About Me

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Am I a superhero? Or just a lunatic that wears a cape...and rants?

Friday, July 31, 2009

Do Ya Know What I MEME?

Ok, so the talented Ms. Britt tagged me for one of those MEMEs that are floating about. Apparently all I have to do is tell everyone some stuff about the man behind the Tirades...

The rules:
1. List 7 facts about me
2. Tag seven other bloggers so that they can do the same.


1. Bacon makes everything better.

2. I think too many people of my generation feel entitled.

3. In the Army I learned that the best way to avoid having to burn shit in the middle of the desert is to be the only one in your unit that knows how to secure radio frequencies.

4. I am a horror movie junkie!

5. I have a terrible habit of driving with my knee.

6. I used to cheat at 'Heads up Seven Up' by looking at people's shoes.

7. I have an irrational fear of, and at the same time am fascinated by sharks.

So, there it is...7 quick facts about me. Here are the 7 bloggers I'd like to pass this to:

1. Tennyson @Andy Warhol
2. Alyssa @ Just Putting It Out There
3. Valerie @ A Visible Spectrum
4. Mr. O. @Mr O 4 SHO
5. JennyMac @lets have a cocktail
6. Shaylen @iamshaylen
7. Jennifer @The Novelista

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Concerts...Who Have You Seen?

Hello Tiraders,
Tomorrow (Friday the 31st) is going to be an awesome day. Lock Up Your Daughters because I am going to see one of the greatest rock bands of all time; AC/DC!

I can not wait. I’ll be travelling from the Highway to Hell down to Giants Stadium. Tailgating will begin early so it’s guaranteed to be a day of Dirty Deeds, High Voltage rock, and Thunderstruck fans rocking out harder than a ’74 Jailbreak.

So, that all got me thinking. I am really interested in finding out from all of you what concerts you have gone to throughout the years. Here are the concerts I’ve been to so far (not in exact order) with a song I recommend you check out (Headliners only):

1. Beastie Boys (Ill Communication Tour)- SONG: Paul Revere

2. Live w/ PJ Harvey and Veruca Salt - SONG: Lightening Crashes

3. Prince w/ Morris Day and the Time (Prince played pretty much every instrument on stage at some point during the show= it rocked) - SONG: Seven

4. Missy Elliot w/ Alicia Keys and Beyonce (who I can not stand BTW) - SONG: I Can't Stand The Rain

5. Billy Joel (At this concert, Mrs. Caped figured out that I was going to propose to her) SONG: You're My Home (my wedding song :) )

6. James Brown w/ Stephen Kellogg (I saw the Godfather of soul ~1 year before he died and it was AMAZING) SONG: Papa's Got a Brand New Bag

7. Live (again) SONG: They Stood Up For Love

8. Damien Rice (I was really impressed with this show. Great live performer) -SONG: Cheers Darlin'

9. Styx-Foreigner (great show!) - styx SONG: Renegade; Foreigner SONG:Juke Box Hero

10. Motley Crue w/ Smashmouth, Buck Cherry (Crue Fest) (This show was only ok)-SONG: Home Sweet Home

11. James Taylor - SONG: Fire and Rain (of course)

12. Michael Buble w/ John Ondrasik, KT Tunstall, Babyface, and a few others I can’t remember SONG: Eh...he does a lot of great Jazz covers. Instead for this one I'll Recommend John Ondrasik- I Just Love You

13. George Clinton & The Parliament Funkadelic- (I was pretty disappointed with this show. George Clinton's voice was sooo hoarse from all the weed (no doubt) he could barely vocalize the songs) SONG: Theme From The Black Hole

14. Atmosphere w/ Abstract Rude (Atmosphere is one of my favorite artists of all time) SONG: Body Pillow

15. 3 Doors Down w/ Hoobastank and Safetysuit SONG: Citizen Soldier (because its about the National Guard :) )

16. Regina Spektor w/ Little Joy (this concert was a lot of fun. Regina is very quirky and odd but she has an angels voice and nice melodic piano tunes) SONG: Remember That Time

I think that's it…SO, tell me about the concerts you’ve been to. Oh, and if you are going to be at the AC/DC concert, give me a shout!

