03/03/2010: "Top Ten, Feb 25 edition"

Hi All,

So this week the editorial decision was made to cut #6; it was deemed a little too racy for the paper, which is run, as some know, by a large oil concern. But the interesting thing is that #4 stayed. You have to read that one a little closely, and have some familiarity with Urban Dictionary, to see what's going on in that one. Pretty juvenile, I'll admit. But hey, that's me. I give credit to my friend Rob for introducing me to 'The Manhattan Transfer.' Thanks, Rob. Thanks a lot.

Very best, Craig.

WEEKEND’S TOP BETS

1. MONCTON. My husband, Paxton Thriftwhistle III, fell asleep on the Tiffany chaise lounge whilst smoking a robusta cigar; when we awoke, our chateau was in flames! We scarcely had time to rescue our hairless Tibetan Siamese (our hairless Tibetan butler was, alas, not so lucky). Thanks to generations of inbreeding Paxton's blood is purest blue - the downside being: his head is shaped like a partially deflated rugby ball and he has the business sense of a spider monkey. The fool invested our fortune in parachute pants! "I thought they were going to make a comeback," he told me. "Cheer up, my pet: I have a plan." We'll buy an RV, he says. As if I should fancy being cooped up in a rolling tin can, visiting shanty-towns infested with jug-blowing, hay-chewing overall-wearers. Oh, most horrid! Oh, unhappy day! RV Show at the Moncton Coliseum. Fri-Sun. Doors open at 10.

2. FREDERICTON. My tarot card reader Madame Zimza and I decided to write a book together. She’d read my palm and I’d jot it all down; a narrative of my life, so to speak. She traces one gnarled finger down my love line and says: “You will be cursed in love - you will marry a dog.” “You haggard old sea cow!” I roared, for this greatly offended my sensibilities and tugged at my secret shame - when you’ve got a snootful, you’d be surprised how fetching a beagle in a sundress looks. “I’ll slap the taste out of your mouth!” I thundered, but Madame Zimza only smiled and showed her teeth, which were variously black or yellow - like staring at a mouthful of bumblebees - and pulled a little horn-handled dagger out of her boot, waving it around in front of her face. When I looked at my notepad later I didn’t even have enough for a haiku! Come to a bookbinding workshop with Denise Rowe. UNB Arts Centre. Feb. 27, 1pm to 5pm. $35. 453-4623.

3. SAINT JOHN. Back in my roadie days I toured with this Baptist band, The Snake Handlers. The lead singer, Jazzmine Bellweather, was the most heavenly creature. Tall and leggy, blonde, voice of an angel. One night they’re playing a church supper. I was in charge of pyrotechnics. Right when Jazzmine hits the high note on Closer my Lord to Thee I set off a honeypot. Well, I musta packed the sucker too tight: the flash-bang carried near to the roof! Jazzmine’s wearing this black frock made of gauze or something; an ember touches her sleeve and before you know it she’s on fire! The flames tear through her wardrobe lickety split, burn that frock right off her body leaving her unhurt, but naked. Wouldn’t you know it - Jazzmine’s a man! Her real name’s Teddy Laframboise from Lac la Biche. Teddy’s fronting a death metal band out of Pittsburgh now, The Puppy Kickers. Mean as a rattlesnake, I hear, and twice as venomous. Jesus Christ Superstar at the Imperial. March 3 - 4. 7 - 9pm. 674-4100

4. SAINT JOHN. I’m a free spirit; I know a thing or two about roving. One time my acupuncturist Clifford Yip said, "I'm hopping a steamer down to Cleveland - want to catch a ride?" I said sure, seeing as there was a trombone I'd once spied in a Cleveland pawn shop. "Might be a wee bit rusty by now, but it'll still carry a tune." The waves were high on lake Erie; the spray got in my eyes. Cliff gave me a pair of goggles. I said: “Where’d you get these?” “Arabia,” he says. Cliff was meeting with a man named Dirty, although Cliff forgot his last name. "Rodriguez? Nah, that's not it. Gutierrez?" From Cleveland they were heading west to the Big Apple to meet an associate of dubious repute named Lucky Pierre; the three of them were cooking up some deviltry code-named 'The Manhattan Transfer.' I wanted no part of that. "Guess I’ll head down to Cincinnati," I told Cliff. “Put on a bow-tie and play my trombone for all those jazz-loving cats and chickadees.” And so I did. The Irish Rovers play the Imperial Theatre. Feb 28. Starts at 8pm. 674-4100.

5. MONCTON. Back in my roadie days I toured with this Rastafarian outfit, Violet Funkadelic. The lead singer, Naomi Rose, was a vision of loveliness with a voice that could scorch your soul. She put me in charge of the pyrotechnics. “I don’t know,” I told her, “I have bad history with pyro.” “Nonsense,” she says. So we’re doing this show at a Caribbean festival and when Naomi hit the high note on Jammin, I blow off a honeypot - but dang if I didn’t pack that sucker too tight. Flames shoot out and catch hold of her hemp dress, which goes up faster than an old spider’s web; next you know she’s naked as a jaybird. Danged if she wasn’t a fella! Naomi’s real name is Calvin Hightower, from Tillsonburg. Last I heard he was fronting a gangster rap group, The Stabbing Gypsies, out in Teaneck, NJ. Wild T and the Spirit play the Blue Olive. $16.95. Feb 26, 10pm.

6. SAINT JOHN. I guess you could say I have a few issues. But I mean, they’re buried so deep in my subconscious a man can’t hardly address them. So I went to one of them hypno-therapists, Dr. Ashy Mulligan, and said: “Doc, two things: I’m a-terrified of dogs and I got a low sex drive.” The good doctor says that’s a snap to cure; he swings his pocket watch in front of my eyes and while I’m distracted wallops me in the back of the head with a blackjack. I come to three, four hours later with my pockets cleared out. What’s worse, now every time I hear a dog bark I get an erection! Catch Hypnotist The Amazing Raven at the Blue Olive. $10. Feb 28, 7:30.

7. SAINT JOHN. I got caught eating onions in an onion patch and earned myself a hitch in the stony lonesome. My cellmate was a cross-dressing firebug named Cockroach Tubbs. He was oh, eighty-six years old by then. He could still fill out a tube top all right. One night ole Roach got hold of some fireworks. He wanted to light them off, but needed my help. “I don’t know,” I told him. “Pyrotechnics and me don’t mix.” “Nonsense,” said Roach. So we rig up these Roman Candles and Screaming Devils and he stands in the middle while I light the fuses. Well, I'll give you credit for putting two and two together: that's right, a big ole ball of flame hits Roach smack dab in his chest; his tube top goes up like kindling, as do his hot pink spandex shorts, and soon enough he’s naked - but he t'weren't man nor woman! Rather, some sort of bat-creature: these big black wings thin as tissue paper unfurled from his back and in a voice dark as grave dirt he said: “Thank you for freeing me from my ruined shroud after lo these many centuries.” Then ole Roach flapped out the barred window into the night, off to drink the blood of the innocents I guess. It sent me a postcard, once. Jail Bait: A Play. Feb. 27 Waterstreet Dinner Theatre. 648-2325 for tickets and show times.

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