sssshhh!

12.4.2k2
Thursday, 26 December, 2002

Well hello folks. Hope yr having a nice week. Tonight we will be having a "secret meeting" at the Owl Tree (Taylor and Post Streets, Frisco.) You might notice that this where meetings are held on holiday weeks. See you there! bye-ee!

whrr ... clik!

Fe

12.3.2k2
Thursday, 19 December, 2002

I've been honored and humbled by the award I've received from some very close friends and notable professionals: "Best Shirt-Ironer (Non-professional), 700 block Taylor Street, SF." Winning caught me by surprise, really, as I didn't have a thought of winning the thing at all. Founding Member Alan J. Chimenti nominated me as a joke, or so I thought. "No, man, I've noticed the crispness of your collar and your paper-smooth sleeves for some time. And to think you don't use any starch at all! My goodness!" Alan blows smoke up my ass all the time, so his news of his nomination of me didn't rile me. "Uh huh," I said, "that sounds great. I'll share my prize with you." I didn't know there was a prize. Alan gets one of the cufflinks (iron-shaped sterling-plated pure pig-iron (the prize-determination committee was not without a keen sense of irony, it seems!)). We'll roll up the other sleeve.
Then the reporter the Chronicle sends over is a bulldog! I thought I'd answered all the relevant questions in the first five minutes, but this person had other ideas. She wouldn't take "no more questions," or "no comment," or "I'm forbidden to speak about that," or "remember the gag order," for an answer. Whatever. Stay tuned to the Chronicle for the write-up. Meantime, stay tuned to Annie's for this week's meeting.


Go and wish Mathias a HBD. Go and wish yr fellow List Members a MC. Drink a few MHLs. Bring yr Ps. I know I W. See you T. bye-E!


whrr ... clik!

Nuts

12.1.2k2
Thursday, 05 December, 2002

You ever stumble on a good thing and want to tell everyone? You figure out something that folks ought to know about and you're fired up to tell them but then something snaps! Why tell them and risk the new great thing being wasted, trampled, used up, abused and potentially destroyed? I'm sitting on a few gems right now that I think some folks would appreciate but I'm reluctant to share the info 'cause I don't want to fuck it up. The first thing, in all fairness, was revealed to me as something cool and I proceded to sit on it; didn't share with anyone else (it kinda paints me as a fucking asshole, I suppose). The item in question is the optimum lane on the Bay Bridge to take West to SF during traffic. A kind List Member revealed the secret to me and I saw the truth in it over several subsequent commutes. Why ain't I spread the good news? Well shit. I guess it's because I don't want everybody hogging the far- right lane from now on. Same with another cool thing: The poppyseed bagels at work are far superior to all the other shitty bagels. You can tell something sets them apart, as they come on a fancy plastic tray (fancy plastic?) and they're only served in the front (read: better) kitchen. Yeh, they've got too many poppyseeds on them, but all you gotta do is saw the thing in half and use the seedy sides as sandpaper, rub 'em together and get most of the seeds off. Toast, apply cream cheese and dang! After I discovered the great disparity between the myriad and plentiful "other" bagels and the poppyseed super-bagels, I shut my trap and never told a soul. Fuck. I'm beginning to see this as a character flaw. What a jerk. I'm sorry, officially. Go hog my bridge lane and eat up my fav bagels. They're special things and they should be experienced by everyone. Well, almost everyone. I can think of a few shitheads I don't want pawing at the bagels ...

Tonight: The Lone Palm

Oh hey! Check out the button to the right called TNSC News. This is where, from now on, I'll put news, info and your shameless plugs about yourselves. Have a look now. You'll see both news (Anna's baby!) and a List Member's shameless plug (Bishop's show!). No more hijacking the list. I'm hiding it from now on anyway.

That said ... "See you at the bar." G'won over and hoist a few. Bring yr pals. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!


whrr ... clik!

ka-pow!

11.3.2k2
Thursday, 21 November 2002

My dad told me a story about a job interview he once had. He said it was going well, as a friend of his was the HR director and was conducting the interview, and the other stuffed shirts in attendance seemed at friendly and slightly less formal than the situation suggested. My pop was a corporate labor lawyer and he was interviewing at Chicago’s biggest fireworks manufacturer’s headquarters. This outfit produced the popular Martian Starbursts, the Incandescent Swarms and the crowd-favorite Flaming Ass Ponys, and while it was very successful, its factorys were rife with worker’s comp cases. They needed someone with a lot of experience and my dad had a ton. The interview was coming to a close, or perhaps it was over and some smalltalk-pleasantries were being exchanged, hands were being shaken and such, when, quite naturally my dad said the word "fuck." His HR-pal went white and someone ripped the needle across the record; s c r e e c h i n g the post-interview gab session to a halt. I stopped my dad’s account of the situation and asked him the context of his usage. He’s got an interesting way with words at times and he said something like: "Well I didn’t goddamn say I wanted to fuck the old guy’s wife or anything. Not even, 'I’ll git them slacker-fucks for ya.' No. It was 'Fuck yes, I think the Bears look bad.' Not my problem the guy’s some Christian anti-abusive-language ... um ... 'fuck'" I had to laugh. Then he said he's glad he got the info about the undocumented No Swearing policy. Had he been hired he'd have had to quit. He said something like, "I wouldn't work a day in a place where you couldn't say fuck." I agreed. Shame about all them fireworks, though.

Tonight Molotov's.
Whole bunch of new folks on the list tonight. Work mates. They say fuck every other word. Thank fucking Christ.
The venue has lots of booze and a killer juke. Bring yr friends. I know I will. The cell will be on. See you there! bye-ee!

Break

11.2.2k2
Thursday, 15 November, 2002

It is that very special time of year that all Americans should feel strongly both the Holiday Spirit and the call to War. Being your close-to-average American household, my roommate pals and I sure have been feeling that familiar feeling; so much so indeed that Fats, Porkchop and I have instituted the Call-Up to Active Duty. For the interim, delightful friends,

Lt. Fats,




PFC Porkchop



and my self-appointed Burger-Meister–Self,

Meisterburger TNSC Robot,



have, as your typical all-volunteer Army, dedicated ourselves to the defense of our late-months Holiday/War rights and made ourselves available to the local/state/feds as Defenders of the Sacred Holiday/War Trust. Do yrselves a fav and, y’know, do the same. Dig out them helmets, bayonettes, scowls and mistletoe. Beat yr chests and cry Havoc/Advent and Let fly the Dogs of War-/Elves of Yuletide-Greetings.

I can’t believe any this shit.

After the hard day, meet the good ones at the bar.

Bring yr pals, I know I will. See you there. bye-ee!

SAAB

11.1.2k2
Thursday, 07 November 2002

I got a car named Piggy and Piggy seems to have a problem counting things. Standard things, like miles. She’s been stuck on 81474 for as long as I’ve known her, and all told, that’s a while. Now she’s not totally given up on counting, as her Trip Odo is s l o w l y counting off something. Two, three, four trips across the Bay Bridge and back and I just notice that the half-four has become a half-five. I have an idea as to what she’s counting: I figure she’s counting the tens of minutes between me cussing out some dipshit driver or another. What? Me cuss out a dipshit driver? You must not never had rode in a car with me up Pine Street.

Tonight we visit Miss Annie. Yea, though we’ve been here before, some folks like to park cars and there’s parking all over this place.

Bring yr pals, I know I will. See you there. bye-ee!

Dear Liza!

10.4.2k2
Thursday, 24 October 2002

You ever been in a crowd, say at a party, where you have to raise your voice just to be heard by the person standing right next to you only to say something provocative just at the moment there is an unnatural lull in the din of noise? Then there's egg on your face or if you're like me you immediately say something even louder and more provocative. See, because with me, that's what you get. I step in that kind of shit all the time, just, it doesn't bother me none. Example: I'm driving my c.a.r. to work the other day and find myself stopped dead in my tracks for no explainable reason. Highway driving = highway speeds? Nope. 0.0 mph/kph. As I got no car stereo due to a wild series of mishaps with a detatchable Alpine CDA 7838 faceplate, I got no choice but to sing shit to myself. Sometimes the things I'm singing are sung to the tunes of actual songs, but often times not. This time I was singing, pretty loudly, "Why the FUCK are we stopping, you assholes, you assholes / Why the FUCK are we stopping, you assholes, why the fuck?" I look over and there's a car stopped in the lane next to me and as both our windows are rolled down this pilgrim hears everything I just sang. We make eye contact. Her jaw begins to drop. I see no other option but to let fly: "I guess 'cause we're dipshits, and can't drive, and can't drive / I guess 'cause we're dipshits who can't fucking drive." I'm halfway through that verse when she rolls up her windows. Teach her to eavesdrop on my singing.