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Nothing Cries Rain Down On Me Like A Pair Of Boobs

A story I read today brought to my attention one of the most ingenious... absurd...no, ingenious ways for creepy ingenious old men to get the young women of their neighborhood to strip off all of their clothes and do the town's hard labor...OOOPS! I mean.....well, ok maybe not that hard, but pretty difficult

Oh, the W's you must be asking yourself.

Well, according to the article, farmers from Patna, India have been keeping this magic a secret for quite some time. Ok, I'll get on with it. Apparently there is a custom there where young women get naked, sing hymns, and plow their fields (hehe) in order to embarrass the Weather Gods and cause them to discharge release money-shots monsoon rains down onto their boobs cropped fields making them moist wet(still sounds dirty).

As strange as this ritual might sound, the people of Patna believe it will bring the much needed rain to their region as they have suffered terrible droughts this year. The drought indeed sucks, but faith that a booby-fearing, super-soaker God is going to literally rain down and save the crops is probably not the most sound belief system out there. I mean, where is this God? Where's all the rain he's supposed to be supplying? Isn't his absence slightly odd? Really, if he's not going to turn on the sprinklers, the least he can do is make an unannounced cameo in someone's breakfast to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is indeed real, and just simply wants suffering to continue?

Personally, I don't really put my faith in a bunch of different Gods, per se, but I do often carry out the commands that my Alphabits cereal spells out to me in the morning.

I hope the weather in Patna shifts and the people there get their much needed rain...You know what? Sitting back hoping isn't going to get the Weather God's butt in gear. Therefore, I propose that this weekend people everywhere strip down to all their sloppy-floppy glory and tend to their gardens during what I'm calling 'Global Naked Yardwork to Embarrass the Weather God's Day'. Let's help these farmers out!!

Home From Tupper

So, Mrs. Caped and I just got back last night from a week of fishing and hanging put by Tupper Lake. It was a well needed rest! The beauty of this lake never ceases to amaze me.

I'll be back to my regular routine of mocking news, over using movie links, and catching up on all of the awesome blogs I follow later on tonight. BUT for now, here are two pieces I wrote about the area.

Fish Fry

Pillaging the jungle of Tupper Lake like
Vikings, we emerged with an appetite
even the Lumberjack House couldn’t conquer.

We coasted to the dock around 11a.m. Saturday and
de-boarded our Pequod with the bucket of large-mouths
we caught on some scented Gulp Bait.

Four keepers!
With the Walleyes we caught last night,
we’re in for some good eatin'.

Thuds across each of their skulls with a
Blackjack causes them to spasm in my father-in-law’s hand,
the humane thing to do before they’re filleted and fried.

Though I caught a bass or two, even Melville could
call me Ishmael when it came to scaling our white whales;
I orphaned to the background.

In the camp, I could hear the girls mixing the batter,
a few eggs, flour, and breadcrumbs. A splash
of Guinness never hurt anyone.

Dip’em, roll’em pat’em; schools of three swim
at 350 in the fry-pan until they’re snared by the tongs.
Golden morsels on a paper plate.


The rusty glow from the
Center star lightens
The load we bare as we
Ruck up from the base of

Whiteface Mountain to the
Halos of soaked nimbus.
Twigs cracking in the tree-
Line speed our pace over

The slated staircase. The
Cliff’s edge is a deep well
Where Ausable Rivers
Dare you to take a plunge.

My soles soaked from the
Puddle I slipped in near the
Poison Sumac. Garter snakes
slide from beneath our footsteps

Into abandoned skink
Holes. The air burns the ridge
Of our noses and stings
Our eardrums. The jutting

Peak waits, watching out
Over Wilmington’s Placid Lake.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Homeward Bound

The countdown begins as I pack up my stuff and head home. I hope you all didn't forget about me. I'll be back tomorrow in full effect. See you then


Friday, July 17, 2009

Vacation Time

Well blogger friends. I am headed off for a week or so to do some fishing and sitting by the fire at Tupper Lake, NY. Therefore, I might not be on here very much. Have a good time without me :)
In the mean time, I thought I'd share a piece I wrote about myself at different ages. Its 5 parts and each one tells about something that was going on at that age. All 5 of these experiences helped shape me. I added the approximate age next to each as a guide (they overlap). I hope you enjoy.

