Spooky JG2Land Reruns

Well, here it is October 13th, and I can barely muster up the thinnest sliver of enthusiasm for Halloween. Is it that I’m getting older? Is that Halloween has been totally co-opted by the “any excuse to get as drunk as possible” crowd? Is it this diarrhea economy, stressing me out to the point I can’t even enjoy America’s greatest candy-related tradition? Probably a combination of all three. Plus, how could I possibly top last year’s costume?

I was DMC, the all-time great! I bust(ed) the most rhymes in New York state (not to mention most of New Jersey and Connecticut!).

To try and get myself (and you) in the mood for that most ghoulish of days, here’s a handful of extra-spooky JG2Land reruns. Can your eyes, hearts, and spleens withstand the terror of…

…the wretched Grim Reaper costume I assembled as a grumpy adolescent?

…my equally half-assed pumpkin carving skills?

…the field trip I took to bewitching Salem, Mass?

…pictures of the world’s largest garden gnome dressed as a witch?

…an interview with a former Murder Junkie?

…an interview with a former Samhain drummer?

…a review of a horror movie that came out eighty years ago?

Are you scared yet? Bleh, bleh, BLEH! That’s the noise that Dracula makes (when he’s climaxing).

The Cornuzine Interviews: Biff Malibu

Haven’t thrown one of these up in a while. In case you forgot, Cornuzine was a website I used to do. These interviews were the only redeeming part.

His parents gave him the name Fritjof Jacobsen, but in 1994 this jaunty Norwegian chap rechristened himself Biff Malibu (after the porn actor) and formed the flashy hard rock combo Gluecifer with a few of his pals. Biff’s light, saucy vocal delivery pleasantly punctuated the slew of excellent albums Gluecifer released during their eleven year run. In 2003, I got the chance to chat with the bescarfed front man, which was an experience beyond thrilling for this drooling fan boy. Continue reading to discover what the self-described “scheming dildo” has to say about Norwegian history, the Foo Fighters, and that lady from Sleepless In Seattle.

BIFF MALIBU SPEAKS OF ROCK, MEG RYAN

JAMES GREENE, JR: For a Norwegian singer, you have a pretty good handle on the English language. Explain this phenomenon, please.

BIFF MALIBU: Musicality I guess, or maybe more likely the fact that we Scandihoooligans are taught english in school from we are nine ’til we are 18.

JG2: Nine ’til you’re eighteen? What’s the reasoning behind that?

BM: Probably to prime us for an international career in rock and roll, or maybe the fact that Norway is such a small country that we need to know English because no one is willing to learn Norwegian.

JG2: No one wants to learn their native language?

BM: OK, to be serious…Norway has a population of four million people. We speak Norwegian, a language very similar to Swedish and Danish. Norway has for hundreds of years had a strong bond with [the] U.K.; not strange, since we used to be a big shipping nation. Since our country is so small, I guess someone figured out many years ago that it was important to learn foreign language in order to do trade, etc. In the late 1800s, thousands of Norwegians emigrated to [the] U.S.A. I guess the bond with English and American people were strengthened during WWII.

JG2: I see.

BM: Since the war, all kids have been taught English in school. Today, I would say that almost everyone you’ll meet here has English as their second language, but don’t get me wrong; in our daily life we speak and write Norwegian. It’s just that here, and in the other Scandi countries for that matter, the proficiency in English language is very high, especially compared to the bigger euro countries like France or Germany.

JG2: Interesting. We don’t really have a second language here, generally speaking.

BM: For our part in Gluecifer, we have spent so much time abroad…that I guess our English has been maintained very well. I myself am also married to a girl who has an American dad, so I speak English a lot, and also read most books in that language.

JG2: Cool. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t your latest effort Basement Apes debut at #4 on the Billboard charts in Scandanavia? Has this success changed the mighty rock machine that is Gluecifer?

BM: We debuted at #2, actually, and stayed in the top forty for several weeks. It was very cool, as it enabled us to play more cities and to more people here in Norway. It hasn’t really changed the machine though, maybe just given it a little more financial lubrication. That was welcome, of course.

JG2: Didn’t you guys just open for the Foo Fighters? How was that?

BM: Foo Fighters were really nice guys. Thay gave us tons of booze and beer and real red carpet treatment. The show itself was okay – felt a little weird playing a sports arena – but I guess we can get used to that if we have to.

JG2: That’s cool. I touched Dave Grohl’s knee once. So, the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony was last week. Is there any band you think the Hall needs to induct next year? Anyone you think they shouldn’t have inducted this year?

