Walmart Women

So, the other day I went to Walmart.

I'm not proud of it.

Walmart shoppers are an entirely different subspecies of human beings. I don't want to be one of them.

You'll see lot's of sloping foreheads and chinless jaws, and they have fewer teeth than most homo sapiens.

They walk slower and do not possess the intelligence to get out of the way. They just stand there dazed and drooling, blocking the aisle, squatting behind their shopping carts. Perhaps they're thinking about bones and antlers.

I go there to buy socks and underwear. 
Socks and underwear are cheap at Walmart because most Wal-Mart shoppers still wear loin-cloths.

On this particular day I broke through a geriatric roadblock, entered through the doors which are on the wrong side and waved off the slack-jawed decrepit "Greeter."

They always prop up a dead guy at the front of the store. 
Why? I don't know.

Who wants to be greeted by a dead guy? Not me.

Who's idea was this? Getting some 100 year old man to stagger toward you with a shopping cart...is this good for business?

I made it to the center aisle.
Towels were on sale for $3 each!

Squatting directly in front of this display were two Wal-Women.

One of them was tall and skinny with bleach-blond weeds coming out of her head. She wore a skirt so short you could see what she had for breakfast.

She was yelling into her cell-phone while eating Nacho Cheese Doritos from an opened bag.

Her stubby scantily clad friend stood next her, squinting and text messaging while blocking the other side of the aisle like Teddy Bruschi.

She was a chubby girl who didn't mind exposing her large beach-ball breasts.

Now don't get me wrong. I usually love big boobs, but these were not the kind of boobs you wanna see.
They looked like they might pop. You might get splattered with something.

Some boobs...you just wanna say, "Put those things away, you're makin' me sick!"

I was trying to get to the $3 towels to check out the quality, but these two stunning beauties were blocking the way texting and squawking and chomping Nacho Cheese Doritos out of a giant unpaid-for bag.

Blondie finishes her phone call with a flourish of loud swears, and puts her phone away.

Suddenly she looks at her hands and says, "Jesus Christ! Look at my hands! They're all ORANGE from these freakin' Doritos!"

She walks over to the $3 white towels and wipes her hands on them!

I couldn't believe it.

Then, with a gap-toothed grimace she turns to me and says, "Don't tell anybody."

I promised her that I wouldn't, and ran away. 

I think I peed a little, and I had bad dreams that night.

Summer Checklist

The summer of 2009 is like no other summer I've seen.
We've all been waiting all summer for summer to come. It's true.

The rain has been like a bad rash that just won't clear up. Here it is, July, and I haven't done half the things I would have done if it were a normal summer.



BUT!
I have a summer checklist.
Certain things have to get done. AND THEY WILL!
There are specific places that I must go and certain foods I need to have, and there are events that are summer rituals for me.

The summer just isn't complete unless these things get done.
I think that everyone would have a better summer if they made a checklist of their own.
So read mine and come up with your own, and I hope you have a great summer!

Destinations:

• Gloucester area beaches: Rockport, Good Harbor, Long Beach
• Salisbury, Hampton, especially the boardwalk
• York Beach, Maine, My favorite of all
• Canobie Lake Park, brings out the kid in me, and they have fireworks on Saturday night
• Castle Island, Central Maine, fishing for pike on a beautiful natural lake
• The Pemigewassett River, Bristol, NH, best smallmouth bass fishing around, and so nice
  
• Burlington Vermont, Even the long ride up there is enjoyable, and it's so nice up there
• Boston's Freedom Trail, Sometimes we take it for granted, and it's really cool

Events:

• Fireworks - Anywhere, but especially Gloucester and Canobie lake
• Backyard Barbecues- ask me, I'm there
• Outdoor concerts at Heritage Park in Lowell, you can't beat that venue or the price
• Outdoor Concerts anywhere but Great Woods, or whatever they're calling it this week
• Campfires on the beach, a river or any other place, nothing better than sitting by a fire
• Hiking in the woods, alone or with friends, it's fun and it doesn't cost a penny
• A good thunderstorm on my back porch, or on the lake at Castle Island
• Whale Watch - Gloucester has a great one
• A boat ride of any kind. Just to be on the water is great
• Cocktails on a patio or deck on a nice summer day
• Walking in York Village watching them make the taffy etc...
• Fishing- just about anywhere, but especially NH and Maine
• Summer Reading - on the back porch, or the beach, or a cottage, or by a pool...
  

