Subject: Storage of a grass skirt
Date: Sun, 5 Feb 2012 20:43:43

Hello!

Wanted to ask if anybody has any recommendations about how to properly
store a grass skirt?

Thank you!

Joel and Deron* have put on something over their jockstraps.

*The one he wears like a mask*.

*To block the image of Michael nesting in Troy Polamalu’s hair*.

*A frequent dream of Deron’s that leaves him feeling oddly aroused.

Originally created by Michael on September 9, 2010 and scheduled to publish the morning following the Super Bowl the post looked like this:

The NFL season has ended

And was changed by Deron on September 12:

I have the strength to say it. Deron, you are the handsomest man I know.

Michael, September 13:

I have the strength to say it. Deron, came on to me and, when I turned him down, he tried to blame the entire incident on his being distraught over the end the NFL season.

Deron, September 14:

What can I say? My lust for Deron outweighs my love even for NFL linemen.

Michael, September 26:

Now that the NFL season is over, Deron might stop talking about Troy Polamalu’s beautiful locks.

Deron, October 1:

I am able to open my heart to the depth of my love for Troy Palamalu’s hair. I want to build a nest in it. A sexual nest.

Michael, October 5:

I figured it out. Troy Palamalu’s hair is less efficient than Deron’s.

Also, the NFL season is over so there’s a chance Deron might take of that helmet and wash his “lucky” jock-strap.

Deron, October 23:

I, Michael Smith, am not wearing pants.

Joel, January 5:

I’m tempted to post the revision history of this post on its own.

Michael, January 10:

Joel and Deron have put on something over their jockstraps.

Deron, February 4:

Joel and Deron* have put on something over their jockstraps.

*Lies! [Deron]

Michael, February 4:

Joel and Deron* have put on something over their jockstraps.

*The one he wears like a mask.

Deron, February 6:

Joel and Deron* have put on something over their jockstraps.

*The one he wears like a mask*.

*To block the image of Michael nesting in Troy Polamalu’s hair.

Happy last day of the NFL Season to all of you!

Don Cornelius checked himself out, it would appear.

See him here — doin’ it to death — with Mary Wilson in the Soul Train line dance.

Well now here I’ve wasted a lot of your time with technicalities and jibber jabber, I’ll come to my point quickly. Let me ask you just one question:

Have you ever wanted to have a spleen named after you?

She was skinny, quick-witted, disarmingly unprofessional, alternating between stand-up patter, bardic intonations, and the hypnotic emotional sway of a chanteuse, and she was sexy in an androgynous way I hadn’t encountered before. The elements cohered convincingly; she seemed both entirely new and somehow long-anticipated. For me at nineteen, the show was an epiphany.

Luc Sante on Patti Smith.

Springtime 1976, I was living in the cinderblock building on the glorified median strip there where they split Highway 13, and one day I went over to this one girl’s apartment, she lived right by the guy who dealt me speed, and she said, “Hey, you know who you remind me of? You remind me of Patti Smith!”

Gave her a possum grin I’m still grinning.

and one reason only, that I put this photo here on clusterflock.

Joel, I love you, man, but that photo out of context was beginning to make my tummy sad every time I stopped by.

Besides, I know you love Culver’s.

Inspired by Josh’s Maurice Sendak post (and by Casey’s link to the “Fresh Air” interview with Sendak).

4. Walk with the devil

Old Delta blues players referred to guitar amplifiers as the “devil box.” And they were right. You have to be an equal opportunity employer in terms of who you’re bringing over from the other side. Electricity attracts devils and demons. Other instruments attract other spirits. An acoustic guitar attracts Casper. A mandolin attracts Wendy. But an electric guitar attracts Beelzebub.

(From WFMU’s Beware of the Blog. Via Brian Beatty.)

There’s a twisted thread that leads to my recalling this song, but I will not even try to unravel it, merely to recollect a boy named Danny Stevens, whom I knew when we were age seven or so, who used to sing this song as he loped down the halls of our school.

Except he only kept repeating the one line:

Muh mama done tol’ me
Muh mama done tol’ me
Muh mama done tol’ me
Muh mama done tol’ me

Danny also used to say to his classmates, “Shu-u-t up. Beat-cha brains out.”

At the end of second grade, Danny and his family moved to a state he called Organ.