BM: I don’t care too much about this Hall of Fame thing. I’ve been to the museum in Cleveland, and although some of it was pretty cool, I think looking at Kurt Cobain’s sweater or Pete Townshend’s old socks is far away from rock. If you are talking in terms of underrated bands/artists, Roky Erickson is the first name that comes to my mind.

JG2: Good ol’ Roky. You once famously sang that you were sick of watching TV ’cause “they’re always showing Prong.” Do they really show a lot of Prong on TV where you live, or do you just not like Prong? Explain your lyric, please!

BM: When we wrote that song, someone had just dragged me to a Prong show. I disliked it strongly. But, to be honest, I think the main reason for using the word Prong was that I had to rhyme something with “schlong.”

JG2: Got it. When exactly was the year of Manly Living? 1978?

BM: Every year since we started Gluecifer in ‘94 has been a year of manly living.

JG2: How did “Leather Chair” end up in Kate & Leopold?

BM: Beats me. We just got noticed in an e-mail and received a check. Haven’t seen the movie. Is it any good?

JG2: Oh, I have no idea.

BM: Meg Ryan spell a little too much like Xanax for my taste.

JG2: Did you just say Meg Ryan spell a little too much like Xanax? I don’t…

BM: Haven’t you seen that perpetual blissful look on her face?

JG2: Yeah…

BM: It has to be pharmaceuticals!

- Cornuzine.com, 3/19/03

At Least It Wasn’t A Candygram

I have read countless books about Richard Nixon – the man, his presidency, and the effect of both on modern history. This is partly because Richard Nixon was an utterly fascinating protrusion on the American landscape, a bundle of psychosis and insanity that somehow rose to lead the free world during its most turbulent years. The other reason I have pored over so many Nixon tomes is to try and figure out what this man did to spurn the ire of my father. You see, before Watergate, before the Saturday Night Massacre, before the nightmarish hellscape of the secret tapes, before it was apparent Richard Nixon was the worst possible thing for America, Tricky Dick did something so unconscionable in my father’s eyes that Dad fired off a telegram to the President containing the line, “You should be shot.”

Now, every president regardless of popularity has done something to piss someone off, especially Richard Nixon. It’s actually kind of amazing Nixon managed to avoid getting shot and lived to the ripe old age of 81 (especially when he was prone to unguarded midnight trips to the Lincoln Memorial in his crazier moments). What’s even more amazing, I feel, is the fact my father cannot remember what RN event inspired his damning missive. You’d think threatening the president via telegram would rank right up there in the memory banks with child’s birth or wedding day. Alas, Pop has no clue today why he trotted on down to Western Union and scribbled out his diatribe. I want to blame early onset Alzheimer’s, but that can’t be the case. My old man remembers lots of other stuff, like his parents’ names and his wife’s name and the last movie he saw in the theater (Kramer vs. Kramer, in 1979; Pop is a bit of a homebody).

My mother doesn’t remember either, so the task of figuring it all out falls to me. What could a pre-Watergate Nixon have done that would have been unfavorable to a hard line Republican garbage can salesman from the western side of Connecticut? The only thing I can narrow it down to is Nixon’s early 1970s wage freeze; according to Wikipedia, this freeze lasted only 90 days and was only mandatory for corporations. As far as I know, my father did not own a corporation in the early 1970s. Still, this was the largest price control in America since World War II, and my father is borderline obsessed with how much shit costs. Every time we discuss travel via car, he insists on mentioning the exact amount of gas involved. Nearly every distance is deemed a waste (unless beer or sex is involved). I suppose this is why Dad hasn’t been to the movies since the year I was born.

Nearly as perplexing is why my father chose to communicate his anger through telegram and not, oh, I don’t know, a regular letter. As an unwavering member of Generation Y, I have never sent, received, or even seen a telegram anywhere in my life. Historical documents and texts (Wikipedia again) lead me to believe telegrams were a faster means of communication than quill and paper. I’m guessing it was probably also cheaper than a phone call, which back then would have counted as long distance (verboten for penny-pinching Father). Plus, you can’t put a telegram on hold or hang up on it. There was a greater chance Nixon would have to deal with it himself. So that makes sense (although a handwritten letter wouldn’t include all those jarring, tone-wrecking “STOPS”). Of course, the image of any post-Garfield president going out to check his own mail or answer his own door seems absolutely ludicrous. I’m sure Carter didn’t even open letters from people he knew while in office.

