SNL Halloween Costume #1: Oh Bellissima, More Pepper?

This Grand Finale is a double-dipper. Some of the funniest SNL skits were the Bellissima skits and the Pepper Boy skit. And what I realized in looking at the characters is that they are all very similar, with their outfits and accents. All you need are black pants, a white button-down shirt, a black tie, black hair or wig, an Italian accent, and a tall pepper shaker that is optional depending on if you venture into both characters. So the beauty of this is that you can do both characters in one night, or save one of them for next year on the really cheap. Good luck on your Halloween costume this year, and have a safe and fun one!

SNL Halloween Costume #2: Matt Foley

One of the funniest SNL skits of all time, starring the funniest cast member of all time. Matt Foley, played by Chris Farley, was emulated much by me and my friends. The only reason this isn't number one on the list is because I'm sure millions of people went as Matt Foley to parties across the country in the 1990's, and my intent was to be a little more original. All you need is a pair of black eyeglasses, a blue plaid sport coat with solid green tie (though this isn't necessary), a white button-down shirt and a pair of khaki pants, some slicked over hair, and the Farley enthusiasm. A real live van down by the river would put the icing on the cake.

SNL Halloween Costume #3: Phillip and Grace

One of the cutest SNL skits ever, Mike Meyers as Phillip went from loving Grace (Nicole Kidman), to dropping her, to calling her the devil. It will be devastating to me if I never get my wife to become this duo at a future party. All you need is similar kid's clothes, a doll, helmet, harness, and some plastic interlocking jungle gym thing (or make your own out of painted gift wrapping paper tubes). And don't forget the voice inflection and smeared chocolate Hershey candy bar on your face!

SNL Halloween Costume #4: Mr. Peepers

This little monkey freaked me out a little when I saw him back when, so imagine what you'll be able to do to people at a Halloween party. I think a pair of second-hand red jogging pants would work best. Cut them into shorts and use the legs to make strips to attach for the suspenders. Dark hair, fake eyebrows, fake ears, a bushel of apples, and an uncanny ability to hump people and you'll be set. The only really bad thing is that late October can be uncomfortably cold. But if you play Mr. Peepers true to form, you'll be very active, and active equals hot, in a weird little monkey kind of way.

SNL Halloween Costume #5: To Bill Brasky!

When I can get a small group of friends to go to a Halloween party with me (yeah, I only have like one), I vow to go as one of those guys that worships Bill Brasky. You know, Bill Brasky, the guy who eats his children if he's hungry enough. When I am fortunate to do this, I will not be able to drink large glasses of scotch on the rocks--I'm to wimpy. Instead, I'll have large glasses of beer. People won't know who I am anyway, so it won't matter.

SNL Halloween Costume #6: Just Like Old Times

These skits with Tom Hanks and Jon Lovitz were favorites of my friends and mine because we could relate with these two guys. They were like us in that they couldn't get the ladies, yet we envied them because at least they had the guts to try. An episode where they are trying to pick up old women on a cruise ship is tops! Now this costume is obviously easy--you wear slacks, a sweater, a button-down shirt, a necktie, and a golfer jacket, and your hair should be darker and poofed. But the kicker is that you must have a friend to go to a Halloween party with, and you have to hit on all of the girls who walk by. Work in kind of a slow up and down talk and use all of their funny phrases. Or invent some phrases for the holiday, like "She looked at me like she saw a ghost" or whatever. The downside is that you'll have to stand by your buddy all night, but the upside is that the ladies will be so attracted to your vulnerability you may not have to stand by your buddy all night.

SNL Halloween Costume #7: Grumpy Old Man

I'm old and I'm grumpy! In my day we didn't have fancy computers, with blog services to talk to our friends. If we wanted to talk to each other, we'd pick up something called a rotary phone, and we'd dial the people we loved thousands of miles away until our bank accounts emptied and our fingers bled! And we liked it, we loved it! Because that's the way it was....I think that Dana Carvey was the most talented and versatile actor to come through Saturday Night Live, and I was amazed that his career post-SNL didn't blossom. Of course, my friends and I often acted like Grumpy Old Man, either making up our own schticks or reciting the favorite rabbit skin one. The sad and scary thing is that I'm sure my friends and I now are sometimes acting like the Grumpy Old Man without even realizing it! This costume is easy with a gray cardigan sweater, a reddish plaid shirt, a light gray wig, and some glasses. Oh, and you need that angry voice.

SNL Halloween Costume #8: The Thinker...Or The Stinker

Are you brave, self confident, and cheap? Will Ferrell did a skit that I laugh to every time I see it. He was Terrence Maddox, a homeless Vietnam Vet who posed nude for an art class to make a little extra money. All you need is a blue robe and slippers, a beard and wig, a canvas army green backpack (optional), and the guts to be naked underneath, at least. You don't need hepatitis or one testicle like him, but you do need to be crude, mentally unstable, and act a little high. Assuming you'll be acting.

