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Wednesday, May 12th, 2004
1:17 am - docmartian.blogspot.com
cuz i can't post whole rants here.

cheers!
Doc

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Tuesday, May 11th, 2004
12:37 am - 10
A real time odyssey into iggy's world circa 1970ish.

The Iguana Chronicles

part 10 Year of the Iguana

This album is a must-have for any stooges fan. I'd also recommend it for anyone interested in learning about the stooges.

Iggy is in fine form on all 11 tracks on this album.... not one of them sucks....

all i'm going to tell you about what went into making this album is one thing..... a year of mad drugs.

There is no part of this album that doesn't bear the stench of iggy.... rockin' hard as hell in i've got a right.... the edgiest single in a lifetime of edgy singles... the sweetest groove that the stooges have to offer in my book.... grind... loud.... deafeningly cool.... this buzztoned tune is one of those songs that leaves you quaking drenched in adrenalin sweat afterwards....

head on? a fantastic piece of crap... by a true master of schlock rock.... it's got strong moments... but it's not going to destroy your mind.... it's ok.... your mind has already been destroyed and this is just the goosh draining out your ears afterwards......

now.... i'm not going to go through every fuckin' song on this record and tell you what it means to me..... but those two and johanna deserve some special mention..... they are iggy at the height of his powers.... lowercase sex god for all the folks who thought david cassidy was prefab.... he was marketed as such.... created as such... and dumped in the dumpster as such when david's career ended in 1975 after his brother shaun turned out to be more marketable..... they are the same kind of pop fag tagteam that limp bizkit and korn were.... one for the culture... one for the counterculture.... keep your mind empty and your brain wasted and listen to our music... drink beer over here... smoke dope over here.... and then.... something happens... and they realize they were prefab.... so they start putting out music that defies explaining..... david cassidy doing kris kristofferson tunes.... iggy doing lounge music.... korn doing adidas commercials... limp bizkit on mtv acting like spuds mckenzie. They learn to revel in their relative emptiness but full on gonzo love for the medium that brought them into the limelight.... namely... music.

Ig is chanting monotonically into a microphone.... the sixties long behind him... the seventies splayed out in front of him like a train wreck.... is that the kind of stuff you want to hear? it's the kind of stuff the kids want to hear...... am i playing to my audience? you betcha.... you see... i'm the dark side of britney.... for the kids who just can't get into her poppy princess persona... i'm the dark psychic god that ate the world's soul and regurgitated back up a ton of meaningless garbage and hardcore political ranting. here... let me show you..... http://groups.google.com/groups?q=docmartian+israel+dogshit&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8&hl=en&btnG=Google+Search see... i'm evil... i'm bad... i'm here to keep the israelis from slaughtering palestinian kids and dressing up in headscarves and killing israelis. What does that mean? dunno dude... just rock out... turn up the music till yer brains leak out your ears....

for the rest of you... realize.... i am the anti-pop... i am satan.... she is satin... and i love her forever... but i still think yer dumb!

end rant 10. part 11? Wild Love.... and how britney and iggy had the same psychic handler.

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12:36 am - 9
A real time odyssey into iggy's world circa 1970ish.

The Iguana Chronicles

part 9 Jesus Loves the Stooges

This is the first review of a rock album to be typed wearing 3d glasses. they came with the album.... some miniature 3d glasses that i have parked behind my specs. Iggy has done it.... made his lounge album.... and here he is doin' an after hours set.... consolation prizes... jesus loves the stooges... and johanna.... a late night groove to get everyone horny so they take home the trolls left at the bar who have been drinkin' their fiftieth bourbon.

I'd buy this album... it's one of the best mini singles of all time.... better then marky mark and the funky bunch... better then madonna's erotica.... better then 'have you seen your mother baby.... standin' in the shadows' better then anything by lesley west and mountain... better then your mom dressed up in the pumpkin suit again.... this album is a winner... and the three-d glasses rock... and iggy makin' david cassidy faces on the back cover rules... and the dead goat in 3d is the most gratuitous use of 3d in any album ever. jesus loves the stooges is playin' right now.... and it sounds like total dogshit.... iggy's voice in low croon... the piano playing a whorehouse grind.... no gitars in evidence. What more can you ask for in an album.... 3d glasses.... iggy doin' teen pinup shit.... and a great whorehouse lounge song.... for after everyone but the whores have gone home..... and he's sittin' there at the barstool singin' johanna.... figurin' he'll go see his girlfriend... for once not a junior high school prom queen.... but a hottie nurse back at the UCLA Medical Center Training Ground for Young Rehab Stars..... James has brought out a couple groupie trolls.... but his hottie back at the lockdown sounds sweet right now.... her roaming in with a pair of restraints and a couple of sedatives.... removing the nurses cap from her tightly clipped blonde locks.... and spreading her legs over iggy's restrained face.....

end rant 9. part 10? Year of the Iguana. and how i learned to love the bimbo.

A real time odyssey into iggy's world circa 1970ish.

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12:36 am - part 8 Kill City
A real time odyssey into iggy's world circa 1970ish.

The Iguana Chronicles

part 8 Kill City


This album is the greatest. It stands up there with ANY stooges album.

Now, Iggy has spent 2 years dredging bottom.... whose bottom? Bowie's of course. He's kickin' it with a couple beers in him after playing hooky from rehab.... smiling.... lookin' at some chick from the Count Dracula Society.... wondering if those legs go all the way up. And his gals at the UCLA NEUROTOXIN WARD are going to be going apeshit..... Kill City rocks away.... scott thurston of the stooges and james williamson are pounding and flailing away at the keyboard and guitar respectively.... The music is gentler... less desperate... less drug fueled... like some crazed ass surf musicians sittin' back at the record store in their fifties doin' pipeline and chantay. The lyrics? profound.... about the wasted years.... about all the water under the bridge.... like lou reed's late seventies stuff.... not as into nihilism... more into a return to the craft of songwriting. It's infectious.... folks like jackson browne.... supertramp... and the black lips (cuz they're retarded retro-fools plugplugplugplugplugplug). Btw.... after all my rants about how much whitepower/racism suck.... It seems kind of odd for me to drop the black lips into a review... all i can say.... is they're more brainwashed then hatefilled.... like if a black guy walked up to them and started interacting with them at their level... i bet they'd react humanly.... Of course... you gotta realize... a lot of their family/friends are going to do everything (including psychic situational stuff) in their power to make sure that doesn't happen.... but that's beside the point... this is a stooges review.

Iggy's been listening to his leif garrett records.... he's got his tough stance down... he's been kickin' it with bowie.... and bowie did something to him that nobody has ever done before.... he put the igster down so it hurt. Catty little bitch. And now... ig's going through the most challenging days of his life.... dealing with real grown adults instead of his usual adolescent buddies. It's challenging.... his music has grown because of it.... he's thinking about things like social responsibility... the pain that he's been through.... how the drugs used to wipe him out..... that hasn't stopped his fans though.... the first side of this album is like play til' you nod out city.... kill city... sell your love... beyond the law... johanna (my personal favorite of maybe all stooges/ig tunes.) and then the second side.... that just doesn't measure up... but still has moments. My thought? all his fans.... nod off halfway through the album... and then the leif garrett record drops on it from the album changer. A little sidenote.... hunt and tony sales (sons of soupy) are playing bass on some of the tracks of this album. Now... this opens up a chapter of music that i've never even explored before.... friends of bowie. Here's what tony has to say about bowie....

"They found me basically dead, not breathing, with the gearshift through my chest, and of all the people I'd known and played with, David [Bowie] was the only one who came to the hospital during all that time." --Tony Sales

this happened AFTER this album was recorded.... tony and hunt spent a few years playing with a group called tony and the tigers... a semi soupy-spinoff band... but it taught them their chops.... and ig probably saw them while stoned and watching the tube back in detroit.... impressed by their musicianship... he brought them in.

Notice something.... I'm not ranting my fool head off on this one.... a couple of sly asides... but hardly the over the top lambast and footshufflin insanity that followed before.... that's because i'm not being driven insane by iggy's out of his mind drug state. He's calm.... I'm calmer.... a reflective pool of mercy.... thinking about how iggy can keep hisself from going full-on bonkers again (like that worked...). I also figure... how can you beat..... awww.. fuck... i'm not going to say it again.... IGGY AND KISS BEATING THE SHIT OUTTA LED ZEPPELIN!

Bowie.... has brought an element of calmness to iggy.... it lasts with him even today.... he's seen someone who has a natural stillness in their life (probably a psychic reaction to bowie's alcoholic mother) am i right about that? i've forgotten so much rock and roll literature i've read... had it blasted out of my mind by 5 years of hardcore political activism/work for the u.s. government.

It seems appropriate though.... after years of an alcoholic family member... usually the result is a measure of calm or a measure of escapism... and bowie has a healthy dose of both. This album isn't about bowie though.... It's about ig having interpersonal relationships that aren't vampiric.... and aren't about his fame or his money... just about his need as a human to relate.... the band seems kinda non-plussed.... expecting the wildman... and finding the shaman. Was ig always that inside? dunno... it'd explain a lot.... the shamanic trick of dragging his buds into the darkest place they've ever been... then bonking them on the head a couple of times with some magic tricks.... then showing them the way out.

Songs about sociopathy.... songs about humanity.... songs about being finished with the horrific drunken splendor of his woohoo younger days. And now? i'm going to lay back and listen to the man who's grown out of his pain.... and into his sanity.

end rant 8. part 9? Jesus Loves the Stooges... I love the 3D glasses.

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Thursday, May 6th, 2004
5:33 am - the bow of heaven is just right these days.... (found this old topic... appropriate here)
A real time odyssey into iggy's world circa 1970ish.

The Iguana Chronicles

part 7.2 - Double Danger - NYC Academy of Music 12/31/1973

Light up some incense ya'll.... cuz this is the hippie review you've all been waiting for.... can you say.... double album? i knew you could.

IGGY AND KISS ARE GOING TO BEAT UP LED ZEPPELIN!
IGGY AND KISS ARE GOING TO BEAT UP LED ZEPPELIN! That's what should be going through your head right now.... that's my neener neener neener to the rock critics of the world... cuz nobody! and i mean NOBODY! Not lester 'romilar' bangs, not lenny 'meff' kaye, not patty 'i wuv the trees' smith, not
that stinking asshole bob 'white power's half indian bitch' matheu, not dogshit eatin' christgau.... and especially not fucking jann 'pussy yuppie' wenner, could ever put KISS and iggy beatin' up led zeppelin into a single sentence. They are more concerned with this album has a series of tunes by the igster that in critical parlance are actually the spinoffs of bob wills sucking john lee hooker's dick.

So.... iggy is rockin' hard.... cuz he has just cut a deal with the boys from KISS... all he has to do... is slip them a couple groupies for the trip... and after this new year's eve show.... they'll all fly across the atlantic to BEAT THE LIVING SNOT OUTTA LED ZEPPELIN. Iggy has been gettin' syph from jimmy page's groupie pool..... and HE'S PISSED OFF AS ALL FUCK! Here's what happened to save your asses a bunch of worry and wonder and listening to me blabber while the drugs take effect. They do it... they fly across the channel.... BAP! robert plant get's knocked out with one shot from gene simmon's tongue.... peter criss and paul stanley take on bonham.... he puts up a fight.... but they got INTERSTELLAR FUCKIN' POWERS.... and he's had a few too many boilermakers..... one shot to the chest and then they sit on him and fart for like FIFTEEN FUCKING MINUTES.... john paul jones and paul stanley square off.... screaming bitch epithets at each other until paul gets pissed off and sticks his sparkler up jp's butt.... then he cops a tude and walks out on the whole deal ... sparkler flaring... jp thinking... man... they said they were bringin' some coke-caine... and the main event.

Iggy and Jimmy Page.... Jimmy's all quakin' in his snakeskin boots.... goin.... i promise igster... i'll use a condom next time.... i promise.... pleazzze don't beat me up..... iggy smiles.... straps the tubing around his arm.... shoots up the blue velvet laced Nixon and with the tubing still strapped about his arm loosely... starts swinging on page's head..... page ducks... bobs, weaves... and hides behind the fart reekin' bonham and kiss's version of the muscle shoals rhythm session giggling and passing a joint back and forth as they continue to flatulate all over the unconscious bonham. Iggy sees him hidin' (I SAW YA) and pulls his panties uptight.... cruises for a bruisin... only not his.... and while jimmy page tries to load his bow into the double string guitar to shoot at iggy.... iggy kicks a high flyin' field goal kick to his face smashing his pretty face (until the nights plastic surgery at londonderry hospital) to all hell.

