Halloween Countdown: October 5 - full soul transfusion

Dare you enter....the House of Franklinstein?

Okay, so he's not so much a "mad scientist" as a "serial killer with delusions of grandeur," but that's not an uncommon phenomenon. "It puts the Jheri curl activator in the bucket... HA! HA! HEE! HEE! HEE!"

Taken from the June 1977 issue of Fast Willie Jackson, a series that answers the question: "What would happen if an ambitious publisher swiped the style and tropes of the Archie comics franchise, but added a stong urban flava and made the stale gags even less amusing than the source material's?" The best of mercenary intentions can spawn a host of horrors, can you dig it?

he's out to get before he's got

He's one with Xenu now.
Isaac Hayes, the legendary Zen master of soul, funk, and cinematic bad-assitude, has passed away at the age of 65. He was the man who made "You shut yo' mouth!" a household expression, and therein lies the problem with eulogizing him.

The popcult resonance of Shaft and the film's Hayes-penned soundtrack has reached Pythoneseque levels of oversaturation in the past three-and-a-half decades. What ought to be appreciated as sublime aesthetic and historical achievements has been reduced to a facile macro employed by mayo-and-white bread fanboys and comedians looking to add a little funky flava into their clumsy attempts at humor. Does anyone want to guess how many times the theme to Shaft or "Chocolate Salty Balls" have been or are going to be spotlighted on the various music blogs in the recent past or immediate future?

Before South Park, before Shaft, before Hot Buttered Soul, Hayes and David Porter teamed up to write some of the finest tracks to come out of the Stax Records stable. Stax soul duo (and perennial AT faves) Sam & Dave were major beneficiaries of their talents, with Hayes and Porter penning such powerhouse hits as "Hold On, I'm Comin'," "I Thank You," and this gem, which has retained its luster even after years of rough handling and rougher reinterpretations...

Sam & Dave - Soul Man (from Soul Men, 1967) - Socially aware Memphis soul, written by masters, sung by the best, backed by both Booker T. & the MG's and the Mar-Keys, and served sizzling hot. If that isn't a recipe for pop music perfection, such a thing simply doesn't exist.

Adios, Truck. When you were hottest, you were the coolest.


When you were baddest, you were the best.

Issac Hayes - Main Title "Truck Turner" (from the Truck Turner OST, 1974) - Whether you're busting heads in a dive bar or busting moves on the dancefloor, you couldn't ask for a finer soundtrack than this.

can't help wondering where I stand

Today is something of a proud day for me, as a routine check of the referral logs has revealed that Armagideon Time is currently the #1 Google result for "how to tell if you are wasting your time on a man."

Eat my dust, Dr. Phil!

I suppose that celestial concordance of specific phrasing and keyword usage obligates me to address the problem in question. With mild power comes mild responsibility, after all. While I do not possess any fancy formal training or a string of high-falutin' degrees, I do have a modicum of empirical wisdom which can be brought to bear upon the matter.

According to the immortal Bard (in Sonnet 116, which was incorporated into our wedding vows):

Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken

It sounds lovely and dreamy, but it's actually a load of horseshit. Horsehit that smells like roses, but horseshit nonetheless. True love is a paradox, a mutagenic constant that threads all manner of alterations and revisions around and about the ever-fixed mark of loyalty and affection.

In the initial goo-goo eyes phase, one's beloved can do no wrong. In the infatuation hangover phase, the little and not-so-little flaws begin to reveal themselves. Providing that the bonds of devotion weather the stresses of reality, things settle into a pattern of acceptance of your partner's less desirable quirks and the conscious or unconscious attempt to control your own. It's not a perfect process, nor does it immunize you from the occasional dust up, but there is a sense of "US" which overrides two distinct or oppositional "MEs."

Or she realizes that you're never going to quit being a prick and you realize that she's never going to ditch those pain-in-the-ass friends of hers, and you go your separate ways. It can be a tough call to make, but there's no point in prolonging things when it's clear that the two of you will never, ever be on the same page. It's best to face things honestly...and by that I mean "not screwing up a good thing because I'm a restless, self-absorbed shitheel devoid of any sense of honor."