SNL Halloween Costume #9: Daaaa Bears

One of the more fun SNL skits for me as a kid was Bill Swerski's Super Fans Show, better known as "Da Bears". This was when a bunch'a guys would sit around a table, drink beer, smoke cigars and eat, and talk about sports and heart attacks. These guys were Chicago fanatics, and more specifically, in love with Mike Ditka. Ditka could do no wrong. My all time favorite segment was when Chris Farley (in my opinion the funniest man to ever live) was choking on a pork steak yelling "I'm noking, I'm noking!", and with some help from his friends, coughed it up. The point of this is that if you're with a group of friends and going to a Halloween party but don't know what to wear, then this is it. You just dress up in Chicago sports clothing, hats, 80's sunglasses, and fake mustaches, build up a halfway decent Chicago accent, and talk about the greatness of Ditka or Jordan, or Bob Probert for that matter. Just don't mention the Cubs--these guys never did.

SNL Halloween Costume #10: I'm Just a Caveman

For some reason my friends and I latched onto Phil Hartman's presentation of Cirroc (pronounced Keyrock), the Unfrozen Cave Man Lawyer, and when we didn't understand something someone said, we would say, "Your world frightens and confuses me. I'm just a Cave Man." Of course, Cirroc was smarter than that, and I think I was too, though it may not sound like it. This Halloween get-up is easy. You wear a decent suit, some bushy eyebrows and a long-haired wig, and act ignorant when you're actually really smart. But you'll have to be a smooth talker and a braggart about the expensive things that you own. Maybe on Halloween you can "defend" people if they do dumb things, like spill beer on the carpet, and then tell the owner/complainant that if they had expensive stain proof carpet like you do, this wouldn't have happened. Watch this video and the one below a few times and use them as your tutorial. Don't be frightened!

Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer

Halloween 2009, Saturday Night Live Style

In the mid 80's I got hooked on Saturday Night Live with a group of close friends. We would get together at one of our houses every Saturday night to watch the entire hour and a half episode. This ritual lasted to the mid 90's, though college caused those Saturdays to become much fewer. I personally think those were the funniest years of SNL, with the best actors and characters. Those nights truly shaped part of me, and helped to mold my current sense of humor. On top of that, I got to spend great time with my friends, and instead of being out drinking on a Saturday night, we would be Lothar of the Hill people and talking of walking with women.
Every year for Halloween usually the only costumes I entertain are SNL characters. Last year's costume originated from a Blue Oyster Cult studio recording with the infamous Gene Frenkle. The costume was a process: finding vintage jeans and a vintage men's shirt (I ended up with a women's) that needed to be three sizes too small, locating a huge cowbell, and getting decent glasses, shoes, a wig, and a drum stick. But after spending several hours working on the beard by weaving and gluing thread through plastic mesh and the end result occasionally falling apart or needing re-shifting, not to mention that it was a bird's nest to Frenkle's beard, I wondered why I went through all of the trouble when there were so many great SNL characters that weren't as difficult, and could be done on the cheap. So over the next couple of months I'll throw out a top ten list of the funniest, easiest, and cheapest SNL characters that you could be for Halloween, one at a time. Of course, I may miss some, or may have some taste bias, so comment back if there are any glaring ones that I've forgotten. Stay tuned...

Cardinal Red, White and Blue

I remember times as a boy riding home from staying at my Grandmother's home in St. Louis. Our large family would be comfortably crammed into a Station Wagon with the windows down and a hard, warm breeze fluttering my hair. It would usually be around sunset, and I would watch the blue darkness slowly drape over the moving landscape. The cabin was relatively quiet, except for an occasional comment or question...my Mom trying to start some dialogue with me or my sleepy siblings. But there was another voice I was more interested in. Jack Buck was calling a Cardinal game on the radio. It always seemed that our trips home included a Cardinal game, and when they didn't, I would be disappointed and bored. It wasn't necessarily that I was keeping track of the hometown team's wins and losses, but it was just was Jack who drew me in. After those long weekends in St. Louis of being with family, and staying up late sneaking a little Benny Hill on the tv, and then waking up early in the morning to go pick up Dunkin' Donuts with my Dad, I needed something relaxing, something soothing. And that was Jack's voice. It was like drinking water through my ears for a thirsty brain. All my eyes needed to worry about was to watch the stars...Jack Buck began announcing for the Cardinals in 1954, long before I was born, and I suppose had been broadcasting for nearly 30 years before I was lucky enough to hear him. He reduced his schedule to only calling home games through the 1990's, when several health problems probably factored in. On September 17th, 2001, just after the attacks on 9/11 and the night that Major League Baseball resumed playing, in his Cardinal red Jack read a poem to the crowd at Busch Stadium, and really all of America, that he had penned himself. Though I only saw him recite it on television, I'll never forget that heart-warming and heart-wrenching few minutes, coupled with what all of us had experienced just six days before. Soon after that I had learned that Jack had been a war veteran, wounded in battle in World War II, fighting for the freedom of others, and my appreciation for the man grew that much more. He passed away June 18th, 2002, seven years to just a few weeks ago and only nine months after that last public appearance, at the age of 77. Sadly, I think most of St. Louis was unaware of that anniversary. I was fortunate enough to be able to attend a Cardinal game on July 2nd with a couple of very good friends, and made sure to dress in my Cardinal red, white and blue. Jack Buck sure would have.