Now.... i bet you want to know about the album.... I'm not going to tell you.... I'm just going to give you the list of songs they played... they... being the stooges. 1. Raw Power, 2. Rich Bitch, 3. Wet My Bed, 4. I Got Nothing, 5. Cock in my pocket, 6. Search & Destroy, 7. Gimme Danger, 8. Heavy Liquid.

The two cd's in this album (here starts my rant about cd's and lp's not being synonymous with album but merely the medium upon which albums are recorded) Ok.... now if someone told you... they just got led zeppelin's new album on 8 track....
would they be using imprecise language? i'd say not.... If they'd said I just got their new RECORD on 8-track... that would be a grammatical error.... but album is a term that goes back to the 78-rpm days... when a series of 78-rpm records would be in a package called an album... like a photo album.... the entire musical piece including liner notes and enclosed booklets was an album.... In the seventies... the album rock format took over... and the stupid fucking dj's (can you say guys named chuck that nobody could shut up in class ended up becoming djs so the psychic manipulating teachers could get them to drop out halfway through school) started thinking album's were lp's. I have a number of albums on cd... i also have albums on cassette... albums on lp... and even a couple of albums in mp3 format (plug for mike watt's fantastic 'corndogs.org' site of minutemen and mike watt stuff)...

ok... that said... this double-cd album (guys like mitch miller and dj's loaded up on coke started calling double-lp albums double-albums cuz they couldn't manage 3 term linguistic elements) is one of the best pieces that i ever listened to while huffing incense.

BEAT THAT YOU GODDAMN PUSSY ASS FUTURE ROCK CRITICS.

setting the standard in literature AND rock criticism for 5 years running!

Kevin Anderson


end rant 7.2. part 8? Kill City and how iggy's dreams were fulfilled and he went back to load up on scopolamine at the feeb factory.

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2:55 am - Part 7.1 - Double Danger - Latin Casino, Baltimore 11/73
The Iguana Chronicles

Part 7.1 - Double Danger - Latin Casino, Baltimore 11/73

Ok.... i put the headphones on for this one.... just ran around all day watching the ladies.... now here i am... typing more crap atcha..... is this crap? nope... the whole goddamn set of essays is the most brilliant piece of work that ever was.... Double Danger is one of those grungy background for a breakdown cd's that everyone wishes they had on hand..... you see... you've paid your admission.... you've heard the hype.... and now.... here you are at a stooges concert... and iggy's a drunken sot up on stage doin' his thing..... hammered with every drug known to man and god..... and the only thing in his head is... why isn't the music fast enough.... you see.... ig was tooled for the punk generation.... blazing fast guitars.... and the only way he could keep up with the sounds in his head was to have hammerin' pianos... blazing hippie guitars and a set of drums pounding..... he didn't know what was comin'... his idea of a hard band was KISS.... not that kiss isn't a wall of thunder in itself... but compare kiss to x and you've got it.... blitzkrieg fast music to get loaded to... versus music for loadies.

Now... ig's all broken up that his thang with bowie didn't take off right off the bat.... he got to meet the bloke... but he didn't get to meat him... if yah know what i'm saying... but... some bitches like to play hard to get.... bowie did..... iggy was going to have to go to fuckin' germany to get with the bowienator.... and to do so... he had to earn a little bit of cash along the way.... so here he was.... not wasted.... not loaded with groupies.... just fuckin' kinda buzzed and in a mean mood.... cuz he was gettin' ready to fuck david bowie in the butt for like 10 years.... head on? filled with the grudgefuckiness (is that a word? it'd make a great t-shirt word for japanese schoolgirls) and the piano and drums and everything are hammering away... pretending it's the good old days when iggy didn't have an ego and was just a big ole fuckin' idmonster pallin' with his buds.... now? he's more like if jim morrison was into a heavy metal thing and didn't know how to keep his dick in his pants. That paints a pretty ugly picture..... so let me give you a confidential cia debriefing..... Iggy stopped being a racist about 1973..... it was costing him boot...... and he knew that the indian and black and mexican and hebrew girls he'd get for NOT being racist would blow the tweaked out wp pussy away..... so... he still spewed some shit... but he got deep up the ass of some racist wp bastards and his fbi/cia/nsa/dea/batf tails (of which he'd had millions since detroit when he singlehandedly monopolized his neighborhood's drug deals with marijuana he bought with lawnmowing money) sure... i can sell you a joint fer a buck... led to ok... you want an ounce... that'll be twenny bucks.... and the feds showed up.... and so iggy had to hide out in rock and roll.... it was like a narcotic witness protection program... where the druglords of detroit kept iggy running from town to town so he wouldn't get bored and narc them off.... but the feds kept following him... from town to town... hoping that in the middle of one of his sexual marathons he'd give away the name of Bigguns D. Rambozo... the drug kingpin of the southside who was dealin' drugs from his mommy's stroller.... yup... the baby crimelord of corktown. he used to cut the shit with his formula.... nobody knew that the shit he was swillin' from the bottle was one hundred and fifty percent uncut china white mixed with a little bit of milk so he wouldn't get colicky.

Now... back to ig.... he's all singin' gimme danger..... his love song to BD Rambozo.... little stranger... gimme danger.... he didn't need to be protected... he didn't need groupies surrounding him every minute to make sure he didn't squeal... he needed bowie's ass... to sink his manmeat into and go... i'm ziggyiggy... iggyziggy... ziggyiggy... iggyziggy.... ziggyiggy... iggyziggy... oooh yeah... ooh yeah.....

now onto led zeppelin.... those buttfuckers were running all over the u.s. givin' iggy's girls the clap. he'd had more shots of penicillin then the average korean war vet.... he was all ready to swell up like a mushroom from all the fungal byproducts injected into him.... and iggy was hot for them.... but with the laid back guys in his band (pussies...) he needed some muscle or bonham would tie him down and robert plant would spend a weekend slapping his dick in ig's face....

that's where kiss comes in.... iggy had to get away from his lounge act for a minute... he had his chops.... and knew where while up the line (timecorp lingo) he'd be doin' a lounge album or two.... he had to put his detroit metal head back on so that when he met kiss they'd pal around with him for a weekend for some zepp stompin.... that's where iggy was at on 11/?/1973. Ready to stomp the shit out of led zeppelin for giving him syphillis.

end rant 7.1. part 7.2? Double Danger - NYC Academy of Music 12/31/1973... and the KISS thang.

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Wednesday, May 5th, 2004
11:36 am - iGGY and the stooges Iguana Chronicles - an ongoing hellrant. pt. 6
A real time odyssey into iggy's world circa 1970ish.

The Iguana Chronicles

Part 6 - Michigan Palace

This one is worth the price of admission.

end rant 6. part 7? Double Danger. and how iggy stooge became a legend in KISS annals.

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3:59 am - http://www.angryalien.com/0504/shiningbunnies.html
http://www.angryalien.com/0504/shiningbunnies.html

cheers!
Doc

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Tuesday, May 4th, 2004
5:08 am - pt. 5
iGGY and the stooges Iguana Chronicles - an ongoing hellrant. pt. 5 - Fuck Everyone That Ever Dicked With ME!

A real time odyssey into iggy's world circa 1970ish.

The Iguana Chronicles.

part 5 - California Bleeding

nothing new.... and then... iggy talkin' like dean martin. and then.... the noise.... the drums.... the blare.... the guitars... the sounds of your soul tearing through the mainstream music that you always wish you had. Iggy wishes he had a band... and he did... iggy wishes he were a lounge singer... and he soon realizes he can't have everything.... but soon... he does... and he puts together a lounge band... that's what this story is about... three great albums... where the greatest rock and roll band in the world... becomes the suckiest lounge band in the world.

That's just the way iggy wants it you see... he wants to have a sucky ass lounge band to throw him into sharp relief.... so that all the people who went... wow... that's some pretty rockin' music... but the singer sucks... can see just how fucking awesome the stoogenator is....

i'm typing a little slower this review... i've hammered my way through the last few... this one... i'm just typing as fast as i can talk.... now... i can talk pretty fast... but that's not how i'm typing this one... i'm typing it... about the speed that iggy talks at the beginning of this record.... i said record... i know... it's a cd... but it's more... it's a recorded document of iggy's soul going to become what he always wanted to be. Perry Como.

Can you see iggy with his own tv show? cruising out with a cigareete and a bourbon and seven waiting for him back in his dressing room? i can... that's why all the appearances on miami vice.... jeopardy.... and every goddamn third rate movie the eighties produced...

the full moon shines in my window... and i feel myself changing.... i'm a werewolf... have always been... found out two years ago.... and there's nothin' i can do to stop it.... my jaw elongating... my snout craning outwards... my claws lengthening... and the hair on my ass... well... let's not get into that.

All i can tell you is it started a long time ago.... I found out that i was the only child of a crashed spaceman.... a big ole goddamn werewolf from planet xeuxes.... chased by intergalactic vampires who had destroyed his civilization... but not before he collapsed their galaxy... yes.... a giant collapsed galaxy of vampires.... or iggy... well.. i've been talking a lot about iggy lately... so... i think i'll tell you about the hunters.... they bred... and i was passed from womb to womb by psychic transporteleportationism.... they tried to chase me throughout the world... but here i am.... my father died... he was destroyed in the crash... but not before his massive love pheremones called a woman from the 15th century after us.... yes... time travel woman... and she came cuz she smelled his love... and then.. he impregnated her... and sent her embryo through the greatest wombs of history... from ten billion years in the past... to two hundred thousand million years in the future... and all their blood runs through my veins.... from womb to womb to womb.... and my blood runs through their veins... the werewolf strain of mankind... from me... courtesy of dad.... yup... big ugly hairy thing... and eventually i was dropped in the womb of a velvets fan (just to get even with iggy for not being true to his werewolf soul.. the werewolf soul of rock and roll... instead of the vampire soul of lounge.) and when i popped out... i was promptly seized by the vampire nurses and put into the arms of a loving sociopathic mother... who cares about me so much she saves me from the hells she puts me in.

my current hell? i'm single... 34... and stuck at my mom's house after kicking israel's ass silly for 4 years. want proof of that? search the web and the newsgroups for doc martian... it's there.

now... igster... he's crooning.... his werewolf soul is being called to my changed form... my silent eyes looking to hunt... but knowing the game i seek is not around.... lovely women in the coachella valley... some of the loveliest... but i seek a woman on the moors... a bogwitch... yes... i'm after siouxsie sioux... and all her legions of fans.... i love them... they make me twitch... just like i make israel twitch.... only not cuz i have my axe buried in their head.... but because it makes them laff to see me smile when i fart.

Ig's singing his heart out... higher then fuck.... the heroin is just scored... all you gotta do.. is say you're playing at the whisky and the balloons come out of thin air... and you can choose your grade... tonight... iggy chose the scaggy shit... cuz he likes the edge it gave him... even with some perfectly clean china white... he's got some cutdown indian bitch heroin that has like red shit in it.

