14 days without an update. You would think I'd been busy or something.

Well, I have been.

I had to hit the ground running when I got back from Tennessee/Texas, and then there was Christmas, and then there was the McCune Family Band. It's been busy.

Me rocking with the McCune Family Christmas Band. I rocked balls.

But now it's 11am, New Year's Eve-Eve, and I finally have a chance to jot down some thoughts.

2007 was a pretty good year for me. I lost a few pounds, got into a workout regimen I can handle, got rid of a lot of clutter, tried to be a nicer person (usually failing, but I give myself an "E" for effort).

I relaunched docmarvy.com in July with the redesign to rave reviews of all four of my regular blog readers. I started some new features on the blog including the DC Blitz (which coincides with my political radio segment); That thing I do where I scan old magazines and make fun of them... along the way helping a random stranger who stumbled on the blog connect a little bit with a recently-deceased parent. So that was nice. I also chronicled my trips to America's "Reinforced cradle of the morbidly obese," Tennessee, and brought the pictures to prove it. And I did one whole installment of my former Weisenheimers Blogaverse feature "Holy Shit," where I make fun of religion and the beliefs that people hold near and dear to their heart -- because I'm a dick. Yes it was a good year, or at least six months, of docmarvy 2.0.

But would a dick wear a jacket like this?:

You bet he would, and did. I don't know why American Apparel isn't selling more of these.

I screwed up my fair share this year - and then some, to be sure. Undeniably. I certainly bit it for New Years Eve plans. Between Weisenhimers shows, McCune Family Band-ing, traveling to Texas, Tennessee and environs, Christmas and its associated gifting/baking, etc., I didn't really come up with anything better for the rockin' NYE than a crock pot full of three bean turkey chili and a night on the couch. That is, after I entertain the good people of Blair, Nebraska. (Not to be confused with Blair Warner, the social climbing blonde from Eastland boarding school for girls.)

2008? Who knows? Work. Texas. New opportunities to reinvent myself as a thinner, more muscular, more sexy/confident mid-30's man of the new millennium. We'll see.

Feel free to put your wishes, resolutions or responses in the comments. But keep in mind, I'll hold you to 'em.

Happy new year, everybody. Thanks for reading. In 2008 let's all try to hug a little more, be a little better, rock out with our cocks out a bit more and above all fuck fear.

Take it away Ukelady:

Huzzah, babies.

On my last night in Tennessee I had an opportunity to visit the As Seen On TV Store (AKA Golden Eagle) that was mentioned previously in this blog and on the Weisenheimers Blogaverse. Well, I went back to take more pictures of the land of the misfit products. I'm also going to throw in whatever iPhone camera remnants happen to fall out.

On with the freak show!

Hey, remember me? That's right, it's your old pal the Rotating Display Case of Poorly Designed Redneck Bumper Stickers! The eye is drawn to the "If I Had Known This I Would've Picked My Own Cotton" sticker. How could it not? But check out some of the other classics here. This is what Tom Tancredo sees when he closes his eyes. I'm a little confused by the redneck mosquito with the rebel flag wings. Is the inference that although they are parasitic to northerners somehow this gives the redneck mosquito the upper hand? Feel free to explain.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the prestidigitational presentation of America's favorite magic duo, Cups & Balls! Not to be rude, but I can't really claim that my cups are magical *wink wink*.

Continuing on that theme...

Come on. They knew what they were doing. Is it safe to assume that this was a term of endearment for William "The Refrigerator" Perry? Golly I hope so.

Do people just assume that Jesus would lack good taste? Because if I were the messiah and I returned and saw someone wearing that tie, I would punch them in the fridgeballs. Also of note is the Red State v. Blue State tie. Although I have a pretty comprehensive tie collection I'm still not a fan of event-specific neckwear. Particularly election day. You have so few occasions to enjoy wearing a tie so notably ugly.

Guess what? The As Seen On TV (Golden Eagle) Gift and Souvenir store also had a food section. Of course they do!

Prior to the ugly lawsuit with the creators of Starsky & Hutch, Taste Delight brand was poised to take over the world of flavored ursine-shaped snack foods. Damnable lawyers.