FOOD & BEVERAGES:

• Cookout food of all kinds, chicken, ribs, steak tips, sausages, cheeseburgers, hotdogs
• Corn On The Cob from some road-side stand
  
• Lobster
• Lobster Roll- preferably from that little fish store in York Village
• Fried Clams - From the Clam Box in Ipswich, or Woodman's
• Any and all junk food on the boardwalk at Hampton Beach
• Shooting the piano player in the ass at the arcade on Hampton Beach
  
• A Lime Rickey on a hot day
• A Raspberry Lime Rickey on a very hot day
  
• Salt Water Taffy & Chocolate Turtles form York Village
• Blueberry Pie with ice cream
• Blueberry Pancakes
• Blueberry Bread
• Blueberry this
• Blueberry that
  
• Watermelon
• Italian Ice
• Popsicles
• Frappes 
  
• Watermelon Italian Ice
  
• Planked Salmon
• Richie's Slush
  
• Macaroni Salad
• Potato Salad
• Chicken Salad
  
• Fresh Tomatoes from the garden
  
• Coffee Coolatas
• Home Made Iced Tea or Sun Tea
  
• Margaritas
• Pina Coladas
• Ice Cold Beer from the bottom of a cooler filled with ice water

I think that just about covers it.
Did I leave anything out?
Please leave me a comment, if you think of anything.

Have a great summer!

On Purpose

This week I'll turn 54.
SHIT!
That ain't good,
but I guess I'm still here and that's a good thing.
Lot's of people aren't.
I feel okay, I'm writing songs and making up stories, creating stuff,

"practicing my purpose," as they say.

That's what my purpose seems to be. (among others)

Who's to say what your purpose is?

YOU.

That's who.

No one else is qualified.

Ask yourself this question;

"What am I here for?"

If the answer is, "I don't know," keep asking the question.

But don't look for someone else to answer it.

The Dead Parakeet

I remember we had a parakeet when I was a kid.
His name was Pete.
Pete The Parakeet.

He talked a little, and flew around the house all the time.
He'd land on your shoulder, sometimes without any warning, and scare the hell out of ya.
He'd fly into mirrors and windows and knock himself silly quite often.

One day we found him dead on the kitchen table next to a bowl of sugar.
There was sugar all over the place.
Looked like he sugared himself to death.

So we dug a grave and buried poor Pete out back.

...Many years later, at Thanksgiving, one of my brothers told us the truth;

He said he came home on his lunch break, and went into the bathroom with the Herald, to take a dump...

"The friggin' bird flew in, and tried to land on me, and I sez Get the hell outta here! ...and I swatted the bastard with Herald and killed him.

Then I threw him onto the kitchen table and sprinkled the sugar all over him to make it look like an accident,
...and then I went back to work.

I hated that friggin' bird!"

True story.

The Famous Camper Story

In honor of Father's Day I'm re-posting this old story:
When I was sixteen, my father bought a camper...
Not just any camper, - a super deluxe motor-home.
An immense road ship and loaded with features.
It had a full kitchen, a nice stereo system. It slept six, and it had a bathroom.
You could even take a shower if you wanted to.
My father beamed with pride as he showed it off to the neighbors, coloring his sentences with flourishing adjectives that would make a salesman blush, as he gave extended tours to friends.

The camper was the pride of the neighborhood that first week we had it.
Dad's plan was to retire soon, and take his wife and his two youngest kids on a three month tour of the USA. ...but first, he decided that we would spend a long weekend up at Sebego Lake to test it out.
The four of us spent three days in it, cooking and washing dishes, eating and using the bathroom, getting dirty and using the shower.

It had a 35 gallon holding tank.

We awoke on the third morning and gradually, we detected a very unpleasant odor.
"Jesus! See a doctor, will ya?" My father huffed, blaming my mother,my brother, or possibly me for the gastric outrage. "

Which one of you just died? God! Open a window!"
We protested and explained that it wasn't us. We certainly did smell it though!

