WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WERE THEY THINKING?

Well, it's that time again. What time is that, you ask? Time for another top five post, of course. And this time around, by popular demand (seriously...two people to whom I owe money actually demanded it), the subject is 'songs that just should never have been written." We're not talking merely cheesy songs, either. Or even songs so bad they're sort of good. We're talking awful, terrible, what-the-hell-were-they-thinking songs. So grab your barf bag and start scrolling. Ready? Let's cringe...

Okay, the fact that the words "yummy, yummy" are repeated throughout the song is bad enough. But the rest of the lyrics are even worse. How they ever made it on 1968 AM radio is anyone's guess. "Yummy, Yummy, Yummy. I got love in my tummy, And I feel like a-lovin you: Love, you're such a sweet thing, Good enough to eat thing. And that's just a-what I'm gonna do." Am I the only one who thinks I know what the members of Ohio Express are really talking about? In a word...ewwwww. Of course, we can't actually blame Ohio Express since they were merely one of the many manufactured bands created by Jerry Kasenetz and Jeffrey Katz, the brains (and balls) behind Super K Productions, the pop hit machine also responsible for giving the world "Sausalito" by Graham Gouldman, another song we really need never hear again, although I'd take it over "Yummy, Yummy" any day. In fact, I'd pretty much take any song over "Yummy, Yummy" including the next one...and that says a lot.

Oh, man. Or...perhaps we should...woman. Because this 1976 top forty "sleeper hit", crooned in a sicky sweet monotone by Charlene Duncan (known professionally simply as "Charlene") could be viewed as a lightweight companion piece to Helen Reddy's "I Am Woman" of a few years before. Written by Ron Miller, it's a confessional piece that would probably make Oprah cry, telling the story of a woman who's lived a life filled with worldly pleasures, including but not limited to taking "the hand of a preacher man" with whom she made love in the sun (I always picture Jim Baker), going to Monte Carlo "like (Jean) Harlow", and sipping champagne in a yacht near an isle in Greece, only to discover that, of all the amazing places she's been, she's "never been to me." Yeah, Charlene, we get it. It's all about channeling your inner goddess and empowering her to make you happy instead of looking to outside things to do the job. Not a bad philosophy at all. It's just that the song is so damned cloying and annoying (yes, I know they rhyme), and Charlene sings it in a voice that just begs to be used in a Disney movie...from the 1940s. Not surprisingly, it was Charlene's only hit. That it was at a hit at all is what makes us crazy. But nowhere near as crazy as this next song...

He hit me...and it felt like a kiss. Great lyrics...Gerry Goffin and Carole King. Yup, that's right. The same song writing legends who wrote "One Fine Day" and "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?" actually wrote the above lyrics...inspired by the personal life of Little Eva, their babysitter-turned-pop-star for whom they also wrote the much less disturbing "Locomotion." Seems that upon discovering that Eva's boyfriend hit her on a regular basis, they inquired as to why, and she explained that it was because he loved her. So who else to produce it but Phil Spector? Yes, the gun-toting madman behind the early 60's "wall of sound" was in on it, too. Now, don't get me wrong. I understand that Goffin and King weren't condoning relationship violence when they wrote the song, merely reflecting Eva's attitude toward it, but you wouldn't know that from the sincere rendering it gets from The Crystals, who were the first to record it. Back in 1962, as now, the song was not well recieved, and there were even protests leveled at it, both facts which minimized its radio airplay. Even so, it's been covered by some pretty formidable artists, including The Motels and Hole (actually, that one makes sense). Amy Winehouse even once named it as one of the songs that most influenced her as a singer. But none of that lessens my contention that it's a terrible song that should never have been written...at least not without a disclaimer. And that goes for the following song as well...

"She has breasts like melons and breath like rotten eggs"...yeah, and those are the more radio-friendly lyrics in the song. By the time you get to the line "I want to take your chubby ass back to my place and squirt my baby gravy all over your face", you know that you're listening to the work of either a full-fledged chubby chaser or a very bitter metal singer who's had it with all those skinny groupies hanging around outside the dressing room every night. But either way, it's not a very nice tribute to its subject matter, i.e. "fat girls", who, for the record, don't always have breasts like melons or breath that smells like rotten eggs. Hell, if anything, the singer looks like he could use a good washing-up himself. What was Steel Panther thinking when they recorded this song? Hard to say. But I know what I think when I see the video...and it's a two-word phrase that starts with the same first letter of the song's title and ends with a letter that rhymes with "ewwwwwww." And I feel pretty much the same way about this next song...

