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Posts tagged “motorcycles

Happy Birthday Tim Curry!!!

TODAY IS THE BIRTHDAY OF MY MOST FAVORITE ACTOR OF ALL TIME….TIM CURRY!!!!

I remember the first time I saw Tim Curry on the big screen. It was in a now defunct movie theater in Windsor, Connecticut with my best friend (yes, Quinn I’m talking about you) who dragged me kicking and screaming to see the movie ANNIE. I remember everyone HATING the character of Rooster but I was absolutely smitten. I loved his voice, the way he moved, his eyes, EVERYTHING about him.

It was just a few years later that I was dragged to another movie theater (yes, Quinn this was you again) in nothing but my bra and panties to see Tim Curry in the ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW. Let me digress for a moment here…
Have you ever had an experience as a kid that forever changed your life? That molded and shaped how you saw the world and yourself in it for years to come? Yes, that was what Tim Curry’s FRANK-N-FURTER character did for me. Since then I’ve made a point to either see or hear everything he’s ever done in his career (even Pennywise the clown. That’s how deep my love goes).

Now, I’m not one to go all gushy when meeting celebrities (my life spent as a somewhat groupie kept my Starstruck meter in check) but if I were to meet Tim Curry in the flesh I’d fucking cum in colors, I shit you not (suck on that sentence, Freshly Pressed). So here’s to you, Tim Curry, for another glorious year with you in it!


New England Dissected

I’m sure I’ve mentioned somewhere in previous posts that I’m a New Englander, but unless you’re from here you can’t really comprehend the significance of that statement. New Englanders wear their citizenship like a badge of honor, defining ourselves not by our individual states but by our geographical region, much the same way someone from Scotland or Ireland would define themselves by their family, or clan.

So to help all of you southern, inland and west coasters out there understand the Clan New England, I’m going to break it down with a metaphorical example. Imagine a Thanksgiving day dinner table, and at one end you have:

MAINE

This is grandpa. He doesn’t do or say much, and he’s been around so long you almost forget he’s there. Oh, and he doesn’t have teeth. Next to him is:

NEW HAMPSHIRE

This is the oldest son, the one who went off all gung-ho to Vietnam and came back disillusioned and pissed. He rides a Harley and defends his right to not pay taxes. He’ll school you on the history of any firearm known to man, whether you ask him to or not. When he’s not at Laconia for bike week he’s at a Knights of Columbus meeting. He earns his money either by being a trucker, mechanic or working construction. And his wife is Asian. Always. Next to him is:

VERMONT

No one gets under New Hampshire’s tough leather skin quite like Vermont. Part hippie poser, part Phish fan, all organic NPR listening Vermont. He’s college educated, usually earning a degree in either history or philosophy, which makes him an expert on EVERYTHING. He’ll chastise you for driving anything other than a Prius and is forever preaching the evils of pop culture. The only reason he owns a television is to watch PBS, and he’s married to a girl from:

CONNECTICUT

The oldest daughter of a respectable family, make no mistake she is Vassar bound. When she’s not out shopping for argyle socks she’s sticking a finger down her throat or sneaking out to heavy metal concerts to bang tattooed pretty boys on motorcycles. I’m guessing. Next to her is:

RHODE ISLAND

He’s the red-headed step child; New England’s own version of Oliver from the Brady Bunch. Our own personal small ball of “why?” And that leads us to the twins. I say twins because this next state is geographically bipolar. Divided by the city of Worcester (pronounced WOOS-tuh), their personalities are as oppositional as any two children could ever be. And that state is:

MASSACHUSETTS

The child west of Worcester is the girl twin. She’s well-adjusted and lacking in any definable accent. She knows what she wants and that is to GET THE HELL OUT OF NEW ENGLAND. The twin east of Worcester is the boy twin, the one who calls you at 2 a.m. to come bail him out of jail because he:

A. Gave a Yankees fan a beat down.
B. Defended his position that Manhattan clam chowder is, by definition, not a chowder.
C. Beat someone who said something disparaging about Aerosmith or Godsmack or Denis Leary.

He’s the guy who doesn’t actually live anywhere; he just floats from couch to couch to couch. He borrows your car without your permission, drinks all your beer and steals your stuff. And even though you know he’s going to sleep with your girlfriend you let him in your house anyway because he’s just so damned awesome.

Just like any family we fight and spat amongst ourselves, but heaven help the punk who steps to one of us, because then he steps to all of us. Whitey Bulger wouldn’t be Whitey Bulger if he were from the midwest. Well, maybe Kansas. That place is like the friggin’ Twilight Zone. So the next time you cross the border into New England, roll down your windows and listen carefully; you just might hear our siren song:


Welcome To My Desktop

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Anyone who knows me knows that I am an extremely restless individual, and that every now and then I’ve got to switch things up. It could be something as easy as driving a different car for a while, or something as epic as painting my bedroom hot pink.

Since I’ve taken on more hours at work, the switching up has been happening at my desk, or more specifically, my desktop, to the amusement of my many co-workers. So for the amusement of you all, I share with you today a gallery of my ever-changing desktop wallpaper.

Ah…yes. The General Lee. My first love.

Mmm…The Metallicar. My present love.

