It’s Not Unusual

August 28, 2008

Played a weird show yesterday afternoon my fellow journal guys. Private birthday party for some business geezer’s wife at a dingy little lounge just outside the city, surrounded by nothing but desert and drunks in stetsons.

You know, playing Tom Jones classics at four thirty in the afternoon is just plain wrong, even by Vegas standards. There’s something inherently sad about it. Gin-soaked cat ladies with mustaches who never got a husband and old, leathery, crinkled guys lamenting the good old days where you could get a horse, a steak and some punani for a hundred bucks and still have change left over for a fifth of Jack Daniels.

This was a party however, but it’s still wrong if you ask me. It’s like drinking daiquiris from a highball glass, you just can’t do it without cringing at the magnitude of wrong that suggests.

It all went ok though, despite that fuckin’, deadbeat Pedro letting me down last minute with a hangover sent from el Diablo himself. He broke up with his dancing chica and was self medicating his way back to normality. I had to recruit my old buddy Perry DiSopo on bass and occasional guitar, since it was a full band effect this show needed and he’s a full-on kinda guy.

Perry and I have jammed a number of times over the years and despite his being somewhat advanced in age he can still shake it with the best of ’em, so it wasn’t as uncomfortable a job as you might expect. Think a shriveled, more orange Tony Bennett with Parkinson’s and high on amphetamines and you’ll have a decent idea of what that entails. Happily his legendary hip didn’t give out – last time he did a guest stint he swiveled it a little too far. People were hugely impressed till they realized the dude had dislocated the fucker and his sexy ‘come hither baby’ look was actually saying ‘holy shit I’m dying get a fucking paramedic you c**ts!’

Also the guy’s not at all pleasant to look at and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me saying so. The years (and the liquor) haven’t been all that kind. He kinda looks like someone superimposed an elephant’s ass on his cheekbones. More contours than a map of New Mexico. Cool guy though. Straight up fella. His blood is 100% gin at this point in time, the crazy old fucker.

The lady having the birthday was delighted. She drank, clapped and jiggled around like a 14 year old Latina at a Menudo concert, only in a much less aesthetically pleasing fashion. There are parts that really should not wobble that just took on a life of their own. But the old gal had a damn good day and I think my version of “It’s Not Unusual” sung with her sitting on my lap, made her whole fuckin’ week. Wish I could say the same for my leg, I feel like I’ve been kneecapped by Al Capone. Plus the chick kept licking my neck, what the dilly is that all about, y’all? That ain’t kosher.

Still, a couple C notes isn’t too bad for a little leg discomfort and a soggy neck, know what I mean compadres? Rock out.


Last Night, She Said…

August 27, 2008

Yeah so last night was the Skybar show. The one I promised would be full of crappy Michael Bolton numbers and guys who wanted to kill Tony Spunk for the honor of their ladies. Well the night did not disappoint, ladies and gentlebums.

Firstly, I couldn’t get the truck from Ronny, he’s the dude I normally borrow from for a small fee, so I couldn’t take my Yamaha Electric Grand Piano to the show. This sucked for a variety of reasons, most of which involve showing off its shiny, sparkly, electric blue goodness to the ladies who naturally want to caress it lovingly. The thing’s just too damn clumsy without a truck however, so I took along a more portable organ instead. No biggie, I still fingered it lovingly and stroked some fine tunes out of it. Well, fine tunes and Douchebag Bolton. If it’s any consolation to y’all I think it’s the last time I’ll be doing his numbers. Sure the ladies might dig it but I felt dirty. Like seriously, just ‘fucked Paris Hilton in the glory hole’ dirty.

It was pretty funny though. There was this one chick who was blasted. I mean like rubberized. Chick could barely stand on her own two feet. The second she heard the first few bars of the first Bolton number she was on her feet, bobbing around like a half-anesthetized kangaroo, waving her lighter around. I mean like that isn’t hilarious enough, who waves their lighter at Douchebag Bolton numbers? I mean how is that possible? Does he get that a lot? Unless you’re trying to set his hair on fire, in which case, go with God, little drunk chica.

So anyway, this dude who wanted to kick my nut-sack into next Thursday? He showed up and he was steamed. I mean his little, fat, unshaven face was red as a Halloween apple. He wanted a piece of old Tony, bad. Luckily he was also as round as a Halloween apple so his movements were a little on the side of an elephant practicing ballet so he was fairly easy to dodge. Plus I had my Mexican guard and all so you know, no damage was done. I even rubbed salt into his wounds by serenading him with “Isn’t She Lovely?” (you know, the old Stevie Wonder song?) as he was being escorted out by his suspenders, by the management. Man, he looked like he was about to pop like an over inflated balloon. Good times.