How Well Do You Really Know Me?

If you haven't noticed, I occasionally like to wear vintage and even modern clothing that has flowers or bright colors on them. Whenever I'm surfing the net for vintage clothing and I see something that I dig, it usually ends up being meant for the female gender. I use conditioner on my crew cut. I wear an eye mask some bright mornings so I can sleep in. I have danced to "Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)". I grow herbs. I use Chapstick often. I put cream and honey in my luke-warm coffee. I own a book about purses. I wear linen pants. I want to learn how to sew. I have a high-pitched laugh when I can't stop. I generally wear an A-shirt underneath to prevent too much nipple/man boob from showing. I made a pair of my cargo pants into capris. I like to wear flip-flops, and own white ones. It takes me a very long time to choose what to wear and a very, very long time to pack for a trip. My bike has a bell on it. I occasionally wear a leather fanny pack. I bought one of those European Speedo-type skin tight boxer/brief -like swim trunks, just to see....Now, after being told these things you may have formed your own opinion about me, and no offense, but frankly I don't care what others think of me. I contend there are tons more "manly" things about me, and hopefully my wife, friends, and family can attest to this. I said, hopefully. Recently I went to my cousin Sarah's wedding (my Mom's sister's daughter). I had met her new husband, Jassen, a couple of times before spending a week in his presence at our family reunion ten months ago, and had talked with him briefly this past winter. Sarah's wedding was big, beautiful, and elaborate, and Sarah is a somewhat eccentric person, and I love her for all of it. Knowing all of this about Sarah, I didn't think she would mind if I wore my men's vintage suit to her wedding--my Dad's 3-piece blue suit from the late 70's. I happened to find a modern Van Heusen shirt that matched the green of her wedding perfectly, and a black tie from the 70's that had darker green accents. My shoes were two-tone brown Nunn Bush's from the last ten years. My 70's sunglasses, being that the wedding was outdoors, were clear gray, big and round, and probably a woman's before me. The seating at the ceremony was sporadic, so I and my brother David, in my late Grandfather's 80's black pinstripe suit, black shirt, and silver tie, sat alone together in the front row. It was a splendid service. At the reception I learned that Jassen asked Sarah, "Is David gay?" Not because David, who Jassen knows, looked gay, but because Jassen thought I did. He thought I was my brother's gay lover. I know, it sounds like it could be complicated, but it's not really. Jassen, who apparently does not remember me each time we meet (He has said to me before, "Hey, guy, how are you doing,? Nice to see you again." When someone uses "guy" or "chief" or something like that when they talk with you, it's pretty obvious they don't remember your name.), just has a bad memory and thinks I dress effeminately. So you see, it's not the gay part that bothers me, it's the lack of impression I'm leaving (and not that I'm trying to impress, but naturally it feels good to be remembered by people). Do I need to try harder? I think every time I "meet" Jassen from now on, if I say, "Hi Jassen, I'm Chris, my brother's homosexual lover," I'm pretty sure he'll never forget me again.

Four!

