C'MON RICKI! PUSH! I CAN SEE THE HEAD....IT'S A....A....WOLFBOY?!?!?

I was channel surfing one night last week looking for something, ANYTHING to watch. Movie channels? There were two Dolph Lundgren movies on the HBOs going head-to-head against each other. What kind of programming is that? Don't make me choose between the one where he's the retired military guy blowing shit up and the other where he plays the bad cop with a heart of gold. I'm not sure which one Rosanna Arquette was co-starring in.

I eventually made my way down to the local stations, and it was here that I found a train wreck so amusing that I nearly wore out the back button on the TiVo.

The Mexican talk show "Hasta en las Mejores Familias" airs weeknights at 11 on channel 66, the Univision station here in Chicago. If Jerry Springer and Ricki Lake had a kid, and the obstetricians were Chuck Barris and Judge Judy....well, that's a start in describing just how bizarre this program is. The show is hosted by Carmen, an older lady who looks like the Mexican Rhea Perlman, except she's so tiny I think Rhea could dunk on her. She's very motherly in that "I will beat you with a broken car antenna" manner.

[SIDE NOTE: My espanol is limited to a few key phrases like "donde esta el bano?" and "tienes cerveza fria?", so I have no idea what these folks are arguing about. It really doesn't matter. From what I can tell families come on to yell at each other and have Carmen help sort out their problems.]

Three young Hispanic men stand onstage right behind the guests with their arms crossed, trying to look tough as they attempt to break up the mayhem when los familias occasionally come to blows. They don't even bother coming in from the wings like big Steve on "Springer". For some reason this crack security team wears black t-shirts with their names embossed on the front in large white letters, i.e. "Juan", "Ricardo", "Jose", etc. They also sport those little headsets worn by NFL sideline reporters. I guess they need to be told when to jump into the action. Just to spice things up more, when a fight does break out onstage the technical crew plays those blatantly fake punching sound effects you hear on overdubbed kung-fu movies.

So far I'm thinking this isn't much different than any other trashy talk show. I was about to flip over to Conan when I noticed something as they cut to a close-up of the host. Half the studio audience behind her appears to be made up of circus freaks. I'm talking wolfmen and wolfwomen, a guy with a John Waters mustache and Dumbo ears, and a lady whose face looked like chewed up bubble gum (I swear she made Eric Stoltz's character in "Mask" look like Brad Pitt).

Circus freaks will hook me in every time.

If that isn't enough, we have the two sidestages. Stage right is home to three crossdressers whose pancaked makeup would make Tammy Faye proud. They stand up and scream at the guests every 10 minutes or so. Over on stage left there's some sort of jury made up of three women. A toothless old hag in a shawl spends most of the show napping (with snoring SFX piped in), and a fat blonde with cateye spectacles acts as the stenographer. Best of all though is the pudgy dwarf who bumrushes the guests and threatens to beat them with some sort of pipe while the audience chants "DURO! DURO! DURO!"

I can't make this shit up. Just check it out for yourself and thank me later.

"I DON'T KNOW WHERE I'M GOING...BUT I SURE KNOW WHERE I'VE BEEN...."

I finally decided to jump into the world of weblogs. Here goes something....


The other night my girlfriend and I went to Live Band Karaoke with a group of friends. Kiki is a self-proclaimed "microphone whore", so once in awhile I have to take her out to get a fix. Seems my theory of singing along in the car=karaoke methadone hasn't really worked out.

As the name implies, LBK features a group of musicians who provide the backup music, rather than the lame videos and teleprompter to follow. You just get a sheet with the lyrics and go to town.

We usually catch this spectacle at my local bar, a little neighborhood joint that attracts an odd mix of people. Unfortunately the city raided the place a few months back, and they wound up getting a citation for overcrowding. I guess the cries of "E2" and are still ringing in Mayor Daley's ears. Or maybe the owner of the bar forgot to grease the fire marshal's palm. I really don't know, but for the time being they can't have any bands play there.

So instead LBK was over at a sports bar in Lincoln Park. I figured since it was late on a Sunday night and the Yankees-Red Sox game was over there wouldn't be much of a crowd, and thus the chances of encountering annoying LP'ers would be slim. Wrong.

We walked in to an SRO crowd three deep around the bar screaming along to Journey's "Don't Stop Believing". Ugh. I locked eyes with the bass player, John. He gave me the universal "what's up?" reverse nod and shook his head as if to say "you really don't want to be here tonight."

I bellied up to the bar and ordered a Lite and an Old Style. "That'll be 8 dollars." I'm definitely east of Ashland now.

Ninety percent of the people there had the same exact look. It was like we were at the Stepford Children's college reunion. There were the twentysomething girls in Ella Moss tops and Capri pants, and twentysomething dudes in DMB t-shirts, jean shorts and Cub hats worn backwards. But let's not forget about those leering wannabe sugar daddies with their graying temples and orange tans. They like to stand off to the side and buy said girls round after round of lemon drops, with the hope of actually getting one of them to come home for a roll on the waterbed before the Levitra wears off.

I despise ALL of them. Give me a corner bar with a decent jukebox, interesting conversation and a vato who wanders in selling tamales and I'm happy.

We found an open spot in the center of the room between two tables and were soon befriended by one of the swarthy older gentlemen. He wondered if one of us would come up and do "Brown Eyed Girl" with him because he just wanted to 'sit in on the drums' instead of sing. I told him I was in, but only if he'd do "Moby Dick" instead. He didn't get it.

One by one, the parade of drunk Trixies and Chads took turns butchering every song in the book. Even with the band helping out on vocals they rarely followed the lyrics, choosing to yell "GO CUBS!" and "I'm Rick James, bitch" while friends danced around them like they were the Chili Peppers performing "Give It Away" on the MTV awards ten years ago.

I'm not expecting to see the next American Idol here, but for Chrissakes at least try to sing the fucking song.

The way I see it, the only thing to do in a situation like this is to get shitfaced. And sign up for a turn at the mic.

Ninety minutes later the Jager kicked in. It's go time. The numbnuts MC calls my name, hands me the lyric sheet and looks me over. "I don't know people, what do you think? Should we make him take off that White Sox hat? Booooooooooo!!!"

"What? No fucking way. Give me the mic."

Time for some Whitesnake. "Here I Go Again". As that familiar cheesy keyboard intro begins and the crowd starts whooping it up, I offer up a dedication....

"This one's for the band. Do any of you realize how ANNOYING it is for these guys to play song after song, only to have you people scream 'Wooooooooooo!!!' and 'I love you Katie!!!'? Think about it. NOW, one of you old farts go pull your Jaguar around front so these girls can play Tawny Kitaen on the hood...."

There was some booing and dirty looks during the first verse. I must have struck a nerve.

By the time the chorus kicked in most of the bar was singing along. Perhaps they had taken my words to heart and paused for a second to reflect on just how shallow and empty their cookie cutter lives really are.

Most likely they were really drunk and had already forgotten I had insulted them just a minute ago. I guess a little David Coverdale makes it all better.

Nevertheless, no one came up front to dance around me. Maybe I should have done "Slide It In" instead.