Matt Lesley has started an erotic subset of the Brony community he calls UniPorn. You can imagine what the horn is.
Tracey Dolan Portwine brings all the boys to the yard, and many are still buried there.
Keith Seichrist chops down his own Christmas tree every year. Lucky for him he always finds one right in the neighbor's living room.
Erin McSpadden sings a haunting song that lures chipmunks to their watery death.
Mike Muszynski ran a successful hamburger blog until he mistakenly rated a turkey burger as the best burger in Frederick, MD. He now spends his days eating Necco wafers as penance.
Jordan Riccio yells "Play Freebird!" at every concert he goes to. He has also been the recipient of an atomic wedgie a world record 42 times.
Scree! Scree! Jeff Tolbert scort scortt SCREEE! That's right, even dolphins mock you.
Jesse Howell's acting career really turned around after he started going by the stage name Melissa McCarthy.
Laura Brockmeyer learned at a young age that you can never wear enough sunscreen. Or mayonnaise. Either one is good.
Samantha Wentling was kicked out of a Juggalo convention because even they have standards.
Christopher Law went to a Halloween party as Inspector Gadget in 2005. He hasn't gone out of character since, which slightly impedes his career as a dance instructor. Go Go Gadget Jazz Hands!
Bridgett Heard has been known to hypnotize goldfish at the pet store to do her bidding. They have been less than effective at robbing banks to secure her fortune.
David Wendig writes Perfect Strangers erotic fan fiction under the pen name Sexy Poppinfresh.
Sharon Waller keeps a lucky Dutchman's foot on her keychain.
Matt Quimby found fruitful work as the token white guy in Tyler Perry movies.
Elizabeth Friedel spoke in a fake British accent for seventeen years after seeing the movie Snatch came out. It come out in the year 2000, so her friends will finally talk to her again come 2017.
Jamie Doud Lasko was fired from the Teddy Bear Hospital for practicing medicine without a license.
Anela Collazo knows every word to Louie Louie and refuses to share.
Jacqueline Slosky once fought a chair to the death.
Karmn G. Rod is the reason Steven Weber hasn't gotten decent work since Wings.
Nancy Fisher North has been trying desperately to get the nickname Nan C. Westside.
Hanna Gribble's main work credit is as the final script supervisor for every Adam Sandler film since 2001.
Joel Van Goor will make millions when he discovers a way to tattoo an animated GIF of Rerun dancing.
Christopher Beasley has spent his life proving that The Song That Never Ends will someday do just that.
Clare Zuraw was excommunicated from the church because she couldn't stop making raygun noises anytime anyone said the word "pew".
David Gregory is the Peep Eating champion of Korea.
Katiedid Langrock is reading this on a laptop she fashioned from Gobots and cat hair.
Margaret Randall Alldredge thinks tube tops and overalls are the next big fashion trend.
Margie Webber still cranks dat soljaboy at all weddings and bar mitzvahs.
Gus Medina's version of the song "My Favorite Things" would make Red Foxx blush.
Zach Rothstein is known as "The Man of 1000 Faces". He keeps most in his freezer.
Katie Sill gives sandwiches to the homeless. Ghost pepper sandwiches.
Mike and Layla Asplen describe their style of parenting as "Monkey Torture". They refuse to expand on the matter.
Andrea Buntz Neiman coats herself in margarine every night before bed. When asked why, she says that butter is too fattening.
Laura Wienand has been barred from every high school football game in Pennsylvania for excessive taunting. The lewd gestures were icing on the cake.
Valerie Sedai bullied me through college because she refused to believe I was prettier than her. She might have better hair now though. Might.
Travis Shaw is revered in most archaeological circles for once getting so far into the zone that he passed out. When he woke up the site he was excavating was filled back in, but a completely accurate recreation of Peewee's playhouse was built on the site out of pottery shards and pipe stems, and was inhabited by the bones of an indentured servant dressed as Cowboy Curtis.
Emily Miller became the first American in 100 years to get scurvy after her macaroni and cheese diet somehow went awry.
Katie Cavallo's career as a professional luchador will start and end next week.
Elizabeth O'Sullivan was fired from her job at Chuck E Cheese for banishing noisy children to the Ball Pit after getting drunk on power and Mad Dog.
Natalie Litofsky only drinks 10 ounce beers, because she knows those last two ounces are the devil.
Jodi Bailey will be the last thing most of us will ever see.
Julie Stricker won't drink red wine because she says it goes right to her head. That may be because she tends to inject it into her eyeballs.
Annelise Montone's one woman version of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants has been called "haunting", "pointless", and "graphically violent".
Ryan Protos is proud to announce he has been officially sponsored by FourLoko.
Bodine Boling created the whip, but has disavowed the Nae Nae.