I've been in this conversation with a lot of different people, and pondered this question myself. What is golf? Is it:
A. A sport
B. A hobby
C. Recreation
D. Silly time
Actually, it's all of the above. I've come to the conclusion that I've played golf for all of those reasons, ever since I took it up in 7th grade 23 years ago. And I realize that sometimes it's been for a combination of those reasons in the same round. I have taunted many a friends right before teeing off of hole #1 in competition with them, but then claim by hole #10 that I'm just playing for fun, and then by #14 it's goof-off time--if I've been bad up to this point I may as well really stink at it. I am no Tiger Woods, and I have to remind myself that golf, for me, has to be fun. And fun only fits letter D, because I still get too friggin' ticked off if I'm thinking A, B, or C. I can't take myself too seriously, because then I get too stressed. However, golf is an easy game to take too seriously. You see it from just about anyone on the course on any given day. People are getting angry all over the place. At their crappy shot. At their crappy lie. At the crappy course. It's too hard. It's too easy. The wind's changing direction. There's a puddle. The grass is too long. You stepped on their line. They stepped in goose poop. That guy's shirt's not tucked in. The birds are too loud. Someone laughed....They'd cuss out their own grandmother if she was in front of them and playing like a turtle. In no other sport, game, or whatever you want to call it do people complain and get mad so much. The greatest golfer ever, Tiger Woods, makes millions, is good-looking, has a good-looking wife, gets to play golf for a living, but still is often angry at something and occasionally will throw a club. I'll tell you a little secret if you want to have a little more fun and a little less chance of dying of a heart attack on the course. It's how you dress. I came across this picture of John Daly with a big smile on his face. No, it wasn't the first thing I noticed, but it was the second. Here's a guy who doesn't take himself too seriously and who has fun. Jesper Parnevik has fun. Ian Poulter has fun. Camilo Villegas has fun. Payne Stewart had fun. Johnny Miller had fun. The Three Stooges had fun. Tiger Woods though? He's having fun rolling in his pile of money. Golf can be boring enough already (how many of you actually watch matches on television?), especially when everyone's dressed in the same polo and khakis and you confuse one guy with the next. Tiger Woods won't tell you it's true because he doesn't know, but I do. I've been there and done that in pink men's vintage pants and a men's vintage shirt. Golf is more fun this way. "But Tiger makes a lot of dough and he wears ordinary clothes," you mock. Here's the difference though. You and I have moxy. And you and I will never make one red cent from our golf skills to pay for a quadruple bypass that will happen one day if we don't do this. Maybe your new, bold outfit will just be one more thing for that old guy behind you to complain about. And the new you will just laugh at his misfortune, kick your ball out of the rough and into the fairway, and whack away.

Drinking Mother Nature's Milk

Even though Earth Day is technically only celebrated on April 22nd, I've heard more about our planet over the past couple of weeks than any other point in my life time. There are numerous events going on in the St. Louis area that are geared towards cleaning up our environment. I, for one, am a proponent of this to an extent of anal-retentiveness. I always recycle anything I can, and will even bring home items from other places I visit that don't have recycling, such as cardboard boxes from work, bags of wine cooler bottles from my parent's home, or an unwanted newspaper out of the middle of a street. I cringe when I see recyclables thrown in the trash wherever I may be, and speaking of trash, I can't stand it when people litter. When I see a cigarette butt thrown out of a car window, I want to go pick it up and stick it in the cornea of the perpetrator. I have to have lights turned off, we use cloth grocery bags, the oven door needs to be open after we use it, I reuse water glasses and bottles several times, I reuse sandwich bags several times and then use them to clean up my dog's poop on walks, I may wear the same clothes or may not shower for several days during the summer, I sometimes wait two or three times before I flush the toilet....well, you get the idea. But I'm a hypocrite just like everyone else who wants to save the Earth. I don't ride my bike everywhere (actually, hardly anywhere), I eat pigs, I don't plant trees, I don't cool my food in the snow, I don't pee outside, and I don't take sponge baths. But one thing I'm especially proud of, is that I rarely buy new clothes any more. On any given day I'll take a pop quiz with myself and see where I got my pants and shirt and how much they cost me. A lot of the time it's from a thrift store or private sale and equals less than $5. I also have not grown to big for my clothes from the 90's. So as you probably well know, I couldn't let Earth Day pass me by without wearing second-hand vintage clothing. These vibrant, royal blue, Sears Kings Road polyester men's vintage pants complete the three amigos of my red and green ones from previous posts, and the JC Penney Ultressa men's vintage shirt is one of my favorite solid polyester disco shirts that fits me like a glossy glove. I wore this ensemble to a family Easter/Baptism/Birthday/Earth Day celebration in a small town in Illinois, population of about 50 people and one dairy farm right across the street from my sister and her family's house. I felt that with Earth Day approaching I needed to pay a visit to the cow farm. After all, farming is a pretty natural, Earth loving, un-corporate entity, right? We wish. Thank goodness this was not one of those farms where cows are crammed together like sardines and living on mud/feces slicks. The cows I visited weren't exactly roaming in open green fields, however, let alone the younger ones who were chained in over-sized dog houses. On one hand, I'm in love with milk. On the other hand, I don't love most farms and their methods any more. This is my dilemma, my yin and yang, my ebony and ivory, and happens to me in a lot of areas of my life. Do I buy the deeply discounted $10 shoes made by child labor in Bangladesh? Do I dry clean my favorite coat that smells like goat? Do I use weed killer, or get cited by my neighborhood association? I think my heart is in the right place though, or at least going in the right direction. It's kind of like when you were a kid and you made your mother breakfast and a card for Mother's Day and then screamed that you hated her in the afternoon. You still loved her. I dressed for Ma Nature that morning, and then selfishly drank her tainted, bastardized milk that afternoon. But I still love her.