Anyway yeah, no more Douchebag Bolton. I don’t mind compromise but I ain’t willing to sell my soul to El Diablo. Here’s today’s thought though. You never see Michael Bolton and Fabio in the same room do ya?

Tonight, Tonight

August 26, 2008

So cabrons, (Heh the spell check keeps changing that to ‘carbons’! Hi carbons!) I have me a show down at the Skybar later tonight and it’s come to my attention that some dude with a bad attitude is planning on attending the show just to fuck with Tony Spunk. I know right? Surely not! It’s not just any dude either, it’s some fella with an extra Y chromosome and probably a penis like a breeding stallion. Some dude who wants to kick my shiny, satin ass and those were his words. Yeah really! Can you imagine? I am peeing in my silk monogrammed pants. OK not really.

I think this dude is a little, teensy bit touchy because I might have squeezed his wife’s booty or something at a show or let her stroke my organ, but to be honest the whole thing’s a bit cloudy. That describes most nights at my shows, let’s be frank here. Then dudes get all sensitive about these matters although seriously, I didn’t force his old lady to touch my organ she did it all on her lonesome. I ain’t going to stop a lady from showing her love for my organ, you dig? She even commented on its fine luster. I guess her old man thinks that’s grounds for a beatin’. He probably imagines he’ll look hot to the ladies, socking some guy in a sparkly suit with a nicely coiffed mustache. I bet he thinks bloodying up a Senor with a dazzling repertoire of musical genius and shiny apparel will make him seem all kickass ninja.

Well you’re wrong, guy because I have a little surprise for you. My “bodyguard” is coming to the show tonight. So you better watch your badass, testosteroned up, macho self.

OK, he’s not really my bodyguard, more of a Mexican friend of Pedro’s who weighs about the same as a combine harvester and has fists like two giant hams, but he says for a few beers and a beef burrito he’ll take care of me so I think I’m good. So bring it, angry wife-possessing dude.

It should be a good night as I’m debuting some new material I’ve been practicing, like some Michael Bolton (I know, I know, the guy’s a colossal douche who sings music for douches, but the ladies are always requesting his douchebag songs so I broke down, got drunk and downloaded a few of his douchey tracks to learn. It was torture but I ain’t proud. I am however broke and I’ll sacrifice anything, including my dignity to woo the ladies, so Douchebag Bolton it is) and also some Elvis. Normally I don’t touch Elvis. No one can touch Elvis and people get pretty steamed if you even try, he’s that close to God. I’m not even an Elvis fan myself but hey, there’s no denying the popularity for the dead dude. Besides I give those songs a distinctively Spunky feel complete with a Wurlitzer sound so I should be ok. I like a challenge.

Hell, Elvis only wishes he had a Wurlitzer.

The Boys Are Back In Town

August 25, 2008

Well hola my babies, Tony Spunk is back in da house, did ya miss me?

I had a touch of the influenza this weekend. The ’24 hour zap your energy and leave you crying for your mama’ type of thing. It was like breathing in a Louisiana swamp all in one sitting. I was a little delirious for a while there and momentarily forgot to unleash my great fabulousness on the world but I’m recovered now so I think it’s safe to say I’m good to go.

Or come, if you prefer, ladies.

I went for a little body waxing today. Don’t laugh, a guy must maintain some standard of grooming if I’m to believe those dickwads at ‘Maxim’. Of course the chest hair remains (Rowr!) but the back hair had to go. Tony is a dark, devilish guy covered in dark, devilish hairs and one needs to control this hirsute manliness somehow. A lady doesn’t want lots of dark curlies under her nicely manicured fingernails, am I correctamundo, gals? I think so.

Talking of, what’s with those little decals the ladies are wearing on their nails these days? Little rhinestones and shit? Not that El Spunkarino is complaining or anything, it’s just kinda wacky. Especially when the lady scratching those babies down your back has little decals of Mickey Mouse on her digits. That ain’t right, truly. That’s some perverted shit right there.

So after a weekend without playing any shows I actually feel kinda revived and ready to party. I dusted off my leopard skin pants and polished my medallion and once I’ve given my organ a good rub down I’ll be at the Skybar tomorrow night. Be there or be absent, ladies. Wink.