It all comes down to my dad's advice on vice, a maxim that also applies to romance: "If it brings you more pain than pleasure, it's time to give it up."

The Daughters of Eve - Don't Waste My Time (from a 1967 single) - In Narnia, where garages are few and far between, it's called "wardrobe rock."

Grassella Oliphant - Get out of My Life, Woman (from The Grass Is Greener, 1967) - Exorcism through funk. The power of the groove compels you.

the root of all evil

The above lesson on the nuances of mythological avarice is the reader's introduction into "Captain Marvel Fights the Menace of Greed" from Captain Marvel Adventures #111 (August 1950). The story is a quaint piece of agitprop crafted to evangelize on behalf of the post-WW2 "enlightened" variety of capitalism while dispelling any lingering spectres of Depression Era socialist agitation.

While popular mythology might lead one to think that the national consensus of the World War II period continued unbroken though the mid-1960's, the truth is that the immediate post-war years were a time of rampant labor unrest. There were a significant number of Americans who remembered the hardship of the Great Depression and who had given of themselves, overseas and on the homefront, during the war years who were determined not to be cut out of loop when it came to sharing the economic spoils of victory. The government's response to such agitation took the form of such draconian measures as President Truman's threat to draft striking transport workers in 1946 and the Taft-Hartley Act, which drastically curbed the power of organized labor.

The mythical and much cited prosperity of the 1950's was an artificial construct built on a foundation of Keynesian economic policies, government subsidized defense spending, a labor shortage, and the efficient application of planned obsolescence to the field of consumer goods -- a short-term balancing act which turned out to be unsustainable in the long run. To get to that point of hothoused (and unequal) prosperity, some socio-economic panel-beating had to be done, most notably through the cynically directed hysteria of the Red Scare and Cold War brinksmanship, but on a less shrill note in the pages of this comic story, as well.

When Mr. Morris, the very FDR-like owner of radio station WHIZ, embarks on a tour of Europe, he leaves the management of his business in the hands of Jason Cox, a individual whose hook nose and pencil-thin mustache came straight from central casting's "shifty character" drawer. Armed with the power of attorney, Cox implements a whole raft of workplace changes. Wages are rolled back, infrastructure and maintenance budgets are slashed, and payrolls moved to a biweekly schedule.

While the business press lauds Cox's "visionary leadership," boy reporter Bill Batson suspects something fishy behind his behavior. Hoping to get to the bottom of things, Billy transforms himself into Captain Marvel, the World's Mightiest Shop Steward, and confronts Cox...

"It's simple capitalism, Captain. You don't have anything against capitalism do you? Your costume does have a lot of red in it..."
Fear of being labeled a godless pinko who hates America and Baby Jesus forces Marvel to stay his hand, so he zips off to Pyramid Investment Corporation's various holdings to see if there really are resources to exploit, virgin wilderness to despoil, and rightfully elected governments to overthrow.

The diamonds, uranium, and oil are present at the sites though the portfoilo had the locations mixed up. A chastened Marvel returns to apologize to Cox for his lack of faith, only to be met by a hail of bullets from two of Cox's business associates. As it turns out, Cox had been moonlighting as the manager of Pyramid even as he diverted funds to the firm as financial manager of WHIZ. (Thank you, financial industry deregulation!)

Not realizing that the mineral investments were actually on the level, Cox's plan was to fleece the station for all it was worth before fleeing with his suitcase full of ill-gotten (but entirely legal, according to revised SEC rules) gains. Marvel wastes no time in giving Fortune Magazine's "Outstanding Executive of 1950" a good thrashing and a stern, yet confusing, lecture...

"'Mixed message?' Whatever do you mean?"
With Cox sent up the river (to a minimum security country club) and Mr. Morris back from Europe, WHIZ returns to its harmonious state as an ideal example of "social contract" capitalism in action...

...until the firm's stocks are downgraded due to Morris's largesse, causing the investors to depose Morris as CEO and sell the station to a national media conglomerate, who promptly lay off most of the workforce and switch the format from local programming to nationally syndicated fare. Michael Savage's show now runs in Billy's old time slot.

Heartbreaking, I know, but you have to stay competitive in today's global economy. Plutus demands it.

