For your entertainment, from Stanley Elkin's The Living End:
"It's the same with dirty old men, boys. Maybe they can't have a relationship-do you know what a relationship is, boys?-with a person their own age, so they seek out children. Your moms are right, boys, when they tell you not to accept rides from strangers, to take their nickels or share their candy. Children are vulnerable, children. They don't know the score. You give a dirty old man an inch he'll take a mile. His dick will be in your hair, boys, he'll put your weiner in his pocket. They can't help themselves, boys, but dirty old men do terrible things. They want to smell your tush while it's still wet, they want to heft your ballies and blow up your nose. They want to ream and suck, touch and diddle. They want to eat your poo-poo, boys."
How come nobody ever made a bobble-head doll out of Katherine Hepburn? I mean, that's a natural, right?
Saw Hepburn's place in Old Saybrook a few times as a freshman in college. I think the girl I was dating thought driving me by the compound would impress me, and take my mind off the fact she was convenient, but, ahem, not that hot.
"BOOYAH!" Damn. That's the only thing I've felt like blogging about in 3 days. Might explain it.
One more thing about Senator Thurmond. I didn't realize until today that he had parachuted into Normandy with the 82nd Airborne. He was 42 at the time.
Saw Thurmond speak at the little Episcopal church in Bluffton, South Carolina in 1969. Our parents made us go to that service. Say what you want about the mighty Strom, I don't care. The word I always come up with is unabashed.
I haven't commented on the passing of Maddox. I DO find it interesting that no media outlet would identify him as a Democrat when discussing his segregationist past. And I WILL say this:
Lester, like George Wallace, said what he said to get elected. Just like the Democrats are pandering to the far left and saying things like I'll use executive orders to nullify Supreme Court decisions. After assuming office, however, they were actually quite moderate (well, it took a few terms for George).
Full discosure: My parents voted for Bo Callaway in 1966, although my father knew Lester from Georgia politics, and they were on friendly enough terms.
My sister and I met Lester in the mid-seventies, when he'd moved his Pickrick restaurant to Underground Atlanta. He remembered my father, and was quite gracious. He also had a staff that was about 80% black. He was gracious to them as well. I still keep a miniature 14 inch Lester Maddox pick axe handle in my Blazer. Being an equal opportunity kind of guy, I'll smack the snot out of anyone with it if the occasion warrants. I don't care what color they are.
I also had the honor of seeing Lester make a jackass out of himself in 1971 when he rode his bicycle backwards in front of President Nixon's limousine at a parade. Little dude could RIDE a bicycle backwards, though.
I can't believe Instapundit is going scuba diving in the Cayman Islands. He's a southern lawyer. Doesn't he know people blow up diving in the Caymans!?! Not me. I'm going diving in Negril for a week on July 19. They won't find me there.
I can't believe I still have my same Scubapro fins and snorkel from when I first qualified at 15 in '72. Shit won't wear out. The mask finally got a little dry rot about 3 years ago so I replaced it, but Scubapro is the way to go.
I think it's time to get together for a southern blogfest party. Nothing exclusive, all bloggers welcome, of course, just a geographical proximity thing, like our New York, West Coast, and Rocky Mountain friends have done. Anyone up for proffering a location? Something central, that isn't Albany, Georgia.
Early entries for today:
Nazi Crossing Guards: Remember the blue stamped metal policemen giving the Sieg Heil, holding the STOP sign? They were at every school crossing as a kid. Ever seen one without at least one pellet gun dent in his head? Me neither.
Linus the Lion Hearted: How did a Crispy Critter spokesman get his own Saturday cartoon show? It didn't start with Jack and Kelly Osbourne, after all, did it?
Novelty songs: In the late sixties there were tons of novelty songs that would take a current affair, like the first moon landing, and format the song as an interview. The answers to the questions would be snippets of current Top 40 songs. Clever? No. The only novelty song I ever liked was Robert Kennedy ("Senator Bobby") singing Wild Thing. On the B-side was Senator Everett McKinley Dirksen ("Senator McKinley") singing Wild Thing. I don't remember a lot about the songs, except Teddy did the ocarina bit on the RFK side. Little known fact? The real Dirksen had a song out at the time called "Gallant Men". You can hear those Wild Things here!
