[Luke is on the driveway working on his bobber.]

My bobber will be nasty when I’m done with her. She’s a 1978 XS750 and yeah she runs amazing, her kick start and electric are good. Three-cylinder, 5-speed, shaft drive. Look at her. She will look different when I’m done with her. I’ve lowered her three inches so far. I need to lower her another inch-and-a-half, then she’ll be nasty.

Her electric runs amazing. But she’s filthy. I’ve spent a hundred hours on the driveway cleaning her with bug and tar remover.  It’s just me, the bug and tar, the rag and the radio. And her. On Saturday I took a toothbrush to her swingarm and worked it hard. My girl Sarah came outside with a chicken breast and a Bud and was like, if you want to eat you’re gonna have to forget about the bike for a minute and come on in. Mom would let Dad eat on the driveway. On Sunday I worked on the brake dust on her rims. She has brake dust from 1980 probably. That dust is older than me. Sarah’s cool dad never rode her or washed her. He just wanted her to look cool in his cool garage. Sarah bought me a microfiber sponge glove for my birthday. That’s the best way to clean a bike’s painted parts. You have to use 100% cotton or microfiber sponges. Anything else will damage her. (I read all that online.)

Hell, Sarah got me the bobber, so anytime she says, come inside for chrissakes, I’m like, YOU got me the bobber and YOU told me I needed something to do all day and now I’m doing something. I was fine doing nothing. Now I’m doing what you told me to do. I am doing exactly what you told me to do and now you want me to stop doing it.

She’s been on my case about her but once I’m done with her Sarah will be the first person begging for a ride. She’ll be like, pick me up at the laundromat and we’ll ride to Dorothy Lane Market and buy blueberries (that are five bucks for a little container!) and then to the high school parking lot and talk about high school and we’ll get a pop at Circle K and put rum in it. Then she might be down for riding to the Grant Park and doing nasty stuff there and that would be OK with me.

Next: Goofing on Bloomberg

[Linda stands in the garage.]

The fox in the garage is asking for it. It = death. He’s been chewing the hoses like nobody’s business and I have reason to believe he spilled lawnmower gasoline in the litterbox because the other day when Terrence did his business his paws got all gasoline-y and he tracked gasoline through the house and into my bedroom. I tried to clean it but you can never entirely get rid of a mess like that.

On Sundays I smoke cigarettes in my bedroom. All day long. And when I’m drunk on beer I don’t like to get out of bed to put the cigarettes out in the bucket near the closet. So I fling the butts into the bucket. It’s become a hobby of mine and you have to have hobbies if you want to stay busy. If I don’t stay busy, the Fear will consume me. Now, I’m not God, OK. So I miss the barrel from time to time. Pobody’s nerfect. Last Sunday when I was drunk I smoked a cigarette and flung the butt at the bucket but I missed and it must’ve landed on some of that gasoline Terrence tracked in from the garage because a fire started up real quick. I tried to put out the fire with the sleeping bag I’ve been using as a bed sheet, but it was no use. The fire spread to the walls and turned my Heroic Cats™ posters into ashes. I ran into the family room and grabbed Terrence and ran into the garage. And who do you think I saw sitting on top of the litterbox with a hose in his mouth? The fox. And he was smiling, too. (Some animals, like golden retrievers, always look like they’re smiling, but not foxes, so I know he was smiling at my misery.) I said, “You’re asking for it, you know that?” Terrence hissed at him and tried to wiggle out of my arms and attack. But I held him tightly and said, “Not today, Terrence. Let’s make a plan.”

Next: Don’t Worry About It

Morning sun fills the Fox and Hound. Gary 1 and Gary 2 sit on bar stools. Their unfortunate clothes indicate that they are not busy or vital men.

BARTENDER: Alright, boys. I’m on the clock. What will it be?

GARY 1: Gin and tonic. No fruit.

GARY 2: Same here.

BARTENDER: Is well gin OK? Or are you celebrating?

GARY 1: Well’s fine.

The bartender scoops ice into two glasses and pours a generous serving of gin into each glass and tops them off with tonic. He slices a lime into wedges and slips the wedges on the rims of the glasses, and as he hands the men their drinks he realizes his mistake.

