And Visions of Sugarplums Lying Passed Out On The Couch

The lovely Lindsay recently caused a nostalgic stir amongst KPTV alum by sharing some vintage pics of a particularly besotted night at a certain Ms. Wilson's Northwest Portand condo.

Unfortunately for the dignity of all those involved (not to mention Ms. Wilson's neighbors), the night was dedicated to the time-honored tradition of Century Club induction.

For those of you not familiar with the game, I have no idea how you're reading my blog; if you spent more than twenty consecutive minutes with me between the years 1996 and 2007 I have begged you to attempt the Century Club at least seven times. Most of you caved at least twice.

Regardless, How Join the Club:

1. Find the shittiest domestic beer available and purchse enough of it to kill one grizzly bear per Century Club participant. Now purchase one more 12-pack.

2. Invite only those persons who won't let you (A) drunk dial your girlfriend from 8th grade and talk about feelings, (B) take a cab into the city and get that sweet tattoo you just thought of, or (C) shop on eBay again. And from personal experience, be sure to deny entry to any "friend of a friend."

3. Pop one of DJ Fat Gallant's patented Century Club mixes into the tape deck.

4. Admonish DJ Fat Gallant for being one of six living people to still make mixtapes.

5. Take a shot of ever-warmer beer every 60 seconds (each song change) for the next hour and 40 minutes. As per the house rules, bathroom breaks are strictly forbidden until song #50 and any skipped shots are punishable by an extra shot or, if you're Shannyn Sossamon, the removal of an article of clothing.

6. At song #100 collect your trophy.

7. Cancel any plans you may have for the next 72 hours that would require a functioning brainstem.

My "now stick your tongue out" pose is unconvincing;

I think I may actually be preparing to harf on Lindsay.

Absent from the above photo is Audio Aaron who, in a stupifying bit of irony, had something wrong with his liver and couldn't make it out.

To right that wrong, I spent the last two days holed up in my Oakland apartment drinking bootleg eggnog and bringing the afore-mentioned Century Club Mix into the 21st century [barely]. There are even some subtle shifts in the track listing since the last go round in honor of Audio and, specifically, his stint at NESN.

Of course, you'll have make it to #100 to appreciate it, and by then you'd be lucky if you can still spell NESN.

So Happy Holidays, bitches:

DJ BumperSmash (!) Presents:

A Very Special Century Club Reunion Tour Mix

(CLICK ABOVE TO DOWNLOAD)

Either we're deep in the game or a ghost is punching Angelo in the face.

BONUS: On the KPTV alum page see if you can spot the asshole who thought picture day was tomorrow. Hint: it's me.

29 Words For Dipping Sauce

Welcome to winter in the Midwest, where breakfast starts at beer o'clock sharp, women aren't afraid to show a little skin, late-night snacks do not fuck around, and (at the risk of burying the lede) this man is straight.

Let that sink in: this man... is straight.

All due respect, but with that haircut he could be wearing Austin Scarlett as a hat and look less gay. Yet, according to all my sources [my brother and my girlfriend, respectively], he is married and may or may not be something of "a playboy."

Mmm-hmm. Me too.

Regardless, I had to share that with you because laughing at that photo accounted for a startlingly large portion of my trip. Back to what matters: visiting the fam and the friends and the apple of my eye in the sun-drenched Midwest.

This is a good place. It's a place of values. Of substance. It's a place I will always call home. It's also a place that gets a bit nippy from time to time. Unfortunately, as I currently live in California (where inclement weather requires a two thirds majority vote in the state senate), I was without my usual Wisconsin winter outfit for this trip.

No matter. The secret is to layer. Then layer again. Now once more. Good... there you go. Now, isn't that more comfortable? And for you ladies out there, no more worrying about those unsightly panty lines.

ABOVE: An unidentifiable woman, or, possibly,
man, stands in front of an unidentifiable
part of some Midwestern state.

Of course, some of the more enterprising locals have found a way around spending all that time and money purchasing goose down mittens and flannel-lined jeans and fleece-insulated parkas; oh yes... there are other ways to add layers.