The O'Jays - For the Love of Money (from Ship Ahoy, 1973) - Money and I have an open relationship. It comes and goes as it pleases and I enjoy it while it's around.

Lord Sitar - If I Were a Rich Man (from Lord Sitar, 1968) - Hey! There's a sitarist on the roof! (He'd better climb down before the wife sees him. She despises sitar music.)

The Flying Lizards - Money (That's What I Want) (from The Flying Lizards, 1980) - It's a means, not an end unto itself.

it's just a passing phase

From the "Dear Josie" advice column in Josie & The Pussycats #73 (December 1973), a poignant look at the problems facing yesterday's youth:


Wow. Josie takes the "tough love" approach to a whole new level. The quotation marks around "groovy" and "bells" give the proceedings a certain Jack Webb je ne sais quoi:

"Flares," "bells," "Bolivian boot-cuts" -- cute "with it" names for something as insidious as communist ideology. You kids need to realize that crimes against fashion are no laughing matter.

While Josie's rather harsh response to poor L.J. overlooked the possibility that kids can be capriciously cruel to their peers, I do concur that wearing bell bottoms is never the solution.

Sparks - Angst in My Pants (from Angst in My Pants, 1982) - This fine slice of quirky new wave pop was inspired by Kierkegaard's Edifying Discourses on the Dread Associated with One's Trousers Tenting Up at Inopportune Moments (itself a response to Hegel's Wissenschaft der Kameltoe).

Orbital - Pants (from The Blue Album, 2004) - This is one of two trouserly tracks featured on Orbital's final album. (The other track, "Acid Pants," was done in collaboration with -- surprise, surprise -- Sparks. Such is the power of pants-love.)

First Choice - Smarty Pants (from Armed and Extremely Dangerous, 1973) - The first days of disco.

energy can be directed

Such as whether or not Mr. T really did eat your balls.
"Good enough" really is good enough for me most of the time. I am a man of simple tastes and few ambitions. Any penalties that my lack of competitive drive have incurred have been more than ameliorated by my sense of laid-back equanimity. It's when events disrupt my comfortable state of deliberate equilibrium that I get, well, whiny.

I was fine with the speed and performance of my current DSL service. It's easy to install and maintain, and hotswitching the router between PC and the Xbox can be done in a couple of minutes. Despite marketing propaganda's push to shame me as a narrow bandwith luddite, I've never been one to measure the size of my manhood in Mbps. The "bigger, badder, faster" mindset leads to things like Hummers, McMansions, and eventually total environmental and economic collapse.

For years I've been resisting the dinner-and-showertime robocalls from my ISP urging, nay browbeating, my wife and I to upgrade to FIOS. I didn't trust the pricing of the service, regardless of the front end deals offered. I had no desire to let some stanger into my house to screw around with the wiring. Most importantly, I definitely didn't want said stranger to fuck around with my carefully maintained computer and/or uploading company junkware onto it as part of some "special package."

Yet that's exactly what's going to happen tomorrow morning. Yeah, I know -- "Poor, poor Andrew having to suffer through the horror of having super high-speed internet service installed." It's still a pain in the ass, though, as I have to spend most of my day clearing space and cleaning the monumental clutter that has accumulated around my workstation over the past few years in order to give a person or persons unknown free access to my secret lair.

The Kings - Switchin' to Glide (from The Kings Are Here, 1980) - Does not include new wave installation surcharge, hooky parts and labor, or any applicable local taxes on synth usage.

Clarence Reid - If It Was Good Enough for Daddy (from Running Water, 1973) - Bring on the punch cards, rotary phones, and heavy-ass funk!

(If there's no post tomorrow, just assume something went catastrophically wrong.)

the feeling that remains

I tend to get a bit apprehensive whenever I come across a comic purportedly aimed at "adult" or "mature" readers (unless it's a porn comic, in which case I just get incredibly depressed), as the material thus labeled very rarely exhibits any sense of sophistication or maturity. For every work that does meet the actual criteria, there are countless others whose idea of "adult" amounts to little more than the adolescent posturing of a junior high school kid, chock full of the hormonal angst and predictably "shocking" edginess one would expect from a thirteen year old boy who still thinks that Easyriders is a real porn magazine and Boone's Farm is quality hooch.