1982. California metal band. Best known for their 1987 live album "Harder, Faster" (which is actually pretty good). So far so good. But then you realize that they wrote this song, the chorus of which goes, "ON your knees, you shall be on your knees, cause i want you on your knees, you shall be on your knees." Okay...so, the dude wants a blow job. Well, does he have to be such a damned, arrogant jerk about it? I mean, come on. I'm no blushing virgin, but I take issue with the tone, if not the sentiment of the song. How old were their groupies, for God's sake? Really, fellas. You're playing with the self-esteem of malleable young women here. Go easy. There are ways to make a point without totally reducing the concept to its basest form. But that's just me, I guess. I happen to like my metal with a little oil on it. Works better, you know?

Well, that's it...once again. My top five picks for terrible, never shoulda been written songs. Hope you enjoyed it. See you next time. Skol! xoxoxxoxoxxoxoxoxxo

TEMPLE HEIGHTS: SEANCES BY THE SEA IN NORTHPORT, MAINE

If you're a regular reader of my other blog, Nocturne In G Major, you know that one of its major themes is the paranormal. Most recently, I've been writing a succession of posts on 19th century paranormal investigations, most of which were carried out by the British Society For Psychical Research (the SPR) shortly after its inception in 1888. There are few things I like better than a good, detailed account of a Victorian-era haunting. Even the mere mention of gas lamps, flickering candlelight, and glowing figures in filmy grey gowns is enough to set my heart a flutterin'. But as much as I love to read and write about such things, I love taking part in them even more. But how is that possible, you ask? Well, settle down, and I'll tell you...in two simple words. Ready? Temple Heights.

TEMPLE HEIGHTS: MECCA FOR SPIRITUALISTS AND THE SIMPLY CURIOUS FOR OVER A CENTURY

I suppose the best way to describe Temple Heights is as a "spiritualist retreat", which it is, technically, although you don't have to be a spiritualist to go there. In fact, for the past five years that I have been making regular summer pilgrimages to Northport, Maine, where Temple Heights is located, I'd have to say that the majority of people I've met there are men and women who are simply curious to find out what goes on at a place like Temple Heights. The short answer? A lot. From the day it opens its doors for the summer (this year that day will be Friday, June 16) until they close for the season in the first week of September, visitors can partake of everything from a group seance (or message circle, as they're called by the regulars) and/or a private reading to classes on such diverse topics as remote viewing, spirit photography, and spiritual healing, as well as church services in the separate, and equally old church which is also located on the property.

THE CHURCH AT TEMPLE HEIGHTS AS SEEN FROM THE FRONT PORCH OF THE MAIN BUILDING

But just because Temple Heights is a place dedicated to the pursuit of spiritual knowledge doesn't mean it's all somber faces and hushed voices. Spiritual seekers have their fun-loving side, too. For the price of $45 (cash only; they don't take plastic at Temple Heights), you can rent an absolutely adorable, pristine little room in the main building that overlooks the ocean and which you can use as a base to explore not only the section of beach that is part of the property, but the nearby towns of Belfast (consummate Maine coastal town with some of the best bars and restaurants in the area) and Camden (consummate Maine tourist trap also with some of the best bars and restaurants in the area) as well. And if you really want to make the most of your time at Temple Heights, you definitely have to visit Dos Amigos, the unapologetically cheesy Mexican restaurant owned and staffed by a very nice family with roots in Eucador, which marks the turn off from Route 1 onto the windy, summer cottage-lined road leading to Temple Heights. In fact, I usually make a point of stopping at Dos Amigos first to fortify myself with a plate of chicken mole (the best on the coast of Maine), a Margarita, and a shot of Grand Mariner before checking into my room. Invariably, half of the people I see whilst there, I see later on at Temple Heights. Clearly, I'm not the only one who considers a visit to Dos Amigo an important pre-Temple Heights ritual.