BARTENDER: You said no lime. Typical. I mess up the first drinks of the day. Here, I’ll take them off for you.

GARY 1: Don’t worry about it.

GARY 2: Yeah, don’t worry about it.

BARTENDER: You sure?

GARY 1: Yes.

GARY 2: Yes.

Next: She Will Be Nasty When I’m Done With Her

INT. SMALL EXCLUSIVE LUGGAGE STORE (J. RUSS) - DAY	   42.

It's as quiet as a church.  A few pieces of extremely
high quality leather luggage are on display.  The
SALESMAN, a small neat man in a quiet suit, is the
store's representative.  He's talking with Joe.  He's a
very serious, understated man.

			  LUGGAGE SALESMAN
	Have you thought much about
	luggage, Mr. Banks?

			  JOE
	No, I never really have.

			  LUGGAGE SALESMAN
	It's the central preoccupation
	of my life.  You travel the
	world, you're away from home,
	perhaps away from your family,
	all you have to depend on is
	yourself and your luggage.

			  JOE
	I guess that's true.

			  LUGGAGE SALESMAN
	Are you traveling light or heavy?

			  JOE
	Heavy.

							    (CONTINUED)
JOE VERSUS THE VOLCANO - Rev. 5/16/89			 39.

42	CONTINUED:									   42

			  LUGGAGE SALESMAN
	Flying?

			  JOE
	Flying.  And by ship.

			  LUGGAGE SALESMAN
	An ocean voyage?

			  JOE
	Yes.

			  LUGGAGE SALESMAN
	Ah.  Yes.  So.  A real
	journey.

			  JOE
	And then I'll be staying on
	this island, I don't even
	really know if I'll be living
	in a hut or what.

			 LUGGAGE SALESMEN
	Very exciting.

			  JOE
	Yeah.

			  LUGGAGE SALESMAN
	As a luggage problem.  I
	believe I have just the thing.

The Luggage Salesman rolls out an absolutely gorgeous
steamer trunk of dark, wine-colored leather and brass
fittings.

			  JOE
	Wow.

The Luggage Salesman opens it. It has hangers, drawers, a
mirror, the works.

			  LUGGAGE SALESMAN
	This is our premier steamer
	trunk.  All handmade, only the
	finest materials.  It's even
	water-tight, tight as a drum.
	If I had the need and the
	wherewithal, Mr. Banks, this
	would be my trunk of choice. I
	could face the world with a
	trunk like this by my side.

Joe is moved.

							    (CONTINUED)
JOE VERSUS THE VOLCANO - Rev. 6/2/89			  40.

42	CONTINUED:  (2)								   42

			  JOE
	I'll take four of them.

This is the classiest thing the Luggage Salesman's ever
heard.

			  LUGGAGE SALESMAN
	May you live to be a thousand
	years old, sir.

[Thanks.]<br><br>

This old man is Harold P. Drum. He likes sits in his bathtub every day, all day. Is he bonkers? No. Delusional? No, that’s too clinical. Peculiar? Yes. He’s a peculiar old man who enjoys sitting in his bathtub.

He wasn’t born peculiar and he didn’t become peculiar slowly over time like many old peculiar men do. He became peculiar rather quickly, as fast as it takes you to snap your fingers. If you can’t snap you can count to 1. That’s about how fast.

Harold wasn’t born peculiar. And he didn’t become peculiar slowly over time like many old peculiar men do. Not Harold. He became peculiar rather quickly, as fast as it takes you to snap your fingers. (If you can’t snap, just count to 1. That’s about how fast.)

And it’s no mystery when he became peculiar. It happened instantly on July 19, 1955, when he was given a magical purple crayon. This is how the crayon was magical: Anything he drew with it became real. He drew purple pies and then ate them. He drew a purple moose, which also ate the pies. He drew a purple boat and sailed the purple sea. If he were smart, he would have drawn more magical crayons and sold them for a 100% profit. But you can’t expect that sort of ingenuity from a 4-year-old.

