the stephenhead

Gin Machine Revisited By Request

My first gig as a one man David Bowie Rock'n'Roll Chameleon Tribute Band went extremely badly.
Obviously, "being" David Bowie Rock'n'Roll Chameleon on stage demands not only an extensive knowledge of the maestro's highly diverse oeuvre, but also requires almost superhuman talents as a quick-change artiste; and looking back on the show, I think this is where it all went wrong for me.
I began modestly - wearing a long-haired wig with a tight-fitting sailor shirt and bell-bottom trousers, an acoustic guitar slung sullenly around my shoulders. Thus attired, I performed a passable version of Life On Mars.
As the last chord echoed around the auditorium, I rushed backstage, slipped into a pair of diamanté underpants, wedged a wah-wah pedal in my armpit, slapped a streak of red and blue paint on my face, then ran out again and did Ziggy Stardust.
"Ziggy played guitaaaaaaaar!" I wailed, and ran back to the dressing room - desperately out of breath by now with a restless crowd waiting - hustled myself into loud checked shirt and hip huggers, wiped the crap off my face and ran back out again for a Young Americans duet with a voice box: so tired I could barely stand there and croak, never mind sing falsetto.
Somehow I managed to get through it, but then the horrible realization dawned that the next number was a bloody medley!
Rebel Rebel, Golden Years, Boys Keep Swinging, and finally Ashes To Ashes in full clown costume and make-up.
Needless, to say it was a total disaster.
I was still in the middle of singing "hot tramp I love you so" - while playing a synthesizer with one hand, drums with my feet, and strumming with my other hand as I was trying to fit my clown shoes on over my Thin White Duke socks and pulling my novelty Diamond Dogs thong off at the same time - when my mind went blank. I forgot the lyrics to the songs, tripped over my thong, knocked the microphone stand over and fell into the orchestra pit.
Someone yelled "Ground control to Major Tom!" and that was the end of it.

stephenb 14:53 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Underground

Transport Authorities are raising the subway fare here in Boston - so that they can fund a study investigating why the service is so bad. At least, I hope that is what they will use the money for.
I take the subway every morning, but most of my journey is actually above ground. After two stops the train departs the tunnels and transforms itself into an old-fashioned tram; which is rather charming in it's way. However....
Traveling from my station, Copley Place, to my destination on the so-called "B-Line" - about a mile away - takes roughly twenty minutes at most when the train is allowed a straight run, which, alas, is seldom. Without warning, the train often stops after ten minutes and everybody is forced to disembark because it has suddenly been converted into an express - or what I call "the ghost train", since there are no passengers on it anymore, just the ghostly driver fading into the distance as we stand neglected and forlorn on the open-air platform, shivering or boiling, depending on the season.
Two trains to travel about a mile on a single track, and now I will paying extra for the privilege. Makes you weep.

stephenb 09:41 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Yard work

There is the green, green grass of home. But then there is also the labor-intensive, labor-intensive lawnmower of home. And the wearisome, wearisome weed-whacker of home. And the horrible, horrible hedge-trimmer of home.
And don't forget the back-breaking, back-breaking Black And Decker All-One, Multi-Purpose Garden-o-matic of home.
It gets worse if you have a fine, fine flowerbed of home, because then you have to deal with the dirty, dirty dirt of home, full of the wriggly, wriggly worms of home and the slimy, slimy slugs of home.
Personally, I have decided against keeping my compost at home. That is just too much.

stephenb 17:12 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Why Bother? ..Again

I wonder if mayflies have their own version of "do not go gentle into that good night, rage, rage against the dying of the light." I suppose not, obviously they would die before reaching the third verse, so what is the point.
If a spider dipped all his legs into a bottle of ink and then walked across a blank piece of paper, how many miles would he have to walk before he had written the complete works of Shakespeare? I'm guessing somewhere in the region of sixty billion miles. But would the script be legible, or would it just be spidery scrawl?
What is that old saying? .. The blind man in the dark room, looking for the black cat .. that isn't there.

stephenb 16:27 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Specials Of The Day

