falling for falsies

OK, a little time has passed now and don’t feel as bad as I did earlier. I spent all this morning moping around, thinking about how stupid I’d been to have believed, even for a second, that the topless fan posting on Jeff’s site could have been real. I hate when I fall for shit that’s obviously fake. And nothing is more obviously fake than a young woman with nice tits reading thewvsr.com , let alone liking it.

It’s like when you forward what you think is a real computer virus warning to everyone you correspond with and then you hear back from each and every one of them calling you a dipshit for having believed what they could “clearly” see as hoax.

I’m over it now though. One of Jeff’s friends, a person by the name of Lucas, was kind enough to forward an apology from Jeff.

the evolution of the sex doll

Modern Sex Doll

Prehistoric Sex Doll

OK, that was just a little humor. I’m sorry if it upset any Bigfoot fans in the audience. I certainly wasn’t implying that a male Bigfoot might want to mount and make love to a fake, female Bigfoot made out of cheap rabbit pelts. It was all said in jest.

Hopefully, I can make up for it with this little tribute to another fake Bigfoot.

my favorite tv bigfoot

I was upset to find just now on JumpTheShark.com that most people out there think that my favorite episode of the “Six Million Dollar Man” was in fact the episode that marked the beginning of the series’ downward slide into shittyness. The episode I’m referring to is “The Secret of Bigfoot.” (Actually, it was two episodes, and they first aired in February 1976.) I would contend that this episode was not the beginning of the end for the series, but the best work that the “Six Million Dollar Man” cast and crew was capable of producing. What they achieved in those two episodes was absolutely magical.

Given time constraints, I can’t get into the details here right now. I just remember, as a kid, sitting fixed in front of the TV for those shows. The first time they aired, I was just turning eight years old and I had the Steve Austin doll. I don’t think that I ever owned the Bigfoot doll that was marketed after the episode ran, but I’m sure I wanted it. In fact, I think that episode might account for my interest in Bigfoot, and other things cryptozoological, now.

Just as the legendary footage shot by Roger Patterson in 1967, or the 1978 film “SASQUATCH: THE LEGEND OF BIGFOOT,” or episodes of “In Search Of,” this episode of the “Six Million Dollar Man” held my attention and somehow changed my life for the better.

Speaking of the 1978 film (which I remember going to see in the theater), do you remember the part where the tribe of Bigfeet surround the scientists’ encampment and hurl rocks down on the cabin? How about the part where the couple opens the door (or did they throw open a curtain) to find the Bigfoot standing there, staring at them? That scarred the shit out of me as a ten year old.

(Thanks to Dave “the Tripod” Miller for sending in the ebay link.)

hitler wasn’t the only angry artist in europe

In today’s New York Times, columnist Dinitia Smith speaks with best-selling mystery author Patricia Cornwell about her new book, “Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper, Case Closed” (G. P. Putnam’s Sons). The book, which comes out today, details Cornwell’s $6 million, self-financed search to conclusively identify Jack the Ripper.

The following quote is from the NYT article:

Ms. Cornwell has spent $6 million hiring forensic scientists and gathering evidence to crack the case, one of the oldest unsolved serial-killer mysteries on record. It has spawned an industry of books, Web sites, tourist attractions and countless suspects over the years.

Now Ms. Cornwell has named her suspect. He is the 19th-century Impressionist painter Walter Richard Sickert, a disciple of Whistler and friend of Degas, a frequenter of London’s demimonde who painted prostitutes menaced by malevolent male figures and who has been fingered before as a suspect.

By today’s standards, saucy Jack doesn’t really compare. What was it, five, maybe six, prostitutes? That’s a week’s work for one of our new, American serial killers. But, you have to keep in mind that it was a new thing back then.

It’s like when people say that Bill Bradley was a great basketball player.

Apparently Patricia Cornwell gets a $9 million advance for each mystery novel she writes, so laying out that kind of money isn’t too big of a deal for her. I did notice in the article how it says that she bought something like 50 of this guy’s paintings while conducting research (some claim that she tore a few apart looking for forensic evidence). I’m wondering how much that investment increases if/when people accept her version as to who Jack the Ripper is. It seems somewhat brilliant to me. You buy the stuff up, release a book claiming that this artist definitively is the Ripper and then just sit back and count the money.

Read the article for yourself if you’re interested in learning more. It’s pretty good.

I don’t know if I can pull it off, but I’d like to kick things off with a good serial killer story every Monday from now on. Can someone please remind me?

new guest book

I’m trying to spend less time on this site. I know that will negatively effect quality, but my hope is that it might lengthen my life, or at least my marriage, by a day or two.

In keeping with this new dedication to not trying as hard, I’ve decided to give up on my site renovation plans. So, that means I won’t be building my own guestbook, for instance. When possible, however, I will be partnering with other people on the internet to bring you these services. In the case of the guestbook, I was fortunate. I have a very good friend with a guestbook that has more than enough capacity for he and I both.

