Month: October 2011

Hey, Joe, whaddya know?

How to run for Congress, apparently.

Copyright laws on the Joe the Plumber brand prohibit me from using an image of him, so here's basic cable television star Michael Chiklis.

Yes, Samuel Wurzelbacher, who played the part of “Joe the Plumber” on the 2008 sitcom “The Presidential Election,” has filed papers to run as a Republican in Ohio’s Ninth Congressional District.

In the interest of capitalizing on the “Name, followed by the definite article ‘the,’ followed by an occupation” (it’s kind of fun like a Mad Lib, isn’t it?), I have a slate of candidates of my own.

Mack the Knife – Tough on crime, but his foreign policy skills leave something to be desired. “Nice country you have here, Mr. Karzai. Be a shame if something happened to it.”

Knows where Jimmy Hoffa is buried.

Bob the Builder – Solid work ethic, although his union ties may be a problem with conservative voters.

Jimmy the Greek – Postive: He’ll lay you odds on a matchup between the U.S. military and any other country in the world. Negative: He’s dead.

Pro-recycling.

Oscar the Grouch – No wife. No kids. No nonsense. Also, probably the greenest candidate around.

Alice the Camel – For when those meetings of the House Subcommittee on Whether to Charge by Column Inch or by the Word get so dull they need a musical pick-me-up that only a Cub Scout singalong can produce.

Darth Plageuis the Wise – Not sure, but I think Dick Cheney killed this guy in his sleep.

Ack!

Bill the Cat – Hairballs on the floor of the U.S. House. It would probably compliment the manure that has been collecting there since time immemorial.

I’m sure there are others, but my brain is shot. Feel free to supply them yourselves in the handy-dandy comments section below. And subscribe if you haven’t already.

Booooooooooo!

Suggestive Halloween costumes that may never see the light of day…

1. Sexy IRS agent. Spoiler alert…you’re gonna get screwed!

2. Naughty Wet Nurse. Not as fun as it sounds.

3. Oedipus Rex. Complete with temporary “I Heart Mom” tattoo, “MILF Hunter” T-shirt and Jules’ “Bad Motherf—er” wallet from Pulp Fiction. “Hey, Josephus!”

4. Hunky Bassoonist. It could happen.

5. Slutty Philatelist. Anyone wanna play Post Office?

Performance anxiety…

Thursday night I got up on a stage for the first time in years. It wasn’t great, but it didn’t suck and I was invited back to sing with Swingstreet, the group that so graciously allowed me to crash the stage tonight during the pre-Festival of the Horse activities in downtown Georgetown.

Truly, it was fun, and it’s something I wish I could do on a regular basis. If you have never had the pleasure of performing music, dance or theatre live on stage, it’s hard to explain.

Once upon a time when I was a music student at Morehead State University, I had a work-study position as stage manager of the music department recital hall. Most of my time was spent backstage, listening to performances given by faculty members and my classmates. As a result, I never did spend a lot of time in the audience.

On the occasions when I was the one on stage, it was exhilarating. Naturally, my first time performing solo, I was scared shitless. I can’t remember what piece of music I played. I’m hoping one of the founding members of the Tom Musgrave Bassooniacs or my April 1994 spread in Tiger Beat will have that information.

Being my first time, as with the first time performing other pleasurable activities, I sucked. I hit probably 97 percent of the right notes, though in my defense I had only been playing bassoon for about two years, and that instrument is a bastard to master. I’m sure the tempo was off and, the bassoon being what it is, intonation was not always the best. But I got through it and lived to do it again. And, again, like that other pleasurable activity, the more you do it, the better you get at it. The fear is still there, but over time it becomes your friend; the thing that propels your ass out on stage to collect the cheers, applause, and, in some cases, women’s underwear by the truckload.

(That was a memorable senior recital. I’m quite sure the high point was my cadenza in the first movement of W.A. Mozart’s Concerton for Bassoon. I bought my cadenza from an out-of-work musicologist who needed money to support his Tylenol PM habit. He promised it would be a panty-peeler. Who knew?)

(True story. I hate Timothy McVeigh. For the obvious reasons, of course, but also because my senior recital date was April 19, 1995. How do I remember this? Because that’s the same day McVeigh chose to turn Oklahoma City’s Alfred Murrah Building into rubble. On the day of my recital. Thanks a lot, dick.)

(This signals the end of the parenthetic thoughts.)

So, to this day, I disdain being in an audience. I’d much rather be up on stage. And I think anyone in the entertainment industry, from operatic tenors to pole dancers, will agree that the best seat in the house is standing center stage with a spotlight following your every move.

Unless you’re name is John Wilkes Booth, you just shot Abraham Lincoln and jumped to the stage, delivering your one-line Latin soliloquoy. Then the spotlight just sucks.