We were never considered a “New York band.”

Touch – 1980

Touch was never quite a “New York  band.”  Even though for the most part we all lived in the city, built and rehearsed our act in a rat-infested loft next door to the Mid-Town South Precinct on West 35th Street (up the block from Reverend Sun Myung Moon’s zombie hostel in the old New Yorker Hotel) and my entire social life at the time revolved around places like CB’s or Max’s, Trax, Privates… or The Odessa and Wo Hop for 4AM club-fogged sustenance, still Touch was never thought of as a New York thing.  Comprised of Mark Mangold (keys and vocals), Craig Brooks (guitar & vocals), Glenn Kithcart (drums) and myself… and built from the ashes of the Columbia Records act “American Tears,” Touch for a variety of reasons was always assumed to be a UK/Euro, or an otherwise “elsewhere” band.  Likely because the vast majority of our fan base and successes always seemed to be any place other than our home, we were the picture-perfect example of the line “Well, we’re really big in Europe, man…”   It was also likely because we never did much in the way of live shows in or around NYC prior to our signing with Atco/Atlantic Records in 1979.  It was always just assumed by most of the New York scene that we were Brits, or perhaps Swedes.

Touch, while ridiculously talented (if I do say so myself), was for the most part a one, perhaps two hit wonder (in the States anyway…) that eventually drifted apart after the recording of our second album.  The individual members thereafter moving on to work with a host of other acts and endeavors.  However about two years ago (40 some odd years since the last time we’d worked together), a couple of record labels contacted us, lobbying for a reunion album.  It was explained to us that we apparently held the unique status of being one of the “OG” bands wherein all of the original members were still alive and sentient, and they were willing to bet that a new album would be well received.

“None of you are dead yet.  It would be a great idea to do an album before something happens.”  While that pitch sounded like a line out of a bad Mafia movie, it still kind of made sense.

So, after much cajoling (and the check didn’t hurt), we plowed through COVID and cobbled together what we anticipated to be a tidy little “thank you,” to the fans that never forgot us. Touch – “Tomorrow Never Comes” was supposed to be a quiet period at the end of the sentence for a band that never quite broke through that often arbitrary ceiling into super-stardom, but also never seemed to simply go away.

What we didn’t anticipate however was the album’s success.  Though of course limited to our now somewhat archaic musical niche, within our milieu its release made noise.  We were almost embarrassed by the critic’s consistent approval.  Calling ‘Tomorrow Never Comes’ “…come-back album of the year” and “…a triumphant return,” giving us ratings of tens out of tens and all sorts of thumbs going everywhere.  All these years later… go figure.   The noise now is all about us possibly touring.  We’ll see… we’re old… we’ll see.

That said though, this blog is ultimately about New York and not necessarily how fabulous Touch is, or was… – Though PLEASE DO consider adding us to your favorite streaming app playlist as my house could really use some new siding!

The author as a young delinquent.

I consider myself a grateful native New Yorker.  I attribute a good chunk of my survival in this loopy business to being both that and a musician during that once in a century time when the city’s creative stew combined with the insanity that was late 1970’s/early 1980’s New York boiled over. I’m thankful for how New York took what I had out of the gate, and honed it.  Street smarts, instinct, edge, knowing how to hustle (how to spot one… and how not to be taken by one) and to have been exposed to all that was excellence.  The best in art, music, performance and just an overall “only in New York” scene… these were, and remain New York’s elementary gifts.  And while it may no longer be quite “my” New York (I occasionally get lost in mid-town now with all of the old landmark buildings gone), it still remains, deep down… always New York.

Thousands have eulogized about New York’s gilded, grotesque compound of capricious cruelty and simultaneous capacity to make anyone’s dreams come true.  To paraphrase Richard Hell, “New York is the only place where if you screw up, you can simply reinvent yourself over and over until you get it right.”  It rewards tenacity, punishes stupidity, raises or crushes the puritan alongside the villain … pretty much giving everyone the same shot at ascendency, or self-immolation, or perhaps both.  An asphalt field of dreams, though not a playground for the delusional.  New York doesn’t have the time to waste on false hopes.  “Fake it till you make it” doesn’t fly here.  Not for long anyway.

