection. I got two copper-plated flathead tweezers, a solid brass needle-nose tweezer and a custom-painted stainless steel alligator clip tweezer. (I had a local artisan who specializes in painting “Your Name On A Grain Of Rice” paint a vista of the driftwood-littered beach in Monterey on the shaft of the tweezer.) I also went to the optics depot and got a couple magnifying glasses. One was a free-standing one that you could position, one was a pair of magnifying goggles and I couldn’t resist the old-school Sherlock Holmes antique.
Yeah, so, piece by piece I got the hull put together. It was a total pain. Then I put the deck on. Jesus. That took a month. The masts took another month. That’s when I took a break. The thought of stringing up the rigging shivered me timbers. That was two years ago. Haven’t touched the sucker since.
Got several projects in limbo like the ship-in-a-bottle. When I gear up to take them on, something gets in the way. Most often it’s a six-pack of Vida Alta that road blocks.

North Beach drinkey-poos here:

Drinkey Poo

News: Okay. One more week to pick out code names. Several of you lovely list members have submitted some clever names. Now for the rest of you. You’ll need a code name for future Venue Announcements.Submit via email here: Code Name
Kathleen is back onna list. yea!
Golden Boy Pizza is right around the corner from tonight’s venue. Do yourself a favor and get a slice. Mmm-mmm!
Mary Haring had an announcement but I forgot what it was.

Comments: tnsc@therein-lies.com

TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Find the reference!

Last Week’s Contest results: For the reference to “Backwards K” Longtime List Member Mrs. Alan J. Chimenti posted this found reference: “Barry Bonds, strike out, K is the scorekeeping symbol for strike out. Specific enough?” It’s funny that she said “Specific enough” because, sadly, it’s not quite specific enough. As an out of state List member pointed out, the backwards K is the scorekeeping symbol for a called third strike, the kind cock … er … Barry Bonds had for the last out in last year’s playoff game. So our winner … Longtime List Member Mrs. Alan J. Chimenti. Huh? you say? “Why not,” Robot says.

Dramatic reenactment: Filling in for Tonight’s Dramatic reenactment is Tonight’s Satanic Word: Chimenti

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Mark Bobek. He's back from Asia for a week.

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: Der Porno Filmer (Sounds like a foriegn job.)

ummm ... tonight. The bar. Bring your friends. I know I will. See you there!

bye-ee!

Backwards K

8.5.2k1

Founding member and Linkey-Loo coordinator Alan J. Chimenti suggested that I call and ask some of the venues that the TNSC descends upon for a little something back, what with the hundreds of drinks we pour down our throats and the generous tips we often throw down onto the bar. I thought about it for a good hour or two. Came up with a few reasons for, a few against. The pros were more compelling than the cons so I had at the phonebook, jotted down some numbers and let ‘er rip. Results:

Li Po: (Last visited 28 June 2001)
Some fella answered didn’t know anything about no TNSC. I told him we had a lame ass turnout when we went there but we might do better we had us some scratch. He said he might budge if he knew I wasn’t jerking his chain … that I was a real customer. I tried to prove we were there by describing in oozing detail the fucking gross whore who ate our pizza and spiked her ginger-ale-no-ice with whatever was in her hip flask. I don’t think that was what he wanted to hear because he screamed something about Buddha Bar and slammed down the phone. Strike one.

Lucky 13: (Last visited 21 June 2001)
I asked the lady who answered the phone if she was covered with tattoos of birds. She said shit yeah and I said I was in a few Thursdays back with the drinkin’ club. I was the one who killed the PBR stash. She said: “Oh yeh,” and I asked her if the truck brought more yet. She said: “Everyday,” then she asked if we were comin’ back in and I said: “Yeh, well, mebbe you ought to do a buy one PBR, get one PBR free thing. That kinda deal would make a visit hard to resist.” She thought about it for a minute then said, “Well I can’t do buy one PBR, get one PBR free but I could do a buy one poppy jaspar get two free; or buy one Boddington’s, get six pints free; or how ‘bout buy one Sierra Nevada, get a case free.” I screamed like a girl and threw the phone out the window. Strike two.

POW! (Last visited 03 May 2001)
After retrieving the phone, I dialed up one of the TNSC’s fave bars. Someone answered, I guess, but I couldn’t hear a goddamn thing, because of the earsplitting volume of the DJ. I couldn’t even tell if anyone said anything like, “hello.” Hung up. Foul tip. Still 0-2.

Sadie’s Flying Elephant: (Last visited 25 January 2001)
Down in the count, I ring up the pachyderm. The lady answers and says yeh she remembers us. This is after I identify myself and claim to be in the group that laughed like hell when Barry Bonds struck out looking to end the playoff game last October (see 10.1.2k). “You damn-near got yer heads taken off by some fellas didn’t like you laughing at Bonds,” she said. I said: “What were they expecting? Bonds to come through in October? Please … the guy’s a cock.” She agreed then asked what the fuck I wanted. I want free beer and not Grolsch or Bitburger or Sierra or any shit like that. She said what the fuck’s the matter with those other beers. I told her that they were really really gross and if you drank fifteen you’d be as big as a house and have a wicked skull ache. She agreed then said no fucking way. “Free popcorn,” she said, “and a bunch of crap to put on it.” Fair enough. I figure that counts for an infield single.

Yer free popcorn venue with drinks:
Sadie’s Flying Elephant

News: You lovely list members have exactly one week from today to come up with TNSC code names. If you don’t submit one, you will be assigned one. The Founding Members have decreed that at meetings and in Official TNSC communications we will refer to each other using official code names. Submit via email here: Code Name
No other news.

Comments: tnsc@therein-lies.com

TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Find the reference!

Last Week’s Contest results: Founding Member and Linkey Loo coordinator Alan J. Chimenti almost disqualified himself from winning the contest because he refused to go through proper channels of submitting his answer. He first tried telling me. No. Then he emailed to an alternate address. No again. Only then did he click on the link to officially submit his answer, which was correct. The VA’s title, “Duke of Chicago” was a film in which DeForest Kelley, mentioned in the VA, starred. That was the reference. Congrats. He enjoyed a lovely prize.

Dramatic reenactment: Filling in for Tonight’s Dramatic reenactment is Tonight’s Satanic Word: Official

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: (nameless) Miller. She used to live next door to Sadie’s. And she’s cute.