Kurt Lewis will not leave his house until he remembers where he put the activator for his jericurls.
Angela Desmond proudly owns America's largest collection of Bumpits, outside of Texas that is.
Joyce Phelps believes that the most tragic character ever written is not Willy Loman, but Dumb Donald. Read her 200 page college dissertation to find out why.
Steve Nickerson's music video for his band's most popular song "Everybody's Twerking for the Weekend" has a shocking 36 views on Youtube,
Scott Humburg wears pants less than Winnie the Pooh.
Christopher Neu successfully held out his goth phase until he turned 31.
Vicki Fisher will be miserable once I find an old gypsy woman to make everything she eats taste like newspaper. Vicki could evade this if she finally admits she tried to hit me with a Snapple bottle when we were little.
Megan Usilton is still angry that she lost the role of Dobby in Harry Potter, even though she looks the part.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Dear Gin Blossoms
All of our lives we are told to not judge a book by its cover. I've found, most of the time, I can make a fairly decent judgement of a book by the cover design. That's how I initially judge every Kindle deal I get in the email. If the cover has a beach scene or a horse, I don't buy it. Shaky writing, bicycles, or cool art, I read the description. Fabio shirtless with a wench, well, that's a buy no matter the price. Maybe the whole point of the idiom is to not make snap judgements, but whoever made it up should have been clearer.
Before Thanksgiving, I was able to relive the '90s twice in a week. On a Thursday, a local ska band called The Smizokes was having a reunion show in Baltimore, and on Saturday the Gin Blossoms were playing in Delaware. I idolized the ska band in high school, and my New Miserable Experience cassette was worn down through middle school. I had high expectations for both shows, so surely life was going to kick me in the nards.
I saw a flyer entering the Ottobar for the Smizokes show announcing that the ska show was downstairs, while The Insane Clown Posse was having a party upstairs. Visions of juggalos danced in my head as I walked in to the venue as the first opening band greeted me with forgettable, bland third wave ska an a sparse crowd egregiously divided between thirteen year olds and thirty five year olds ignored each other. The teenagers were dressed in their finest punk concert gear: shiny leather studded jackets, concert shirts, and Chuck Taylors. My peers were more hodgepodge in jeans, buttoned shirts, and sensible comfy shoes. Ska isn't dead, it just goes to bed at a more reasonable hour.
My fears were unnecessary. The worst makeup I saw was not from a juggalo, but from a misguided teenaged girl who used a beautician's shotgun to apply eyeliner. The Smizokes played hard, well, and all ages joined each other to dance on the floor.If the band or their fans had gotten 18 years older, neither showed it, at least until 10PM came around and we all shuffled home to read and get a good night's sleep.
Clearly if the local band had emerged triumphant after almost two decades, then the Gin Blossoms, who constantly tour, would put on one hell of a show. My girlfriend and I drive out to Harrington Casino with my 90's playlist shuffling through the Ipod. We got to the casino, grabbed some dinner, played some slots, and went to the auditorium about twenty minutes before the show was set to start. Things were immediately amiss. The place was packed, and a line at least fifty people long snaked from the bar. We didn't really think that when the tickets said that the doors opened two hours before the show that everyone would show up then. I quickly assumed that this was some sort of reverse concert. The cool people all showed up super early, most people were seated, and the cool thing to do was to wear your tshirts tucked into your jeans. Alarmed and confused, we sat in the last row, in two of the only open seats.
The weirdness continued as a nicely dressed man took the stage. He announced that the show was about to begin, yet the crowd ignored him and continued to chat. Reading from a list, he counted down the acts that would be playing soon. No one heeded him until two magic words were uttered, "Garth" and "Brooks", and nothing short of a standing ovation occurred. How in the bland sterile halls of IKEA hell does a crowd set to see an alernative rock band cheer that loud for Mr. Trisha Yearwood. Not even in Delaware. The next biggest cheer came when for some reason Wal Mart was mentioned. Oh wait, the reason was that this was in Delaware. Anyway, the band came on, and immediately the entire crowd sat. A whole sea of people sat extremely still as the ban d launched into their set, well, all except for the two morons in front of me. He, a stout lad in his late thirties, kind of shimmied while trying not to drop his beer. She, a stouter muffin topped, tramp stamped lass of the same age, tried to bounce up and down but somehow failed even at this. I decided that if everyone else was going to be a drag, so was I, so I tapped the guy and asked him to sit down. Had I a cane and a hearing aid, I couldn't have felt older.