DOS AMIGOS IN NORTHPORT, MAINE: BEST CHICKEN MOLE ON THE MAINE COAST (AND THE MARGARITAS AREN'T BAD, EITHER)

So, by now, you're probably thinking, okay, it all sounds fun enough, but what about the paranormal part? As in...have I ever actually seen anything that could be classified as such during any of my stays at Temple Heights? Good question. But the answer is a little complicated. I mean, sure, I've had my share of experiences whilst there. The first time I ever spent a night at Temple Heights, I woke during the night to the unmistakable sensation of arms around my waist. The sensation was so real that, for a second, I actually wondered who the hell had climbed into bed with me. However, on turning around to look, there was no one there...which sent me into such a panic that I groped for the light and then went outside for some fresh air to calm my nerves. Then I remembered the private reading I'd had earlier that evening with one of the many mediums who offer their services (for only a small stipend) at Temple Heights every summer. During the reading, the medium had informed me that a spirit was present and wished to give me a message. She described the spirit, telling me that it was up to me to identify it, because, otherwise, it would just be her telling me that it was so-and-so, and that would hardly stand as proof of anything, would it? In other words, she explained, "given your age, it would be reasonable for any medium to assume that you have a grandmother in spirit. So, for me to say, 'Your grandmother's spirit is here' just sounds like I'm making that assumption. But if my description of a spirit makes you say, 'That sounds like my grandmother', then the message I give you is more likely to mean something.' Do you understand?"

I had to admit that it made sense. And so did the message that the medium gave me afterward. But just to be sure, after the reading, I asked my grandmother (silently, of course) to give me further proof that she had actually come through at the reading. Some sign that only I would understand. Just some little thing that, when it happened, I would connect immediately with her. And I had left it at that and gone to bed. And then...well...the sensation of arms wrapped around me in my dark room. The interesting thing is, when I was a kid, I lived with my grandparents and often slept in my grandmother's bed. And very often, she would wrap her arms around my waist as we slept. It's one of the things that I remember most fondly about my childhood. In the context of what I had asked from my grandmother's alleged spirit, it was a perfect response. To this day, I am convinced it was my grandmother's spirit who slipped into my bed at Temple Heights that night.

HARRISON D. BARRETT: FOUNDER OF THE SPIRITUALIST CHURCH IN MAINE

There have been other interesting occurrences at Temple Heights which have cemented my belief in an afterlife as well. There was the time when, during a seance, I saw a spirit trumpet vibrate and rise a few inches off the floor, the occasion when a medium asked me point blank about a personal situation that she had no business knowing about and which had been on my mind all day, and the night that I sat in on a table tipping session and was astounded when the table began dancing and rocking, seemingly of its own volition and those of sitting around it had to grip its edges with all our strength to keep it from scuttling across the floor. Yes, I know, cases can be made for fraudulence in connection with all of these things. But the way I see it is, that when it comes to the paranormal, the burden of proof isn't on the person who claims to have had the experiences, it's on the person who wants the proof...and good luck proving a negative. The last thing I'm going to waste time doing is trying to prove what I believe to anyone else. Maybe it really happened, maybe it didn't, but, bottom line, I experienced something...and that's all that matters to me. You want to meet me at Dos Amigos for a Margarita, I'll tell you all about it. Otherwise, feel free to go spew your skepticism elsewhere...perhaps in your own blog dedicated to the purpose.

THE SUNFLOWER: THE THE SYMBOL OF SPIRITUALISM, AN IMAGE OF WHICH CAN BE FOUND IN EVERY ROOM AT TEMPLE HEIGHTS

Skeptics or no, I'll be going to Temple Heights this Saturday, to attend a seance and spend the night. I've booked the "angel room", so-called because of the picture that hangs on the wall opposite the bed. It's a copy of a 19th century lithograph of a dying woman, her husband kneeling in anguish at her bedside, with a spirit (or angel) rising up out of her body in a mass of shiny white glory. The first time I stayed in the room and saw the picture, I thought it was macabre and even a little bit horrifying. Now, I just think, oh, well, typical Temple Heights. Just one more fascinating element of a place where the flesh and the spirit are all intertwined, where those who have recently imbibed Margaritas and scarfed down chicken mole can enjoy a seance by the ocean at night, and splash in the ocean by day, and, maybe...just maybe...come away believing in something that they didn't believe in before.