The harmonica wails... i don't care who's playing it... never did... they either can play it.. or they can't.... Scott Thurston can.... and he is... he's the newest member of the band... and the guys have had him running out for sandwiches... pizza... and drugs all fucking day... and he's got the blues about it... that's ok.... he hocked a bloody loogie in the shit iggy shot into his arm... and he's smiling at iggy over the harp.... through the harp... his eyes glowing... cuz he's about to change... i have... my mom cages me in my room on the full moon nights... there've been too many times i come home drunk with some hot girl scared fucking shitless of my evil grin and crying to her... make him go away... he smells like sweat.... and i do... i can bathe all day and the sweat still doesn't go away... the pain that stinks through my pores.. the howling through endless nights... the wandering everywhere but the forest.... the desert... the oceanside.... the city... and i know she's around... the bogwitch... my heart and soul... my woman.... my love.... my angel... and she's reading this right now? is it you? come on over... i'm in indio... you know where it is.... it's where all the bands in the world come to pay homage to me.... cuz i kicked israel's ass....

ok... enough about me....

ig's singing open up and bleed.... and it's sounding like a million bucks... cheezy electric piano.... trainwreck on the keyboards.... john cage kinda crapola... only better... cuz ig is playing the toon he always wanted to play... he's already jumped forward to johanna in his head.. . he's already singing the greatest fucking lounge song that ever was.... and i still fucking love it... my rock and roll soul is goin'... bad lounge... bad.. bad... but his is still rock'nrollin.... and i can't stop... my fingers hurt... my soul bleeds for iggy... cuz i know what's coming next... the glass... and he cuts himself.... and he pretends it doesn't even happen... probably can't even feel it with all the morphine/heroin crapdoodle floating in his veins....

johanna.... said the magic word... the ultimate of sweet songs... the name of an ancient aunt of mine whose funeral i missed cuz i wanted to get loaded... even though she was the sweetest old lady in the world.... and iggy's singing... her name... but it touches my core within... and i remember all the family members i left behind in my quest for a rock n' roll lifestyle... i remember the pain i went through while trying to get back home only to have my family (mainly moms) screaming in my face.... and iggy starts in....

johanna... johanna.... i've been a fool but i'm comin' back to you.....

never can tell what it means... he's talkin' about his father... and what he learned from him... and the band plays on....

now... ig... or as i like to call him... the howling duhbeast.... something i know he's truly not.... people who are intelligent are very good at playing dumb.... keeps the kids in school from copying our homework.... iggy is confident in his soul.... so am i... confident to tell you that this is not about iggy... this whole rant is about my search for the bogwitch... the crazy lady who ruled my life forever... the woman who meant everything to me... but didn't want to see me.... cuz she thought i was like the guy that stalked her.... i wouldn't get up off my fat ass for her... much less stalk her.... but she didn't see that... and so... my wind and love continue to dance... dance in the cool night air.... kim... i still love you... it will never stop.... even if you act like a bitch to me....

now.... let me tell you all something.... my love for kim... is echoed in bowie's love for iggy.... he'll never be able to consumate it... he'll never be able to fulfill it... but it still burns within him... in spite of his other loves... in spite of his other mates... in spite of everything.... maybe someday i'll find myself with a woman... at home... and loving every second of peaceful country club living... but something in me had me cruising through the night in a third rate rural farm town... singing my heart out to kim... wishing like hell she were with me... in the daffodils... on the mountain.... climbing up the side of a hill so that when she or her friends went climbing in hemet after hiking every trail in joshua tree or palm springs... she'd not have oleander slapping at her... is that how i saw it.... nope... that's how i see it now....

and bowie? he smoothed the way for iggy by putting him into a kinder musical form... not the knifefighting angeldust ridden world of rock'n'roll circa 1973... but the sweet and simple lounge scene... the scene at which bowie excelled.... bowie on stage? bowie serenading people on drugs.... iggy in beer... nope... iggy shooting up to the bowie album... nodding off to starman.... saying he was ziggy iggy to friends... saying he was iggyziggy to lovers... and david bowie knowing it was all going on... psychically hooked to his groove cuz he loved him more then anything even though he knew he was basically just a rock'n'roll kid who was doin' the lawns... in blue jeans... and waiting to get home and get stoned.... bowie made iggy his daddy.... the daddy he always wanted... the loungesuited martini swilling artless but humane when in his cups daddy that iggy was to bowie....

now.... about kim... cuz her husband (yes... she's probably married with 2.4 kids and a kia) is all stressing at a psychic level.... i can't ever forget her... but i had to let her go a decade ago... i knew... she knew.... she couldn't contain my emotions... she couldn't contain my pain... my talking about the death of my brother... her thinking about going hiking.... at least she wasn't thinking about her nails... but i still loved her... and still do.... in spite of it all.

and now? i'm listening to 'head on' and the rhythm is nothing compared to the hard grinding wall that opened it... they aren't worried about sounding like anything anymore... just noise and then feedback... and then blues... and then love... and then the music again... and then... iggy in a goddamn set of panties falling down flopping on stage.... i care igster... you were a modern bluejeaned digger to me... the guy who managed to come back from hell to a sober mind.. then come to terms with his personal hells.... me? i don't sweat nothin... a little bit of this... a little bit of that... and my soul is clean.

I've finally vomited up the last of my love for a woman who nearly broke me until i realized she was in the pay of the enemy. Yup. A whore. A woman sent to make me crazy about her but then give up nothin' more then an innocent sweet kiss that meant nothin' to me cuz i wanted to mack on her for like a year.

I'm done... my heart has sold out the only woman i ever really loved... my cia buddies will bash her a bit... but mainly... they'll let her alone... cuz she missed out on the coolest guy that ever lived. namely? me.

end rant 5. tomorrow? rant 6 michigan palace.

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Monday, May 3rd, 2004
4:27 am - iGGY and the stooges Iguana Chronicles - an ongoing hellrant. pt. 4
A real time odyssey into iggy's world circa 1970ish.

The Iguana Chronicles.

part 4 - Open Up and Bleed!

I wouldn't buy this album. Now let me tell you why it's an indispensible part of your record collection. Iggy was gettin' sick of rockin. I know... Iggy? not rock.... well... I guarantee you he was fucking sicking of it... BLeeeYaahaaa... all night... every night... to dozens of adoring fans.... to loud blazing guitars..... but now he had something he needed.... a fool to play organ for him, and a cheezy fartfisa it was.... electric piano from hammond or some awful crap.... but who cares.... it' made him what he always wanted to be..... a lounge singer.

For what is a lounge singer... without a cheezy pianner. He finally was halfway there....

Iggy was born James Osterberg... stuck in detroit.... admittedly a musical hub thanks to folks like Berry Gordy. Mow-town! he used to call it.... doin' the neighbor's lawns so he had an extra hunnerd pennies to buy a joint with. And there it was... him out there... mowing the lawn of some freak who was working at a power plant or something.... a doob tonight.... he's thinking.... vrooom.... vrooom...... the lawnmower of iggy's music is undeniable.... running through leaves.... seeing them fly all the fuck up all over the place... smoke choking him from the diesel engine that the neighbor bought at sears.... and him.... sweating... wanting to get back home to smote out and sing along with a dean martin album....

i been pushed... i been shoved too long... even tried to buy my song.... bleeaaaaarrrrrrghhhhhhh...... iggy has it made.... singing his first true lounge song.... a drunken lounge song ala tom waits only with a cheesier organ..... out of money again.... even though he's slaving on a tour and has just stopped in rehearsal studio in new york.... he's already made kissy-faces with bowie... but he knows that he needs some money to party with him in europe.... so he's cruising through the nation.... makin' a lil' cash here... a lil cash there... and considering a new album... cuz those always made him more money then shlepping around the u.s. getting wasted on tour. Open up and bleed.... the lounge lizard... mr. iguana himself.... the man is singing a great tune.... his background musicians (they stopped being his band around bowie... when he realized the cult of personality was stronger the then the cult of society) are playing along.... doin' some great riffs... but for the first time... it's iggy out there alone.... doin' his thing just like he always was... but not with his brothers.... alone.... strong.... and slower then usual..... still sounding like he'd swallowed asphalt..... but obviously thinking about his future as a lounge musician.......

he doesn't trust his bandmates not to give away his secret though.... he wants to be doin' como songs. tina tina tina marie.... Hip, I didn't know lips could kiss, ( Hip hip ) Hup I didn't know wives could flirt, ( Hup hup ) Hoop, I didn't know girls could be like "Tina Marie"..... except he sings it like... Johannnna.... johaannnnna.... i wanna blow... wanna blow right back to you..... soft organ riffs ala 'the trip'... iggy moanin' low into the microphone... gettin ready to smooth his hair back ala buddy love.... check out my rings asheton.... check out my cigarrette.... i'm cool to drool..... it's ig... and he's still havin' to rock a little bit.... but he's almost there..... to where he's not a 100% motorpsycho nightmare... but someone to whom falling up the wagon could mean something
.... cuz... isn't that what lounge singers do? fall off the wagon... into their cups... smackin' their woman around like perry como, dean martin, and of course... the inevitable... jerry lewis.......

gotta cover... gotta cover..... more rock... gotta cock in my pocket... gotta cruisa-a down that old highway... or whutever the lyric is.... it never really matters with ig... sexual suggestion.... leeer...... bleaaarrghhh.... it's just another song... it's just another tune... and another martooni at the end of the line..... this one's a rocker though.... so he's gotta open his shirt up a little bit..... tug again at the cigarrette... and let the smoke drift up while he headbangs.....

nobody has ever spotted ig's lounge tendencies... he wears the rock and roll suit like it was tailor made for him.... and it probably was... tailor made by the finest groupies hollywood has ever seen.... make-up done for him right down to the beauty mark.... a junkies manicure.... and waiting for him when he gets home... a robe and ascot.... only it's more like more bruises and vomit.

now.... why would a guy do that to himself... bet iggy hears that all the time at this point... he's not in comfortable l.a. where drag queens and hippies hang out seamlessly at the whisky.... he's in new york... detroit... pittsburgh... baltimore.... home of class struggle and urban renewal.... he's not very happy about having to flex his muscles and act like a detroit metal rockstar... and to retaliate... he's got a buttmoidal electric pianner instead of the hammond organ that most of his compatriots use to make the dancefloor rumble....

drunker then usual.... he's wishing the set were over so he could sit back and get oral sex from some empty-headed bimbette that he could fill with his member...

it's 1973... he's been on tour... he's been to all the seedy watering holes this side of devil's junction... and now... he's back in a studio... thinking new album... but he's not feeling good.... he's not strutting... he's drowning... drowning in rock and roll.... wanting to snap his fingers... do his changes.... 'i'm a street walkin' cheetah with a heart full of napalm
[Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<snap,>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.]

A real time odyssey into iggy's world circa 1970ish.

The Iguana Chronicles.

part 4 - Open Up and Bleed!

I wouldn't buy this album. Now let me tell you why it's an indispensible part of your record collection. Iggy was gettin' sick of rockin. I know... Iggy? not rock.... well... I guarantee you he was fucking sicking of it... BLeeeYaahaaa... all night... every night... to dozens of adoring fans.... to loud blazing guitars..... but now he had something he needed.... a fool to play organ for him, and a cheezy fartfisa it was.... electric piano from hammond or some awful crap.... but who cares.... it' made him what he always wanted to be..... a lounge singer.

For what is a lounge singer... without a cheezy pianner. He finally was halfway there....

Iggy was born James Osterberg... stuck in detroit.... admittedly a musical hub thanks to folks like Berry Gordy. Mow-town! he used to call it.... doin' the neighbor's lawns so he had an extra hunnerd pennies to buy a joint with. And there it was... him out there... mowing the lawn of some freak who was working at a power plant or something.... a doob tonight.... he's thinking.... vrooom.... vrooom...... the lawnmower of iggy's music is undeniable.... running through leaves.... seeing them fly all the fuck up all over the place... smoke choking him from the diesel engine that the neighbor bought at sears.... and him.... sweating... wanting to get back home to smote out and sing along with a dean martin album....

i been pushed... i been shoved too long... even tried to buy my song.... bleeaaaaarrrrrrghhhhhhh...... iggy has it made.... singing his first true lounge song.... a drunken lounge song ala tom waits only with a cheesier organ..... out of money again.... even though he's slaving on a tour and has just stopped in rehearsal studio in new york.... he's already made kissy-faces with bowie... but he knows that he needs some money to party with him in europe.... so he's cruising through the nation.... makin' a lil' cash here... a lil cash there... and considering a new album... cuz those always made him more money then shlepping around the u.s. getting wasted on tour. Open up and bleed.... the lounge lizard... mr. iguana himself.... the man is singing a great tune.... his background musicians (they stopped being his band around bowie... when he realized the cult of personality was stronger the then the cult of society) are playing along.... doin' some great riffs... but for the first time... it's iggy out there alone.... doin' his thing just like he always was... but not with his brothers.... alone.... strong.... and slower then usual..... still sounding like he'd swallowed asphalt..... but obviously thinking about his future as a lounge musician.......

he doesn't trust his bandmates not to give away his secret though.... he wants to be doin' como songs. tina tina tina marie.... Hip, I didn't know lips could kiss, ( Hip hip ) Hup I didn't know wives could flirt, ( Hup hup ) Hoop, I didn't know girls could be like "Tina Marie"..... except he sings it like... Johannnna.... johaannnnna.... i wanna blow... wanna blow right back to you..... soft organ riffs ala 'the trip'... iggy moanin' low into the microphone... gettin ready to smooth his hair back ala buddy love.... check out my rings asheton.... check out my cigarrette.... i'm cool to drool..... it's ig... and he's still havin' to rock a little bit.... but he's almost there..... to where he's not a 100% motorpsycho nightmare... but someone to whom falling up the wagon could mean something
.... cuz... isn't that what lounge singers do? fall off the wagon... into their cups... smackin' their woman around like perry como, dean martin, and of course... the inevitable... jerry lewis.......