Next we have two pics that are the perfect marriage of humor and music, Tenacious D. and Dethklok. If you don’t know who they are, I suggest hitting the Google immediately. If you don’t like them, well…we can’t be friends.

Now we have the two greatest bands I’ve ever had the good fortune of hanging out with backstage. Lit and Godsmack. Boys and their tattoos. Dreamy.

Why Lemmy? Because Lemmy is God, that’s why.

Next we have two of the greatest influences of my life: Roller Derby and Charles Bukowski. Bukowski touched me deeply on the inside, and Roller Derby smacked the crap out of me on the outside.

Because I can’t download porn.

Next are two pics of my seldom seen daughter, Babygirl. The one above was taken on Halloween when she was two years-old. Her father wanted her to be a princess, but she wanted to be a “basketball boy.” You see who won. (Yes, that is a regulation sized basketball. She was, and still is, very tiny). The one below was taken in our backyard with my nephew. I plan on writing a story just so I can use that pic as a book cover.

Last but not least, for reasons that I cannot begin to comprehend, my all time favorite desktop wallpaper pic ever!!!!!

Doesn’t this pic just say it all?


CITIZENS OF BLOGWORLD – I BESEECH YOU

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My fellow Blogglanders,

I’d like to take a moment to step outside of the humor box and use my blog post today as an opportunity to spread awareness for a cause I truly believe in.

There comes a time in the lives of all bloggers when we find a need to step back and reflect on our journey through the virtual utopia that is Blogworld. Some of us have come here to broaden our horizons and to find inspiration within the photo or travel blogs that pepper the Freshly Pressed page. Many of us find comfort and community amongst the animal lover or mommy blogs of WordPress. Still others use their blog to extract humor from the banality of the workday life and to share their plight with the blog world around them.

But once in a great while there comes a blogger who stands out among the rest- a blogger who effortlessly straddles the line between tragedy and comedy. A blogger who bucks convention with his often times controversial opinions on the validity of religion or the sanctity of marriage or the awesomeness of Star Trek. A blogger who challenges the status quo, strives to enlighten both men and women alike, and who boldly laughs in the face of clowns.

It is this singular blogger who I believe can deliver us all into an era of change and lead us down a path of righteousness and light. That is why I, Hellis of Bloggerland, am asking its citizens for their support and their vote for EDWARD HOTSPUR as champion of the BLOGGER IDOL contest.

“Amongst the weeds of the world, a flower grows…”

CAST YOUR VOTE FOR EDWARD HOTSPUR HERE:


Let’s Get Ready To Rumble!!!

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WEDNESDAY! WEDNESDAY! WEDNESDAY!

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WITNESS THE SPECTACLE THAT IS DESTINED TO BE KNOWN AS THE DUEL OF THE CENTURY! WATCH IN AMAZEMENT AS BLOGWORLDS’ OWN LILY-LADEN LOTHARIO EDWARD HOTSPUR MATCHES WITS WITH THE ENIGMATIC CLOWN PRINCE HIMSELF- LE CLOWN IN A DUEL SO INTENSE IT’S SURE TO MAKE HAMILTON AND BURR LOOK LIKE A SLAP FIGHT!

BUT WAIT…THERE’S MORE!!!

WATCH AS TEAM EDWARD’S OWN LOVELY AND TALENTED GINGERSNAAP OF OHMYGODJUSTDOWHATISAY FAME, FLANKED BY THE VERY HANDSOME EL GUAPO FACE-OFF AGAINST LE CLOWN’S OWN WORDSMITH EXTRODINAIRES MADAME WEEBLES AND SPEAKER 7.

The winning topics:

  • Furries (fetish), suggested by Carrie Rubin (16 votes);
  • Group Sex in Retirement Adult Community, suggested by Rutabaga (10 votes);
  • Protection Identities, suggested by The Ringmistress (9 votes).

The face-offs will be as follow:

  • September 19 – Furries: Ginger Snaap VS Speaker7;
  • September 20 – Protection Identities: El Guapo VS Madame Weebles;
  • September 21 - Group Sex in Retirement Community: Edward VS Le Clown. 

All posts written by Team Iron Gonads of Iron Fire will be published on Le Clown‘s blog; posts from Team Dachshund will be published on Edward‘s blog. Winners will be crowned by the amount of LIKES each post will get. So you, readers, will have the final say as to who’s this blogosphere’s force to be reckoned with.

TICKETS AVAILABLE FOR THE EPIC BATTLE ROYALE AT THE DOOR FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY!!!

THEY’LL SELL YOU A SEAT BUT YOU’LL ONLY NEED THE EDGE….


Happy Blogiversary To Me!

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TODAY IS THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF MY BLOG! TO COMMEMORATE THIS AUSPICIOUS OCCASION I HAVE DECIDED TO RERUN MY VERY FIRST BLOG POST.

PLEASE TO ENJOY…

So yeah, I wrote a book.

I must have been high when I wrote it because there’s no other explanation I can give for my 120,000 word upper YA novel where the only noun I used more than “boner” was “blood.” It goes without saying that I’m self-published. I didn’t even try to submit it traditionally. Can you just imagine the poor agent who gets my query letter?

“My novel, THE GODS OF ASPHALT is complete at 120,000 words and is the first in a series of five books that for some reason I’ve decided to write out-of-order. Each one is told from the point of view of a teenage male protagonist who has exactly zero supernatural powers (unless you consider perpetual erections a superpower). Oh, and it also has Spanish subtitles.”