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: Can't You Just Fuck Me and Go Home? (Porn Title of the Week coordinator Tama’s new fave title. And why not?)

No excuses. You must pop in for a pop at the elephant. We’re going for a new record. Parking abounds, so designate a driver and get over. Bring your friends. I know I will. See you there! See my sister there!

bye-ee!


linkey loo!

Duke of Chicago

8.4.2k1

Yeh, well my brother has up and changed careers. Yep. That sucker peeled off his apron, whipped off that crazy hat, chucked his knives, tater mashers and wooden spoons, threw out his cutting boards, jettisoned his mixing bowls, shit-canned his measuring cups and booted his food processor. He tossed his blender, pitched his toaster, junked his pastry fork, burned his cutting boards and sold his fondue set.
He relinquished his mixing bowls, gave up his whisks, surrendered his cookbooks; yielded his salad forks, ceded his soup spoons and let go his butter knives. He let slip the bread pans, dropped the cake pans, abandoned the jellyroll pans and gave away the pizza pans.
He disposed of the juicer, parted with the zester, laid aside the peeler, set aside the corer, cast off the tenderizer and marooned the gravy boat.
He ridded himself of the frypan, disburdened himself of the saucepan, divested himself of au gratin pan, dispossessed himself of the saute pan and washed his hands of the roasting pan.
He discarded the Joy of Cooking.
He pitched the Cheese Bible.
He threw to the winds The Food Lover’s Companion. I’m thinking he’s serious about this change.

I love that guy – of course I do! – so I’m supporting his decision. He’s making this change because he’s found a new passion. He’s really excited about this and he said that I could use this forum to make the official announcement. He’s swapped his old profession for this one: Celebrity Impersonation!
You might say to yourself: Wow! A celebrity impersonator, how exciting. You might think of your favorite celebs and wonder if my brother impersonates them. If you like Daniel Day Lewis -- sorry. He doesn’t impersonate him. Stallone? Nope. Jerry Lewis (lllllaaaaaddyy!!!)? Nuh-uh. However, if your favorite celeb is the late DeForest Kelley – Star Trek’s Dr. McCoy – you’re in luck! Boy my brother throws around some hilarious Dr. McCoy quotes: “Remind me to tell you that I’m sick of your logic,” and “I’m a doctor, not a bricklayer,” and “In plain, non-Vulcan English, we've been lucky.” The gags just keep on comin’. Oh how fun he is to have at partys. See for yourself, tonight, here: Dalva

News: We went to this joint Dalva on this date last year. Remember? The Founding Members have determined that a little walk down memory lane is in order here in the Dog Days. (Gimme a break, dog days. It’s freezin’ out here.) In other news: HBD to Longtime List Member and Miss-Not-Joining-Us-Tonight Sue Erokan. She is 25. Darin is new wo the list. Teensy is coming out tonight, so if you owe her money or prizes, bring ‘em. Robot screwed the Linkey Loo last week. Robot regrets the transgression. Bobo and Freshy’s mail got booted by the Giant Killer Robot Mail Server. Somebody tell them.

Comments: tnsc@therein-lies.com

TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Find the reference!

Last Week’s Contest Results: Founding Member and consistent Find The Reference! contestant John Metsker identified “STS-105” as “Space Shuttle mission to the International Space Station” at 2:33 pm. This is semi-correct: “STS” stands for Space Transportation System and can be unmanned rockets as well as Shuttles. I was about to award Mr. Metsker the prize when Longtime List Member Moss Gross’ message posted. It was held up in his mail server but had been stamped at 2:32pm! If his answer was more accurate than Mr. Metsker’s, Mr. Gross would win! His answer: “The last shuttle mission - the one you skipped town to see” That is more accurate! Mr. Gross wins the golfball and tee set from the titty bar.

TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: The firing of the French dude for wearing shorts to work. Now we all like to wear shorts to work but here’s a guy who got booted for it! Sure there was a dress code, but he was a factory worker and it was freakin’ hot! Leave it to the frogs to mete out such harsh justice. His case is in arbitration. Our players: Founding Member and Linkey-Loo Coordinator Alan J. Chimenti plays the bermuda short-wearing French dude; my brother plays the dude who fired him; Kira plays the bermuda shorts; and Kay Rough plays the arbitrator.

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Ced. He’s on vacation for the next few weeks but will be joining us again in Oct. Thanks for the head’s up!

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: The Bare Bitch Project

Ah, Dalva. The memories. Was that really a year ago? What bus route runs down that street? Do yourself a favor and come out tonight. Rub elbows with the Mission’s elite. Make some new memories. Throw someone against a wall. Bring your friends. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!