gotta cover... gotta cover..... more rock... gotta cock in my pocket... gotta cruisa-a down that old highway... or whutever the lyric is.... it never really matters with ig... sexual suggestion.... leeer...... bleaaarrghhh.... it's just another song... it's just another tune... and another martooni at the end of the line..... this one's a rocker though.... so he's gotta open his shirt up a little bit..... tug again at the cigarrette... and let the smoke drift up while he headbangs.....

nobody has ever spotted ig's lounge tendencies... he wears the rock and roll suit like it was tailor made for him.... and it probably was... tailor made by the finest groupies hollywood has ever seen.... make-up done for him right down to the beauty mark.... a junkies manicure.... and waiting for him when he gets home... a robe and ascot.... only it's more like more bruises and vomit.

now.... why would a guy do that to himself... bet iggy hears that all the time at this point... he's not in comfortable l.a. where drag queens and hippies hang out seamlessly at the whisky.... he's in new york... detroit... pittsburgh... baltimore.... home of class struggle and urban renewal.... he's not very happy about having to flex his muscles and act like a detroit metal rockstar... and to retaliate... he's got a buttmoidal electric pianner instead of the hammond organ that most of his compatriots use to make the dancefloor rumble....

drunker then usual.... he's wishing the set were over so he could sit back and get oral sex from some empty-headed bimbette that he could fill with his member...

it's 1973... he's been on tour... he's been to all the seedy watering holes this side of devil's junction... and now... he's back in a studio... thinking new album... but he's not feeling good.... he's not strutting... he's drowning... drowning in rock and roll.... wanting to snap his fingers... do his changes.... 'i'm a street walkin' cheetah with a heart full of napalm <snap, snap, snap>' but instead.. he's gotta keep up with the band... they want him to rule the stage like jim morrison.... but instead... he wants to fade into the club.... become part of the background to a martini glass and a dame....

and finally... he figures it out.... that the blues is what rock and lounge music have in common.... one went into a vegas room... the other went into a garage... and he's been in both.... hangin' out.... lickin' his eyebrows.... groovin like it's tuesday on a summer moon.....

so he trots out an old janis joplin tune 'cry for me' and rules the room for a minute.... cuz that dame and the martooni ain't everything... came here to see a show... di'n't yah...

i listen to the music for a minute... letting my readers fade.. letting my thoughts of iggy fade... and realizing... that all my feelings about this record upon casual listening around the bong have faded away.... this could have been the greatest stooges of all time.... except it wasn't.... iggy didn't want to drive another album home and become the new mick jagger.... there already was a mick jagger... and he was in rehab with keef.... pukin' out 'it's only rock and roll but i like it' and iggy din't... he liked the blues... he liked dean martin.... he liked a martini.... and here was another window of opportunity to show it off for the world.... only his band member's weren't having it... they're all straining to play l.a. blues again.... fading back to a setting for iggy is beyond them at the moment.... me me me and my guitar is rock and roll.... me me me and my band is lounge. And iggy was comfortable in both forms..... but hell if he didn't slide into lounge at any given moment... when the drums quieted down... and the guitarist got tired... you see.... they weren't used to being all tired all the time like the jazz musicians... when the adrenaline ran out they got tired.... and started to nod off.....

rich bitch. iggy has taken control of the band.... made it clear that they were his.... and now his ultimate love song.... the lovesong to bowie that he wanted to sing on 'raw power' the lovesong that never materialized on an album because it was so personal to him.... it was one of those songs that couldn't be put on vinyl because then he'd be asked to interpret it.... instead of letting it sing through him. Sometimes iggy just lays back and lets the band play as he cries... knowing that he's going to serenade bowie through the tapers in the audience... and that eventually... he'll lay his rich bitch... you see.... ig was the p. dudey and bowie was the j. lo of his generation
... they were a lovestruck couple who even when they weren't together were always whispered in the same breath.... it was luvvv ferever...


bass and pianner and lounge and all the things that made memphis great.... iggy's soul roots are showin' again... the time he snuck into a baptist congregation.... the time that he stayed up late looking into an after hours joint... the time that he took a hundred hits of acid and watched the nutty professor....

the music slows down... the blazing guitars fade away... and the pianner plays on.... and iggy blasts bowie and his money thing and his cryin' shame you don't have any talent there igster attitude... bowie hides behind his rock and roll persona... iggy lives it.... even though it isn't him.... the band keeps playing.... iggy isn't part of it anymore... even though they are all his friends...... and sometimes... he fades into the music with them.... he's moved beyond... he's been adulated.. he's been vilified and lauded by the press... and they've just been the band... or scott and ron and james on guitar bass and drums.... nobody's tried to get inside their head... nobody has tried to imagine what they do after hours... nobody has given a fuck whether they cut themselves with glass or climb out on the crowd or not.... just as long as they keep playing.

Had scott thrown down the sticks.... had ron smashed his guitar into a fan... had they done anything to keep iggy from singing.... it'd have made them infamous in the eyes of the fans.... instead.. they're the troopers.... performing til' their fingers bleed.... tired up to their eyesockets from the party that iggy threw next door... banging their shoes against the wall to shut him and the groupies the fuck up.. they weren't even about the drugs... they were about the next days gig.... the next song... and then walter cronkite to see the lists of the dead.

I had to take a break from my writing here... it calls to me like rock and roll called to iggy.... it's a part of me.... i'm recognized for my skill at it... but my nature? is a musician.... all forms.... from country to jazz to blues to reggae to trance to all that the music is.... i don't distinguish... scat in the punk song.... rock steady versions of elvis... music is mutable and formless... but in iggy's time... it wasn't.... you had to be a rocker.... or you had to be a ___________ or you played country music or you were something unwanted in music.... the eagles... the 13th floor elevators... the count five.... the stooges... and no jumpin' to the lounge side of the fence once you've made it as a rocker.... country was ok if you were folk like those dogfuckers the byrds... but to leap into lounge? unheard of.... so... everything so often.. iggy slips a oooooooh.... or a beebopadooliedoo into the tune.... every so often he struts around like a fascist lounge singer doin' his i me mine routine.... but then.... he pulls the covers back over his eyes... and starts doin' a mick thang.... i got nothin'.... nothin' to sing... nothin' to feel.... nothin' to do.... i got nothin.... cept fer this here pianner.... and the joy of stage and radio and performance that began in the music of bob wills comes to a screeching halt in iggy.... cuz iggy's about the limelight.... and wants to be adulated.... but nobody gets him... because he hasn't taken the time to discover who he is.... he will... he spends the 70s... 80s... and part of the nineties rediscovering his personality.... but... i'm getting a little ahead of myself there..... he's not pouring his self into the music... he is the music... cuz it's all he knows except for skool... and he din't do too well in skool.

more later. i'm going to cry for iggy... the evita of rock music... even though he's bowie's badass muthafuckin' daddy. This album doesn't suck... but it doesn't own... it has moment's of utter joy and abandon... it has moments of complete unadulterated goofiness.... it's a good album... it was a good surfboard... it's tough to find a surfboard you like...

if you're reading this... you probably know how tough it is to find a surfboard you like... guarantee you if this album got stolen... i'd replace it. new orleans soundin' like a drunkass hammered chorus of phil spector drag queens... only more and more evil then anything you've ever heard.

there are two more songs to listen to again... on this album that i couldn't catch the groove in for my entertaining some goddamn loadie that was smokin' all my dope.... i still don't quite catch the groove on it... but i wouldn't trade it for anything... and i'd kill anyone who took it.

the she creatures of the hollywood hills... and a big ass smile on my face... and the first coke i've drunk in a month... and my unemployed existance with some neat toys await me........

end rant 4. rant 5 California Bleeding comin' up next....

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Sunday, May 2nd, 2004
10:56 am - Part 3 - Rough Power
A real time odyssey into iggy's world circa 1970ish.

The Iguana Chronicles.

part 3. Rough Power

Crack... drag... beer opens in the background... bowie hears it and his face screws up like michael jackson listening to a whispers record.... they shouldn't do that... he thinks... and his healthy bat ears root out all the pain of iggy's existence... he wants to whitewash it... unbeknownst to him... he's become iggy's bitch. The record company thinks bowie is an auteur.... a madonna like figure of the seventies... there to make iggy's rancid smoove enough for a mitch miller listening audience of record execs. I don't buy it however.... iggy cut this great set of demos... bowie cleaned them up.... bowie had something else in mind... you see... bowie wanted iggy in europe.... and europe was listening to kraftwerk... not stealer's wheel and all the grungy 70s rock that was playing in 1972.... so.. he needed a crystal clear audio document to get the iguana to a rockier beach... europe... where the gays play... where the guys like bowie run around kissing buttocks all day and making money for it.... gimme danger? gimme dogshit... cuz that's all this album was once bowie got through with it.... crystally washed dogshit using a european smoothing process that makes it go down smooth for international retards. Iggy meanwhile... is putting out the feelers... feeling warm and fuzzy for bowie... wanting to talk to him about kraftwerk and ducks deluxe... when deep down in his soul... he's nurturing a need to play slade records at bowie til' bowie pukes. you see... iggy is sending out a i'm soft and fuzzy in clean eurocrapspeak to bowie.... bowie buys it... and when the cbs record whores come to town to ask him about this new kid iggy... bowie says... lemme play with it.... and he does... he jacks off all over it... keeping the raw vocal track.... dropping the rest a bit... but mainly lowering his sex rival james williamson's (iggy's other bitch) guitar down to a healthy little growl... instead of the raw fire it has become after realizing that the 60's sucked. Now... in iggy's band... nobody has provenance... there is no badass boss bitch.... not in bowie's band... you see bowie was a big ole fag (this comes as no surprise to you) and had to have everything his way... my way.. or the highway (a phrase he picked up from mitch "hendrix's dick carrier" mitchell or something... so the raw balanced simple noise that was designed to bust from the am radio that ig' grew up on... became a big quadraphonic pink floyd-y tour deforce that wouldn't upset bowie's hangerons and the record execs... who were looking at each other going... hey... can we get laura nyro to record another album? Now. Nothing up sleeve.. presto! i'm going to change the subject. This whole set of reviews isn't about Raw Power... it's about the love affair of bowie and iggy.... two starstruck lovers who were broken up by mick jagger.

Once upon a time... there was widdle boy named david bowie... and he had a lot of money and respect... but he didn't have one thing.... internal honesty... he was playing the music industry for whatever sound they wanted to hear that week.... what they wanted to hear at the time bowie was listening to iggy's demos... was another 'ziggy stardust'... only he couldn't find the riffs in his head... he couldn't find the songs to sing... he had the same old mumbledy-junk... but not quite the moped he was looking for. Iggy came along... just then.... and he knew he had a daddy.... money didn't impress bowie.... music did... and iggy had the music soaking out his pores.... bowie put away his aretha franklin and tina turner records... and started poring over iggy's catalog. He heard 'the stooges' and thought... what a piece of work... wish i'd done it... then he picked up 'funhouse' and said to himself... i've found ziggy. He dropped iggy into the entire psychic framework he had made unbeknownst to himself.... bowie had found his daddy. Now... bowie had listened to those albums once or twice along the way... but he was trying to get albums by the beatles (those gorgeous blokes) into his head... and didn't really have time for the madman from detroit. Iggy... meanwhile.... was drunker then a skunk... going... goddamn i don't know how the fuck i can get the record guys to buy this shit.... they'll ask me to tone it down.... they'll ask me to sling it on 'andy williams'... they'll ask me to do my tennessee ernie ford act for them.... and i doanfugginwanna.... so... i'm going to go burn down cbs records.... and he got a gallon of gasoline.... a gram of methamphetamine... and went to their l.a. whorehouse..... when he got there.... some zootsuited crazy in dayglo colors who didn't realize carnaby was dead said... oooh... igster.... we've got a producer for you.... and iggy stopped... and went... who... joni mitchell? bob krause? mick fleetwood? i don't care.. just get my record out there.... and they said.... it's bowie.... and ig went.... bowie sucks.... and a healthy glint came into his eye... and he said... i'll make him my bitch.

of course the record industry geek figured that this was some rockstar slang for producer and didn't realize that iggy had just turned the corner into the most storied romance of his career... not that it started as a romance for ig... just a domination of another groupie... he knew that bowie was hooked and looking for the raw primal street sound that he could only find by listening to stones records and going to 'sweet' shows... iggy went back to his motel room... and called james on the phone... and said... hey... bring me some pizza.... and james knew that the love had gone out of their relationship.... iggy twinkled.... and some fucking anchovies... i'm going to lick them off your back... and williamson smiled because he knew that iggy wasn't going to just dump him.

