My Valentine Nude...

BUTTerfly

I'm no artist. At least in the non-microsoft paint realm. But please enjoy my nude drawing attempt, and let me know what you think of M. BUTTerfly.

And trust me. This took waaaaay too long. And lots and lots of drafts. And a drawing lesson from Eric. But let's just say that hopefully my work will progress.

Andrew M's: Guns, Ammo, and Boobs: A Tale of First Nudity

One of the dangers of growing up a younger sibling in a large, eleven-member family is that you are too often in the way. I don't mean that in a wounded, emotional, after-school special kind of way; I mean simply that in an overcrowded house where the majority of your older family members are twice your size, you are physically going to be in their way, a lot. The normal consequences of this took the form of getting accidentally knocked down, tripped over, crushed in the back seat of a car, your head sat on, etc. -- almost on a daily basis. The resulting bumps and bruises were a constant companion, and already at the age of six I was beginning to numb to the pain. Then my brother Richard bought a BB gun.

In a family full of Potsies, Rich was our Fonzie. Every family needs a rebel, and Rich enthusiastically carried that flag. No true rebel is complete without a small to medium-sized cache of arms, and Rich had them all: pocketknives, bullwhips, swords, firecrackers, cuffs (both hand and thumb) -- the man was a veritable quartermaster. One day, Rich added to his arsenal the holy grail of the badass cannon (outside of an actual cannon); a gas-powered BB gun. A target practice was immediately set up.

The second floor of my childhood home had a long hallway that ran directly through it, that was unobscured by any furniture or light fixtures. Reminiscent of a target range, it was the best place to test out the firepower of a new BB gun inside the house (though is there ever a "best" place to test out a BB gun inside a house?). Richard set up a perch at the far end with, if I am remembering correctly, my brother Bill at his side to assist with BB reloads. He then fired off many rounds of BBs down the hallway, aimed at the door to my sister's room. I heard the commotion from a side room, while preparing to cross the hallway diagonally to head downstairs. Hearing the THWAPS of the discharging BBs, I paused to ask Rich for a ceasefire so I could clear the hallway and use the stairs.

"I'm not going to stop shooting -- just run quick, and I won't hit you," came Rich's reply. He was excersing his older-brother privilege to mess with me. Despite his accrued weaponry, Richard was not at all a physically cruel sibling; but he did enjoy the occasional psychological torturing of we younger ones. Taking it for granted that I had no alternative (such is the bargaining ability of a kid brother), I agreed to the order and ran my chubby legs off to cross the 5 feet of hallway to reach the staircase. Whether by accident or deliberate act, Richard did indeed fire a round off at me while I was in transit (I have the idea to this day that he probably didn't intend to hit me, but rather just scare me with the whooshing sound of BB fire). Whatever the intent, a BB rocketed from the gun, moved past the wrinkles in my Osh Kosh pants, and THWAPPED right into my uncorrupted butt-cheeks.

The sting was immediate and the pain overwhelming. I fell to the floor. My face flushed red and tears welled up in my eyes, and I began to cry hysterically. Richard came to my aid quickly and picked me up off the floor. He apologized profusely, and seemed genuinely upset that he had hurt me. I, of course, couldn’t stop wailing and immediately my screaming echoed through the sparse hallway and amplified to fill the whole house. Richard’s initial concern necessarily morphed into a sense of self-preservation; where there was a screaming child in our house there was bound to be a sibling who had caused the upset. Once the culprit was identified, there would usually follow punishment from my parents. Rich had to shut me up.

He pulled me into his bedroom just off the side of the hallway. He knew he had to distract me with something that would take my mind off the pain and get me to calm down. Being 6 it really wouldn’t have taken that much. I could have been happily distracted by one of Rich’s keyboards, or some of his old Star Wars action figures, or even a few of his model kit cars (there were always model kit cars). But the mind of a 15-year-old does not work the same as a 6-year-old’s, and in his panic reached for item that would have placated someone of his own age: the latest issue of Playboy magazine.

And so it came to be that I saw my first glimpse of boobs. It certainly did the trick in that it quieted me up real quick. But still being at an age before an interest in girls really kicked in, my fascination was more dispassionately scientific than anything else. Of course I was aware of boobs at that age; it’s hard to spend most of your life looking up at people and missing them. But my mindset at the time was more like “I wonder what the deal is with those things,” rather than “I need to see some of those.” Learning the deal that day was not a particularly revelatory experience; the architecture made sense to me in that it seemed that was the only way those things could work.

