Velociworld

Brown is the New Black...

...and I'm not talking about the recent improvements in the quality of my bowel movements. Although that's been king hell cool. I'd love to tell you about it. Call me.

No, I'm referring to the glorious transracial blessings our future Overlord, His High Yellow Highness, Obamulatto, has bestowed upon us. Now, I don't cling to religion. If I do invoke the Deity's name it's probably in the form of blasphemy, I'm ashamed to say. You have a close relationship with God? Me, too! Way too close at times.

I do cling to my guns, however. As I watch Fox Business News or Stuart Varney I mutter to myself It's all their fault. Makes my finger trigger itchy, itchy. Ever jerk off a four inch barrel? I didn't think so. Anyway, looka here:

Flirtin' With Disaster

This guy makes miniature nickel castings of landmark sites in his Buildings of Disaster series.

Here's the Texas School Book Depository:

How fucking sweet is that?

I'm thinking a Lorraine Motel and a Chernobyl reactor would look pretty goddam hinky on the Shelf of Shame. Probably pass on the Neverland Ranch, though.

This guy's a Rooski, too. We have to close the Disaster Miniatures Gap pronto! The barbarous Slavs are kicking our asses here.

Thanks to Belinda.

Oh, yeah. Obligatory Molly Hatchet vid:

Brave New World

Georgia has positioned a vast swath of highway as its "High Tech Corridor", specifically U.S. 441 from Athens to McRae, and U.S. 341 from McRae to Brunswick. You see these signs every few miles:

Yeah, verily. Silicon Valley from the mountains to the sea! The Future is Here!

Well, if that stretch of Godforsaken wasteland is a high tech corridor I'm Oprah's bastard baby.

But, maybe not. In fact, on a recent trip through these hinterlands I actually saw massive evidence that this Future World does indeed exist. Look below the fold to see what I mean:

Heh...

Anonymous Philanthropist Donates 200 Human Kidneys To Hospital

Funkytown

I saw this bus as I was passing through Alma, Georgia. Alma is approximately halfway between Uvalda and the Middle of Fucking Nowhere. It's also the hometown of Harry Crews. And, apparently, D.J. Simon and the Mighty Imperials.

I thought this beater was a relic until I saw the gentleman in the foreground climb from underneath it as I was taking the picture. He waved, and I should have stayed and talked to him, but I was in hot pursuit of the state line at that point.

It seems the Mighty Imperials were an R&B act in the 1970's. I think the genre is specifically known as "raw-ass funk", or "heavy gut-bucket soul". Think the Meters with James Brown on vocals instead of that pussy Aaron Neville with the piece of charcoal growing out of his head. I guess D.J. had retired. But the plot thickens like a uterine wall during the happy time of the month. Apparently a group of young Turks released an album under the Mighty Imperials name in 1999 called Thunder Chicken, with a new lead singer. No D.J.

I reckon D.J. decided to take his name back, because he just cut a record as D.J. Simon and the New Mighty Imperials. Gonna be a beat down in funk town, I say. And the old tour bus is getting primed for action.

I didn't know this at the time, or I would have chatted with the guy. Hell, he could have been the mighty D.J. hisself. I also wish I'd been around to capture some of the air funk hanging in the atmosphere in some of the juke joints the Mighty Imperials played back in the day in the sweltering south. Put it in vials. Now I could sell it on eBay to white chicks and make a killing. Hell, Amy Winehouse would probably buy out the lot.

Opportunities lost, I tell ya.

.22 Long Rifle, the Play-Doh Series

I ran across this Davey Crickett .22 at Shuler's Great Outdoors after I left the Brenau gym today. I honestly don't believe I've ever seen a rifle in Clitoris Pink before. And my crappy cellphone doesn't do it justice. It was bright pink. Here it is on their website, and that's much closer to actual:

I immediately thought of Steve H. Only he can truly appreciate the aesthetic of this thing. I'm sure it matches his range bag perfectly. I almost picked it up for him, just so he could humiliate the camo poseurs at his range with it.

It was a little gun, too, probably 32 inches total. A Yute gun, I guess. Sure was snazzy, though.

R.eally E.gregious M.oroseness

Here's the new R.E.M. single/video, for those who are so inspired.

My take? I think my melancholy fart had more soul than that. But that's just me. You might find it, I don't know, affirming.

I miss the Monster days.

Nothing Good Can Come From This...

They say family quarrels are the bitterest of all. I don't even want to know what started this one.

Of course, it could be a case of God not eating his carrots. Personally, I think He meant to hit the new Messiah:

Or Ted Rall. It was probably a proximity decision.

Gimme Two Dawgs, Walking

When my uncle was a young man he worked for Alabama Power in downtown Birmingham. It was his wont to take his lunch to the park across the street and enjoy the scenery, weather permitting.

This was in the early sixties, during the civil rights upheavals. He said there were demonstrations almost every day then. The crowds were generally passive, if insistent, staying behind the tape line the police had used to demark the accepted zone. Bull Connor was usually present, however I am told he generally kept his peace as long as the crowd of protesters behaved.

Occasionally, however, a firebrand would cross the line, and hurl a bottle or brick at the police. My uncle said on one such occasion the hurler then bolted across the park and slid underneath the crawlspace of an old house. Bull Connor turned around and said "Gimme two dawgs!" and the German Shepherds were dutifully brought out and used to flush the young man from the crawlspace. Insert your own sound effects.

My uncle says this was not uncommon, only that this particular time he remembers quite vividly.

I mention this only in passing. But I do wonder if Barack Obama can relate to this chapter of America in any way.

P.S. The "Two Dawgs, Walking" line is a Varsity reference, of course. Best experienced at 2 a.m. after a Dead concert at the Fox with a headful of the lysergic.
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G Dawg

I was fortunate enough to catch the mighty Jonah Goldberg at Oglethorpe University last night. Jonah, of course, is a contributing editor of National Review, and founding editor of National Review Online. He's also the author of the bestselling Liberal Fascism, the brilliant piece of scholarship that traces the bloodlines of modern day liberalism from its roots in collectivist progressivism through Fascism, National Socialism, and the New Deal.

Apres-speech libations were at Pub 71, next door to the infamous Mellow Mushroom of several Jawja mini-meets. Unfortunately Jonah was hijacked by some earnest young wonk types, but I did get to speak to him briefly. I took the Velocisister along in the event of a pub brawl, the Irish being such notorious hooligans:

And, yes, that is a Peruvian foetus in my distended belly. I never told you about my brutal gang rape at the hands of Shining Path revolutionaries? Aye, Li'l Mao is due in April, and we couldn't be happier.