I Think I've Got the Universe Pretty Much Figured Out (Part 1)!

Due to my religious upbringing I wasn't allowed to study science. My parents loved me very much (in spite of my not feeling likewise), but they were a tad overprotective. Wait, does keeping me in a burlap sack until the age of 15 qualify as "overprotective?" I believe it does. And does forcing me to wear gun-mufflers at all times -- just in case a negro-person with a jam box strolled by the compound and exposed me to "soul music" -- qualify as overprotective? I'll just add that to the "yes" column. But nothing displayed my parents' mollycoddling in a clearer light than their approach to home-schooling.

Math, though not strictly forbidden, was limited to basic addition and subtraction. The numbers 5 and 6 were not allowed, nor were any equations that resulted in the number 3. I was not allowed to use any mathematical symbols (e.g. +, -, =, etc) since, according to my mom, "symbols look like gremlins and gremlins are of the devil." And the one time I broached the subject of fractions I got a hot soldering iron shoved in my eye.

History lessons were limited to events of the week previous, and only events that occurred in our backyard. Geography consisted of a map of Belgium, however the names of the cities had been crossed out with a black magic marker (referring to markers as "magic" would have resulted in a soldering iron being shoved in my eye, so we called them "fancy sticks"). The only literature I was exposed to was a stack of TV Guides entirely blacked out with fancy sticks, and Gym Class was just my dad beating me with a leather strap.

But science, of course, was outright verboten.

One could argue that I'd have benefited more from a formal education in a public school (and the social-worker from Child Services argued this quite effectively right before Dad shot him). However my parents did not want to take the risk that I'd be exposed to any ideas, ideologies, or thoughts that would contradict the tenant of our faith: That the Universe was created by a sentient novelty rainbow wig named SPARKLE.

(Our Lord, shown here expanding the consciousness of a minion)

And as crazy as it all seems now, I accepted the way I was raised as entirely normal. It wasn't until I'd left the S.P.A.R.K.L.E. compound, after the mass-suicide left everyone I'd ever known dead in a smelly heap (Reverend Tolson put the cyanide in a dish of Shepard's Pie - little did he know I was terrified beyond reason of Shepard's Pie), that I began to scrutinize my upbringing. Maybe, I'd thought to myself on the long bus-ride from the Cult Deprogramming Center to my new foster home, the Universe had not been willed into existence by a novelty rainbow wig at all. Maybe it had been willed into existence by an entirely different novelty item. Or maybe, JUST MAYBE... it had been the result of some sort of science-business.

As a ward of the state I was entitled to attend the local community college sans charge. It was there that I began my quest for knowledge. I started with remedial courses in the fundamentals, since my education contained obvious holes. As it turns out I was a quick study, because before I knew it, I was applying to PhD programs across the nation. Though the limited curriculum at the community college left me armed with only an associate's degree in jazz-aerobics, I knew that my desire for knowledge would not be sated until I'd conquered one of the most daunting arenas of academia: Quantum Physics.

The rejection letters poured in; Stanford, Harvard, MIT, even Cornell wouldn't have me. Still I remained hopeful, sending out applications to every post-graduate school in the nation until my tenacity finally paid off. I urinated with joy upon receiving the letter of acceptance from the University of Lower Kentucky, hand-written on the back of a humorous cocktail napkin by the Dean of ULK's School of the Sciences himself, Dr. Kojak Pentramadon.

As it turns out, Dr. Pentramadon had not been dissuaded by my undergraduate studies in jazz-aerobics; in fact, it was the very reason he'd accepted me. For Dr. Pentramadon had a very unique approach to unraveling the marvels of wave mechanics, the mysteries of Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, and the wonders of quantum entanglement: Interpretive Dance.

My first day of doctoral pursuit started quite typically; with a dance-off. I was led into a dark chamber where Dr. Pentramadon was doing a variety of stretching exercises the likes of which I'd never seen before. He gave no hint or prelude as to what was in store next -- but when I heard the opening strains of C+C Music Factory, I knew it was time for fight-or-flight.

