Cover it with gas and set it on fire.

"You see that rain out there? It's God spitting on us trying cleanse the tainted soil."

It has always been my theory that Owensboro is nothing more than a haven for backwoods hillbillies, dipshits, people who cannot drive worth a shit, meth manufacturing, and ne'er-do-wells. It's a one horse town doing it's best to acquire a second equine type thing. This ground is cursed and now I have definitive proof. The solution is simple. Soak the town in gas, set it ablaze and burn it clean. Otherwise, the menace will just take over like a damn plague.

It's amazing that the YPS!! staff emerged from such adversity to become the suaver than suave gents that they are today. We're like champions and shit.

Lest this become a back-patting, ego-inflating kind of festival, let me keep my ADD at bay and get back to the shit at hand.

I knew that there was an evil lurking in the cosmos. I could feel the overall shit factor on the rise without the warmth and charm of herpes. Now I know that evil was knocking at our back door...just waiting to put its boot in our ass and ask "Who's yer daddy?"

Straight from the news beacon of the town:


Toby Keith buys half interest in development
Country singer 'likes Owensboro'
By Keith Lawrence

Add country singer Toby Keith to the list of celebrities with Owensboro connections.
Keith's Red Dirt Kentucky LLC has bought a half interest in the planned Heartland Crossing shopping center at East Parrish Avenue and Byers Avenue for $2 million.

Phil Riney, spokesman for 54 Property Management, which owns the rest of the 65-acre tract that borders the U.S. 60/U.S. 231 bypass, said Keith flew into Owensboro "under the radar" back in February to look at the property.

Keith, who spent the day in town, liked the project, Riney said, and decided to buy half of the development.

"He's a very nice guy," Riney said. "He talked about performing at the Executive Inn years ago. He likes Owensboro."

Keith -- born Toby Keith Covel in Oklahoma 47 years ago -- scored his first hit with 1993's "Should've Been a Cowboy."

He performed at the Executive Inn and signed autographs at the old Disc Jockey store in Towne Square Mall in July 1994. Keith returned to the Big E for performances in 1995 and 2001.
Keith's investments include a chain of restaurants -- Toby Keith's I Love This Bar and Grill.
But Riney said there are no plans for one of the restaurants here.

"He's not going to be involved with the project a whole lot," Riney said. "But he might come in for the grand opening."

Several large retailers are looking at the property, he said, "but with the economy like it is, none of them are pulling the trigger yet."

The center, across the bypass from Highland Pointe, is "ready to move dirt" as soon as retailers begin committing to the project, Riney said.

The site has a traffic count of 42,600 vehicles a day-- 24,900 on the bypass and 17,700 on East Parrish.

The property was once the estate of showman Zack Terrell, who owned Cole Brothers Circus, the nation's second-largest circus during the 1930s and 1940s. Terrell retired to the estate in 1948 and died there in 1954.

Keith, who has sold more than 31 million albums, will be releasing on Aug. 8 a new movie, "Beer for My Horses," named for a song he recorded with Willie Nelson in 2002.
Keith wrote, produced and starred in the movie, according to his Web site.

His current single is "She Never Cried in Front of Me."

While I don't normally make it a point of quoting the Dixie Chicks, but come back, ladies. All is forgiven. I was never particularly fond of your music and generally fond you somewhat annoying, but you were spot on with most of the things that got you in hot water. Oh yeah and one more thing, "FUTK."

Feisty is as feisty does.

Last week was like some traveling version of Maximum Overdrive, where all forms of transportation decided to revolt and more or less tell me to piss off. Well, not all forms since my shoes are still functional. Thank you, Chuck Taylor, for your overwhelming kindness and fine footwear in these times of trials and tribulations.



It all began while the YPS!! staff was out on parole for a ceremonial riding of the bikes. For once, everything seemed to be falling into place. I finally found a gear setting that was, for the most part, working for me, the weather wasn't being a bastard, and after a consultation with my fashion guru, I wasn't wearing all black. All black clothing on a bicycle is typically frowned upon for both day and night rides. During daylight hours, it's like wearing an outfit of hot coals upon the carcass and during the evening, it's like being in stealth mode. Thankfully, my whiter shade of pale skin acts as a reflective device.