In and of itself, liquid cheese sauces are without any particular novelty. What strikes me here, aside from the fact that the veggie-juggling chef appears to be made out of cheese himself, is the name. Eazee Squeeze brand. Try shoehorning seven "e"'s into two words. It's a trick. Please don't confuse this with Kraft's Easy Cheese from the previous post, or EZ Cheez, which is a popular liquid imitation cheese sauce. This is Eazee Squeeze. The cheese? it's not so easy. But the squeezin isn't just easy, it's EAZEE.

I appreciate Flying Super Hero's rippling physique and atomic-age design sensibilities, but I take issue with the fact that he couldn't come up with anything more creative than Flying Super Hero. If his ONLY super power is flying (and looking great in a full body leotard) then he's actually pretty lame. This was in a section of nothing but flying, lawsuit-inducing toys. Birds, planes, and of course... generic flying super hero.

Of course, musical disembodied dog head gumball machine in a vile sewage brown. So macabre was this toy that I completely missed the FloamBot Kit it was sitting next to. Is a gumball machine a toy? If so, what is the nature of how you play with it? Oh boy! I put in a coin and got a gumball! I know understand the importance of money! Now sing to me in your robot voice, dog head!

I heard they were getting back together! In fact, they were in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade this year. I saw just enough of it to know that there are more than a few budding "Ricky Martins" in that group, if you get my meaning. And I certainly think you do.

Looking at these funky toy photos reminded me of the last time I snapped some phone pics in the As Seen On TV Store. It was with my lovable ol' Nokia (since mutilated by Monty's Manos (the hands of destroying my phone). I never had an opportunity to post this little number, but now's my chance. And sure enough, thanks to my digital pack rat-ism, I saved it. Check it.

Something looks suspiciously familiar between "The Jazz Man" and the "Singing and Blowing G.I." At least I think that's what it says. If so, this is the worst way imaginable to support our troops. But I digress. Before he was serving our country he was blowing hot saxophone jazz... and his hands stuck that way. But hey, the Army has to make recruitment quotas.

And finally, totally unrelated to the trip, before I left town I checked out the new gallery attached to Dixie Quicks. Their "Table Scraps" display is up, and guess what I found:

The artist? Yours truly. I was sketching out some phony Eames dots patterns and overlapping 50's rhomboids around my hastily scrawled logo for DQ. And now? I'm in a gallery and my work is offered for tens of dollars. The art world is so fickle.

That does it for me. I'm hanging out in the Austin airport killing a little time as I compose this. It's going to be a weekend of house hunting and hopefully some sleep at some point. Because my ace is draggin'.

More later, kiddies.

Huzzah.

I'm too timid to openly photograph people I intend to mock on the web. I'm not viceland.com's do's and dont's, fer crissakes. So instead I sneak some stealthy photos with m'trusty iPhone camera. Hence the outdoor, well-lit photos look really good, and the indoor, dark ones look blurtacular. Nonetheless, you get the idea.

We begin our safari at the most evil place in the known universe.

If David Lynch and John Waters had a baby, then being at the Pigeon Forge Super Wal Mart would be like being trapped in that baby's brain. Trapped, I say!

Here's a Wal Mart customer in the much-mentioned FPC. This was one of the smaller ones, I couldn't take pictures of the bigger ones... because I would've needed a wide angle lens. *rimshot* Thank you, I'm here all week. Seriously, though, there were some huge folks scooting around.

In case you can't read it, the sign says "GED Upstairs." Because in Tennessee, getting your Graduation Equivalency Degree is so important, they test you in the banquet hall of an abandoned theme restaurant that sits atop the recovering drug addict thrift shop. All true. Stay in school, kids.

I got off the plane, rented the car, drove the 40 minutes into town to meet my folks at the park behind the mill along the creek. (All true) Where they kept me waiting about a half an hour, wandering around. There were all type of waterfowl, some of which I photographed myself with. Which you can see here. Apparently, my parents were so excited to see me that they made me wait while they went to the above mentioned Super Wal Mart. Bleh.

This is my father doing something that I requested he do while I take a picture. I thought it would be clever. Upon reflection, it is not.

You read it right. Dolly has pumped major cashola back into this community. At the "Day Surgery" entrance to the Fort Saunders Pigeon Forge Mediocre Medical Center there's a whole Dolly Parton birthing unit. Back in the day Johnny Carson would joked about wanting to see Dolly Parton's birthing unit. And that's why the man was a genius.

