Okay, let’s not. It talks about itself enough already. No need of me putting my two cents into this already overstuffed diaper bag full of lies.
I know. That was a really shitty analogy. I wasn’t feeling it and I forced it and now it’s there for everyone to see. I could go back and edit it, but that would involve me stopping what I’m doing. Which is typing, and “communicating” with you. Which is something that I really don’t want to do. So I shan’t.
You look adorable today, did I tell you that yet? I didn’t? Well shame on me.
So I’m going to leave that less than spectacular analogy in there, and live with it. I hope you can as well.
But social media, right? Let’s talk about it.
I don’t want to come across as just another gorgeous old man with haunting blue eyes and a devilish grin, but if I do, then so be it. We are getting our information too fast these days. Way too fast. Now, it’s not a bad thing to get information in a timely manner. It can be helpful to get real-time traffic updates, or weather on-the-go info. Or an Amber Alert that helps to save a kids life. I’m all for that. But it doesn’t help if the information is fabricated. In fact I would go so far as to say that it hurts to receive false information.
It wasn’t always this way. You used to have to do some legwork in order to find out what was happening in the world.
East Weymouth Bowl-A-Wey Summer 1986 Photo Credit: John Donovan
December, 1984 – East Weymouth, Massachusetts. At the Bowl-A-Wey
I was hanging out down at the bowling alley playing video games like all cool kids did in the 1950’s 1980’s. An older boy came in and told me that his older brother told him that one of the members of Mötley Crüe had died in a car accident in California. This news was a crushing blow for a young me. I worshipped the Crüe. They were my favorite band. I had an entire wall of my bedroom festooned with pictures of them, culled from various issues of Hit Parader and Circus magazines. There were way more Crüe pictures on my wall than Andy Gibb pictures, by like a 2-1 margin. I even owned a pair of fingerless leather pleather gloves that said Crüe on the velcro wrist strap. Yeah, I was a wicked cool boy.
Fashion never goes out of style. Image via etsy.com
To hear about one of them passing away, before I got a chance to see them in concert, was absolutely devastating to me. It was like the whole Elvis Presley thing all over again, except I didn’t throw up or wet the bed. I did my best to keep it together in front of everyone hanging around the Donkey Kong Jr. machine, naturally. You don’t want to let the other teenagers sense any sign of weakness or they shall leave you no quarters , as Led Zeppelin so deftly sang about. Taking a sad boys quarters away from him is a wicked dick move.
But kids back then sucked, as they always have and always will. We all know this, right? I thought so.
I put on my bravest face and digested the shocking news that I had just received. Then I bought a Mello Yello and some Andy Capp Hot Fries from the vending machine, went to the boy’s room, and retreated into the far bathroom stall for a good eat-cry. It was a very sad and hungry day.
You stay classy, Boston.
The worst part of it was that mister big shot older boy didn’t even know who died, just that it was “someone” from Mötley Crüe. This was when the only television station that would even think of talking about Mötley Crüe was MTV, which I didn’t have. There was no Internet to do a quick Google search. You either waited for Chet Curtis and Natalie Jacobson on the six o’clock news to tell you what the hell was going on in the world that day, or you walked around clueless. Looking like a dumb stupid dumb-dumb.
It took me almost a week to find out that it wasn’t someone from Crüe that died, but rather Nicholas “Razzle” Dingley, the drummer from the up and coming Finnish glam band Hanoi Rocks. He had been a passenger in the car that Vince Neil had crashed while driving drunk and speeding on the way to the packy. A packy is a liquor store for my intercontinental peeps, and peeps is peoples.
Vince Neil’s Pantera Image via Google
I don’t know why they didn’t just take that limo with the hot tub to the packy. You know, the one that was in the Mötley Crüe Uncensored home video? I would have gone everywhere in that thing. Yeah, I owned the Uncensored video tape. VHS tapes were adorable back in the day, but not as adorable as you are today.
That is what we refer to as a callback in the business.
The lovemaking business, just to clarify.
Kickstart My Television
So, Vince Neil kills this guy and severely injures the two passengers in the other car. He got 30 days in jail (only serving 15 days due to “Good Behavior”), five years probation, 200 hours community service and had to pay $2.6 million in restitution to the victims. If this had happened today, it would be a 24 hour news story, it might even get its own news channel. There would be endless internet memes about it on Facebook with comment threads that eventually focused on whether the driver of the other car was a Republican or a Democrat. Because inevitably, every single argument on the internet breaks down to that now.
It would be all over TMZ and E! Television. Pretty much the only station not talking about it would be MTV, because they don’t deal in music anymore. Telemundo might not cover it either, I’m not sure.
My point is that I would have heard about it a lot sooner than I did if it had happened today. Now it happens and there’s video of it on YouTube before you see it on the news. Or someone is tweeting deets about it. Or someone Instagrams a photo of the accident scene, because people don’t matter anymore. The only thing that matters are “likes” and “shares”.
By us, I mean me. billmcmorrow.com
But I could have got all the information that I needed right from my phone in the bathroom stall. Then I could have wiped away my tears and rolled up my bag of Hot Fries and tucked them in the inside pocket of my jean jacket for later. Then I would have walked back to that Donkey Kong Jr. machine with my head held high.
But not to high, because then you’d see the hickeys all over my whore neck..
Editor’s Note: Fireworks are illegal for public use in my home state of Massachusetts, both currently and also at the time of this story. I would like to emphasize that I’m not saying, “It’s cool to break the law”. I’m just saying, “Look how cool it is to break the law”.
I remember it as being a really hot summer. One of those summers that you look back on in a historical context in order to let your children know how easy they have it.
“You’re lucky they don’t make summers like that anymore. We had no air conditioning, just pails of lukewarm water tied around our necks with twine. We would have to use that water sparingly as it was our monthly allotment and if we used it up too soon we would get no more, and there was no lid on the pail to keep the water in or keep shit out. Not like today when you kids can get all of the shit-free, lukewarm water your little hearts desire. Ungrateful pricks.”