The most common mistake I’ve witnessed many wide-eyed pilgrims to New York make when coming here is thinking that “winning” is the end game.  The truth is though that the only thing resembling “winning” here is being allowed to play the game at all.  Yes, you can become wealthy and famous, perhaps both, or one or the other.  Very much so.  There is no doubt that the trajectories exist for aspirants to achieve Master of The Universe status in any number of fields of endeavor.  But soon (and the sooner the better) you begin to realize that no matter how much you earn, or how famous or powerful you get to be, there is always… always… someone richer, more famous, more talented, more beautiful and more powerful…. than you.  And if not on the immediate horizon, it’s a sure bet that they will be getting off the bus very shortly.  At that point, you should recognize that it’s the game itself that counts here.  It’s not about the finish line.  Because ultimately, there never is one.

In New York, you both achieve and fail. Equally ennobling and humbling, you glory in triumphs and writhe in defeats. You work and play harder, love more deeply, despise more venomously, empathize more profoundly and generally live more intensely than you ever could elsewhere.  Anywhere.  Roller-skating around the dining room on your yacht is not the end game here (though it’s certainly very nice if you do).  Being allowed into the game in the first place, and holding your seat at the table… that is the payoff.  And to me, that’s enough.  More than enough.

Some random examples (in no particular order): I performed in 19 consecutive sold out shows in 10 days at Radio City Music Hall. I never won a Grammy, though I went to the altar twice.  I got torched by the Village Voice for being pretentiously camp  (whatever that means).  I shared stages and worked in studios with some of the most legendary and jaw dropping talent on the planet.  I was loosely used as fodder for a character in a book about an iconic novelist’s sex life.  I found myself in the offices of, and was invited to work with some of the most powerful people in the business of entertainment.  I was a bartender at the already by then time-worn Hotel Taft in Times Square, where I kept a baseball bat under the bar and used to let beat cops (some who worked two extra moonlighting jobs to support their families) “rest” without being disturbed in the back room. I built a company that has survived and thrived in an industry that is legendary in its ruthlessness.  I was launched out on tours that performed in just about every city on practically every continent.  I got thrown out of the China Club one night because I dissed the men’s room attendant’s shitty taste in music.  I made the cover of NY Daily News Parade Magazine.  I thoroughly humiliated myself by once mistaking Bette Midler for the office manager of a recording studio (my eyesight has always sucked).  I got my first record deal on my birthday, with the ensuing album coming out on my next (the party was legendary… even the cops hung around).  About three years or so thereafter I got divorced, went bankrupt and was audited for two years’ worth of tax returns… all of that last bit within the span of a couple of months.

Where else can you live like that?  And how could anyone ever settle for anything less?  Now it seems I’ve made full circle.  Only in New York… only in New York

 

Touch “Try To Let Go” from the Deko/WMG album “Tomorrow Never Comes” © 2022 Geezah Entertainment

 

More on my Excellent Equestrian Adventure….

10942439_10204748004912909_525643683611177381_nSo I’ve been at this obsession of bouncing around on the back of the occasionally pig-headed but ultimately sweet mare, Mabel, recapturing my youth or whatever the hell you want to call it, for the past six months. I’ve dropped over 20 lbs., my mind is clearer, my attitude is actually more pleasant (if you can believe it!) and my incredibly patient instructors finally have me to the point (and very newly so) where I can get Mabel to hold a smooth canter and I do not look like a complete, roach-backed fool jumping crossbars and the lowest of hurdles. Huzzah!

Predictably though, as I am not the brightest bulb in the marquee, I picked a hell of a time to start this whole thing being that it was a deceptively mild October with little hint towards the cold and snowbound hell to come. It’s pathetic how easily we forget what comes each year… Yes, moron; winter follows fall. And while you’re happily chowing down on turkey and envisioning yourself in some Capra-esque/Norman Rockwell tableau, and later after too much egg-nog, drunkenly trying to figure out exactly how to roast chestnuts over an open fire without setting the rug ablaze (only later to discover that roasted chestnuts in fact taste like whatever’s been living under the rug for the past decade… ptooey!), and then finally capping it all off by watching a live-camera feed of Jenny McCarthy’s impression of a helmet-haired drag queen sandbagging some poor sap in his Marine’s dress blues into snogging beneath the ball in Times Square… meanwhile old man winter has a whole sack-full of special lined up for you that will make you wonder why you were ever born. Every year we forget… and then scramble like lemmings for bread, milk and toilet paper when the piper calls his due.