It's Like Pulling Teeth

I am an estate sale addict. I go to as many as I can, within a reasonable distance, every Saturday and Sunday. Sometimes there can be as many as ten, and sometimes as few as one. On those weekends where there are several, I usually will have to cut out some of them to balance family time. That's the tough part--trying to be a part of two separate things that I love, all at once. My wife, Nicki, rarely buys anything used, and never clothing, and has only been to maybe one sale with me before. My daughter, Alex, is generally not very adventurous and doesn't itch to leave home. Worst of all though, she says, is the smell. About a quarter of the time the homes that I go into will have an old, musty kind of smell, and rarely will have an animal scent. And it has seemed to be Alex's luck that a majority of the ones she's been to have been "stinky". So, therein lies my problem, involving myself in both things together. In the beginning, when I started funksauce, Alex went on quite a few with me because it worked out with running errands, giving Nicki some alone time, etc. Since then, however, she has fallen out of favor with them, which has left me a little more strapped for time. Finally and miraculously, two weekends ago, Alex and Nicki went to one with me. As we were walking up the steps to it, I could smell the old house smell, one that I can't explain and only recognize through experience. Needless to say, Alex didn't want to go to any more, and I couldn't bribe her with the little shot glass she wanted for 75 cents because my wife, the CFO of funksauce operations, was there to control my budget spending. I forced Alex to go to two more later that day with me, which always is tough because she complains most of the time and wants to be held, which is tough when I'm trying to go through people's clothing racks with one hand and struggling to hold her up in the other. So on Friday mornings when I open up the web classifieds, part of me wishes for only a few in my area, because if there are more I'll be tempted to go, like I'll be missing out on something. My CFO has held a meeting with me that it's time to start focusing less on junking up her basement with more stuff and more on advertising to the masses. Secretly, I think that this is her way of telling me that she doesn't want to go to any more sales. My mini-CFO can't articulate this in sales terms, so she'll keep bringing out the "stinky" defense. Overruled. My addiction will be the biggest fight to fight. It's like pulling teeth to get anybody to do anything, including my own.

We Needed Some Irish Luck

Over my Spring Break and on St. Patrick's Day I thought it would be fun to take my daughter to the much hyped Ancient Order of Hibernians' Parade in Dogtown in St. Louis. The Ancient Order of Hibernians in America was organized in the U.S. in the 19th century in New York City by Irish immigrants who joined together to protect the Catholic Church. In Ireland it was founded in the late 17th century not only to protect the Catholic Church, but to also preserve the Catholic clergy who's lives were threatened under the penal laws. "Hibernia" is Latin for "Ireland". Only practicing Catholic men over the age of 16, and who are Irish by birth or descent, may join. By many it is said to be the real Patty's Day parade, above and beyond the popular one in downtown. I was fearful now, however, that Alex and I were preparing to go watch old men with green beanies on their heads and loaded 16 to a float pulled by a tractor and waving to a crowd of their wives. Either way, it was going to be the first Irish parade ever for the both of us, and we were ready to green up and get out of the house. Alex was looking most forward to getting candy, and in fact we have a jar full of candy that dates back to soon after her birth four years ago. But it's the idea of getting new candy thrown to her, like an unwrapped, unregulated Christmas in March, and aren't we all like that? Of course for our first Irish parade we had to wear green, and it was set to be the hottest day of the year thus far--a balmy near-80 degree day, with the parade starting at 11:30. I was able to get Alex to wear a green summer dress that my parents picked up for her in Mexico while on a cruise, explaining that we had to wear green that day, that it was Ancient Hibernian Law, and this was the only thing that would be cool enough....like, weather cool. People who know Alex couldn't believe the pictures when they saw them, because she would sooner try to walk around as a green Leprechaun than wear a dress, but she didn't think about that one, and now that I do, that would have been kind of fun. I of course had to wear my green men's vintage pants (also see The Garden To My Flowers)--I believe they really were made for that day. My wife thinks that the only reason I wanted to go to the parade in the first place was so that I could wear the green machine, but I insist this is only partly true :) I paired them with a modern white with green stripes polo style shirt, knowing that the flowered shirt I wore them with last time would just be too hot....like, weather hot. I grabbed my bag chair and Alex's Diego folding chair, and we were on our way. I had heard parking would be tough, so I illegally parked in a familiar Walgreen's parking lot about what I estimated to be a mile away from the parade, and we began hoofing it. About five minutes in we were hot and Alex was already asking me when we would be there, and I started noticing some legal parking places. I could have kicked myself for not driving in a little further, and told her we'd have to remember those for next year. I ended up letting my left arm, right arm, and Alex's legs take turns in transporting her to our final destination about a mile and a half later. The hills were brutal, the sidewalks in shambles, and the streets tight with parked cars, but we followed the crowd to the first sighting of what looked like was the parade. There were people all over the lawns, all over the rooftops, all over the backs of trucks, and all over the streets, blocking our view. All I could really see were strands of beads flying in the air, as if we were at Mardi Gras, which I thought was strange. A copy-cat parade with beads? This, paired with many foul-mouthed drunk twenty-somethings, and I was getting a little nervous. Alex didn't need to keep drilling the fact into my head that she wanted candy for me to make the decision that it was about time to go. I put her on my shoulders for a little bit so that she could see the tops of old white heads, but after 20 minutes and a bribe to Walgreen's candy aisle, we decided to make the trek back to the car. On our hilly route back, my arms + Alex got more of a work out than the first time, not to mention juggling the chairs, realizing early on that I was the only dufus carrying them. The highlight for me was seeing a man carrying a blitzed and near-passed out woman, cradling her like a baby as he stumbled down the sidewalk, partly from being inebriated and partly from the weight of this 140 pound woman, with her friend close behind looking concerned. It was funny, thinking of the hills he had to climb with her, but also that they were going towards the parade! Now that is dedication to the Hibernians! Alex did not see this, but I was prepared to answer, "That man is carrying her because she's tired of walking, just like you!" After much stopping and crying that she couldn't go on, Alex and I finished our mile and a half walk back, sweaty and tired, with an empty and air-conditioned Walgreens a welcome sight. I was hoping Alex would go for the chocolate, taking the opportunity after missing out on getting cheap Dum-Dums thrown to her, but instead she picked some flavored wafers that reminded me of the cheap candy I would have picked out as a kid. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree as they say. So this is just my advice for those handful of people who consider going to the Ancient Order of Hibernians Parade, if that's really what it was. If you are going with a friend or two and want to drink the day away and don't mind climbing hills and carrying your friend around whilst you hack up your breakfast on the way to a parade of old Catholic guys that you won't be able to see anyway, then this may be the time of your life. But if you don't fit into this category and you really want to see this parade, then you might have better luck finding Irish in your ancestry, becoming Catholic, becoming a man, and getting on a float with the other 16 farts, in that order, than actually seeing the parade. I may do the former one day, but will never ever do the latter again.