STS-105

8.3.2k1

When Page and Plant left the restaurant I was sure they would be playing the TNSC secret show the following night in San Francisco. They were the ones doing the convincing; Robert owed me a big favor. A few years back – while I was still living in Chicago – I bumped into him at the Addison L station. He was rummaging through his pockets and looking thoroughly disgusted. It was hard to miss him, what at over six-five … and that hair! Well he was patting down his pockets and spitting out some great English swear words (I’m a sucker for English slang -- ask anyone). As he was standing right next to the turnstile I knew immediately that he couldn’t find his token. “Hey Robert,” I said, “you lose your token?” He looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Oh, hey Josh. Yeh. I can’t find the foking thing anywhere. I had a whole bleeding army of them earlier.” I had just bought a new roll, so I peeled off two and handed him one. “Oh no, mate, I’ll just call me driver,” he said. “Oh jeebus, Robert. It’s the least I can do, what with Custard Pie and Ramble On.” “Thanks, mate. I won’t forget this.” We shook hands. “My pleasure, Robert Plant . This gets you back for When the Levee Breaks.” “Okey, then,” he chuckled.
So when he called me last Wednesday and said he was sending a car over I didn’t think that the car would be taking me to the airport! I had a few pops at the Admiral’s Club then jetted to JFK. He met me at the gate the next morning. “Sorry about the red-eye, old man.” Nothing to it, I told him. “Look, I brought you here to talk about making good on that favour I owe you. A friend of mine has agreed to help.” “You just said ‘favor’ with a ‘U’ in it, didn’t you,” I kidded. “You’re a bloody comedian, you are. Come on.” We drove into Manhattan and wheeled up to a curb in front of a familiar-looking deli. I asked him: “Doesn’t Marty Scorsese get Reubens here?” “In twenty-five seconds you’re going to know why he does,” He said. He was right.
As if cued by me finishing my pickle, Robert says, “Ah. Here’s my friend.” Jimmy Page hisownself walks in. “Hi Jimmy,” I said. “Hello Josh, it’s been a while,” he said, referring to the time I bailed him out of a tragic lost bus pass on Sunset in LA. “God, what was that? ’89?” I said. We laughed.
I said, “So what’s up?” Robert said, “That nice turn you did for me deserves a little payback. I’m chatting with Jimmy last week and your name comes up and he says he owes you a favour – excuse me – a “favor” too. He then cooks up an idea to play a show for you there in San Francisco, as we’re going into studio to record there next week. I thought it was a smashing idea so we brought you here to chat about it. What do you think?” I thought it was swell. “What do you need me to do, fellas? I’m in. I know a mess of lovely people that would get a kick out of you guys playing a show.” “That’s great. Really. That’s wonderful,” Jimmy says. “I’ve been trying to think of something for years. You can help us set it up, though.” “Oh, of course! What do you need?” I said. “Just find a small venue that has a P.A. We’ll do the rest.” “I’m on it,” I said. “Give me a call tomorrow.” “Cheers,” they said, and left.
Only a few calls from the seatback phone on the way back to ‘Frisco locked in the stage at Make Out Room. The bartender there is a doll and she agreed right away. I didn’t say it was going to be two rock Gods playing live, but the promise of a great act was all she needed. “The Mothertruckers stank the place up last night,” she said, “the place needs some good juju.” I then phoned Robert with the good news and hung up and began trying to get a little shut-eye, getting comfy with a half-moon-shaped neck-pillow thing. Just as I was nodding off, a flight attendant touched my shoulder and said there was a call coming in for me and asked me to pick up the seatback phone. It was my best friend Phil! Here’s what he said:
“Yeah, I've got a venue announcement for you: Thursday, 5:38pm Pad 39A Kennedy Space Center. I know it's short notice, but take off Thursday and Friday. We'll watch Discovery launch, throw down a few at the beach, light some fireworks, and watch some baseball with your Dad over the weekend. I’ll plan your itinerary.”
This being a once-in-a-lifetime chance, I said: “I’ll be ready to leave tonight. Let me know the airline and flight number.” He said, “Roger. I’ll call you back.” He talks funny like that.
When I called Robert back to tell him I got a better offer, Jimmy answered his phone. I told him what was up. “Oh wow, mate, that’s fantastic. I don’t blame you. Get down there and see it. I’ll tell Robert. He’ll understand too. We’ll ring you some other time. Cheers!” he said and hung up.
So there you have it. I almost got you lovely list members a secret show last week. I guess we’ll have to wail till next time.

For now: The El Bobo

News: Thanks to Moss for his Pinch Hit Venue announcement. Or announcements. I had about five in my InBox. Lessee … Gary is new to the list. I’m probably forgetting someone … Oh yeh! Freshy and Bobo provide new addresses. Great!
The venues for the next two Thursdays (8.4 and 8.5) will be the same venues that were featured 8.4 and 8.5 Y2K. See the archive for specifics. Reason being: Excellent things happened at those places.

Comments: tnsc@therein-lies.com


TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Find the reference!

Last Week’s Contest Results: Well it wasn't quite last week but the winner of the last contest was Mary Haring. She correctly found the reference: "Zingaro" is the Italian word for deadbeat. Yey Mary. She will enjoy a prize.

TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: Last weeks secret show! Cake plays Cake. Whoever went plays the audience.

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Amy Shuba. It takes me singling her out these days to get her to meetings.

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: Beaver & Buttcheeks

Do you like booze? I know I do. The El Bobo has booze. C'mon out. Bring your friends. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!

Zingaro!

8.1.2k1

With lousy weather, few spectators and deadbeats that mostly stayed put, San Francisco’s “Deadbeat on the Move Day 2001” was a less than spectacular event.
A spontaneous happening, the small number of deadbeats relocating was disappointing to some participants.
A middle-aged deadbeat named Sal was looking forward to new digs.
“The place I was at got stale. I been in it every day for weeks. That’s what these ‘Onna Move’ days are all about. Change of venue. Only this time hardly anyone moved.”
No records exist from last year’s Deadbeat on the Move Day, but eyewitnesses to both events recall more deadbeats on the move in the year 2000.
Jessie, a 34 year-old deadbeat, chose not to move.
“My place here on the sidewalk is pretty okey,” he said. “I got here a week or two ago and I’m finding it to be great. Lotsa light, a good breeze, you know.”
Still, a fair amount of deadbeats went on the move: A scruffy man in a SF Giants cap and overalls stalked down Seventh Street, apparently with a purpose; a deadbeat riding a mountain bike with no seat cruised down Folsom Street at a speed that suggested he had a destination; a fellow pulling an impressive number of fully-laden shopping carts down Mission Street’s bike lane seemed to be going somewhere specific.
A man identified as “Phil,” a self-proclaimed sponsor of the event, was not impressed.
“Usually you get a mess of folks on the move. Not just one here, a few there. I don’t get it. Folks just not fired up anymore. Time was, “Deadbeat on the Move Day” was popular. Most my friends would get their butts in gear.”
Phil speculated that the recently completed construction on the highway overpasses had yielded prime real estate, complete with shelter and privacy. Many of the encampments can be seen outfitted with cookstoves, clothes lines, some furniture and electronic devices.
As to the handful of spectators, Phil would only guess.
“Some folks don’t wanna see deadbeats on the move. They turn their noses up. They cross the street and walk on the other side.”
No public official was seen at the event, nor could any be reached for comment.

A N N I E ' S

The news: It's Annie's tonight, because that is easy. A crowd pleaser. You know. Also, The Cult is not sold out. The show is next Monday, 06 August. Get yer tix! Also, some folks attending the Dave/Anna wedding are talking about flights to SD and lodging . This should be formalized, as the date is approaching. Stay tuned for a link w/ info.

Comments: tnsc@therein-lies.com


TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Find the reference!