Who misses Annie? AC does, and I do too! That's it!

See you there! bye-ee!

Breaking News!

10.3.2k2

Shocking the entire TNSC community, the Founding Members today announced the appointment of two longtime List Members to the lofty status of Honorary Founding Members. Mr. Moss Gross and Mr. Mathias Genser sped through the appointment and confirmation processes and endured a formal but brief inauguration ceremony this afternoon at the TNSC's temporary headquarters near the Jon D. Fiore Room at the Tinhorn Bar in San Francisco's UN Plaza (the actual location of the TNSC's temporary headquarters is classified). (See photo spread at end of article.)

A press release by the Founding Members, read by outgoing TNSC Press Secretary/Master of Ceremonies Mr. Todd Lindo, declared Mr. Gross and Mr. Genser worthy of their appointments for being "especially diligent in attendance, utterly presentable in appearance, exceptional in generosity ... and excelling ... in promotion of the TNSC Spirit."

When asked for an explaination of "the TNSC Sprit" at the subsequent press conference, Founding Member Alan J. Chimenti stated, "That's a typo. It should have said 'TNSC Spit.'" Further explaination did not seem to be necessary, as the reporter from the Radium Glow retook her seat.

Mr. Gross is an ex-Navy SEAL, whose military exploits include infiltrating Iraq's fabled Republican Guard, singlehandedly tricking a batallion of the little devils into turning themselves over to the Coalition forces at Basra. He has a no-nonsense approach to closing car doors, buying drinks for other List Members and tweeking the nonsensical entertainment engines dreamed up by TNSC Robot and programmed by the geeks at the University of Bisbee. He joined the TNSC in 1997.

Mr. Genser boasts an impressive list of friends he wouldn't dare bring to a TNSC meeting, in addition to a well-managed and very stylish silver goatee. A World Record-holding skin diver, Mr. Genser legally changed his middle name to Abalone in 1977. He is known for selflessly giving people rides home after TNSC meetings, even if those he's driving are scattered all over the Bay Area. Mr. Genser has been a member since Spring 2000 and currently leads all List Members in consecutive meetings attended.

A reception for the Honorary Founding Members is planned for this evening at the Orbit Room.


Here's a couple pics.



Misters Gross and Genser arrive at their Honorary Founding Member swearing-in ceremony, accompanied by TNSC Founding Member Mr. Alan J. Chimenti and Longtime List Member Mr. Cedrick Jonnae. Not Pictured is driver/Founding Member Mr. John Metsker. Photo D. Ingle UofB Bee



TNSC MC/Outgoing Press Secretary Mr. Todd Lindo administers the Club's secret rite, The Oath of Melissa, to Mr. Gross at precisely 13:37 PST, 17 October 2002. Attending the ceremony, from left: Old Crone, Mrs. David Hindley, Mr. Ceddrick Jonnae, Mr. Carl Kaphan, Founding Member TNSC Robot, Mr. Mark Bobek, Mr. Bob Roesler, Founding Member Mr. Alan J. Chimenti, Honorary Founding Member Mr. Mathias Genser, Honorary Founding Member Mr. Moss Gross, Porn Title of the Week Coordinator Miss Tama Blough, (Unidentified person), Mrs. Alan J. Chimenti, TNSC MC/Outgoing Press Secretary Mr. Todd Lindo, Founding Member Miss Susan Dynamite, Founding Member Mr. John Metsker and Longtime List Member Mr. Jason Porter. TNSC Patron, Mr. John Astin's likeness hangs in the background. (Some Members not to scale.) Photo D. Ingle UofB Bee

10.2.2k2

>
>Make due with what you have.
You have a destination.
>
Hemlock Tavern.


whrr ... clik!

10.1.2k2

Thursday, 3 October 2002

I was reading in bed the other night. Finishing up a nice story by one of my fav. writers: A one Neal Barrett, Jr. I had my feet stuffed into the flap of the turned-down covers. After a bit, the totsys started to get hotsy. I pulled a foot out and I noticed I still had my lucky TV-static-colored sox on. These are good sox, even though their elastic done run off some time ago. A time like this, however, that’s a bonus. They easy to kick off.

In a jif, the sox were off. A mere heel to toe with pull and a repeat of said heel to toe with pull and that’s all she wrote. Two sox off and ready for ejectio! As the left side of my bed is against the wall, the only place to kick the sox was to my right, so I raised up my left leg, so as to allow a right-foot scoop-and-kick, and let them lucky sox go. Seems my cat was sitting just down range, most likely admiring the white noise machine (read: Fan). If an Army colonel could have seen Fatty’s reaction under bombardment he would have conscripted the little shit in a minute and sent him to the front. As an artillery “spotter,” as they were formerly known, or as an “F.O.” as they’re known these days. “Forward Observer.” Times I got a different meaning for F.O. for this cat.

Fats didn’t bat an eye. I think the left sock actually grazed him and he could not have cared less. This from a cat that jumps two feet in the air when a bee farts in Florida. I saw his bravery while under the onslaught of flying sox and pictured him calling in Snake and Nape on his own position in some faraway mudhole in an act of supreme selflessness. It’s a Grand Old Flag, Fats. Fats?

Seems Fats had deserted his post during my fantasy-time.

Oh, but here he was up on the bed with me after all. “Hi Old Man,” I said. He looked at me sideways. “Hey,” I said, “you think you can NOT pull that early-AM squawking tomorrow morning like you pulled THIS morning?” “Tell you what,” Fats said, “you don’t pull a ‘forgot to feed and water the cats’ tonight and I’ll see what I can do about the squawking. Deal?” Seemed reasonable. “Arrrrright,” I said.

Doc’s Clock.

See you there. bye-ee!

9.4.2k2

Shot through the head this morning, but this time with an idea! Why
not get the gang together and have a couple drinks? Last time we did,
heard no complaints. Don't start fussin'. Bitch in person tonight at
Club Deluxe. Mr. Metsker will be pouring ...

AC will pay $5 cash to every "NON-REGULAR" member attending tonight.

See you there: bye-ee!

<>

n.b.: There might be lies on this page.

dir: http://bayarea.citysearch.com/profile/904079/

9.3.2k2

Being the wannabe scientist I am, I'm going to run an experiment: I'm
going to lie to people who trust me and see where it gets me.
Not just little lies like "It's Wednesday" when it's really Thursday.
No, these are going to be big ones. You'll see.
This part is no lie, though: Zeitgeist.


See you there: bye-ee!

<>

9.2.2k2

whrr ...
clik!

Back now. New venue: See you there: bye-ee! :

http://bayarea.citysearch.com/profile/11642154/

9.1.2k2

So the robot is down for 1 final week. On being shipped back from the
Midwest, the shipping container that the robot is housed in inadvertently
was railed to sunny Phoenix, Arizona. The shipping company assures me that
it will be back in time for next week's venue announcement.

So, that said, tonite's announcement comes from a personal request from
brother Todd Lindo who requested:

a) somewhere new
b) fairly close to BART
c) old school or moderately divey

After running this information punch-card through the old EVIAC computer in
the back room, the results are:

OLIVE Bar and Restaurant

743 Larkin St
San Francisco, CA 94109
Phone: (415) 776-9814
(near O'Farrell)

So,
a) It is NEW.
b) It is FAIRLY close to BART (scary walk, but fairly close).
c) Though it is not "divey" in nature, the neighborhood, especially if you
like teenage transvestite hookers, should suffice. I apologize in advance
if anyone finds this offensive, and for the potential lack of close parking
(except for brother John Metzger).

