Wednesday, August 27, 2008

The Rocket Song

I know that none of you need further convincing, but BeckEye is Da Bomb.

The ruling authority in pop culture writes:

"Every time I click the link to come to your blog, I start singing the theme song from an SNL skit in which Tracy Morgan played Astronaut Jones."

I'd like to thank BeckEye for showing me the way after Frampton ditched me in a Walmart parking lot. Today I'm adopting The Rocket Song as the Official Theme Song of Rocketradio, with a small hope that everyone will start singing this song when they come here.

I found a much more entertaining clip of the theme on YouTube, made by Sean Becker and some guy named "Mitchard":

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

High four!

I just found out that a good friend of mine is going to be the new voice of Helping Hand in an upcoming series of television ads for Hamburger Helper.

My childhood dream of tearing it up with The Gloveman has just been realized.

Scotty, if you're reading this - congratulations on your exciting new Hand job!

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

The Bronze Fonz: worst statue ever?

Actor Henry Winkler has unveiled a statue of his iconic Happy Days character Arthur "Fonz" Fonzarelli in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

Yay for the Fonz!

Too bad that statue sucks it raw.

Ok, first let me start this little rant by pledging my love to The Fonz. We all loved the Fonz. Even those of you sitting there sayin' "Not me, man - I never liked that Fonzie guy" are totally lying to yourself and everyone else. At some point in your young life, you told someone to sit on it and you loved that fucking Awesome Moment of Burn, so you at least owe Mr. Arthur Fonzerelli your gratitude and respect.

Bless you, Henry Winkler, for bravely mugging and thumbs-upping for an hour with this fucking mess of a tribute to the lovable TV character you created. This statue looks absolutely nothing like the Fonz. It looks like Bob Eubanks fell into a carbon freezing chamber and kinda liked it. Aaaaaay!

Of course, my biggest concern is for Greater Milwaukee's metallic mime community:


Will the Bronze Fonz screw these homeless theatre students out of their "jobs"?



"It's an honor," Winkler said. "But it is so bizarre to think there should be a statue. I wasn't sure it was something that could happen to me."

It did happen to you, Hank. And for that, I am truly sorry.

The Single White Photographer

I met this woman at a friend's summer BBQ a couple years ago. Nice enough gal, she seemed alright. Over the course of some rather pedestrian conversation about hobbies and pets, I tell her I'm a photographer. Hey, isn't that nice, she likes to take photos, too. We get to talking about an online community for amateur photographers, and how she had just joined but she didn't have any contacts and found it oh-so overrated. We don't swap contact info for future friendship stuff, mostly because I think she's really boring.

A week later, I visit her photo page, full of uninteresting photos of her cat and fluffy white clouds and dull grey buildings. Emotionally detached and snapshoddy. I add her as a contact because I'm polite, and then I notice that her contact list is almost identical to mine. She went from 4 contacts to over 100 in just one week? And they're all the same people I know personally? Wow, I think... small world.

As the weeks progress, she calls me a few times and sends a few e-mails. Hey, how'd she get my number? She asks me if I want to go out and take some photos with her in the Big City. I've always preferred solitude in photo-exploration mode, but I eventually break down and say "yeah ok".

Our outing was pleasant enough, except for one really fucking irritating thing - whenever I took a photograph of anything, she would stand right behind me, just inches away, peering over my shoulder at my viewfinder, and watching my every move. At first I thought she simply had no sense of personal boundaries. Then, after each shot, she would step into the exact same spot I had just vacated, and photograph the exact same thing. From the same angle.

I thought this was strange behaviour at the time, but I tend to be suspicious of everyone at first. I figured she was just experimenting with technique, and I even flattered myself into thinking she might be learning new things from me.

The next day, I download the photos from my camera to my computer, and upload them to my online photostream. Not my best stuff, but a few decent shots. After a bit of browsing, I notice that all the shots I just uploaded are already on this girl's photostream. Uploaded the night before. How can this be happening?

But these were not my photos - they were her photos now. Every shot of hers was identical to one I had taken. The framing, the subject, everything.... she ran home and posted her shots before I got a chance to upload mine. I start to get comments from my friends (who are now her contacts) saying things like "hey...that looks just like this girl's shot...". The girl even sends me an e-mail accusing me of being a "copykat". That was the word she used. Copykat.