We were about three miles into our excursion and what sounded like a firecracker going off on the back tire pretty much stopped things in the bicycle equivalent of tracks. After some quick thinking, I waited behind with the ailing bike while young Master Bloggy pedalled off to get the car and more importantly, the bike rack that cost twice as much as the bike itself. While I waited, I was recognized by some douchebag that went to the same high school. He spoke, I reluctantly spoke back and that was that...until the elderly lady wandered up to the shelter where I was standing and offered me a taco from Taco Bell. Why thank you, kind lady, but how can I eat when my bike is wounded? Besides, that shit has cheese on it and I don't know what you've done to it.









This is what is commonly known as "jacked."








A replacement tube was painstakingly installed by street and cell phone light then boom boom, out went the tire. Profanities were said and thus the ride was cancelled due to bullshit. All I can figure is that the yellow shirt through everything off in the cosmos regardless of what the fashion guru said.

As if that wasn't enough, the vehicular device started giving me shit the following morning. This is where some folks would throw up their hands in disgust but not me. The middle finger was extended and the car was taken into the dealer for some vehicular healing. Of course, there was a part that wasn't in stock and out of the goodness of their heart, they offered a rental ride for me. I had vague recollections of a Dodge Viper sitting on their showroom floor and figured that was the only realistic option. Instead, they sent my ass to Enterprise.

When I got to Enterprise, I saw a suave ass Charger sitting there and immediately thought "Well, it's a Chrysler dealer, so surely they will put me in one of their products..." Oh hell no. The Enterprise lady decided that I was worthy of a Mazda 6. I guess a 7 was just too much for a low-rent bastard such as myself. While signing papers and what not, I was reminded of the episode of Seinfeld where Jerry rents a car and proclaims that he is going to tear the hell out of the car.

My previous rental car experience was more paranoia than hell-raising, because I got stuck with a piece of shit Chevrolet and I was driving from Merrillville, Indiana into Chicago. I was petrified that some clause would somehow force me to buy the shitwagon if it got wrecked. Not to mention not exactly being ready to drive in Chicago traffic. I survived, the car survived and all was well.

So I got in my rental chariot and hit the mean streets of Owensboro. Once I figured out the CD player, things evened out and I was on my way. Everything else is just automotive fluff. Since the car thing was temporarily fixed, I took the opportunity to strap the bike on and take it to the bike doctor for some fixin'.

Not since the early days of going to the local music shop have I felt so out of place. It's like I somehow interrupted a secret society and the snobbish Mr. Cheekbones was less than helpful and had little or no compassion about my ailing bike. I guess not having a personality sort of gives a person an edge or maybe my cheap ass ride wasn't worthy of their over-priced shit. While I didn't really need the attitude, I did need the knowledge so we shall see how this resolves itself. They should be more respectful since I was the chump that bought a $120 bike rack from them.

After that experience, I realized that I was tooling around town in a rental ride and did what comes naturally...I floored it. Okay, so a Mazda isn't exactly a Maserati and to my knowledge, the Nuge didn't mention it in Wango Tango, but what the hell. It's not my car and I can do that kind of tomfoolery without repercussion as long as it falls within the posted speed limit and the smokey bear doesn't have their radar aimed in my general direction.

As the weekend unfolded before me, I devised my evil plot. Rather than slowing down to a crawl for the speed bumps at the workplace, I might even punch it as I danced around the bumps supposedly there to reduce my speed. Not in my rental ride, bitches! It was somewhat liberating even though it is Monday and my ass was coming back to the grind. When I go get lunch, I plan on taking the long way through the lot over a shitpot of speed bumps.

While wandering the halls on the verge of aimlessly, I noticed a photo of Jessica Simpson on a magazine sitting on a table. I felt like she needed a handle bar moustache and I'll be damned if I didn't have a writing utensil in hand. Originally it was going to be a Hitler lip, but her insincere smile prevented that from happening, so now she looks sort of like Tony Iommi or that leather guy from the Village People.