As you would expect, my father didn’t exactly get away with telling the president he should be shot. The Secret Service and/or CIA Spooks tapped my parents’ phone for a while after the telegram was sent. Mom said you could hear a weird clicking on the line, a clicking that is apparently synonymous with government agents listening to your every conversation. Sadly, my father was not a crazy and depressed Samuel Byck type. He had no grand scheme to obliterate Richard Nixon from the face of the Earth. Dad was just a garbage can salesman from Connecticut who felt like registering his dissatisfaction with our country’s top banana. Rather than go to a bar to complain with the boys, he sent a violent telegram. America takes all kinds.

Again I will stress the insanity of Tricky Dick not getting capped at any point during his presidency; around this same time as Pop’s telegram, the aforementioned Sam Byck had shown up at the White House in a Santa Claus suit to protest his denial of a small business loan. Byck also sent various strange tape recordings to public figures like Jonas Salk and Leonard Bernstein. Strangely, the Feds decided this guy wasn’t a threat and they stopped following him (ostensibly to spy on my father and unlock the secrets of my mother’s meatloaf casserole). In February of 1974, Samuel Byck attempted to hijack a plane at Baltimore/Washington International Airport with the intention of flying it into the White House to incinerate Richard Nixon. The only thing that stopped this would-be air terrorist was his own impatience – he shot both the pilot and the copilot of Delta Flight 523 after they informed him the plane could not take off before the removal of the wheel blocks. His plan foiled, Byck shot himself minutes later, securing his legacy as a complete (albeit troubled) idiot.

Naturally I’m glad Richard Nixon did not inspire that kind of furor in my father, yet I’m also sort of disappointed there was never any real climax to this story. At no point did the Men in Black drive my father off the road or confront him in a hardware store or toilet paper his house. It was just phone tapping, if that (I remember using those landlines when I was a kid; sometimes it sounded like there were grasshoppers in the damn receiver). The only interesting twist to this tale is the identity of one of my father’s potential garbage can clients in the spring of 1972: the Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C. The organization decided to pass on the unique brand of receptacle my father was pimping, and any link between G. Gordon Liddy and the man who birthed me was forever severed.

That’s a good thing, I guess, but it doesn’t do much for crescendo when I’m recounting this entire strange tale at cocktail parties. From now on, I should tell people my dad was G. Gordon Liddy in disguise and Watergate was an elaborate plot to take Nixon down after the wage freeze. That’s about as believable as threatening to kill the president via telegram, right?

Clark Kent Majored In Sucking

Once upon a time (1988), there was a very lousy syndicated television version of “Superboy” that explored what Clark Kent’s life was like during college. It was kind of like Adam West’s “Batman,” except they weren’t being dumb on purpose. Here, take a look:

Yowza. I like Sherman Howard’s take on Lex Luthor, but everything else is…well, you saw it.

“Superboy,” despite a slew of troubles behind the scenes, managed to last four unimpressive seasons before slipping off into the same vortex that ate “The Munsters Today” and “Out Of This World” (a.k.a. the show where Burt Reynolds voiced a talking intergalactic diamond). I remember watching this bastardized “Kid Of Steel” series as a child, and I was not a fan. I certainly would have never given “Superboy” another thought had I not learned just yesterday that the show was partially shot on location at my alma mater, the University of Central Florida.

UCF stood in for “Shuster University” in the town of “Siegelville,” Florida (real subtle there, right?). I didn’t even know Clark Kent went to college. I always thought he went straight from Kansas to Metropolis after high school (as evidenced by another piece of writing I posted on here not too long ago). I guess it would be stupid to assume the Daily Planet just hands over reporting gigs to people without degrees. Then again, no one ever noticed how much Clark looked like Superman, not even Lois, who I’m pretty sure boinked ‘em both at various times when she was still out of the loop.* Maybe the folks running the DP are just straight-up stupid.

Hey, I recognize that blank wall! That’s Room 212 in the Math & Physics building!

But I digress. Had I known they filmed one of the worst TV shows of all-time in and around the area where I was studying to become a failed journalist, I would have been way more excited to roll up to campus in the morning. To think – I probably walked the same sidewalks as Gerard Christopher and John Haymes Newton! Pissed in the same urinals as George Chakiris! Perhaps even rested by weary bones on the very bench Gilbert Gottfried utilized when he guested starred as “Nick Knack” in Season 2! I’m getting woozy just thinking about it.

Forget Daunte Culpepper and Cheryl Hines. Next time someone asks me about where I went to college, I’m bringing “Superboy” up. I almost, ALMOST, want to run out and get the Season 1 DVD to see if I can recognize anything (the other seasons haven’t been released yet due to some crazy legal bullstuff). A couple shots in that YouTube clip up top looked familiar, but I’d have to cross reference them with a late eighties Orlando travel brochure.

“You’ll never get funding for a student radio station, Superboy! I’ve given it all to the football program!”