So, if you have a comment or suggestion, please leave it here, in our new guest book. I’ll make sure to check it every day and leave responsees.

frida’s lip

As you may or may not know, the painter Frida Kahlo had a moustache in real life. At least she presented herself that way in her self-portraits.

I neglected to mention in my brief review of the film “Frida” that her moustache disappears for the majority of the movie. It’s there at the beginning and it’s there at the end, but it kind of fades or recedes for the majority of the film. At least that’s how I remember it.

I heard later that the theater where we saw it was having a problem with their lens during the showing (this is true), but it still seemed to me as though it kind of disappeared. My guess is that it’s a concession Salma Hayek made to a studio that was investing millions in the project and didn’t want for their sex-symbol leading lady to have facial hair the whole time.

I may be wrong about this, but that’s what I think.

Also, as for the Hispanic Ashley Judd, Linette tells me that she was in the film because she and Salma Hayek are friends and Salma said she would only make out with her. (They do a sexy little dance together in the film and then kiss.) Linette whispered this to me in the theater when I expressed shock in seeing Ashley Judd jumping on screen and trying to roll her ‘R’s like a native of Mexico City.

I accepted Linette’s explanation for about fifteen minutes. That’s about when Salma Hayek got full-on nude and went down on another woman. Apparently, this is a much better friend than Ashley Judd.

test baby

On Friday night, Linette and I were given the opportunity to borrow a ten-week old baby for the evening. While we aren’t necessarily trying to have one of our own right now. we thought that it might be fun to take one for a spin and see how we did, just in case we were ever thrown into that situation with one of our own.

So, Dawn and David left little Nicholas Kulpinowski with us for about four hours, while they went to a wedding reception down the street.

Upon arriving they unfolded a giant cage kind of apparatus that looked like the thing Hannibal Lechter was locked up in before he peeled the face off of the security guard in “The Silence of the Lambs.” They also left a big bag of diapers and a few bottles of formula and a cell phone number, in case of emergency.

We took turns holding the baby and looking at it, then we set it down inside the cage thing, where we looked at it some more. As it doesn’t really do anything, we soon lost interest and put in a video while it stared up at a mobile that hung over its head. (The baby doesn’t talk or roll-over or even sit up yet.)

After a little while, we picked it up to feed it. It had drank about half a bottle when I started to feel tiny little farts reverberating through my arm. It felt like sitting in a hot tub, next to a water jet. Linette thought it was cute but wouldn’t take him from me. He continued to do it for about ten minutes. Every time I thought that it might have stopped, he started in again. After a few minutes of silence, we decided to raise the hood and see what was going on in there.

Now, my camera was on the table, within reach, and yet I exercised self-control. Every instinct as a journalist told me to document what I was seeing, and yet I held back, thinking that one day this boy might grow to be a very large man and kill me.

There was slimy, light-brown shit everywhere, front and back. His little testacles looked like a caramel apple on a tiny, little stick. Fortunately, it didn’t go past the waistband in the front, and the elastic around the leg holes held tight. The only real mission-critical failure was in the rear, at the top of the waistband.

It was like the O-ring blow-out on the space shuttle Challenger.

My guess is that the pressure built until the weakest point was found, and when it was found, it was found in a big way, like jumping on a full tube of toothpaste. Boom!

As I held him by the feet and lifted, I was looking behind him for the point when the shit stopped. I had lifted him until he was almost on his head by the time I’d found the end of it. It was at his tiny shoulder blades. To put it in burn lingo, the shit covered at least 30% of his body.

I held him up by the feet and pulled off his shit-soaked clothing while Linette boiled water and tore up sheets. It was like a scene from “Baby Emergency,” or one of those shows Linette watches where pregnant women get covered in gore and subsequently push back our own family start-date.

We went through five towels and then Linette laid the little fellah down on his stomach so that we could address the deepest ass crack in all of babydom, which happened to be still stuffed with poop paste.

By this point, he was loving it. He was clean and gurgling and smiling at the funny people with pooh on their hands.

Later, when Dawn and David finally came to get him, we told them what had happened. Upon hearing it, they looked at one another and kind of smiled. Dawn then said, “We didn’t think it was going to happen tonight. He does this when he has apple juice and we gave him some last night and we thought that we’d made it past the point where we had to worry about it.”

Yeah, thanks for telling us ahead of time, when you were handing us this ticking time bomb.

Other than that, the kid was great. We had a wonderful time with him. We just sat and stared at him like we were insane babynappers. I was kind of pretending in my head like we were Nicholas Cage and Holly Hunter in “Raising Arizona.”

So, that’s it for now. I promise to tell you about seeing “8 Mile” tomorrow.

Goodnight my friends.

And please feel free to tell all of your friends about MarkMaynard.com. I was holding off on the big marketing push until I fixed some stuff up, but, realistically, things aren’t going to get much better.

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