We dance-battled for the better part of seven hours, neither of us speaking or breaking the stoic expressions on our faces. We communicated through movement, expressed ourselves to the rhythm, and made bold declarations to the beat. Of course I knew I was no match for the good Doctor. He was merely testing the limits of my abilities. But still I was confident that our battle left him impressed. As his many man-servants wiped the sweat from our bodies with terrycloth towels, he turned to me and finally spoke. "You got moves, kid" he said, "and some of 'em ain't half-bad."


To Be Continued

Restaurant Review: El Guapo!

El Guapo Mexican Cantina
7250 Melrose Ave
Hollywood, CA 90046
Date(s) attended: 08/16/05, 10/11/05



El Guapo specializes in sub-El Torito Mexican fare and atrocious service, catering to a clientele of date-rapists. I would not be surprised in the slightest to find a rohypnol-dispenser in the Men’s Room.

In fact the only thing that did surprise me was that I made it out of there at all without getting raped. I’m almost offended, but I suppose there was plenty of easier prey for the Omega Chi Gangbang pledges to savage on the pool table.

Oh, wait; there is no pool table… of course. Why would an establishment marketing itself as a “Mexican Cantina/sports bar” have a pool table? Everyone knows that Mexicans can’t play pool, and pool is not a sport.

The staff at El Guapo moves at a pace normally reserved for glaciers and quadruple-amputees. I waited no less than 17 minutes as the scowling pubescent girls behind the bar contended with four paying customers ordering bottled beer. When I finally received my order I tipped my sociopath barkeep 17 cents; enough to let her know that I didn’t forget to tip, but that she deserved far less than what an illegal farm-worker receives for an hour of backbreaking labor. I hope this life-lesson stays with her until her trust fund runs out, but that’s unlikely. More likely she’ll be so entrenched in therapy from the numerous sexual assaults she received at the hands of El Guapo customers that her atrocious work ethic will matter little.

In summation, you should only patronize El Guapo if you hate your life, or if you’re planning to rape someone.

Holy Shit, DIO Loves Rainbows!

I was but a wee lad, fresh out of juvie. I'd been FALSLEY ACCUSED then subsequently FOUND GUILTY BEYOND A REASONABLE DOUBT of killing, mutilating, and performing UNSPEAKABLE ACTS upon "dozens" of neighborhood house pets. Okay, mostly turtles. And yeah, okay, I did it. But that's not the point of this story now is it? The point of the story is that I was but a wee lad, fresh out of juvie. And my family had decided to throw me a "WELCOME HOME" party.

That's what the banner above the door said anyway. I can't say that I'd felt particularly welcome. Turns out my father had rented my room to some Cuban refugees who were plotting Castro's overthrow from my bunk bead. I hated Castro too, hated that beardy son of a bitch more than God hates yellow devil Chinamen, but I sure as hell wasn't happy about having to sleep on a tarp in the garage for the cause.

Little did I know that this day would turn out to be the BEST DAY OF MY LIFE. Not for the joy of reuniting with my loved ones, nor for the five cans of Sterno my Uncle Tony had given me, but for the same reason May 12, 1983 was the best day in the lives of 10,238 other people as well (at least according to the data in the RIAA vaults). For there beneath the Christmas tree, covered in decaying pine-needles and rotten candy canes, wrapped in the NH UNION LEADER Sunday Funnies was a roughly 12" x 12" rhombus that I instinctually knew was a record album. Vinyl, you know. That was the device of choice in those days for conveying the sound waves of rock, back when people actually cared what their music sounded like. Oh, don't get me started on these new-fangled "CD's" that the kids down at the LaRouche campaign headquarters are always raving about...

I unwrapped that sucker as fast as I could (I wasn't allowed music in the juvie hall after repeated listens to Judas Priest's "SCREAMING FOR VENGEANCE" inspired me to don leather biker apparel and offer to "service" guards from the receiving end of a glory hole I'd burrowed in the particle-board of the recreation center's handball court). The cover was intoxicating: A giant demon, throwing the devil's horns with his left hand, hurling a chain-enshrouded PRIEST into murky ocean depths with his right. THIS was an album. With songs. Songs about Rainbows.

Dio's debut release, "Holy Diver."