The idea of going into Boston to purchase fireworks seemed like a good one at the time. But sometimes the worst ideas seem like the best ideas when idiots think them up. We were sitting around and someone said something about something and someone agreed with them. Or maybe someone said something about something and someone disagreed with them. The details are pretty fuzzy by now. It’s been thirty years man, give me a break. Either way, it was always exciting to take the buses and trains without an adult there to harsh my mellow. We would take the #222 T bus from Jackson Square in East Weymouth to Quincy Center and then hop a train into Boston from there. Descending into the cool dark subway station was always a nice respite from the muggy summer air. I remember watching all of the cars sitting in bumper to bumper traffic on the Southeast Expressway as our train cruised by on its way into town. It provided a taste of freedom for a boy still a few years shy of a driver’s license. I believe that someone had mentioned that their cousin’s brother’s friends sister’s boyfriend got a brick of firecrackers for the incredibly low price of three American dollars in Boston. Being teenage boys with a natural love of blowing shit up who also understood the value of a dollar, we decided that we were going to travel into the big city the next day and get in on the savings.
And another one’s gone, and another one’s gone….
It was getting close to the end of summer, nearing the return of the school year that all stupid little children inevitably dread because they don’t yet understand the importance of a good education. They’ll figure it out eventually, hopefully not too late in the game. I needed to get some “Back To School” clothes, so my father gave me an assortment of folding monies to accomplish the task with. I took my clothing allowance and thought about how many jumping jacks I could buy for that much money.
I feel I should take a minute to declare my love for the jumping jacks. It’s my all-time favorite firework. For those of you who don’t know what a jumping jack is, first off let me say how sorry I am that you grew up so unloved that your parent or legal guardian never took the time to teach you about the prettiest of all the fireworks. Jumping jacks are the little balls of flame that fly around in a completely unpredictable pattern whilst making a whizzing sound. Set a pack of those things off and you have twenty potential wildfires right there. Half the fun of lighting them off was having to do the, “Oh shit, that thing’s coming right at my face” dance. But the absolute best thing about jumping jacks is that when you throw them in water they don’t go out. They stay lit and continue to do an underwater ballet. A ballet set to Metallica’s Ride The Lightning (at least in my head). You could totally destroy Aquaman with these things.
At the tender age of fourteen, nothing was more enjoyable than getting a brick of Jumping Jacks, going four-ways on a twelve-pack of Haffenreffer Private Stock and chain-smoking Marlboro reds down Elias Pond, as far as I was concerned. First off, three Headwreckers are more than enough malt liquor for any growing boy to have to throw up all by himself in one night. Plus Haffenreffer’s had a rebus printed on the inside of the caps. So that’s why I drank them. My natural love of puzzles and problem solving, and alcohol. We would drink and smoke and throw lit packs of Jumping Jacks into the pond, and listen to the fish scream. Then we would scream. Then the neighbors would scream. Then we would run from the cops.
The following day arrived and we made our way to Quincy on the 222 bus. When we got there we made a pit stop to the top of the parking garage to smoke cigarettes and spit off the roof like big boys. After getting our smokes and spits on, we made our way down into Quincy Center Station and boarded the train. We had a couple of empty duffle bags with us that we planned on stuffing full of veritable cornucopia of fireworks that we would then sell at an inflated price to some younger boys somewhere down the line. We were entrepeneurs.
There’s very few things in life more exciting to a teenage boy than going into the big city with his friends. No adult figure around to keep you in check. No buffer zone between you and the big bad world. No safety net. Any moment could end with an ether soaked rag pressed to your face and BOOM, you’re sold into sexual slavery. Or maybe you just get sold into regular slavery. Or maybe you just get stabbed in the face by a gang of thugs for looking at them the wrong way. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened to someone within arms reach of a gang of thugs. I mean they call them thugs for a reason, and they’re in a gang. What did you think was going to happen? You’re kind of lucky they only stabbed you in the face once. It could have been worse. You shouldn’t have looked at them like that. You might want to apologize to them, once your face heals and you can talk again.
Image via flickr
That never happened to us. But the mere fact that it could have made the entire experience exponentially more exciting. We had to go to the Haymarket (an open air fruit and vegetable market) for the fireworks. It was one of those deals where you would walk down this alley and come to a basketball court. You would sit down on a bench and this guy would come over and ask you if you were looking for “The Goods”. When you said yes, he would get all excited and start touching himself in the style of Michael Jackson, but in cut-off sweatpants. It’s a good look for a man. When you explained you weren’t looking for those kind of “goods”, he would get mad, call you a tease, and then storm off down the alley. But then the guy who actually sold fireworks would come over and ask you what you wanted.
“I want fireworks”, was my reply.
“No shit, Sherlock”, he replied. “What kind of fireworks do you want. Firecrackers? Bottle Rockets? Whistlers? Jumping Jacks? Roman Candles? M-80’s? Peruvian Death Monkeys?”
Who knew there were so many kinds of fireworks?
The five of us quickly conferred on the benches and drew up a game-plan.
Listen, you can’t just buy only one type of firework and think your going to be successful long-term in the celebration game. That’s ridiculous. You need the booms, obviously. But you also need the colors, you need the sparkles, you need the whistles, you need to work out all of the senses to enjoy a fireworks show. Well, most of the senses. You really don’t need to be touching them. Especially after they’ve been lit. If you’re using your sense of touch during the fireworks display, something has probably gone horribly wrong. But generally you want to work out most of the senses. It’s nice to have firecrackers. But if all you have are firecrackers, eventually you’re just going to be known as “That dick with the firecrackers”. Loud noises get old real quick. People want to enjoy watching a beautiful display of changing colors and patterns. They don’t want to have to keep an eye out for the drunk asshole lighting off packs of firecrackers and seeing how many little kids he can make cry. That dude sucks.