Billy Joe Royal: Acidman asked if I remembered Billy Joe singing at the Bamboo Ranch in Garden City. I do, barely, and here's why: The old man was Billy Joe's lawyer for his record deal for Down in the Boondocks. So he flew Billy Joe up to Capitol Records' Chicago offices to ink the deal. While there he ran into the Beach Boys, who were likely recording Today or Summer Days. He struck up a conversation, then talked them into singing a capella to my mother over the phone. When he called, however, Mom was not home. Not thinking we kids would care to have the Boys sing to us over the phone, he hung up. Boy, were my sisters pissed. He did later get my oldest sister a signed copy of Boondocks. Big whoop.
Courtesy of Lucianne.com:
"This is a great chicken, a friendly chicken, a chicken that is ready for a relationship." -Kate Brown, deputy director of the shelter that is caring for Amelia, the San Francisco chicken tied to helium balloons and pitched into some power wires.
colloquialisms my father used to say, that last post being so much fun:
Scram gravy ain't wavy.
Boodlin' down Tar Road.
Now, the second one meant, I believe, that he was off for some possibly illegal, certainly immoral adventurism that even my mother was not privy to, because NO ONE ever went down Tar Road with the old man.
The first one? I have no idea. Nor do I recall ever eating said gravy. I would have known. I could barely swallow that red-eye gravy that was made from ham grease.
are important in the South, of course. We all know barbecue the verb versus barbecue the noun. Here are some other misspoken terms my Northern friends have misabused:
It's not a sliver, you knob, it's a splinter! It didn't sliver off the piece of wood, did it? Hell, no. I ran across sliver in a Charlie Brown comic in 1969 and it subliminally poisoned me against the strip forever. Fucking pantywaist popinjays. Sliver, indeed.
That's not a directional, you upstate nipple. It's a blinker! I'll give you turn signal if you want to get stuffed-shirt on me, but this thing blinks. Maestros direct.
That is certainly not a thong, hammerhead. It's a damned flip-flop! Did you hear it thonging, perchance? I didn't think so. And what do your women wear for underwear up there? Oh, yeah. Flip-flops. Inside out on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Mullethead, that's no pop you're holding. I'll give you soda on a generous day, but that's a frigging coke. Tell me, is that a grape Nehi coke or an orange Suncrest coke? Just asking. And...
You're not going food shopping, my man. You're going grocery shopping. Unless you're planning on eating those sanitary napkins. Perhaps a nice toilet paper wrap smothered in Prell for you. Hey! Why don't you barbecue them.
Music Pirates: DOWN! I'd better make sure my daughter didn't upload iMesh again today.
Butt Pirates: UP! What Sama said.
Robert Prather has a pic on his site of the dog with a gun to his head. Was discussing this very pic with Jack Straw the other day. He was trying to find it. Cool.
Dax had his first drink in 100 days, bless his soul, and it was Wild Turkey. Damn. I used to do the 101 in my bulletproof days, but that's a man's drink. I cannot handle it anymore. I cannot handle red liquor period. Satan's Discharge, man.
I caught well-justified grief for only linking homeboys yesterday. Let me catch up with shout-outs to some of the greatest talent in the 'sphere, lest I get lumped with the bearded fellow in my previous post.
That Merrill Lynch commercial with the bearded guy contentedly stroking the bull bothers me on several levels, but the latent homobestiality is probably the level that bothers me the most.
No, not transsexuals like Christine Jorgensen, who is the topic of this blog. ME! Because I had to deal with this transgender shit at a tender age. Nine is too young to come across this crap in Life. I was barely managing to internalize
Dad's The Senator's extensive Playboy collection. Things like a Life magazine article on transsexualism go a long way towards freaking straights against alternative-lifestyle folks. Especially straight 9-year-olds. Jorgensen has always been a terror case for me, although she should not have been. Dude was born as a woman. Shit occurs. Don't let kids see this "grabage", however, because it will scar them. Now I shall print this to show my kids.
My main man Combustible Boy is dissecting Area 51 happenings, and the freaktoids associated therewith.
Yes, one day removed from big bro's birthday it is my Uncle Don's 80th. You will recall Don as the creator of the infamous Tiger Toothed Belt, that wielded (welted?) so much havoc in my youth. Practical joke gone awry. A fine, fine gentleman, husband, and father. My Mom's big bro' (wheels within wheels!). Please wish Don and his lovely wife Jean the best, because they are the bestus.
by the ongoing ambushes, snipings, and pot-shots taken at Allied Forces in Iraq. They are taking a deadly toll we should not countenance. I say again: We did not hurt those people badly enough in liberating their victims. There was no Wrath of God, no attitude-adjustment, as Derb would call it. I'm also curious as to how many of these cowardly shitdogs are non-Iraqis when we do catch/kill them. No media outlet I'm reading has said. I'm betting they're the usual suspects: Syrians/Saudis/Qataris/Egyptians/Yeminis/Algerians/Afghanis/Libyans/Moroccans. Those people.