Why I am typing this crapola is a mystery even to me. It's free from me to you to sprinkle on your day like croutons or bacon bits.

Just what in the hell is going on around here (the stunning conclusion)

This is me sitting at a stoplight at approximately 7:45 am on this fine (?) morning. What you cannot tell from the camera phone snapshot, sans zoomability, is that the license plate frame says:

"I'd rather be at a Clay Aiken concert."

Yes. Someone has the absolute audacity to put that kind of vulgar message on their vehicular device so that even someone as blind as a bat like myself can read that shit.

It's just not right, I tell you. It's just not right.

In the days of frontier justice, I think I could have legally rammed the hell out of that back bumper and no court in this land would convict me. Of course, it would have been a wagon in the days of frontier justice and no self-respecting horse would pull a wagon with that kind of gay ass shit attached to it.

It's bad enough that the best custom license plate you can come up says "VOLVO" and then you put this lame plate in an even more lame frame. There is no way that I can be of the same species as these people. It must be some alien race sent to clog traffic and drive cars with names that sound suspiciously close to parts of the poonanny. On the upside, just being around these kind of "people" really inflates my deflated and sagging level of self-esteem.

Thank you, commuter with no imagination for license plates and even less taste in music.

Thank you.

Just what in the hell is going on around here (slight return)

I was meeting and greeting one of the new engineers at the workplace and during the chit-chat, the dude's cell phone commenced to ringing. Being a music geek, I was straining my ears through the room noise to hear what the song was coming from the phone. Whatever it was sounded pretty damn cool.

I listened some more and semi-recognized it.

"Motorhead?"

The guy looked sort of surprised when I recognized it. I raised my own Motorhead necklace, mentioned that I not only have a big ass Motorhead poster on my office wall, a Lemmy action figure on the shelf, but my own phone plays Ace Of Spades when people choose to call my unworthy ass.

Truly a WTF moment and my hat is off to anyone else with Motorhead ringtones. It beats the hell out of hearing "Fly" by Sugar Ray and some of the other horseshit that I've heard coming from a phone.

Just what in the hell is going on around here.

After some residual nausea carrying over from the evening to the morning (and no, to my knowledge, I'm not pregnant), I decided to call in sick today. Fortunately or unfortunately, it's a rare thing for me to play the sick card or even take vacation days. In some way or another, I usually end up paying for it in the long run.

Thankfully, the nausea didn't progress past the uneasiness in the gut where it felt like anything could happen. My paranoia runs high anyway and there are few things in life that I like less than throwing up. In fact, only Toby Keith comes to mind. Most of the morning was spent in a near-comatose state because that is the easiest way to cloak the nausea and if push comes to shove, is there really a cooler way to check out that choking to death on one's own vomit? Well, aside from spontaneous combustion, of course.

Once, I finally cracked myself out of the cocoon of sleep, I looked to the T and V for some entertainment. I knew that daytime programming was even more of a suckfest than evening viewing, but what the hell. I found a pretty cool show about the Mayans on the History Channel and despite my interest in it, I drifted back into sleep. This probably happened because of my interest in it. I suppose it went into the subconscious Tivo for gradual viewing in bits and pieces once I dislodge it from the brain type thing.

Aside from that, most of the day was something of a blur. It's probably better that I don't remember because it would probably just upset me in some form or another. This is precisely what happened when I was flipping channels and saw some video clip by some Camp Rock ensemble. It was a tune called "We Rock." These youngsters are covering the Dio song? Well, I'll be damned. You have my undivided attention, smiling and perky young people, so serve up the rawk with extra gusto.

It quickly became aware to me that it wasn't going to be the Ronnie James Dio tune. Instead, it was a bunch of smiling kids striking poses and delivering a tune steeped in what is commonly known as shit. "We Rock", my ass. It should be called "We Suck" but I guess that's a little too hot to handle for the Disney Channel which is the channel where I apparently stopped in my channel flipping. Quickly realizing that this was going to be gay, I got the hell off of that channel.