Related story: a friend of a friend once got Baker Acted by his own mother and ended up in a nut house. He started talking to some guy there about comic books, and then all of a sudden this guy reveals he’s Scott James Wells, a.k.a. Lex Luthor from “Superboy’s” first season. Not sure what he was doing in the loony bin. I’m not even sure if my friend of a friend was telling the truth about this alleged encounter. The only evidence supporting the Scott J. Wells nut house story is the fact that Wells never really did anything after “Superboy,” and his Wiki mentions something about rehab. So if this is all baloney, don’t come after me. I’m just passing along unsubstantiated gossip that I never claimed was absolute truth. Back off, SJ Wells supporters!

* – I could be totally wrong about this. Nerds, rise up and correct me.

The Taco Bell Dog: 1994-2009

Gidget, the adorable chihuahua who was granted the voice of the guy from “Reno 911!” in the late nineties to help sell various Taco Bell products, died Tuesday at the ripe old age of fifteen. To think, most humans are just starting to really enjoy the pleasures of masturbation and driving with a learner’s permit at that age. For dogs, fifteen is like having one foot in the grave. Did Gidget even remember making all those Taco Bell ads? I doubt it.

I worked at Taco Bell when Gidget was introduced, and I can’t even tell you how many middle aged women and children she delighted by pretending to demand gorditas in Spanish. A certain segment of the American population just went nuts for that dog. One of the most frenzied nights of my entire TB career was the eve we rolled out the talking Gidget plushies. My mom still has hers, encased in glass behind a myriad of high security bank vault lasers.

I too have held on to my Gidget paraphernalia, including a work shirt emblazoned with her disembodied head and a word bubble featuring that hilarious catchphrase, “Yo quiero Taco Bell!” I guess there are just too many memories attached to let it go. Sigh. Those really were simpler times back then. Animals didn’t have to be all ironic on YouTube to make us happy. All they had to do was be cute, semi-bilingual, and make witty remarks about Godzilla from time to time. God, how I wish I could turn back the clock.

Rest in peace, Gidget. Say hi to Morris the Cat for me.

The Offspring Are Trapped In 2005

At least that’s what their new video, “Stuff Is Messed Up,” suggests:

Now, see, this is a new video, but the song itself is over a year old. “Stuff” was first heard on 2008’s Rise and Fall, Rage and Grace. Why is the video just coming out now? Who knows. I guess in the wake of Green Day’s 21st Century Breakdown, the Offspring just wanna remind people they exist.

And while “Stuff Is Messed Up” (an inexplicable self-censor of the real lyric, “Shit Is Fucked Up”) dates back to last June, the video makes you believe the damn thing came out half a decade ago. Lynndie England and “Pimp My Ride” jokes? Really, Offspring? Yeah, that shit was fucked up, but the fact you’re still talking about it is even more fucked up.

Sigh. I remember when “Keep ‘Em Separated” came out in 1994. Much like Beck’s “Loser,” I thought it was a joke song some radio deejay had created. Nowadays, I wish I had been right.

A Clarification About My Father’s Gambling

Remember the Super Bowl post I wrote earlier this year that detailed the epic $10,000 bet my father placed on the Pittsburg Steelers in Super Bowl XIII? Well, it turns out I got the story wrong. During a recent visit with JG1, the old coot said the figure in question was a mere $3,000. He also pointed out that he actually lost that bet. Seems Pop put his money on the Cowboys for that game. Damn you, Terry Bradshaw.

Before you start feeling sorry for poor Papa Jimbo, please take into consideration the fact he netted an alleged $14,000 from a bet placed on a Monday Night game that took place a few weeks before the Super Bowl in question. Again, that’s not a typo – that’s FOURTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. One Four Comma Zero Zero Zero. This should tell you A) what kind of tax bracket JG1 was in at the time and B) why he’s on such a strict budget today (I don’t think he’s purchased anything “luxury items” outside beer, KFC, and cigarettes for years).

In fact, when JG1 was relaying this tall tale to me, he mentioned that when he met up with his bookie to collect after the Super Bowl, the bookie told him he threw an extra hundred dollars into his winnings.

“Why did you do that?” my father asked.

“Because you just had a son,” the bookie replied. “And at the rate you’re going, he’s never gonna make it to college.”

And here we are now. Not only did I make to college, I graduated, too! My father isn’t broke, the mob isn’t after him, and Terry Bradshaw currently looks like the monster in Young Frankenstein. I’d say all is right with the world.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I do not vouch for the complete accuracy of anything my father tells me. This is the same man who once claimed to have simultaneously been Elvis Presley’s stunt double and one of the Everly Brothers.