What would a trip to Tennessee be without photos of weird food? No trip at all, as far as I'm concerned. At the Sevierville Big Lots they have some discontinued test market food failures. Case in point. I'll be the first to admit I likes me some Easy Cheese. Cheddar and Bacon goodness from a can on a Ritz? Man, back before I developed sophisticated taste buds that stuff was the shizz. Now? Nah sah muhhhh. Regardless, I like my shmear for my bagel to be refrigerated. This is a can of "real" cream cheese in a room temperature can. Maybe Jew-Bot would dig it, but not me, thank you very much!

Kids like snack foods, and kids like that rap music. How can we tap into a crucial cross-market? I have it! Rap Snacks! This idea is fucking insane no matter how you parse it. Basically how it works is relatively unknown rappers attach themselves and their likeness to a specific flavor of Rap Snacks, in this case Stat Quo on Sour Cream & Extra Cheddar, and somehow that will translate into album sales. The only flaw in this marketing idea is how insanely stupid it is and how it will never work. And at the last minute, when they're trying to figure out how to not have this snack scare the shit out of white people from the South, they decide to slap an inspirational saying on the front. In this case, Pursue your college degree. That's right, when Stat Quo isn't busting caps in College Park, he's working on finishing up his MBA. Then he can get a job where his "Extra Cheddar" is going into is wallet, and not his rap snacks. God help us all.

So that's all for now, kids. 30-some-odd hours from now I'll be in Austin.

Show some love in the comments.

Huzzah.

Hey Kids,

Since I'm down here in Jesus-ey McBible-land among all the Baptist snake handlers and pious/righteous 700 lb. Wal Mart shoppers, I was snagged by this story. And it's been a while since I've done a Holy Shit feature (see all previous ones on the Weisenheimers Blogaverse). So here's the latest installment.

Think it's hard to find a Wii this Xmas? Yeah, well join the club, crybaby. Think about how much more profoundly depressing it would be if you were the parent who was going to disappoint your young'un when you're unable to get them the talking Jesus action figure. No. I'm not kidding. FULL STORY HERE.

What? You never write. You never call.

Naturally, they have sold out of these at Wal Mart. Who is surprised by this? I know that I'm going to end up at the Sevierville Super Wal Mart at some point during this trip, so I'll try to take some clandestine pics of locals in their FPCs.

Frankly, if I'm going to get a Jesus themed toy, I'd really prefer the Jackhammer Jesus (very NSFW).

But hey, that's just me.

Huzzah.

(Thanks to Consumerist, Dallas Morning News, and pervert sex toy designers everywhere)

UPDATE: As usual, I've been upstaged by a much more proficient, thorough blogger and his much more read (likely because it's better written) blog. Jockohomo not only gives you talking Jesus doll news, but a whole slew of other modern religious artifacts including anti-masturbation creme. He also mercifully spared you the link to the Jackhammer Jesus. Hats off to you, Jocko.

You see, I'm not really on the "road" as such, since I'm in a plane.

This first part is just a stream of consciousness rant. Feel free to skip to...

35,000 feet above what I'm going to presume is Michigan on the first leg of a trip to see my parents for a week then a few days in my future home of Texas, I'm trying to pretend that the tiny tray on the jam packed tiny plane I'm on is big enough to open my laptop and hammer out a blog post. But it isn't. I'm so cramped that I'm having to constantly type and retype almost every word. That and after deadlifting yesterday my back is too tight for me to get comfortable in the seat. I'm being pretty generous here, it's not like I'm some super powerlifter. More likely there is no way any normal shaped person could be comfortable in these iron-flat-ass seats with the concave backing to give the illusion that you have some room. Although, it's particularly bad here since I ended up on a tiny plane with some particularly freakishly tall and/or fat people. A whole collection of Herman Munster's and Ralphie May's. Is it indecent to ask that if you're booking your flight online that you put your size info in and that will be a factor so they don't put too many ginormous people on one flight? I mean we've already give up so many personal freedoms (along with our dignity) when we go through TSA. It instills almost no faith in the administration that is in place to provide safety for travelers when, as you stand there waiting for your three different bins so you can grab your belongings, the TSA agent manning the X-Ray guffaws to his coworker that when he tried to move the monitor he accidentally hit the power button and turned it of "haw-haw-haw!" Oh, we have good times humiliating people for a living...