I take my riding very seriously though. So much so that I want to learn about and be involved with every aspect of what it is that I am doing. Grooming, feeding, health and soundness, breeding, tack, barn maintenance (scoop dat poop!)… I want to know and learn about everything and I want to be in the barn every spare moment, soaking all of this up. So do I let a little snow get in the way? Well…. yes, as a matter of fact I do. Particularly when the otherwise lovely and charming road to the barn becomes an Olympic luge run, and the indoor ring becomes entombed in a monstrous peristyle of bitter, wicked white.  It slows me down, along with the other hardcores who I’ve had the privilege to hang around with this winter… but one indeed, carries on.

Would that the horses have the same attitude, but alas.  Despite being conveniently covered in fur (ok, fine… hair… happy?), horses are not snow bunnies. No, not by a long-shot. Regardless of their being bundled up like the little brother ‘Randy’ in ‘A Christmas Story,’ in sometimes as many as three snow-suit style blankets complete with hoods, it appears to me at least that they would rather be playing canasta than be forced to do anything other than doze, eat, poop, go outside occasionally and basically just wait for the whole thing to be over. And to a horse it seems (horses not really being on average the brightest of critters, but then again humans are just as stupid and forgetful about the whole thing as well) the whole idea of snow, despite their having been through a few of these seasons at least, seems to leave them completely baffled as to “what the hell happened to the earth and what’s with all of this white shit all over the place?” Between the bitter cold (indoor ring or not… it is still freaking cold!) and grey skied miasma of shortened days and long nights which obviously irritate a horse (as humans) to no end, combined with little surprises such as the intermittent, malevolent rumble of the accumulated snow sliding from the roof and crashing down the sides of the barn and where a horse would normally just spook and get over it, these combined conditions produce a reaction of “I”LL CUT-A-MOTHER!” level of crazy in a horse that anyone who thinks equestrian sport is just “sitting,” I defy to hold their mud while doing.

Good luck… Chuck.

Two sweaters, three sweaters, three sweaters and a windbreaker, thermals under my breeches and chem-pack toe warmers in my boots, running into the tack room and ripping off my gloves to hold them in front of a space heater to get the feeling back, or holding my seat while the lovely Miss Mabel determines that the guy that she spys outside through the window shoveling snow is going to rip her face off and make a sandwich, or sliding down the driveway like some Winter Olympic long jumper trying to get to the barn after having left my car at the top thinking “oh, walking will be so much safer,” or watching the more experienced riders in the barn stoically handle themselves with an inhuman level of calm and consistency while their horse throws the only temper tantrum and puts a hoof through a wall… and thus realizing just how much I don’t know… and the mountain of that which I must… and I cannot imagine myself doing anything else with the slivers of time my goofy life allows.

I am told that I will be competing this coming season. Not asked, mind you… told. I have learned to respect the hierarchy within the barn where I ride… and do what I am told.  I will let you know how this all works out.

 

The Ballad of Mabel & The Man Who Wouldn’t Grow Up

Midlife CrisisAs you may or may not know, or could for that matter care less, I have found a new focus in line with my ongoing mid-life crisis. Actually I don’t see how it can be considered a mid-life crisis as I have always strictly maintained the perspective of a 12 year old in all things, but regardless… the point is I have decided to get back on a horse.

While some men of a certain age buy a red Porsche or a motorcycle, some slather themselves with Rogain or snort Viagara and take up snowboarding, or even some go so far as to trade in long suffering wives for newer models, convincing themselves that it’s for love and love alone, while Trophy Wife #Whatever plugs an industrial grade vacuum cleaner into their wallet… a man’s brooding sense of  panic over his inevitable and progressive decline can take many forms.

Me? I get on a horse.

Understand that this is not an out-of-the-blue, new found passion as I formerly competed in a variety of equitation events when I was much younger… much, much younger. But that of course was way back when horses were steam powered and a bear claw would buy you a spot by the fire and hot bowl of mud.   Much in equitation, particularly jumping, has changed since then … the primary being of course, my body.

First thing I have learned is that I am no longer made of rubber. I can no longer bounce off of things, like the ground for example, with the same level of grace if not outright glamour that I once possessed. I can now actually, really hurt myself. I could also die if push came to shove, which of course would ironically and quite pathetically undermine the whole point of this latest manifestation of my fantasy battle against time. So a certain amount of caution is in order where there previously was none.

