Monthly Archives: July 2009

‘Cracko’ Jacko.

It seems as if the media vultures buzzing around Michael Jackson’s carcass aren’t going to be coming to a halt anytime soon.  Everything and anything that could have a connection is being unearthed, interviewed, and in the case of Reverend Al, and our own local poli-windbag Pete King, exploited for all it’s worth.

However, there is one angle the media as a whole has barely touched upon.

‘Wacko’ Jacko was actually, ‘Cracko’ Jacko.  Yes, yes, I know, they won’t stop talking about his drugs, and his doctors, blah, blah.  But that’s not really what I mean.

All those years, all those headlines, all those stories that had us laughing and cringing and hiding our children.

Yes he WAS ‘Wacko’, but I would place a large wager that all of those things were due primarily to the fact that he was doped out of his fucking skull, day in, and day out.

Let me try and put some perspective on this.

Next to Michael Jackson, Nikki Six was a whiny, xanax eating teenage girl.

That is no exaggeration.  I think people tend to harbor a different view of drugs that are commonly used for practical purposes, like xanax, or dilaudid.  It seems cleaner, more acceptable.  After all, a lot of us have either had these given to us, or taken them because you just had to do that last line of blow and now you’re gonna be up for two days.  At any rate, try telling someone you have a Percocet habit, and then tell someone else you shoot the H, see who reacts better.

The fact is, just ONE of the many drugs he abused on a DAILY basis, in MASSIVE quantities was worth Motley Crue’s AND Guns’ n’ Roses entire stash circa 1987.

Drugs like Dilaudid, and Demerol, and Percocet.  Those are opioids, meaning like heroin, they are derived from the poppy plant.  The difference is, these are synthetic versions, created and purified in laboratories for the express purpose of washing away that gravel-encrusted road rash in a warm silky bath of happy.

Lets turn our attention to another balanced and mentally astute human being for a moment.  Courtney Love.

Perhaps she might jump onstage at an awards show and flash those ridiculous looking things on her chest.  Or maybe, she may slur her way through an interview, again.  Let us imagine for a moment she bought a deformed persons skeleton.  Who knows, maybe someone got wind that she started sleeping in a hyperbaric chamber.  Would either of those things raise an eyebrow?

In case one most people would laugh, or shake their heads and say, bitch is on them drugs again.  In case two, perhaps sleeping in a chamber designed to promote healing might help a junkie with a SEVERE drug addiction who is trying to kick the habit?  Either way, the junkieformer junkie label makes that seemingly bizarre behavior par for the course.

Has anyone in the media said,

‘you know, we may have mis-interpreted quite a few things over the years given these recent findings, perhaps if we were actually thorough and competent journalists instead of the sensation-seeking barrel scrapers we are, all of this stuff would have made much more sense to everyone.’


Why bother?  Just keep feeding us ANOTHER interview with Joe Jackson, who was as cruel and heartless as a father to those kids as any man in the history of parenting.  Let’s all feel sorry for him, and hope he can get custody of the cash….er, kids.


Until Reverend Al inserts himself in the midst of another media firestorm that does not pertain to him in the least,


Live it, Love it (Just Say No…)



Fresh from the morning bus comes this weeks, QoTW!

Typically, before any of the individuals here leaves for work, I announce who has a doctors appointment so those individuals can stay behind.  This morning, one of our more vocal individuals decided he didn’t want to go to work, and stated he had a doctors appointment.

I jokingly stated, “No one has doctors appointments today, it’s a doctor holiday!”

So he paused mid-stride while on his way to the waiting bus and replied,

“Holidays over….bitch!”

Indeed it is sir, indeed it is. 

You can’t come in with that shirt.

I had an interesting discussion last night with an old friend.  As any two friends who had not seen each other in over a decade, we had much to catch up on, and I summarized the wild trajectory my life took a few years after we had last seen each other as best I could.

We talked about the clubs we would go to, and the clubs I “worked” at.  It is an absolute disgrace to any person who has ever done any kind of true labor to call anything done in these places “work” (anything done by anyone other than the cleaning staff that is).

There were always several hotshot “alpha males” (see previous post, “categorical” for a complete definition of alpha male ), driving shiny sports cars, and wearing sunglasses that cost maybe 75 cents to manufacture, and went for $475 retail.

Those two, or three pillars of society were generally what the others called, the owners.  The others being peon males (“remoras” again, see prior post “categorical”) who desperately wanted to be them, and the “hot chicks” who desperately wanted to date, fuck, and generally just be seen with them.

Eventually a few things dawned on me.  None of those people, and I mean NONE, had even the slightest stake in owning ANYTHING.

No one ever saw the owner.  Now why would that be?

Because the owner was _____ Inc. and the owner of that company was sitting on a beach somewhere watching a skimpy suited, barely legal co-ed rub tanning oil on his bloated mid-section.

Also, it costs a lot less to lease a nice car than I thought.  And, if you work very hard, and don’t have to pay too many bills, raise kids, etc. you can save up enough money to buy the over-priced clothing and accessories needed to play the part.  Good thing these walking globs of flesh and sweatshop fabric never had to do a whole hell of a lot.  They simply delegated the task of spreading word of this same broken down old building with a shiny new facade to their loving toadies.  No one ever got paid, everyone complained, but week after week, there they were.