Skol! xoxoxxoxoxoxxoxoxxoxoxo

THE DISSING OF SUMMER LAWNS

I really love kitsch. I mean...I love it so much I wish that I could start my own kitsch museum and fill it from top to bottom with Kit Kat clocks (jewel encrusted and plain), black panther TV lamps, glow in the dark saints, sombrero-shaped ashtrays, and all the hundreds of other cheesy and wonderful things that make up the world of kitsch decor. Given a choice between a perfectly appointed Victorian house replete with an endless array of potentially valuable period pieces and a nice little city flat with a 1950s living room set, a starburst wall clock, an avocado green stove and matching refrigerator, and a year's supply of Black Tower wine and Laughing Cow cheese, I would, without hesitation, opt for the flat...provided I already had enough money to live on without needing to sell the Victorian antiques, of course. My point is, I find a strange comfort in surrounding myself with the brand names and dated fashion trends of the past. I'm shameless in my passion for kitsch...but not clueless. The way I look at it is, it's one thing to celebrate something that you know is cheesy and ridiculous. But it's an entirely different thing to have no idea that your taste in home furnishings (or clothes or food) is just...well...bad. It's the difference between decorating your front lawn with pink plastic flamingos and draping them in little white lights because you know that your lawn is never going to be featured in Better Homes and Gardens anyway, and sticking a couple of the pink plastic birds next to your trailer because you think they "look nice" next to the Golden Retriever banner that you bought on sale at Family Dollar. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against trailers, and I'm in no position to be snobbish about where other people do their shopping. It's simply a matter of sensibility. Which brings us to the real subject of this post.

Someone needs to come up with a guide on appropriate lawn decoration. I'm serious. Do you know what I saw whilst driving to a friend's house today? A statue of St. Francis (you know, the patron saint of animals, from Assisi) standing next to a garbage can outside a shabby little house with a pit bull chained to a stake on the other side of the driveway. Now, you tell me...what's wrong with this picture? Aside from the fact that there are a lot of better places to put a statue of St. Francis of Assisi than next to your garbage can, a person who owns a pit bull that they keep chained to a stake in the yard has a lot of nerve decorating the outside of their house with the image of a man known for his love of animals. Keep in mind, I'm no animal rights activist, and I have a lot of issues with the way that PETA conducts their campaigns against animal cruelty, but I'm pretty sure that there's something inappropriate about that particular scenario. And I've seen even worse ones. Like the statue of Jesus I used to pass every day on my way to work, standing with its arms outstretched outside a house decked out with two satellite dishes (two? really?) and an assortment of ersatz appliances set next to the curb, as though the people inside the house couldn't be bothered to get rid of them properly and were just hoping that someone would pull up to the curb one day and scoop them up like newly discovered treasures. What was the statue of Jesus supposed to mean in that context anyway? "God bless our slovenliness"? And what about those lawns littered with those awful black silhouettes of cowboys, running children, or horses? I can't be the only one who finds those things creepy. Especially at night. Although, as lawn decorations go, they're nowhere near as bad as the "fat lady behinds" or the "pissing kids" that some people seem to think add visual enhancement to their front yards.

What I'm saying is, if you're going to include a statue of a religious figure in your lawn decor, use decor--um. And if you're going to use bad taste as a template, then at least have a sense of humor about it. Can't live without a lawn jockey? Well, fine. Just make sure he's wearing a cap with the logo of your favorite football team on it. If you just have to have one of those fat lady behinds next to your house, consider adding a "kick me" sign to it. And as for those black silhouette things...well, just go with pink flamingos instead. Even if you don't realize how kitschy they really are. Because even if you don't, when it comes to lawn decor, kitsch is always better than creepy.

Skol! xoxoxxoxoxxoxoxxoxoxxoo

WHICH BEATLE MAKES YOU FEEL FINE?