It's not a phenomenon strictly limited to comics, but the medium's endemic inferiority crisis means that many fans tend to grade on a curve, and material that would be seen hopelessly embarrassing or dodgy in films or prose writing has a better chance of being lauded as "cutting edge" or "groundbreaking" when applied to sequential art. This applies to superheroic fluff with delusions of grandeur as well as onanistic "indie" auto-bio nonsense -- there's more to being a grown up than dressing up in mommy's or daddy's old clothes and dropping some f-bombs.

My quest for suitable panels to use in Bahlactus's current "black and white" incarnation of Friday Night Fights has led me to revisit some of Marvel's magazine format titles from the 1970's. Apart from the Jack of Hearts appearances (in Deadly Hands of Kung Fu, of all places), I hadn't flipped trough these books since 1985, when my uncle discovered Jesus and passed the bulk of his comics collection onto my brother and me. As I mentioned in this post, the more "adult oriented" aspect of the magazines' content fell within the lines described above, awkward half-steps ahead of what was already occuring in Marvel's regular titles in terms of sex and violence, and utterly tame by today's standards.

Well, except for the second half of Chris Claremont and Marshall Rogers's "Daughters of the Dragon" two-parter (from Deadly Hands of Kung Fu #33, February 1977) that is. I mentioned it briefly in last Friday's post, but the mindblasting WTF factor of the story deserves a detailed examination. If you thought, as I did, that Marada, The She-Wolf marked the slimy nadir of Claremont's storytelling tropes, just wait till you plunge headfirst into this sub-basement of sleaze.

Having thwarted the machinations of the sinister Bra-Snap Tong, the two-woman Ebony, Ivory, and Jade team of Misty Knight (being the "Ebony" component) and Colleen Wing (combining both the "Ivory" and "Jade") proceed to....

...hell, why not JUST let the RANDOM caps-heavy RECAP explain it FOR you?


Not only are the pair of private investigators ALIVE, but they've been treated to a scented bath and attended to by a entire harem of scantily-clad women!

Another typical evening at Mr. Bubble's bachelor pad.
The owner of the Evil Mastermind Day Spa^TM also happens to be the man behind the arms smuggling operation Knight and Wing busted up in the previous issue. In order to recoup his losses, he decides to sell the women into sex slavery, but not before offering them a taste of Afghanistan's finest...

You seem like modern gals. Ever have it in the ear before?
The ladies resist, but are trumped by a set of electrified bolas, as well as the layout of the arms dealer's secret lair, which was designed along the "random floating platform aesthetic" pioneered by the architectural firm of Ditko, Dormammu, and Strange.

The pair are chained to a wall and shot up with smack. In true Claremontean fashion, it's an experience that the characters learn to "reluctantly enjoy" and leads to this lovely expose of the horrors associated with drug addiction and the writer's personal demons...

This PSA has been brought to you by the Disturbing Fanfic Council.
...but just so no one gets the wrong idea or anything, Claremont makes sure that we're aware that Colleen Wing is a woman possessing great strength and dignity...

Yay, feminism!
Colleen is saved from the lecherous Dr. Hartmann by Misty. Apparently Hartmann was so preoccupied by his new twist on the "ass, gas, or grass" formula that he failed to notice he'd been tying off and shooting smack into Misty's cybernetic arm, which she uses to break free and crush the bad doctor's trachea.

Misty heads off to do some reconnaissance and find a means of escape, leaving the strung-out Colleen behind to exorcise the monkey from her back via zen meditation...or maybe not...

Greetings, programs!
But if no one is convinced it will work, why would Colleen make the attempt?

The Winehouse Kundalini
Oh, I see now. She's doing it for the fans.

While Colleen gains a deeper appreciation for the music of Lou Reed, Misty tangles with their arms dealing, slave trading captor, now sporting a kicky bondage harness ensemble and a pair of sword canes. She manages to hold her own at first, but the cards are stacked against her, as Claremontean story logic decrees that it must be Colleen who vanquishes the foe, thus mastering her physical and psychic adversaries through three pages of poorly blocked fight, exposition, and flashback scenes...

What a woman who's been proverbially ravished does et cetera, et cetera...
As for Colleen's smack habit? No worries there, true believers!