"Fucking bitch! She's a Single White Photographer!" I tell my boyfriend. He laughs. Oh yeah, so funny. But hey, I know what's really going on, and it's just a stupid website -- not a contest - so there's no point in getting upset about it, right?



Two weeks later, she shows up another party with a new haircut, dyed a new colour, and in fact it's the same very distinguishable hairstyle and that I have. Interesting! She greets me with a freakishly crushing hug and sits me down to tell me she just had drinks last night with Our Mutual Friend, a man I once had special relations with, and still a bit of a sore spot for me. We were intensely passionate, but equally toxic to each other. Still, it stung to think about him again, and I couldn't believe she knew the same guy! I grinned through my teeth while she coyly played with my brain, all the while letting me know that she knew my secrets now. She had heard all about my bedroom stories, my personal problems, and my entire history with Our Mutual Friend. Then, so there was no missing her point, she says: He's pretty awesome in bed, though - isn't he?

It's not easy to fight back feelings of jealousy and intrusion when you're up six cocktails and holding a messy burger in your hand. I tried to focus on the happiness I had rediscovered with my current boyfriend - well, maybe more like a recycled boyfriend - who had recently moved back to town and rejoined the Rocket Rodeo. But that didn't really help.

The Single White Photographer was already making flirty little moves on my boyfriend. She wanted to know all about our complicated love story. She gave him sweet and innocent, and he gave her every detail without hesitation. She put her hand on his knee. He looked at me in panic.

I thought it was a bit funny, actually. This was his "please help me" face. So I politely asked her to remove her hand from his knee. I tried to make a joke of it, something like "Hey, don'you be fresh wit' my man, y'all." But she turned red and threw me some very dangerous stinkeye action, then excused herself to get another drink.

I didn't see her again for a while, so I casually asked the hostess of her whereabouts. Apparently she insisted on leaving in a hurry, about 20 minutes ago. She said "something had come up."

I thought nothing of it until we were leaving the party, and I couldn't find my shoes. Or my jacket. They had both vanished into thin air. I could have cared less about the shoes - they weren't spectacular, but it's a real challenge to get home drunk without your fucking shoes. The missing jacket was a bigger disappointment. It was my favourite, purchased years ago in Geneva, completely unique and irreplaceable.

I immediately suspected my weird little friend had made off with my stuff. Yes, I can be a world-class jumper to conclusions, but rarely has my strong intuition been proven wrong. I was convinced that she had stolen my things on purpose in retaliation for the embarrassment I caused when I called her out for mauling my boyfriend in front of everyone at the party. Sure, I could entertain the possibility of mistaken identity, you know, if someone actually had a similar-looking jacket to mistakenly identify, but not when the suspect didn't wear a jacket to the party in the first place. And the additional shoe mix-up? I refused to buy it. I have been drunk more than enough times to know that even falling-down-drunks can still recognize their own shoes.

Some kind-hearted guests joined in the search, but we couldn't find a thing, and there were no unclaimed jackets or shoes left at the scene. So I left empty-handed, freezing and barefoot, with an unexpected $30 cab fare, since public transit was out of the question at that point. It was all a big mystery until 3 days later, when I received an e-mail from the Single White Photographer.

I think I might have some stuff of yours! Oops Sorry!

I had to leave the party early, and in my haste, I think I accidentally took your shoes and your coat.Would you and your boyfriend like to drop by my place later and grab them?

Let's hang out!!!
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

I didn't feel like "hanging out" with this person. So I called up Our Mutual Friend and asked him if he would steal my stuff back the next time he found himself an overnight guest in her home. Of course, he said yes. Boys love to play James Bond any chance they get.

A week later, I opened my apartment door to Our Mutual Friend, wearing my beloved jacket and huge grin on his face, carrying my shoes in a bag. It was such an awesome sight. I wish I could've taken a photo of that moment.

Friday, August 15, 2008

hope you get your groove back


a phone conversation with my brother last night >


Katrocket: So how are the renovations coming along?

Mattrocket: Well, not good. I'm sorta laid up at the moment.