Now... at this point in time... you're going 'it wasn't anything like that.... it was a formal antiseptic corridor where mitch miller told iggy.... ok... we like your record... but we're going to have to have a producer on it... we're going to ask around....

that doesn't suit iggy's mad power persona though... can you see the igster nodding happily and going... sounds great... let's get right on it... buttkiss buttkiss? neither can i. I can see iggy going FUCK YOU MITCH MILLER! I CAN'T READ... MUCH LESS FOLLOW THE GODDAMN BOUNCING BALL IN FRONT OF YOUR CROWD OF RAINCOATED URBAN SLIME. only he'd say it... like... "RARRRGH MITCH... YOU kNOW I Don'T lIKe BoB EZrin"... mitch stank at him gleefully from behind his hai karate... and iggy went.... i need a beer.

now.... at this point in time... i've listened to the entire set of raw demos.... you haven't... you should buy them.... they aren't my favorite of the iguana collection... but they still are pretty good... they were kind of a letdown though... i expected different rhythms.... more cussing... something.... instead of bowie twiddling switches and tossing filters on them. that's all he fucking did... added his name.... twiddled some switches... and history was made.

iggy smiled.... and once the record was cut... sed... we should go on tour.... and they did.... that's what's coming up...

at the moment though..... the fags at wabx are saying that iggy doesn't sound like mott the hoople.... NO SHIT! iggy created mott the hoople.... they were just some ex-hippie band until they heard 'the stooges'... and then decided to toss a dylanesque spin on it.

what? you want poetry? you want pavoratti? i'm listening to an album that represents a personal amount of pain to me... i spent several dozen hours trying to whip creem into a publishable conceptual thing... then realized that it was a whitepower joint.... putting non-whites into subsidiary roles... dropping any reference to non-whitepower-based rockers... and tossing in some salt by referring to fleetwood mac or whutever crap they used to listen to between slade albums in the 70s... was it always whitepower? nope... but whitepower fags are attracted to names like 'creem' or anything white... and the guy that ran it kicked the bucket... and all of a sudden.... they're doing whiter then white bands like 'talking heads' and 'that fag band that i can't remember' and any other non-rock (too many jews in rock) that they can get their hands on... people that got beat up by the anti-nazi contingents in punk rock. FUCK JONATHAN RICHMAN.

Now... while creem was busy ignoring anything that had any non-white performers put into the forefront of music... I was working my ass off fighting a battle for the underdog... the palestinian peoples.... meanwhile... every couple weeks or so... i'd get into a rock and roll writing jag... trying to turn the poop that creem under Bitch Matheu had become into the old rag that made music critics cry... but it wasn't to happen.... Matheu had his stable of retards and wanted me to try and play lester bangs... erudite maniac... only i wasn't playing that... i had too many chops in 'black' music.... you can almost see 'black' music on the few reviews that Bitch Matheu tossed into the mix so he wouldn't have to hear it from racists... just like you could almost see 'black' musician on some of the musicians that are buried in the background on his website. NO FREE PLUGS BITCH!

So I balked... wrote public enemy and a number of music professionals (in journalism and other) and said... watch out for creem... they're white power. Guess what happened next.... Someone loosely affiliated with the chuck d/p.dudey megamix released a classic rock toon... 'hey ya' on the speakerboxx album... almost daring Bitch Matheu to review it. They didn't.. until it won a messa grammies... then grudgingly... they put it on their website... until they could bury it again.... one of the tastiest rock/hybrid albums of the decade... and they treat it like a sidenote.... while they hype 'burning monkeys' or some other whitepower garbage.

Suzy at BOMP takes off on me when i tell her that I just said FUCK CREEM.... the whores at creem "brian bowe" pretend they never heard of me... even though i was writing back and forth with them and had just been given a whole webpick section on their private group links board. I don't blame her for being p.o.'d... she'd just sent me 10 albums in the iguana collection.... for me to review for creem.... something that sounded hunky dory to Bitch Matheu when i wrote him about it.... I wrote him a bunch... figured they needed a little conditioning... you see... not only am i an NSA agent... I'm also CIA... FBI... DEA... and any goddamn other government agency you could imagine.... I WHUPPED THE NAZIS ASS... we sold radioactive materials to hitler's fagboys and then strapped some geiger counters into the radio systems of the british and american planes.... so we had a clear stereo 'static' warning in the gunner and pilots headsets
whenever nazi steel was around. This psychic endeavor (as well as hipping churchill to the nazis as early as 1928) won me mad respect in international intelligence communities.... but they had to wait for me to be born.... I was born in 1970... out of my mind... but it wasn't a saturday night.... it was a hell night.... adopted by some crazy bitch because my birthmother was being oppressed psychically and financially.... and here i am.... listening to raw power... and going.... NSA, DEA, CIA, FBI, as well as brass positions in ALL FOUR MILITARY BRANCHES OF THE U.S. ARMY. My whim becomes law.... the patriot act was made to protect me from israeli spies... and Ms. Suzy Bomp (who i respect tremendously cuz she wrote back to a punk rocker who just wanted to tell her how much he dug the gravedigger v) is barking up my ass cuz i have promo that i can't put into a magazine format because whitepower isn't my bag.

Well Ms. Suzy? i understand.... i've had my work go free to a number of buttmunches over the years... I hope that this series of diatribes makes you feel better. I love you... and would lick your ass if you weren't so damn old!

The rock show from wabx is still playing in the background.... it's retarded fm chatter... drivetime or morning jocks... it doesn't matter... the music is great... buy this album.... it's even got a tinny recording of 'not right' (is this licensed? fuck if i know... It would explain some karma if it wasn't)... just to save suzy's ass if it isn't licensed... the static on it could qualify it as 'pop art' or collage-modification of art for copyright purposes.

Now.... you wanted a review... you got one... and i'm not talking to bomp... i'm talking to ig. I know you read this.... I know you heard it at a psychic level... I know you're itching to avoid my show and say 'it sucks'. Well... i've got some news for you! Bowie was your bitch and still is... He cries himself to sleep every night thinking of how he ruined his relationship with iggy because of the art.... you see... bowie wanted to go to the museum... iggy wanted to find some drugs and get a party going on... bowie had been doing that for years and was sick of it... i know.. you're thinking... bowie? jaded? really? how unexpected.... Only you're saying it like this... I'm glad he's fucking done with this review.

end rant 3. part 4? a shitty album called 'open up and bleed'

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Friday, April 30th, 2004
7:56 pm - iGGY and the stooges Iguana Chronicles - an ongoing hellrant. pt. 2 "I'm sick of you."
iGGY and the stooges Iguana Chronicles - an ongoing hellrant. pt. 2 "I'm sick of you." FUCK WHITEPOWER! FUCK AL-QUEDA! FUCK ISRAEL AND ALL THEIR PUPPET GROUPS!

A real time odyssey into iggy's world circa 1970ish.

The Iguana Chronicles.

part 2. I'm sick of you.

slow groove... iggy sounding like a fucked up brian jones with bad breath. and so.. the night continues... williamson sucking on guitar... right from the first... i'm like... damn... isn't loud enough.... not that it isn't tasty.... but it's another piece of iggy's throwaways.... it's a good one though.... 'sick of you' and a buncha cheesy organ riffs... except they couldn't afford the fucking organ.... damn... shoulda stuck with elektra.... and so... another groove ripping through the night... sounds good on the heroin they scored though.... and so... groovin... slowly... kinda angry... kinda wanting to be my dog.... but they aren't... and they aren't and they aren't.... not that williamson really sucks on guitar.. it's just kinda 60s derivative instead of the forward looking jive grooves that the elektra albums promised.... no wonder this song got dumped.... awww.. it's alright.... but it's not awright. and so the groove picks up a bit... iggy tries to keep it from going in the dumpster... but somehow.. he knows that it won't... will he get any money from williamson from it? dunno... but something tells me williamson is a villianous little fuck.... did he give iggy money for these masters? how bout the ashetons? dunno... care.. have to speculate though... maybe mike watt will find out for me... suupersnoof... checking like poirot to find the ancient crimes of these bozos.... and the groove rocks on... he's sick of me.. he's sick of you... he's got all these hangers on.. and the only thing that keeps him going is the studio and the drugs... he doesn't want to go anywhere near the crowds again... or does he.... luded up.. talking trash.. wishing to god he hadn't taken 5 of them... but jumpin' around just the same.... does iggy have anything but id that drives him? does he have a superego? dunno.... care... but dunno... how are his drugs today. I'd say they aren't bad... but he could use some food... more hambergers... more hambergers... get me a goddamn hamberger. and then.... something breaks.... he realizes it's not about the music... the drugs... the hamburgers... the groupies... about his making bowie his bitch. and he knows how to do it. He sees a vision in his mind of bowie kissing his ass going 'great stuff igster' great stuff.. slobber slobber. So he tightens shit up a little... starts dropping some rockin' riffs that only a brit could love into it he starts playing these back and forth call and response vocals where he's the only vocalist... he knows bowie is a whore for playing the kinks in one headphone and the who in the other.... and the groove begins to pick up... i'm thinking that maybe the drugs got to him.... but they didn't... the guitars got to him... he realized they lethal instruments in more ways then one... and that the cia wasn't chasing him... it was the fbi... and that jim morrison wasn't really dead... he was bruce lee... and that your mom was really a beast of mordor... and not a beast of harad as he'd always thought.... and then... he crakced... his brain spilling out on the pavement in the studio... that they used to hose down after the animals pissed all over it.... and the music kept playing... and playing... and he couldn't leave.. he couldn't take a whizz... he had to piss on the drums... and he did... and he got shit all over asheton's face... and he got the shit beat out of him.... only he was faster.. and it's off to the looney toon races again.... and so what... the music... who cares... it's about the scream.. and vile noises that are coming out of his butt and the pants that are showing his buttcrack... and the drugs that are finally taking hold... oh... wait.... that's the ulcer from the booze last night.... i'm finally sick enough that i'm getting hallucinations.... i don't need the drugs anymore.... wooooo woooooooo woooooooo! woooooo! and the dog howling and barking on the back of the soundtrack.... and then.... oh no.... off to the can.... the hottie i was checkin' out..... has left.... and all the shit... and all the shit... and finally... he puts his mind back on the prize... bowie as his bitch.... shake appeal.... the grooves... shlurping the microphone.... just like he wants bowie to... and so many groupies... and all of them smearing make-up all over their face like the 'swamp women' and all the money that i spend on the crackheaded bimbos that are in the ward right now.... oh... wait... that was the eighties... and i'm not there yet.... but they are... and they're thinking back hells at me... and all i can do is spew butt juice all over the bass... and rant on... rant on... all i've ever seen is the money... and all i've ever seen is the donutwhores... and all i've ever seen is the drool running down the mic and bowie going... ooooh... i wuv this album matey and passing it back and forth to his homey friends and their love pigeons.... bowie... love pigeons.... iggy.. his dog... i can't see nothing comin' i can't see the beer spilling in my eyes... i can't see the drugs stopping me from ranting more... and then i realize... it ain't the drugs... it's the religion... i'm caught up in the furor of my love for the world.... only it's in words... and music... and iggy pretending to be timothy leary and jim morrison rolled up into one stomping dervish of a moaning man."winners and losers" and something has to let me know who is who... what is what... i don't care.. i don't want you to know that it's the eighties now and they've got a gay midi box... and they don't have the sense that those retarded kids with guitars blazing had... but then... iggy would crrrry..... and go back to kate pierson.... and then... the grooves pick up again... and the midibox starts playing some flock of seagulls crap.... and all the stinging guitars in the world can't get them out of my head.....