Food seldom tastes like what it actually is these days, especially if you consume the food at a restaurant. Mashed potatoes always taste like garlic, for instance, since regular potato flavor is apparently passé. All restaurants now seem to offer garlic mashed potatoes. They are more common than ketchup, but wait staff always announce them with great enthusiasm, as though you were dining on some especially lucky day when garlic mashed potatoes were finally available.
Last night I ordered "herb-encrusted salmon" from The Cheesecake Factory. I enjoyed it immensely. However, had I not known it was salmon I would never have guessed since the herb was encrusted so very thickly. In fact, a more accurate description might have been, "crusted herb with salmon stuck on the side." A six-man road gang could not have tarred a highway more effectively. I could imagine the chef surrounded by orange traffic cones, standing over the salmon with a tiny cement mixer, preparing his gravel-like herb for the encrusting process while a policeman directed waiters to some alternate route.
Chefs cannot resist a little encrusting these days. Indeed, they seem to prefer encrusting to drizzling. Although at the Cheesecake Factory I am sure they had drizzled the herb in something else before encrusting it, for I could not identify the encrusting herb for the life of me.

stephenb 10:57 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Wireless Life

I have taken advantage of recent developments in technology to purchase a new mobile phone. Not only is it a telephone, it also features AM/FM radio, photo messaging center, flash light, potato gun, optional roll-on deodorant attachment, nose hair trimmer, espresso machine, Swiss army knife, detachable nozzle for spraying weed killer, and, best of all, I can plug it into my computer so that my computer doesn?t work anymore.
Alas, I cannot actually talk on the thing because it receives no reception outside the Taiwanese Lab it was made in.
When I used a regular phone to dial my service provider and complain, they asked me to call back later because they were just about to drive into a tunnel.

stephenb 15:58 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Pieces of Hate

I checked my email today only to discover many "undeliverable mail" messages concerning email I had not sent.
Apparently this means that pirates have boarded my email account, my real identity has been forced to walk the plank, and Cap'n Spam is using my ship to ferry penis enlargement exhortations back and forth.
Earthlink, my internet provider, is unsurprisingly not very helpful about all this. Considering the considerable sum my subscription costs me each month, I would have thought they could provide a little assistance. But no, they remain as silent as a dead man's chest on the subject.
It really is yard-arm hoistingly infuriating, and I have no idea what to do about it - except make pirate jokes :-(
Yo ho ho and a barrel of glum.
It reaches the point where I would be willing to pay for the individual email messages I receive and send if it would prevent spam. If people had to pay stamp duty on every email then the spammers would cease operations since it would no longer be worth their while.
stephenb 11:07 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Thought For The day

Whatever happened to the proud, warlike, mead-sodden Scandinavian hordes with their dragon-helmed ships and massive beards? Once they were the scourge of Europe with their ravaging, looting and pillaging. Now they just make gourmet biscuits and pop groups.
Meanwhile....

It Doesn't Matter Who You Vote For Because The Government Always Gets Elected

When peace came after World War One, everyone knew that a Germany crippled by reparations would be a dangerous Germany; yet crippling Germany with reparations was exactly what the Allied Governments decided to do.
(Alarums. Enter Hitler stage right with German people carrying spears.)
You can almost bet your last flag that, given the chance, Governments of every political hue will do the wrong thing. So why vote for them? Beats me.
Alas, there will always be lunatics who wear straw boaters, rosettes, and stand on the side of the road with placards urging you to vote for some smiling politico who promises to be tough on crime and promote education. And thus, observing the cheering idiots from his podium, the grinning politico can justify himself.
The problem is, of course, that career politicians make political decisions rather than sensible ones. Back in the good old ancient days when everybody was both farmer and warrior, the local tribe would send their delegate to the Sacred Grove to meet with other tribal delegates. Here, reasonable decisions would be made and then everyone would return to their tribe, till their soil, milk their cows, and live in the peaceable kingdom. At least until the Vikings arrived.

stephenb 09:05 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Bedtime Story

Invited to a dinner party at Mary Mary's cottage last night: an unappetizing buffet featuring homegrown vegetables, and thus rather heavy on the silver bells and cockleshells. Personally I find both ingredients completely inedible. Conversation at the table was a total disaster. Mary Mary disagreed with almost everything anyone said, and Simple Simon insisted on repeating the extremely tedious tale of his encounter with a pie man for the umpteenth time. Dessert, as usual, was a particularly stodgy confection of curds and whey made by Little Bo Peep, and - uggh! - I am certain there was a hairy spider leg in mine.
Mary Mary became especially contrary when it was suggested she give the assembled company a tour of her garden, complaining that the only reason people came to visit her was because they wanted to tramp around her garden leering at the pretty maids all in a row. Nevertheless, after a great deal of flattery and being promised a free bag of my specialty 'ring o' roses' compost, she finally granted our wish. All I can say is, it must have been a very bad year for growing pretty maids all in a row, because this season's crop were dreadfully flat-chested. I was bitterly disappointed.