Last Week’s Contest Results: The VA title was "Bonneteau." This is a frog word for "little hat," which refers to the folded cards in three card monty which look like little hats. They look more like little tents, you ask me. Show a Frenchman a little tent and he'll call it a little hat ... after he surrenders to the nearest German. Winner ... Tama. She will enjoy a lovely prize.

TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: hmmm.

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Anna. Because she never gets mentioned anymore.

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: The Politix of Spanking

Some folks will be working late, but the rest of ya get over to the bar! Some folks will be there as soon as they can. Bring your friends. Some folks I know will. See you there! bye-ee!

Bonneteau

7.4.2k1

Hey! Great news! Longtime list member and official TNSC historian Stuart Pidd has just published his first novel! It's a work of fiction called A Big Hat For a Small Head. I got an advance copy from our good pals at Wet Possum Publishers. Here's an excerpt. (I'll preface: The protagonist, a Three Card Monte Tosser named Jackson, is plying his trade at the Powell Street cable-car turnaround in San Francisco. His team includes his lover, an ex-stripper named Doll-face. Doll-face is a Shill, or accomplice, who wins a couple hands to prove the game can be beaten. Cass is another shill who befriends the Punter, or target, enough to get the Punter to play. Belv is a Russian Army deserter who is the Lookout, Muscle and Roper. Jax doesn't trust Cass or Belv as far as he can pee. The Punter is a tourist from Dayton, Ohio named Page.) Doll-face picks the Queen.
"Win again. Little lady picks the lady."
Doll-face hops up and down, clapping. "Ohhh. Lemme go again. Lemme go again."
"Sure," Jackson says, "you bet."
"Hey, I win too. I threw down," says Cass.
"That your fin?" Jackson asks Cass. "You throw down that five?" He looks at Doll-face, she's still jumping. He looks at Page. "You. You see him throw down that five?"
"Uh ... uh ... " says Page.
"'Uh' what? He bet the five or not?"
"Uh ... yeah. Yeah, I guess he did." Page seems a bit more interested. Jax thinks he's almost got him."
"Okey, then. You throw in five, you get ten back. There's your five ... and ten." He tosses over the bills. Cass collects the ten.
"Let's go again. Let the five ride." says Cass.
Jackson looks over to Belv. Belv is wading five-deep through the cable-car crowd. They make eye contact. All clear.
"All right. We go again. But how 'bout throwin' down the ten? The lady's hot. She can pick 'em. You seen her."
Cass looks at Doll-face. She bats her eyes at him and he looks her up and down. A hard look. Page looks on.
"Well let's go, Romeo. Win her a prize," Jackson says. He lights a smoke.
"Yeah, I'm in. Here's the ten." Cass says, placing the ten. He reaches for his five ...
"Ep! Too late, bud. You're in for fifteen. Can't take 'em back."
"What?" Cass says. "You said bet the ten. Not fifteen."
"You wanna take back bets, go to some other guy's table. Let it ride, huh?"
Cass looks at Page. Page shrugs. "Okay," Cass says, "why not? The lady's hot."
Jackson shows each card. Ten of spades. Ace of spades. Queen of Hearts. He throws them face-down.
"Find the lady," he tells Doll-face.
Doll-face shoves a fingernail in her mouth and chews. "Ummmmm ..." she says.
"Take your time, but we ain't got all day." Jackson says and winks at Page, who smiles.
After a couple seconds ... "There! Middle!" Doll-face takes her finger out of her mouth to point. "Middle"
"Middle card, babe? You sure?"
"Uhhh ... sure. Sure I'm sure."
"Yeah. I think so too." Says Page. "Middle."
"Whoa!" Jackson says, "Batter up!" A few other passers-by look in. "New batter! You think middle too, new batter? You want a piece?"
"Sure. I seen it too. Middle or I'm from Columbus." Page throws down a five.
"Okay, batter," Jax takes a drag and points at Page, "Let's see where you from." He turns the middle card. Queen.
"Shit the lady HOT!" says Jackson. "Makin' the fellas happy!"
Everyone smiles. Doll-face goes through her hippity-hoppity routine, Cass slaps Page on the back. Page nods his head. "Middle all the way."
Jackson talks it up. "Way to go, batter! Here's yer ten, yer five. You ... here's your forty-five. You, Eagle-Eye," he
motions to Doll-face, "here's your twenty and here's my forty. Dang. You hot."
"Oh I wanna ride it out! Sixty! I'm in for sixty," says Doll-face.
"Hey!" says Cass, suddenly, to Jackson, "You can pay that out?"
"Oh yeah," says Jackson, pulling a fistfull of bills from his pocket, showing Cass, Page, "bank of Jackson is open."
Cass looks at Page. "Oh fuck yes. I'm in for it all too. Let it ride."
"How 'bout you, batter? You ride it out?"
"Uh ..." Page looks around, to Jackson, to Cass, back to Jackson.
Jackson says, "The lady, she winnin'. She got it goin' ON!"
"C'mon, bud," Cass says to Page, "You seen her. She can spot that Queen bitch no shit!"
Page looks at Doll-face. She bats her eyes at him, steps closer. Page takes out his wallet and fingers two twenties. Doll-face steps up to him, pushes her breasts against his arm. "Oh, wow," she says. Page looks at his wallet, then at the girl. He takes four twenties out and puts them on the table.
"Oh yeah, baby," says Cass, elbowing Page playfully, "you buyin' at the Thursday Night Social Club tonight
when you double that." Cass looks at Jackson and grins.
"Okay, baby," Jackson says, showing three cards, "Find the lady."



It’s a fun little romp. Kinda pulpy, sure, but it reads easy. The whole thing is set in San Francisco and the characters all go to TNSC. Stu works in some real-life list members. Tama, John Metsker, Alan, Moss … all of them show up at one time or another. You’ll have to read the book, but there’s a hilarious part where the Doll-face character and the fictionalized Dee get into a brawl in the Mayor’s office. (Okay, what’s with the character Doll-face? What kinda cheesy name is that? My opinion is Stu couldn’t think of anything better.) Oh well. Tonight we pay tribute to Stuart and his fine piece of pulp fiction at his favorite local bar:

Bamboo Hut

The news: There is NO PARKING in North Beach. Take the bus. Also in the news, Kira is new to the list. John is new to the list. We had a great turnout last week at Orbit. Lots of old-school list members. Thanks for showin up. Tonight we have out-of-town list members. Welcome all!