About That Cracked Article

You know the one I’m talking about. RE: the awkward slavery joke – not defending it because I didn’t write it. That’s what happens when you’re a writer sometimes. Your bosses take your material and add awkward slavery jokes. I’m serious! Read the original script for “Roots” and you’ll see what I mean. That show was originally about a woman who owned a flower shop!

While I’m bitching here, there’s also a hard grammar fumble in the same paragraph as the slave joke that I had nothing to do with. My protests over this died in committee, but hey, it’s not the end of the world. I mean, it’s just one article. If I get shot tomorrow, I’ll still be mostly remembered for my role as “Boy Scout #2″ on “Mr. Belvedere.” Bob Uecker was like a second father to me.

In other news, Michael Jackson’s secret girlfriend was an industrial refrigerator and his children are holograms!

Highlights From My 8th Grade Field Trip To Washington, D.C.

- almost missing the bus the morning we left because I was too caught up playing “Pac-Man” or “Dig Dug” with Adam Boyaji in the school cafeteria; yes, we were such spoiled rich assholes that sometimes our school brought in big-time arcade games for us to play

- listening to lots of MC Hammer on my Walkman during the bus ride

- listening to lots of “Weird Al” on my Walkman during the bus ride; at one point, Lauren Lee Rae grabbed my headphones to see what I was jammin’ to; thankfully, she mistook Al’s “Isle Thing” (a parody of Tone Lōc’s “Wild Thing”) for the genuine article and I was saved from mockery

- a bunch of kids playing that crazy game with the folded up piece of paper that supposedly predicts your future (“You’re gonna live in a shack in Mississippi with Amanda Boyce and fifteen wild pigs!”)

- stopping at the Vince Lombardi Memorial Truck Stop in New Jersey and smelling the most puke I’d ever smelled anywhere

- Bill Rapp getting in trouble at a mall in Delaware for buying a pellet gun

- Jim Raymond NOT getting in trouble for buying a lighter somewhere that was actually one of those super powerful joy buzzers and tricking every single person on the bus into getting shocked

- some kid on the other bus supposedly shoving a Coke bottle up his ass in a misguided attempt to impress a girl

- Pete Rappoccio violently enforcing the five minute shower rule we instituted in our hotel room

- Jim Raymond covering me with tissues and toilet paper one night while I slept

- our official Washington, D.C. tour guide, who looked and acted just like one of the Beastie Boys from the “Sabotage” video

- our typing teacher getting into trouble for drinking wine at the hotel one night (this may have actually happened the year before, but I’m including it here because it was pretty much THE scandal of our day)

- World War III breaking out in our room after Jim Raymond grabbed my camera and started wasting film; our chaperon eventually had to come in and brake things up after he heard Josh Wyatt pounding my head against the wall

- having to do these goofy skits in front of everyone during our final continental breakfast at the hotel; I remember this because the big joke in our group’s skit was this epic burp I was suppose to unleash at a certain point; of course, when the time came, I choked, so instead I just did some kind of dumb Chevy Chase pratfall

- getting together with the female portion of our group in their room to discuss the aforementioned skit and being too nervous to really say anything (these girls were in their PAJAMAS still…OMG FTW FML LBJ)

- one of the buses breaking down on the way home and having to spend like twelve hours on the side of the road somewhere in Maryland; lots of mindless chanting ensued, and I believe at one point Jim Rumpf actually grabbed the bus driver’s microphone and tried to incite some kind of riot

Instant Ed McMahon Tribute

STEP 1: Hit “PLAY” on the following YouTube video. Wait a second to get past the requisite bullshit homemade introduction.

STEP 2: Stare at the photos below.

STEP 3: Read the following hilarious tidbit about Ed McMahon from my life.

In middle school, I knew this kid named Pete Rappoccio. Pete’s younger brother, whose name I cannot remember (Ralph? Tim?), was an especially confused little boy. Case in point – the kid actually thought Ed McMahon and Santa Claus were one in the same. Like, he was under the impression Santa took off his beard and hung out with Johnny Carson all year after Christmas.

One day I called Pete up for some reason, and in the background I could hear the other Rappoccio brother freaking out.

“What the hell is his problem?” I asked.

“Oh,” Pete casually replied. “We got one of those Publisher’s Clearing House things in the mail, and dumb-ass thinks Santa Claus sent him a personal letter.”

That made me LOL pretty hard.

Rest in peace, Ed McMahon. To at least one American child, you were a beacon of love and hope (and presents).

In case anyone gives a rat’s ass, both Rappoccio brothers currently work in the golf industry.

P.S. – Yes, Ed McMahon is dead. Miss him. Miss him.