Things To Do Today:
1. Cross the Rubicon
2. Cut the Gordian knot.
3. Pay the Piper
4. Eat no fat.

stephenb 10:49 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Oh Ye Of Too Much Faith

It is amazing how much The Stomach God controls our daily lives. We even reserve certain hours of the day for satisfying The Stomach God's tyrannical demands. Millions of people actually spend their entire working day harvesting and preparing special items especially for The Stomach God. Stroll along any street in either a rural or urban area and you will find various temples erected to The Stomach God, many with golden arches, others with decorative canopies of more elaborate design. The shelves of every bookstore creak under the weight of devotional literature written for The Stomach God. There are even persons who worship The Stomach God so much that they permit The Stomach God to expand and overtake their entire bodies.
The Brain God, however, well, he is just some smashed, craven idol left to sink into the sand and dust of the ruined ancient city long since abandoned and forgotten. His once proud acolytes persecuted and ... hmm, excuse me; I'm just going to get something to nibble on. Oh, those cakes look nice, don't they.

stephenb 09:59 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Future Imperfect

The year 2003: were we not supposed to be wearing thermally insulated silver togas with flash insignia by now; living in verdant, techno-Arcadian splendor with beatific expressions permanently fixed on our faces? Whatever happened to those vertical take-off jets boots we were promised? Why are there no household robots to do the washing up? The only wars we ought be fighting should be against the Martians and the highly evolved fish people from the Twelve Aquatic Moons of Piscara - and even they should be fought in another galaxy.
What has gone wrong?
Personally, I feel it has a lot to do with the companies who manufacture soft drinks: We can never live in Future Paradise if citizens can still buy disgusting grape flavored soda.

stephenb 09:37 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Turds In Unusual Places

Sunday evening, as I wearily climbed the stairs from the bowels of the Downtown Crossing subway station, I suddenly discovered a steaming turd blocking my path on the steps at the Temple Place exit. Gingerly sidestepping this monstrousity, I wondered what kind of depraved beast could have left such a deposit that offends both eye and nostril? The only reasonable excuse would be that a seeing-eye dog had been the culprit, and perhaps that was the case. I sincerely hope so.
Meanwhile, behind the dumpster at work last week, there had been a mischievous turd that was obviously human all too human. How can I be so sure? I hate to be the Sherlock Holmes of waste matter, but there were tell-tale pieces of ripped-up newspaper in the immediate vicinity - and what, Watson, do we deduce from that?
stephenb 12:48 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Artistic License

I was the recipient of an extreme piece of good fortune this weekend as I was able to purchase an original painting by Brueghel for $50 at a sidewalk sale. The man who sold me this important work of art said that he was forced to sell the painting because, ?all those medieval peasants running about give my wife the creeps.?
Fair enough.
Being the proud owner of an original Brueghel, I am now taking a much more active interest in the artist?s life. For instance, I have discovered that - contrary to popular belief - Brueghel was not a Flemish painter at all, but actually a Chinese master. This important revelation was the result of fairly simple research on my part: I turned the picture around and noticed that it had ?printed in China? written on the back.
So far I have written to the Louvre, Chinoiserie Collector magazine, and the Rev. Al Sharpton about my discovery. But I have not received any reply as of today.

stephenb 11:56 - [Link] - Comments ()
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"Current" Events

This little weblog disappeared for a while there. According to Blogstudio.com, this enforced absence was caused by the power grid failure. I am sure that is the case, however, I notice many people have been blaming things on the blackout, things that probably have more to do with effort failure than power failure: it is a good excuse if you can get away with it.
Anyway, the vanishing Stephenhead got me worried, so I signed up for some more space at Diaryland.com, which I have imaginatively called "Stephenlife".
My intention was that the Stephenlife weblog would cover more of my day-to-day living, and Stephenhead would remain the same (whatever that is).
However, I imagine that they will begin to cross-pollinate, I mean even the bloody "design" of the Stephenlife site is pretty much the same as this: take a look for yourself stephenlife
stephenb 09:20 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Cobblers