Comments: tnsc@therein-lies.com


TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Find the reference!

Last Week’s Contest Results: The VA title was “Trinity.” The name referred to Carrie Ann Moss’ character in The Matrix. Longtime List Member Moss got this far, but he didn’t finish the reference. Trinity did her some slow-motion kung fu in the move and that was your reference! (This toughy was a response to the “These are too easy” comment from Founding Member John Metsker.) No winner.

TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: Australia’s disqualification in the women’s 800-meter freestyle relay at the 2001 World Swimming Championship. Team Australia was disqualified after having won the event when one of the team jumped into the pool in celebration before the Italian team had finished. A “clear-cut” violation of the rules, perhaps, but the decision by the sport’s governing body, FINA, prompted the Austrailan coach to call FINA a – get this – “kangaroo court.” HA!
Players: Anna plays the Australian anchor who finishes first; Mary Haring plays the Australian swimmer who disqualified her team; Mrs Alan Chimenti plays the slow-ass Italian swimmer; (nameless) plays the Australian coach; and Scott Harris plays the rigid, take-no-shit governing board FINA.

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Todd Lindo. He is so cool. That gets him singled-out.

PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: A Midsummer Night's Cream

Bus, walk or bike to Bamboo hut. Skateboard. Hitchhike. Don’t drive or you’ll be looking for parking forever. However you get there, be sure to bring your friends. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!

Trinity

7.3.2k1

Scandal!
I got nothin' but grief from a lot of ya for leavin' you out of the loop regarding my surprise bday party. Well excuse me but I didn't know much about it during the "planning" and "invite" stages. Being in on the ground-level of one's own surprise party kinda shit-cans the surprise part of the party. That said, I'm awful sorry if you were one of the unlucky that stayed home. You missed a hell of a time.
One last story for the kiddies: The joint is called the Cal-Neva because it's on the border of California and Nevada. ON THE BORDER. They got a pool on the boundary that is striped down the middle showin' what state yer in. They got a swim-up bar in that pool and several list members delighted in sitting in one seat and ordering Everclear shots and getting turned down, only to shift over one and get their shot o' grain alcohol. Sadly, the CHP waded in before the snorkel trick Mr. Metsker was trying on the Cali side got off the ground, but an enterprising interstate Mossy's reenactment of Das Boot on the Silver State's side had everyone - aquacops and waterborne barmen included - falling over laughing. Well enough of all that. No sense in rubbing it in. Instead, I'll try to salve crisped feelings by letting you all in on what I stumbled on: Tryouts (of some sort) for slow-motion kung fu robots!
My guess is that someone's making a movie that features a platoon of robots that do slow-motion kung fu. That's about the only thing it could be. Or maybe a TV show or miniseries. Anyway, let me explain more. I was walking in to work the other day and what with the new apartment, I got a new commute. This takes me past a big church on California Street that has a park across the way. I'm walking on the park side and as I'm dodging some filthy ankle-biter dog that the oldest lady you ever saw is desperately trying to reign in I see a bunch of folks going through some very strange gestural movements. So strange, in fact, that it stopped me dead in my tracks to gape. The little yapper snaps me out of it but the wonder is still in front of me. Dozens of people - young, old, man, woman, child, black, white, brown, yellow - all going through some ritualistic slo mo judo chops and kicks and leg sweeps and sleeper holds. Stunned. That's the easiest way to describe my reaction. I was stunned. If I'd been on my bike, I'da wrecked.
I shook it off and resumed my walk, after watching a while longer. It stayed in my head all the way to work and for most of the day. I don't know for sure that it was a casting call or what. I didn't see any producer-lookin' folks. I didn't see any ubiquitous MiniDV cameras recording the best slow-motion kung fu robots to screen later, so I don't know. Mebbe it was the newest fitness mode, a la Ti Bo. Could be it was a newfangled martial art. My guess it was either tryouts for slow-motion kung fu robots or a new self-defense mode. The kind of new self-defense mode that is so unique, so original, it stupefies the would-be attacker long enough to deliver a slow-motion boot to the head. It'd probably work only once, though.

Tonight's venue is here: Orbit Room

News: As I'm trying to figure out the mailing list errors, you may notice that a Thursday will go by and you won't receive a message from Robot. Here's the solution: Go to the frikkin' site. All the email is is a link to the site. You sorta don't need it. Just check to see if it's updated. The Venue Announcement is usually posted by 3p.
We're going to Orbit Room to raise a toast to Founding Member and Linkey-Loo coordinator A.J. Chimenti. He just got both his GED and his San Francisco Taxi medallion. Congrats!

Non-public TNSC mailbox: here.

Tonight's Contest: Once again, John Metsker won last week's Find the Reference! (He writes: "RNO= Airline jargon for Reno Airport. These things are too damn easy.") Robot will bring his lovely prize tonight. Robot made this week's contest a bit harder. Up for grabs is a brand new T-Shirt! Who will win this week's Find the reference!

Tonight's Singled-out List Member: Scott Harris. He's movin' back to Chicago soon. Let's be sure to ply him with drinks.

Porn Title of the Week: The Sopornos. Bada-Bing!

I gotta ask: Do you need that sorta thing? Where we're going tonight they got it. They got it in spades. Bring your friends and encourage your love interest to bring theirs. I know I will. See you there. bye-ee!