Viva El Spunko

August 21, 2008

I just found out last night that I may be zipping down south of the border to do a short stint this Fall for a chain of casinos run by tequila-swilling bandits. This would be totally north of awesome since everyone knows Mexico is a den of vice, spice and possibly lice. The drinks are cheap, the ladies are cheaper and basically, to put it in perspective for ya – those people who envisage Hell as a big, hot, sweaty place full of hard liquor, scantily clad dancing ladies and horny beings torturing people, they’re really imagining Mexico.

I actually embarked on a ten day Mexican tour in 2004 which took me all over the damn place, dodging banditos and raunchy senoritas. Admittedly, I tried harder to avoid one of those groups than the other.

It was pretty awesome at least what I can remember of it which admittedly, isn’t a whole lot. I mean it’s a country full of hallucinogens and cheap liquor, so if you come back remembering anything and wearing more than one shoe you did it wrong.

Anyway, that trip was basically ten days of ladies waving their fajitas in Uncle Spunkarino’s tired old face. Ten days of debauchery with the craziest people on Earth. Ten days of having various dark skinned minxes taste my burrito of leurve.

Naturally, by “burrito of leurve” I mean my ginormous cock. And not the fighting type either.

I think we crossed back over the border at Yuma, Arizona with a gallon of home brewed tequila, a straw donkey and a hat so big it wouldn’t fit in the El Camino. My companion, Rossi del Muncho, had to cart it back in the truck we toted the equipment in, the next morning and explain it to customs who thought he might be smuggling entire Mexican families in it.

The only grievance on that tour was we were minus a bass player, since Pedro couldn’t come seeing as how he spent two years trying to escape that godforsaken country by less than legal means and now he’s in the U.S. well, let’s just put it this way, leaving the country again would be a bad move. I did call him from the Baja to give him a quick report on the state of Mexican affairs, the size of the chicas castanets and to call his mama a “puta”. Good times.

Anyway, yeah, here’s to another couple weeks of bad livin’, bad wimmen and bad breath.

It’s All Balls to Me

August 20, 2008

OK, first of all? Any of you folks here in Nevada who saw the article in the Sun the other day from my Caesar’s gig? That was not my naked ass. Sure, it looked maybe a touch like my ass but, as most of the ladies in Vegas will attest, my ass is much less hairy than that guy, a lot less flabby and I prefer my mustache on my face, thanks all the same. I did call the Sun to protest and they assured me that it was hard to get me in the photo as that dude’s caboose was taking up the entire shot. Dude was every freaking where the camera man went. He was sort of like my own personal “Soy Bomb”.

On second glance I sort of recognize that ass. I’m sure I’ve seen that huge, hairy mole bobbing up and down at that party we did a set at last summer. Bobbing up and down on top of a senator’s daughter I seem to recall. She was either asleep or completely wasted at the time. Either that or I’m thinking of Enrique Iglesias’ face. A guy’s memory gets cloudy after so much martini…uh…time.

The show, a fundraiser for a local animal shelter, went pretty darn well. We raised over $3,000 and the roof. Hah. It will be a long time before those guys forget Pedro in a bowtie and nothing else doing a Russian dance on top of the Mayor’s table, his wind section swinging free in the breeze. I guess if that didn’t persuade folks to neuter their animals I don’t know what will.

Tony Spunk is Your Robot of Love

August 19, 2008

I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking “What the hay is Tony Spunk doing up before noon?” Well I have a good reason people. I haven’t actually been to bed yet. Not to sleep anyway, heh.

That was my way of saying “I tapped some badonkadonk last night.” And again this morning if you want to be specific. That little Vanessa is a livewire.

It’s also my birthday. I’m officially older than dirt (and just as filthy). Happy birthday to me. I got a great card from my mom who still thinks I’m 12. She also sent some “Old Spice” and this thing…well I’m not exactly sure what the thing is, but it looks like some kind of torture implement from Roman times. I’m sure I’ll figure it out sometime. Let’s face matters, if an object of unknown origin doesn’t relate to eating or the wiener, I’m kinda stumped.

The other great gift I got, besides the roll in the hay, was a remote control cocktail robot courtesy of the Mexican. It’s a little mechanical dude who can carry you a cocktail clean across the room from the bar. Or kitchen sink if you don’t have a bar. Sort of like me. Problem is, he doesn’t know how to make a darn cocktail so it sort of voids the whole convenience issue. I have to make my own drink, give it to the robot and he brings it to me on the couch. I mean does that sound like a sensible idea to anyone? Still he impresses the ladies and scares the neighbor’s dog so all is well, I’m thinking. He also has a super scary mechanical voice. Sounds like a big, metal German dude. “Vee hef vays of making you cocktails.”