Damn! Here's the ticket. I want a pump, too! For those times when, well, just because!
The prolific and always topical Venomous Kate addressed an article detailing how only 493 people signed a petition to return The Statue of Liberty to France. She couldn't believe there were 493 people stupid enough to sign it. Oh, girl, you don't work around my
short-bussers colleagues. You could tape a quarter to the petition and they'd be signing up for sex-change treatments.
As to Lady Liberty, I have a better idea. I'd like to enlist an army of soldiers-of-fortune, spot-welders, and pipefitters to go to Paris and requisition the Eiffel Tower. Bring it to America. Jacksonville, for instance, is in dire need of a landmark tourist site of brilliant architectural splendor. And since City Council shot down my concept for a 300-foot Lynyrd Skynyrd Free Bird statue of a neckbone with a mullet I've been casting about for the perfect showcase for Super Bowl '05 (I don't do roman numerals). We'd have to paint it Jaguar teal, of course, for local flavor.
blogging has apparently cost someone their job. And that's from Treacher. Is it true? I have no idea. I DO know I never sniffed around that piss spot. I prefer to have people chapped at me, and jumping my shit. Having said that, I liked BOTH Moxies.
had another pass-the-buck moment today. It seems affirmative action is okay, just don't use quotas. Right. That hot potato has been passed around since Bakke in '78. The thing is, the Law School AA is okay, but the undergraduate quota system is a no go. What the fuck. As usual in these cases, Sandra Day (Sinead) O'Connor wrote the majority opinion. Funny, too, after the latest NR just posited that it's not the Renhquist Court at all, it's the O'Connor Court. She's the swing vote (no jokes, please), and therefore rules. Her problem, though, is that she refuses to issue an opinion that has long teeth. She always screws it down to the particular issue at hand, and won't issue an opinion that will stand, if not for the ages, at least for a generation. Shameful jurisprudence, in my opinion.
The most shameful point she made was that she knew she was wrong, but Bakke was only 25 years old, and she hoped in another 25 years her type of racial discrimination wouldn't be necessary anymore. I don't know about you, but when I get busted (a straw man, for sure) I'm going to go looking for a black attorney. I'll know in my heart of hearts he's the best.
Sorry I'm so frustrated, but it pisses me off that yet another generation of minority professionals will be damned by the "soft bigotry of low expectations". Why can't we let merit rule? I see very little true racism out there, and I live in the South. Most, um, whites WANT to see blacks achieve. I certainly do.
Having blathered on like the putz I am, I will also read the 36 (thirty-six!) opinions issued in this case tomorrow, because I'm getting my info via radiowave. Perhaps I will mellow.
to my big brother tonight. Fifty years old. Looks like my son. Genetic hopscotch, and clean living. Go figure. Now engaged to a beautiful lady. Neither of my brothers has ever been married, which has caused me great
jealousy consternation over the years. Not that I thought they were gay. I can deal with that. It was dating 19 year olds that had me worried. That's not healthy! Like dominoes in southeast Asia, however, I believe it's a given my little brother will fall be blessed next. Share the pain glory, mon freres.
Not a bad combination. The Madman has it. I link, therefore I am.
Now that my Colonial Dander is up, why the heroic stature for this guy? He was a spy. Nothing noble there. Sabotage shit, knife people in the back. Spies get hung, because they're dirty little cheaters. Don't play by the rules. Remember the Nazis who dressed as Americans at Normandy and changed the roadsigns? We whacked 'em when we caught 'em. That's what you do with spies.
Is it just me, or does the Appleseed story ring false to anyone else? I don't spend time deconstructing it, mind you, but when I do think about a guy going across the colonial countryside planting apple tree seeds I think nutjob. Trespasser. Con man. Grifter. Screwhead. Planting seeds, for chrissakes. Screw that. Give me a nice grafted Red Delicious, if you're going to attempt to game me. Seeds.
Fucking all Jack, no Beanstalk, if you ask me.
has moved to here. I forgot to tell you. But you knew that, didn't you?