Read More »

The rock band Handsome Furs performed last night at a party celebrating the new partnership between VBS.tv and CNN.com. Before they took the stage at Public Assembly, Eugene Mirman mumbled some jokes which were barely audible above the folks enjoying the open bar; Kenneth “KC” Estenson of CNN.com said remarks about the importance of first-person storytelling; and Shane Smith of Vice/VBS said something about taking over the world with CNN. He added that while some men have large heads and small bodies, he’s got a small head and a large body.

Once the band started their set it was hard to look away from keyboardist/drum machinist Alexei Perry. Her mouth would puff and chomp, often with the beat. She resembled an animal actor with peanut butter on its gums to make it look like it’s talking, but in a sexy way. While breathing heavily and chomping, she would sometimes stare fiercely and admiringly at her bandmate and husband, Dan Boeckner. His trick: wrapping the microphone cord around his neck while singing. At one point during the set they faced each other and got very close as if they were going to kiss or nuzzle, and a girl in front of me let out an “Awww.”

Alexei Perry’s throat was even more interesting to watch. Because she’s breathing so deeply and rhythmically, and she doesn’t have much neck fat, a very pronounced oval would appear with each deep inhale, and then disappear with each exhale. Well, perhaps it’s not really an oval. It’s more like the shape we make with the skin between our thumb and index finger when we try to reproduce the shape of a vagina by touching our hands together. An elongated oval with points. So if you wanted to be lewd you could say that, while performing, Alexei Perry’s throat looks like a pulsating vagina.

Ms. Perry would often balance herself on one leg, raise the other leg behind her and kick it to the beat. When she bangs her head, her copper hair (it’s currently copper, anyway) is fun to watch, too. With the leg, the hair, the mouth and the throat, she’s the most animated keyboardist/drum machinist I’ve ever seen. And if you’re only casually playing the instrument to begin with, you have no excuse not to go berserk.

[Thanks for the picture.]

I don’t know you or your eating habits but I can confidently say that if you have a Belon oyster at Shaffer City Oyster Bar and Grill it will be the best oyster you ever eat. Each Belon costs $5, which could also buy a foot of turkey sub at Subway. But a turkey sub is no way to celebrate the end of a [adjective of reader’s choice] decade. Eating a Belon is. So have a Belon. You’ve earned it probably.

You’d think a post about an expensive oyster in MANHATTAN is exactly the sort of thing weary Americans do not need to read right now. But you’d be wrong. Once slurped into your mouth, the Belon (pronounced bey-lohn; aka the European flat oyster; Ostrea edulis) demands so much attention that you can’t be bothered by your problems. At first the Belon is meaty and could pass as a Blue Point. But once bitten into, the Belon releases no less than an ounce of potent grassy juice as if it were a lawnmower-blade-flavored Gusher. This juice fills your sinuses and then your head and neck, and you forget whatever it is that’s been bringing you down. Perhaps you and your girlfriend of 2+ years broke up in early December and the thought of her returning the lovely J. Crew winter coat and pants she’d bought you for Christmas bums you out. Like a tiny five-dollar whore, the Belon will put you at ease. The Belon’s aftertaste is less like grass and more like sweet mulch and will linger until you sip your martini. The Bombay Sapphire martini I had with my Belon was a pleasant accompaniment but the Belon itself is enough for complete self-medication so, really, no alcohol is needed.

The Belons are a special at Shaffer City and they’re bound to go fast. As my server Michael P. said in his enthusiastic pitch, these Belons aren’t your garden-variety Belons. These Belons are special. Historically a French oyster, there are now Belon beds in New England as well as California and Washington. The ones at Shaffer City are from Maine and only 5,000 of them were harvested in 2009, according to Michael P. They are not from the Bélon River in Brittany so they aren’t bona fide Belons as far as the French are concerned. Michael P.’s pitch ended with him locking eyes with me and saying, “You should really try a Belon.” And he was right. And so should you. After eating your Belon you’ll want to appreciate its attractive shell. The shell is so smooth and sexy that some folks take it home so years later they can fondly remember the time they ate a Belon.