We decided on a wide assortment of fireworks. Bottle rockets, jumping jacks, firecrackers, roman candles, whistling bottle rockets, more jumping jacks, maybe even some sparklers. I asked what the Peruvian Death Monkeys were and he told me they were a made up firework used to trick younger boys in alleyways who know nothing about fireworks into looking foolish in front of older boys in alleyways who know everything about fireworks. Then he pointed at me and said something that I will remember until the day I die. He looked me right in the eyes and he said, and I quote, “Ha”.
He told us, “Okay, give me the money and then go wait over there”. Over there being a spot farther down the alley. We were reluctant to hand this gentleman our money for a number of reasons, the first being that this gentleman was a dickhead. He didn’t even offer us any refreshments when we sat down on the dirty bench, at the sleazy basketball court, down the filthy alley. That is no gentleman as far as I was concerned. Now I’m supposed to trust him with my fathers hard-earned money? No way, dude.
“There’s no fucking way that I’m giving you my money so you can just take off with it. Do you think I’m stupid? Because I’m not stupid, man. There’s absolutely no way I’m trusting some guy I just met in an alley with the insane amount of money I have in my pocket right now. Just so you can take it and run off and buy a car or something? No way am I giving it to you” I said
“Well then you don’t get any fireworks” He replied.
“Okay, here’s the money.”
Boys love fireworks. It’s always been true. It’s true now. It’ll be true forever.
Forever.
Image via Google
We walked farther down the alley to our designated rendezvous point, and waited for a really long time. It was actually only about ten minutes. But when the bulk of your estate has been tied up in a very risky investment, you tend to worry about it. It’s Economics 101. Finally the guy comes walking down the alley with these bags, and we take all of our ill-gotten goods and quickly pack the duffel bags full of fireworks. I think we had about $150 worth of fireworks. But that was in 1984 dollars. I believe that’s equivalent to roughly all the money in the world today. Give or take. Give. Or. Take.
We bid scary dude a fare the well and traversed our way back through the alleys towards Faneuil Hall. We were crossing the street when we were surrounded by a group of seven or eight older boys. Now, if you are a regular reader of billmcmorrow.com then you are already aware that I have some serious trust issues regarding older boys. They are always making up stupid unwanted nicknames for people and giving them the business and whatnot, and I think that’s bullshit. I believe that the bulk of my ingrained hatred of older boys comes down to this single encounter on a hot summer day in 1984 in the City of Boston.
Older Boy #1: “Hey, what’s up guys? What’s in the bags?
One of us #1: “Huh?”
Older Boy #2: “What’s in the fucking bags, assholes?”
One of us #2: “What?”
Older Boy #3: “Give us your fucking fireworks, now!”
One of us #3: “But we were going to use them.”
One of the older boys pulled a knife. It wasn’t a particularly large knife, but I wasn’t a particularly tough boy, so it scared the shit out of me. He pressed the knife against my friend Pauly D’s throat and threatened to “mess him up but good” if we didn’t comply with his wishes. Luckily for him, we were very complicit. They took the bags and ran away down another alley, giggling to themselves about how that was as easy as taking explosives from a baby.
It was one of those things that happen so fast that it’s over before you even really realize that it’s happening. But when you look back on it, you think of all the things you coulda, woulda, shoulda done.
“I coulda thrown a cross-face chicken wing on the dude with the knife, maybe even engaged in fisticuffs with him.”
“I woulda thrown a haymaker to his solar plexus if he pulled a knife on me dude, maybe slap a figure four leg-lock on him.”
“I shoulda totally assumed a Karate stance, man. Once they sense that I’m trained in the martial arts, even the oldest of boys will back the fuck off.”
But we did none of these things. We just acquiesced to the demands of the older boys without putting up a fight. Like younger boys have done since the dawn of time. When we got back home I told my father that I had gotten robbed and that they had taken all my “Back To School” money and that I would be needing more of it, post-haste. He said something along the lines of, “Go fuck yourself”.
We returned home from four days of fun in the sun down in Florida on Tuesday. Boo to that is what I say. Boo to that indeed. It was a blast and I really feel like I accumulated some firsthand knowledge on how to survive on another planet, or at least in another state.
When flying out of Logan International Airport (and probably any other airport), don’t leave your wallet in your back pocket before going through the Millimeter wave scanner. Because the TSA dude will say something to you like, “You got something in your back pocket, fuckface?”. Then he will call over another TSA’er and tell them, “I need ‘hands on’ this piece of shit, don’t be afraid to go elbow deep in him/her”. They will pull your pants down and fondle your junk while everyone in line points and laughs and all secretly wish that they could get some of that. Then they may rub your hands with some type of wand and place the wand it a machine. That machine will calculate the essence of your boy/girl sweat and spit out a report telling TSA what I already know. “This motherfucker is Aces, let him/her pass.”
When you get into the terminal, don’t go to Dunkin’ Donuts before 5 am, because they aren’t open. Why would they be. It’s not like an international airport would deviate from the standard 9 to 5 workday. The line at Dunk’s was 120 people long at 4:50 in the morning. Naturally we just pretended we didn’t understand what “lines” were all about and just went to the front of it. Once someone took the time to explain “lines” to us, we went to the back and waited. All I’m saying is if the world really does run on Dunkin’ Donuts then the one at Terminal C in Logan International Airport needs to smarten the fuck up.
The line at Dunkin’ Donuts at 4:50 am
When people say, “Bill, you should definitely slather sunblock all over your pasty white self before you go swimming, you fucking goofball”, they aren’t necessarily being a dick, although it may feel like it at the time. But you should heed their advice, even if your name isn’t Bill. Because they are just trying to look out for your well-being. Also, when you do apply sunscreen to your tender boy/girl body while day-drinking on the Pon Tiki boat, make sure you don’t get distracted halfway through the application process by singing along to the Hall & Oates song Private Eyes. Because you’ll put the sunscreen down to do the clap-clap part of the song and then forget to continue protecting your delicate epidermis. You will wind up with a very half-badly burned boy/girl body. Which you will fully regret, man/lady.