Indeed, Ronnie James Dio had done more for rainbow-awareness than anyone in the heavy metal community. Scour the lyrics of the Dio catalog and you'll find no fewer than 12,345,417 mentions of the word "rainbow." But Dio was not the only singer of his era to make rainbows his muse. A nefarious puppet by the name of Kermit the Frog had attempted in vain to decry Dio's rainbow-awareness efforts and take the rainbow crown for himself via the PAUL WILLIAMS-penned aural-sacrilege of "Rainbow Connection."

"Why are there so many songs about rainbows?"

Like we didn't know whom he was addressing with that supposedly hypothetical question? Come on Kermit, I know you were smart enough even then -- after the meth had rotted your cerebral cortex and you were forced to turn tricks for a twenty a pop on that seedy corner of Sesame and Christopher to support a $1000 habit -- to discern the inherent irony of writing a song about rainbows that contains THAT little gem of a line.

So Dio's "Rainbow in the Dark" was a fitting callback, nay a terrifying battle cry:

" There's no sign of the morning coming -- You've been left on your own Like a Rainbow in the Dark"

Holy Diver? More like Holy Shit! With those 19 simple words Dio had not only thrown down the gauntlet, he'd laid that little green bastard to waste. Is it any wonder that the Kermit's "master of puppets" -- Jim Henson -- would die alone, dejected, and riddled with microbes? Nay, Crom is a cruel God, but he is also a just God, and he knows that the only death worthy a dishonored-though-beloved children's entertainer is to be consumed by flesh-eating bacteria.

Take that Kermit, you fuck!

Kermit shown here about to get a hate-pasting from Peter North.

You were a fool for questioning Dio's love of precipitation-spawned spectra. Hell, Dio had even been in a band called Rainbow. With Richie BLACK-more (black being the absence of all color... whoa, check THAT out). The man can shoot rainbows out of his fucking ass. Only thing coming out of YOUR ass is some microbe-riddled child molester's hand.

One could say that Dio loves rainbows more than he loves dragons. One could say it, but then one would be stupid. Because as much as Dio loves Rainbows, Dio REALLY fucking loves dragons:

Dio's paean to dragon-preservation.

I can't blame Dio for loving dragons as much as he does. It's said that Dio can speak to dragons in their native tongue. Oh, dragons can't speak you say? Well they can. Wait -- dragons can't speak because dragons don't exist, you qualify? Okay, maybe not literally. They don't exist in the sense that Don Mattingly exists, or Oprah Winfrey, or Peaches & Herb, or Tony Orlando & Dawn, or the Bay City Rollers, or the drummer for Culture Club, or Lou Gossett Jr., or Chris Davis my third grade arch-nemesis whose pet turtle I'd coveted, stolen, beheaded, and made sweet love to under the moonlight behind the old dilapidated shack where my dad had kept his kiddy porn. But dragons DO exist... in our hearts. In our hearts you ask in disbelief? Yes Bobby, it's true.

Dragons exist in our hearts.

I immediately took Dio's "Holy Diver" to the study where the phonograph was stored. I listened to it no less than 13,459 times in a ROW, backward and forward, each time becoming more enthralled, more transfixed with the rainbow-and-dragon loving goodness contained therein. I paused only to eat Apple Jacks, wash them down with Sterno, and masturbate furiously before resuming my one-man Dio listening party, a party that's never stopped, not to this day, because I knew on THAT day that there would never be a day as good as this, a day when I could listen to the words of a man and know that this man was speaking ABSOLUTE TRUTHS, truths that could not be called to question for he speaks of the one true thing in each of our hearts, besides dragons, that THOUGH YOU MAY CRY OUT FOR MAGIC it will never come, it will never ever come, until you can accept that like dragons we OURSELVES are rainbows, every last one of us rainbows, rainbows who molest turtles and rob liquor stores and cheat on our taxes and cheat on our wives and cheat at Monopoly and construct ornate yet insidious torture machines in our basements which we use to subject transients to the worst five days imaginable before ripping out their eyeballs with claw-hammers and wearing them for earrings as we prance about in plus-sized prom dresses singing "Cradle of Love" by Billy Idol -- true -- but rainbows just the same.