To illustrate the point, let us go out for brunch with Brother Andrew and his lovely fiancee Sommer. After studying the menu, Sommer opts for a modest bagel and lox platter. According to its description, the platter includes a side salad. It is about $7. Also, it is the size and shape of a fucking river barge. Look at this thing. Sommer seems unfazed as the table groans under weight of the healthy, healthy vegetables. Forty-five minutes and two hernias later, we asked our waitress for a doggie bag and an industrial-grade wheelbarrow to cart home the leftovers.

I could wax interminably about the spectacular portions and magical golden-colored awesomeness of Midwestern foodstuffs, but the good people of Palomino's went ahead and neatly summed it up for me.

Besides, there are other ways to stay toasty. In case you can't tell, that bloody contains not only the standard fare but also mushrooms and a booze-soaked brussel sprout. And taking into account how desperately I craved another round, it may or may not have contained actual mammal blood.

Then there's our ubiquitous and foamy friend, barley juice. Smooth, delicious, and handy for beer-battering anything within arm's distance and sticking it in a deep fryer. But despite the fact that at least two respectable breweries are visible from any vantage point in the greater Milwaukee area, including bomb shelters, I think it's best to leave your liver in the hands of professionals.

Shitcanned? Good. Time to unwind. You've been working hard.

Me? I like to take the edge off in the private 16-foot pool then hit the jacuzzi. Then repeat for 21 straight hours.

Go to Sybaris. Let no one talk you out of it. I won't get into details for fear of retaliation at the hands of the Fair Briana, but having that special someone with you is advisable. I took a lot of grief from certain interested parties, but when it's 10 below outside and you're wearing white robes and doing regrettable sultan impersonations, you'll thank me.* Also, it was our birthday. So there's that.

Time for some exercise. Limber up and head to Koz's for some miniature bowling. As I have an obligation to my New England roots (not to mention Audio Aaron), I should point out that this is not duckpin bowling. However, the object of the game remains the same. Namely, drink several pitchers of lukewarm domestic beer and invent elaborate strike celebrations. Amanda Joy's apparently requires rolling up one of her sleeves and dancing right in the face of the competition. Well played. Good times had by all, including the manual pinsetters. This vocation almost certainly requires a working knowledge of gravity bongs and quaaludes.

Next and final stop: Wolski's, provided you can (A) find the place and (B) not wrap your car around a telephone poll locating a parking spot. Holy shit their website is easily the lamest thing I've ever seen.** They get everything else right, though. You know a bar believes in a stiff pour when, in their dart room, there are holes in the wall at least 6 feet from the nearest dart board. Throw in a (gasp) cigarette machine and some bawdy video poker, and next thing you know it's closing time.

And time to go home. But I'd be remiss if I didn't share the comment card from my dad's room at Red Roof Inn. Perhaps Nellie should revisit her cutesy signature.

Non sequitor there. Sorry.

Okay, I'm done.

*You're welcome in advance.
**And I used to work on MDA telethons.***
***I'm going to hell.

Still More Doppelganger

A quick deflection, as the Celebration Of All Things Midwest post will take a while:

I can no longer watch Six Feet Under without thinking that Brenda (Rachel Griffiths) is a true-to-life version of a William Haefeli cartoon.

Anybody? Am I way off on this one?

Oh. And somebody teach me how to do Dave Elsewhere's strobe move (@ 1:16 here).

Watch For Freeze Back

It's 5:15am in Chicago; I am in a Midway-bound cab.
Road signs are reminding me that it is cold.
Expect a megapost ASAP.

Et tu, Brute?

The universe continues to conspire against your humble BumperSmasher. Well, not "the universe" exactly, and not "against me" exactly, but something, as they say, is up. Strings are being pulled. Higher powers' fingers are being pulled.

After going without the interweb for two weeks (see previous post) I spent 75 non-consecutive minutes with a friendly AT&T representative ordering the works... I say non-consecutive minutes because the customer service specialist was forced to call me back three separate times due to "slight flooding in the building." An inauspicious beginning to the AT&T-Me&B marriage, but they can do no worse than Comcast; or, as I experienced for exactly 730 days, the length of their standard "Now Grab Your Ankles" contract, Sprint.

Once settling on a date that my modem and cable box and bonus equipment would be installed (January 16th... Dear AT&T: Maybe, um, hire some more guys?) I hung up my phone and returned to listening to something or other on my trusty VAIO.