now..... if i told you the ending to this story... you'd be unhappy... but basically... i'm saying that iggy burned everyone... including me.... he knew i was getting the hell off on his seventies groove... so he psychicallly planted a cheezy 80s riff on this great triple ep crapathing that i'm listening to bomp(bcd113).... and all i can hear.. is the cheezy organthinger with arena rock beats... but iggy hasn't made an arena appearance lately.. he's stuck following the beats of nina hagen sniffing up her trail/tail (take your pick) and there's one thing that he's hunting right now.... the music... but he knows it isn't all the music... it isn't all the drugs... it isn't all the insert stardom catchicon here.... it's that he's hunting bowie.... for taking his anal verginity... and soon... he'll kick him the glass spider.. and it'll be on like donkey kong.... you see... he made bowie his bitch... but one night... late... while bowie was in his cups and ig was sleeping off the whores... bowie and mick jagger snuck into his room and forcibly made him eat dick and take it in the ass... you see... they had his buttsnuggly pajamas and they were going to set them on fire.... and he couldn't have that... he couldn't... he couldn't..... and for three days they buttsodomized him and made his drugs taste bad.... and he had to get back to his ancient grooves again... so now... he hunts.... and searches.... and tries to find that little weasel bowie in one of his haunts so that he can kill him dead dead dead and have it blamed on his sissyboy.

that's the ending... but we aren't there yet.... right now... igg's still hunting some bastard in 1993... remembering his old lyrics from the drug days.... he's found his groove again... he's not using some faggot duran duran arrangement and he's kicking mad ass as a musician.. an entertainer... and the only thing missing.... is the thrill of seeing bowie the next day after he smeared poop on his jowls and flushed his speed down the toilet.... boy was bowie pissed... it led to the breakup.... no... not of the rolling stones... of bowie and iggy... starstruck lovers... stupid binge and purge junkies trying to see who could remain thinnest and have more skinflaps.... it was ig... and bowie was all broke up about it too... he had to hide his face in tina turner's ass and gobble... for like three years.... soul music... more like a lovesong to tina.... but wait... this isn't about bowie... or is it... it's about ig... and his groupies... and his stageshow... and his duckwalk... and his fat anal love troll.. the one he stole from lou reed.

and now.... there's nothing like an old sound.... and they're back in the 80s.... grinding and grinding shake appeal... knowing that bowie is beaten and done for... he's laying back in some chinese brothel and iggy has taken all his fans and iggy has taken all his drugs... and all that matters anymore is the recording... cuz he knows someday he'll be dead and his book petered out after the first 1100 pages.... and then nothing could go wrong.. until the dog ate it... and the braindrool started and the crafty bastards had taken his dreams... and here he was whoring himself on stage again... except he didn't have a contract and he didn't have a deal... and he didn't have a groupie... except for that girl out in the audience who was wearing a siouxsie sioux t-shirt and looked like she might shoot him... and the tight pants on her put her his old song into his head.... it's the choppiness of cd's that i hate.... it's skipping on me... like iggy... he's skipping around like a little girl on stage and i don't care nuffin at all. except i remember the beer i spilled on it last summer.. when i was ready to kill creem for being a white power joint... and suzy for taking it out on me emotionally even though i was living according to my belief system (to not be a whore for a white power bunch of asstwats. themselves whores for israel.. riled up any time israel needs distraction from their crime sprees) and all i've managed to do is dig deeper into the iggy paradigm... was it them holding hands and walking in the park? nope.. it was them hiding each other's drugs pissing on each other and pretending to be mick jagger (the male) one at a time.... and then... something happened... they realized that mick sucked...(thus the lips) and that they had to do something about it... they did... they hooked keef on heroin and started running him around town.... calling out the names of ancient vagabonds to him who used to sell him junk.... nothing was new... one long sentence... one evil grin.... one hated rant (i hate this rant) so the fuck what it's real... so am i... and i'm coming to town... when i get there? self-aggrandizement city.... you'll think corey haim was goddamn pat morita for all my self-aggrandizement..... and here comes a vintage 1980s drool... jeez.. why didn't bomp put this crap on a 80s droolfest release instead of the classic 1972 studio outtakes.... BECAUSE THEY KNEW NOBODY WOULD BUY IT! Is this whole thing worth the 6.fitty or whutever? probably... this is a classic documentation of whatever the fuck iggy was drooling before raw power.... and some of the stuff he drooled in the eighties. Not that i mind iggy's drooling... it beats the fuck outta listenin to joe walsh.... it beats the fuck outta listening to most of the bastard 70s rockers.... the only thing that it doesn't beat? is listening to iggy in his perfect form... ranting... screaming... on stage.... but.... we'll get to that.

end rant 2. part 3? a big ole fuck you called.... rough power.

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12:55 pm - the iguana chronicles from bomp... an ongoing hellrant.
A real time odyssey into iggy's world circa 1970ish.

The Iguana Chronicles.

part 1 - I got a right.

Nothing i've ever heard matches the stupidity of iggy. His moronicism is legendary... from running around with guys in nazi suits... to fucking 12 year olds in the butt. Nothing compares. That doesn't change the fact that his music is of the highest caliber of schlock rock the world has ever known... i might not find myself thinking of iggy in a moment of high reverie after completing a world shaking endeavor that soothes the lives of millions....

but then again... i might... and when i did... i could do far worse then thinking "i got a right" is the finest piece of unreleased music that ever walked the planet.

It's like the five versions on "i got a right' (bomp bcd139) are so mind numbingly insanely beautiful pieces of the musical edge of the seventies that couldn't be encompassed by bread or neil young. Bet they cut and snorted lines of coke, meth, and dogshit off of the vinyl i just mentioned. It'd explain the booze and adrenalin' fueled music on "i got a right'. They were up to their ass to their dealers and had ta had ta had ta do it or their fingers would be cut off up to their wrists. Ugly music... but i love rolling down the road to it... i love blasting it from my cheesy pc speakers... it's about the most gritty music that i've ever heard... only siouxsie sioux is more pained. Now. let me explain my rationale here. I'm going to listen to the entire iguana chronicles over the next couple days and type whatever the fuck comes to mind... from legends to imaginations to whatever fucking dogshit i feel like poopin' out of my fingers. Right now? i'm thinking that only iggy could manage to sound affected when letting out a screech... but that's ok... it's take 3 and he's probably going... damn... the bookies will be after us next. I can't tell you why i don't quite respect iggy. I love his music... i love his voice... i love the sound that he puts together... but somehow... it's like iggy doesn't quite come up to the level of humanity that fuckers like nils lofgren do in their schlock audacity. 'lost a number'? a piece of complete garbage that nobody should love... but it has me tappin my feet.. my fingers... and wishing i had 'grin's 1+2=3' or whutever the fuck that album was. I've got iggy though... and i love his face when he realizes i was just fucking with him psychically by saying i thought nil's (slippery fingers) lofgren had more honesty then him.... it's on the cover of the 'i got a right' cd. He looks like a 10th grade girl when she gets to the marilyn spears concert and finds that the tickets are scalped and she's going to suck a dick to get into the concert. Kinda pissed off... but more put out. Did i say put out? i know you did. Now... to explain myself. I'm not buying one thing about iggy... the fact that he's a rock and roller.... he's like a lounge crooner... always has been... but he found he couldn't make money as a lounge crooner... the days of dean martin and buddy love are long gone... only rock sells... and not even slow rock... his entire genre is maxed out with doofs like bread, grin, the carpenters, and tony orlando and dawn... so what's left to do.... but rock. and buttrock it is... nobody has ever left america wondering what the fuck more then iggy... a fairly good selling pair of albums with a critically acclaimed 3rd album and iggy disappears... loaded... drunk.... all fucked up... but then what the fuck... the stones could do it.... only iggy couldn't... that's because he's a poseur... what pose he's making? rock and roll. He'd rather do some simple arrogant changes and lay back and tell a story about the truck that ran into his gramma then have to perform a stage show.... he doesn't want to climb on shit like mick... he wants to sit back... relax.... and croon.... and he does... but the kids get bored... so he jumps up and shows them his buttcrack... then goes out and struts like pre-elvis mania. Jimmie Rodgers he ain't though... his honeycomb is 12 years old so he's gotta jump around like david fuckin' bowie.... not that he doesn't love rock and roll... it's been very very good to him... just like hip-hop was to j. lo... even though she was more into streisand then lisa lisa and the cult jam. Now... iggy is gettin' kinda pissed... he's done boocoo takes of this shit and the lounge vocalists haven't come in yet... no sha-la-lahs... no beebopdoodoolie-doos and still a long ass road before he gets to the sweet strains that he always meant to capture in kill city. yes... maybe lounge isn't the right word to describe where he's aiming... more like dion... was dion lounge? dunno... but the fucker ended up doing plenty of holiday inns and singing versions of bing crosby toons. Now.... why do you think that iggy finally decided to respect bowie.... my guess? that gig bowie did on crosby's (sinatra's?) wait... andy williams... christmas special. Iggy finally saw that bowie wasn't just a space cowboy.. running around on drugs fucking all the chicks in london that keith richards hadn't pissed on. He saw that bowie was a light of wisdom to the lounge scene... and he had to recognize that nobody would ever do more to push him into the lounge limelight then bowie.... you see.. bowie used to blow the guy at the holiday inn. Iggy just would ask him for a cigarrette and make kissy faces at him. Nobody has ever claimed iggy wasn't a stud though... he was.... he was balling anything that gave him drugs.... some rich lil' bich comes up and gives him fitty bucks from her purse (not that she KNEW she was giving it to him) and all of a sudden iggy's beggin fer some skin.... what kinda skin? a fitty spot... cuz he owes his drug dealer... and he hates the fact that he's got a major label contract and doesn't have a fucking nickel to rub on his dick (DAMN YOU SCOTT ASHETON) and he's living in a hotel room for the 50th day running... he didn't realize that even as a multi-millionaire when you're spending more then 200 bucks a day... it goes mighty fast... not that he had that kinda money... he was in gravy... but didn't have led zepp's kinda money... just led zepps kinda spendthrift groupies.... were you one? many were.... nothing ever stopped him though... on the street... passing his bottle to a hobo... buying another... finding a new friend... finding a new dog to get drunk with... cruising up to the hotel... making them want to kick him out... then flashing a grand at them.... was it like that? i don't care... it paints a pretty picture... so does this.... neil armstrong.... the man on the moon... and iggy sitting there in his first apartment wishing he could buy a ticket so he could rock and roll on the moon.... was that enough? is that all he could do? spend money? nope... he was drunkass motherfuckin' philospher.... philosophizing about whether or not his drugs would run out. they did.

end rant 1. tomorrow? rant 2 I'm sick of you.

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Thursday, April 29th, 2004
5:06 pm - julep recipe
1/2 ounce of spearmint leaves soaked in whiskey
prepare 15 minutes beforehand.

one glass.
to glass add crushed ice.
place one tbsp. brown sugar on ice.
add 1-2 oz. water.
add 1-2 oz. whiskey and mint leaves
add 1-2 oz. whiskey.
stir gently.

drink responsibly.

cheers!
Doc

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Wednesday, April 28th, 2004
11:46 pm - bwhahahahaahahhaahahahah!
http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=4146756343

SIZE 12 WEDDING DRESS/GOWN NO RESERVE
SURE IS A BEAUTY! CHEAP! USED ONLY ONCE! Item number: 4146756343

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Go to larger picture Winning bid: US $3,850.00
Ended: Apr-28-04 15:37:01 PDT
Start time: Apr-23-04 15:37:01 PDT
History: 113 bids (US $1.00 starting bid)
Winning bidder: absolutsth( 80)


Item location: Seattle, wa
United States /Seattle-Tacoma

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horseplaypublishing( 30)
Feedback Score: 30
Positive Feedback: 100%
Member since Nov-24-00 in United States

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Description (revised)

Item Specifics - Wedding Dresses
Sleeve Length: Sleeveless, Tank Color: White
Size: Large (10-12) New With Tags: --









For Sale: One Slightly Used Size 12 Wedding Gown. Only worn twice: Once at the wedding and once for these pictures.