This change of circumstance and condition was made clear to me upon my first visit to my local riding academy, where once the truly wonderful staff got over their initial shock at the idea of me being there in the first place, took great pains to keep me out of harm’s way. For example… by not letting me get anywhere near a horse. Bloody brilliant! I loved this place immediately! And this very well intentioned safety protocol worked quite well on my first day as I sat in the tack room, far from danger, staring at the walls of assorted saddelry as my brand spanking new breeches, boots and helmet glowed in their recency.  Eventually however I began to sense a bit of a lack of accomplishment and so I got a little pushy (as I am known to do, just ask anyone who says “no” to me… it rarely goes well, regrettably) as to how long I would be required to drink well meaning coffee and admire the inspiring framed photos of other riders, captured in the midst of heroic leaps… and I asked when I might be able to actually meet a horse. It was then that I was introduced to “Mabel,” a 24 year-old paint, dray mare who was also lovingly referred to around the stables as “Princess Comatose.”

It was love at first sight. At 16 hands, she was also as wide as a bloody barn, but I was fortunate in that she appeared to have no withers whatsoever due to her basically being an oil tank with legs. This was a real plus in light of my anatomical difference from the female riders in the barn and thus outfitted with the proper Crosby saddle (favored by men, I am told) I felt no particular need to spend all of my time riding constantly in a half seat.  We were off to a great start!

My “romance” with Mabel was a whirlwind. I soon found myself thoroughly charmed at her coquettish habit of backing up from the mounting block just as I prepared to insert my foot into the stirrup. Over and over, and over again we would play this little game. Back and forth, back and forth. What joy!  Such laughs!  Her uncanny ability to drift directly towards a random cavaletti lying to the side of my path the split microsecond I’d position myself to begin a trot… I found this utterly charming. And her adorable way of spooking and completely bugging out at alarming distractions… such as say dirt, or sunshine… Tellement Amusant!   After a week or so of this, I was ready to shoot her and then myself. I began to see a similarity between my riding this rolling refrigerator and the poor sap who was being cleaned out by the blonde Marie Besnard with implants that he’d left his wife for. Guys are dumb. Mable knew this.

Regardless, I was determined. I was good at this… albeit years ago. I was told back then that I showed promise. “I am not dead yet – I can do this – I don’t like red cars,” I told myself. So I focused in on the training patiently dolled out by my tortured, yet saintly instructor. And lo and behold, once I had figured out that I needed to use the other outside rein (in other words, tug with the other left hand, idiot), and that my legs should probably not be sticking out in front of me as though I were planted in a Barcalounger doing a History Channel binge, I began indeed to sense some progress.

But it wasn’t just a ‘sense’ of achievement.  I was told I was making progress. While encouraged by my instructor and praised or chided accordingly, I was flat-out told I was making progress… by Mable, herself.  She began to respond to my commands.  Of course she still loved our little “Okay. Get on me… come on. I won’t back up again. I promise!  No, I really mean it this time. I love you.  I’m not lying.  BWAHAHAHA!” game, but she began to do what can only be described as placing her trust in me.  She began to offer me respect.  A respect I had to earn, but given with trust when due.  ‘Click,’ we turn. ‘Click,’ we trot. ‘Click‘… we focus and fly.

I am one month into this. I am having the time of my life. I have no delusions of grandeur only in that I consider myself so damned fortunate to not be that guy at the gas pump with the bad hairpiece and the red Carrera. I will keep you apprised.

 

 

I Don’t Need A List To Remind Me To Breathe… Yet.

It’s come time for me to make lists. It is not necessarily an age thing, though I could easily use that as an excuse in that I find myself occasionally doing things like forgetting where I put the butter knife when I am holding the damned thing right there in my hand. But in that I’ve been doing things like that all of my life I cannot lay the entire blame on my bio-clock’s inevitable cellular decay. It’s more a motivational thing. It’s almost as if making the list in and of itself is an achievement. I’ll layout a column of things like “Schedule Dentist, Get Oil Changed, Dog to Vet, Call Lawyer, Call Agent, Call Lawyer (again, because I’ve forgotten that I’ d called him earlier, but he doesn’t care because it’s billable) Order Bass Strings, etc…” and then once the list is complete, I will feel an overwhelming sense of accomplishment and self-sastifaction, and decide to take a nap.