Yeah, it happens.
When flying on an airplane, nothing is more enjoyable than dozing off with your head against the window and then waking up during turbulence and realizing that you’re 35,000 feet in the air and you’re going to die. Seriously, why do we have to be that high, What is wrong with flying at 350 feet? It seems to me that you might have a better chance of surviving a plane crash if the plane is only about a football field off the ground. I know why….buildings and such, but still. I’m a decent flyer, or I mean I’m a decent airline passenger. I can’t actually “fly” at all. I think that has something to do with my not being a bird, but I ain’t no veterinarian or nothing like that, so don’t quote me to the federales on that one. I’m just saying that I can deal with a little bit of a bumpy ride. But whenever I’m in a plane that hits some real turbulence, it takes all I have not to scream out loud and cry like a fucking beautiful blue-eyed baby boy. I’ve almost broken my wife’s hand a few different times due to an overly aggressive squeeze on my part. I apologize, to my sweet baby lady Nicole. I know she’ll see this because I force her to read my words. She took a vow, she knew what she was getting into. It’s what loves got to do with it. When we were coming back from getting married in Curacao in 2007 we hit some serious turbulence on the final approach to Logan, and I was pretty sure we were going straight into Boston Harbor. That would totally suck because of all the tea that is still in the water from some big boat party they had a couple of hundred years ago . Oh, and also because of all the poop in there too.
I quit smoking a while ago, but cigarettes are so much cheaper per pack in Florida than in Massachusetts, so naturally I smoked the whole time I was down there. I’m a savvy businessman if nothing else. I was making like a $4 profit on each pack of cigarettes I smoked. I made like twenty bucks, free and clear. That’s a pretty sweet deal if you ask me, or anybody else that doesn’t really understand Economics or Cancer. Don’t worry, I already quit again. At least until next vacation.
Choose wisely, Drunky McStumblefuck. Image via Google
When you go out and about day drinking, you need to be aware of your surroundings. Like, just because someone said that the bathroom at The Square Grouper is uni-sex doesn’t mean that it actually is. So you probably should put your penis and/or vagina away until we at least figure out if this is the mens room and/or ladies room. Hmmm, let’s see. Are there urinals on the wall or tampon dispensers? That’s usually a dead giveaway as to which gender bathroom you’re in. What is the color scheme? Ladies bathrooms usually have couches and baby changing tables in them and they have a nice decor, at least according to all of the spy-cam toilet videos that I watched in preparation for this post. I’m very thorough in my writing, as I consider myself to be a bit of a perfectionist. It’s a curse, and quite possibly a crime as well. A mens room is usually dirtier and has drawings of dicks along with graphic hand written reviews of your mothers wealth/lack of fellatio skills. At least according to every single bathroom I’ve ever been in during my entire forty-two years of existence on this earth, including my own. I’ve peed in a lot of different places in my life. I’m not trying to brag, I’m sure you’ve peed in a bunch of places too. Just ask yourself this question: When you were standing in line, were the other people in the line male or female? That is always one of the best ways to determine whose bathroom you are currently about to throw up in.
I hope that wherever your vacation takes you, that I have helped you get there safely and that you have fun.
And don’t forget to bring me something back this time, you selfish bitch/bastard!
It’s been three days since the terrorist attack on the Boston Marathon. Make no mistake about it, it was a terrorist attack. I realize that politicians have to choose their words carefully, but I don’t. This was an act of terrorism. It was designed to terrorize people. It was designed to disrupt lives and to instill fear and confusion into the ordinary citizen. Whether it was foreign or domestic is one thing, but either way it was most assuredly terrorism.
Marathon Monday holds a special place in the hearts of the people of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, for the following reasons.
Every year the Boston Marathon is held on Patriots Day. It’s a state holiday that commemorates the Battles of Lexington and Concord, the first military engagements of the Revolutionary War. You know, the war that made America? When the guys from Boston, the New England Patriots, decided to hide in the trees and wait for the English dudes to come shuffle-stepping up the middle of the road in their shiny red suits before they jumped out yelling “Surprise!!” and shooting them in their stupid faces. “Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes” was their mantra. Do you know how close you have to be to a man to see his eye-whites? That’s some up close and personal business. That’s like point-blank range. Who needs a gun, we’ll just push the bullet into you. That’s badass… Patriots Day is a day that most people have off from work, unless they work at some shitty company that doesn’t love or respect the colonists who fought and died for the very freedoms that we take for granted today. Those businesses suck and should be boycotted and/or have their goods dumped into Boston Harbor until they admit that they’re just filthy redcoat sympathizers. Then we, as a society, should jump out of the bushes, hold them down, and give them pink-bellies and wet willies until they cry for their Queen.
Image via Google Images
The Boston Red Sox always play a home game at 11 in the morning on Patriots Day. Which is crazy early for a game of professional baseball to be played. It’s an annual way of saying, “Hey Spring/Summer, how have you been? I’ve missed you something fierce this long cold Winter and would love nothing better than to drink some wicked overpriced beers, hold your hand, maybe do a little tongue kissing and then be home in bed by 4 PM. Let’s do it at Fenway Paaaahhhhhkkk!!!” When the game gets out, fans flock down into Kenmore Square, which is around the 25 mile mark of the marathon. It’s a massive celebration as the runners come through for the final mile of the race. Jubilant and inebriated spectators screaming, egging the runners on for the home stretch. The energy is palpable. It’s a beautiful sight to see.
The Boston Marathon is THE marathon. Every year, tens of thousands of runners from across the globe descend on the hub of the universe to test themselves both physically and mentally against the 26.2 mile journey from Hopkinton to Boston. Heartbreak Hill is legendary in its treacherousnessness. Yeah, I made up that word, I do that sometimes when I feel like it fits the situation. Believe me, it really does fit. I get winded just driving a car up Heartbreak Hill. In fact, even typing Heartbreak Hill makes me a little wheezy. But just a little. Over half a million spectators a year come out to watch these athletes fulfill their dreams of finishing the Boston Marathon. Thousands of people line the streets along the whole 26.2 miles of the course, handing out water and words of encouragement to the runners. Imagine that? Human beings showing compassion and empathy towards complete strangers? In this day and age? Unheard of. It’s just a feel good time. Plus with the millions of people watching at home on TV, it really feels like a global event.