Five Faces I’ve Met

The Shammer (~5-8 years old)

Brush-cross, uncross.
Shuffle, Shuffle, Leap!
routines at the mirrored wall, he
was gearing up for his first tap
tournament. He tipped his top hat
toward his right eye like Fred
Astaire and danced cheek-to-cheek
with his reflection until he’s called out
to perform the number he’s prepared.
The out of synch clapping sounded like
a lesson one shim-sham and the spot
light car-crashed his eyes like a nightmare
in the sun. The record scratched, popped,
then found the rhythm of happy feet.
He hot stepped like a dandy, chugging left
and spanking the softwood planks ‘til
his nerves tapped.

The Makeup Artist (~5-16 years old)

With her compact in his hands,
he did what he’d been taught. First,
dry those up with some tissue. He watched
himself gob up the spills. Skinny and
bruised like the last banana in the produce
section. The blood crusted around the rim
of his nostrils and taunted him with each
hiccupped breath. Rehearsing over and over
the story; I fell into the table . . . everything is
fine. It’s okay to lie to your teacher
to protect the family. Her true cameo is three
shades too light for his complexion but no one
ever seemed to notice, so he laid it on thick
in layers. Smearing, blending, but in the end
misshapen and burned out like a cheap dinner candle.

The Prospect (~8-15 years old)

.530 lifetime and a lefty. The kid
had the spirit of The Mick in his bat
and could put it wherever coach
wanted. Jersey number '1' every
year ‘cause the rest were too big.
Traveling statewide with his hand-
me-down Ryne Sandburg. The original
leather threads had been chewed up by
scoops and snags. Shoelaces held just
fine until he could go pro. The finger
slots were three sizes to big for his tiny
hands so he wore batting gloves to mind
the gaps. The palm looked hunted by
buckshot. The holes made it more aero-
dynamic. Through sevens, eights, and
nines they battled together over mounds
of sand and fields of turf. The season ended
two and eleven with a called strike three.
He buried his glove behind home.

The Tracksider (14-16 years old)

He found home in the arms of a
hollowed cigar. And rolled in the red
laced grass licking the sweet cinnamon
scrolls before pressing his lips gently
to it’s budding slit and sucking in it’s
sex cry. They stayed warm by the fire
and played pin the rock on the freight cars
as hours burned into nights burned into ash.
Swinging from the monkey bars, playing tag
against the illegals who hid there as well.
Spotlights beaming from unmarked Impalas
scorched their faces causing them to freeze like
deer before galloping to the safety of the trestles.
They watched all sides like a squad of mercenaries
scouting the jungles outside Pusan.

The Soldier (17-25 years old)

Needing something, he boarded his
first flight en route to hard Knox with
just his duffle and a picture of his grand-
parents. Ready to put the first sixteen to
rest and get well, he quickly adapted. In
basic, the Drills roared and leaped at him
like silver backs in the Congo. Versed in
sadism, his troubles were few. The slop
splashed on his tray three times a day
taught him the value of consistency. He
learned God’s virtues reading his Smart
Book. Set out on prophetic journeys over
lands blood-soaked by centuries of crusading
explorers and visionaries. He donned symbols
from many ancient texts like a Pagan, praying
for the ear of any Deus who’d listen. He
scoured the paths camouflaged in Earth for
his own protection; he staggered through
overgrown pastures and ocean-less beaches
in squads of twelve with his iron gavel in
his fists, searching for righteous testimony.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

I'll Have the Prime Rib...Rare

Ok, so this is by far the grossest story I've come across since I started blogging. My sister-in-law sent me an article (with video) that is pretty stomach turning AND the following blog isn't any less tasteless. You've been warned.