We're Not Meant To Be A Museum

With bated breath Dave and I headed south to get our new funksauce booth ready at The Factory on Friday (see last post). I was both nervous and excited, and had the new minivan, the one that I've not been overly excited about (two posts ago), but the same one that I had to use to get my stuff to Farmington. Could I have gotten it all in the Maxima? Probably, but I must say that it was a whole lot easier this way, so now begins my reluctant acceptance and appreciation for the convenience of the Oddysey. Once there it took us about four hours to set up. I happened to bring along some vintage pink butterfly curtains, which worked for draping over a box shelf to make a make-shift women's section for hats and shoes. David hung up picture collages he put together of old Volkswagen buses and disco balls. The amount of racks and clothing and accessories we brought seemed to work out perfectly. Though a touch cramped, there is enough room for customers to walk around and browse comfortably. We thought what we had here was a pretty cool store, and we weren't even done--we had more things we wanted to do on a return trip a few days later. Dave made plans to go back on Monday to put on the final touches and to check our sales. Over the weekend I picked up a $5 chair that I thought we could put back into the corner of the booth, a corner that we can't really utilize at this point. It was a good deal for its purpose, and could be used for people to try on shoes or take a load off. At the same sale I found an older wooden game board that I thought would go great on top of our circular rack that we could put stuff on, and would give off a little nostalgia as opposed to an empty hole, and it would create more shelving. For its purpose, it was another sweet deal at $3. David had the idea of hanging record album covers on the bare walls that we couldn't use for anything else, and we learned from our across-the-way booth buddy, Ginnese, that we could get a store sign poster made at Office Max for $15. Our shop was set to be the hippest freakin' shop in the whole three story building. We were at the peak of our game. We were going to set this joint afire. On Monday David went down and finished setting up shop and checked the sales log. He emailed me to say that we had sold a whopping.......zero. That's right, the big, fat, ugly. Oh, people had tousled through our stuff. Was it that Farmingtonites are lacking moxy? Are our prices too high? Is our stuff not yet up to snuff, or too snuffy? But just like with the website that's been in the red, we're ok with this for the time being. Vintage clothing our hobby, our love, our kitty-cat on a cold rainy day. But please understand that we are not a museum, even though we've got the baddest looking shop in the whole place. We meant for it to be look, touch, and and take home.