And it is a global event, but it’s also our event. It’s Boston’s event.
Thank you Chicago Tribune
I have never even run in the marathon, but it’s still MY marathon. Every year, I can’t wait for spring so I can start making jokes about why I’m not running in the marathon that year.
“Once again, I forgot to turn in my application on time, and the Boston Athletic Association are total sticklers about following the rules. Bunch of dicks.”
“Rent-A-Center didn’t have any unitards available in a Boy’s husky, and I’m not cramming my junk into a Girl’s Intermediate again.”
“I forgot to get my good running shoes resoled and now my cobbler is on vacation. I know I could just have his apprentice fix them, but never trust a boy to do a man’s job. What’s that? Why don’t I just but new sneakers?…. Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“Funny thing dude, I started driving down 95 South to go to Hopkinton and the next thing I know, I’m at Foxwoods!”
“I would run the marathon, but I think I’m allergic to whatever material that those shiny blankets that they wrap around you at the end of the race are made out of. So better safe than sorry.”
These cowardly acts that were perpetrated against the people of Boston, and the world, will not go unpunished. I’m sure of that. The people who did this will be found and dealt with. Whether they be Muslim terrorists hell-bent on the downfall of America, or some homegrown shitstick who googled “How to make a bomb” makes little difference to me. In the end, their rationale for their actions do not matter, because their actions are unjustifiable. Evil is evil, period. End of argument.
In closing, I just wanted to say that I have always gotten chills when I hear the Star Spangled Banner. Every single time in my life that I’ve heard it, since I was old enough to understand it, it has given me goose bumps. Mostly during the land of the free, home of the brave part. It’s just a thing that happens, I can’t help it. But the rendition of this country’s national anthem before the Boston Bruins game two days after this tragedy, with 17,000 people singing in unison, is beyond compare. It made me proud of my city and her people. MY people.
Boston Strong, indeed.
Anyone wishing to make donations to the many, many people affected by this senseless act of violence are asked to donate to The One Fund
I’m sure there are many more charitable organizations that are accepting donations, just take the time to research before you donate. That’s what Google is for, people. Here’s a checklist to help you out.
Thank you to all the Police, Firefighters, Paramedics, EMT’s and just ordinary citizens who stepped forward when maybe the natural instinct would be to step back. Your quick thinking and selfless behavior prevented this from becoming an even greater catastrophe. Thank you to the Doctors, Nurses, and all the staffs at the numerous world-class hospitals in and around the city. Your tireless efforts to save the lives and limbs of so many should not, and will not go unnoticed. You are ALL superheroes personified.
I was never going to cut my hair, that was my plan.
I wasn’t a hermit that lived in a cave. Or that Samson dude from the bible who got all his strength through his luxurious locks. He was probably using steroids. Maybe an anabolic steroid shampoo, or a testosterone based cream rinse conditioner, I don’t know. I’m not a hair doctor. I wish I was because I would have all of that sweet hair doctor money. Plus I could write prescriptions. That’s where the big money is. America loves pills.
I was a teenager in the 1980’s, that is the reason why my hair was so long and beautiful. Most of the credit for that goes to Pert Plus. Because it had shampoo and conditioner in the same bottle. So I didn’t have to tire myself out by expending energy on acquiring multiple hair cleansing solutions from various exotic locales.
“First I go to this part of the shower for the shampoo. Then I gotta go all the way over to that part of the shower for conditioner? That’s crazy talk!”
I started growing my hair after I discovered Ozzy Osbourne. I didn’t actually “discover” Ozzy, but I heard about him from some older boys in the neighborhood and bought his Blizzard of Ozz album from Columbia House Records & Tapes. I wish I had discovered him though, because I would probably be rich right now, with all of that sweet music mogul money. But I would also probably be dead by now too, so I guess it’s for the best. I played that Ozzy tape until it wore thin and snapped. Then I scotch taped it back together and played it some more. Because that’s how shit got done in 1984. Shit broke and you fixed it and you moved on. I decided that this was what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to rock. Dee Snider and Twisted Sister might want to take the credit for that, but it was Ozzy Osbourne’s doing. At least as far as lil’ Billy McMorrow was concerned.
Now, my mother had been gone for a couple of years when I decided to grow my hair. My father was against the long hair from the get go. He was always a fan of the classic crew cut in the summertime and a boys regular in the wintertime. When I told him “No, I shan’t be getting my hair cut this month, Father. I’m going to grow it long in the style of Ozzy Osbourne”, he was more than a little reluctant. He told me that he would kick me out of the house and I could live on the streets like a common vagabond if I didn’t get my hair cut. But luckily for me, this was also the period in time where he was pretty much always drunk, so he usually didn’t remember that he was mad at me about my long hair. Good times!
This went on for a while. Dad would give me some folding money to “go get that fucking mop chopped” and I would go out and spend it on a pint of Jack Daniels or Southern Comfort and a pack of Marlboro box. Or maybe a stick of the reefer weeds all the kids were talking about. Hey, it’s only teenage wasteland.
The real Pauly D.