Yeah.

On the good side, if you’re like me and are just a little too into music, motorcycles and all around badassery this is the book for you. If you’re not, I’m sure Jodi Picoult’s got a blog somewhere. You can find the opening to chapter one at the top of the page under the tab GOA REVIEWS and you can find my book on line at:

SMASHWORDS

AMAZON


The Hotspur Challenge – Manfred Mann Edition

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Resident blogger and uber audiophile Edward Hotspur recently penned (typed? keyed?) a post entitled: AN ANALYSIS AND DISSECTION OF THE UTTERLY STUPID SONG “ALL I WANT TO DO IS MAKE LOVE TO YOU”  in which he deciphers the twisted meaning behind Heart’s atrocious lyrics.

Naturally that got me thinking, and no good ever comes of that. So in the spirit of his blog post I offer up this challenge to the great EH:

What the hell was Manfred Mann trying to say when they released BLINDED BY THE LIGHT? I mean, WTF??? Just how prolific were drugs in the seventies?


The Hellis 100 (91-100)

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Sadly I have reached the end of The Hellis 100 series. What was supposed to be an exercise in creative writing has turned out to be the typical mish-mash of utter nonsense and verbal shenanigans that readers have come to expect in my blog posts. So if you clicked here expecting to find more of the same, I invite you to pull up a chair and prepare to be disappointed because I have written a post that scrapes the bottom of the creativity barrel. That’s right folks, I give you:

THE TOP TEN THINGS YOU WISH YOU NEVER KNEW ABOUT H.E. ELLIS

10. I AM TERRIFIED OF MILK.

I refuse to be in a room with someone who is drinking milk or eating a bowl of cereal (yes, my poor children ate Cheerios dry). I will gag at the sound of someone slurping milk and vomit the instant I see a milk mustache. I do, however, take cream in my coffee. Can’t explain that.

9. I AM A CLOSET GOTH.

Yes, I am a total Gothlette. Or at least I was before Twilight fans corrupted the genre. I’ve seen Marilyn Manson in concert more times than I’ve willingly gone to church; I’ve lived in black eyeliner and torn fishnets and have listened to Bauhaus so many times that the words “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” have lost all meaning. Hell, I even married a Vampire. Man it sucks to grow up.

8. I’M OFTEN TOLD THAT THE SEXIEST THING ABOUT ME IS MY VOICE.

Not sure how I feel about that.

7. I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE TATTOOED MEN.

Blame it on my strict Catholic upbringing or my even stricter Navy father, but there is just something so unbelievably sexy to me about men and their tattoos. For the record I have exactly zero tattoos. I know, I make no sense.

6. I CAN RIDE ROLLERCOASTERS ALL DAY LONG, BUT I WILL THROW UP IF I GO ON KIDDIE RIDES THAT TURN IN A CIRCLE.

5. I AM AL PACINO’S COUSIN.

Somehow…distantly… Al Pacino and I are related. He has no idea I exist. He and my daughter have the same eyes.

4. I DON’T EAT ITALIAN FOOD, SODA OR ANYTHING THAT CONTAINS SUGAR.

Yeah, I’ll admit it. I don’t much like pasta; I abhor anything fizzy and I absolutely DESPISE cookies. Let the lynching begin.

3. I CAN DO AMAZING TRICKS WITH MY TONGUE.

Yeah, it’s not as awesome as it sounds.

2. I CAN COUNT TO TEN IN SEVEN DIFFERENT LANGUAGES.

They are English, French, German, Italian, Korean, Russian and Spanish.

1. I AM A CLOSET BAD MOVIE/TELEVISION JUNKIE.

I never miss an episode of Vampire Diaries (DAMON!) and I’ve seen Freddy Got Fingered so many times I can quote it in my sleep. Don’t you judge me.


Sawyer SPaM

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This seems really odd to say, but today is the birthday I assigned the character of Sawyer in my novel, The Gods of Asphalt. His birthday features prominently in the book so I thought I’d answer some questions I’ve been asked over the past year about his character.

1. Why did you pick April 30th for his birthday?

I knew from the beginning he would wreck a motorcycle on his birthday so I needed it to take place during warm weather– but before his high school graduation. Research revealed that Nebraska high schools let out the first weekend in May so there was my time crunch. I wanted the added insult of him screwing up his life the instant it became his to own. Besides, Sawyer shares his birthday with someone pretty awesome.

2. Why did you pick Sawyer for his name?

Sawyer is sort of a default name. In my real life there is a real River, although he is nothing like the River character (I based the River character on someone elses life entirely). I always knew that I would name the character of the blonde older brother River, so I had to think of a name that was in the same vein for the younger brother. Thus Sawyer was born, and not Steve.

3. Why is Sawyer so tall?

Sawyer is tall because it allows him to be good at basketball. Sawyer needed a way out of his father’s life so I gave him basketball because it offers scholarships as well as being the perfect sport for a kid who lives on the road. Football requires gear, baseball requires a team, track requires good weather but basketball can be played anywhere, anytime with anyone. All you need is a ball.

