Hobbledehoy
noun; a clumsy or rude young man (archaic)
I discovered this word recently while reading The Onion ("...my idiotic hobbledehoy of a son...") and nearly fell through the floor laughing at it.
Another installment from the doorman's chair. I witnessed last Saturday night at Fly Bar The Perfect Storm of bad taste and ego run amok, coupled with wretchedly bad dental hygiene.
Minding my own business, dutifully checking IDs with a splendid poisonous sangria keeping me company (gotta love jobs where they let you drink, and even encourage it), and along comes Twinkletoes. His name has been changed to protect his equally stupid real name.
No front teeth, 40-ish, ostensibly from LA, breath that could trip a land mine, decked out head to toe in fire-truck-red Chicago Bulls regalia, lame hat, dripping with electroplated-gold crap ruining his posture, and now he just has to talk to me.
First words out of his mouth; "I'm a musician and an entertainer." Next unsolicited words; "Let me tell you something about what I've learned over the years...." I tuned out until he said, after 20 minutes babbling crap in my ear and blocking the door, "I'd like to go hear some live music. Blues, I think. Because, y'know, I'm a musician and an entertainer."
"Well," sayeth the helpful doorman, "there's the Boom Boom Room just a 20 minute walk down that way. There's a great band there tonight."
To my musician and artist friends, remember that a little humility in the face of our daunting task-master of a muse is a good thing, and an important thing. As the man said, "let the music do the talking." Now shut yer pie hole and play me a good song.
And don't forget to floss.
Back from England.
It never ceases to amaze me. No matter how many times I go there, no matter how well I think I understand British culture and the British people, no matter how prepared I think I am for their quirks and foibles, every time I immerse myself in it it's almost overwhelming what an odd place it is. One phrase pretty much sums it up: "The customer is always wrong." And I quietly asked at least ten times a day, "How can you possibly eat THAT?" Wonderfully wretched forsaken benighted little island, where even when it's sunny the weather sucks. Still smells nice though. Rule Britania!
Rode the rails on up to Oxford for a day to see the old stomping ground, wax nostalgic at my old school, sit and have a quiet pint at my 2 favorite pubs (The Lamb and Flag and The Eagle and Child, aka The Bird and Brat). The store where I bought my first electric guitar, a Squier Strat, is now a Burger King or something. The store where I bought my first amp, a wonderful Marshall JCM800 1-12 combo which I deeply regret selling, is now a travel agency. Awww shucks...
British Airways is among the worst, but 747s are still amazing no matter how crumpled into a corner I was on the way home.
Oh give me a home
Where the hooligans roam
And the beer and the gin both flow free
Where always is heard
A poor rain-soaked bird
And the bartenders glum as can be
Home, home Pommyland
Where the clouds hang over your head
Where the citizens pray
For a quick death each day
And the sky is the colour of lead.
OK, it wasn't that bad. But if you go soon, make sure to bring plenty of $$$. Mucho expensive.
God save The Queen!
I'm leeeeeaaaaving on a jet plane
Don't know...what a jet plane is...
Didn't even have time to get over the jet lag.
Here in Pommyland for a week.
How the British continue to thrive while resisting the collective urge to join hands and hurl themselves into the Channel en masse remains a complete mystery to me. But I think I get to meet famous people tomorrow. More about that later.
Meanwhile, off to the pub. Anybody need anything while I'm out?
Bill Rushing's ode to Paris (not the city), apparently inspired by my most recent anti-idiotic blonde rant... Nicely done, sir.
------------------
Paris, O Paris
Your face swims before me
in a haze of ketchup and cholesterol
Your eyes, like the eyes of a zombie
I always expect to see
under your twiglike, useless arm
A head, dangling
as befits a zombie
But it's Tinkerbelle, the carnivore rat
who most of that burger's for
Paris, O Paris
Amateur auteur of porn
Our holy princess of anorexic sex
and worthless culture
and mindless everything
Your very existence
torments my every moment
It is like my face is on fire
and the world is putting it out
with a sharpened screwdriver
now that's hot
Boys, wake up. Are you all blind?
Paris Hilton. For crying out loud to the heavens above.
She is not at all hot.
She is not at all cute.
She is not at all sexy.
The empress has no clothes. In this case, blllleeeaaachhhh.
She looks like an electroshocked mule.
She looks like she smells just like Ocean Beach SF at low tide in hot sunny September after the millions of dead jellyfish washed up the week before.
A molting goat in a patent leather leotard sucking down a six dollar burger. She probably got a lifetime supply from Carl's Jr., and with any luck she'll look like the Hindenberg in six months.
And if you actually plunked down money for "1 Night In Paris," your reservation on The Barge awaits impatiently. Rule #3: Try not to let brainless women steal your money. For me that's not such a problem; I don't know many brainless women, and I have no money. It works pretty nicely.
Ladies and gentlemen, please tell me I'm not alone in this. Won't someone rid us of that twatty no-talent cloth-eared shrew-cow hambeast-in-training? It'd be a good start anyway. I swear, if she decides to pick up a guitar/start a "band" I'll personally take one for the team and throttle her myself.