Katrocket: Why? What happened?

Mattrocket: I was hauling a stack of ceramic tiles off the truck, and I lost my grip and dropped it on my foot. I think I broke a couple of toes. They've gone black.

Katrocket: Uh oh. You know what that means...

Mattrocket: No. What?

Katrocket: They'll never go back.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

The Abominable Snowman

Dandy Warhol was a prominent local art dealer in the early 1980s. He owned a reputable downtown gallery, and his art reviews and exhibition photos appeared weekly in national magazines and newspapers. He was a major player - revered and admired by both the mainstream media, and the art fringe bo-hos who claimed him as one of their own.

In many ways, Dandy was Toronto's hetero Halston. He was boyishly handsome, his personality was larger than life, and the ladies found him utterly irresistible. He was a self-made creative force who drove a fast car and wore designer suits and sunglasses. He partied with the biggest rock stars, the most gorgeous actresses, and the wealthiest socialites. He held court at the coolest clubs and restaurants every night, surrounded by beautiful women who wanted to fuck him, and awestruck men who wanted to be part of his scene. Today we might call dudes like this a douchebag, but twenty years ago, he was what every young, ambitious social climber aspired to be: stinkin' rich, and just famous enough to get anything you want, minus the photographers in your yard.

By the early 90s, Dandy was one of the first guys to publish the sordid details of his private life with the help of an emerging technology -- something we once called "the information superhighway"-- and charge people a monthly fee for a peek inside his empire. He had a website that offered paintings for sale and reviews of gallery shows, along with steamy snapshots of very dirty girls doing very dirty things (often with him) in the town's hottest clubs (and the occasional public toilet). He knew that people always bought sex, and rarely bought art, and decided that the best way to sell art was by wrapping it up in a sweet gift bag with some tits and ass. While this is incredibly common nowadays, he was considered a marketing maverick back then, and ran wild about town, drunk on the praise that comes with power.

Of course, I knew none of this shit. I was a naïve, small town teenager during most of the 80s, and didn't move to Toronto until I attended university late in '88. I had never heard of Dandy until 2004, when I joined Flickr, an online community of amateur photographers. At that time, I was shooting a lot of promo stills for amateur porn videos, and taking live performance photos in strip bars for my first clients - a local burlesque troupe. Dandy had proclaimed himself the "Rogue King of Flickr", and entertained people daily with endless stories and photos of artsy hedonism from the 80s. But he spun each tale as if it had just happened last weekend, not 25 years ago. And that should have been my first red flag.



But I guess I had already succumbed to the playful charm of Dandy Warhol. He liked my work and began to e-mail me on a weekly basis, insisting that we should get together one day over drinks and discuss art. I had little confidence in myself, or my photographic talent then, so of course I was flattered that the Rogue King of Flickr wanted to meet me in person. He had boosted the careers of many artists and photographers, so maybe he could put me on the map? Imagine that! This guy had connections that could change my life.

So I invited him to a Raptors game. I'm not much of a basketball fan, but my boss had given me a pair of floor tickets for a game he was unable to attend, so I offered the extra seat to Dandy. Boys usually dig sports, and it was the most public place in the city to safely meet up with a stranger.

I nervously waited for Dandy at unlucky Gate 13, smoking a cigarette and scanning the crowd for a familiar face. I won't lie and say that I felt no disappointment when my Big Man About Town was almost a foot less Big and a helluva lot more Town than I was expecting.

He was quite handsome alright, but he was at least 55 years old. I had seen many photos of this man, but not one of them could have been from the past 15 years. And he was jockeyboy small - maybe five-six tall at best and a buck twenty soaking wet. But his voice boomed out of the night like fireworks - balls-to-the-wall hoser fireworks packed with the give'rs and fuckin A!s that reminded me of home. I knew this language he spoke. It was the beer commercial partyboy slang of Anytown in Southwest Ontario, where everyone is a dood and cigarettes are darts. My Evening with Halston had taken a sudden detour through the Rock'n'Roll Parking Lot.

We chatted and watched the game until everyone around us grew annoyed with our enthusiastic banter and sssshushed us into leaving our seats - ten minutes into the first quarter. We had Platinum tickets, so we set up camp in the Platinum Lounge, a velvety dark hole of uppityness in the nether regions of the ACC.