For those who miss Mike Rosenberg:

http://bayarea.citysearch.com/map?mode=geo&map_lat=377847&map_lon=-1224178&i
d=11643574&fid=5

See you there!! Bye-ee!!

8.4.2k2

After the deluxe Venue Announcement from last week, Robot is exhausted. And Robot chopped off a digit while slicing bacon.

This week you get this:

Point your cars, bikes, motorcycles and shoes to Annie's. See you
there. bye-ee!

Jabber

8.3.2k2

I’ve got a part-time job at the local insect petting zoo over in the Tenderloin. It’s not a big deal, just a few hours a day sitting with the bugs and teaching the kids the proper way to handle them. They do tend to get a little frisky sometimes and because of this, care must be taken.

I was walking home last night and believe it or not, I had forgotten to put my shoes back on before I left for home. I was at Polk and Eddy when – goddang! – I stepped on a fucking hypodermic needle. It hurt! Ever the wanna-be scientist, though, I did observe a curious reaction. Read on.

With the hypo stuck in my foot, here ...


The spider bite on my hand depicted here stopped hurting.




I’ve never had acupuncture, but I suppose it’s the same principle. Intrigued, I pulled the needle out and jabbed it back in here ...




Now believe it or not, the centipede sting depicted here stopped hurting.




Neat, huh? I guess I gotta find me some more hypos. Probably not going to be a problem in this hood.

Tonight: 500 Club

Bring someone. bye-ee!

8.1.2k2

Think about this one:
24/7 cat supervision.

Meet some friends at the Hemlock Tavern tonight.

7.4.2k2

If you need a place to go, go to Mr. Bings. Play some dice and
have a few pops. Robot is on the job and will not be in
attendance. You'll be fine, as many are, without Robot.

7.3.2k2

I don't know what the worst part of moving is. Packing, carrying
boxes, unpacking, breaking down boxes, arranging, rearranging ...
adjusting. Sure there's excitement and wonder at starting over,
starting anew, but sometimes even the good things can be
annoying. The saving grace is that you might get a new corner
bar. A cheaper laundromat. A hotty neighbor. And if you, like me,
live alone, you don't have to answer to anyone. You don't have to
put up with anyone's shit. You don't have to get dressed. Getting
dressed is overrated.

Tonight: Hotel Utah

Sorry that people are using the list for personal, non-TNSC-related
subjects. That ain't too cool.

7.2.2k2

Hello peas and carrots! It's your pal Old Captain Walnut here. I
wonder how you all are doing these days, as I haven't seen many
of you for weeks! Good, bad? Happy, sad? How are those habits
going? Those compulsions? Those hard-to-wrangle emotional
states? Isolated? Together? So many questions.

Let's have the groop play space-age bachelor-pad catch-up
tonight. Ive got an idea where: SOMA: The Eagle Drift-In.

Mix up them puzzle pieces, we'll sort 'em as a groop, a family if you
will, then put 'em together again.

Destination Unknown

6.4.2k2



"Life is so strange when you don't know
How can you tell where you're going to
You can't be sure of any situation
Something could change and then you won't know

You ask yourself

Where do we go from here
It seems so all too near
Just as far beyond as I can see
I still don't know what this all means to me

So you tell yourself

I have nowhere to go
I don't know what to do
And I don't even know the time of day
I guess it doesn't matter any way

Life is so strange
Destination unknown
When you don't know
Your destination
Something could change
It's unknown
And then you won't know
Destination unknown

You ask yourself

When will my time come
Has it all been said and done
I know I'll leave when its my time to go
Till then I'll carry on with what I know
Life is so strange
Life is so strange"



Yeh, somebody else wrote it. I ain't claimin' anything but the truth of it. See ya tonight at: The Hyde-Out

Bang your gavel

6.3.2k2


I’m moving, right, so everything in the apartment is in total flux. Thank Jeebus I got a good setta speakers on the Mac and a ton of mp3’s, ‘cause the stereo’s been packed deep in a cardboard box with a wadded-up ream of that blank newspaper, a bulk pac of powdered soup, all the coasters in the joint and the few comic books I’ve deemed worthy of keeping. Do you purge when you move?
I’m compelled to purge. Remember that compressed-air bike horn I bought and fucking loved for about a week? Cocksucker had to go. (MS Word didn’t underline “cocksucker” like it did “Jeebus,” “setta” and “pac.” That makes you think, yes?) The horn made the move from Chicago to ‘Frisco, and from the old joint to the new one. Ain’t gonna make it to the next one, though. Neither is a huge box of Tupperware, half of my Macintosh collection or a cool, vintage raincoat I got for ten bucks in Old Flagstaff back in ’89. My relationship with a lot of my clothes has run its course. I’m purging about 40 T shirts, numerous pants, shorts and sweaters, as well as a legion of socks. All told, the donation pile filled a car. Add to that the stuff I threw away and you might think I’ve purged most of my stuff. Nope. I still got some thirty-odd boxes, bed, couch, book cases, blah, blah, blah. Good thing I don’t have a basement full of junk. Or an Attic. There’d be no end to the junk I’d amass.

News: “Got a call from Ced on Monday evening requesting TNSC to be in the Mission somewhere near the Voodoo Lounge (Mission X 25th & 26th. His friend Elmer is hosting a band at the Voodoo Lounge and is trying to pack the place (I have no idea how big it is). The cover charge is $8.” So sayeth Founding Member Alan J. Chimenti. What Ced told me is that the cover will be comped and that Elmer will buy you a free drink if you go. I’m in. So, okay, “Attic” first, then Voodoo later. Got it? (Gratuitous explanation necessary for some list members who get confused. Alan.)

Tricked a few of you (Alan) with last week's Find the Reference! Some of you math geeks saw through it.

That’s all for now. Packing. Busy. See you at Attic. bye-ee!

Pi

6.2.2k2


Well I don’t know about you but I can spot them telemarketers and junk phonecall jocks a mile away these days and I ain’t relying on no fancy-ass caller ID-type boxes, gadgets or displays to do it. Nope. I do the old fashioned “wait for the pause,” and if there is a pause after you pick up the ringing handset and say something like “Uh, hullo” then you slam that sucker back down onto the receiver or like me you emphatically push the “end” button over and over until the handset thinks you’ve lost motor faculty and starts wailing a pitiful “beep beep beep beep.” Don’t even give those punks a chance to take the call over from their computer. After all, it is the computer that’s calling. It likely places one million calls at the same time on the chance there’s some boob gonna pick up. When boob does, HAL pokes the punk in the ass, probably with a mild electric shock, and says in that voice, “Someone has picked up the phone; now enabling audio channels. You are on the air.” That’s the pause. It takes precisely 3.4 seconds for the computer to say those sentences, shock the punk, and enable the punk’s mic. That’s how long it takes me to flush the call.

Or not, sometimes. Like the other day. I answered the phone in a funny voice; a labored, sort-of Mexican accent through clenched teeth. “Bueno,” I said in that voice. Then the pause. I was game for a change. 3.2, 3.3, 3.4: “Hullo. May I speak to Jish Joston?” said the punk. “Bueno?” I said again.
“Yes, uh, Jish Joss-ton?”
“No. Momentitty.” I said and waited 3.4 seconds. “Bulla?” (This time it was a kind of Apu. Retarded Apu.) “Bulla?”
“Is this Jish Jos ... Joss-ton”
“Yub. Dissis Dosh Doshdon.”
“Yeh, uh, ‘hullo Miss Joss-ton, Um calling for Discover Card ...“
I angrily interrupt: “Bissus? Youb calla be Bissus? Lookit her! I dotta Bissus youb!”
The punk freaked. “Oh, I’m sorry! Uh ... ‘hullo MISTER Joss-ton, I’m calling for Discover Card ...”
Again I interrupt, as I’ve had about enough: “Yes, okay. I hab the cod. I hab the cod. Thank youb! Yes.”
The punk says, “No, uh, I know you have the card, Miss, uh, MISTER Joss-ton, we just wanna, uh, give you ...”
“Yes. Thank youb. I hab the cod. I hab the cod. Thank you. Yes, okay.” Then I hung up. It seemed I was about to be in it for a haul, and I wasn’t that bored.