While visiting NYC from Germany, Axel Sanz-Claus, visited the Bull and Bear Steak House at the Waldorf for dinner. He got the steak (medium-rare) with a side of spinach. Everything was perfect until Jolly Old Sanz-Claus , mid meal, found a blood soaked TAMPON in his steak. That's right, a tampon. So...either he's lying and is looking for a payday; this steak was cut from a PMSing mad cow; or some disgusting pig in the restaurant's wait staff put a dirty period plug in this guys food. So, obviously the steak wasn't to his liking, but I wonder how the spinach was.

I can only imagine how the conversation with his waiter went:

Claus: "Excuse me? I know I asked for my steak rare, but..."

Waiter: "I know sir, I'm sorry. The chef overcooked it, so I took the liberty..."

Claus: "Well, I hope you're not expecting a tip."

Okay. So, maybe it didn't go down exactly like that. The worst part of this whole ordeal is, Claus had to go ot the hospital and be tested for Hepatitis AND had to schedule himself for a 6 month HI-Five test (yes, I know I used that clip before). Talk about scary! I get skeeved out when there is hair in my food.

I suppose the Bull and Bear will be getting a bad Zagat rating next time around.

The management at the Waldorf is said to be investigating the incident which I guess means rounding up the female employees and hoping they haven't been working together long enough to have synched up?

What I want them to learn from this investigation is the motive for the crime. Was it a malicious act of a fed up employee? A hoax perpetrated by a dirty old man with a taste for blood? Or merely an artful recreation of human biological function? We may never know.

Seemingly, all this poor guy wanted to do was take a nice vacation, catch a show or two, and do some shopping in the City that never sleeps. But all he has to show for it is a container holding a dirty a rag that looks like ABC gum. Yeah, that's right, Claus is holding onto the evidence. Perhaps he is looking for a big payday after all proving that old proverb, 'A tampon in a can is worth two from the bush.' Or something like that.

Nah, the real lesson is probably more like don't piss off the wait staff... Is it just me or is all this talk about food is making you hungry too...


Monday, July 13, 2009

Mannequins Make The Best Lovers

Have you ever fantasized about Kim Cattrall? -You know, seeing past the plastic exterior that is her body and fall in love with the woman inside, ultimately breaking the Egyptian curse that she'd apparently been trapped by for thousands of years?

If you have, then I have a wonderful surprise for you. Your fantasies are now a reality thanks to Johan Rizki, of the Amora Sex Academy Museum in London and Berlin. This museum features 50 interactive displays of mannequins bumping together their anatomically incorrect plastic pelvises. This interactive dispaly is said to be a teaching tool offering helpful tips to sexually inept couples guaranteeing them a future of fantastic fornication. Thanks to this innovative display, not only will you become a better lover, but you'll no longer have to feel embarrassed about going from 6 to midnight after staring at the Victoria's Secret display window in the mall.

Men, you might have always wondered...'Is the clit real?'

Women, ever pondered...'Should I work the tip or go for the gusto?'

Sadly, answers to these questions and more are now right at your fingertips. Literally. For those who like to get their hands sticky plasticky, there is a mannequin that lights up and even screams with delight when you find its G-spot. Never mind the hundreds of onlookers with camera phones; its a small price to pay when you're giving an oversized doll a reach around.

Ever wonder where the pleasure/pain line is when giving your lover a leather lasso lashing? Well the museum's "Spank-O-Meter" is just the thing for you. Go ahead and whip this mannequins plastic posterior and her robotically recorded voice will let you know when you go from Casanova to Chris Brown.

Want to learn about the sexual positions that will help you lose the most weight? They have a display for you too. At this display, you will learn all about the "Italian Chandelier' which is said to burn up to 920 calories per hour and I can only assume is a position in which you hang upside down from the ceiling inside a crystal light bulb holder and try to finish before it breaks loose and you fall to you death...I might be off on that one.