Crazy Maybe, But Like a Fox

Well, we've done it again. Two years ago my brother David and I took a big leap by starting funksauce.com. Since that time, I'll be honest, we've lost some money on it. But we didn't start funksauce to make money, necessarily. We started it because we love vintage clothing, wanted to learn more, and wanted to spread fun to everyone. It really has been an enjoyable hobby for us. Some people go in the hole on their hobbies, so we're okay with that fact. You might, however, think we would stop while we're behind. Maybe we have an addiction, because we've taken another plunge. We are opening up shop in Farmington, Missouri. And when I say shop, I mean booth. A pretty cheap booth actually, which helped our decision. It's a little triangle-shaped booth at The Factory, which as of today has been the home of Ginnese's Pieces (pics at left). It's in a good location, visible from the front entrance, and down from purses, swimsuits, and second-hand gowns. We'll now be catty-corner from Ginnese's. "The Factory is a 75-year-old former garment industry that has been totally renovated and developed into a visitor destination in historic downtown Farmington. Located two blocks behind City Hall, it includes a 45,000-square-foot climate controlled indoor mall." It looks kind of like an old brick school building. What I really like about it is that it's not an antique mall or a flea market. There's a restaurant, a banquet center, an artist studio, beauty salons, a massage therapist, a tourist information center, a ballet studio, a conference center, office suites, the Farmington History Museum, and a walking track, along with several other small businesses, thereby being very eclectic and bringing in a variety of people. There are many other positives as well, but being that the place is about 70 minutes from St. Louis, the deal maker or breaker was the fact that we can choose how much we want to be there. There is a main check-out for all of the businesses, so we can leave our shop to the elements for as long as we want and check on it as little as we want. Sold! Obviously then, the only problem will be the kind of demand vintage will have in this growing population of 15, 870 (as of July 2007, a change of +11.6% since 2000). Mineral Area College is only ten minutes away, which could be a huge factor. We're committing ourselves to the rest of this year, and hopefully longer. We will be setting up shop on Friday in time for the weekend. I'll post the progress of our set-up along with pics next week....

Turn That Frown Upside Down

There are a lot of people I know who aren't really into the whole vintage thing. In fact, no one I know, other than my brother David, is into it really. Most of my friends sort of make fun of the vintage I wear, and probably would never be caught dead in the same. The other night I had my brother, best friend, and brother-in-law over for table tennis and drinks. David had been talking to me about this vintage JC Penney jogging suit that he had picked up, so he brought it over me to look at. When he walked through the door my eyes lit up like a lava lamp. The suit was an exact match for my retro Nike running shoes (see the Post-Pre blog). I didn't think I would ever come across anything that would match those red, blue, and white beauties. The only thing that stood in the way of me and that suit was that it was made for a woman. If you know me even a little by now, you would guess that I wore it anyway, and you would be right. I put it on with my shoes and it was fantastic. The waist band was a little stretched in the elastic, but the pants fit fine, and the jacket was a little short, but it worked. I played some of my worst ping pong ever in it, losing several games, probably because some of my attention was diverted to it. Would I wear it to the St. Patty's Day run coming up? Would I wear it to work? Or would I simply leave it on a hanger waiting for that special moment? I wore it the rest of the night, and I think it inspired a couple of naysayers with me. The other two guys in the group have never put on a piece of vintage. They dress very casual--tennis shoes on a night out on the town, for example. The next thing I know, though, my clothing racks start getting pillaged. Notice what happens in the order of the pictures--it's like one of those flip books with the moving animals or whatever. What I love about this is that it reminds me of one of the best television shows ever created in the 1970's--Starsky and Hutch. All of us grew up with it, but nobody mentioned it. In the first picture the guy on the left looking a little unsure of where things are headed is Mike B., my brother-in-law, and the guy on the right, also not quite knowing what to do with himself is Mike C., my best friend. In the second picture, however, you'll notice Starsky jump into a vintage corduroy suit jacket, and then in the following picture Hutch has joined the fray in a caramel-colored faux fur collared leather coat. Compare their faces from the first pic to the second and third pic--regular old smiles to totally different attitudes. Mike C. is now beginning to get change-happy, and puts on a golf jacket. He's not following my made-up theme here. Why he picked a golf jacket of all things I have no clue--but at least he's getting into the fun. My brother becomes Huggy Bear, and the trio is complete. Finally, Mike B. brings things down to a calmer level, slipping into a vintage trench. I, on the other hand, couldn't leave the jogging suit. My reason for this blog, however, is not to point out how my unsuspecting friends dressed up like Starsky and Hutch. It is instead to show that people can have fun in vintage. Kids love to play dress up, and I dare say that adults, maybe at the least just flashing back to childhood, can have fun and feel good in vintage clothing that they normally would be "embarrassed" by. I think more people like my friends here need to give vintage a chance, even if it's only in the privacy of their own homes. Otherwise, my friends would never have lived out their subconscious dreams to be Starsky and Hutch, or whoever it was they had running around in their brains wanting to jump out.