RNO

7.2.2k1

A lady friend threw me a birthday party last week. All my friends and a lot of you lovely list members were there. I’ve never been the “victim” of a surprise party before – let alone one that was surprising – but it was fun. I fully wasn’t expecting it: My brother called and said something like, “Hey, what’s going on?” I said, “Oh, you know, unpacking … settling in.”
“What say you meet me downstairs in five? I’ll be in a Vets taxi.”
I was game. “I’m game. See you in five.”
The familiar Vets cab wheeled up minutes later and my brother threw open the door and threw me a domestic light beer.
“Hop in. It’s a short trip.”
Well it wasn’t exactly short, but it wasn’t too bad. Veteran’s taxi to the airport, Southwest B737-300 to Reno, Dodge minivan to the Cal-Neva resort in North Lake Tahoe. We B-lined it to a villa that I guessed, from its vantage, had a killer lake view. You see, I was concentrating on the view and wondering if this was the actual villa that a certain JFK clandestinely encountered a certain MM back in the early ‘60’s and not that it was my birthday and this jetting to exotic locales was a bit irregular and suspicious. My brother pops open the door and Surprise! I was very much surprised.
I said thanks, toasted to myself when they sang “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” and was a darn good spirit when the obligatory 31 punches in the arm started to sting. All my favorites magically appeared. Domestic light beer, Makers Mark Manhattans, corndogs … Friends I haven’t seen in years came up and wished me well. Folks from Arizona, Chicago, NYC … someone even brought my cats. Fatty squawked a happy birthday and Junior purred best wishes from under the couch where he hid. What a treat.
When the ruckus subsided, I checked the place out. A pretty swanky joint. Nicely decorated, furnished and goddang it smelled like a spring morning. I cooled it on a very comfy sofa and looked out on the lake. A beautiful view indeed. I chatted with some long lost friends, sipped a domestic light beer and found a bowl of snack mix within reach. Oh shit was that stuff good. Whoever came up with the buttery salty cerealy pretzelly brown breaddy goodness that makes up the shack mix gets into heaven automatically if you ask me. I just about killed the entire bowl when my lady friend, the hostess, came and got the bowl, presumably to refill it. Well no matter, there was another bowl already there. I dug into that sucker too and met a different mix. Gone were the brown breads and cereals. What the hell. I ain’t no snob so I munched it anyway. It had a peculiar tang to it – not exactly bad but kinda odd. It was sorta “woody” too. I washed it down, grabbed another handfull and figured I’d wait for the refilled bowl to come back. As I was listening to Tama tell a great story about a customer service call she recently fielded, the hostess returned with the bowl brimming with goodness. I told her thanks and that this stuff beat the hell out of the mix in the other bowl. She looked puzzled first then gasped suddenly – the other bowl didn’t contain an alternate snack mix, the bowl contained wood chips soaked in fragrant oils. Fucking PotPourri! That was the shit that made the villa smell like a dewey April morn. Goddamn I must have chowed down two three cups of that shit. What the fuck? Kind of a dumb place for a bowl fragrant wood chips if you ask me.

Ask me something else and I’ll tell you: Annie's

News: Mailing List is broken. ISP issues, I guess. I ain’t getting any intelligible tech support, so it’s back to the old list. “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

Non-public TNSC mailbox: here.

Tonight's Singled-out List Member: Matt Fassberg. I like Matt Fassberg. He is nice.

Porn Title of the Week: Egg Foo Kitty Yung. What the?

We haven’t visited Miss Annie in a while so why not? It’s one of the best joints in town and it’s centrally located. What more you want? Oh and the juke! Do youself a favor and come on out. And bring your friends. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!

I am not a plant.

6.4.2k1

Ya hear of Fong Schway? Well I dug up a little primer on the trend at a local used book store. It's supposed to enhance the flow of positive energy in yer home. You chuck a mirror here, throw a windchime there, plug in a gurgly fountain and you're off to better livin'! Well I don't know about that. Mirrors tend to confuse, windchimes piss off neighbors and those fuckin' fountains ain't nothin' but algae ponds for the cats to drink up and puke. The trend is pretty hot, though. Some folks making a bunch of dough off suckers dumb enough to believe the arrangement of your sofa and chair can affect the Positive Energy in your place. The Fongers call this Positive Energy "chi." The Fongers go around the house with a bunch of sticks glued together that they say can identify the "Relationship Corner" and the "Wealth Corner" and such. Then you shove a cut-glass crystal in that corner and bingo, yer old lady ain't gonna leave you and you hit all six Lotto numbers. This little book was really informative.
The last part said that there was wide latitude for interpreting the "chip" ... or "chi" rather ... but it was careful to point out that your bunch of sticks better be glued together right or you risked the relatively unknown phenom of Fong Schwit. This is where your windchime, if placed in the "wrong" place, will bring the fuckin' sky down on ya. Yer dog'll run off, yer daughter will get knocked up and you'll lose your shirt at the track. Then your car will break down on the way home. That kind of nasty shit. Don't fuck with the Fong Schwit.
The last chapter, or more accurately, the addendum focused on the new school of Fong Schway called Fong Schwing. That seems to me at least to be the most believeable. That part says that the placement of domestic light beer and rock and roll CD's and remote controls in proximity to where you're sitting will enhance the harmony of the room. I have some problems with the mirror and fountain placement nonsense, but the Fong Schwing kinda rules. I suppose I've been livin' the vida Fong Shwing for a while now, which is nice.

Meanwhile ... Thursday night's venue is here: Li Po

Sorry about the temp digs, but the new site is under construction and the Robot coughed up this no-frills loaner. Here's hopin' the new site is up soon. And since Robot is offline 28 June do to MOVE, VA goes out EOD Wednesday. Live w/ it.
It also seems that Robot's mail server is not so reliable. I think everyone got two or even four Venue Announcements last week, thus confusing the Mailing List testing that's going on. My testing is done, though, so stay tuned Thursdays for a VA - if you're subscribed.

Non-public TNSC mailbox: here.

Tonight's Contest: John Metsker won last week's Find the Reference! (The title of the VA was "19.07 g/cc." That's the density of Uranium. Wow! Easy!) He will enjoy a lovely prize. (An out-of-state subscriber also won. He too will enjoy a lovely prize.) Who will win this week's Find the reference!

Tonight's Singled-out List Member: Miss Kopke is back on the list after far too long. yee ha!

Porn Title of the Week: INREARENDENCE DAY ha! Just in time for the Holiday!

Now then. Who wants delicious drinks in a stylish location? Who wants to enjoy these things with lovely List Members? If you do, like I do, you're in luck! All that unfolds before us tonight at Li Po. I'll bring my friends and see you there. bye-ee!