Please come celebrate Founding Member Alan J. Chimenti’s birthday where he was born: Lutheran General, South City

News: Thanks to Venue Announcement pinch-hitter Mossy! Impressive work, Miss ... uh, MISTERS! (That Japanese cock-Flash thing was weird and disturbing.)

Porn Title of the Week: City of Anals

Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Mo!

Yeh. See you tonight. I feel nice. bye-ee!

TNSC

5.4.2k2

Wanna know a sure-fire way to ruin your day? Pull a muscle in your neck. There's nothing like it. If you're used to being comfortable and mobile, forget it. A sore neck torpedoes comfort and mobility.

Sometimes a sore neck sure seems nice, though.

TNSC Venue: Latin American Club

News: Robot is out of town for two weeks starting Tuesday. Moss has got the con.

Red? Black? What?

5.3.2k2


I suppose it has a lot to do with living in a city and walking the streets and taking the public transportation, but if one is paying attention, one can observe many strange things.

I gave an example of this last week and I’ve got another tonight: Just where do old people get the caps they wear?

I’ve been noticing this for some time. It started a few years back when I was on my way to a bar with Founding Member Alan C. We happened to pass an old-timer and he was wearing a Chicago Bears cap. Being the eternally diligent Bears fan that I am, gave the old coot a “Go Bears.” Of course Alan didn’t approve. “Why do you insist on talking to strangers,” he asked, “and in case you didn’t notice, the dude’s homeless.” I looked again and sure enough, the dude was filthy head to toe and had taken up rummaging through a trash can. I started to think of a reason why the dude could still be a Bears fan but gave up. He probably found the cap somewhere. I want to find a Bears cap.

Some time later, Alan and I were on our way to a bar and we saw an old lady wearing a Chicago Cubs cap. I naturally shouted, “Go Cubs!” but the old lady just looked at me blankly. Alan said, “Uh ... dude ...” and I said, “Yeh, yeh. Homeless.”

And they don’t have to be homeless to be wearing caps of unknown origin. Just on the bus the other day I saw a nearly-old Asian dude wearing a “Canada” cap. Complete with maple leaf. What the hell is he wearing a “Canada” cap for? Hockey fan? I saw a guy wearing a “I’m dum-dum” cap; an old lady wearing a “Johnny Walker” cap; another old lady wearing a “Megadeath” cap and I even saw some die-hard Democrat wearing a “Mondale/Ferraro” cap. Sheesh.

What I figure is that most of them folks (with the exception of the Mondale/Ferraro booster) have nothing at all to do with what’s on the hat, but rather the utility of the hat itself. Like they’d all be wearing straw hats if they were as cheap and plentiful as the generic (or non-generic as listed above) baseball-type caps. Look for Alan today and you may find him wearing a cap from tonight’s TNSC Venue: The Royal Oak

News: Anybody got a review for Kyra and Sara's party?

Tonight's Contest: Find the reference!

Porn Title of the Week: Hocus Poke Us

Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Shuba!

We as a club have never been to the Royal Oak, and now we are going because a LOVELY List Member suggested it. See you there! bye-ee!

1.0 gpf / 4.9 lpf

5.2.2k2


I know that people are really weird, but now and again I’m reminded of the dizzying heights that weirdness reaches. (Note: While this Venue Announcement references urination, it’s not really about piss. It’s about people being odd. I had thought that referencing urine would perhaps be too base a detail, it would maybe put some of you lovely List Members off ... then I reread some of the old Venue Announcements and figured that you were game for anything.)

What’s the most fun thing to do with four free tickets to the SF Giants game? Why, it’s to use two tickets to attend the game and sell the other two and buy beer and hotdogs with the proceeds. You might guess that this exact scenario played out not but a week ago. I’m no Giants fan, but I’m a fan of the game and I enjoy rooting against Barry, Jeff, J.T. and the rest of those goons.
It didn’t take too long to drink up the proceeds from the ticket sales, and not long after that I needed to “let one out and put one back.” (I learned that wonderful gem of an expression during a rain-delay at Wrigley Field: A beer vendor had camped-out near the men’s room exit and was hawking his wares to the guys exiting. It was a pretty clever sales pitch and I observed many astute Cubs fans realizing this and taking him up.) At any rate, I was full of beer and had to go.

There’s a misconception that the lines to men’s rooms are always short and the turnover is brisk. When there’s ten urinals and 100 guys that gotta go ... I think you get the idea. To this equation, though, you must factor in another phenomena: One wants to wait as long as possible, perhaps even enduring not a small amount of discomfort, before joining the queue, so as to miss as little of the game as possible.

So there I was, in line, waiting to take a piss. Sometimes the wait is excruciating, but this time it was not so bad. That is until a few berserker Giants fans came in and made a scene. They started to yell for the people in front to hurry up, started burping loudly, started swearing and carrying on. Now while I’m all for swearing, carrying on and burping loudly, I see no point to yell for someone to hurry up pissing. If you are alive, you know that pissing takes as long as it takes, and if you’ve got a full bladder that you’ve been holding for a while, you got low pressure. Then you got a Neanderthal yelling at you. Some folks can’t pee under those circumstances. Not me, though, I got no anxiety. I just got people ahead of me in line.

The line to my right turned out to be the little, “child’s size” urinal. As there weren’t any children, folks were using the shorty. I got no problem with that. I were in that line and it wasn’t broke, I’d let go.

Several innings and naturally several expensive Budweisers later, I had to revisit the john. Turned out I got in the same line, one next to the shorty urinal. When I got close enough, I noticed there was a dad helping a child pee in the child-sized urinal. Well I’ll be damned, I thought. Moments later the kid finished up and he and his dad left. And the shorty was totally open. The lines were eight-to-ten deep for the others, but the short one’s line was empty. (Here’s the weird people part, if you’ve been waiting for it.) Like I said, I have no piss-anxiety, so I mentioned to the jackass in front of me in line that the shorty was open. I was trying to be polite but this dolt’s reaction was as if I had told him, “Hey mister, you don’t fuck that dead pig in that alley, I sure will.” He visibly recoiled and stared at me. “It’s all yours, sport. Be my guest.” I didn’t let him scare me off. I jumped right on up and pissed in the shorty. (It was kinda like pissing on the floor, but that’s a different story.) I finished up and, lo and behold, there’s ten people in line for the shorty behind me. And the Puritan is still six deep. Ha.

It took me a few days before I remembered this little scene. And while at one time in my life such an interaction would really irritate me, now it doesn’t so much. Who cares? It’s not my job to figure on why some people are terrified of peeing in a short, child’s-size urinal. It’s my job to observe and report. It’s also my job to say this:

Tonight: Bloom's Saloon

News: News: Look for kin of Robot at tonight’s Potrero Hill meeting. Oh, and Happy Graduation to kin of Robot. Oh, and ... it seems I’ve used up all my time today. You merely get Find the reference!

And then, Porn Title of the Week: The Joy Fuck Club

And then, Satanic Word of the Week: He

And then, Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Sally C.

And then ... Linkey Loo!


And then ... no and then

Bad Math

5.1.2k2


I’ve regressed in a fairly important skill. I don’t remember the regression’s catalyst, or its duration to now, but I know now that it’s real: I got me a real problem with shoelaces.

It must have been kindergarten, or maybe even earlier, that my peers and I were forced, cajoled and ridiculed into learning how to tie shoelaces. I remember there was a little song or poem or rhyme about a rabbit running around a doghouse and ducking into a sewerpipe: Symbolic of the loops and knots and such. I remember there were two twin girls that could tie each other’s shoes but not their own. I didn’t have any trouble tying shoes. Didn’t need a corny rhyme or anything. It was a simple, repeatable process and it was within my young person’s capacity. That don’t explain why I’ve developed such a problem lately.
My problem lies in the untying part of the process. Tying is fine and has been but I make a mess out of untying. I end up tying the laces into little itty-bitty knots. Tight knots. Often, I’m balancing on one leg while trying to untie. I might get one shoe off clean, but the other I grab the wrong end that’s found its way through a loop, pull and render a knot. Then I lose balance and fall on head.
It doesn’t help that I routinely change my shoes at least three times a day: On with the bike shoes, off with the bike shoes. On with the regular shoes, off. On with the bike shoes again, off. Regular, off. I will turf one of the untyings fairly bad, but I will royally screw another one and end up falling over.
Two things going for me: The geeks at University of Bisbee just published Shoe Lace Untying Made Easy. Talk about timing! The other thing: My slippers are slip on!