Exactly ten seconds later this happened.

I proceeded to calmly voice my displeasure.

Mere minutes later, while navigating the television listings, I noticed Presumed Innocent started in less than half an hour on Encore. At that very moment, Presumed Innocent was being burned on my computer, as only a day prior I rented it after concluding that (1) I had somehow never seen it before, (2) I wanted to, and (3) "it's never on TV."

I had some prior experience with this phenomenon when, years ago in Portland, the mood struck and I rented A Christmas Story in the middle of July. Then, at work the following day, I walked into the KPTV control room and said "I watched A Christmas Story last night," and four other people said, "Me too." The mood had apparantly also struck the powers-that-be at TBS.

Speaking of the holidays, I leave Thursday for the pristine climes of the Midwest.

I'll be sure to check the top of my Netflix queue to see what the in-flight movie will be.

Actual photo from my last trip to O'Hare.

Perfectly Cromulent Writing

While I applaud The New Yorker's steadfast adherence to the tenants of responsible journalism, I must grudgingly submit that I quite often don't have the foggiest fucking idea what it is that their reporters are talking about. Take this gem from the December 8th issue, which I was perusing whilst BARTing to work this fine sunny afternoon:

[In reference to Timothy Geithner being Obama's choice for Secretary of the Treasury]

"...there was also something weird about the spectacle of the Street’s once fearless free marketeers exulting over a government appointment, as if they were nomenklatura members cheering a new Politburo chief."

A vivid image to be sure... I know I'll never forget the hysterics surrounding the appointment of Hamas politiburo chief Khaled Marshaal.

Oh wait, yes I will. There. I just did.

Fortunately, whenever The New Yorker makes me feel like Leon Spinks at a nuclear arms proliferation summit, I can count on the vaunted ABC7 Production Team to restore journalistic equilibrium. Yesterday, in an edited, scripted, and producer-approved story, we used the word "majestical."

In other news, if CBS Sports doesn't kindly remove its mouth from the dick of Tim Tebow, I'm going to blow up a building.

p.s. - Seriously?

Help Me Help You

Seven comments on Night Terrors but no Very Short Fiction to speak of? I was looking forward to your collective creativity shining through like a ray of sunshine in the otherwise-dark night that is the blogosphere.

Also, click on that "FOLLOW" thingamajig over there on the BumperSmash menu and tell the world you were among the first to join what will soon be considered the internet's hottest new site. And some topless fan pics in my in-box would be appreciated, too.

Not you, Audio. Put the camera down.

Interweb? No. Night Terrors? Oh yes.

After months of my taking advantage of the unsecured wireless network known as "WENUS," Casa du Nathiana is without access to the web, severely crippling my fantasy-sporting, blogging, Skyping, emailing, music downloading, Amazon.com-ing, and celebrity nip-slip perusing. I refuse to give Comcast any more of Briana's money, so until I find an alternative (or Jim "The Wenus" Wenuczowski returns from Thanksgiving break) my posting frequency will most likely flag.

Somehow you'll get by.

Update: two nights ago I had a nightmare of the 1st order, meaning that it was so intense that I both (1) woke up Dom-DeLuise-sweaty and (2) was too shaken up to go to the bathroom for 15 minutes for fear of the killer waiting in my closet even though I really had to go. In the hellish chimera, a killer known as The Wolfer was slicing up women with a bowie knife, collecting exactly 45 pounds of blood in a giant bag and resupplying their corpses with said blood via I.V. so that he could practice tearing into their flesh (hence the Wolfer), then writing songs about the killings and sending the recordings to local radio stations to mock the public.

Mr. Sandman, send me a dream!

Do you people have nightmares like these? Additionally, I have one or two plane crash death dreams per month. Surely this gets me a prescription to Valium or medical weed or something equally awesome that I don't know about.

For the record, the worst nightmare I ever had featured Ray Combs throwing me to the floor from the top of an unmattressed bunk bed and carving Satanic symbols into my chest with a giant carving knife before ultimately stabbing me through the heart with it. Two weeks later, back in reality, Ray-Ray hung himself with his bedding.

You know what that means.

Also for the record, I often dream about normal things like talking dogs and cars that can fly!