4. Why do you describe Sawyer looking the way you do?

My kids helped with this one. My son Junior HATES being called pretty when compared to his good-looking, blonde older brother Prince Charming. I described Sawyer to my daughter and she instantly pulled up a television show called BIG TIME RUSH and said, “I think you are describing this guy.” In that moment James Maslow became my vision for Sawyer. I even wrote a little snippet in my book for him. I’m my daughter’s hero for that.

5. Why is Sawyer’s jersey number 13?

Because number 13 belongs to Steve Nash, my all time favorite basketball player.

6. How come Sawyer can sing?

Because I can’t. No, seriously; basketball was what Sawyer was good at, but music was what he loved and what his mother robbed him of.

7. Does Sawyer ever get Sarah?

Hehehehe…..


Happy Birthday Tim Curry!!!

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TODAY IS THE BIRTHDAY OF MY MOST FAVORITE ACTOR OF ALL TIME….TIM CURRY!!!!

I remember the first time I saw Tim Curry on the big screen. It was in a now defunct movie theater in Windsor, Connecticut with my best friend (yes, Quinn I’m talking about you) who dragged me kicking and screaming to see the movie ANNIE. I remember everyone HATING the character of Rooster but I was absolutely smitten. I loved his voice, the way he moved, his eyes, EVERYTHING about him.

It was just a few years later that I was dragged to another movie theater (yes, Quinn this was you again) in nothing but my bra and panties to see Tim Curry in the ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW. Let me digress for a moment here…

 
Have you ever had an experience as a kid that forever changed your life? That molded and shaped how you saw the world and yourself in it for years to come? Yes, that was what Tim Curry’s FRANK-N-FURTER character did for me. Since then I’ve made a point to either see or hear everything he’s ever done in his career (even Pennywise the clown. That’s how deep my love goes).

Now, I’m not one to go all gushy when meeting celebrities (my life spent as a somewhat groupie kept my Starstruck meter in check) but if I were to meet Tim Curry in the flesh I’d fucking cum in colors, I shit you not (suck on that sentence, Freshly Pressed). So here’s to you, Tim Curry, for another glorious year with you in it!

 


Happy Birthday H.R. Nightmare!!!

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Yes ladies and gentlemen, today is the infamous H.R. Nightmare’s birthday. Celebrating H.R.’s birthday is a big deal because anyone who knows him personally cannot believe this man is still alive. The list of things he’s done is crazy enough to fill a book (You need to write one, HR. I’ll help).

In honor of this special occasion I have decided to create a quiz to test how much you know about H.R. Nightmare. Scoring is as follows:

A=1 point

B=2 points

C=3 points

D=4 points

Correct answers when added together will equal HR’s age. Tally your points and then read the answers at the bottom of the post. Now onto…

THE H.R. NIGHTMARE QUIZ!!!

1. HR is of ___________ descent:

A) Romanian

B) Swedish

C) Native American

D) All of the above

2. HR’s bedroom in high school contained:

A) An entire wall covered with names of girls he’d slept with including how many times each

B) A Rickenbacker bass guitar signed by Lemmy Kilmeister

C) A 1972 Triumph Bonneville Chopper motorcycle

D) All of the above

3. HR has earned money as:

A) A fitness model

B) A male escort

C) Underground fight club champ

D) All of the above

4. HR has been arrested for:

A) Riding a motorcycle down the hall of his high school

B) Burning down a barn while making an apple bong

C) Stealing a squad car while drunk at the age of twelve

D) All of the above

5. HR got away with:

A) Smuggling illegal immigrants to and from job sites in box vans

B) Boosting Indy 500 winner Jim Rathmann’s Ferrari as a prank

C) Hitchhiking home from Vegas after stealing and then abandoning his dad’s tractor trailer

D) All of the above

6. HR has been injured by:

A) Being stabbed and shot

B) Severing his hand nearly in two on a table saw

C) Being thrown by his father through the rear windshield of a Ford LTD

D) All of the above

7. HR saved the day when he:

A) Rescued a school bus full of children trapped under downed power lines

B) Was the only EMT willing to drive an ambulance through the ice storm of 2008

C) Rebuilt the entire brake system in a stretch hummer limo in a single night as a gift to competition bound cheerleaders

D) All of the above

8. The stupidest thing HR has ever done:

A) Got a speeding ticket while riding a go-cart built out of a bed frame and lawn tractor

B) Let his stoned buddy “pierce” his ear with a pneumatic staple gun

C) Let H.E. drive his Corvette

D) All of the above

9. The most unbelievable thing about HR is:

A) He was an extra in a major motion picture

B) He does not have a tattoo

C) Trained as an amateur power lifter by Kieran Kidder

D) All of the above

 THE ANSWERS TO THE QUIZ ARE AS FOLLOWS:

D) All of the above

Seriously dude, write a book.


M3 Writer’s Spotlight

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Today I was lucky enough to score a book interview with the one and only Red from Momma’s Money Matters; a blog about, “Money, parenting, blogging, psychology…good advice delivered with a bit of snark and humor.”

In addition to Red being a blogging powerhouse and gracious post host; she managed to do what almost no one in the world has been able to do. Yes, Red convinced me to tell a dirty little secret about myself.

Yikes.