I have at least five pairs of shoes in desperate need of repair. Last night I placed all five pairs on my fireplace next to a bottle of diet Pepsi, two blueberry muffins and a handful of chocolate covered peanuts. Unbelievably, I awoke this morning to discover that my shoes were still in desperate need of repair! Even the appetizing repast I had left out remained untouched.
What, I demand to know, were all the friendly elves and goblins who live in the walls doing all night? Probably drunk stupid on toadstool wine, I'll wager: lazy, good-for-nothing little people.
It was the same story when I wanted the couch moved from one room to another. Six walnuts, a can of ginger ale, half a snickers bar, and the bloody couch didn't move an inch! Where, I ask you, are all the brawny ogres who don't mind a bit of heavy lifting? Prowling around at the fairyland disco with a jug of dandelion ale trying to pick up woodland nymphs, I'll be bound!
It is a disgrace that in this day and age you cannot find a single make-believe character to do a fair days work for a fair days pile of junk food.
What is the world coming to? Next thing you know, the witch who lives down the road will have to build a house out of crack cocaine if she wants to attract any plump little children.


stephenb 13:23 - [Link] - Comments ()
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The Hill of Beans

Base camp has already been established on the shores of Lake Tomato Sauce, and tomorrow we make our first ascent of the Hill of Beans.
The Baked Bean section at roughly 5000 feet should be the most arduous part of the climb - difficult, murky terrain with all those weird white chunky bits in it, and we expect to discover the body of the Anne Margaret character from Tommy along the way.
Then we progress to the Green Bean Section (approx 6000 feet), followed by negotiation of treacherously narrow the String Bean Crevasse, followed by the truly breathtaking Mexican Jumping Bean section (variable feet), before our final ascent to the summit of the Hill of Beans and the ceremonial planting of our flag on Humphrey Bogart's nose.
My only hope is that we don't run into the Abominable Beanman.

stephenb 13:38 - [Link] - Comments ()
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The Unknown Grocery Shopper

The mission in Afghanistan, events in Liberia and the war with Iraq have all recently eclipsed my personal war with the woman behind the counter at my local grocery store. This is probably why you have not read about it in the news.
However, I can assure the bloodthirsty amongst you that both sides in this vicious conflict - her and me - are still heavily entrenched in our respective bunkers; and despite the current stalemate - not to mention the stale bread she sells - hostilities are only a single purchase from resuming with all the carnage and horror my readers have come to expect from this terrible battle.
Recent skirmishes have included such thunderous bombardments as:
"You overcharged me for those melons."
"Why is the sell-by date on this milk carton obscured by that massive price sticker?"
And infamously, "Exactly how moldy are these peaches?"
Agincourt? Waterloo? Little Big Horn? The Some? Pieces of cake compared to my heroic struggle.

stephenb 12:17 - [Link] - Comments ()
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The Wrong End of the Stick Shift

Having read about battery operated, environment-friendly automobiles in the latest copy of Green Living, I decided to be the first person on my block to purchase one of these essential vehicles.
I was very pleased to discover that they were already available for purchase and that you could buy one extremely cheaply from Amazon, and that they would - wonder of wonders - ship it directly to my home. Within the week I would be able to set a fine environmentally aware example to my neighbors and colleagues at work!
Imagine my surprise, then, when my new car arrived in the mail.
For starters, it was extremely small. Even my newborn son Jobriath could not fit in the drivers seat. Secondly, the thing could only be driven by a person standing outside the car and operating a "remote control" unit. Consequently, if I wanted to drive to work in the morning, I would have to sit cross-legged on the roof while my wife ran along behind me, attempting to direct the car down the street and nurse Jobriath at the same time!
Frankly, for a supposedly environment-friendly item, I was shocked by the sporty look of the car and the racing stripe motif.
My family will be sticking with petroleum for the immediate future, that's for sure.
stephenb 12:45 - [Link] - Comments ()
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The Invisible H.G Wells -recently posted by me to the Yahoo H.G Wells forum for the sole purpose of annoying its members