Okay, so...because I am a geek who never learns...I took this quiz the other night, called "Which Beatle Are You?", which, based on your answers to the questions, purportedly tells you with which of the four members of the Beatles you have the most in common. As a long time, die hard (extra die, extra hard) Beatles fan, I was pretty sure I already knew the answer, and I was not disappointed. But that still leaves the question of...how come that particular Beatle? I mean, sure, we all know that...supposedly, at least...John was the "sarcastic one", Paul was the "sentimental one", George was the "spiritual one", and Ringo was "the clown." But no one is ever just one thing, and although there are times when I have declared, with absolute certainty, that I am a "John person", there have been nearly as many times when I felt much more closely aligned with Paul, George, or Ringo. Hell, there have even been times when I felt that I had more in common with Brian Epstein! That's why I thought it might be fun to expand on the "which Beatle are you?" concept and explore an entirely new level of the question. And so I have come up with my own quiz, one based on an even more shallow version of the same kinds of quiz. Are you ready? Good. It's time to take my "Which Beatle Would Have Been Most Likely To Give You An Orgasm?" quiz. And if you happen to be a straight guy or a lesbian, don't worry. It's all academic anyway. Oh...and be aware...the questions are not quite as straightforward as they seem.

Here we go...

1.) It's 1965, and you've just landed in "swingin' London" for a little R&R. Stopping into a pub near Carnaby Street, you're excited beyond measure when, glancing across the room, you spot the Fab Four chatting up a group of German art school birds. Which of the following attributes asssociated with the Fab Four impresses you the most?

a.) A flowery, puff-sleeved, paisley print shirt b.) A goofy, lopsided grin c.) Perfectly coiffed hair and puppy dog eyes d.) Granny glasses

2.) You are thrilled beyond belief to have been invited to an actual Beatles recording session at teh Abbey Road studio. Which of the following qualities turns your knees to Jell-O?

a.) An unabashedly sentimental rendering of the latest Beatles ballad b.) A straightforward, no frills drumming technique c.) Acidic comments to fellow band mates between takes d.) A psychedelic hat

3.) You have become a member of the Beatles "inner circle", thanks to your witty repartee and cool new white plastic hoop earrings that compliment your Jean Shrimpton haircut, and have just been invited to a party at Mick Jagger's house where the the Fab Four will all be in attendance. Assuming that you're fortunate enough to actually catch the attention of one of them instead of just standing next to the lava lamp eating cheese and sipping a Fresca and whiskey cocktail, which of the following lines would be most likely to set your heart a-flutter?

a.) "You look a lot like my girlfriend. Want to get out of here, get some Japanese take-away, and check out my home recording studio?" b.) "Have you ever been to India?" c.) "What's your ring size?" d.) I was feeling pretty good yesterday, but now life just looks like one big long winding road. Want to help me navigate it?"

Alright, then, let's see how you did...

Question Number One: If you chose (a), (b), or (d), you should probably try to hook up with John or George, or, if they're busy, maybe Ravi Shanker. If you went with (c), you might be better off with Paul, but only if Linda Eastman isn't in town, and even then, only if you're a vegetarian.

Question Number Two: If you chose anything but (b), you are definitely a candidate for a sweet, soulful orgasm with Paul. If you did go with (b), well, Ringo just might be your man, but it would probably be better as a threesome, because Paul played drums on a lot of Beatles tracks including Dear Prudence, Back In The USSR, and The Ballad of John and Yoko. Confused? Hey...I told you it was a misleading quiz.

Question Number Three: If you chose anything but (c), you are looking at a night of orgasmic delight in the company of John. I mean, come on, it wouldbe just like him to throw in a sarcastic reference to Paul's "Yesterday". But if you chose (c), you're definitely heading to the water bed with Ringo...as if you didn't already know. Just make him take all those rings off first. They can be painful.