Spreading word of club shamalama, (formerly club pushy-pu, floozyville, $&!…etc), consisted of handing out flyers.  Flyers were (and are) very formulaic.  High gloss, heavily air-brushed “hot chick”, and the DJ’s* name in large lettering.  What I always found most amusing was the small international city listing at the very top.

Paris. Barcelona. Milan. and so on.

As if those ratty little guido nests had any connection to anyone or anything outside of “Joey Z-bone” from Rockville Centre.

So, people took boxes filled with these glossy affronts to artwork and design, and proceeded to litter campus floors with them.  If these geniuses were caught, they were inevitably banned from said campus.  Their photos were taken, and posted.  Now lets imagine for an instant, that an individual attending Hofstra, lets say, were to be caught doing this.  Bye bye semester, bye bye tuition, ….and bye bye Hofstra.

This happened to students at different campuses more times than I can reasonably recall.  “Mom, I don’t need college! Me and Adam-Rockstaaa are gonna open up our own club!…..I can get you in reduced..I’m out of comps..”

Everyone had a list, and everyone promised complimentary admission.  Inevitably, when a person finally made it to the “door”, they were always out of comps.  But like Charlie Brown trying to put one between the uprights again and again, people always seemed to believe, “this time I’ll get it!”

Yeah, but that was then, right?

It was, and sadly, that is STILL now.  Practically nothing has changed except for the names.

I could not lie and say, “but that wasn’t my scene”.  Because I DID do those things, and I DID go to those places, often repeatedly, because I “worked” there.  I loved to dance, I still do.  And frankly, I enjoyed the attention.  I can say that I never lost proper perspective regarding what it was, and is, but that’s about it.

So, in closing,

Someone get me on the guest-list for Glo Thursday night, k? Umm, Tobas plus three, and I want to reserve a table.  Yep, Im’a spend a car note on a 15.99 bottle of Ketel biatches!!


Live it, Love it,

(is Sergio here? no, seriously, I KNOW him, yo man, can you get Sergio….hey, HEY, SERGIO!! Bro, I need four comps bro, yo, seriously bro, bro, bro, bro bro bro, brooooooooo….)



*These “disc jockeys” are exactly that.  Much like their radio counterparts they spin the same tired old 20-30 songs, week after week, while occasionally shouting nonsense at the crowd.  Typically you will hear whatever tunes are hot on the dial at the moment, and then the same set list that has been playing at every one of these establishments since 1993.  No, I don’t like to, “move it, move it”, for the seven millionth time.

Thank you Ma’am.

TWYL now has its female contributor!

Sam will be adding a much needed female point of view to try and balance out the mostly testosterone laden writings found on here.  However, I don’t mean chick-flicky, haagen daz female.  Lifetime channel has its own fucking website, thanks.

I haven’t been as lazy as it seems, however, I have deliberately taken a backseat for the last week or so.  It’s not because I don’t have anything to contribute.

New, (and different!) stuff coming soon!

Live it, Love it (vamos guapa…)


The fact I remember this login is amazing…DRUNKED!!!!

Beer: 1 Scotch: 6
This is an honest recount. No edits other than after the 4 ladies I met tonight. None of them made me feel good except for this one earlier in the night.  In fact, she had such a profound effect on me that shortly after I saw her, I wrote myself this email (pre-drunk) so I would not forget….
“Ever have one of those days, maybe weeks, where you are so sucked in by work that you don’t notice anything? You don’t have a life, you’re basically a robot: void of human experience, and everything is grey..
I was in a bar tonight trying to humanize myself after one of these weeks, and I noticed a girl after she was standing next to me that was so pretty, that color melted over everything inside and out. I felt like I wanted to talk, live, and be human again. I love the city.”..
There! It’s not much, but 3 other women confronted me while typing the above email; they all asked why I looked so serious and I told them why; backing it up with the above email as proof. A side note: This “Serious Look” I have needs to be addressed. It’ is a God Damned plague mirroring me.
Anyway, the ladies were charming, but quickly proved my ongoing theory that Women in Manhattan are Goalkeepers.  I am only here for the score, Goalkeepers are here for winners that are willing to lose to them.?


This weeks QoTW comes from “thompson”.


“The best engine in the world is the vagina, it takes any size piston, its self lubricating, starts with 1 finger, and every 4 weeks does its own oil change. It’s just a pity the management system is so fucking temperamental.”


A better description I have yet to hear.

Smiling Ghost.

(Originally published November 14, 2005)


the day draws near, not just for me,

when lips grow cold, and limbs lose heat,

gather ’round, pay respect,

and gaze upon what I have left,

shed no tears, weep not for me,

a smiling ghost is what I’ll be,

soaring high, and swooping low,

peeking into pretty girls windows,

hearing what I never could,

being where I’ve never been,

doing what I always should,

guiltless at last, free of sin,

so as you gaze, upon this rot,

know that you, I’ve not forgot,

dry your face, weep not for me,

a smiling ghost I’d love to be.