Making lists is also for me of late a way to cut through the noise. Not to go too far down the curmudgeonly “Get the fuck off my lawn” path, but part of the problem is the incessant amount of information of varying degrees of usefulness that competes for my attention. On any given day, thanks to the information superhighway/sewage-pipe’s exponential ability to put a bullhorn to my inner ear and scream “Hey nit-wit, pay attention to this hammock sale at Lowes,” or, “Wowza! Kim Kardashian’s butt has never looked so amazing!” or “Yo! Kittens! You want to look at some kittens? What the hell is wrong with you that you don’t like kittens? They’re adorable! You’re an insensitive jerk, you know that?”; I just don’t seem to have the filter to be able to determine in the required nano-second what is critical and what is useless in the tsunami of stuff that is blasted at me it seems from every direction.

It’s not simply limited to the web and it is not easily explainable by my obvious and chronic addiction to FaceBook. It is everywhere. Recently I cut off cable TV to my house. I have only a high-speed ISP, a Roku and a cell phone. That’s it for connectivity to the outside world. But like a microscopic flaw in a window jam that will allow an arctic blast into your home and drive you into a rage of carpet-chewing madness trying to trace it, even that limited amount of access from the tsunami of media does nothing to stop the noise. And unfortunately I’m as easily distracted as a cat by a laser pointer.

Be it the radio in my car, where when I finally find a station that isn’t melting the tectonal membranes of my ears with some overly-compressed, bro-country /pop-tart sludge, it interrupts it’s dulcet offerings with a screaming advert for an auto sale which if I don’t act upon immediately will result in the murder of a million puppies… or be it in print, where for example while sorting the mail I will determine that the envelope marked “Urgent” from the laboratory where the biopsy of that weird mole I had removed was sent is far less important than the flier for a tire sale or spider vein treatments (even though I have no immediate need for either)… I for the life of me am finding it harder and harder to tell the important shit from the inane.

My step-father has recently been diagnosed with beta-amyloid formations in the brain. This is not Alzheimers thank goodness, but it is a form of mental short-circuitry that results in notable and progressive cognitive difficulty. He will forget words, will confuse timelines, forget people’s names (no huge thing there, I’m a champion in that), what day it is, etc., and he has basically lost the ability to add a tip and calculate a restaurant tab. He is 84. And… he couldn’t care less. He actually finds it all a bit funny. In the midst of a story he will completely forget what he was talking about, launch into a non-sequiter, then stop mid-sentence, look around the table at everyone and say “…wow!” and proceed to belly-laugh at himself. It’s both heartbreaking and endearing for me, as everyone else, but ultimately I cannot help but applaud him. As to the noise that drives me to distraction, he could care less. It’s as though he’s wearing a raincoat in a hurricane, and he laughs at me when I go off on a tirade about it all.  I don’t know whether to envy him, pity him or punch him in the mouth…. for getting sick and directing my attention to the fact that I will eventually lose him. I don’t need to put that on a list. I am aware of that. Ultimately I thank him for helping me determine what is important… and what is not.

The Elements of Style & Tonic

Doug Howard

3/28/14 (Originally published November, 2005)

Recently I was quite surprised to find that I am, in some warped circles apparently now considered a writer. This in spite of the fact that I have two horrid little novels that actually speak to me in the middle of the night, just prior to my falling asleep… and plead with me not to finish them. They cannot seem to take it any longer and I do not blame them.

Now while I may be a songwriter (of sorts having written virtually nothing for the past decade or so), I am not a novelist, or a journalist for that matter, but rather it would now appear that I am considered a “web pundit,” an editorial satirist, a social commentator. And all this time I was under the impression that I was simply a functional alcoholic who had found in his laptop an acceptable substitute for making late night drunk calls to ex-wives and former employers. Who would have imagined? Amazing!

Now if this declaration seems presumptuous of me, I honestly could not agree with you more were it not for the ever-increasing amount of mail that I receive from readers. Outside of the occasional death threat from people writing in capital letters things like “Allahu Akbar,” or ‘Jesus Hates You”, which of course do not count as I have been receiving those since my very first album which I recorded with Charles Baudelaire in 1863 (loads of laughs… good times!), I have of late been receiving notes from people who actually think I know what I am doing. This I find hilarious of course, but once I get over it and wipe the tears from my eyes, a sense of deep concern washes over me when I find that some people are actually asking me for advice on how to become a writer. How deeply disturbing.