[The bell to turn off all electronic devices goes off here, it picks up after I make my connection]

Squeezing onto a Canadair Regional Jet with some more abnormally large people the guy sitting next to me in 9-A said, "This jet is Canada's revenge against the U.S."
I just smiled and said "yeah," because I didn't know how else to react. Now, several hours later, I have no idea what the hell he meant. Canada's revenge against us? For what? For having a more temperate climate? Then getting up to let the guy next to me get out, I clock myself on the bulkhead. It was really loud and embarrassing and the guy a row back said "watch your head" after I did it. I didn't want to make waves so I just let out a stifled "thanks" through clenched teeth. How clever, I will watch my head NOW THAT I KNOW IT'S CAPABLE OF SMASHING INTO THE CARRY-ON STORAGE.

After hours on the tarmac and many gallons of gooey green wing de-icer I stepped off the plane into 68 degrees of humid Tennesse warmth to find that the TSA befouled my bags with what looks like fluorescent green chalk dust, then dragged them under the plane the whole way. But I'm here, in the mountains, driving my rented Chevy Equinox and preparing to fast tomorrow in solidarity with my father who is getting a colonoscopy on Wednesday. I'll be sure to post pictures.

Actually, I will be trying to take some pictures of the local flair that makes this place so outrageously retarded.

Stay tuned, kids.

Huzzah.

Amid my packing, straightening and prepping for Austin, I ran across a couple of late 1950's "girlie" mags that friends got me for my 18th birthday. I would like to state right now that I was not 18 in 1958. This would've been more like 1992-ish. They got the mags at the Antiquarium, which for non-Omahans is a musty used book store populated with aging hippies and artsy-types who while away the day petting feral housecats and sipping strong coffee.

Since the only thing I do on this blog that attracts readers seems to be making fun of old magazines, I figured I could two-birds/one-stone this deal by scanning the only noteworthy pages for blog-fun while throwing away the paper mags because I don't feel like driving 50 year old softcore porn to Texas.

A note: there's no actual noteworthy nudity in the following pics. All the nudity in the mags is waist-up and pretty foul anyway, but I figured why tempt fate by screwing up your life by causing you to lose your job for looking at the least-satisfying pornography in the world? So not worth it. So here's all the softcore badness along with the ads, which are the funniest part anyway.

Cover number one is Scamp, the Sparkling Companion for Men, whatever that means. In September 1958 what passed for good cover art was a model on a balance beam while an "artist" smears oil paint on a canvas. Get it? Modern art is so dumb! Give me black and white pictures of half-naked ladies who look like your best friend's mom. The magazine promises to show you what a girl does to become a star. I'll give you a hint: The answer isn't "appear in Scamp".

Magazine number two was All Man. As promised, it is a panorama of party-time nudes. And some of those nudes were even in color. This company had a budget and they were willing to translate that into high quality spreads of MILFs (or as they used to be known, "women") doing what MILFs do. Which is apparently clean the house nude, make dinner nude, and to nude lounge in their stark nudeness. And this woman on the cover? She REALLY loves her bedroom set. Never before have you seen a woman more enamored of her four-poster canopy bed. At least I hope you haven't.

Both magazines were rife with muscle-building come ons from all the classics. The above ad for the Atlas Dynamic Tension muscle building system ran for something like 130 years in comic books, softcore 50's porno mags, Field & Stream and New Numismatist magazines. It's a little small for you to read, but the cartoon down the left side goes a little like this: Mac and his girlfriend are enjoying a day at the beach being white privileged teenagers. Along comes a big buff bully who kicks sand on Mac, then emasculates and humiliates him in front of his girlfriend. Although Mac has a hard time admitting it, he secretly got a prurient thrill from this public shaming, but nonetheless he decides that being a humiliation "top" would be preferable to a humiliation "bottom." Mac goes home, abuses some furniture and runs across the Atlas ad in one of the above-mentioned magazines. After seemingly no time passes Mac finds himself a rippling pile of man meat. He heads back to the beach where he 'roid rages on the bully from earlier (sans roids, of course) and punches him out in front of everyone. The ensuing panels that I imagined but were never made involved Mac being arrested for assault, serving a little time, then getting out and reconciling with the bully. Mac and the bully move into a loft apartment off the Castro together where they cuddle watching Zeb Atlas lifestyle videos. I'm fairly certain that's how the story ends.