The Hellis 100 (61-70)

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By now most of you have figured out that my three favorite things in life (behind New England sports teams) are music, cars and men. While those three things are fine individually, when I combine them I find myself in trouble. So for the next installment of The Hellis 100 I give you:

THE TOP TEN MUSIC, CARS AND MEN MASH-UPS OF MY LIFE

I’ve decided to divide this list into three categories; accidents ending in hospital transports, angry boyfriend induced recklessness (get used to seeing the letters “HR” here) and sheer stupidity. I’ll start the list with “accidents ending in hospital transports.”

10. HUNG A PINTO IN A TREE

Yes, I really hung a Pinto in a tree while drag racing my boyfriend. But to be honest, it was one of those south Florida scrubby trees so I didn’t catch the epic air you may be thinking I did. I’ll say this for Ford; they did a hell of a job on the ’76 Pinto. That sucker drove away once the Ft. Lauderdale road crews pulled it down. That’s what my boyfriend told me since at the time I was in the hospital getting checked out from the fall I took as I climbed out of the tree. The accident itself didn’t leave a scratch on me. Here’s the song that was playing at the time:

9. PLOWED AN OLDSMOBILE INTO A GUARD RAIL

At first I wasn’t sure if I should include this incident as I wasn’t the one driving, but I decided it qualifies because: A) a boy most DEFINITELY was involved and: B) so was a song; a song that to this day I refuse to listen to while in a car. This highway wipe-out lead to an ER visit and a free pass for my friends and I to screw around in the high school elevator for weeks following. The song involved was:

8. PINNED MYSELF UNDER A KAWASAKI NINJA 750

Ladies, listen up. When your boyfriend tells you that there’s a difference between riding a classic bike and a crotch rocket, listen to him. No matter how bad you want to punch him straight in his cocky face. That’s right, HR. I went there. And while there was no music playing when I dumped this bike, every time I hear this song I think of that night, and remember wondering if the ambulance was going to find me in the middle of nowhere.

Now we’ll move onto “angry boyfriend induced recklessness” with:

7. SUNK A SUZUKI IN A SWAMP

By now you may have noticed that I don’t like admitting when I don’t know how to do something a boy can do; so you can imagine how I handled my boyfriend telling me that men drive stick better than women. For the record, the boyfriend in question wasn’t HR (don’t believe what HR says; I taught him to drive standard). No, this boyfriend was a good ole boy from Tallahassee who just may have been the world’s biggest Hank Williams III fan. Sadly, he was also a Tampa Bay fan (sorry, Dayton). I’ll spare you the gory details of my “didn’t know what he meant by downshift” reaction as I drove straight into the swamp and instead I’ll just say this: I blame Hank.

6. GOT CAUGHT GIVING A HANDJ*B WHILE DRIVING A CARMEN GHIA CONVERTIBLE

Look away, HR. This was before you but after number seven up there. By the time I had the opportunity to drive my then boyfriend Rick’s Carmen Ghia I had learned to drive a standard properly. However, the stick I was handling at the time belonged to his best friend, Raphael. What can I say? Rick pissed me off. I get warm, fuzzy feelings every time I hear this song, as does the Broward County highway patrol; helicopter division.

5. EXPLODED A 4-RUNNER MOTOR INSIDE A TOYOTA CELICA

Alright, so this one may need some explanation. More than anything I love taking big motors and cramming them into small cars (paging Dr. Freud). So for my birthday my then boyfriend (yes, this is you HR) took a Toyota inline six motor normally found in the 4-Runner and dropped it into a 1984 Toyota Celica. For those of you who may not know this equals a whole lot of awesome, considering that my Celica was a rear-wheel drive five speed manual. Talk about a racer’s wet dream. That is until I blew a piston out the side of the engine block. I’ll defer to HR in the comments as to how I managed to do this. I’ll just say he and his boys pissed me off enough to take my anger out while listening to this song. You do the math.

4. STOLE A CORVETTE AND MET A SERIAL KILLER

After my Toyota debacle HR wouldn’t let me near any car he owned, especially his 1978 Silver Anniversary Edition Corvette. It took all of my feminine charms to persuade him to hand over the keys to his beloved Corvette. Alright, the truth is he was passed out cold and I stole them from his back pocket. TomAto, tomato. Needless to say I blew that car to smithereens as well and was offered a ride home from a trucker who I later found out was a wanted murderer. For the whole sordid story, go here. Pantera was the soundtrack to that night:

Now onto “sheer stupidity” with:

3. SPENT THE NIGHT WITH JEB ON A PARTY BUS LOADED WITH HIS STONED WRESTLING BUDDIES AT A MAYHEM CONCERT

Since the statute of limitations has not yet run out on this particular evening, I’ve decided not to tempt the Gods of “dodging a bullet” by declaring how motherf’in awesome that night was. I’ll just state for the record that I was not stoned nor was I driving. What happened to the party bus that night is God’s own personal mystery. I’ll let your imagination wander while you listen to my favorite Godsmack song of all time and the signature song of the evening:

2. BLIND NIGHT ON BALD MOUNTAIN ROAD

Did you ever do something so stupid that even while it was happening you were sure you were going to die? Well I did, and I have assigned that night of stupidity number two on this list. My brother’s best friend Rick (yes, that would be Carmen Ghia Rick) was not yet my boyfriend, but I sure wanted him to be. At the time Rick and my brother lived in Saratoga, New York which is a town with many winding mountain roads including the featured road of the evening, Bald Mountain. So when Rick called from a bar and asked me to drive my drunk ass brother’s car home I jumped at the chance to make time with my future boyfriend.