Well, far be it for me to let anyone down. And while under any normal circumstances I charge significant amounts of money to preach happy horse-shit to people who are silly enough to think that I actually know what I am talking about at an given time, I shall attempt to impart upon those who have been asking… some of the secrets of my success.

Firstly, try to write good. Don’t write bad. People don’t like that and it makes the baby Jesus cry.  If you are currently writing bad… try to write more good.

As well, and I paraphrase my good friend Tara in sharing with you that all writers for the most part simply want to smoke, drink and copulate and they find that writing as a career facilitates that well. So try to get in touch with your own personal vices. Know them well. There is method here… and in saying that I would ask the reader at this time to pause in review and mosey on down to the local Liquor Locker, and pick up a gallon of the least expensive vodka on the shelf. But something that sounds vaguely Russian of course and comes in plastic. I personally recommend Popov or Chernobyl.

I’ll wait.

Back? Dandy!

Now, get yourself a large glass and some ice, place the bottle near your chair and we shall proceed.

Oh, sorry… forgot. Do you have any cigarettes? Well, even if you don’t smoke, get some and start. Excellent! Now, where were we?

Good research is imperative when writing. A good writer always does his or her best to back up their assertions and premises with solid research. And this is where proper use of the web has become essential to good writing. By way of example, when researching an article on evolution and you wish to quote from “The Origins of Species” by Charles Darwin, I would recommend opening your browser and typing in “co-ed bondage hi-jinx” or “lathered suburban housewives” in your search. This may be considered by some to be the long way around to finding what it is you are looking for, but once you get the results back you probably won’t care.

By they way, you should require some more ice at this point, but if you are doing this at all properly then the ice, and very likely the glass itself for that matter will have become completely irrelevant… so go ahead and feel free to just start swilling it directly from the bottle at your feet.

Now would also be a good time to light up a few more cigarettes. So let’s take a break shall we, and have a smoke. It also would be appropriate at this time to take out a firearm or two and go out on your deck and blow off a few rounds. See if you can manage to take out the bird feeder or hit that wasp’s nest that your wife has been asking you to take care of since last May.

All done? Fantastic! Now let’s get back to it.

Continuity and flow are extremely important in both engaging the reader and giving you as the writer a clear line of sight as to where you would like to go. Thus you should begin every new effort by starting with the words “The End” on your very first page. Place this page to the side so that you can quickly grab it and slap it on the back of whatever you have put down when you get to the point where you just can’t stand the idea of having to write another word, or when you become so blind drunk that you have to hold your hand over one eye in order to find the letters on your keyboard.

Now then, spelling, proper grammar and punctuation always count. While artistic license is most certainly granted in creative writing, using acronyms such as LOL, ROFLMAO, or posting Smiley’s at the end of your sentences will likely make you appear completely retarded to any serious readers over the age of 9.

But then again …what the hell.  Do whatever you want. Who cares? It’s amazing how this paint thinner gets better tasting after the first 12 blasts, isn’t it? Next time we should try running it through a Britta water filter. I hear that works pretty well actually.

What was it we were doing anyway? Oh, right. An article on “Pipe Organs and Cat Feces” by My Favorite Martian… and a fine article it will be. So let’s refill our glass (or just suck back another pull), light up another ciggy and finally get down to it! Huzzah! Thus far we have done our research, begun our first page, and emptied half of the bottle… and it isn’t even 10 o’clock in the morning. 

Excellent! Well done! You are most certainly on your way!

Now in my experience, at this point in time there could possibly be a loud banging going on at your front door. This is either the fire department responding to the flames shooting out from your windows likely caused when you started putting your cigarettes out on the drapes… or you missed shooting the bird feeder entirely and the SWAT team has come to call.  

Write to me soon and let me know how this all works out for you.

Thanks for stopping by.

Getting Tagged (or how to waste an entire aftenoon on nothing)

Okay…. I got tagged.