My buddy Pauly D. (no, not the fucktard from MTV) and I bonded over our mutual love of Ozzy Osbourne and Defender. We would hang out down at the baseball fields at Pingree School in Weymouth, Mass., where we would smoke cigarettes and swear out loud. One night we were sitting on the swings and we decided that we should start a band. We figured if we were going to be the best band ever, then we needed a name that let people know how great we were before they even heard us. After much animated discussion that only two 13 year olds jacked up on whiskey and cigarettes can have, we decided that the name of the band would be Lethür Angel. This name combined all the essential ingredients for greatness. It had leather in it, which is a very durable material, built to stand the test of time. But it was spelled wrong because all kids love stupidity. It also had a u with umlauts like Mötley Crüe, which was very cool indeed, both back then and in present times as well. In the logo, the g in angel was going to wrap around the name and have a pointed tail like a devil. See, it’s like a double entendre, kind of a good vs. evil thingy. Plus, angels are beloved creatures the world over, unless you’re a Satanist or terrorist or communist, or any of the other ist’s that you gotta keep your eye on these days. Like rapists.
Pauly D and I would always talk about moving to L.A. We figured that we would just wait and get some awesome apartment the day we got there with the money Pauly D had saved from his Patriot Ledger paper route. That should cover rent. We would hold all kinds of cool parties in our fuck palace where scantily clad sweet beautiful lady babies would hang out with us and constantly ask us to write our names in cursive on their boobs with silver Sharpies, which are universally recognized as the coolest of all the Sharpies.
Mary, Mary, why you bugging?
Obviously our crib would have a full bar stocked with only the finest of ill-gotten booze. Only the fruitiest of wine coolers, and the schnappiest of schnapps need apply. Listen, we realized that we weren’t going to make it right away. We knew that we would have to pay our dues for a few weeks, maybe a month tops. Maybe we would have to sell marijuana on the streets and school playgrounds to innocent children just to make ends meet. Or cocaine. Or Avon.
Or maybe we would have to make sex to beautiful rich ladies in exchange for monies. Or maybe in exchange for goods and sundries. Or perhaps for a little of both. Say some deli meats and cheeses, a loaf of bread, some toilet paper and maybe a little walking around money for a session of sexmaking. That’s just an example, we never worked out an actual sexmaking price list. But we were willing to make sex to as many rich beautiful honey babies as we needed to in order to finance our dreams of rock and roll stardom. We were even willing to go so far as to make sex to beautiful poor ladies in hopes that they would tell the beautiful rich ladies how good we were at doing the deed of making sex, during one of their monthly beautiful lady pillow fights we assumed they had. We loved the music so much we were willing to make sex to beautiful ladies whose incomes fell below federal poverty guidelines. That’s dedication to the craft. It’s something that you don’t see in kids today, and America is suffering for it.
Once we had finally gotten a gig at the world-famous Whiskey a Go-Go, everybody would know how incredibly talented we were. We would likely be signed to a long-term deal where we would record albums and tour the world in tight leather pants and half-shirts. It’s pretty standard rock star stuff. But before any of that could happen, my hair needed to be longer. I cultivated my hair like a baby. Do people still cultivate babies? Or has that become “unacceptable” in our “politically correct” society, and now babies have to “cultivate” themselves? I think that was a stem cell joke. I’m not sure, but if cultivating babies is wrong, I don’t want to be right. Unless it’s a felony.
I stopped going to the barber that I had gone to since I was a wee lad, and started going to a hair salon across the street. It was called “Charlie’s Angels” and yes I am adorable, thank you.
I would go in there and say “Just a trim, please. I’d just like to remove my split ends.”
Yeah it’s June and I’m wearing a leather jacket, big whoop.
This went on for years. I would get a trim every six months or so, nothing more. (Except for one horrible experience where I had my sister cut my hair the night before I had to go to court. What? She had taken cosmetology classes for about two days. We got into an argument halfway through the haircut when I got mad at her for cutting too much off the back. Then she refused to cut the front. But that’s its own blog post entirely.)
Pauly D and I never started a band or moved to L.A, although he did learn to play bass guitar and has played in a bunch of local bands.. I saw him for the first time in years a couple of weeks ago. We had ourselves some laughs about the good old days, we always do.
I finally cut my hair when I was 19 and my father asked me to be his best man when he got married again. He only had one request.
“Get that fucking mop chopped!”
Okay, Dad. You win.
“Okay Dad, I’ll cut my hair to be your best man. But I’m still getting hammered at the wedding reception, even though I’m only 19 and you’re a recovering alcoholic. Okay?”
Kim Jong Un is a Total Clown by Andrew Spear spearlife.com
Dear Kim,
How are you? I’m good, thanks. I haven’t seen you since summer camp in the 7th grade. I hope everything is good. Remember when we had that epic food fight during that last dinner, and I got that fresh squeezed boysenberry juice in my eyes? It stung something horrible, and I was afraid that I was going to go blind. But you stayed right by my side, calmly spitting in my eyes trying to flush the pain out. Eventually you decided to use the glass of water that was literally in your hand the whole time. That worked a lot better, but the spit was appreciated none the less. Well, maybe a little the less.
How about the night of the big talent show? That was a crazy night. I never would have guessed that you could lip-synch so well, but it just seemed to come second nature to you. You were so nervous before you went out on stage but you killed it!!!
You. Killed. It.
The way you owned that crowd was amazing to watch. Your medley of Culture Club hits was inspirational to all. My favorite part was I’ll Tumble 4 Ya. But it was all really good. Your ability to pretend that you were actually singing was only eclipsed by your ability to look like you were really dancing. I only wish that YouTube had been around back then. Because that shit would have gone viral, big time. I think it would have had even more hits than that Gangnam Style song that you recorded last year. What was that thing all about? I didn’t get it. Sorry, pal. Just being honest, like a friend would be. I thought you would want me to be honest with you.
When you got off that stage that night, soaked in sweat and smelling of success and Aqua Velva, you seemed to stand six-foot tall. But I saw your smile quickly fade as your shoulders slouched. When I asked what was wrong, you played it off like you were just coming down off the high of your performance, but I knew better. You were upset because you knew your father, Kim Jong Il, was displeased with your lip-synching lifestyle and had forbidden you from doing it. But it was a part of who you are. You could no more just stop pretending to sing lyrics to other people’s songs as much as you could just stop masturbating on things that didn’t belong to you. It’s in your blood. It’s who you are.