Then came the dare. The dare to follow Rick home while driving my brother’s Monte Carlo SS.

At 3:00 a.m.

With no headlights.

Yes, the whole “dare” was to see if I could keep up with Rick’s Carmen Ghia while I drove my brother’s Monte Carlo without the headlights on.  Now Bald Mountain is a road that my brother described as knowing “better than the skin of his dick,” so I believed him when he said he’d be able to alert me to every corner and turn before they appeared. This sounded perfectly reasonable, until he passed out five minutes down the mountain. Obviously I made it through the whole winding nightmare with only Rick’s tail lights to guide me and yes, impressed the hell out of him enough to ask me out once we got home. At the time this was my brother’s favorite song, and the memory of that night is one of the happiest and scariest moments of my life.

1. FRANK STALLONE AND THE NEVER ENDING MASH-UP

Now that I am older and wiser (in other words, legally able to be tried as an adult) I make somewhat better choices where music, cars and men are concerned. For instance, I take full advantage of Prince Charming’s fire department scanner to let me know where the police are responding before I pick a road on the other side of town to catch air on. I’ve also found that my taste in music has begun leaning more toward classic than angry rock.

But the biggest change I made was my decision to replace men with cars; namely my 1968 Chevy Impala which I named Frank Stallone with…well, every man out there. Frank’s the perfect man for me; solid, dependable, quiet when I want him to be. Roars when I make him. Most days Frank and I are happy just to tool around town lost in our daydreams. And while his fantasies involve a certain Metallicar, my focus is more on the two boys inside it and my fantasy of being the center of a Jensen Ackles – Jared Padalecki sandwich.

**********

If I were smart I’d end my post here and get to work on the writing I had planned for the weekend, but the phone call I got while writing this post pounded the hell out of my rebellion button. Yup, Jeb just called and told me to pack my shit because we’re off on an adventure to Connecticut to catch LIT in concert. Sadly, minus the party bus. I AM my own worst enemy.



Ex-SPaM

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Well people, it was inevitable. The time has come to do a SPaM post on the infamous HR NIGHTMARE. What makes him infamous, you ask? Namely, that he is the former Mr. H.E. Ellis. *Hey!! My last name isn’t Ellis! And if we’re talking names here, wouldn’t you be the former Nightmare? No pun intended.*

I’ll spare you all the eye pain of attempting to read the near vowel-less spelling of his Transylvanian last name and just refer to him as HR for the remainder of this post.

     HE: So tell me, HR. What does the HR stand for?

HR stands for Human Resources. Every company has a human resources department, and every company has a guy who argues with them about….EVERYTHING. Yeah, I’m that guy. Example? In sports, smacking someone’s ass and saying, “Good game” is acceptable. However…

     HE: Yeah, yeah. Moving on. You, unlike me, are a native New Hampshire-ite. What does being a New Englander mean to you?

It means I have an excuse to drive poorly, own many weapons, pay little taxes and swear without aid of the letter “R.” Oh, and hate the Yankees. I’m a Pissa.

     HE: Can you elaborate on what a “Pissa” is?

The definition of a Pissa is something that is way cool, maybe too cool. Also recognized in Boston and Rhode Island for “amazing.” But here in New Hampsha, it means to take the “Piss” out of something, like when someone is telling a story and you shit all over it before he’s even done. Basically, a ballbuster.

     HE: Your blog entitled, WORDS YOU CAN’T UNSAY reads like a guide to practical joking in the workplace. How did you come up with that idea? 

I figured that as long as I was being written up, I might as well be written about. What I call a morale booster, my boss calls workplace shenanigans. Maybe I ought to send him a link to my blog. On second thought, NO.

     HE: Your shenanigans do not stop at the workplace, quite often you bring them home. What’s it like being only eighteen years older than your oldest son, and how does that impact your ability to lay the “smack down” as you like to say?

I’ve found that a high perch and a sniper style airsoft rifle is a great equalizer. Besides, most people think he’s the dad, so in public this makes for lots of fun.

     HE: In addition to your love for and massive collection of weaponry, what do you have a passion for? (I’m talking about all the motorcycles in the backyard, HR).

I’d like to see HR and HE on a HD. And having seven motorcycles and four mopeds is not a lot, Little Miss antique car collec–

     HE: Ok, ok. Let’s move on to your name. How hard was it growing up in the United States with what is traditionally a girl’s name?

I don’t want to talk about that because I got my ass KICKED as a kid. It’s why I use my middle name, Mikhail. I did learn, however, that it is useful to hold onto that grudge anger until years later when you run into them again. Talk about never saw it coming.

     HE: Alright, how about your last name, and the fact that you are the twenty-fourth in a long line of (gives permission to use name) Vlakfelds.

Now that worked out much better, especially on the little goth girls with daddy issues who all LOVED that I was a descendent of Vlad Tspes. All through high school I had a black lipstick ring around my–

     HE: I know, I know. You know I adapted parts of your life for a character in my novel. How does it feel to be immortalized in print?

You mean besides my very permanent public record? Well that all depends, who am I again?