He went to the bathroom door and opened it. Suddenly the entire camper smelled like Big foot's ass!
An overpowering sickening sour cloud of stench bombarded the air, the smell of ten nursing homes.
"The waste tank is full. It has to be emptied." my father announced, holding his nose.
The smell was so overpowering that we were forced to evacuate as we gasped for air.

Outside the camper ,the four of us discussed what to do. We were new at this camper business, and we had no idea how to empty the friggin' waste tank.

There was a hose that went from the camper into the ground. We needed to find out how to open the tank to release the sewage. We had no clue how to do it.

"Look around for a lever or something!" my father barked to my older brother.
"Find me the manual to this thing," We each took a deep breath and went back into the rolling porta-potty to find the manual.
Mom checked the glove compartment in the stinky cab and I went deep into methane hell to open the windows and look for the manual there. My dad scratched his bald head, looking high and low for the lever or button that would release the sewage.

There were other motor homes near us arranged in neat little rows . A very nice gentleman appeared from the camper next to ours, saw us all wandering around looking for something and offered to help.

The two men shook hands and introduced themselves. I think his name was Ted.

His motor home was even bigger than ours, so he had to know what he was doing.
They walked around the camper looking for buttons and levers, discussing the problem. It smelled like sh*t all around the area. Ted suggested that maybe because it was new, there might be some sort of factory seal keeping the tank from emptying.
He unclamped the hose from the bottom of the camper.
He examined the outlet pipe carefully.
He layed on his back with a screwdriver in his hand and looked up into the pipe.

...Meanwhile, on the other side of the camper, my father announced, "Wait a minute! I think I found it!"

There was a low rumble, a loud gurgle, followed by an erupting splash.

An explosion of filth gushed from the pipe like a firehose directly into poor Ted's face.
He rolled to escape as a flood of toxic waste. Three days of voided leavings, toilet paper, Lincoln logs, and ripe whiz juice, thirty five gallons of indescribably disgusting nastiness washed over his body.
He was almost swept away by it.
He scrambled to his feet, soaked in pee and made a sound halfway between a moan and a retch and then ran to the lake and dove in.
He splashed around washing himself for a while, then put his hands on his knees and hurled.

My brother and I couldn't believe how this could happen. We simply turned to rubber with laughter.
My father, seeing what he had done to poor Ted, was in shock, horrified at the disaster he had caused.

He alternated between apologizing to Ted in a crying voice, "I'm so sorry! Oh my God! I'm sorry!" to barking at my brother and I, "Shut up! God-Dammit! This isn't funny!"
...But it was!

I went into the camper to hide, and roll on the floor with my brother, laughing hysterically with tears running down our faces, but trying not to be loud about it, so Dad wouldn't kill us.

In the front of the cab was my Mother. Head in her hands ducking down. For a second, I thought she was crying, but I saw her shoulders rocking.
She was trying so hard not to laugh, but she was falling apart, laughing her ass off, slapping her knees, tears rolling down her cheeks, helplessly convulsing in laughter.

The three of us were inside the camper flopping around like fish, gasping for air, while my poor father, riddled with guilt was pleading with Ted to please forgive him.


Later that night the two men sat by the campfire drinking Crown Royal, My father continuously apologizing for what he's done to poor Ted.

My father said, "Ted in my life I've given a lot of shit to people, but I never gave anyone the amount of shit I gave you tonight!"Ted laughed like hell.

He really was good at taking shit from people.

Stoneham native releases new album By Ben Swasey/Correspondent Stoneham

- For Kenny Hogan, the memories linger vividly: rides down Route 1, listening to the AM radio; his father, a tireless worker, devotedly polishing fenders; the 17-foot beast of an automobile, a 1967 Chrysler Imperial. “That car was his pride and joy,” said Hogan. And so it is fitting that Hogan, a lifelong musician, pays homage to his father after completing his own multi-year labor of love, a solo album named “Frank’s Imperial.”

“After 30 years of playing in cover bands, it occurred to me that I had nothing really to show for it,” said Hogan, “so I wanted to sit down and record on my own.” For the Stoneham resident of nearly two decades, “on his own” is an understatement. Everything on the album is Hogan’s doing – the writing, singing, instrumentation, engineering and recording.

