Wednesday, October 31, 2012

The Official History of the Rusty Sessions

2012 - Boulder, CO. Surprise guest.

2011 - Liberty Bell Rusty, Philadelphia PA. DokBok gets a fan.

2010 - Boston Massacre Rusty.  Blood all over Boston.  Squad meets Steven Tyler, OneEar turns down offer to join Aerosmith.

2009 - Dylan McKay Rusty LA CA.  DokBok's neighbors  

2008 - Mount Vernon, Wisconsin. OneEar turns 40, DocBok closes the Yellow Bar forever. Amps don't work, fire won't light, Bundespanties leaves early.

2007- Baton Rouge/New Orleans

2006 - Dogtrack Rusty - Lake Zurich, IL

2005- Fais Do Do Rusty - Baton Rouge/New Orleans LA.

2004 - Rhode Island/Cape Cod

2003 - Baton Rouge/New Orleans

2002 - Boston ($1500.00 Rusty)

2001 - Wisconsin?

2000 - Somewhere north of Chicago

1999- Nags Head, North Carolina

1998 - Ankle Break Rusty - Verona, Wisconsin.
1997 -
Williamsburg VA-not a Rusty

1996-Different Cabin in Ohio

1995-Rusty Never Sleeps - Cabin in Ohio - featuring Jammin Johnny B, Bo-Bonna, Aislinn, and the Grosse Jacket.

1994-Mount Vernon, Wisconsin

1993- Arlington, VA

1992- Chicago, Illinois.  The First Official Authorized and Universally Recognized Rusty Session.

1991 - Chicago, Illinois. Pre-Planning meeting -20 year plan for Rusty Sessions developed, Articles of ConfettiRusty adopted.

Nil Is Nigh

OK, you have successfully taunted me out of retirement.

Here is the scoop.

#1 - The world is coming to an end.  I think that is self-explanatory.
#2 - The Presidential election is 6 days away.  Most importantly,
#3 -  The 20th Annual Rusty Sessions to be held in Boulder, CO is only 9 days away.

As for the special guest, would you consider it special if I pretended to be someone else for the entire visit?

Show-down in Boulder!

The Mini-guitar v. The 'Surprise' Guest.
I say 'Game On, MoFo'
But I guess time will be the ultimate arbiter.
Peace and safe travels, fellow voyagers.  The End is Nigh!

Tuesday, July 03, 2012

“What To Expect…” Misses Expectations

Ah, the life of the critic. It is a mystifying vocation where each review is a new romance; a journey which both leads and follows the whims of man. Like a coy escort dancing with her evening’s companion, the critic guides by following the lead. She caresses the client gently, pulls him softly into her grasp, and, by both anticipating and sustaining his wants and needs, she brings him to the desired conclusion. And blowjobs are extra.

Elbert Hubbard once said, “To avoid criticism, do nothing, say nothing, be nothing.” In the face of such wisdom, one is forced to ponder, “Who in the fuck is Elbert Hubbart?” “WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN YOU'RE EXPECTING,” by Heidi Murkoff, Arlene Eisenberg and Sandee Hathaway is one such book. Suffice it to say that these three blowhards could learn a thing or two from Elbert Hubbard. Frankly, contrary to their title, they have no idea about what I should expect when I’m expecting.

First of all, the three ignorami apparently have no grasp of what it is that I’m expecting. Let’s be clear about this: I’m expecting a massive intercontinental war to erupt over the scarcity of clean, drinkable water. I’m expecting to send my son, and possibly daughter, off to some foreign land to kill or be killed so that I can take a nice long bath twice a day while sipping scotch on the rocks. From what I skimmed, this book doesn’t even touch on my expectations.

No, these three saps go on and on about how tricky it is to be pregnant. For the love of butter, somebody needs to get their heads out of their vaginas! Come on folks, this is not some innovative technology – people have been having babies for quite some time. I’ve got four simpletons in my own immediate family who managed to pull it off. Couple the couple, wait nine months, boil some hot water, and voila, you’ve got poached eggs. Wait, I think I missed a step there.

Anyway, this book has a complete lack of character development. The story plods along giving a month-by-month play-by-play about pregnancy. Every lousy month of the ordeal has its own chapter. This is more tedious than that TV show 24 where Donald Sutherland’s son is always crawling around in heating vents.

Each chapter starts with some gibber-jabber about how mom is getting bigger and baby is getting bigger. This chapter the baby has a heart – now the baby has a brain – now the baby has a penis. We get it – when it pops out it is going to be a baby.

Give us some suspense. Where is the personality? Will the baby be some sort of evil genius? Is he possessed by the ghost of a parasite that used to live in Da Vinci’s anus? Give us something to chew on here, please.

Most of this miserable diatribe is written exclusively from the woman’s perspective. There is only one stinking chapter dedicated to dads, and it doesn’t touch on fishing, football or hookers. Hello? I haven’t read anything this female-biased since “Menopause and Me.”

Many chapters include information labeled “What you may be feeling?” or “What you may be concerned about?” Wrong. They failed to include even one of the things I am feeling or any of the millions of things I am concerned about. If my feelings and concerns were a bullseye and the idiot trio was an archer, these three morons would be pulling arrows out of their own three-headed ass. The blowhard triumvirate went so far as to include a meal plan in their stupid book. If I wanted to read a menu, I would have gone to Hooters. And don’t give me a diet which omits spicy buffalo wings, either.

According to the jacket, this book has sold more than 10 million copies. Think about that. If the book costs $1.00, that is more than $10 million dollars. Think about how many babies you could buy with that kind of money. These braggarts further boast that the book remains on the best-seller list of a New York newspaper. As if anyone reads newspapers anymore.

No, What to Expect When You’re Expecting can only be described as a miserable failure. If I wanted to expect all of the stuff that these three chumps ramble on about, I’d just knock my wife up again. United, we’d spark the flame of another precious soul to blaze and enlighten this wonderous universe, if only for a brief flash of time. And sex trumps words.
Originally published 4/2/2006 at

Saturday, March 17, 2012

Don't pass me by, don't make me cry; don't make me blue

Anxiously awaiting to hear whether OneEar and Cocoa will allow me to violate their sanctity this weekend.  Oh, how they torture me.

Friday, January 06, 2012

Things I forgot to tell you

Willie Nelson was tragically killed by a hit-and-run driver in front of his suburban house last night. Apparently, Willie was playing on the road again.

I am very concerned about the rampant peanut allergies I keep hearing about. Last night, one of the moms from One Jr.'s basketball team told me that her son has a very dangerous peanut allergy. She showed me where to find his epi-pen. I was struck dumb.

First, why is everyone suddenly allergic to peanuts? When I was a kid, peanut butter was a universally accepted staple. Now it is a hazardous substance. This seems like an extraordinarily fast evolution in the defense mechanism of the peanut.

Second, what is the danger? Peanuts always give me gas. Is this what they are talking about? I learned about the hazards of eating legumes from Mel Brooks' "Blazing Saddles, " but I never let farting stop me from playing basketball. Why do you think they invented those long shorts that vent the gas down farther away from nose level?

Third, since when is some stranger who agrees to coach basketball qualified to give your son an injection? I considered telling her, "Oh thanks, here is my son's jock itch cream, but make sure none gets on his hands or it will make the ball slippery."

I tell ya, I do. Yep. Its something.