Tonight: Wish

News: Wish is the new bar that’s taken residence in the carcass of (the) El Bobo. Some folks have been there and say it’s all right. Happy Birthday Bishop.

Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Tama

Come and see your pals and curse the No-Kitchen-Fancy-El Bobo. See you there! bye-ee!

sac

4.4.2k2

Have a listen to what I ate the other day:
A sack of Cheerios.
A sack of lemon cookies.
A sack of peanut butter sandwich (it was a small sandwich-sized sack).
Another sack of peanut butter sandwich.
A sack of sunflower seeds.
A sack of Cholula-flavored tater chips.
Sixteen cups of coffee.
And a Coke.
Sounds to me like I got a super “sack and coffee” diet going.
I bet yer all jealous. Too bad for you.

Annie's

News: "From the cradle bars ... " Anyone for some 80's punk? Okay!


Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Bobo

Porn Title of the Week: Poke a Man You figure that sucker's a porn import from Japan?

A banner turnout last week at the Orbit. Thanks to all who came out. Tonight we go to our favorite and, incidently, official TNSC home, Annie's. See you there! bye-ee!

553-0123

4.3.2k2


Ya have neighbors? You like them? Me, I live in a veritable sea of people and yet I feel rather invisible. It’s like they don’t see me. They don’t know I’m there. What’s more is that it seems that if they do notice, most don’t care. They'll hack one up and spit it on the sidewalk right in front of you. There’s a shocking lack of respect people pay to each other. I’ve been thinking about interacting with strangers lately and I’ve come to some conclusions. Sad conclusions. A couple of recent events got me thinking about it.

I was passenger in a car and we were circling on and around Chestnut street in the Marina district, looking for parking. If you know the area you might guess that the search was not going well. A few times around the neighborhood and some prayers to the Patron Saint of Parking (whoever that is … maybe it’s St. Homer), we saw a lady fixing to leave a big space. We pulled up, signaled our intention and waited while the lady checked the mirrors, her make up, various stock prices … she was taking her damn time, but that’s okay. It was an exercise in patience. Well guess what? Some piece of shit Dodge Neon pulls up behind the lady and also signals. We wondered aloud, “Is that dipshit thinking she’s taking that spot? Doesn’t she see our signal?” The Neon then pulls up to the lady in the spot (who is still taking her time) and asks her something. Probably if she’s leaving any time this year. She thinks she’s taking the spot. Well that doesn’t matter because we got there first. Rules of parking say it’s our spot.
Of course the goddang space is big enough such that when take-your-time-lady finally leaves, Neon “front parks.” Ugh. We pulled back and, as I was on the passenger side, I rolled down my window and said, “Get your fat ass outta that spot, asshole! Are you fokking blind? We were waiting for it!” Actually that’s what I wanted to say. What really came out was, “Hey Doll. We were waiting for that spot. We got here before you and you swiped it from us. Now c’mon. Fair is fair.” The pig squealed something like, “I asked her (take-your-time-lady) if you were waiting for this spot and she said no. So it’s mine.” Unbelieveable. “Hey Doll. How you figure she knows what we’re doing? Is this parking ritual new to you? It’s our spot. You cheated.” She was obviously entitled to the spot, though because she didn’t budge. I called her a bad, bad person and that she’ll get her’s from St. Homer. She said we were just sorry that we didn’t get our way. I said I was more sorry for her, as she was a pathetic parking-cheater with a crappy Neon. And she was ugly. (I kept that last bit to myself. I figure she’s known it all her life, no need to remind her.)

The other clear case of not getting along with other humans came in the form of a rampaging car alarm outside my bedroom window.

Some inconsiderate jerk set their car alarm to a hair trigger and every time a pidgeon farted in Alameda the thing would start wailing. It went crazy for a good ten-fifteen minutes before it shut off. It was really annoying.
Sad thing is that the car was a pile of junk. Nobody would be interested in it because it looked like it hardly ran. The thing showed up on a Sunday and started its sonic assault right away. By Monday, the alarm had gone off all night and the car had amassed a few notes on the windshield. I peeked at a few: “My bedroom is right across the side walk. Your alarm goes off and I can’t sleep. Please turn it off!” “Turn off your alarm, F*&(^%$ER!!! Or I’ll KILL YOUR CAR!!” Tuesday: Alarm. Wednesday: Alarm. I had had it. I called the SF PD’s non-emergency number, described the car and its location and the really sweet telephone copper said she’d send someone out. It must have been a really slow day because the fuzz showed up moments later and parked. The cop got out, went to the car, read the notes and apparently phoned it the wrecker. After a few minutes the No. 12 Folsom came down the hill and that alarm went bonkers. Proof.
Soon enough, I hear the alarm going off yet again, look out to see the wrecker pulling that sucker into the street and jacking it up to haul it off, still screaming. I waged a war against that car on behalf of my roommate and cats and won without nary an effort.

My point: It takes a special kind of inconsiderate jerk to set their alarm to such a sensitivity and never checks it when it goes off. I know of no one so thoughtless. I figured that I could arrange a little message that his tricks ain’t so funny and get his car ticketed and towed for him. I hope it cost a lot to get it back.

Tonight: Crobar

News: The Jamie Lee Curtis 14, Presidio Softball League Champions, is regrouping for another campaign. Good Luck! They are recruiting players, however, as several have gone down both to injuries and to, well, "Under." Get it? "Down Under?"

Last Week's Contest Results: No contest last week, but Moss won the previous' week's contest. He barely edged Founding Member John Metsker.

Tonight's Singled-Out List Member: Woody. He's challenging all List Members to pool tonight. You win, he buys.

Porn Title of the Week: Splendor in the Ass. Goddang that one makes me laugh.

Satanic Word of the Week: its

Umm ... Bring your friends, I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!

Skeezix

4.2.2k2

What the hell is the deal with the Calvin and Hobbes? Why is it the artist couldn’t draw Hobbes to look the same from panel to panel? One minute he’s going nuts and jawing away with that little scoundrel Calvin, then the next he’s kinda lifeless: Mute and well, stuffed-looking. Like a taxidermist just got through with him. And what the hell kinda dog is he supposed to be anyway? He’s the wackiest looking dog I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty.
The thing that’s got me thinking about Calvin and Hobbes in the first place is that I’ve been seeing that Calvin all over the place these days. Of course he’s all over the place doing the same thing: Peeing on things. Mostly he’s a stencil on some fella’s Ford, peeing on a Chevy logo. Fine. Calvin has a healthy disdain for Chevys. He chooses to show his contempt in a way befitting his rapscallionish nature, you ask me. That’s fine, Cal peeing on a Chevy logo, but down the block I see a Chevy truck, and who’s stenciled on the back window, peeing on a Ford logo? Cal! Has Cal jumped ship to the enemy, a la Jason Giambi? Maybe, maybe not. Later Cal is observed taking a whizz on a Honda logo, a Subaru logo, and a Toyota logo. He’s draining the main vein on a Dodge, letting fly on a Peterbuilt and watering a GMC. Okay, so the little scalawag hates all cars. Fine. So do I.
I’ve seen the Cal showing his feelings for more than just cars and trucks lately too. Cal doesn’t like the bin Laden, the Detroit RockCity Redwings or Kodak. Kodak? What the hell is that about? Someone got stock in FujiFilm? I haven’t, however, seen Cal peeing on a Chicago Cubs logo, or tonight’s venue:

Orbit Room

News: The Club hasn’t been to the Orbit in about a million years. It’s a crowd favorite! Also, I double-checked last week’s Venue Announcement and it said NOTHING about it being an ALL-MALE meeting. Yes, that’s right: Fifteen guys and not one gal. They were all nice guys but C”MON!

