This works, as long as the shovels weren’t first used for latrine duty.
Reminds me of hubcap grilles, clothes hanger toast, fish poached in a dishwasher, grilled cheese sandwiches ala steam iron, foil-wrapped stew on the exhaust manifold, BeanieWeenies-in-the-can on a hot plate, electric dryer bacon. (Okay, I made up the last one.)
I’ll have our crack team of webminers find links for the above concoctions asap (unless any of you wanna beat me to it in the comments section).
Ken Nordine… the voice, the guy you’ve heard, but never knew it…
Best of Word Jazz is available on cd via Rhino Records. Ken Nordine’s late 1950’s and early ’60’s work is bizarre. Here’s Bunk’s review [from Amazon] a few years ago:
“Late at night, toss this into your cd player, press pause.
“Turn off the lights.
“Turn on the TV. Turn off the sound. Flip to channel 3…
“Static…
“Hit play attention…
“Ken Nordine is the comforting yet oddly disturbing voice in your head that you try to ignore, but can’t; he’s the Twilight Zone for your ears.”
But don’t take my word for it. The liner notes include this gem of a description:
“Ken Nordine, yea I know that guy. I heard his voice 1000 times, he’s the guy in the bus station that says “go ahead I’ll keep an eye on your stuff for you,” and you see him the next day walking around town wearing your clothes. He broadcasts from the boiler room of the Wilmont Hotel with 50,000 watts of power. I know that voice, he’s the guy with the pitchfork in your head saying go ahead and jump, and he’s the ambulance driver who tells you you’re going to pull thru. He’s the guy in the control tower who talked you down in a storm with a hole in your fuselage and both engines on fire. I heard him barking thru the Rose Alley Carnival strobe as samurai firemen were pulling hose. Yea he’s the dispatcher with the heart of gold, the only guy up this late on the suicide hotline. Ken Nordine is the real angel sitting on the wire in the tangled matrix of cobwebs that holds the whole attic together. Yea Ken Nordine, he’s the switchboard operator at the Taft Hotel, the only place in town you can get a drink at this hour. You know Ken Nordine, he’s the lite in the icebox, he’s the blacksmith on the anvil in your ear.” –Tom Waits, 1990
For some reason, I have this subtle urge to buy 501 Jeans…
Tacky Raccoons 