Regardless of my level of interest in the product, there was still a palpable sense that I was looking at something I wasn’t supposed to be (I assumed I would have seen more of them out in the summertime if it was socially acceptable). Richard knew this, and perhaps sensing that he was opening a door too early for me, did a little creative backtracking. When I asked him why a magazine like this would exist he told me “it’s not a magazine. It’s a catalogue for, uh…invisible bathing suits.” At a time when I believed light-sabers existed in the world, this seemed a perfectly logical explanation to me. Though some genuine concern came over me. I felt a little bad for the catalogue models; didn’t they realize that if the wore these invisible bathing suits to the beach, everyone would see their boobs?

Later that night, when all had returned to normal, I was hanging out in the kitchen with my Mom. Perhaps wanting to impress her, I told her that I had hurt myself earlier that day, but managed to calm down quickly enough on my own that her usual intervention was not necessary. “How did you do that?” she asked. I didn’t think she’d ask that, but felt it unimportant enough to answer truthfully. “Richard showed me one of his catalogs of invisible bathing suits. If I were you, I wouldn’t ever buy one of those.”

Really, I just wanted to spare everyone any more embarrassment.

Happy. New Year.

I WIN!!!

But I don't want to choose the second topic. That's for whomever comes in second.

And I hope you all like your gifts.

I love you as much as I love pilfering supplies.

Hugs,

Laura Elizabeth Cecelia Bassett.

The Ultimate Missouri Compromise

To All:

Please accept my deepest apologizes for the tardiness of this post

Sincerely
Andrew Bassett

What A Country! (Or Evan's Missouri Compromise Short Story That Could Be A lot Better)

St. Louis was a pit stop. We nearly wanted to refill our tank before getting on the road. The majesty of the gateway arch was inspiring, but it didn’t exactly compel anyone to kick the shoes off their feet and stay awhile.  Rather it’s imposing figure spake unto us and said, “Ignore our Anheuser-Busch brewery and the Bowling Hall of Fame and keep going west young man. You wouldn’t stop just inside the pearly gates of heaven and just hang out there for eternity.  No, you’d want to see what lies beyond.  There’s an entire Western United States out there.  If we’re going to let you through that door at least make it past the foyer.”

Truth be told, we hadn’t planned on going much further than the foyer. Our sights were stubbornly trained on the “Live Entertainment Capital of The World,” none other than Branson, Missouri. 

It wasn’t the wholesome family atmosphere that drew the axles of our 1998 Honda Civic into Branson’s gravitational pull, but the comic stylings of one man who many years before had instilled in us that the land of the free and the home of the brave was the most wonderful place on earth.

“What a country!” was a familiar refrain as we transported ourselves from the liberal elite mecca of Brooklyn, NY into temporary and quite mobile residents of the American frontier.  Like those that came before us enduring hardship as they trekked through Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois; we were quite eager to see what Missouri had to show us. 

Fifteen hours on the road would have been thirteen, if it weren’t for whimsical stops in Allentown to listen to a Billy Joel song and Punxsutawney to attempt to smoke a Groundhog out of it’s hole.  We planned on spending the night that on our return trip to see if failing to order Sweet Vermouth on the rocks with a twist would have us stuck there forever.

We drove clean across the central portion of the state of Ohio without encountering anything of interest unless you count the college town of Columbus.  Had one of us been big ten graduates we might have been compelled to get off the interstate and badger some Buckeye fans, but for us east coast educated types, we were above such tomfoolery. Well, not above such tomfoolery, it was just a different sort of tomfoolery that motivated us.  It was pure tomfoolery that motivated our travels, just not the type that could be categorized as “antagonistic.”

Our final stop before setting foot in the Show-Me state was a brief one. I had always wondered whether or not Indianapolis had a food specialty. I’m not sure why I thought it would.  It’s just seemed like that sort of place. Buffalo has it’s wings, everyone in San Francisco seems to love garlic.  I imagined Indiana having possum fingers or something odd.  We arrived at the city limits to a sign noting we were at “The Crossroads of America.” I imagined that it was the crossroads of American cuisine as well.  Maybe there’d be a hybrid hot dog hamburger donut milkshake or something, but as we pulled over at what looked to be the first busy city street we encountered that was peppered with Hoosiers.  We made a quizzical and obnoxious inquiry from our car window to the crowd, somewhere along the lines of “What’s so great about Indianapolis?” 

Joe, who had been driving for the last three and a half hours and took comfort in being behind the wheel since he had only been involved in traffic accidents with others in control, quickly grew tired of boredom induced case of travel hysteria and got back on the highway before we were able to reach a satisfactory conclusion, brought on by a more sensible line of questioning.  He forged ahead content to make good time to the Missouri border.   