The Old Man and the Minivan

That's it. It's over. This must be what life comes to when you get old and have children. I am now the semi-proud owner of a 2004 Honda Odyssey. Dark, sparkly blue. Butter soft gray leather interior. Side doors that smoothly slide open by the push of a little remote button. Heated seats that give my bottom a frighteningly tingly feeling. A flip-down DVD player for the 4 year-old....or me. 37,000 measly miles. Room enough for a circus of clowns. A minivan. Gone is cruising up and down St. Louis streets in my 1997 Nissan Maxima, blasting Rage Against the Machine for all my people to hear and feel with me on the first days of Spring. Dull gold-brick gold. Gray cloth interior that would harbor the smell of the last thing I ate or did for days. A mismatched, discolored bumper with a dent in the side the size of a grapefruit. A moon roof or sun roof--I never knew the difference--that I would look up through to find stars, or birds, or airplanes, or clouds shaped like fruit, usually when driving. An inch of dust on the dash and Cheerios and Kleenex strewn about that said, "This is me." Gone is the excuse to others that I could never drive in a car pool because it was too smooshed in the back with the kid's car seat. Gone is getting to know the baby's names and favorite jellies of my mechanics. My experience and knowledge of packing the trunk on trips like a puzzled tuna can...all for naught. No more "www.funksauce.com" sticker and funksauce logo trucker hat in the back window to let people know that they just drove by that funksauce dude in the cool gold Maxima again. It was me and my Maxima, amigos, buddies, pals, and it has....had....character. Now it will be washed, and vacuumed, and dusted, and air-purified, just to be sold off after all of its time as my comforter, my confidant, my companion. My car. Stripped of its character for some pimply-faced crackly voiced just-turned 16 year-old kid to muck it all up. I should know, because I ruined a classic '69 Volkswagen Beetle at that age, and I'll never forgive myself. Is that fair for me and my car to do that to some ignorant and lazy mama's boy? But what's done is done. I can't save my old friend now. Memories are all I will have left. The time we had electrical problems late at night on the highway and had to pull over. The creak of the steering wheel or rubbing of the brakes as we would back out of the garage every morning. The countless trips where we barely safely arrived to our destination. The glove box within an easy reach where we hid all of our secrets. We supported each other. I could step out of my Maxima in an 80's terry cloth shirt and say, "Thanks for the vote of confidence buddy", and I'd go on knowing my partner would be there waiting when I got back, because, well, frankly no one would steal her. But I will somehow go on with this new, strange beast. It will probably look the other way when I rappel down out of it in a men's vintage shirt with a butterfly collar. And it will say that the funksauce stickers and hats and license plates don't fit, because a minivan's not like them, too good for them, for us. Too classy. I'll tell it it's spoiled and has been pampered too much and is too big for it's britches. I'll sulk. And as I'm lumbering down the road, running over curbs and small dogs, I'll think of her. My golden beauty, probably crying tears of oil. And I may cry too, down my polyester, and into the seats of this new minivan, where I now must lay all of my trust out on the line. But in my heart my Maxima will never be replaced. Unless, of course, I got a 1970's Corvette or something similar.

Pluggin' Away

I'm late this week (which has been a theme the past few weeks, and will probably continue) and don't have new material to write to you with, so I have to cheat. I take you back to December 31st, 2007, less than three months after funksauce opened up online. My wife's brother, Mike Renick, who appropriately heads the Mike Renick Band, was to be playing a show in Cape Girardeau, MO on New Year's Eve. In my lack of advertising experience, I dreamed up what I thought to be a brilliant plan to dress the band in 1970's vintage clothing in exchange for a plug or two on stage. I had a limited stock by then and had to do my best with sizes, so the outfits were not the funkiest they could have been and were relatively baggy on the boys. The music was fantastic (I was in sensory heaven when they played their cover of Dave Matthew's All Along the Watchtower, my favorite by MRB), and I thought the clothes were pretty cool too, but the crowd worried me. Heckling? A PBR beer bottle over the head? The party-goers were a sea of tee-shirts and cowboy boots. I jest, slightly, but there was definitely not a person there who stood out in any vintage. I didn't hear any positive comments from the crowd, but the band seemed to enjoy the clothes. Mike did give me a couple of plugs on-stage, but in looking back he wasted his singing voice. It's ok though. It was about listening to music that I enjoyed on the cusp of a new and would-be exciting and adventurous 2008. And as I look back, the kick I got out of watching them in my clothes then, and the pictures I can look back on now, make it more meaningful than any amount of sales I could have gotten.

(From left to right: Mike--lead vocals, acoustic guitar; Blake--back-up vocals, electric guitar; Brian--drums; Kenny--bass guitar; Wes--saxaphone; and Nick, the sound guy, is in the picture to your right and in my favorite outfit .)