Even though your dad wasn’t there to see you that night because he was too busy tyranically oppressing everyone back at home, you knew that he would find out about it. You were worried that if he discovered your secret that he would disown you, and you wouldn’t be able to succeed him when he died. Just like Raul Castro did for Fidel in Cuba or Baby Doc did for Papa Doc in Haiti. Or Tommy Boy did for Big Tom Callahan in Sandusky, Ohio.
You knew that acting like you had musical talent was your God-given talent. (I know that you think I’m talking about your grandfather, Kim Il Sung, when I say God, but I’m not. I mean the real God. I’m talkin’ ’bout George Burns, Willis)
No matter what your daddy said, you promised to keep on mouthing the words to Top 40 pop music 4-EVA. “I’m not gonna let that heartless son of a bitch take the music away from me Billy. I swear to you that I will always look like I’m singing a song, no matter what”.
That was thirty years ago Kim, but I remember it like it just happened in my head right now. I’m sorry we lost touch, but it’s so incredibly hard to be pen pals with someone in North Korea. Not only do all the letters get confiscated and edited by the government (you), but it’s also wicked hard to figure out the proper postage. Do I need five stamps for this? Or six? Plus, where do you even buy envelopes anymore?
When your pops died and you took over, I meant to hit you up on Facebook or Twitter, but once again, your intense hatred of the interwebs prevented me from sending my congratulations. I really don’t understand your mistrust of the World Wide Web. I mean, it allows people from different countries to exchange information and ideas on how to improve their lives. Oh yeah, that’s why.
I saw on the news a few weeks ago that you and Dennis Rodman are friends now. That’s nice for you. I like to know that you’re doing well and making friends. A man with no friends is no friend of mine, man. That’s what a friend of mine said, man.
But now I hear on the wisecracker line that you’re talking all kinds of craziness. Nuclear bombs and what not? This kind of crazy business does nobody any good. We all got to just calm down, maybe go outside for some fresh air. Perhaps you want a rip off this bong? Yes? No? Maybe? Alright, maybe it is. I’ll just leave it here on this table. There’s a lighter in the draw. Just don’t steal it. It’s the only thing I have from my father. It’s kind of my birthright, I guess. Like you get North Korea from your dad, and I got a Zippo from mine. Not a bad deal…… All right, it’s a Bic.
I’m just kidding. I got nothing when my dad died
When you start talking all this gibberish aboutattacks by a “smaller, lighter and diversified” nuclear force and warning, “The moment of explosion is approaching fast.” I get a little worried. Is this the same Kim Jong Un that I went to camp with all those years ago? Was this the same little guy who not only looked like he sounded like what Boy George would sound like but also sort of looked like he looked like what Boy George would look like thanks to some glitter, paint and a little old-fashioned elbow grease. This can’t be the same kid, can it? The same kid that stayed up all night long because he wanted to tape Billy Squire‘s Rock Me Tonite off of the radio so he could practice learning to look like he had learned to sing it? That can’t be him.
But it is you, I can smell the Aqua Velva.
C’mon buddy, everything you need to know about the horrors of nuclear war can be learned from Nena’s hit song 99 Luftballons. I know that you must know the lyrics, right?
99 Duesenflieger Jeder war ein grosser Krieger Hielten sich fuer Captain Kirk Das gab ein grosses Feuerwerk Die Nachbarn haben nichts gerafft Und fuehlten sich gleich angemacht Dabei schoss man am Horizont Auf 99 Luftballons
I couldn’t have said it better myself. Captain Kirk, man.
I mean, I know they still exist, but now it’s all just Six Flags and Disney. There might be one or two more, but I doubt it.
Growing up in the 70’s and 80’s, you couldn’t swing a newborn baby without hitting an amusement park. Rocky Point Park, Riverside Park, Whalom Park, Kings Castleland, Lincoln Park and more were all within an hour or two drive. Needless to say, the infant mortality rate was incredibly high back then. But it was well worth it for the shorter lines on all the good rides. Trust me.
Paragon Park in Hull, Massachusetts was the closest one to my boyhood home. It was my parent’s house, but they were kind enough to let me live there with them. Occasionally they would feed me as well. I always thought that was a very magnanimous thing for them to do. Our house was about five miles away from the park and during the summer I would constantly ask if we could go to Paragon. But it was the 1970’s and people didn’t love their children back then. Or at least they didn’t feel the need to prove that they loved their children by “doing things” for them. It only took 14 minutes to get to Paragon by car, according to Google maps. I would second their findings. Good job, Google maps. I believe that is an accurate assessment of travel time betwixt the two points based on my many, many years of knowing how to get there from here. Apple maps couldn’t figure that shit out. Boy do they miss you Steve Jobs. And I as well.
Paragon Park was located on Nantasket Beach. Coming down George Washington Boulevard, the main thoroughfare between Hingham and Hull, you would see the old giant wooden rollercoaster in the distance and you would think, “Today just might possibly be the day that I die on that thing, I should get my affairs in order. Where’s the fried dough?”.
It never happened though. There was one time that I almost died on the smaller Cyclone rollercoaster they had when the safety bar on the cart wouldn’t lock down. I told the older boy running the ride that the bar was broken, and he said, “Just hold on tight, kid.” That ride was maybe the scariest two minutes of my life up to that point. And that includes that time I stayed up way past my bedtime to watch Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot miniseries on television one night and that kids dead brother started scratching on the second floor window begging to be let in the house. Holy Shit!!
Image via my nightmares
I wish I could meet the guy that ran the Cyclone today and tell him, “That was not a professional way to do your job, former older boy now older man. I was a little kid who trusted you to take care of me. You failed in your duties to serve and protect me. Go fuck yourself.” But I’m sure he knows. How could he not know how horrible a person he is, right? Plus he’s probably already dead from huffing paint or something.