Make: Victoria

Style: 611

Size: 12

Divorce forces sale



I found my ex-wife's wedding dress in the attic when I moved. She took the $4000 engagement ring but left the dress. I was actually going to have a dress burning party when the divorce became final, but my sister talked me out of it. She said, "That’s such a gorgeous dress. Some lucky girl would be glad to have it. You should sell it on EBay. At least get something back for it." So, this is what I’m doing. I’m selling it hoping to get enough money for maybe a couple of Mariners tickets and some beer. This dress cost me $1200 that my drunken sot of an ex-father-in-law swore up and down he would pay for but didn’t so I got stuck with the bill. Luckily I only got stuck with his daughter for 5 years. Thank the Lord we didn't have kids. If they would have turned out like her or her family I would have slit my wrists. Anyway, it’s a really nice dress as you can see in the pictures. Personally, I think it looks like a $1200 shower curtain, but what do I know about this. We tried taking pictures of this lovely white garment but it didn’t look right on the hanger as you can see, so my sister says, "You need a model." Well, quite frankly my sister isn’t exactly small, (like a size 12 is?) so she wouldn’t pose for the picture. Seeing as I have sworn off women for the time being and I ain’t friends with any, it left me holding the bag. I took the liberty of blacking out my face - not to protect the ex-wife but to protect me from my bar buddies and co-workers finding out about it. I would never live it down. Actually I didn’t think my head would fit in the neck hole, but then I figured she got her Texas cheerleader hair through there I could get my head in it. Though, after looking at the pictures, I thought it made me look fat. How do you women wear this crap? I only had to walk 3 feet and I tripped twice. Don’t worry ladies - I am wearing clothes on underneath it. I gotta say it did make me feel very pretty. So if it can make me feel pretty, it can make you feel pretty, especially on the most important day of your life, right? Anyway, I was told to say it has a train and a veil and all kinds of shiny beady things. I think it's funny that one picture makes it look like the chest plate off an Imperial Storm Trooper. Did I mention that all I want is a ball game and beer? Cheap at twice the price. Ladies, you won’t regret this. You may regret the dude you marry but not the dress.

Just a little side note - As I was putting this ad in EBay, it asked me for a color. Is a wedding dress any other freaking color than white or ivory??!! If it is it wouldn't be a wedding dress, now would it?? I suppose black would work...



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On Apr-26-04 at 10:38:31 PDT, seller added the following information:

Well, the auction is a little over half over and I am just amazed. This thing has taken more hits than that pothead that lives in the next building. Man, oh man, if hits were bucks I’d be getting a suite at Safeco.

I also have received TONS of email. I don’t have the time to reply to all of them but I just want to let everyone know that I appreciate the well wishes.

Of the email I received:

Five or so were invitations to ball games in other states. Two of those were for little league games. Do they have those cushy executive boxes with the free chicken wings at those?

One email was from Scotland. It’s a good thing he wrote it because I wouldn’t be able to understand a word he said. Never did get through Braveheart.

Most were thanking me for the laugh. You’re entirely welcome. Five years of misery was well worth the hearty guffaw that was my pleasure to give you.

Oh, yeah. I also got three marriage proposals. Yes, you read it right - three marriage proposals. I feel like one of those mass murderers on death row. I never understood how the hell they got more chicks than I did. Now I know. They sold crap on eBay.



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On Apr-26-04 at 23:45:56 PDT, seller added the following information:

Holy Moly!

The hit counter is starting to look like the odometer in my truck! Not the new shiny black full-size 4-wheel-drive American pick-up that I had to part with, but the somewhat older, multicolored, lumpy, tiny, 2-wheel-drive foreign pick-up that belches smoke. A little something about that vehicle, though: it’s absolutely amazing! When I get inside it to go to the store, I am all depressed. But when I arrive at the store, I’m so freaking loopy from inhaling the fumes, I forget why I went there in the first place. I’m saving buckets of money. Of course, I will probably have to spend it all on the tuberculosis I will acquire, but hey, you can’t have everything.

I felt compelled to update this ad once more due to all of your emails. The first thing I have to say is thank you all for your support in my time of need. It was a truly harrowing experience. Some of you men know exactly what I mean.

Seeing as this has turned into my little public forum, I just want to address a few of the emails that kind of left me scratching my head.

I now have five marriage proposals. You would think my speaking of the ones I already got yesterday would have put a damper on it, but you women sure are persistent. One woman actually said she doesn’t want to marry me, but wouldn’t mind being my ex-wife. Hmmm. Let me think about that. Nope. No thanks, already got one. (Pssst. Didn’t I mention I had one? Who wants an ex-wife that can’t read? Now, I know what you guys are thinking - "If she can’t read, then the divorce would be smooth sailing." Well, that would be all well and good but I didn’t say her ATTORNEY couldn’t read. You following me on this?)

Other emails are serious buyers asking about the dress. "How long is the train?" and "Does the gown come with the headdress and veil?" Yes, headdress and veil are included, but the do-rag stays with me. And if the train was long enough for my ex’s caboose, it’s long enough for yours. You will have to supply your own baggage, though. I gave mine to Goodwill.

There was this one woman who wrote, "You should have covered your tattoos. People will be able to recognize you, like on America’s Most Wanted." HELLO!!! I’m a guy selling a dress. I’m not wanted for war crimes.

Some of your emails made me laugh. Like the bitter woman that wished she had her ex’s testicles to sell on eBay. I’m not too sure there’s a market for that, though. Then there was the guy that gave his wife’s wedding dress to the Salvation Army by mistake, thinking it was a Christmas tree. Guess he didn’t have any Christmas balls that year.

This has also been a learning experience for me. I got a lot of messages correcting me about the color of wedding dresses. For Russian Orthodox, they are blue. For Chinese they are red. Mexico has multi-colored ones. All I know is, for my next wedding I will be wearing a hairy, flesh-toned ensemble because I will be buck naked with a toe tag lying on a slab in the morgue because I would have killed myself.

A lot of folks were asking me if I wear women’s dresses a lot. I can honestly say that this is the first time I have ever donned female attire. It’s also the first time I’ve been inside something feminine that didn’t nag me to take out the garbage.

It seems a few people have taken offense to my inferring a size 12 is big. One male even pointed out that Marilyn Monroe was a size 14. Now, I would agree with you that size 12/14 is small if I lived elsewhere. But I live right here in the good old 48 Contiguous, where binging and purging is a way of life. American women do not want to be double digits in size. Just ask any woman what size they want to be. Invariably they will say five or seven. Wealthy will be the person that opens a store for Lane Bryant-sized women but sews size 7 tags on all the clothes.

On the flip side of that, I have taken offense to some of the people that told me I’m ugly and a loser. All I have to say is you’d be ugly too if you had a huge white blotch on your face. And as far as being a loser, I think you have it all wrong. I am such the winner. It isn’t every day an average guy can make 50,000 people laugh. Thanks to each and every one of you from the heart of my bottom.

Because of the high profile of this item, I am changing the listing to Pre-Approved Bidders Only. To be pre-approved, please contact me at horseplaypublishing@hotmail.com and include "Serious Bidder" in the subject line of the email and I will return your email to pre-approve your bidding on the auction. Thank you for your interest.
Woooooooohoooooo! What a wild ride! The emails are coming faster than the hits. And now personal appearances. First Star94 radio in Atlanta, then King5 in Seattle,now the Today Show with that I-used-to-be-a-fat-weatherman-but-now-I-am-as-skinny-as-Regis-but-twice-as-funny Al "I will turn this car around" Roker.
It is amazing; all this media hype. Hey, Al! Any relation to Roxy?
EBay has graciously allowed me to update this page once more. So I will keep it brief.

This one guy emailed me and said, "Hey, bud. What part of Texas do you live?"
Uh... Well, sir, I am from Seattle. Uh, Seattle, Texas.
Right next to AreYouAFreakingMoron, Texas, which is a hop, skip and jump from IWasEducatedByGeorgeBush, Texas. Thanks for asking, neighbor.

We have a website coming that everyone can check out. It will be up soon.

Please only bid if you are serious. Or really, really hot.

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Saturday, April 17th, 2004
11:40 am - Damn!!!! Skippy.
The 213 Things Skippy is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

SGT Shawn Stanford

Once upon a time, there was a SPC Schwarz stationed with the Army in the
Balkans. SPC Schwarz was either very clever or very bored; but probably
both, since he managed to attempt or be warned about 213 things he wasn't
allowed to do. He collected those things into a hillarious list and posted
them to the web. The site hadn't been updated in a couple of years and has
since gone away; but the list is classic, so I saved it. A couple favorites:
2. My proper military title is 'Specialist Schwarz' not 'Princess
Anastasia'. and 191. Our Humvees cannot be assembled into a giant
battle-robot.

1. Not allowed to watch Southpark when I'm supposed to be working.

2. My proper military title is 'Specialist Schwarz' not 'Princess
Anastasia'.

3. Not allowed to threaten anyone with black magic.

4. Not allowed to challenge anyone's disbelief of black magic by asking
for hair.

5. Not allowed to get silicone breast implants.

6. Not allowed to play 'Pulp Fiction' with a suction-cup dart pistol and
any officer.

7. Not allowed to add 'In accordance with the prophesy' to the end of
answers I give to a question an officer asks me.

8. Not allowed to add pictures of officers I don't like to War Criminal
posters.

9. Not allowed to title any product 'Get Over it'.

10. Not allowed to purchase anyone's soul on Government time.

11. Not allowed to join the communist party.

12. Not allowed to join any militia.

13. Not allowed to form any militia.

14. Not allowed out of my office when the president visited Sarajevo.

15. Not allowed to train adopted stray dogs to 'Sic Brass!'

16. Must get a haircut even if it tampers with my 'Sampson like powers'.

17. God may not contradict any of my orders.

18. May no longer perform my now (in)famous 'Barbie Girl Dance' while on
duty.

19. May not call any officers immoral, untrustworthy, lying, slime, even
if I'm right.

20. Must not taunt the French any more.

21. Must attempt to not antagonize SAS.

22. Must never call an SAS a 'Wanker'.

23. Must never ask anyone who outranks me if they've been smoking crack.

24. Must not tell any officer that I am smarter than they are, especially
if it's true.

25. Never confuse a Dutch soldier for a French one.

26. Never tell a German soldier that 'We kicked your ass in World War 2!'

27. Don't tell Princess Di jokes in front of the paras (British Airborne).

28. Don't take the batteries out of the other soldiers alarm clocks (Even
if they do hit snooze about forty times).

29. The Irish MPs are not after 'Me frosted lucky charms'.

30. Not allowed to wake an Non-Commissioned Officer by repeatedly banging
on the head with a bag of trash.

31. Not allowed to let sock puppets take responsibility for any of my
actions.

32. Not allowed to let sock puppets take command of my post.

33. Not allowed to chew gum at formation, unless I brought enough for
everybody.

34. (Next day) Not allowed to chew gum at formation even if I *did* bring
enough for everybody.

35. Not allowed to sing 'High Speed Dirt' by Megadeth during airborne
operations. ('See the earth below/Soon to make a crater/Blue sky, black
death, I'm off to meet my maker')

36. Can't have flashbacks to wars I was not in. (The Spanish-American War
isn't over).

37. Our medic is called 'Sgt Larwasa', not 'Dr. Feelgood'.

38. Our supply Sgt is 'Sgt Watkins' not 'Sugar Daddy'.

39. Not allowed to ask for the day off due to religious purposes, on the
basis that the world is going to end, more than once.

40. I do not have super-powers.

41. 'Keep on Trucking' is *not* a psychological warfare message.

42. Not allowed to attempt to appeal to mankind's baser instincts in
recruitment posters.

43. Camouflage body paint is not a uniform.

44. I am not the atheist chaplain.

45. I am not allowed to 'Go to Bragg boulevard and shake daddies little
money maker for twenties stuffed into my undies'.

46. I am not authorized to fire officers.

47. I am not a citizen of Texas, and those other, forty-nine, lesser
states.

48. I may not use public masturbation as a tool to demonstrate a flaw in a
command decision.

49. Not allowed to trade military equipment for 'magic beans'.

50. Not allowed to sell magic beans during duty hours.

51. Not allowed to quote 'Dr Seuss' on military operations.

52. Not allowed to yell 'Take that Cobra' at the rifle range.

53. Not allowed to quote 'Full Metal Jacket ' at the rifle range.

54. 'Napalm sticks to kids' is *not* a motivational phrase.

55. An order to 'Put Kiwi on my boots' does *not* involve fruit.

56. An order to 'Make my Boots black and shiny' does not involve
electrical tape.

57. The proper response to a lawful order is not 'Why?'

58. The following words and phrases may not be used in a cadence- Budding
sexuality, necrophilia, I hate everyone in this formation and wish they were
dead, sexual lubrication, black earth mother, all Marines are latent
homosexuals, Tantric yoga, Gotterdammerung, Korean hooker, Eskimo Nell,
we've all got jackboots now, slut puppy, or any references to squid.