So there you have it...a totally unscientific, completely arbitrary quiz on your orgasmic potential with one or more of The Beatles, circa 1965. If you want to take a real Beatles or rock music quiz, feel free to check out a few I wrote during my days as an editor with Fun Trivia, the best and largest quiz site online. Just click on the "Music" category. They're all top-rated. And as always...skol! xoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

DRIVE, SHE SAID...AND TURN UP THE RADIO

I said good-bye to an old friend today. Well, in theory anyway. I sold my 1980 Toyota Celica GT Liftback, a lovely little automobile from the days of yore, which has been in storage for the last two years, but now, once again, will have a chance to do what she was created to do...namely, tool down the highways and byways of this fair state, her sun roof open, and her cherry red paint job gleaming with the reflection of the summer sky. I will miss her. Had some good times in that car and had hoped to have a few more, but life is nothing if not an endless array of twists and turns that take you to places you didn't expect to ever go. So although she is still parked outside my living room window as I write this, come Wednesdasy afternoon, she will have gone...and I will do my best to be happy that she has at least found a good home. And in tribute...because she deserves it...I offer you these following songs....my top five picks for best car/driving songs ever. Enjoy.

I used to do this song with my band, Syntonic, and still love to sing it in jam sessions. A collaboration between Neil Young and former bandmate, Stephen Stills, it was released in 1975 and peaked at #26 on the American Billboard 200, and at #76 on the UK singles chart. Like most Neil Young songs, its lyrics are pretty autobiographical, whilst, at the same time, oddly universal. Is he singing about a woman, a friend, or a car? Turns out the subject of song is actually the Three Chord King's beloved 1948 Buick Roadmaster hearse, which, apparently, replaced another beloved hearse he used to drive around Los Angeles in 1966, shortly before he joined Buffalo Springfield, where he first met Stills. And what more fitting tribute can one give to a car one has loved and been forced to let go than lyrics like "Long may you run, long may you run, although these changes have come, with your chrome heart shining in the sun, long may you run"? I can't think of any. Thanks, Neil Young.

To be honest, I had a hard time deciding which version of this song to post here. I love Cyndi Lauper's 1987 version, mainly because of her strong, soaring vocals on the chorus, but this 1992 version by the amazing Roy Orbison, while a bit more sedate, somehow seems more in keeping with the melancholy concept of driving late at night, compelled by a feverish desire to see that beloved person lying in bed (and possibly awaiting your appearance) in some distant location. Written originally for Orbinson by Billy Steinberg and Tom Kelley, the song was actually recorded first by Lauper and reached #10 on both the American and UK charts in 1989. Orbinson's version didn't come out until after the legendary singer's death in 1988, following its remix by former Traveling Wilburys bandmate Jeff Lynne, when it was released as a single from the 1991 posthumous collection album Nintendo: White Knuckle Scorin', scoring a #7 spot on the UK charts and a posthumous Grammy for Orbinson. A third version, featuring Canadian pop diva Celine Dion, was released in 2003 and went to #26 on American singles charts and all the way to #1 in...you guessed it..Canada. But while Lauper and Orbinson rocked out on the tune, Dion's version comes off as a slick commercial dance number, which it pretty much is, and which is probably the reason it was used in promotional ads for the Chrysler Crossfire. But whoever happens to be singing it, as driving songs go, this one still revs my engine every single time.

Who doesn't love this single from the Beatles 1966 Rubber Soul album? It's not really about driving, of course, as much as it a euphemism for...well...you know. At least that's what I've always assumed anyway. But it's got a good beat and you can dance to it. And like any really good driving song, it's perfect for singing out loud along with the car stereo. Interestingly, when Paul McCartney first approached songwriting partner John Lennon with the tune for the song already in his head, he intended the initial lyrics to start with the line "You can buy me diamond rings." But Lennon, who was never shy about voicing his opinions, called the lyrics "crap" and pointed out that he and McCartney had already written several songs with lyrics about diamond rings. Looking back on that particular songwriting session, McCartney remembers it as being "one of the stickiest" the pair had ever engaged in, until Lennon came up with the idea of making the theme of the song "driving a car", at which point the lyrics finally began to flow. And the rest, you might say, is Beatles history.

