Pics – Page 175 – I Don't Get It

One Week And Counting

One More For The Road

It doesn’t seem like it’s been 22 years since I watched Bette Midler sing adieu to Johnny Carson. It still chokes me up each time. Carson was 66 years old then, and appeared very much an old man to me. Leno is only three years younger than that, and yet seems much younger, still on his A game, going out on top–not that it was his choice to make. It doesn’t make sense to leave us wanting more, but it’s better than waiting for the show to jump the shark.

Jay Leno was 42 (just three years older than Jimmy Fallon will be when he takes the reigns) when he began hosting The Tonight Show. His first show included Billy Crystal, who will be on tonight as well, bringing some levity to the show. I imagine Garth Brooks will later bring a tear to our eyes, as Midler did on Carson’s farewell show.

After the stresses of the day, I look forward to watching Leno’s jovial monologue, to hearing timely jokes that are relevant today, in this moment. I don’t DVR or TIVO or record any shows; I enjoy the feeling of experiencing them in the now. That’s why I enjoy late night television. I like to feel a part of what is happening now. Not yesterday. Not a week ago. I don’t Netflix, I don’t watch entire seasons of shows back-to-back. I am a fan of real time.

I like Leno. I like his kindness, his joy, the way he respects his guests. And no matter what the media wants us to believe, these past few weeks of celebrity testimony to his kindness reveals more than any rag mag headline. I’ll take him any day to Letterman, who may not be the grumpy old man he once once, but still seems confused and less than alert half of the time.

Speaking of relics, did you catch Mickey Rooney in the Leno audience last night? He’s 93 years old, folks. Wow.

Anyway, I’m sure Leno will find a way to spend his free time; on one hobby in particular.

Yep, the omnipresent denim. Evidently, it’s a not a recent predilection. He’s liked denim for years.

Yes, it’s the end of another Tonight Show era. People will cite the Hugh Grant episode as the go-to nostalgia moment, in the way that they always cite the Drew Barrymore episode on Letterman, flashing her pre-pregnancy boobs. But I remember watching the drunken cast of Cheers after their final show. Now that was a memorable night.

So goodbye to Headlines, to Jaywalking, to those awesome convenience store magician skits, to the witty lady in the photo booth, to every visit by animal expert Jarod Miller and his endless stream of animals, none of which ever frightened or intimidated Leno. (I like you, Fallon, but mercy, you are a wuss when it comes to animals…) I can’t count how many times I’ve watched Leno stroke a baby tiger or lion into submission.

Tonight we say farewell to the grace and charm of an unforgettable host. Best of luck in your new endeavors, Mr. Leno. And thanks for all the laughs.

I Still Hear Your Seawaves Crashing

Pastel-painted condos in coastal towns make for some solace when the winter sky is overcast and the weather is dreary. Galveston is no exception.

You can rent a beach house, condo, or hotel room for your stay. Some are swanky and grand, like this one.

But I imagine the bedspread is still unwashed, and the sheets are covered with pubic hair and glitter, as I have found in even the most expensive of hotels. Which is why I HATE hotels. And motels? Eek. Motels are simply something you accrue in Monopoly so that you can later buy hotels. Although I guess if you are a criminal on the lam, then motels are just your style. Or perhaps this leaning tower of Victorian latticework.

Galveston is home to the Pleasure Pier, which has never been pleasurable for us, as it is only open on weekends, and we cannot afford weekend rates anywhere but our own home. Nonetheless, it is a colorful sight against the bleak backdrop of a sunless sky. (Honestly, is this what London feels like? Seattle? Lack of sunlight is a serious buzzkill.)

It is a quirky city, decorated in green, gold, and purple in anticipation of Mardi Gras.

So quirky that the dentist is housed adjacent to the Ben & Jerry’s. Take note: Ron Burgundy’s Scotchy Scotch was there.

So quirky that this home showcased a plant-haired tiki idol, lording over all of Crystal Beach.

And when the sun peeked out from behind the clouds for all of eleven minutes…

…it made for a lovely little shot of Americana.

