Memories! Misty, sweaty, electric horse memories!

Stew, you really took me back 17 years with that last post; which is unfortunate as I'd just completed my last round of therapy six weeks ago putting to rest the demons of Lameduck Refusniks. It was one thing to serve as hairdresser for Steve T. and Lonnie S. Fly on that production, but quite another to be asked at the last minute to handle truss duty for Lukas P. Short. Who knew his hat had a truss?

I'm certain that no one has any earthly idea of what we're speaking of, which is a shame because, despite the personal psychological scars I acquired while making these productions, they really are as masterful as semi-improvised video on a budget of naught can get. I think my favorite scene is S.T. and Mrs. T. on the back of the electronic horse. It's still a shame we couldn't get the rights to "Disco Inferno" or better yet "Little Red Corvette" for that scene. Roger Ebert would still be drooling about it in breathless, Raisinette scented tones. That scene still has more physical energy that all 72 of Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger's sex scenes in the first 12 minutes of "9 and 1/2 Weeks", which is pretty amazing, considering they were both fully dressed and on different ends of the horse.

Still, I should be grateful you left out some of the more shocking works in the old TBSP canon. I'm thinking of the heartless, cannibalistic "Futile Gesture" (who knew it was adapted from Dickens' life story?), and of course the now legendary Freshly Squeezed Sunshine Show. Somewhere, in a carny in the U.S., Gorba the Great is still living of the buzz from that now defunct daytime extravaganza. I hear the band still gets good gigs just by mentioning your name and Sean Penn's immortal spin off "Get That Camera Out of My Face!".

Also, I would be remiss to forget our most notorious production. No, not Skinheads at Home (Hot Dog!!!!), but the infamous Cannes also-ran "Those Damn Joneses!" Father Jones was truly a challenge to the might and majesty of every psuedo-offshoot of the Roman Catholic orthodoxy on the planet (and in many ways also reminded me of Bing Crosby in "Boys' Town"). It's Three-Belt Dan though who has haunted my memory for ages and will be with me until I die, the triple-belted, hypnotic bastard. That vapid stare of his only seems to be empty and silly until you look deep into his frightening eyes and they bore into your soul and sanity like a Darrell Dawkins basketball dunk (Named appropriately "the Three-Belt Dan bore into your head, slam-a-jama crush you till you're dead". That Darrell, what a poet!)

I am calling Dr. Shrinkley and making an appointment for this Friday. I just remembered the 2 weeks I had to step in as belt-wrangler for Dan.