So if you are in the London or Berlin area and want to go down on go see mannequins having sex (which I couldn't see why anyone wouldn't), then visit the Amora Sex Academy and fulfill your plasto-philic fantasies.

To the men readers: If you are nowhere near London OR Berlin, and are nowhere near confident in your techniques, then I suggest you stop fumbling around and take a trip over to Teacup's very informative blogs on the subject and learn yourself a thing or two.

Friday, July 10, 2009

The Stripper

To follow up the story I posted about prostitution, I figured I'd post this piece I wrote. In this piece I was playing around with the spiritual meanings of numbers (just for fun as I don't believe in numerology since you can pretty much add things up any different way to get them to mean what you want them to mean).

The first two stanzas are 6 lines each (the number of the beast, also the 'human' number). The last stanza has 3 lines (the number of love, life, and the trinity). The whole piece (including the title) has 148 words. 1 is the number for God, or the beginning. 4 is the number for the material universe and creative works. 8 is the number for the new birth or new beginning.

The Stripper
“For tonight, with your own eyes, you will see my soul."
-Oscar Wilde

She snapped her stem two inches from someone’s
father’s nose as he swigged the eight dollar
pint of draught that he’d been baby-sipping
all night. He threw a dollar in his mouth and
slid it between the crack of her fluid stained
tanga. She smiled at him sideways and pulled it back across her lips.

The platform she poled from was warped and scarred
like runners at an old bowling alley. Cigarette burns
pocked the limbs of the bars like a sketch of her forearms.
She danced in dissociation inducing hypnotics upon
creatures cloaked in susceptibility. Nineteen and beautiful on the out-
side. Her insides tattered by hedonics like a picture of Dorian Gray.

And he stared into her from the corner like Basil into a fantastical
painting. He pictured them lying together in his garden, naked
and unaware beneath trees of immortality, sheltered from the fall.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

The World Is Filled With Pimps & Hoes

Here's a story I read that cum came came out of Amsterdam's Red Light District. Apparently, banks don't want to do business with creatures of the night. Though prostitution is legal, it is extremely hard difficult for working girls and their pimps supervisors to open bank accounts and get loins loans.

I can’t for the life of me figure out why they have so much trouble. I mean, its not like prostitution in Amsterdam is an all cash- drive behind a dumpster in the alley, one hand on the prize, the other adjusting the rearview mirror looking for cops -type industry. According to a city council member (hah, member), who is trying to work with banks to get them to accept hooker business, prostitution is a “bona fide industry” (hah, bona).

Bank CEO's are basically pimps anyway. Why shouldn’t Vagina Vendors be able to take their cash (minus 60% to the house of course) from inside their thigh-high black leather boots and, with dignity, open their legs an account? I’m sure that most of the bank employees are tricks anyway.

Besides, I would think that hookers, of all people, would be really good at keeping their accounts accruing. After all, in some sense, during their 6-9’s 9 to 5's, they operate like banks do.

1. They make constant cash transactions
2. They open and close their vaults all day/night for clients to make deposits and withdrawals.
3. When clients come in to make a transaction, they can get an all-day sucker.
4. They look like they are offering a good rate of interest, but really just want your money.
5. They look clean, but their deposit boxes are filled with other people’s dirty secrets.
6. They might give you the HI-Five…okay, a real bank probably won’t, but a hooker might.

I for one am all for prostitutes gaining the right to open bank accounts like everyone else. After all, in most careers paths, you’re either the pimp or the ho. You just call it by a different name….oh, but you probably don’t get semen all over you while doing it.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

So I read a news story last week that freaked me out a little, but I'm just getting around to talking about now. Apparently there is a 16-year-old girl (Brooke Greenberg) in the Chicago area that doesn’t age. I don’t mean that she’s a midget. I mean she is 16, but has the mind and body of a toddler. To top that off, doctors don’t have clue as to why or how this is possible.

The girl weighs 16-pounds, is 2’6” tall and, though “she can express frustration and happiness”, she can’t speak. I wonder if she really has the consciousness of a 16-year-old and just the expression ability of a toddler. Her mother seems to believe that Brooke shows some signs of there being a normal teenage girl inside her stating that Brooke enjoys shopping.