How? Well, when a lazy writer paints himself into a corner...
In a 1979 interview with The Comics Journal, Claremont stated that Misty's emotional support for Colleen was something that he'd have worked into the story even if had involved two male leads.

What I'm wondering is if he would also have kept the perfumed baths, sexual slavery, and disturbingly eroticized drug addiction aspects of the story if it had featured, say, Power Man and Iron Fist instead of Misty and Colleen.

The Boo Radleys - There She Goes (from the So I Married an Axe Murderer OST, 1993) - The members of The La's, who released the original version of this oft-covered favorite in 1988, claim that the song is not about heroin addiction. A shame, really, because I got a perverse sense of glee over the idea that the nauseatingly precious "Christian rock" outfit, Sixpence None The Richer, stumbled into covering a song about spiking the vein.

Curtis Mayfield - Pusherman (from the Super Fly OST, 1972) - No ambiguity here, just some superlative funked up soul.

The Insane - Chinese Rocks (from the "El Salvador" 7" single, 1982) - Written by Dee Dee Ramone and Richard Hell, recorded by the Heartbreakers, covered by a Wigan-based UK82 outfit, and purchased by me for a fiver from Looney Tunes in Central Square sometime in the fall of 1991.

seemed like the real thing

(from Blue Devil #3, August 1984; by Cohn, Mishkin, Cullins, & Martin)
Don't lose heart, Metallo! Kryptonite tickers may be hard to come by, but why not check out Armagideon Time's cardio-tastic line-up of replacement models? Our present stock includes several promising substitutes, hand-picked by our knowledgeable staff from a variety of materials and musical genres -- all guaranteed to get your blood pumping in style.

Lunachicks - Heart of Glass (from Luxury Problem, 1999) - This is for all those sad souls out there who've complained that Blondie's original version of the song sounded "too disco." Are you happy now?

Steel Pulse - Heart of Stone (from Sound System: The Island Anthology, 1997) - Soothing grooves for the end times, which seems kind of wrong yet sounds so right.

A Flock of Seagulls - Heart of Steel (from The Story of a Young Heart, 1984) - The New Wave at ebb tide. Be careful not to slice your foot open on some Big Pop flotsam; that shit can turn septic in the space of a heartbeat.

B.T. Express - Heart of Fire (from B.T. Express 1980, 1980) - WARNING: Individuals with hearts of fire should avoid wearing polyester suits, lest a real-life disco inferno occur.

knew this was a big mistake

Today, we're going to take a musically annotated trip through some of the more interesting ads found within the pages of 1985's Legion of Substitute Heroes Special #1. The comic is a farcical romp starring the 30th Century's most famous also-rans. Most of the humor is more "funny huh" than "funny ha-ha," and presumes that the reader is familiar with LSH minutae, but it does feature some fine art by Keith Giffen (working his unmatched José Muñoz-cribbing mojo).

It's not the type of thing I'd suggest as recommended reading, as those of you who are interested in that sort of thing most likely already read it and those of you who aren't couldn't give two shits about an in-joke-heavy superhero humor comic published twenty-three years ago. Besides, it's not the actual content that we're going to take a look at today, but some lovely enticements for iffy goods and services.

First up is the 1985 Triple Crown winner of the Consumer Fraud, Violation of Animal Protection Statutes, and Personal Liability Lawsuit stakes...

Nothing brings the funny like placing a irritable venomous reptile on your algebra teacher's chair. It's all in good fun, right?

"Freightening," indeed.

Duran Duran - Union of the Snake (from Seven and the Ragged Tiger, 1983) - The end of the line as far as my interest in the band goes, with heavily qualified exception made for "View to a Kill" solely due to its unremitting cheesiness.

I bought my copy of SATRT at a used record store in the winter of 1992. The previous owner had pressed some maple leaves between the inner and outer sleeves. A sweet gesture, but by the time I had come into possession of the LP, the leaves had been pulverized into a fine dust that managed to insinuate itself into every nook and cranny of my bedroom when I went to play the record.

Hvng trbl wth yr nglsh? Mb ths dmn vwls r t blm. Lt ths flks hlp u.