More of the muscle growth hype combined with some of the worst-written ad copy in history. "Gains of up to a Pound-A-Day proven by thousands" Certain things are capitalized, certain things are unnecessarily hyphenated yet there's a dearth of any other punctuation. It's a party of bad grammar and undeliverable promises. I'm surprised how they had the technology in 1958 to make a shake that let you drink on muscle mass, yet they don't have it today. I blame the FDA. Also those before and after photos are great. The top photo lets you know that drinking weight-gain shakes (combined with hitting puberty and being severely top lit) will turn you into a hulking pile of beach buffness. The lower photo shows that drinking the shakes and puffing out your concave chest along with being photographed by Inch High Private Eye will make you look like a douche holding his breath. Genius! In fairness, they're doing their best in the dark days before Photoshop.

Oh yes, things do happen when you wear Eleganza. People either laugh or vomit. Sometimes both simultaneously. If you were wondering what International Male would look like in 1958, wonder no longer. Actually, while all these clothes were no doubt re-god-damned-diculous in '58, they are now kind of strangely retro-cool. But only if you sport these body types. Like International Male, the only people who look good in these clothes are the people who have identical measurements to the mannequins they were designed on. The "Dramatic Double Knit" tunic shirt is trés cool if you happen to be Captain of the Enterprise. The Double Breasted Walking Suit would look spectacular on a Blue Velvet-era Kyle MacLaughlin and nobody else on earth. Black Magic proves that having a bowtie doesn't necessarily mean you have to look like Tucker Carlson or George Will. Thankfully. And the shoes? Actually sort of hip, though admitting it could make the fashion gods angry.

Why is there an ad for insanely pointy-boobed lingerie in a men's mag? The holidays were coming up, so maybe last minute gift ideas. What I like about all these drawings is that all of the women look like they are totally insane and mid-breakdown. Very high concept. You may be thinking "I've heard the name Lili St. Cyr before, but WHERE!?!?" Well, it's in the lyrics that Susan Sarandon sings during the floor show sequence of Rocky Horror. Dig out your soundtracks/VHS or DVD and see/hear for yourself.

Finally, some filth. I guess? Every one of these pictures makes me want to shout "Mom! No!" Although with all the strategic placement, this is so totally tame and prime time. Seriously. I have seen more nudity in high school senior pictures. I'm not kidding, either. On the upside, at least this harkens back to a time when women were allowed to have curves. Because it takes curves to be sensual, something Kate Moss is sadly unaware of since she looks like a frail 12 year old boy.

Stories for men. Sounds hot. What titles have you got? Midget and the Duchess? Um... okay... Young Lady and her Dog? I don't know if I would like that... Captive to Six Women? Sounds like a mixed blessing... A Traveling Salesman? So long as it's not Willy Loman, perhaps. Apparently these stories are so hot that it will make your brain vaporize and shoot out your ears while your toupeé flies off and you levitate while biting off your tongue. Must've been those "artist illustrations" that go along with the stories. Hot diggity!

Men! Want a photo FREE! Is that supposed to be a question? Because it has an exclamation point on the end.

And finally for you nerds, get a ¢92 Slide Rule. You know what I love about Slide Rules? The way old people always yell at you about them and how back in "their day" they didn't have calculators and fancy computers! They had to do their math on a stick with a sliding window. Then those same old people get upset when you suggest that maybe people can do better math now that they're not doing it on two sticks. But hey, they're old people. What can you do with them besides turn them into Soylent?

And finally...

No commentary or joke needed.
Okay... maybe one.

After Oscar returned to Sesame Street from his three month hiatus in Switzerland there was something noticeably different about him. Sure, there was still some grouchiness, but mostly that could be attributed to the hormones.

And that's it for classic filth, kiddies. Stay tuned for more hilarity from junk I'm finding while I clean and prep to move.

Huzzah.