Last Week’s Contest Results: Alan correctly identified the reference as the SF PD’s non-emergency number. Mr. D. Hindley also found the reference and noted how “expletively easy” the contest was. As you can see, Mr. Hindley, the contest must be made easy at times for some contestants (think “A.C.”) to win.

Tonight's Contest: Find the Reference!

Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Bob Morrow. He’s new to the list and he drinks. A lot. Why not single him out?

Tonight’s Dramatic Reenactment: Coppertone. Suntan glop. You know it, I’m sure, if you’ve ever been anywhere outside SF where you can get some sun. Well there’s a little picture on the bottle of a little girl sunbather holding a bottle of Coppertone. She’s in some distress because there’s a mangy dog about to tear here swimtrunk bottoms off for her. Scandal on the Beach!! Our players: Ced plays the little girl; Tama plays the bottle of Coppertone, Alan plays the bad dog and (nameless) plays the swimtrunks.

Porn Title of the Week: The Slutty Professor

Yeh, well, like I said, lots of guys at the venue last week. Let’s see what we, as a group, can do about that. Lastly, it seems that whenever I say “Go Team” to my favorite team as they start their playoff run they inevitably get smoked. So I won’t say anything about the Chicago Blackhawks. Last one to Orbit buys me a Poker Face. See you there! bye-ee!

Sorry Folks ...

4.1.2k2


There ain't no official TNSC Venue Announcement today. The moose up at the front should have told you. Seems Robot had to make a choice of seeing Panic Room or writing the Venue Announcement last night and Jodie Foster won.

Meantime: Specs

See you there. Bring your Mooses. (??) bye-ee!

Traffic

3.3.2k2


Have you ever done the equivalent of walking out of a bad movie with a book? Stopping reading – maybe mid-sentence – and closing the cover for good? I got one going right now that I’m seriously considering jettisoning. There are several factors involved in this pending no-confidence vote.

First, the book is supposed to be a horror novel. So scary, in fact, that author felt no name other than Ghost Story could better suit it. I’m two hundred pages in (roughly a third of the total) and there ain’t been anything spooky, scary or psychologically frightening. I’m waiting for a payoff. The title says something about ghosts. Where are the frikkin’ ghosts?

I went to see a movie a long time ago. I saw Sex, Lies and Videotape in the theater. I heard it was a good movie, so some friends and I went. I didn’t expect it to be porn, though, like some jock-type losers sitting near us did. Minor fidgeting, bored derisive catcalling and finally a loud exodus spoke to their movie review. We laughed at them as they walked out saying, loudly: “This sucks! Where’s the fucking tits? This is stupid! You fucking perverts!” Those National Merit Scholars saw the words “sex” and “videotape” and thought hardcore. A swing and a miss. I saw the words “ghost” and “story” and I thought horror novel. Is that a wrong conclusion?

Another thing that bugs me about the book so far is the author’s style. His style is nothing less than pompous. He goes into intense detail to show off his word-smithery.

His verbosity detracts from the mood: Three pages of detail of the spooky forest – detail down to the dreadful patterns of the spiderwebs and haunted slugslime trails. Ugh. It smacks of bad poetry.

Lastly, and somewhat related to my last point, some of the words this guy uses are nothing short of arcane: bonhomie, signeurial and pettifogging. I have a pretty deep lexicon and I love to learn new words but I don’t like it when a word like bonhomie derails the narrative train. Further, I don’t care to learn words that I’ll never use myself. I might think it, but I’ll never say, “What I like most about that John Volny is his bonhomie.”

I’m giving the story another hundred pages to get better or it gets the hook. I got The Sun Also Rises in the queue and it waits for no man.


Tonight: 7/11


News: Last week’s meeting at Argus sure was fun. People asked how we chose such a great venue (Thanks Raub), they wondered why we hadn’t been there before (don’t know), they asked if we could go back again (why not), and most spectacularly, there was a sizeable female turnout! As I mentioned, TNSC had started to resemble a boy’s club, but last week was no indication of that. Therefore, tonight’s venue has been scientifically chosen to promote attendance: It offers easy access via streetcars, busses, cabs and even light rail.




Tonight's Contest: Find the Reference!

Tonight’s Singled-Out List Members: Lori Joseph

Porn Title of the Week: Fortune Nookie


Stay tuned for announcements for the TNSC Croquet Tournament. It will be happening in a few weeks. Meantime, come on down to the venue tonight. Bring your friends. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!

Phoenix, AZ

3.2.2k2


ISP stories.
I got a letter the other day from Goober and Grape Bankruptcy Services. I normally shred junkmail without a second thought, but I was curious as to what all this bankruptcy was about. It seems that the bigshot ISP 1st World dot com, which acquired my old internet service provider, Sirius dot com, filed for chapter 11 and is going down. Or has gone down. I’ll tell you this, people: The fact that that company is belly-up comes as no surprise to this former customer. Sirius dot com’s service was a steamin’ pile and it only got worse when the big boy gobbled it up. It became a GIANT steamin’ pile with peanuts. Their ho-hum technical support, various service outages and assorted billing fiascos prompted the move to host my own site. That brings us to the recent events.
I’ve seen TV commercials for the telecom giant that acquired my current ISP. The spots go like this: A chic-looking lady walks into a bookstore somewhere in the Nevada desert and asks for an obscure book on philosophy. The scruffy-lookin’, MadMax-esque shopkeeper doesn’t miss a beat and asks what dialect she wants the text in. Dumbfounded she asks how it’s possible for this itty-bitty shop in the middle of nowhere has “every work ever published by anyone anywhere anytime.” Then the VO says’ “You want yer company to have this kinda bandwidth?” That’s about the time that I start puking. That’s a pretty tall claim? Isn’t it? They have another spot where a smartass guy is asking his Bates Motel clerk for a rare movie and the smarter-ass Norman Bates asks if he wants the TV edit or the director’s cut or the Soviet Government’s censored version. Again, Norm has every version of every movie ever bla bla bla. Picture me spewing forth beef-like chunks about now.
This makes me sick because it just ain’t possible. How they can advertise services that just ain’t possible is a mystery to me. Remember that one where a dude forgets his speech and his secretary across the country reads it to him as he’s at the podium? The secretary is in full-color 30fps video? On a plam pilot? BULLSHIT! How are they allowed to make these claims? With the disclaimer: All this shit you just seen ain’t really available now but we anticipate it will be some time in the future with the way our tech is kicking ass. Ugh. Chevy starts advertising flying cars and I’m burning down my TV.
Back to the subject: My ISP. If you guessed that one of the companies that makes those grandiose claims just merged with my ISP, resulting in much confusion, lost data and inaccessible accounts in recent weeks, you’re right. It makes me wonder how they think they’ll be able to serve up “any movie ever produced” if they can’t move its users’ data around without major problems. The real kick in the nuts is that I’m paying for all this “service.”

Tonight: Argus

News: Yeh, well the TNSC site is running on upgraded hardware, software and service. You can tell right away, can’t ya? Being offline for a week kinda tells you something, right? Aw, hell. Another note: Founding members are wondering why only male list members are choosing to go to meetings lately. Aside from Smith, Kay, Alaina and (nameless) no women have been attending lately. What gives? Better offers?

Tonight’s Singled-Out List Members: (your name here)
Porn Title of the Week: Mechanic on Booty (Thanks T!)

The TNSC has never ever been to tonight’s destination. Show up and help us break it in. Bring your friends. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!

Well then ...

2.4.2k2


Howdy all you lovely List Members. As I am a bit strapped for time today (and it's getting a might late in the afternoon), I figure I'll save the nonsensical little gem I was writing for another day and instead cut to the chase:

The Hyde Out

This is where you want to go tonight to meet your fellow List Members and hoist one or two. See you there. bye-ee!