I'm not sure when music ended up in the hands of the beautiful people, but I don't like what they're doing to it. They're doing bad things with the instruments and they apparently have no shame whatsoever. I like ugly music made by ugly musicians for ugly people such as myself. That is where it's at. None of that "Shiny Happy People" crapola (although I do like REM) and "Don't Worry, Be Happy." If you're writing a song like that lump o' crap, then you should indeed worry and you have nothing to be happy about. You should fear for your life that someone doesn't beat your ass over it. In fact, if you're writing a song that features a whistle solo, don't do it. It's just bad news*.

To top it all off, I went to the mailbox in hopes of finding my bad ass new Supersuckers shirt and of course, it wasn't there. I guess that $8 in postage and handling that I got fisted over didn't include USPS priority shipping, which I think would clock in around $4 and generally they provide the packing material. But oh hell no. They will serve no fashion before it's time and it seems that it is not yet time.

In place of fine fashion, there was a disturbance in the cosmos known as hellacious heat waiting to greet me. 96 degrees (high of 100, low of 75), wind 00-08 mph from the south, Barometric Pressure of 30.03 on the downswing, Humidity of 48% or in layman's terms, it's hot. In retrospect, this is the blessing in the bullshit salad bowl--I didn't have to get out in the heat and do anything other than mutter a profanity when my suave ass shirt didn't arrive then truck my PJ-clad carcass back into the climate control.

I guess tomorrow will have me back to the grind and this kind of tomfoolery will be replaced with anger, frustration and a deeper level of boredom. I may even shave off my gruff, 2.5 day beard before ZZ Top start calling me for facial hair grooming tips.


*--If you can offer an example of a cool song with a whistle solo in it, I will take it under consideration.

And I Laughed. Out Loud.

First thing this morning, a co-worker I like but rarely see comes into my office. She's giving a training across the hall for the second day in a row and so I immediately begin to give her a hard time. You see, yesterday, the folks in the training were loud as all get out and I found it to be quite annoying. So I said, "Oh good, another loud day across the hall." She laughed and we joked for a minute or so about that and then she asked, with one of those slow, hesitant starts:

"Soooooooo, aren't you getting married?"

And I busted out laughing.


I laughed a loud and hearty laugh. "Uh, no." More laughter. "I haven't even been on a date in 3 or 4 years. WHY would you think I was getting married?"

"Uh, well. I don't know, I guess I have you confused with somebody."

I thanked her for a good laugh to start the day.

THIS Is Sand Dot Com

www.thisissand.com

(super)suck on this right here.

If you are like me, you have days that nearly do you in on the grandest of scales. If you are like me at all, I offer my deepest and sincere heart-felt sympathy because no one should be anything like me. Hell's bells, I shouldn't even be like me, but that's the cross that I have apparently been given to bear. Some days, I do better bearing it (this should lead to a smutty joke, but I haven't got it in me today) than others.

On those days where it feels like my skull is going all double live gonzo and do one one of those Star Warsian supernovas, I rely upon some of the rock and the roll. When it's one of those slit the wrists in a warm bath tub kind of days (averages about 3.5 per week), I go with Joy Division. When I am pissed at the world (the other 3.5 days) and lift the middle fingers aloft (a la today), it could be a variety of things. However today, it's the Supersuckers...


"Cuss the bastards out as you mow 'em down..."
















"...and you can use my dick for a walking stick, as well..."











"It's time to fly the finger,
Yeah, that middle finger brings your point in and drives it home
On my head there's no crown of thorns
This evil scalp has earned his horns
I'm gonna hop on top of your mom before I go"

"If you don't like the Supersuckers, you don't like rock 'n' roll." --Lemmy Kilmister

From Cougar to Mellencamp to Ole Cap ‘merica

“Hey, kids! Get off of my lawn!” That’s where it stands America.

That’s the exact GPS coordinates of the career that was, John “Cougar” Mellencamp. Punch “Hey, kids! Get off of my lawn!” into your little TomTom portable GPS and I promise you that you’ll be taken directly to the current location of JCM, or as I am now going to refer to him: “Ole Cap ‘merica”.