After a parade of $14 martinis, and some lazy stolen kisses in our private booth, Dandy heads for the boy's room and leaves me with an astounding bar tab. I paid it, because I could afford to, and it ensured that I owed him nothing, in case I decided to walk away. That's when Dandy came back a revived man, all full of energy and wit, spinning his hilarious yarns.

Now I'm telling you he was a lot smaller and older than my taste usually allowed, but he was an incredibly exciting person to be around, so I agreed to let him drive me home nevertheless. Looking back now, I can't believe I didn't die that night in his car. I was pretty drunk, he was really drunk, and as I would later figure out, he was also blasted out of his gourd on cocaine. But we made it to bed, where The Secret Life of the Abominable Snowman began to slowly unfold.

The more time I spent with him, the less I liked him. My friends all hated him too. Here's the valuable lesson I learned from this: if your closest and most trusted friends ever work up the courage to tell you they hate your boyfriend, it's not because they're jealous of your Enchanted Love. Don't try to Jerryfy the situation with the talking to the hands and defiant claims of y'all not knowing you. Maybe your friends just aren't interested in identifying your body in a morgue, or dealing with your shit whenever it hits the fan. Try to see things from their perspective: the one you would most certainly share if you weren't sleeping with the jerk.

I was lost in the Dandyland promise for a short time, until I finally pieced together the Snowman's mysteries. He was always "out of town on business", but would want to stay at my place 24/7 whenever he was in town. He was incredibly secretive about his work, his friends and family, and seemed forever stuck in the past. He only spoke of things that happened to him long ago, and often repeated the same stories over and over. He had inexplicable mood swings and outbursts of lunacy. And for a guy who was supposed to have money, he sure as hell wasn't spending any of it on me.

I came to suspect that Dandy was a deep-end cokehead. I booked a haircut and interrogation session with my personal Huggybear, my hairdresser and cherished friend Mr. Styles. He used to be a major coke dealer in the 80s, and he confirmed that Dandy was one of his biggest customers.

Styles told me I was getting involved with a parasite who had far more enemies than friends. He told me about his faghag Dina -- she was Dandy's former business partner and lover. The poor girl lost the gallery and her life savings when his coke habit got out of control and resulted in reduced sales, tattered business relationships, financial disasters and lawsuits. Dina claimed that that Dandy was living in a town 3 hours away with his ancient parents. The out of town business trips were actually parentally-controlled curfews, set up by his weary folks in an effort to control his binges and keep him alive. He was a terrible addict, morally and financially bankrupt, hiding from his creditors and exes, living like a ghost that surfaced just long enough to restock his stash.

I heard crazy stories about the drug money that was owed to Mr. Styles, and the about the men he sent to break Dandy's legs, and how much it pissed him off that they never did find that little bastard. Most importantly, I heard more than enough reasons to stay the fuck away from The Abominable Snowman.

This is not an easy thing to do after the Snowman has taken up residence on your couch, but I said farewell to Dandy the next day. I didn't see him again for four months, when my phone rang in the middle of the night.

"It's Warhol. I'm in your lobby. Please let me in."

Was he kidding me? NO WAY. I hung up.

The phone rang again.

"C'mon Kat, pleeeease... I've had a terrible night and I really need a place to stay."

I looked at the clock and it was 3am. He was weeping on the cold shoulder of my building intercom, blurting out apologies and regrets. I hung up on him again.

I wish I could report that I was a pillar of girlpower, and did everyone a favour by calling the cops, but I can't. I caved after the fourth phone call. I reluctantly let him in, and then panicked for the next 90 seconds about whether or not he was coming to kill me. But when I opened the door a crack and peeked out, he was tiny, drunk, high, and sporting fresh cuts and bruises on his face.

He launched into an animated account of being at Dina's house just four blocks east of me. I thought perhaps Dina had forgiven Dandy for his past treachery, but it turned out he was merely a secret guest of Dina's 19 year-old son. They were doing lines in her kitchen when Dina came home unexpectedly early, and caught him in the act of getting her son high. She lost her fucking mind and beat the shit out of him, before she called the cops to have him removed. He had to bolt, and had nowhere to turn, baby, and oh wasn't it lucky for him that I was just a short run away from a long night in the clink.