I Still Hear Your Seawinds Blowing

I’ve been away from WordPress for several days, visiting Galveston. Yes, the very same one about which Glen Campbell sang. February is probably not the choicest month for much of anything, and visiting the coast is no exception. It was miserably cold (not Yankee minus-temperature cold), rainy, and so windy that it shook the walls of the rental condo all night long. I could easily see how being caught in a hurricane would be terrifying. We’ve visited Galveston before, but this time we were witness to much more dilapidation. Beach towns will always be in various stages of construction, as is the nature of weatherworn homes, but it was particulary disheartening to see homes that surely once knew glory, left to slowly decay.

Galveston already has a history of ghosts, but with the constant fog and drizzle surrounding Victorian-era houses, it was even more apparent.

Bright colors can’t mask the ramshackle state of this home.

Some homes were probably not much to begin with.

But among the poverty, were words of hope.

Rodney Likes What He Sees

Molecular (Not G.Q.) Models

I’d Tap That

You know, I was gonna make a crack about Justin Bieber’s dad in the pedophile mustache, but then I remembered that the Bieber is STILL A TEENAGER. Yes, he is. And Papa Bieber is barely old enough to be president. Yes, Jeremy (spoke in class today) Bieber would have been learning what sound farm animals make and how not to wet the bed when this picture was taken. So maybe it’s Bieber’s granddad. Or fun uncle. Or Drunk Uncle.

Either way, it appears they’ve drained the bottle. And nobody likes an empty bottle.

Miller Time

She may look sweet now…

…but cowgirls like to get rowdy.

They like to throw back a few.

Mercy here was bold enough to enter (and win) a jalapeno-eating contest, and the Mickey Gilley lookalike appears only too happy to judge. Now she has some pocket money to put in these cowboy’s change cups.

Or maybe this dude’s more her style, in his Urban Cowboy Chic.

Either way, dancing is on the agenda.

Just don’t take it too far. Bikini bull-riding is no fun when you’re tipsy.

No Low T Here

What is this? Animal House meets the Village People? No, maybe not the Village People. Although they sang “In The Navy,” I doubt these Navy ROTC Midshipmen spun a lot of VP on their turntables. Check them out in their weapons and combat gear. This is where I make an obscure reference to Howard Jones in the way way back (the tall, Aryan one), but perhaps that’s more a Pandoran influence than reality. Anyway, I think we can all agree who the alpha male is here, in this portrait of masculinity. It’s knee socks guy. You know it is. The posture, the marriage of vest and tie and ripped daisy dukes, the sassy confidence. Damn, it feels good to be a gangster. Seriously no Low T here.

Don’t know what “Low T” is? Why the heck not? The TV is riddled with commercials about Low Testosterone, alternating between those hormone replacement commercials, where longhaired women in their sixties confess how happy their husbands are that “my libido is back.” Your grandparents didn’t have to worry about this stuff, right? My grandparents spent more time absorbed in Readers Digests than they did at the corner Walgreen’s, refilling prescriptions for afflictions they were too ignorant to know they had. BECAUSE THEY HADN”T BEEN INVENTED BY BIG PHARMA YET. Complaints were limited to arthritis, goiter, and bursitis. But not today’s society.

Let’s not. Who cares about your Low T? You’re not getting any action regardless, pajama boy. I bet that’s herbal tea in that mug. Yeah, I have heard about the lonesome loser. It’s you. Dang, just when I thought my libido was back, you had to send it away. Curses!

Just think, somewhere out there, hundreds if not thousands of pharmaceutical company employees are getting paid to brainstorm up some fake diseases to prey on our fears and our wallets. Did you know my gums are receding? Perhaps that’s blog-induced bruxism (BIB)? And just like diabetes, there are two categories:

The bruxism (teeth grinding) I have at night while I sleep, wondering what to blog about the next day
The bruxism due to reading blogs that oppose my core beliefs, causing me to clench my jaw in defiance and fight the temptation to respond with a violent outburst or clever barb

You, too, may have BIB. Where’s the pill for that? Oh, they’re working on it?

(Disclaimer: side effects may include sleepiness, nervousness, insomnia, dizziness, nausea, skin rash, headache, diarrhea, upset stomach, loss of appetite, dry mouth, anal leakage and sudden death. But really, isn’t anal leakage as bad as sudden death?)