Maybe she is being taught a life lesson like Bill Murray. Everyday she wakes up in her toddler body and reenacts the same events looking for meaning in them.


Maybe she isn’t a 16-year-old baby at all, but really a sophisticated video camera sent to Earth by diabolical space creatures to learn our ways and plan an eventual global takeover, and enslave our entire species…I’ve seen it a hundred times. Before long they will be placing subliminal messages in advertisements and we will all start walking around this planet like mindless drones. Wait, that’s already begun!! OMG! These creatures must be stopped!

Ok, enough of that.

Of course doctors are now going gaga over the thought that they might be able to use this poor girl to figure out why we age; and they are making ‘fountain of youth’ references, which means that she will soon become nothing more than a lab experiment.

They are actually going to run a show about her on TLC called: Child Frozen in Time, which will air on August 2nd at 10pm.

I think this is definitely worth a watch, though I don’t know what these doctors will actually discover about cell death that they don’t already know. Then again, it would be sweet if they did figure out how to slow down the aging process and people could be kids for longer. Then again…again, as evidenced by my Scooby Doo underwears…my cape - Ok, Scooby Doo underwears AND cape, I don’t really need scientific breakthroughs to act like a kid.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Sold Souls

I read a strange article this morning about a loan office in Latvia where a man, Viktor Mirosiichenko, has offered loans in exchange for the small price of your soul (in the case you can't repay the loan).

Now I'm not a preachy type person where religion is concerned, but it would seem to me that if someone believes in a soul; then they, in turn, most likely believe in...I dunno, God and the Devil. So, what would cause people to agree to offer their soul for collateral in a loan for a few hundred dollars?

It seems that of all the countries in the European Union, Latvia has been one of the most effected by the economic troubles of the world. Apparently, the people there feel they are running out of options and their calls to the sky have thus far been unanswered. Where can people turn when their prayers go unanswered? Pascal?...Or, how about a loan shark offering cold hard, TANGIBLE cash for a mere "soul". What a deal! He should go into business with these guys so that after he collects the souls, he has somewhere to dump the bodies.

Even more interesting than the crazy terms of this loan is the fact that Mr. Mirosiichenko only requires that participants provide their first name. When asked why, he answered, "If they don't give it back, what can you do? They won't have a soul, that's all." Either this guy is completely nuts, or he is actually a soul collecting- soul collector for satan.

One thing is for sure, extreme poverty and desperation can seemilngly turn even the most devout person into a sinful sinner who sins.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

View From The Bench

I started out not posting too many personal things, but its becoming a bit more frequent recently. Here's another piece I wrote. Hope you all enjoy.

View From the Bench

I lean against the backdrop of a
Skyless sun. Bunched beds of
Catsears wait in line to be freed

From the desiccated soil by a little
Girl in an auburn sundress and
Bows in her hair. She scrunches

The bloomed stems together
For the boy with the overalls
Rolled up to his knees standing

In algae-crusted water, skipping
Rocks. He pops their heads off
And releases the petals from

Shore like Regattas over
The River Thames. She blows
The fruit seeds from the bracts

And sits Indian-style on the knoll
Like Terpsichore as they dance
Across her shoulders to

The Lyrés trances. A dust-bowler
Fitted with a derby and hickory cane
Sits on the bench beside me, beside

His wife. They giggle and sway as
They feed the Mallards crumbed heels
Of cracked honey wheat. Little kids

Swing, trying to grasp the sun, before
Ejecting and Crashing to the shredded
Rubber mulch that fills the play box

While babysitting sisters sneak off
Behind the lavatories between
Innings with the boys playing pickup

Baseball. They tumble over beds of
Burned out Lucky’s and empty beer
Bottles , playing games of roulette

With their adolescence.
An Irish Setter and a Mastiff loudly
Howl back and forth, mimicking the

Incoherent droolings from their
Owner’s lips as they run circles around

I crack open a Komunyakaa and drift