He couldn't understand what her fucking problem was. Seriously. Why was everyone cramping Warhol's style? And by the way, when did I become such a cold hearted cunt? What was I anyways - some kind of man-hating dyke? Didn't I know who he was? He was Dandy Warhol, celebrated iPorneer and Rogue King of Flickr. He was a Somebody, and I would always be a fucking nobody.

I felt ashamed, and defeated, and angry, but I knew it was pointless to bait a raging cokehead in the middle of the night, so I made him a cup of tea and suggested that he savour the comfort of my couch for the next 3 hours, because he needed to be gone when I left for work the next morning.

I peeled his sorry ass off my couch just before 7am - drunk and smelly, incoherent, and barely able to stand on his own. His face was really fucked up, so I asked him if he wanted me to take him to a hospital or a doctor. He said he felt nothing. Nothing at all. It looked like his whole face was broken.

I half-carried/half-dragged him out of my apartment over one shoulder while he pleaded to stay and sleep it off for the day. He had nowhere else to go. How dare I force him to sleep in a park, like a goddam hobo! Didn't I have no compassion? Maybe if I wasn't so fucking fat and ugly, I wouldn't be such an angry and bitter bitch! Why was I being so mean?

I guess I'd had enough. I turned around sharply and suckerpunched Dandy as hard as I could, right on the bridge of his swollen nose. He screamed out in agony and dropped to the curb, spitting up a violent stream of blood and obscenities. I was remarkably startled by my actions, and it is just like they say - it's like watching yourself in a movie. I had fantasized about it regularly, but had never actually punched anyone in the face before. It sure doesn't feel as good as you think it will.

The last time I saw Dandy Warhol, he was puking in my neighbour's garbage can and threatening unholy revenge. My only regret from that day is that I didn't have my camera on me for that one last capture of the Abominable Snowman.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

all i need

This is just my biased opinion, but I think Radiohead continues to make the some of the best videos around. If it's not blowing your mind, it's probably making you think.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Adjö frends!

Just when party is started, is now time for Günther to say "adjö!" und goodbye to all ü sexxy blogging ppls. Was much fun with ü - hope ü will see me soon.

I get many massages from ü all saying these things like "how can I see ür sexy Günther bum up in front of my own face?" It is very lucky for ü that Günther and the Sunshine Girls will return 2 America in October for 2 big sexy shows coast 2 coast!

October 15, 2008 - Boston MA Guntherpalooza!
October 16, 2008 - Freeborn Hall, UC Davis campus near Sacramento California!

You can go to MySpace for details, and this video give ü a special taste of the glamour that wait 4 ür beautiful eyes to see!




love & respect,
Gunther Pleasureman

Monday, August 4, 2008

ola ola!

Today is a special sömmer holliday 4 my Ontario frends in Canada and now is the time for wearing flip flop and feeling tip top! Mama mia, give me a sangria! Feel the sexy sensation of 1 day off werk!! yeah!

But pls do not be sad my American frends. I will always be topless 4 ü! Yes ü must werk for that Man today but ü can join me and my Sunshine Girls on a suntrip with no need 4 leaving at ür desk! Lets go to the beach were ü can give me some lotion to get in motion!

this Suntrip video show you what holliday time can be when you have sex, respect, glamour and champagne in ür life! So keep spreading the message of love! ü will even see my sexxy Günther bum! It is OK - I am a European!

but pls - this video is no no nice 4 werk!

Friday, August 1, 2008

hot and crazy sömmer nites!

Hej fleurtje friends!

How going ür sömmar?

Günther been traveling world in a gentleman 2008 Eurostyle
with hot ladys and kool champagne,
looking for love deep in the nite.
This is the land of forbidden fruit ...
bananas, melonas, yeah!

Kat is on vacances, so we must keep the sexy alive!
It is time to take ür chance and join my naked dance.

What do ü do on hot and crazy sömmer nites?
please 2 share about ür vacances storys with me...
Let Günther feel your enormous emotion,

ooh la la! cha cha cha!

no no looking at teeny weeny string bikini at ür werks pls!