I told you my big brother turns fifty the 23rd, right? We officallized it with a party, right? Yeah, he's fifty. That would be 5-frigging-oh. Fifty. Shoot me. I'm going to Grasshopper Heaven before I turn fifty, I swear. Five-oh. Poor bastard.
Wait, wait! I'm jes a few years behind him! This throw the elderly on the Eskimo ice flow won't work! Belay my last.
I bring my 75 pageviews a day to bear on the issue of gratuitous blogging:
Rob has reacted strongly to Kate's split-tongue blog. WARNING: I'm too scared to open these links just yet, and that's saying plenty. UPDATE: Oh, Jesus. There's a split-penis part to this. Let's move on:
Da Goddess has a picture of a barking seal up. Which makes me ask: why are shins the only part of your body you can bark? One day I'm going to bark my elbow just for the fuck of it.
Zombyboy has a sweet picture of a buff Greenspan hoisting a glass tankard. It appears to be a permanent Drunkards For Economic Growth logo. I likes it, but of couse I'm me.
Jay Solo has a new MT site up which I need to update, praise Jaysus, unfortunately he's left off my endorsement.
Acidman is still shining me, and spanking his monkey, and that's okay. We call that synergy in my neck of the woods.
Kelley is not feeling well. Please hock on your keyboard in sympathy.
Dax's self-imposed sobriety is coming to an end in 4 days. I'm impressed. It usually takes 3 weeks and 4 stong home boys to straighten me out.
Sugarmama has the ultimate high school reunion survivor's kit out there. Daddy like.
I know I'm forgetting someone near and dear. Send me hate mail, por favore.
I really don't want to bust Bob Keeshan's balls, but I distinctly recall Captain Kangaroo hawking Canada Dry products incessantly. Now, at the time CD made ginger ale, club soda, and tonic water. Period. Just what every growing sprite needs, right? Wrong. Those are cocktail mixers. Cap'n Roo was pushing Liquor Cutters to all the suburban-deadened, sex-deprived, my-kids-act-retarded, my-bridge-game-sucks, I'm-38-and-I've-missed-my-fucking-period, where-are-the-little-blue-pills, what-the-hell-happened-to-my-ass, my-husband-is-too-tired-to-fuck-me-because-he's-been-laying-the-pipe-to-his-slattern-secretary, dispossessed wimmen of the world. THAT'S the kind of marketing I sit in awe of.
And by the way, we all know Mr. Green Jeans was into hydroponics early on, and an unabashed glue-sniffer, but how the hell did The Captain presage that the Grateful Dead would be into Dancing Bears? Wheels within wheels, goddamit.
I ran across Mister Dasher kind of by accident, because I didn't know what a quidnunc was, and I like him. Check him out. Don't be dismayed by the fact his template resembles mine, 'cause he writes better.
Charlie-town. Chuck-town. Whatever you call it, it's always a fun place to be. Three days of serious work with my esteemed customers, ya know. I don't know why I like Charleston so much. I think it's because I'm from their arch-rival Savannah, and I always feel like I use the town and leave nothing in return.
Excuse me if this reads baritone, but I lost my voice singing Sweet Caroline with 14 College of Charleston coeds at Henry's. My inclusion was not their idea, of course. They were a tolerant bunch, however, and The Bride was almost amused when I called her to let her hear.
Highlight of my Thursday night? Gee, could have been the carriage ride through downtown my salesman insisted on taking with our cherished customers. Well, the Senior VP, anyway. The other guys fled like cats from an ass n' turpentine party, this idea was so gay. But Fearless Leader Customer, a dour 55-year-old Taiwanese gentleman, sucked it up, and off we went. This scene was so twisted I was scared we'd be spooning by the end of the ride. But all worked out, praise Jesus. Even the Clydesdale behaved, although he had a bladder the size of a regulation B-ball, and pissed a stream of saffron smoke every two blocks or so.
What a beast.
as Dax would say. More targeted killings of children by
Palestinians Arab fuckfaces. Let's recount: when Israelis kill a warlord and his DEADZONE family dies accidentally in the process that's a war crime. When an Arab psycho deliberately targets women and children that's freedom fighting. Not in my world. BTW, they are suicide assassins. Nothing more, nothing less.
Just when the cannibalism in the blogosphere was dying out my main man Phillip had to go and post this. Acidman versus Greeblie on the virtues of Sitemeter passwords. I find this sort of in-fighting abhorrent and non-productive, which is why I'm blogging it. Full disclosure: my Sitemeter's open. 122 pageviews today. No brag, just fact.