I cn hz a fwnks lssn? N thy sy cmix rdrs r ltrt....

The Noble Knights - Sing a Simple Song (from the What It Is! Funky Soul And Rare Grooves:1967-1977 box set, 2006) - Sly Stone wrote it, King Curtis produced it, you need to listen to it.

You may have hear of needle exchanges, the controversial but forward-thinking programs designed to minimize health risks associated with intravenous drug use. That's all well and good if you're a heroin addict, but what about the poor souls who have been stuck with a backlog of terrible puns, knock-knock jokes, and stale one liners? What options do they have?

"I'll trade you a drag-and-drop ethnic joke for two gags about mothers-in-law." "Throw in a coarse scatalogical pun and we have a deal."

I've found that it's easier to get my jokes from the uncut, pink, sugary source.

The Beau Brummels - Laugh, Laugh (from Introducing the Beau Brummels, 1965) - From the San Francisco folk-rock act's pre-giant-waterfowl period.

Our final featured ad asks a very important question:


I guess my answer would be:

"An interesting footnote in Japanese history that has been romaticized and mythologized by westerner boy-men with leanings toward ex oriente lux attitudes and fetishes for martial arts weapons. Due to media hyper-saturation, whatever aura of coolness ninjas possessed has long-since evaporated, leaving behind just another irritating hipster/fanboy cliché."

The London Funk Allstars - How to Be a Ninja in One Easy Lesson (from Flesh Eating Disco Zombies Vs the Bionic Hookers from Mars, 1996) - Finally, a trip hop album made specifically with Chris Sims in mind.

So concludes today's journey though the comic ads of yesteryear. So, Noseless Pulsar Stargrave, having seen what goods and services were being pitched to comics readers in the mid-eighties, how do you feel about comics fans now?


That's a little harsh, though I can totally see where you're coming from.

Halloween Countdown: October 6 – leave your body at the door

Even the undead need to cut loose after a hard week of haunting, so feel free to join the all the hep bats and ghouls in the most underground club of all -- I'm talking six feet under, children. And, dare I say it, folks are just dying to get in...

They've got a wide selection of spirits, too, including a positively killer Zombie that will rip the brain right out of your skull.

Forget whistling past the graveyard; to ensure this Guignol is truly grand indeed, we need acts that don't skimp on the brass:

Rip, Rig, & Panic - Alchemy in This Cemetary (from Attitude, 1983; also available on Knee Deep in Hits, 1990) - The missing link between The Pop Group and "Buffalo Stance."

Oingo Boingo - Dead Man's Party (from Dead Man's Party, 1985) - Wow, and I thought the Lansdowne Street clubs had steep cover charges.

Fishbone - Bonin' in the Boneyard (from Truth and Soul, 1988) - Just be sure to use protection, lest you or your partner end up in the skeletal family way.

stinking to high heaven

Yesterday was supposed to be a good day.

Despite issues at work, despite the frustrating commute, despite the time lost while Maura fixed the filter for the koi tank at her parents' house, despite all the other little slings and arrows of everyday petty hassles, I went though the required motions with a gleam in my eye and a spring in my step. Why? Because it was Thursday, which per our domestic tradition, meant getting Chinese takeout and sitting down for the only block of network TV shows I actually look forward to: The Office, My Name Is Earl, and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia -- two anticipated season premieres, and three full hours of all-new episodes, through and through.

Between arriving home from work and settling down couch with a heaping plate of sweet and sour chicken, there were a handful of essential tasks to see to, mostly centering around animal care and feeding. I was eager to get my share of these obligations out of the way as soon as possible, wasted no time in leashing up Adeline, our beagle-boxer mix, for her nightly walk. It was the tail end of twilight, but I figured there was still enough light in the sky to chance a walk down to the end of the backyard, which is Addy's preferred spot for doing her business. It was one of the worst fucking mistakes I've made in a lifetime of dubious decisions.

