Over the weekend, we visited quaint little Marble Falls, Texas and dined at http://www.rivercitygrilletx.com/, a lovely restaurant overlooking Lake Marble Falls.
Today we delve into the bowels of one of my former teen mag subscriptions, “Star Hits,” for the 4th Annual Readers’ Poll Results. The cover reveals the top stars of April 1988. Check out who’s included in the Most Promising New Acts.
Duran Squared’s own John Taylor topped the list of most desirables, with those pouty lips and bedroom eyes.
George Michael’s video was voted the 4th best video of 1987. As it turned out, the limelit half of Wham! (Bam, thank you, Sir, may I have another?) actually did NOT want pretty Asian model’s sex. Not remotely. Not even in a filthy public restroom with e-coli-covered stalls.
The lyrics should have given us a clue:
There’s things that you guess and things that you know
There’s boys that you can trust and girls that you don’t
Girls are untrustworthy, huh? Perhaps that should have been included on the Bummer of the Year. Michael Jackson’s comeback was determined to be the biggest bummer. And Iran/Contra was number four??
But the most interesting reads are what the stars themselves chose. Siouxsie Sioux’s most desirable pick was Yul Brynner. The King and I? At least she didn’t have the nerve to list herself, as Andy Fletcher did.
Who knew Belinda was so mad about Fred Astaire, and so rocked by the PTL scandal?(R.I.P. Tammy Faye Bakker.) And The Beastie Boys chose Sssss-Samantha Fox as the BEST female singer? Is that because she sang from her diaphragm so well? I won’t hate on her; naughty girls need love, too.
When I purchase a package of bacon, I expect slabs of dead piggy, all red and white marbled and ready to fry. I do not anticipate random snouts and tails tossed in. In civilized society, that would be unthinkable. If I wanted that, I would simply buy hot dogs. Likewise, when I buy a carton of orange juice, I have the power to decide how much pulp I would like, but I can be certain that strips of rind will not be thrown in for flavor.
So why is it okay for pickle and jalapeno companies to shove in pickle tops and jalapeno tops in my jars of otherwise usable food items? The answer is: IT IS NOT. If Tylenol can’t include razor blades in their bottles of acetaminophen any more, then this should not be permissible as well.
It’s like people who went to I.T.T. who couldn’t find jobs and are now passing out flyers; they’re saying, “Here, throw this away for me.” That’s what these manufacturers are essentially demanding of me, the consumer. Throw your own crap away. Don’t fill up my jar with your rubbish. Why do I have to pay for that?
No one wants to bite into a breakfast taco, filled with a salsa containing pointy jalapeno stems that slit the roof of her mouth. Joe Schmoe doesn’t want to spend his piddly lunch hour, wretching up the half-chewed bite of ham and cheese sandwich containing a hard, impenetrable pickle top. Who can afford to spit out forty cent’s worth of lunch? Not me. Not in THIS recession. Not in this lifetime.
If they can put a man on the moon before I was even birthed, if they can put a lifetime of entertainment on a teensy wittle phone that only requires one to merely wave his hand across in order to answer said overpriced, soon-outdated phone, then they can remedy this. Chop chop!
Hands down, this is the guy. This is the guy you want leaning intimately into you, inviting you to be in cahoots with him, to share the secrets he’s learned on the road.
Forgive me. I was premature in my assumption. THIS is the guy.
Yes, the one with the mutton chops, driving his Rebel Flag-decked out Bandit up to California. Is he sucking a Lemonhead? Is he dipping Skoal? He’s a man of mystery. I just feel a strong sense of… Gary Sandy surrounding him. Yes, that’s it. He must be related to Gary Sandy. You know, Andy Travis from WKRP?
Whoa. Is it hot in here? I’m feeling faint, and it’s not a touch of Johnny Fever. Believe me. Okay, time to refocus. Surely, there’s some trucker in this book who can compete with an aging sitcom star.
Um. No. That is NOT the ticket. Perhaps this young fella?
His head says Yankee, but his body says Confederacy. Who has time for a cocksure whippersnapper with an identity complex? Not me. I haven’t got time for the pain. Okay, let’s spin the wheel. Surely there’s SOMEONE.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHH! Make it stop!
What else is there for a toddler to do in the aftermath of Nazi-ravaged Warsaw, Poland but skate her cares away in the rubble and cess?*
*My best-guess caption
Wayne is caught up in the ambiance that IS a Pennsylvania truck stop. So filled with anticipation is he of this new day, that he could barely push his hat down on his head. And who could blame him? Just walking into this charming lounge would brighten anyone’s day.
Across this great nation of ours, other truckers speedily consume their meals, rejoicing at the prospect of what the road will offer. George can barely contain himself.
Harlan is busting at the seams. As soon as he finishes this cigarette, it’s out of the comfort of this red booth and into the luxury of the big rig.
Young Buck, Jr is positively stoked to be spending the day with Buck, Sr, rolling across the wide open spaces of Wyoming, counting bug corpses as they splatter on the windshield.
Dick shares a glance with Kevin, a glance that conveys what words never could. Finish up your pie there, son, and let’s hit the road. Back to the snow and the relentless wind. We don’t get paid to sit. Well, technically, we DO, but you know what I mean.