It's hard to believe that this song, written by Michael Bruce, Dennis Dunaway, and Bob Ezrin, and released by Alice Cooper (aka Vincent Furnier) in 1971, was one of the legendary shock rocker's first singles. It's been covered by a multitude of artists since then, including Megadeath, Manic Street Preachers, and as a duet featuring Axl Rose and Cooper. But, as is almost always the case, the original version is still the best, even if it is, taken literally, about driving over your girlfriend. But, hey, back in 1971, if you were a girl whose boyfriend happened to be Alice Cooper, what else could you expect? I mean...really. But whether or not Cooper ever really did have some girl under his wheels, this kick ass little ditty is a timeless tribute to that surge of power that comes from being the one in the driver's seat.

How many times have you heard a bar band cover this song? Probably as many as I have, not to mention the times that I've sang back-up to it in one of my own bands. It's just one of those songs. Sort of like the R & B version of "Freebird." Covered by countless artists since it was first recorded by Mark Rice in 1965, it was a song that, according to rock historian Tom Shannon, started out as a joke between Rice and his friend, fellow R & B artist Della Reese, who at that point in her life was hot for a Mustang of her own. Rice wrote the song in response to Reese's oft-stated desire, calling it "Mustang Mama", but later changing it to "Mustang Sally", at the suggestion of another friend, an up-and-coming singer called Aretha Franklin. Rice's recording of the song was a moderate hit for him, reaching #16 on the U.S. R & B charts, and that was that....until another singer, Wilson Pickett, who recorded it a year later. Pickett's version of the song went to #6 on the R & B charts, not only eclipsing the original, much more laconic version, but crossing over onto the American, UK, and Canadian pop charts and eventually gaining a status that can only be described as iconic. So iconic, in fact, that it's probably a safe bet that, even as I write this, there's at least one bar, somewhere in the world, where someone is singing, "Ride, Sally, ride" right now. And if there isn't, well, just give it a few minutes.

Well, there you have it...my top five car/driving songs in honor of my little red 1980 Toyota Celica GT Liftback. And speaking of little red cars, I would like to mention that, if it were at all possible, I would have liked to have included Prince's "Little Red Corvette" on this list as well. But it seems that Prince doesn't take kindly to having his music uploaded onto YouTube, which means that I wasn't able to download a version of the song for this post. Thanks a lot, Prince. But, then, I'd rather have a Toyota anyway. Seriously. Although I have been told that I look pretty good in berets...raspberry-colored and otherwise.

So, here's to you, old friend. Long may you run. Skol! xoxoxoxxoxoxoxxoxoxo

IXNE ON ZOMBIES, SAYS CDC

Still worried about a zombie apocalypse? The Centers For Disease Control and Prevention say that your fears are unfounded. Click the link below for details.

http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/cdc-clears-air-threat-zombie-apocalypse-article-1.1088675

Skol! xoxoxxoxoxoxoxxo

WARNING: NOT THE USUAL SHALLOW DRIVEL

As wonderful as it is, most of the time, to wrap myself in a cloud of shallowness as I write these posts for my (presumably) shallow readers, this time around, I find myself compelled to peel off the protective veneer and write about something a bit more serious...namely, bath salts. In my last post, I wrote about the horrific incident in Florida in which a naked man was shot dead by police after he was witnessed near an off-ramp on the Miami causeway tearing off the flesh of another naked man's face and eating it. When first confronted by the police, the attacker, a 31-year-old homeless man called Rudy Eugene, allegedly growled at them and continued eating his victim's face. It took four bullets to put an end to the gruesome feast. Initially, the incident was blamed on a new strain of LSD that was believed to have driven Eugene to perform his horrible, cannibalistic act. But since that initial verdict, it has come to light that Eugene had, in fact, most likely ingested bath salts before the attack.

BATH SALTS...BUT NOT THE KIND YOU PUT IN YOUR BATH WATER

If you haven't heard of the synthetic drug known as "bath salts" before now...you're fortunate. But what you should know is that its name has nothing to do with the innocuous white or colored substance used in baths for the purpose of relaxation. The bath salts that Rudy Eugene, and thousands of others have snorted, smoked, or shot up ever since it first became available a couple of years ago, are without question one of the most dangerous drugs to surface since heroin. Unfortunately, I know a bit more about bath salts than I'd like because, for the past year and a half, a member of my family has been held hostage by the paranoia and the aggressive behavior which accompanies that paranoia. Thankfully, that family member is now in rehab and doing well, but the psychological and emotional scars remain, and no doubt will for some time. Still, having had a front seat to bath salts-fueled (mis) behavior all these months, it seems only right that I impart some of what I know about the drug to my readers. So, that's what I'm going to try to do.