We exited the back door in our usual fashion, Addy pulling hard on the leash and me doing my damnedest to keep my arm from getting yanked from the socket. It's something I've gone through at least a thousand times, only last night there just happened to be a fairly large and rather irritable skunk on the back steps. Skunks are pretty frequent visitors to our house on the hill, but they usually come late at night to munch on any kibble left in the feral cats' bowls. They've grown used to the our presence, skedaddling to the far side of the driveway when we step out onto the patio or take out the trash. We've even given names to some of the regular visitors: Frank Skunktone, the microencephalic Peanuthead, and Limahl (named for the huge fluffy white stripe on his head and back).

Addy caught sight of the skunk and the hound side of her family tree -- bared teeth, eager yawlps, slobbering jowls and all -- manifested in full force, while I tried in vain to being her to heel. The skunk made a brief, bold stand before turning tail and making a beeline for the safety of the bushes. At first, I thought we'd made it though the worst intact, that the skunk held off on spraying due to our longstanding relationship based on mutual tolerance and wary respect. Those hopes were soon dashed as the wave of concentrated stink washed over me.

Addy got the worst of it, sprayed square in the face and mouth. I was protected by the high ground of the back steps, but the contact stink was still strong enough to cling to my clothes and person. In the space of a few seconds, my much-anticipated plans for the evening went down the crapper. The rest of the night was spent giving Addy repeated washings with de-stink solutions and sprayings down with the garden hose. The sweet and sour chicken and crab rangoons were cold by the time I got around to eating them, and my enjoyment undercut by the lingering aroma of skunk stink.

I still laughed out loud a couple times during Sunny, though.

Pete Thomas - Funky Skunk (from Let's Boogaloo, Vol. 3, 2006) - As opposed to "Fuckin' Skunk," the subject of several freestyle acapella rants I performed yesterday evening.

Loudon Wainwright III - Dead Skunk (from Album III, 1972) - That's the problem this new-fangled modern age -- Where are this generation's Top 40 hits about roadkill?

The Panzant Brothers - Skunk Juice (from SuperFunk: Rare Funk From Deep In The Crates, 2000) - Another illustration of the unholy alliance between funk and skunks.

Y'know, even after the events of the past twenty-four hours, a warm glass of skunk juice still seems more appetizing than a cold bottle of Mountain Dew Game Fuel (brought to you by Halo 3, a Bungie Studios production presented by Microsoft).

do you hear some outside air

A couple of Fridays back, Maura and I were coming out of the pet store when she noticed that Super Lumina’s passenger side rear tire was looking a bit sickly. I’m inclined as a general habit to pooh-pooh such observations, as Super Lumina has a heavy frame and a heavy engine, and there’s a noticeable give where the rubber hits the road even on a new set of properly inflated tires. This time was the real deal, though, and explained why the car’s stability while cornering had been getting progressively wonkier over the previous month or so.

I gave the tire in question a thorough going over to see if I could find any visible punctures or damage, but came up empty. Suspecting the awful truth, but hoping for the best, I stopped at the Citgo station down the block and got the tire back to its proper PSI level. The next two weeks were a waiting game; nothing seemed to happen at first, and I was ready to chalk it up to “one of those things” that come with car ownership. Then, last Sunday, I did a spot check and the tire was looking as bad, if not worse, than it did two weeks previous.

Again hoping against reality, I went back to the Citgo air pump. The leak appeared to be a slow one, and I figured that I could play for time until my next scheduled vacation. It was not to be. I just took a quick look out the living room window and the tire is about as flat as it can get while still being drivable on.

Damn it. I knew I was due for a new set of tires, and I’m always up for a day off work, but I hate having the issue decided for me, with a massive last minute shuffling of priorities (not to mention the not-insignificant cash outlay involved).

Johnny London – Flat Tire (from The Complete Sun Singles, Vol. 1, 1994) – I think we can make it to the juke joint on the bare rim if we all lean to one side.

Albert King – Flat Tire (from I Wanna Get Funky, 1974) – In which a veteran bluesman feels my pain, and knows how to make it dissipate.

The Adverts – On Wheels (from Crossing the Red Sea with The Adverts, 1978) – “On Borrowed Wheels” in my case, as my grandma has lent me her rather boxy Olds Cutlass until I can get my car out of the shop. It’s not a bad car, but it’s two weight classes below Super Lumina, and despite sporting only a four-cylinder engine, its mass-to-power ratio makes it feel like it’s going to leap out from under me every time I feather the gas pedal.