Image via paragonparkmemories.com
The Bermuda Triangle was another popular ride at Paragon Park. It was a log ride through a dark, dank sewer that might or might not have ended with the passengers being sprayed with urine. Fun stuff. I remember the first time I went on it when I was about seven or eight. I had already heard about the horrors of the Bermuda Triangle thanks to an episode of Ripley’s Believe it or Not, so I was a bit apprehensive to say the least. I was certain that there was no way we were coming out of this alive. But it was a really boring ride, pretty much just a cement tunnel with no lights. When I got older and we figured out that you could stop the boats from moving by holding onto the walls it was considerably more fun. The boats would all get backed up in our little traffic jam, and we would laugh like boys have been prone to do since forever and will probably continue to do until at least tomorrow. Then the older boys running the ride would get all tough guy on us and yell things like, “Hey little kid, don’t make me have to come in there and give you the business but good!”
They also had two water slides, although I’m not sure they were actually affiliated with Paragon Park. I remember going to them as a kid, and being told to be careful because some psycho child killer was supposedly jamming razor blades into crevices in the slide. They said you would slide down and hit the razors and bleed to death within minutes. The 70’s were a groovy time.
“We should tear this down and build condos”- Osama Bin Laden Image via flickr
One time, when I was about eleven or twelve, I went to the water slide in cut off jeans. That’s right, I’ve always worn only the sexiest of homemade bathing suits. It’s kind of my calling card. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried going down a water slide in jeans, but they are not very conducive to slipping and sliding, even when cut to ridiculously short lengths. I kept getting stuck going around the turns due to the aforementioned negative slippage ratio that is commonly found in dungaree based pantaloons, so I rolled over onto my stomach trying to find the sweet slide spot. All of a sudden this hot twenty something year old baby lady came crashing into me, much like that Dave Matthews guy is always singing about. I rode the last half of the ride with my beautiful boy face nestled in this hot mamma’s cleavage. (Truth be told I don’t remember what she looked like at all, but she had boobs, that she let my face touch, not that she had much choice due to both gravity and centrifugal force. But to a twelve-year-old boy, that’s a hot lady) After the ride ended we awkwardly got out of the water and she gave me her digits. I promised to call her later, but The Greatest American Hero was on that night and I forgot. I hope she got over me.
Image via flickr.com
Paragon closed in 1984 and the land was used for condos. Dumb, stupid condos. Why wouldn’t you want to get rid of your awesome amusement park and build shitty condos? “There’s way too many awesome amusement parks and not nearly enough shitty condominiums around nowadays”, is something you always hear people on crystal meth say just before they beat their wives.
The only things left from Paragon Park are the carousel, which they moved down the street, and a couple of arcades that were out in front of the park. The Giant Coaster was taken down and shipped to Baltimore, where it’s now known as The Wild One at Six Flags America. Hopefully it’s being operated in a wildly irresponsible fashion by some older boys with careless disregard for the safety of others..
My mother always said, “If you can’t say something nice about a person, then shut your stupid fucking mouth, you dumb piece of shit”. Of course, I’m paraphrasing. My mother has been gone over 30 years now, so naturally I can’t remember anything she ever told me. To tell the truth, I don’t even know if she ever really existed at all, or if I’m just another one of those “miracle babies” that the scientist doctor guys make in the lab. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was. I’m pretty fantastic. But sometimes I need helpful advice, like any test tube baby boy does, to navigate the streets of this harsh and uncaring world. In times like these, I like to make up my own advice but then trick myself into misremembering it as advice coming from my mother.
I know, it doesn’t sound crazy at all, right? So any ways, here’s one of the nuggets of knowledge that I think my mother would have bestowed upon me had she not so selfishly died of cancer when I was 11.
Some people live by the code of, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it”. I vividly misremember this one hot summer day when I was 5 or 6 years old. My mother had just made iced tea for me and all of my very cool friends. There were so many of them that sometimes it was hard for everyone that wanted to hang out with me to get the chance. Eventually a lottery system was implemented in order to give everybody a fair shot. I was an extremely popular 5 or 6-year-old. It’s really not that surprising seeing as how there was a good solid month and a half that I refused to answer to any name but Fonzie. And we all know Fonzie is the epitome of cool. It says so in the bible. Yeah, the holy one.
“And a teeny-tiny Jew shall appear shrouded in leather and blue jeans. And he shall leadeth the flock, and he shall layeth the babes, and he shall jumpeth the shark. Aaaaayyyyymen” – A Letter From Pinky To The Tuscadero’s
During the gathering I asked my mother if I could use the brand new transistor radio that she won at bingo out to the pool. This thing was state of the art. It had AM. It had FM. It had a wrist strap. Very fancy, indeed. My mother looked at me with all the love that a mother can give to a son. The son she bore from her own womb, and said, “Billy, my sweet little beautiful boy, with eyes so blue I could only compare them to the water in God’s swimming pool, or maybe to a bottle of Windex. Oh, my sweet eldest son, who I would give anything in the world to for just one glimpse of your precious smile. Are you fucking nuts? You can’t possibly fix the thing if you break it, what with your fat little sausage fingers, so don’t fucking touch it”.
If there’s one thing about Mom that I misremember the most, it’s something.
There’s a lot of talk about the new pope. There’s been so much news coverage with various reporters from numerous channels all hanging outside the Vatican like a bunch of screaming pre-teen Beliebers. They are all talking about the pomp and the circumstance. Talking about the secret papal conclave. They’re talking about a lot of things. But they’re also totally not talking about one specific thing……The only thing, really.
And all that comes to my mind is this beautiful little ditty by the extraordinarily talented Tim Minchin. It says it all.
I should probably say that this is NSFW (not safe for work) but I don’t know where the fuck you work. You could have a fucking sweet ass job selling handjobs for ham sandwiches somewhere, in which case this is totally appropriate for work (TAFW).
The great thing about writing a post about a specific day is you’ll never have to write another one. Just keep reblogging it. You’ll thank me next year. Happy Saint Patricks Day weekend to all the Drunky McStumblefucks out there.
Bill McMorrow 