M&M

2.3.2k2


As a freelancer, I sometimes have spare time between paying gigs. I've got a lot to do on my own during this time, but I also cough up some of it to charitable causes. So far I've done volunteer work at the donut factory, the local brewery and the coffee roastery. I had to quit those places because they actually have paid docents who are very territorial. They've banded together into quasi-government states within the institutions, doling out assignments like NEA grants. One would have to submit a written proposal (of no less than 500 pages) and three years later would be forced to answer a battery of questions in front of their tribunal of Elder Docents. All of this to have the "privilege" to survey the employees' opinions about the recent switch from conical paper cups to flat bottom cups. Who the fuck can write 500 pages about that horseshit?
Anyway, like I said, I quit those joints, but recently I found the Mother-of-All-Volunteer-Gigs: Driving folks around in a little van. It's great! Most often I drive the little van around parking lots and help people find their cars. I'll be damned if I didn't learn an important life lesson soon after starting this: Most people who can't find their cars in a parking lot are in fact NOT drunk. This was a surprise to me. I don't have much exposure to parking lots to base my predisposed belief upon, but whenever I found myself in a big parking lot for, say, a mall, I would see dozens of people wandering around the lot looking for their cars. They all looked slightly dazed, confused, lost and, frankly, drunk. Now that I shuttle them around and talk a bit to them, it's revealed to me that they're mostly not drunk, but certainly forgetful.
The mall lot gig is good, but I've found a new gem. The neighborhood I live in here in SF (as are many in the city and in big cities in general) is a frikkin nightmare when it comes to parking. If you find a spot (and that's a big IF), you often need an airport shuttle to get you to the front door of where ever you're going, as it is fifty blocks away from where you found a spot.
Many of you savvy List Members can see this one coming. My new gig is to drive folks from their cars to their front doors. I started small, with only one or two clients, but word of mouth referrals pushed their number up into the high hundred fifties. And growing! It's really simple: Client Mary makes a quick once-over of the potential spots around her pad to no avail. She rings me on her cell and tells me where she's off to look and shortly thereafter I tuck in behind her Miata. When she finds a spot, she parks and I zip her back home. Easy-Peasy. And like I said, this is volunteer work, so I do it for nothing but gas money. In this tough economy, though, tips are appreciated.

Tonight: Molotov's

News: No news is good news. Welcome Lola and Heather.

Tonight’s Singled-Out List Members: Mary Haring, Jimi Simmons
Porn Title of the Week: Tender Tubbies

Okay, then. Lots have asked for this particular venue so here ya go. (Time was, we used to duck in here for a shot en route to Noc Noc.) Bring yer pals and yer quarters: The juke is up to snuff. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!

Jules Verne

2.2.2k2

So I got one of them little peeky-peekys. Some folks call them satellite dishes. A fine, fun-loving List Member set me up with the hardware and I called the programming company and got me about 500 channels. Now while this might sound like a lot of stuff to watch, truth is there's nothing. A whole lot of nothing. The Home BO replays the crappiest movies ... ever. The Food Channel, while somewhat interesting at times, torpedoes its best show, Iron Chef, with that campy English voice over. (In the old days, Iron Chef was on a SF cable-access channel DIE-rect from Japan. It had no English VO, but rather these English subtitles, translations from Japanese, and reading them, the viewer had the feeling that the translator didn't quite saavy Japanese-to-English. And that he was stone drunk.) But at any rate, 500 channels or not, I could scarsely find anything to watch. That is, until I stumbled across the "Operation Channel."\
Pop on the Operation Channel and you're in for a treat, if you can stomach it. Well I can't. The close-ups of the gall bladder surgery or the intra-cavity camera's shots of the hernia operation frankly make me want to hurl. The strange thing, though, is my inability to look away. I'm grossed out, completely, but fascinated (discreetly).\
I threw on the Operation Channel the other night and found someone's toe being reconstructed. Someone had apparently dropped a heavy object, perhaps a bowling ball, on their toe and some enterprising surgeon figured they could salvage the little piggy. Dang but the inside of the toe is icky-looking. The doc was packing what looked like orzo or wee-little shipping peanuts into the meaty, pink, split-toe and I forgot that I needed to look away often and ended up staring at the screen for a long time. Nose wrinkled, squinting and about to puke, I remembered myself and looked at the back of my hand just in time.\
Moments later, as the nausea washed away, I returned to the screen. This time, they showed some fella sitting in bed, reading aloud crappy Laughter Is The Best Medicine jokes from Reader's Digest. The jokes weren't funny, but the guy was enjoying them. I was about to ask what happened to the toe when the camera panned down the bed and the Doc and a bunch of lackeys were down there working on the toe. The dude wasn't even konked out! That threw me for a loop. What a miraculous time we live in, when we can simultaneously enjoy the worst jokes on the planet and get our toe operated on. Oh joy!\

Tonight: Lone Palm

News: Arg! Mateys! Robot feels like a pirate!

Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Moss
Satanic Word of the Week: Error [(Venue Announcement not verbose enough to constitute Satanic Word of the Week. Error No. 666)]
Porn Title of the Week: Whore of the Rings

bye-ee!

Weber

2.1.2k2

Like all parents, I go through my childrens' things periodically. Now just because my children aren't exactly human don't change that none. My cats are every bit the obnoxious little devils that I was when I was their age.
Rummaging through their toys, I found a few fake mousies that needed to be tossed out and replaced. Going through their dope stash, I realized that it was getting a little low, so I made a mental note to get more Cosmic Catnip on the next Petco run. But when I got to Fatty's Palm Pilot, and started peeking around in it, I took note of some of the appointments he had in his datebook. That’s when I got more than a little peeved.
I have always hated the thought that someone was going through my stuff. I know my ma did, some, but she also respected my privacy. That made her transgressions all right as far as I was concerned. She would go through my stuff when a box of Cheez Nips went missing. I understand that. Often she would find that box tucked away behind a stack of comics or sweaters. She never searched for smokes or booze, though. She never had to. My friends’ and my consumption of such were not too big a secret. One of my pals’ ma would butcher and barbecue any and all ciggys found on her property, but my mom figured I would figure it out on my own. Sure, it took years, but I got the ciggy part figured now. The booze, though …
My mother never searched me, never patted me down. I know some guys and gals that did get such a treatment. The closest I came to that was once when I chucked a couple pair of jeans into the laundry. Back then it was like this: Wait until there’s enough dirtys and then do a whole load. Well there wasn’t enough dirtys, so I left them in a pile. I also left something in one of the pockets.
I think I was 12 or 13, maybe 14. I came home and went into my room and waiting for me was a couple pair of clean jeans. And a little pile of stuff that was in the pockets. This was normal. Sometimes I would leave dice or chalk or kleenex or crap like that in my pockets and ma would dutifully check those pockets before she washed them and find and remove the items that would otherwise ruin a wash. Well yeah, this time I had left a condom in my pocket. I think at the age I was I had MAYBE French-kissed a girl, but it was cool to carry around a raincoat, so I did. My mom left a little note that said, “From your pockets. –Mom.” I was so goddamn embarrassed. I laugh my ass off now.

So I got no real right to snoop through my cat Fatty’s appointments – I’m not trying to save a wash from being ruined, or the equivalent thereof - but I’m looking out for him. I was shocked and annoyed, however, to see the details of some of his scheduled appointments: “Tuesday, 4am: Allow no human to sleep.” “Thursday, noon: Puke on carpet.” Saturday, whenever Lunkhead takes a shower: Sit outside door and cry as loudly as possible.” “All Day Sunday: Knock shit over.”
It’s something that I shouldn’t have been surprised about. I’ve suspected as much for some time. Not that my cat refers to me as Lunkhead, but that there was an organized campaign by felines against us humans.
I’ll have a chat with the little sneak and get this mess squared away, but I would advise the rest of you folks that live with cats to check their Palm Pilots and see if there’s something unpleasant waiting for you Friday morn. There is a deluxe treatment scheduled for me, and with the hangover I’m expecting, I shudder to think of the misery …

Tonight: Annie's.

News: If you missed last week’s meeting … pity for you! Don’t make the same mistake this week. Welcome to the List: Alaina!


Tonight’s Singled-Out List Members: Kyra and Sara. Where the heck are those two?
Satanic Word of the Week: Tonight

Aye Carumba! I so tired. I work lot. How I find time for Venue Announcement I not know. You make happy and come to venue and bring friends. I know I will. See you there! bye-ee!