Dear War Of The Worlds fans,
I am currently engaged on writing a screenplay for a H.G Wells biopic to be called "The Invisible H.G Wells", scheduled to be directed by John Hughes of "Pretty In Pink" fame and produced by Disney. I have read through most of the published biographies of the author of "The Time Machine" and found them completely worthless, therefore I am wondering if you could help me. I am particularly interested in the fact that Wells was not a morning person, possibly due to his dislike of all hot beverages, repressed homosexuality, and his long-standing correspondence with the Pope. These are the main themes of my story, and will provide the narrative thrust of the film until the final conclusion - a Wellsian fantasy sequence filmed entirely in red light in which the author of "The Invisible Man" confronts George Bernard Shaw claiming - rightly - that it is he, Wells, who wears the longest and bushiest beard. There is a gunshot and the screen will go black for five minutes; then, cue the dancing girls from Mars inspired by the unpublished Wells short story recently unearthed by me,"Strippers From Mars". I would be extremely grateful if you could send me any materials you might think I would find helpful in writing "The Invisible H.G Wells". Thank you.



stephenb 12:12 - [Link] - Comments ()
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This weekend I was forced to sit through the wearisome film called Swimming Pool; a truly unpleasant and tedious experience.
The film uses the hackneyed and tiresome narrative conceit of developing from the point of view of a character who is an author with writer's block, and consequently the audience must make up their own minds as to what is true and what is not - a narrative conceit usually signifying that the film makers themselves have suffered a lack of inspiration.
Alan Resnais' Providence from many years ago is probably the best example of this filmic idea used somewhat purposefully; it is certainly far superior to Swimming Pool.
Many film reviewers seem to like Swimming Pool, but they recommend it without really explaining why they think it's good, and spend most of their review discussing the director's previous films rather than the one in question. Oh well.
Personally, I have never understood the point of the ten minute long shot of someone putting their food shopping away in silence, followed by another ten minute long shot of the same person staring at the floor. Are these types of shots supposed to be indicitive of "normal life"? If so, they reveal nothing about normal life at all. I am all for slow moving cinema if the character's surroundings express something about his or her inner landscape as they do in the films of Antonioni or Herzog or the recent film Spider - highly praised by me on this blog a few months ago. I suppose the swimming pool in Swimming Pool is supposed to serve this function, okay, but the ten minute long shot of a fridge doesn't.

stephenb 09:35 - [Link] - Comments ()
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A Journey Through New England's beauty spots - from Old Scrotum to Devilscrotch

Old Scrotum village, unspoilt jewel of the New England seaboard, here on the quay, Old Scrotum's famous cod fisherman can still be seen laying around in the many quaint taverns, out of work. Inaccessible by rail or bus, visitors to Old Scroum's tranquil beaches and parks must sit for hours in long lines of automobile congestion. Why not sample the local clam chowder manufactured in nearby Pollutionville?
Situated in a quiet cove on the lower reaches of beautiful Cape Cod, Devilscrotch offers many attractions for the serious drug-addict, Episcopalian bishop, and self-absorbed artist. It was here that Edward Hopper blew his brains out with a double-barrel shotgun and Winslow Homer took one look and left immediately.
stephenb 12:35 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Inspiration!

From Old Scrotum to Devil's Crotch: a tour of olde New England towns:

Hopefully I will get around to writing this up sometime tomorrow.

stephenb 17:49 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Living On Cloud Two

There is no inspiration this morning.
Weather: creativity is overcast and a thought-drowning rain is expected; drifting squalls of writer's block moving in from the east by early evening.
Atmospheric conditions: there is a brain evaporating humidity and heavy mind smog in all zones.
Shipping forecast: don't be ridiculous.

stephenb 11:18 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Mix And Match

Recently I attended a potluck lunch and yard sale organized by a cousin of the former president of one of the more obscure African nations at their Embassy in Exile located on a side street behind one of those large white corporate looking buildings in Washington DC.
The potluck lunch was an average affair featuring average fare, but at the yard sale I was able to buy a pair of six-foot elephant tusks, a tiger skin rug, an ashtray carved from wildebeest hoof, a Zulu shield with matching "assegai", and a small plastic model of a zebra. I was hoping to find a drinking vessel made from hollowed rhino horn; alas, I was unlucky.
Readers are probably wondering how my inner interior decorator intends to combine these purchases with those I made at the Swedish Consulate sponsored Scandinavian Jamboree Flea Market last week.
Well, it is called "cultural diversity".