For the song, “Heaven,” he recorded and layered all 19 vocal parts. The instruments include Hogan’s first, the guitar, and his latest, the ukulele, among others. “That was the toughest part, when I hit a wall, and a part wouldn’t come, and I’d have to say, ‘what would a drummer do here?’” said Hogan.

And although the individualistic album took 3 1/2 years to complete, its creator speaks absorbingly of the process and the freedom, after so long with bandmates, to have complete ownership of a song. “Things just kind of pop into your head,” said Hogan, “and your job is to get it out of your head and into the real world. Some people do crosswords of Sudoku, but for me, putting a song together is a puzzle.”
The beginning
The musical pieces began for Hogan when he was 10 and his older brother was given a guitar, spurring jealously. He then describes how his entire Medford neighborhood was inspired by the Beatles iconic performance on the “Ed Sullivan Show.” Soon after, his friends formed bands, securing barbecue gigs and school dance performances.

Until his mid-30s, Hogan was a full-time musician, traveling, often on an old school bus, through the East Coast and Canada, playing most nights, Tuesdays through Sundays. He has played in bands covering the musical spectrum of the times, from rock, disco and soul to 80s high energy and 90s unplugged.

Now off the road, Hogan made it his New Year’s resolution at the start of 2006 to create a song a month and to record an album. “Well, that year lasted three and a half years,” said Hogan. “It just didn’t happen that fast.”

Consciously, “Frank’s Imperial” is varied in terms of musical styles, paying homage additionally to his breadth of performances and his early days of AM radio, when genres weren’t separated so distinctly and there was only one Top-40 countdown. The songs themselves also originated from varied sources.

According to Hogan, the album’s final track, “Startin’ All Over Again,” is 35 years old. Another, titled “Real Good Day,” comes from Hogan’s cancer-stricken brother offering a dose of perspective. And although Hogan bemoans a music scene that he believes has “really changed” in terms of energy and attention towards performers, he is considering ways in which his jack-of-all-trades album can be converted live.

In the meantime, however, Hogan is expanding into yet another genre, and trying his hand at recording a novelty album. But at least now, the musician, far removed from the AM radio in the Imperial, has his first solo album in the books. “It took a long time,” said Hogan, simply.

For information, visit www.kennyhogan.com. “Frank’s Imperial” is available on iTunes, CD Baby, Amazon.com and at Book Oasis in Stoneham.

My Influences

Ask me about my influences

I was recently asked in a couple of interviews who my influences are.
I didn't know what the hell to say. I wasn't used to that.

I made up a bunch of stuff to say in case someone asks me that again:

"So Ken, Who are your influences?"

Well I'll tell ya...
When I was 10 years old, I saw The Beatles on Ed Sullivan.
Ed didn't seem to mind, so I closed the door and let the five of them go at it.

Before you know it, I was watching all those Elvis movies,and acting just like Elvis. I remember getting all pissed off at the beach, because nobody else would sing along or do the choreography . That made me want to die on the toilet, just like him.

(I have come close several times)

Davey Jones, of The Monkees made me consider becoming a homosexual, but that didn't work out for me, because I couldn't stop thinking of Annette Funicello.

Soon I began watching Wild Kingdom and learned to imitate a rhino by farting in a short pipe. Soon I bought a harmonica. Still, I was not allowed in the school band!

I saw Myron Sherman on Lawrence Welk, but I promised not to tell.

That lead to a horrible accident involving getting naked and playing an accordion, where I almost became Jewish.
To this day when I hear the song "Squeezebox" I cross my legs involuntarily.

My high pitched screams caused me to discover my stunning falsetto and that finally catapulted me toward the fame, success, and filthy wealth I have yet to achieve in the scum-filled shitholes and booze-pits where I've wasted my valuable youth.

Being totally ignored by staggering drunks who look like Mannix, watching them soil themselves as they gape up at the keno machine, being underpaid and lugging heavy gear over snowbanks has inspired me to someday become greatest songwriter in the nursing home.

And don't ask me again.