15 hours to St. Louis was right on target with our mapquest estimate.  Down the stretch we went to Branson. A restless bunch ready for a nap outside of a moving vehicle, but just as ready to take in premium comedic entertainment from the brilliant mind of one Yakov Smirnoff. 

Having fond recollections of his anecdotes of reversal about how in Soviet Russia bread waits for you, I was extremely curious as to what this laughter legend was making yokes about since the fall of Communism and what it’s appeal was to middle America. 

After witnessing a brief piece on his success on Entertainment Tonight several years back, I had talked up this cross-country expedition for years, but was met with little positive reaction and mostly blank stares.  I had somehow managed to hastily rustle up a Branson posse on the spur of the moment for a President’s day weekend. And now our posse was nearing it’s destination. 

It was nearing 5pm when we rolled into town bleary-eyed and starving.  Our first order of business though prior to crashing our hotel, was to pick up some tickets to Smirnoff’s show.  We found our way to the town’s main ticket office.  When we got there we were in for the shock of our life.  Yakov Smirnoff’s show only ran from April to December.  Being February, we either had to spend another two months in Branson or go see another show. 

Having heard our predicament the box office attendant was moved to assist us any way she could…and really the only way she was authorized to.  She gave us 4 comp tickets to Take It To The Limit A Tribute To The Eagles. 

In accordance with everyone in our group’s hatred of The Eagles, we got back in the car and drove four hours the other direction towards St. Louis.  We may have missed out on Yakov Smirnoff, but the Bowling Hall of Fame ended up being no gutterball.

What a country!

Andrew M’s Incomplete TOPIC: Missouri Compromise Submission

In researching the topic of the Missouri Compromise for inspiration for this inaugural post, I learned that two key figures in the political fight were Speaker of House JOHN TAYLOR and Main Senator JOHN HOLMES. Immediately I made the connection to two modern day men who shared those names – bass player for Duran Duran JOHN TAYLOR, and infamous 70s porn star (and Boogie Night inspiration) JOHN HOLMES.

I attempted to write jokey screenplay dialogue between the old timey Taylor and Holmes, in which they referenced aspects of the modern Taylor and Holmes. And this, unfortunately, is all I could come up with:

FADE IN:

INT. U.S. CAPITOL - DAY

Speaker of the House and Representative of New York JOHN TAYLOR meets Maine Senator JOHN HOLMES on the main floor of the U.S. Capitol.

TAYLOR
Senator Holmes, my good man! How
are you?

HOLMES
Speaker Taylor! Old friend, you
find me not well. This business
about the Missouri Compromise
weighs heavily on me.

TAYLOR
And with me, too. We are doing all
we can in the House to ensure your
state of Main is admitted to the
Union as a free state.

HOLMES
But how I lament the idea that we
shall have a Union half free, and
have slave. Surely this is not a
burden the founders wished our
country to face so early in its
young life.

TAYLOR
Indeed, the situation is quite
stressful. How do you cope?

HOLMES
I have busied my mind with the
usual pursuits; I have my books,
the nightly glass of sherry after
dinner. And, of course, the
pornography I make in my
basement...

TAYLOR
I beg your pardon? Pornography?

HOLMES
Yes. The committing of graphic
depictions of sexuality to record.
Have you not heard of it?

TAYLOR
I am a Christian, Holmes. I most
certainly have NOT! What on Earth
would posses you to do such a
thing?!

HOLMES
I have an enormous penis, Taylor.

TAYLOR
Quiet your voice, Holmes! Unless
you ENJOY the word "penis" echoing
through the Capitol rotunda!

HOLMES
(thinks for a moment)
I quite do, Taylor.

TAYLOR
I said zip it, Holmes! Jesus...

HOLMES
Forgive me. Tell me, Taylor, as
Speaker of the House, how will you
rally your fellow Representatives
to accept this compromise.

TAYLOR
The only way I know how, Holmes.
With the most stirring oratory I
can muster...perhaps followed by a
bass solo.

HOLMES
I do not understand...you'll be
singing?

TAYLOR
No, I will hold a modified cello
sideways and engage the emotions of
my fellow lawmakers through poppy,
slap-bass hooks.

HOLMES
That makes little sense to me.

TAYLOR
You should hear the lyrics...

After this, NOTHING. I couldn’t come up with any more jokes. I tried, I swear. I thought I might have been on to something with having Taylor’s powdered wig knocked off to reveal spiky New Wave hair underneath (styled with the readily available candle wax of the day), and having him correlate the state of the Union with “Union of the Snake” but, alas, I could not get there. Also, it’s hard to make porn jokes in a time when film cameras did not exist.

So I apologize for this half-post. Hopefully the next topic will be less impenetrable than 200 year old parliamentary maneuvers.