(Originally posted on February 19, 2009 on FB)

So when one is tagged, the deal is … at least amongst compulsive bloggers… is that you must answer 101 questions about yourself… being honest, but also not putting the reader to sleep or cause them to become nauseous over your self indulgent, sappy musings.  I have likely utterly failed already on both counts as I am a poor liar and a total bore…. regardless, here it be. Find a bucket.

1. Men are…
…. usually underestimated these days. But then again, any man with any brains finds it to his advantage to keep it that way.

2. How do you like your coffee?
Two sugars, dark.

3. I’d describe my sense of humor as…
…my life raft.

4. What’s your magic word?
“Contingency!” or “Non-recoupable” depending upon who is in the room.

5. Love is great, but I’d also marry for…
…food.

6. I feel naked without my…
clothes on.

7. Complete this sentence: Life is like a box of…
…subsequent boxes.

8. When I was little, I used to believe that…
…the moon was laughing.

9. I’d be totally screwed without…
…ears.

10. I feel most powerful when…
…the check clears.

11. I like people who are…
… clean.

12. I wish I were a character in…
… a Frank Capra movie.

13. Waffles are…
… highly overrated.

14. When the aliens arrive, I hope they bring…
… their own doughnuts.

15. Women are…
… like a gift of a Swiss Army knife to a 10 year old. Of course you’ll cut yourself, but who cares?

16. You have the right to remain…
… as ill informed as you sound.

17. Who would you want to be with on a desert island?
My wife, my kids and my dogs. Everybody else can apply for visas.

18. I miss…
… personal accountability.

19. I’m allergic to…
… authority.

20. What makes you homesick?
Not being home.

21. What’s the closest you’ve come to death?
Being shot at.

22. A little bit country or a little bit rock and roll?
Nothing little about it.

23. In 100 years, my generation will be remembered for…
Bongs. Squandered opportunity. Great music.

24. Burn Out or Fade Away?
Already at that crossroads apparently.

25. What’s your favorite song lyric?
“Ronald is so happy with a sandwich in his shoe.” …at least that’s it sounded like what Dylan said the last time I heard him live.

26. Bury me with my…
….hand in someone else’s pocket.

27. I love the scent of…
… horses. Not kidding.

28. Who do you take after? Mom or Dad?
Mom. She was one tough customer with a universally disarming smile.

29. What’s the dumbest excuse you’ve used to break up with someone?
Never had a dumb excuse. I’d usually wait until I was thinking about calling the police and that was usually a pretty solid clue that they needed to go.

30. When was the last time you gave your parents a call?
That would be a little difficult in that they checked out of this hotel awhile back.

31. If I could control my dreams, I’d dream about…
I wouldn’t do that. That would ruin the suspense.

32. The answer to the ultimate question is…
It doesn’t come in your size.

33. God is…
… a definite, but looks nothing like Charlton Heston. Atheists are anachronistic in light of today’s science and they are pitiable in their hubris.

34. My first word was probably…
Not probably. It was “chicken noodle soup.” I saved my debut for a good one and I had witnesses.

35. What’s the sexiest thing a member of the opposite sex can wear?
Jewelry and shoes. Nothing else is necessary.

36. I wonder about…
… what’s going to happen when the Fed runs out of green ink and paper.

37. Nothing beats…
…sleep.

38. Early riser or night owl?
Insomniac.

39. Fame or Fortune?
Both, and the brains to handle them responsibly.

40. I wish I had never seen…
… anything with Vin Diesel or Will Ferrell in it. I want that part of my brain back, please.

41. Winter, Spring, Summer, or Fall?
Spring.

42. Who is are your hero(s)?
My kids.

43. Politics are…
… the best entertainment value around.

44. What was the best advice you ever received?
Look them in the eye and keep smiling.

45. What was your most cherished memory from the past year?
In hindsight, when I stopped asking for permission to do things and simply bought the company.

46. I want my last meal to be…
… high in cholesterol and salt.

47. My philosophy is…
When they tell you “no,” ask them who gave them any authority in the matter in the first place.

48. There’s more to life than…
… cable news. Shoot your television.

49. Quick! Write the last sentence of your autobiography.
“However, the charges were eventually dropped for lack of evidence and credible witnesses.”

50. Everything is negotiable in a relationship, except…
… everything else.

51. George W. Bush is…
… last week’s one liner. Time to move on. There are more important things to attend to at the moment.