Penultimate

1.4.2k2


Continued from 1.3.2k2

After a while, my friends and family began to notice my strange new habit. At first they chuckled at its novelty, but when they witnessed my frenzied shoe vacuuming, they stopped laughing.
I hadn’t realized that I was causing such a spectacle that day they found me out, but how could I explain my intra-barhop pit-stop at the Spiffy Auto Wash’s coin-fed car vac? We had just finished off the High Life at one dive and started the two-block trek to another oasis when the cat hair on my shoes lit that fire of obsession in my guts. It so happened that we were right in front of the car wash and I, forgetting myself, sprinted for the high-power vacuums, threw in quarters and luxuriated in the industrial suction. As I “came to,” I crossed the pavement to rejoin my friends and their looks told me volumes: “What the?” and “You’re a freak” and simply, “Dude.” “What,” I said, vainly attempting to deflect their contempt, “I had something on my shoe.” My brother, who scarcely holds anything back, said, “Something’s on your shoe, you scrape it off with a stick. You don’t foot-hump a car vacuum.” “I didn’t foot-hump a car vac,” I said, “there was cat hair on my shoes and I had to get it off.” He looked at me sideways and said, “Cat hair. You’ve got a problem, dude.”
My brother’s brutal honesty that night triggered a dormant no-bullshit-obsessions gene that had taken a back seat to my shoe-vacuuming obsession. I hadn’t realized it, but it had become slightly out of control. It was time to get on that road to recovery, and I knew just how to do it.

To be concluded.

Tonight’s Venue: Mauna Loa

I’ve personally heard about 90% of List Members tell me that they’ll be at the chosen venue tonight, so if anyone owes you money, well come on out and collect. I know I will! See you there! bye-ee!

Pt. 3

1.3.2k2

Continued from 1.2.2k2 …
You must know by now that I have a startlingly large collection of shoes. Some are of the low-maintenance Converse/Vans/Airwalk type, while others need routine polishing and buffing. Having spent a number of winters in the Midwest, where the salt used to melt the ice on the streets leaves an unsightly white salt-stain on shoes, I could often be found cleaning the salt off my shoes and polishing them to a brilliant shine. I enjoyed doing this, as the result was a well-cared-for-looking pair of shoes. Salt-stains on my shoes I could deal with. Soon to come, though, was the trigger to my obsession with vacuuming shoes.
It started innocently enough. The two long-haired cats I lived with began to lounge on my shoes. My cats’ direct contact with canvas shoes, leather shoes, boots, laces and buckles coupled with hardwood floors led to a surprising amount of cat hair all over my shoes. (The hardwood floors factored because the random bits of cat fluff elsewhere in the apartment would inevitably drift across the floor, find and stick to my pile of shoes.) I determined that the most efficient way to rid my shoes of cat dander was to simply vacuum it up.
It seemed, though, that the moment I rid the shoe pile of cat hair that it would again be infested. These were LONG-HAIRED cats, people. How much fur they shed amazed me. So with no small effort, I launched a campaign to keep the shoe-pile free of cat. A vacuuming of the pile every month or so became every week or so. Then the frequency increased to every day. Then, frighteningly, twice a day. Soon I would wake in the night and stumble to my Hoover and my shoe pile. I would find myself carrying a Dust Buster with me to vacuum the shoes I had on in the field. I would suck off my shoes when there was nothing to suck off. Oh, the humanity.

Tonight: Mauna Loa

Last week at the Elephant sure was fun! Lots of friendly faces, new and old. New to the list is Katie.
Some of the TNSC’s more sophisticated systems, such as the Tonight’s Dramatic Reenactment engine, the Tonight’s Contest Generator turned out to not be Y2K2 compatible. Fear not! The geeks at the University of Bisbee have assured me that software upgrades are mere weeks from completion. In the meantime, please enjoy the serialized bullshit adventure.

See you all at the dive! bye-ee!

Pt. 2

1.2.2k2


Continued from 1.1.2k2 …
My quasi-obsession with Tetris led to a strange phenomenon that I have heard is not unique: I would begin to see the Tetris shapes in real-life objects. The Number 151 Sheridan Road CTA bus looked just like a 4x1. The space between those buildings needed a “Flat-S.” My TV set resembled the 2x2 square. It was a bit weird at first. Unsettling. I grew to like it, though. There was a strange sense of convergence between the abstract universe where it constantly rained geometry and the strange city where I lived. I never knew what to expect, so I stopped anticipating. That is a lesson that I have to re-learn often.
But enough about the Tetris compulsion, it was merely to be used to illustrate the concept I’m writing about. You might remember I mentioned the gray area between hobby and obsession. Well Tetris usage grossed that border, or straddled it at the very least. I got something else evolving similarly: Used to be I didn’t give two hoots about vacuuming my shoes. Now I can’t get enough. It’s starting to take over my life.
Some would say that vacuuming shoes might develop into an obsession, but such a thing would never start out as a hobby. I disagree. There is a level of utility to vacuuming one’s shoes, just as there is in shining one’s shoes. That being the act of doing the chore one’s self rather than paying to have the service done. When does the chore start becoming desirable? Do you like the outcome of your actions? Don’t your shoes look great now that you’ve shined them? Isn’t your yard the best-looking on the block due to your hard work? Doesn’t your bike ride better after you detailed it? I maintain that the chore does indeed morph into a hobby.
So what started as a chore – vacuuming shoes – became a hobby. Now that hobby has started to become an obsession.

To be continued …

Tonight: Sadie’s Flying Elephant

News: Some of the Venue Announcement regulars, such as Tonight’s Contest, Porn Title of the Week, and Linkey Loo! have been absent so far this year, but fear not, for they shall return soon. Some of the List members have been absent from meetings so far this year. It’s up to them if they will be returning soon. Hi to List Members and good luck with the Southern Cal satellite meeting.

See you all at the Elephant. You may remember it as being a favorite TNSC destination. Bring yer pals. I know I will. bye-ee!

Here we go!

1.1.2k2


An obsession? Sort of. A hobby? Maybe. It’s a stretch, but maybe you could call it a hobby. It certainly falls in that gray area between obsession and hobby. I would guess there’s a point where every hobby crosses that border. I myownself have gone overboard with one or two hobby-like interests. One just gets a little too into it.
There was a time when I couldn’t get enough of the game Tetris. Before school, after work and well into the night, I’d be flipping around those blocks building and disintegrating that wall. Sure there was the typical high-score-related rivalry with my roommates, but it went beyond wanting to kick their asses like stepchildren. I liked the hypnotic effect of endlessly rotating the Tetris bits. I’d slip into a three-hour Tet-com (Tetris-Coma) that would seem like 15 minutes. It sure was a fun game to play, but not necessarily to watch. There wasn’t much to do. You could root for a “backwards L” to drop next or root against your highscore being defeated but that was about it. Mostly a bunch of BS and small talk. One hot topic of conversation while someone was getting their Tet on was the origin of the game. There was some bullshit story about the game originating in Russia or the USSR or some crap. I never bought it. The Reds could build nukes and pop corn and distill vitamin-V, but computer games?
“Yeh, but, what about them Kremlin-thingys on the box?” I didn’t have an answer for that except for: “Some package-design geek drew the Kremlin. They were probably listening to Sisters of Mercy when they were designing. That’s where the Russian influence starts and stops. Oh, and they were probably hungover from a Stoli binge.” One dill-hole said they knew for a fact that children used to play a version of the game a long time ago on the wind-swept, grassy steppes of Siberia. “Explain that one to me, brainiac. How do you play a practical version of Tetris. Scrabble translates to video game, so does hockey and deer hunting, but Tetris? You’re on crack.” He didn’t have any rebuttal, but he stuck to his guns. Idiot.
To be continued …

Tonight: Shanghai Kelly’s

News: Well hell. 2002. I’m banking on this year being a lot better than its cousins – Y2K and 2K1. Those years seriously sucked. I’m grateful they’re behind us. Hope all had nice holidays, got everything you wanted and didn’t get food poisoning.

See ya all at the bar. Get there early, get there late, just get there. I spent Christmas Eve there. It’s nice. Bring yer pals. bye-ee!

Oh, and, remember ... "two thousand two." Not "two thousand and two." Don't piss me off.