stephenb 12:36 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Time's Little Character Sketch

Thick fog drifts in from the river over bloodstained cobblestones, blending with dense clouds of saloon bar pipe smoke; dark, peeling wallpaper patinated with ancient stains; a stopped clock; broken glass; raised voices and shouting; the clumsy shrill clattering of a mechanical piano: doors creak open and slam shut again: footsteps on the threshold: a cackle and a long shadow thrown by a gas lamp: and then, "Hello dearie."
It is Bow-legged Annie looking for a jug of gin: the sparkling eyes of a much younger woman deep set in a worn out, corrupt and dissipated face. Can this wretched, toothless crone be the same ingénue who charmed society not thirty years ago?
I seem to remember a disastrous performance as Merry Nell in Max Rummer's There Be No Rye Left In The Alehouse. Booed off the stage, catcalls and no flowers in the dressing room, Annie fell in with Captain Stratton's Light Dragoons and became a Mata Hari, playing a mysterious yet decisive role in the Austro-Belgian conflict.
A favorite model of the French Pardonisté school of painting, she was often depicted nude except for a Turban, seated on velvet cushions amidst Oriental splendor and Nubian servants.
Now look at her!

stephenb 11:52 - [Link] - Comments ()
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The Centurion

"For I am a man under authority, having soldiers under me: and I say to this man, Go, and he goeth; and to another, Come, and he cometh; and to my servant, Do this, and he doeth it."
You know, if I were a priest, rather than spreading the Word of God, I think I would keep it to myself.
"That's a big book you're reading. What's it about?"
"This and that. Stuff, you know."
"What's it called?"
"The Bbllggh."
"What?"
"The Bublighgh."
"Oh. Cool. Er, see you later, then."
"Yeah, see you later."
What I like about the Centurion's quote above is that he sounds so absolutely bored out of his mind: the true voice of the Roman Legions patrolling Judea circa 30AD.


stephenb 13:05 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Read 'Em And Weep

My Saturday was spent in the Boston Public Flophouse - euphemistically called "the library" - attempting to do a little, you know, research and stuff.
Alas, four of the books I sought were absent from the shelves; this despite the fact that, according the library computer, nobody had borrowed them. Seated at a table, I pushed aside the heap of books that had been just left there by another reader, and began to skim through the two volumes I could locate, only for my studies to be interrupted by an elderly woman discussing some sort of dental proceedure with her friend. Somewhere in the distance a mobile rang and rang. Two vagrants compared personal odors in the Musical Theory aisle. A disembodied voice suddenly erupted from a speaker system and announced the commencement of a book sale in the mezzanine.
Are all such public resources doomed to be ruined by the very people they are supposed to benefit?

stephenb 09:29 - [Link] - Comments ()
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Food For Thought

I bought two small chunks of chocolate fudge from one of those quaint, old-fashioned establishments in Quincy Market where they determine the price by weighing your purchase on scales which suddenly tip as though an elephant had sat on them, the weight indicator spins violently around and the clerk smiles with grim satisfaction and says, "That will be two hundred and eighty-five dollars please, sir."
What?!
Who knew that chocolate fudge has the same atomic weight as cast iron? I shall stick with peanut brittle and lemon drops from now on.

stephenb 17:54 - [Link] - Comments ()
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That's Another Fine Mess You've Got Me Into

Judging a child's fancy dress competition last night, amongst all the mini Britneys, Jedi knights and Power Rangers, I spotted a fat boy dressed as Charlie Chaplin: sole representative of the stars of yesteryear. Obviously, considering the boy's size, he more closely resembled Oliver Hardy carrying a cane than he did the Little Tramp. According to my fellow judges, he had actually originally been Oliver Hardy, but his younger brother in the role of Stan Laurel had decided against taking part - wisely in my opinion - and therefore the fat boy simply picked up a cane and transformed himself into the expanded version of Chaplin. I voted for him, alas, the others did not.
Personally, I have always remained a stranger to the comedic charms of Charlie Chaplin, yet I can watch Laurel and Hardy until the roosters come home to roost.
stephenb 15:10 - [Link] - Comments ()
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