    HE: I’m not going to tell you. You’ll just have to buy the book and read it.

Well I guess I’ll never know. Wait…I’m not JEB, am I?

     HE: Well I guess you’ll never know.

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For more blogging shenanigans follow HR NIGHTMARE

Return next week for a feature SPaM post with Bubbamix Comics

For your own SPaM email me at heellisgoa@gmail.com


Road SPaM

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This week’s SPaM features an article brought to you from Motorcycle Accident, a site/blog dedicated to public awareness on motorcycle safety as well as debunking the long held stereotype of the biker as “outlaw.” So to all you die-hard bikers and motorcycle enthusiasts out there I bring you Gina from Motorcycle Accident.org!

America’s Perception of Motorcyclists

Motorcycles have been around for decades, and like every other group or culture in life, motorcyclists are judged by society. Society‘s view of bikers has one similarity with all society’s other perceptions of groups/cultures: it is ridiculous.

Perception 1:  All Motorcyclists Are Outlaws

These are the words that describe how people perceive motorcyclists: criminals, gang members, outlaws, and thugs; and the list doesn’t stop there. Sons of Anarchy is only one example of how television and movies depict bikers. The mid-1900’s mark when motorcycle clubs became popular and the foundations for America’s perception of bikers were set. According to a TV Tropes article, the view of a typical motorcyclist is a, “big, burly, grizzled man wearing a leather jacket and riding a Harley.”  Bikers are always thought of as belonging to a gang; supposedly bikers wear their gang colors, “a vest over their jacket that displays their gang name, insignia, and area of operation. Most gangs also have a system of patches that indicate members’ various accomplishments and duties.” Oh, but the ridiculousness doesn’t stop there.

Motorcyclists are thought to be White Supremists who live at the tattoo parlor and love to party, drink, do drugs, and get into bar fights.  Bikers are believed to live nomadic lifestyles, solely supported by their engaging in black market trades, like illegal drugs and weapons.  Part of the perception is also that women are second to men in motorcycle gangs and “are called ‘mamas’” according to the TV Tropes article.

This account, though humorous, isn’t far from the truth.  The truth is that the vast majority of motorcyclists aren’t in gangs, and certainly aren’t criminals, outlaws, or thugs.  In recent years, with the impacts our actions have on the environment becoming more clear and with increases in gas prices, motorcycles, which typically get over 50 miles to the gallon, have become a fuel-efficient and green way to travel; and people of all career types ride them, including doctors and lawyers, whose professions seem to indicate a conservative vehicle choice.

Perception 2:  All Motorcyclists Pack Because They Love to Fight

There’s a perception that motorcyclists don’t just love bar fights, but that their little hearts flutter at the idea of any fight.  As a result, they are always packing just in case an opportunity to create havoc presents itself; “Classic weapons of an outlaw biker include clubs, chains, and knives. Many real-world bikers carry large maglights because legally they are not considered weapons.”  And there are several ways to start a fight with fellow motorcyclists, if one feels so inclined: “The best way to piss off a biker is to wear your own “colors” displaying another gang’s turf as your home city. The ultimate crime, however, is knocking over their motorcycles.”

Perception 3:  All Motorcyclists Love to Wear Cow

Another perception of motorcyclists is that all they wear are leather products; it’s a fashion statement and it makes them look like they’re tough.  People believe that leather is simply part of the motorcycle culture, and it feeds into the  whole “gang” view on motorcyclists.  The truth is, however, that wearing leather is not simply a fashion statement and that motorcyclists do not only wear leather; the point of motorcycle wear is to protect riders from the elements and in the event of an accident.  Riders also wear Cordura, Kevlar, and ballistic nylon because these materials are durable.

So there you have it.  Being a motorcyclist does not entail being in a gang, nor wearing leather, packing a weapon, black market trades, or bar fights.  What is does entail is fuel efficiency and a lessened impact on the environment; oh, and a really cool looking bike.

Gina Williams is a guest post and article writer bringing to the public’s perception on motorcyclists.

Gina also writes articles about motorcycle safety. 

For more SPaM goodness go HERE

Next week’s SPaM features blog darling Megan from VeryNormal!

If you’d like a feature post on SPaM, contact me at heellisgoa@gmail.com

 


New England Dissected

I’m sure I’ve mentioned somewhere in previous posts that I’m a New Englander, but unless you’re from here you can’t really comprehend the significance of that statement. New Englanders wear their citizenship like a badge of honor. We define ourselves not by our individual states but by our geographical region, much the same way someone from Scotland or Ireland would define themselves by their family, or clan. So to help all of you southern, inland and west coasters out there understand the Clan New England I’m going to break it down with a metaphorical example. Imagine a Thanksgiving day dinner table, and at one end you have:

MAINE

This is grandpa. He doesn’t do or say much, and he’s been around so long you almost forget he’s there. Oh, and he doesn’t have teeth. Next to him is:

NEW HAMPSHIRE

This is the oldest son, the one who went off all gung-ho to Vietnam and came back disillusioned and pissed. He rides a Harley and defends his right to not pay taxes. He’ll school you on the history of any firearm known to man, whether you ask him to or not. When he’s not at Laconia for bike week he’s at a Knights of Columbus meeting. He earns his money either by being a trucker, mechanic or working construction. And his wife is Asian. Always. Next to him is:

VERMONT

No one gets under New Hampshire’s tough leather skin quite like Vermont. Part hippie poser, part Phish fan, all organic NPR listening Vermont. He’s college educated, usually earning a degree in either history or philosophy, which makes him an expert on EVERYTHING. He’ll chastise you for driving anything other than a Prius and is forever preaching the evils of pop culture. The only reason he owns a television is to watch PBS, and he’s married to a girl from:

CONNECTICUT

The oldest daughter of a respectable family, make no mistake she is Vassar bound. When she’s not out shopping for argyle socks she’s sticking a finger down her throat or sneaking out to heavy metal concerts to bang tattooed pretty boys on motorcycles. I’m guessing. Next to her is:

RHODE ISLAND

He’s the red-headed step child; New England’s own version of Oliver from the Brady Bunch. Our own personal small ball of “why?” And that leads us to the twins. I say twins because this next state is geographically bipolar. Divided by the city of Worcester (pronounced WOOS-tuh), their personalities are as oppositional as any two children could ever be. And that state is:

MASSACHUSETTS

The child west of Worcester is the girl twin. She’s well-adjusted and lacking in any definable accent. She knows what she wants and that is to GET THE HELL OUT OF NEW ENGLAND. The twin east of Worcester is the boy twin, the one who calls you at 2 a.m. to come bail him out of jail because he either:

A. Gave a Yankees fan a beat down.
B. Defended his position that Manhattan clam chowder is, by definition, not a chowder.
C. Beat someone who said something disparaging about Aerosmith or Godsmack or Denis Leary.

He’s the guy who doesn’t actually live anywhere; he just floats from couch to couch to couch. He borrows your car without your permission, drinks all your beer and steals your stuff. And even though you know he’s going to sleep with your girlfriend you let him in your house anyway because he’s just so damned awesome.

Just like any family we fight and spat amongst ourselves, but heaven help the punk who steps to one of us, because then he steps to all of us. Whitey Bulger wouldn’t be Whitey Bulger if he were from the midwest. Well, maybe Kansas. That place is like the friggin’ Twilight Zone. So the next time you cross the border into New England, roll down your windows and listen carefully; you just might hear our siren song:

*** UPDATE ***

VISIT THE TASTY BRAINRANTS DUDE FOR HIS POST CALLED “THE LEFT COAST DISSECTED”


Death of a Ballerina

One of the perks of having a blog is that no one gets to see you. Recently I’ve discovered that quite a few people think I’m a dude. Nope. I’m a chick.

Don’t feel bad if you were one of those people. I think it’s awesome. My kids call me “Tinkerbell in biker boots” since I’m only 4’11″ but can tune a carburetor. So far I’m liking the perceived testosterone. Now I’ll tell you why.

When I was about eight years-old I had a living, breathing Barbie Doll for a baby sitter. Michelle was thirteen but could easy pull off twenty. Besides being tall, blonde and leggy she was, and to this day still is, the sweetest person I’ve ever met. AND on top of all that she was already well on her way to becoming a prima ballerina.

Michelle’s mother, a former Russian ballerina herself, ran her own dance studio. My broke ass family couldn’t afford lessons so everyday after school Michelle would spend hours teaching me how to dance. It took a while but eventually I got pretty good. By the time I was thirteen all I wanted was to be a ballerina like Michelle. Before she left home for dance school Michelle begged her mother to let me into one of the studio’s dance programs for free, saying I had what it took to be a ballerina like her. Her mother said she’d only let me in after she saw me dance.

So I danced while Michelle and her mother watched. To this day I remember Michelle’s face clearly, smiling as I danced, impressed with the skills she taught me. When I was finished Michelle whispered in my ear that my performance was the best she’d ever seen. Michelle’s mother said something else. “Yes dahling, you are perfectly lovely. Just like a Barbie Doll. Well…not a Barbie doll, you are like one of those dolls your government forces its companies to produce for dark-haired children that no one really wants. Your eyes are too big for your head. Too distracting. Your teets are too big, your ass is too big, everything else…(looks me over)…too small. For these reasons and more, you will never be a dancer.”

Yes, I’m paraphrasing but it was damn close; especially the crack about the eyes. That moment set me on the path the rest of my life would follow. A path that led to motorcycles and tattooed boys and rock music. Then something strange happened. I wrote a book.

A book about motorcycles and tattooed boys and rock music (I did throw a ballerina in there who, now that I think of it, suspiciously resembles Michelle). You know what happened? Instead of a Russian dance instructor my ears rang with the voices of critique group members. “Yes dahling, your writing is perfectly lovely. But unless you throw in a vampire or make your protagonist a teenage girl no one will publish your novel. EVER.”

Once again I had a choice to make; believe in myself and what I knew I wanted to accomplish or cave and write a novel that the “experts” believed the market would accept. The sad truth is that the critique group is right. If I don’t write to what the market wants I won’t get published. No hard feelings, Big Six. I completely understand. But that’s not why I write.

I write because I’ve spent my life surrounded by broke ass kids just like me. And no one writes books for us. Because we’re not the book buying public. Because we’re broke. So yeah, I get it. But I wrote the book anyway. For her. The daughter who looks just like me. The one who refused to be a ballerina for Halloween and demanded to be a pirate instead. And I let her.


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