I always make a lot of grumbling noise about being tagged by my fellow bloggites, but I’m really just making that up because that’s what everybody does when they’re tagged. In reality, being faced with another chance to expound on myself is irresistible because what could be more interesting than me? So let me just say a big thanks to
1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.
5. Let each person know they've been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.
So is this one of them satanic, mark o’ the beast thingies? If so, I say right on, cause I am sick of all this crappy christmas stuff.
Like some bad David Sedaris ripoff, I made some spending money in Santa’s Village, not turning tricks as some stupid elf, but as Santa himself. Not once, but twice, in 1974 and 1975. At the time I was 6’3” and weighed about 170. I was built more along the lines of a candy cane than Father Christmas, but I shoved two pillows under the costume and lived to tell the story.
I played tuba for seven years and never learned how to read music. The whole thing was like some code I just couldn’t break. I would just listen to the rest of the bass section until I figured out what the line was supposed to sound like and then play be ear.
As a room service waiter in New Orleans, I delivered a bottle of champagne to Ron Ely. I was so horny for him as a young girlyboy. The opportunity to see him in person (I was hoping for the loincloth) thrilled me, but he wasn’t in the room, so not only did I not get to see him, I got stiffed on the tip. Bastard.
I really can name all seven dwarves AND all seven deadly sins. While I have never had the pleasure of meeting the dwarves, I am very well acquainted with each and every sin.
I hate Ingmar Bergman movies. I find them as emotionally involving as opening the freezer door and staring inside for ninety minutes.
My brother had to explain to me that words to the Tubes’ song were “White punks on dope,” and not “White pumps are gauche,” as I had thought. I believe my confusion says more about me than the Tubes vocal talents.