52. I’ve never…
… hmmmmm. Let me get back to you on that one.

53. Which side is your good side?
The one that I’m lying on at the time.

54. Late at night, I like to eat…
Valium and Cocoa Crispies.

55. What did you have for lunch yesterday?
Sausage & Peppers.

56. Pardon my…
… finger.

57. Quick! What’s a creative way to recycle an empty toilet paper tube?
Give it to the dogs. They love them for some reason and love you for giving one to them.

58. If you were invisible for a day, what would you do?
Go to the bank.

59. Girls are sugar and spice and everything…
… that you used to own.

60. What was the first thing you bought when you got your first credit card?
A round.

61. If I had to spend twenty bucks in the next twenty minutes, I would…
…. likely run on down to the music store and find something that I already have two of.

62. Which sport is the best to watch?
Hurling. Thirty Irishmen on a field with axe shaped sticks and a rock. Now that’s entertainment!

63. How many licks does it take to get to the center of a marble?
Why don’t you call me when you figure that one out, Slappy. I can’t wait.

64. What is/was your imaginary friend’s name?
Sam. He was an empty Maxwell House coffee can and I was two or three. How pathetic is that?

65. People make fun of my…
… snoring.

66. My comfort food is…
… cigarettes.

67. What’s your favorite type of cheese?
Slightly soft parmesan. That, some sopresata, bread and oil, glass of wine. Bang! Lunch! Wow!

68. What was (or will be) your wedding song?
Idiot Wind – Bob Dylan

69. I’m back in the…
…studio. Don’t knock.

70. Do you play any instruments?
With varying degrees of sincerity depending upon the size of the check.

71. Would you shave your head for a worthy charity?
Certainly. But who is so bad off that they would eat my hair?

72. What’s the worst that could happen?
Anything that hurts my kids. God won’t even help you.

73. How often do you go without underpants?
Depends upon what’s on the agenda.

74. I’m the best at…
…. holding my tongue around morons or the painfully lazy. Seriously, you have absolutely no idea.

75. What music should they play at your funeral? (example: Get On Up)
Someone should stand in the corner with a Theremin. That should properly freak the place up.

76. Milk chocolate, dark chocolate, or white chocolate?
Dark. No contest.

77. Bill or Hillary?
Monica.

78. What album could you listen to every day for the rest of your life?
Puccini: Madam Butterfly; Callas. But even that, everyday? The rest of my life?

79. When you get stressed, what are you most likely to throw out the window?
Body parts.

80. What’s the fastest you’ve ever driven?
135…. ish. No ticket. Figures…. when your trying…!

81. When faced with a problem, I…
… solve it. Let me ask you a question, did you write these questions all by yourself or did you have some help. Because if someone helped you, you should take away their crayons.

82. A recent poll shows a fifth of Americans cannot locate the US on a world map. Why do you think this is?
Hahahahahahaha! Why do “I’ think this is? Hahahahahahaha!

83. For my first wish, I wish…
… for a few moments with my attorney.

84. I’d like to be captain on a manned mission to…
Los Angeles.

85. What was your worst fashion mistake?
Allowing that stylist to have ever set foot on the set of the music videos for Stun Leer.

86. How old were you when you had your first date?
Seven. Got lucky too… for seven.

87. Are you a cat or a dog person?
I like both, but dogs rule.

88. Define yourself in 3 words…
On the phone.

89. Where do you want to travel next?
To the end of my driveway.

90. What is your favorite food?
Pretty much anything that wouldn’t necessarily eat me if given the chance.

91. What is your favorite place?
Bed.

92. If you could have one super human power what would you choose?
I thought we covered this. I’d be invisible and then hit the bank.

93. Have you had a beer in the last week?
Ya think?

94. Flip flops or sandles?
Boots. Even in the pool.

95. What do you do on fridays?
I practice spelling. You might consider it too. Weekday names are traditionally capitalized.

96. What is your favorite song of all time?
Hells Bells

97. Do you like bananas?
Actually no. I know they are good for you, but they make my nose feel funny.

98. Do you own any pets, and if so what do you have?
My God, you really are an idiot aren’t you?

99. When do you plan on getting married?
So when do you plan on just killing yourself? Honestly! You get paid for this?

100. Get the number or give the number?
email.

101. Romance or Kinky?
Please explain the difference.