If you’re looking for somebody urging you to make it hurt so good, it’s unlikely you’ll recognize the gentleman you were hoping to find sucking on a chili dog. No, more than likely, you’ll find an aged rebel that’s simmered, boiled and reduced, proclaiming he won’t have a need for his body much longer. He might spit out a few notes of “America, Bad”, or “Hey Kids! Get off of My Lawn”, but his dreams of pink houses have all gone the way of withered dusty rose. Oh, sure, look deep enough and you’ll find the thorns, but who’s got the time? Hell, we’re too busy getting the 6 o’clock news via this newly released CD.

Who needs Andy Rooney when we’ve got Ole Cap ‘merica?

Gone are the days when we celebrated life, doing damn well whatever we wanted. Those demands went up like paper in fire and have been replaced with solemn hymns and anthems.

So, Ole Cap ‘merica…we know people are corrupt beyond repair. We know. We know ‘merica’s swirling the bowl attempting to do a Titanic after being gutted by the icebergs of greed and dishonesty. We know, please stop reminding us. How do we know? We’ve been listening to it in the undercurrent of your songs for decades. I call myself a fan, but it’s nearly getting time to do a Donald Trump and put you out of our misery.

Talk about corruption, and that thangs ain’t the way they used to be? Well, maybe we now know what would have happened to James Dean had he been able to stick around for a few more decades. He wouldn’t have been without cause. He would have a long line of things to rebel against. You’d have his shopping list but good and ready.

Basically, this post is an invitation. Consider it your engraved invite, with all fancy and hard-to-read fonts, to stop pointing out that the sky is falling, stop trying to sell cars and trucks in TV ads. This is your invite to stop mourning ‘merica and to fucking let the goddamn blood on the plow to fucking dry. Get out there and rock!

Remember when you didn’t come right out and say what you felt about the current political state, but you weaved it into the song? Yeah? I doubt it, but if you do, that’s what this fan wants. A pull-out-the-stops, balls-out, full-throttle Un-Ole-Cap-‘merica CD that stops the Henny Penny proclamations and simply…entertains. I double-dawg dare you to put out a record that’s more than close enough to rock n’ roll. Let’s do one that IS rock n’ roll, shall we?

Folk music we got, rock n’ roll, not so much.

Holy shit! It's another quote of the day!

Now that we've got the insincere enthusiasm out of the way, let's get down to business with the quotin'.

"Even Jesus hung out with lepers and such. It's good PR."

Time and Temp

It's been resurrected!!

Good news, good news. Not long after I sent the letter the Time & Temp service was actually shut down. The line was dead for a while and then eventually a recording stated the service had been purchased and to "stay tuned". Stay tuned I did!

Today I called the service and it's actually called "Weather Now" and is quite the informative little recording. Woo hoo!

Check it, yo, for all your Owensboro weather needs. Long live Time & Temp!!

270-685-6111

Speaking of Bike Riding

DON'T BE A STIFF. GET ON YER BIKE AND RIDE!!

Culture swoops down upon Owensboro

The audio post over yonder makes reference to a part played by Gene Hackman in one of the Superman movies. We haven't gone completely insane nor are we making obscure movie references just for kicks. There is actually a method to the madness, but laziness also factors into the voodoo mathematics.

There is what now appears to be an annual event in the sleepy burg of Owensboro called the International Mystery Writers Festival. When I first heard about it, I thought it sounded like an another incredibly silly maneuver to try and coax people to come to the shithole of the Bluegrass State. However, I became interested last year when I heard that Gary Sandy would be performing in the festival.

If you are asking yourself "Who in the blue hell is Gary Sandy?" Well, I am disappointed in you unless you are under the age of 25. At that point, youth will be your excuse. In the late 70s and early 80s, one of the finest shows to ever grace the television dial, WKRP In Cincinnati, was on and Gary Sandy played the program director, Andy Travis, on said show. WKRP is my all-time favorite television show. Period. End of discussion.