You, the Blossoms of Juniper, did not help matters. Yes, the show was good, and you were proficient with the songs. Something, however, was practiced, unemotional, and sterile. After one of my favorite songs, Found Out About You, the lead singer kind of leaned back, sighed, and said "That was some good rockin'" like he was remarking about the weather or a peach harvest. If the band isn't really getting into things, how the hell should the audience? The damning part of the evening was when, during some banter between songs, the lead singer asked how many people actually knew who the band was. I chuckled until some furtive hands shot up. Shockingly few hands. Maybe 20 out of the whole very large crowd. This didn't phase him at all, like he was used to large casino crowds coming out to their shows as an alternative to staying home and watching reality tv or throwing rocks at the local harlot. This wasn't a band where dedicated fans sought them out after years of listening to their music. This was a band that walked off stage, grabbed a beer, then walked back onstage without anyone chanting for an encore, because they knew it wouldn't happen. They just started back into their scheduled encore, which was some good rockin' too.
Before Thanksgiving, I was able to relive the '90s twice in a week. On a Thursday, a local ska band called The Smizokes was having a reunion show in Baltimore, and on Saturday the Gin Blossoms were playing in Delaware. I idolized the ska band in high school, and my New Miserable Experience cassette was worn down through middle school. I had high expectations for both shows, so surely life was going to kick me in the nards.
I saw a flyer entering the Ottobar for the Smizokes show announcing that the ska show was downstairs, while The Insane Clown Posse was having a party upstairs. Visions of juggalos danced in my head as I walked in to the venue as the first opening band greeted me with forgettable, bland third wave ska an a sparse crowd egregiously divided between thirteen year olds and thirty five year olds ignored each other. The teenagers were dressed in their finest punk concert gear: shiny leather studded jackets, concert shirts, and Chuck Taylors. My peers were more hodgepodge in jeans, buttoned shirts, and sensible comfy shoes. Ska isn't dead, it just goes to bed at a more reasonable hour.
My fears were unnecessary. The worst makeup I saw was not from a juggalo, but from a misguided teenaged girl who used a beautician's shotgun to apply eyeliner. The Smizokes played hard, well, and all ages joined each other to dance on the floor.If the band or their fans had gotten 18 years older, neither showed it, at least until 10PM came around and we all shuffled home to read and get a good night's sleep.
Clearly if the local band had emerged triumphant after almost two decades, then the Gin Blossoms, who constantly tour, would put on one hell of a show. My girlfriend and I drive out to Harrington Casino with my 90's playlist shuffling through the Ipod. We got to the casino, grabbed some dinner, played some slots, and went to the auditorium about twenty minutes before the show was set to start. Things were immediately amiss. The place was packed, and a line at least fifty people long snaked from the bar. We didn't really think that when the tickets said that the doors opened two hours before the show that everyone would show up then. I quickly assumed that this was some sort of reverse concert. The cool people all showed up super early, most people were seated, and the cool thing to do was to wear your tshirts tucked into your jeans. Alarmed and confused, we sat in the last row, in two of the only open seats.
The weirdness continued as a nicely dressed man took the stage. He announced that the show was about to begin, yet the crowd ignored him and continued to chat. Reading from a list, he counted down the acts that would be playing soon. No one heeded him until two magic words were uttered, "Garth" and "Brooks", and nothing short of a standing ovation occurred. How in the bland sterile halls of IKEA hell does a crowd set to see an alernative rock band cheer that loud for Mr. Trisha Yearwood. Not even in Delaware. The next biggest cheer came when for some reason Wal Mart was mentioned. Oh wait, the reason was that this was in Delaware. Anyway, the band came on, and immediately the entire crowd sat. A whole sea of people sat extremely still as the ban d launched into their set, well, all except for the two morons in front of me. He, a stout lad in his late thirties, kind of shimmied while trying not to drop his beer. She, a stouter muffin topped, tramp stamped lass of the same age, tried to bounce up and down but somehow failed even at this. I decided that if everyone else was going to be a drag, so was I, so I tapped the guy and asked him to sit down. Had I a cane and a hearing aid, I couldn't have felt older.
You, the Blossoms of Juniper, did not help matters. Yes, the show was good, and you were proficient with the songs. Something, however, was practiced, unemotional, and sterile. After one of my favorite songs, Found Out About You, the lead singer kind of leaned back, sighed, and said "That was some good rockin'" like he was remarking about the weather or a peach harvest. If the band isn't really getting into things, how the hell should the audience? The damning part of the evening was when, during some banter between songs, the lead singer asked how many people actually knew who the band was. I chuckled until some furtive hands shot up. Shockingly few hands. Maybe 20 out of the whole very large crowd. This didn't phase him at all, like he was used to large casino crowds coming out to their shows as an alternative to staying home and watching reality tv or throwing rocks at the local harlot. This wasn't a band where dedicated fans sought them out after years of listening to their music. This was a band that walked off stage, grabbed a beer, then walked back onstage without anyone chanting for an encore, because they knew it wouldn't happen. They just started back into their scheduled encore, which was some good rockin' too.
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