19.07 g/cc

6.3.2k1

I sometimes wonder how I'm gonna buy the farm. Whether it's Old Man Ebola virus, or Old Man Earthquake or simply Old Man Father Time. I don't mope around all day thinking morbid thoughts, but every now and again I think of the inevitability of me kicking the bucket. It's strange, though: While one is helpless to avoid dying, one can do certain things to prolong life and keep one's mortality at bay. Some folks will say that, for example, quitting smoking will save your life. Sure. Others suggest that a healthy diet and regular exercise is the key to longevity. Why not? I got my own secret that I'm willing to share. I stay alive by avoiding them Cee-Ment Mixers. Those suckers cruise the streets at about a million miles per and with a load of concrete they can punch through a mountainside. Have you heard of depleted uranium? The Army uses it in the bullets they shoot from some of their planes. It's sorta radioactive and it's incredibly dense and with enough velocity it can penetrate armor-plating (read tanks) like butter. I figure cement mixers are kinda like depleted uranium bullets. There ain’t no stoppin’ them. I’m surprised there aren’t more of them wreckin’ into things around here. So you want some advice from me for long livin’ … you see a cement mixer – go the other way. You ought only to be watching its taillights disappear.

Oh … I got some more advice. Enjoy bevs here: Lucky 13

News: Jeremy, watch your step on the way to the bar. Don't reenact your trip-and-fall. Also, more mailing list testing. I’m getting slightly bored with it, but I’ll whip it soon. Construction has begun on the new TNSC site.

Non-public TNSC mailbox: here.

Tonight's Dramatic Reenactment: TonDramRe Office closed this week. Moving, you know.

Tonight's Singled-out List Member: Mary Haring. Say hi to Mary tonight.

Porn Title of the Week: I Cream of Genie Ha!

Oh Lordy. I want to see each and every one of you at the venue tonight. I have an important question for you. Oh and bring your pals. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!

Agent Orange!

6.2.2k1

I may have mentioned that I ride my bike to work and that I try not to be distracted by things that I encounter on the ride, but perhaps I haven't. I do, though; I try to keep my eyes, ears and mind on the road. Some have called me crazy for riding a bicycle on the streets of San Francisco. Others expressed disbelief that anyone actually tries - what with the condition of the streets and the near militant drivers. Most urged and continue to urge me just to be careful, damn it! I take their advice and try to be careful and ride defensively and concentrate. Sometimes that just don't work. Witness ...

• Goddamn sinkhole develops in the middle of Hyde street and almost sucks me in. A miraculous, record-setting bunny-hop over it saved me from tumbling into the nether-regions of the subterrainian Tenderloin. Counting my blessings for my lightning-fast reflexes and catlike manuvering abilities I thought briefly of the alternate outcome: Spiraling down, down, down. A chilling thought shot through my head: What with the state of the cro-mags that inhabit the surface of the Tenderloin one might guess the hideousness that awaits the hapless sinkhole victim below. One imagines the "Morlocks" from Wells' The Time Machine, but these subsurface beasts are strung out on dope! Oh heavens! To escape such a fate!

•• The consequence of this daydream: Almost plowing into the deadbeat crossing against the light.

• "I'll be damned if that guy doesn't look like my dad." South of Market on 8th and Harrison, there's a white-haired gentleman wearing a suit and tie and Ray-Ban Wayfarers. He's over 6 feet tall and he's walking with a purpose. Could be my dad except for a few factors: This beanpole weighs in at about a buck-thirty while pop weighs more like a buck-oh ... I don't know ... a buck-oh-more-than-thirty. 200? 180? Somewhere around there. Also, I know it ain't him because in my father's own words: "I ain't going to Shakey Town." So, yeah, it couldn't be him. We meet him in Tahoe when he's "in the area."

•• The consequence of this daydream: I'm almost clipped by a van from that French public toilet outfit that has an office right there on 8th. Woulda seen it pulling out if I hadn't been proving why that guy wasn't my dad.

• "This frikkin' police escort ever gonna end?" Right in front of me, a dozen cop motorcycles turn right onto State Street from westbound Division Street. Sirens blaring. Followed hotly by three or four cop cars. Then the black Suburbans, more squadcars and trailing motorcycles. I'm stuck at the intersection. Some joker politician or foreign dignitary must be checking into the Ambassador East. An eternity of cops later and the last copcar goes throught he intersection. "Finally," I'm thinkin' to myself. I put my head down and go.

•• The consequence of this distraction: Bam! Right into the rear bumper of that last copcar that - um - stopped in the middle of the intersection! Rode right up on front wheel - spilling it onto the cop trunk. What the hell? I thought the guy was gonna keep goin' and I was gonna get me a po-leese escort. Nope. I got a dirty look from the Chicago PD. The look said, "Get the fuck off my trunk, asswipe. Here, let me help you." He hit the gas and, yeh, I got off his trunk. (Okey, so this is a Chicago story, but it illustrates what might happen if you let yourself get distracted on them mean 'ol streets.)

Tonight: Dylan's

News: Ah, hell. I don't know if the Mailing List works or not. Here is a (censored) list of those subscribed:

jjohnson@**.com
Diana.Vasquez@**.com
(nameless)@**.com
Tama@**.com
AShuba@**.com
moss.gross@**.com
matt.brown@**.com
jason13@**.net
rbonstin@**.com
maryharing@**.com
brucenewman@**.com
bobo@**.com
moss@**.com
Amy_Whitehead@**.com
kmichaud@**.com
erokan@**.com
chamilton@**.com
tlindo@**.com
achimenti@**.com
andyokno@**.com
mhegarty@**.com
dhindley@**.com
john@**.net
Killme3x@**.com
bayfunk@**.net
bercestey@**.com
SallyC@**.com

Would each of you please click here to send TNSC Robot a message saying you got the Mailing List post, as well as the old fashioned email. Work with Robot here. It's a cry for help in a world gone mad. Other news: Stay tuned for exciting newness coming soon to the TNSC. Design! Readability! Interactivity! Yes, yes ... nipple-numbing funness coming soon. (See a preview of the newness in Tonight's Contest and the new feature: Porn Title of the Week!)

Tonight's Contest: From now on, the contest will be: Find the reference! How to play: The title of the Venue Announcement will refer to a line, word or sentiment or perhaps something even more vague within the Venue Announcement itself. Click on Find the reference! to zap an email to Robot and state your found reference and the first right answer received will win a prize. Prizes weekly! Okay, then ... Find the reference!