For whatever reason, I didn't go last year. I guess it didn't jive with my schedule or maybe I was just being a punk ass motherfucker. I do not know. When it rolled around this year, I had more interest in the shindig, but not really enough to invest in a ticket. Besides, I have spent a shitpot on concert tickets in recent weeks (UFO, Ace Frehley, Tom Waits...) and I didn't need to drop coin on more tickets. Besides, it wasn't exactly clear when Gary Sandy would be performing this year. My mother ended up going to a couple of plays and said they kicked ass. My words, not hers.


One of the bigger draws this year was a book signing by Gene Hackman. Yes, the Gene Hackman (as heard on the YPS!! audio post) and his co-author, Daniel Lenihan, were promoting their recent book, Escape From Andersonville: A Novel of the Civil War. Admittedly, I'm not all that familiar with Mr. Hackman's work (excluding Young Frankenstein, Hoosiers, and the Superman flicks), but I am fairly familiar with the name and legacy. That was enough for a geek like myself to trot downtown and stand in line for an hour.

But the real reason that I wanted to go was to get Gary Sandy to scribble upon the case of my season one WKRP DVD set. Since I wasn't able to partake of one of the plays that he was in, the YPS!! staff snuck down to the cast party at the end of the day to interrupt the man's conversation long enough to accomplish this mission.

If he is back again next year, it is my goal to bust ass and adjust my schedule to see one of his performances. Maybe even get cultured and shit by seeing a play or two. I need to get fitted for opera glasses and rent a tuxedo.

I'm classy like that.

You can play the audio post now to round things out. Fire it up!

Gogglerific

The new bike goggles have arrived!

Rollin', Rollin', Rollin'

And a fine 4th of July to you all, from the wunnerful town of...Owensboro, Kentucky.

PHOTO I
1 The must-have mirror on the trusty Bloggerific Huffy, and a fine ride she is

2 The holster for the LG Chocolate for ease of song choice and phone call answering

3 The speedometer that tells me this sucker has been ridden for approximately 280 miles since mid-November

4 Niagara Falls cap for those post-helmet hair moments (I don't to offend, after-all)

5 Front shocks, thank you Lord

6 Rear suspension, AMEN

7 ASS suspension, WHOA YEAH

8 lockage

9 the "Green Belt" of Owensboro KY

10 one of the many benches along the green belt (most likely made out of recycled Wal-Mart bags, but who knows)

11 CROPS!

12 cell phone tower, thank you Verizon

13 a most inappropriate Bone Machine

PHOTO II
1 some douche bag

2 a lovely little bridge, one of many along the belt that is green

3 other view of bench

4 the bag which contains Red Hots that SOMEbody kept offering to me knowing that I'd go into deep addiction and demand we head straight and buy six cases

5 the trusty steed of the Bone Machine

This is Your Radio Shack Tube Cooler

THIS is your Radio Shack tube cooler sprayed with all new Off! Smooth & Dry. Any questions?

So, yeah. I like to carry a can of Off!, a bottle of Lipton Green Tea and a granola bar with me when I bike. Bone Machine happened to be with me the other evening when I went to put my packed cooler on my back. I heard a short spraying sound and took the backpack off to investigate how big a mess I had inside of my cooler, realizing the tea managed to depress the spray nozzle. Only I found more than just a wet cooler interior. Upon unzipping I found a HOLE MELTED THROUGH THE INNER LAYER OF THE COOLER.

Yes, this same stuff you spray on your FLESH, that gets in your EYES, and gets inhaled into your LUNGS....can apparently melt plastic.

I wouldn't have believed it unless I'd seen it with my own eyes. Perhaps it only works on this certain type of plastic, but still. Yikes.

Even the devil's spawn likes his saltines

This is the funniest shit since the video of Mr. Giznad getting the smackdown.



This is the kind of thing that will fuck up the evil, bad ass image. It's also the kind of thing that makes me snicker.

Oh Canada...

Happy Canada Day to our Canadian brothers and sisters from YPS!!. For the non-Canadians, have a good Tuesday.

In honor of the day, have a big ass slab o' Canada...

Frank Marino & Mahogany Rush


Max Webster


Bonus.

Rush


Loverboy (behold, the headband)


Paul Shaffer


and just when you think that it can't get any worse than Paul Shaffer, it does...


Bonus.