FACE OF THE FLORIDA FACE EATER: RUDY EUGENE, 31, A VICTIM OF BATH SALTS?

Up until last July, in the state of Maine at least, it was perfectly legal to purchase bath salts. They were easy enough to get. Not only were they available in stores and head shops, if you knew the right people, you could have them delivered right to your flat or house. The aforementioned member of my family just happened to know the right people. At first, he only snorted them, "just to get a little extra energy". the same way you would snort speed or cocaine or Ritalin (if, of course, you did that sort of thing at all). At first, the result was the desired one: extra energy. But that initial result quickly spiraled into something more. Once the burst of energy wore off, my family member became almost instantly morose and sullen, sometimes to the point of becoming mildly aggressive. He began seeing things as well...or at least imagining that he did. He spoke of people outside the house who he believed were waiting to hurt him. On one occasion, when bath salts were still legal in our state, a couple of his friends came to visit him at our flat and decided to "try" bath salts as well. On returning home that night, they became convinced that a space alien was in their house, which prompted them to call the police, who, unable to locate the alleged space alien, ended up taking one of the friends to the local psychiatric ward where she was obliged to undergo a battery of tests in order to determine whether she was mentally stable enough to be released or required further treatment. Luckily, for her, she was determined to be of sound mind, but was warned not to take bath salts again. After all, just because something is legal doesn't mean that it's safe to snort up your nose. She was smart enough to follow the doctors' advice. But my family member had a different take on the situation. He thought that he'd discovered a new version of LSD, a mind-expanding chemical which he was convinced would allow him to access another dimension of reality. And he was right. It just turned out to be a reality better left unaccessed.

SHADOW PEOPLE: A SCOURGE FROM ANOTHER (BAD) DIMENSION?

Thus began the "Year of The Shadow People", as I've come to call it. As my family member's bath salt use progressed from simple snorting sessions to shooting up (a fact that was unknown to me until I happened to discover needles in his room), he became increasingly paranoid, mainly because, like crystal meth, the drug known as "bath salts" seems to trigger visions of shadowy figures (i.e. shadow people) lurking around with nefarious intent. Sometimes, passing by his room, I would hear him talking to friends about the shadow people, comparing notes on how to deal with them, as though they were actually real. What frightened me the most was that to my family member, as well as to his friends who were also using bath salts, the shadow people were real. The fact that they all saw them was more then a little unsettling. I kept thinking, what is it about bath salts that causes people who use it to see the exact same thing? Perhaps my family member was right about the drug allowing him to access a different dimension. But if it was a dimension populated by shadow people, what in God's name was the lure to continue to go there? It's a question to which I still haven't found a satisfactory answer. What I do know is that, as hideous and unspeakable as it is to think of one man eating another man's face, it's not one that I can dismiss as an aberration. Not when it comes to bath salts. Not when, last summer, a man of my family member's acquaintance became the first person in our city to "officially" die from bath salts after he was arrested, and in defiance of police, tore off his own testicles and hurled them across the room the uniformed "enemy". Not after another woman whom I had met was arrested after tearing a radiator out of a neighbor's bathroom wall and using it to barricade the bathroom door in an effort to keep nonexistent "killers" at bay. What Rudy Eugene did to his victim's face may have made headlines around the world, but, if nothing else, it should be seen as a wake-up call. Far from an isolated incident, it stands as an extreme example of what bath salts can drive those who use it to do. As I said at the beginning of this post, if you haven't heard of bath salts before now...you're fortunate. But now that you have, consider yourself forewarned. Bath salts aren't just bad. They're dangerous....and clearly not just to those who use them. Turns out that zombies are real. They're people on bath salts.

Skol! xoxoxxoxoxxoxoxoxoxxoxo