Tonight's Dramatic Reenactment: Chef falls asleep twice while viewing Pearl Harbor! The hour and a half of the shitty love story preceding the battle scene had too little to hold poor Cheffy's attention and he dozed off! Upon waking, he asked his date if he had missed the battle scene yet. "Not yet," said his date. Later, halfway through the forty-minute battle scene ... Chef fell asleep again! What a movie! Our Players: Chef's date plays Chef and Chef plays his date (a little role-reversal here); Loretta, Alan, Dee and Jason play the other (disappointed for wasting three hours of their lives) moviegoers; Moss, Bruce, Jeremy, Sally, Tama and John Metsker reenact the shitty movie (a little reenactment within a reenactment here).

Tonight's Singled-out List Member: Bercesty! Hello there Miss Relocated-to-South-California!

Porn Title of the Week: Spankenstein (Longtime List Member Tama, in her capacity at work, comes across hundreds of porn movie titles weekly, and graciously shares her fav of the week with the Club!)

Ah, hell. It's great out tonight. Why not come out and discuss mp3 sharing or whatever with the other lovely List Members. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!

The limit of my attention span.

6.1.2k1

I ain't the forgetful type. Occasionally I'll forget something, but I'm usually pretty good with remembering the important stuff. It's quite an easy distinction: The important stuff and the non- important stuff. Remember to wear pants. Remember to never trust that bitch again. Remember to tell your loved ones that you love them. Remember anniversarys. Don't worry about remembering this shit: Email addresses. Billy Joel song lyrics. Stupid jokes. Funny thing is ... I remember email addresses, Billy-Frikkin-Joel song lyrics and stupid jokes. I fill up the brain with nonsense like this. I want a better filesystem up there so I can purge that crap. God damn. How's this:

"Look what happened to me,
Under the apple tree, It was hairy and scary and looked like a tunnel to me.
So I whipped out my big 'ol ba-na-na,
And shoved it into the crack,
And she let out a scream,
As I filled her with cream,
And that was the end of that. de-do."

God dang that was funny in third grade. Why it's still up there in my pea brain I don't know. I even remember who said it, where they said it and what happend later when the teacher heard it. (That was kinda funny.) I get some help remembering other stuff. Calendars, alarms, Palm Pilot and PowerBook lend a hand. Yeh, so when I'm relying on something to remind me of this or that and I forget, uh, one of my helpers ... I find myself in a world of shit. Today I needed to send an TNSC Venue Announcement, it being Thursday and all, and shit, I needed to write the thing. Remembered all that, but forgot my helper. My PowerBook. At home. Me not at home. Oh well. Got it now and here you are. A really stupid fucking rhyme from 1978. Hope you enjoyed it 'cause that's all there is and there ain't no more.

'Cept this: Hyde-Out

News: If you're getting the VA twice that means you've subscribed to the mailing list. You're getting one from the mailing list and one from the classic list. This is the last week of the classic list. So Subscribe!

Remember, list members, send your non-public comments to: tnsc@therein-lies.com

The TNSC Contest, Dramatic Reenactment and Singled-Out List Member writers also forgot thier PowerBooks so you lovely List Members suffer without this week. Linkey Loo Robot forgets nothing, though.

Calling all Pac Heights, Snob Hill, North Beach, et al denizens: Get to the Hyde Out. It's central to your location and that's where yer pals will be. I know I'll be there, and I'm yer pal. See you there! bye-ee!

The Extra "E" ...

5.5.2k1

I guess I'm a stupid asshole but I would naturally figure that a bunch of white-collar professionals would be more apt to clean up after themselves than a group of blue-collar painters, plastermen, carpenters, duct guys and electricians. Nope. Far from it. They're remodeling the office space across the hall from where I work and all the dot-com office dorks have been moved across town while the construction work gets done. I used to complain (Me? Complain? No!) ... used to complain about all the office fucks that peed all over the bathroom. It's a semi-public deal that has three urinals and two shitters. I'll be damned if the white-collar "pros" didn't piss all over every bit of real estate. Seats, wall, floors. Kinder-frikkin-garten. That irritated me on a daily basis. I put up signs: "If you are more than four years old, please lift the seat before you pee." Sign got torn down, but we got one them dee-lux xerox-ers there at the office. Made more signs. Didn't do any good, though. They "watered" that joint until the day they got moved. I shoulda figured it, though. Probably not one of them ever been on a date, let alone kiss a girl. I say this because you try that peein' on a girl's toilet seat you'll see how fast she hands you your hat and tells you to get the fuck out. For good. Even a bunch of shit-faced, videogame-playin', got-beat-up-every-day-at-school, never-kissed-a-girl losers would learn from that kinda reenforcement. You can bet the duct guys and them get one of their own trowells upside the head if they wet the seat. So here I am, thinking I ain't seen nothin' yet regarding trashed restrooms when construction starts and the workin-class joes are neat and tidy. Every one of 'em I've seen in the john washed up after doin' their business. That's more than I can say for them "internet" folk. I made a royal misjudgment. Because of this, I offer my sinscere apologies to all those working-class dudes that lift the seat and practice good aim and good personal hygene. Actually, I bet it has something to do with their collective bargaining agreements ...

Tonight: The Il Pirata

Here's the news: The mailing list is now working. Please take a moment to subscribe. The classic list will soon be retired. If you're confused as to why you have to subscribe again, well, don't worry about it. I chucked that list out. It had some problems. Bats in the belfry and such. New list = no bats. huh?

Tonight's venue has been chosen because the weather is, ulp, "great" and The Pirate has a patio. Oh, and parking. And Miller High Life. And UPS guys for all you lovely list members who can't keep your hands off UPS guys. Me, I likea the Miller myself.

Yeh, I think the Rant section has to go. Mebbe I'll try to defibrillate it with a TOPIC! Okey. Here's the topic: Your favorite cocktail. What is it? Why do you like it? How does it compare to the official TNSC cocktail: The White Russian?

Remember, list members, send your non-public comments to: tnsc@therein-lies.com


TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Subscribe! There is a prize this week. You have to be present to win. I still owe Teensy her prize.

TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: nix! JC plays nix!

TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Al. Good luck. Or should you be wishing us good luck?

Okay, fine. You want to sit outside and drink yummy yummy booze? Me too. Cancel all other plans and get yer butts over to the Il Pirata. They have free hotdogs. mmmmmm. I expect a lot of "no-shows" and "career no-shows" to get over it and come out. I'll be the one throwing up on the raccoon. See you there! bye-ee!