59. May not make posters depicting the leadership failings of my chain of
command.

60. 'The Giant Space Ants' are not at the top of my chain of command.

61. If one soldier has a 2nd Lt bar on his uniform, and I have an E-4 on
mine It means he outranks me. It does not mean 'I have been promoted three
more times than you'.

62. It is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission, no longer
applies to Specialist Schwarz.

63. Command decisions do *not* need to be ratified by a 2/3 majority.

64. Inflatable novelties do *not* entitle me to BAQ or Separation pay.

65. There are no evil clowns living under my bed.

66. There is no 'Anti-Mime' campaign in Bosnia.

67. I am not the Psychological Warfare Mascot.

68. I may not line my helmet with tin foil to 'Block out the space mind
control lasers'.

69. May not pretend to be a facist stormtrooper, while on duty.

70. I am not authorized to prescribe any form of medication.

71. I must not flaunt my deviances in front of my chain of command.

72. May not wear gimp mask while on duty.

73. No military functions are to be performed 'Skyclad'.

74. Woad is not camouflage makeup.

75. May not conduct psychological experiments on my chain of command.

76. "Teddy Bear, Teddy bear, turn around" is *not* a cadence.

77. The MP checkpoint is not an Imperial Stormtrooper roadblock, so I
should not tell them "You don't need to see my identification, these are not
the droids you are looking for."

78. I may not call block my chain of command.

79. I am neither the king nor queen of cheese.

80. Not allowed to wear a dress to any army functions.

81. May not bring a drag queen to the battalion formal dance.

82. May not form any press gangs.

83. Must not start any SITREP (Situation Report) with "I recently had an
experience I just had to write you about...."

84. Must not use military vehicles to 'Squish' things.

85. Not allowed to make any Psychological Warfare products depicting the
infamous Ft. Bragg sniper incident.

86. May not challenge anyone in my chain of command to the 'field of
honor'.

87. If the thought of something makes me giggle for longer than 15
seconds, I am to assume that I am not allowed to do it.

88. Must not refer to 1st Sgt as 'Mom'.

89. Must not refer to the Commander as 'Dad'.

90. Inflatable sheep do *not* need to be displayed during a room
inspection.

91. I am not authorized to initiate Jihad.

92. When asked to give a few words at a military ceremony 'Romper Bomper
Stomper Boo' is probably not appropriate.

93. Nerve gas is not funny.

94. Crucifixes do not ward off officers, and I should not test that.

95. I am not in need of a more suitable host body.

96. 'Redneck Zombies' is not a military training aid.

97. Gozer does not dwell in my refrigerator.

98. The proper response to a chemical weapon attack is not 'Tell my chain
of command what I really think about them, and then poke holes in their
masks.'

99. A smiley face is not used to mark a minefield.

100. Claymore mines are not filled with yummy candy, and it is wrong to
tell new soldiers that they are.

101. I am not allowed to mount a bayonet on a crew-served weapon.

102. Rodents are not entitled to burial with full military honors, even if
they are "casualties of war".

103. My commander is not old enough to have fought in the civil war, and I
should stop implying that he did.

104. Vodka, green food coloring, and a 'Cool Mint' Listerine® bottle is not
a good combination.

105. I am not allowed to bum cigarettes off of anyone under twelve.

106. I may not trade my rifle for any of the following: Cigarettes, booze,
sexual favors, Kalishnikovs, Soviet Armored vehicles, small children, or
bootleg CD's.

107. Must not mock command decisions in front of the press.

108. Should not taunt members of the press, even if they are really fat,
exceptionally stupid, and working for UPI.

109. I am not authorized to change national policy in Eastern Europe.

110. Never, ever, attempt to correct a Green Beret officer about anything.

111. I am not qualified to operate any US, German, Polish, or Russian
Armored vehicles.

112. When saluting a 'leg' officer, an appropriate greeting is not
"Airborne leads the wa- oh...sorry sir".

113. There is absolutely no need to emulate the people from 'Full Monty'
every time I hear the song "Hot Stuff".

114. I cannot trade my CO to the Russians.

115. I should not speculate on the penis size of anyone who outranks me.

116. Crucifying mice - bad idea.

117. Must not use government equipment to bootleg pornography.

118. Burn pits for classified material are not revel fires - therefore it
is wrong to dance naked around them.

119. I cannot arrest children for being rude.

120. An EO briefing is probably not the best place to unveil my newest off
color joke.

121. I should not use government resources to 'waterproof' dirty magazines.

122. Radioactive material should not be stored in the barracks.

123. I should not teach other soldiers to say offensive and crude things in
Albanian, under the guise of teaching them how to say potentially useful
phrases.

124. Two drink limit does not mean first and last.

125. Two drink limit does not mean two kinds of drinks.

126. Two drink limit does not mean the drinks can be as large as I like.

127. 'No Drinking Of Alcoholic Beverages' does not imply that a Jack Daniel
's ® IV is acceptable.

128. "Shpadoinkle" is not a real word.

129. The Microsoft ® 'Dancing Paperclip' is not authorized to countermand
any orders.

130. 'I'm drunk' is a bad answer to any question posed by my commander.

131. No dancing in the turret. This especially applies in conjunction with
rule #113.

132. The loudspeaker system is not a forum to voice my ideas.

133. The loudspeaker system is not to be used to replace the radio.

134. The loudspeaker system is not to be used to broadcast the soundtrack
to a porno movie.

135. An order to put polish on my boots means the whole boot.

136. Shouting 'Let's do the village! Let's do the whole fucking village!'
while out on a mission is bad.

137. Should not show up at the front gate wearing part of a Russian
uniform, messily drunk.

138. Even if my commander did it.

139. Must not teach interpreters how to make "MRE" bombs.

140. I am not authorized to sell mineral rights.

141. Not allowed to use a broadsword to disprove 'The Pen is Mightier than
the sword'.

142. 'Calvin-Ball' is not authorized PT.

143. I do not need to keep a 'range card' by my window.

144. 'K-Pot, LBE, and a thin coat of Break-free' is not an authorized
uniform.

145. I should not drink three quarts of blue food coloring before a urine
test.

146. Nor should I drink three quarts of red food coloring, and scream
during the same.

147. I should not threaten suicide with pop rocks and Coke ®.

148. Putting red 'Mike and Ike's' ® into a prescription medicine bottle,
and then eating them all in a formation is not funny.

149. Must not create new DOD forms, then insist they be filled out.

150. On Sports Day PT, a wedgie is not considered a legal tackle.

151. The proper way to report to my Commander is 'Specialist Schwarz,
reporting as ordered, Sir' not 'You can't prove a thing!'

152. The following items do not exist: Keys to the Drop Zone, A box of grid
squares, blinker fluid, winter air for tires, canopy lights, or Chem-Light ®
batteries.

153. I should not assign new privates to 'guard the flight line'.

154. Shouldn't treat 'piss-bottles' with extra-strength icy hot.

155. Teaching Albanian children to taunt other soldiers is not nice.

156. I will no longer perform 'lap-dances' while in uniform.

157. If I take the uniform off, in the course of the lap-dance, it still
counts.

158. The revolution is not now.

159. When detained by MP's, I do not have a right to a strip search.

160. No part of the military uniform is edible.

161. Bodychecking General officers is not a good idea.

162. Past lives have absolutely no effect on the chain of command.

163. Take that hat off.

164. There is no such thing as a were-virgin.

165. I do not get 'that time of month'.

166. No, the pants are not optional.

167. Not allowed to operate a business out of the barracks.

168. Especially not a pornographic movie studio.

169. Not even if they *are* 'especially patriotic films'

170. Not allowed to 'defect' to OPFOR during training missions.

171. On training missions, try not to shoot down the General's helicopter.

172. 'A full magazine and some privacy' is not the way to help a potential
suicide.

173. I am not allowed to create new levels of security clearance.

174. Furby ® is not allowed into classified areas. (I swear to the gods, I
did not make that up, it's actually DOD policy).

175. We do not 'charge into battle, naked, like the Celts'.

176. Any device that can crawl across the table on medium, does not need to
be brought into the office.

177. I am not to refer to a formation as 'the boxy rectangle thingie'.

178. I am not 'A lesbian trapped in a man's body'.

179. On Army documents, my race is not 'Other'.

180. Nor is it 'Secretariat, in the third'.

181. Pokémon® trainer is not an MOS.

182. There is no FM for 'wall-to-wall counseling'.

183. My chain of command has neither the time, nor the inclination to hear
about what I did with six boxes of Fruit Roll-Ups. ®

184. When operating a military vehicle I may *not* attempt something 'I saw
in a cartoon'.

185. My name is not a killing word.

186. I am not the Emperor of anything.

187. Must not taunt officers in the throes of nicotine withdrawal, with
cigarettes.

188. May not challenge officers to 'Meet me on the field of honor, at
dawn'.

189. Do not dare SERE graduates to eat bugs. They will always do it.

190. Must not make s'mores while on guard duty.

191. Our Humvees cannot be assembled into a giant battle-robot.

192. The proper response to a briefing is not 'That's what you think'.

193. The Masons, and Gray Aliens are not in our chain of command.

194. Shouldn't take incriminating photos of my chain of command.

195. Shouldn't use Photoshop ® to create incriminating photos of my chain
of command.

196. I am not allowed to give tattoos.

197. I am not allowed to sing 'Henry the VIII I am' until verse 68 ever
again.

198. Not allowed to lead a 'Coup' during training missions.

199. I should not confess to crimes that took place before I was born.

200. My chain of command is not interested in why I 'just happen' to have a
kilt, an inflatable sheep, and a box of rubber bands in the back of my car.

201. Must not valiantly push officers onto hand grenades to save the squad.

202. Despite the confusing similarity in the names, the "Safety Dance" and
the "Safety Briefing" are never to be combined.

203. 'To conquer the earth with an army of flying monkeys" is a bad long
term goal to give the re-enlistment NCO.

204. NEVER nail a stuffed bunny to a cross and put it up in front of the
Battalion Headquarters sign as an "Easter Desecration."

205. Don't write up false gigs on a HMMWV PMCS. ("Broken clutch pedal",
"Number three turbine has frequent flame-outs", "flux capacitor emits loud
whine when engaged")

206. Not allowed to get shot.

207. The Chicken and Rice MRE is *not* a personal lubricant. (Skippy wanted
this noted for the record that this is not something he has ever attempted
or considered! It was something we heard at dinner on 22 September 2001 and
it was just so obscene it had to go here.)

208. Not allowed to play into the deluded fantasies of the civlians who are
"hearing conversations" from the NSA, FBI, CIA and KGB due to the microchip
the aliens implanted in their brain.

209. An airsickness bag is to be used for airsickness *only*. (Also not a
Skippy-ism...this was the same dinner.)

210. Must not make T-shirts up depciting a pig with the writing "Eat Pork
or Die" in Arabic to bring as civilian attire when preparing to deploy to a
primarily Muslim country.

211. Don't ask LTC Steele to sign my copy of Blackhawk Down.

212. Must not go on nine deployments in six years that require a security
clearance that I don't have, even if the Army tells me repeatedly that I
have one and I have no reason to question them.

213. Do not convince NCO's that their razorbumps are the result of
microscopic parasites.

Posted by SGT Shawn Stanford at April 16, 2003 01:13 PM

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Wednesday, April 14th, 2004
7:44 am - woohoo.... got an early band with adrian belew....
it's ultra miami-vice/genesis with a touch of talking heads.

cheers!
Doc

back when i was 20-sumthin... i wanted this album more then anything.... now i know why... it has a mort drucker album cover.

current mood: cheerful
current music: The Bears - Trust

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Thursday, April 8th, 2004
8:38 pm - Phantom Shadow!
SCOOOBY DOO!

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Wednesday, April 7th, 2004
3:58 pm - 34th birthday today....
spent the day writing methods of destroying israel's economy and watching scooby-doo.

time for dinner... a couple beers... and a good movie.

cheers!
Doc

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Monday, April 5th, 2004
10:51 pm - hee hee hee....
http://www.brickshelf.com/gallery/zirkusaffe/Movies/riseoftheempire.mov

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