I really don't have a dog in this fight (is it a fight yet?) except for the fact Acidman shined me Friday night. But that's okay. He had his boy for Father's Day Weekend, they had a big beach day planned Saturday, and we guys know that means planning and stowing and cussing and planning. I like to make my egg salad sandwiches about 24 hours in advance, then let the sun mellow them. It's cheaper than Metamucil. At any rate, some things are better not mucked with, and A-Man can buy my drinks next time.
Now about that password issue...
UPDATE: JimSpot informs me he is the man, not Dave (Greeblie). Unlike the NYT, I acknowledge my errors immediately, and take full responsibility.
Big Bill's hissy fit over internet fisking of his delicate pampered ass was over the top, even by his standards. I haven't seen this much disgust in the blogosphere since, well, Maureen Dowd's latest screed. Suffice it to say some rightists and libertarians who tolerated O'Reilly's pompous bullshit in order to see a liberal gored are going to go looking elsewhere for entertainment. I'd pretty much quit watching him a while back, although I might catch the Talking Points Memo.
Too many stories out there to link. You've read 'em all anyway.
What a pussy.
Gee, I never realized there was such affection in the distaff community for Pinchot out there. Perhaps it's the non-threatening fragile little ectomorphic body. Or the desire to turn him straight. I still say he sucks.
That reminds me. Mark Linn-Baker is 49 today. Isn't that like, seven in human years?
has posted his blogging principles. They closely reflect my own views on the matter.
Charles Johnson is onto the Zayed Center's shenanigans.
The Volokh Conspiracy claims any future Supreme Court nominations will not be like the Fortas filibuster, because that was bipartisan.
Lileks fisks Bill O'Reilly.
Stephen Green is back with thoughts on the coming Iranian revolution.
You know what to do. Read the whole thing.
Cool. That only took like three minutes, and nobody e-mailed me the links. Now I know how Glenn gets so much content up every day.
Rob Sama has a great post on the jet packs of the sixties, and some latter day intrique associated with it. I don't want to steal his thunder, but how about that PF Flyers guy? As a snot-nosed eight-year-old I was convinced jet packs for Christmas were only a couple of years away.
Kate is a Balki fan. I, obviously, am not. So let's all rub the Diversity Rainbow Blanket and channel our inner Rodney King. With any luck, Pinchot's head will explode, I'll get my wish, and the Venomous One will be able to tell her children about The Great One, taken too soon from life's high-wire act. That or an intervention with Stooges and Gleason reruns set up Clockwork Orange style.
Between Kelley's Athens flashbacks, Possumblog's shots of the rebuilding of the ass of Vulcan [the Birmingham statue that scared the beejeepers out of me as a kid (see that torch, boy? It's RED. That means somebody got slaughtered on the highway tonight, so sit down, let me drive, and shut your pie hole!)], and the fact I run iron horses for a living, or at least fill them up, I bring you the Iron Horse of Athens .
Originally a sculpture erected on the University of Georgia campus in 1954, it was moved to a field 18 miles south of Athens in 1959 due to frat boy abuse. I used to see it as a little kid when we were driving God knows where on vacation, standing out in a field. As a collegian we used to camp in the Oconee National Forest and sneak into the field for druid necromancy around the beast. It's hideous, it's beautiful. Sorry I had to link to Polly Stramm for a pic. Here's a better story. Jack Straw, Rankin' Rob, Acidman? Tell us some tales of the Horse.
Picked up my blind doggie from the vet today. He'd been boarded there while I was in Savannah; he had to stay all day today for a glucose curve test. I was cursing myself for not having Doc go ahead and put him down Friday, the pissing fool (the dog, not Doc). When I got there he was SO HAPPY to see me he was spinning like a dreidel on crystal meth, whizzing everything in sight (Doc, not the dog. The dog wasn't getting juiced $203 for a three-day stay).
Seriously, I felt like gum on the bottom of Charles Bukowski's flip-flop for even thinking about sending the old boy to puppy heaven for processing water like an offshore desalinator. I had a long conversation with Doc B about quality of life, et cetera, and we agreed Flounder's quality of life is fine; I'm the one with diminished joie de vivre. And that's okay. I owe the old scruff that much.
Kelley has joined the Slutertarian Party as Secretary of the Department of Booze, Smokin' and Shootin', and N.Z. Bear is now Director, Department of the Census. This is great news. Now if the Secretary of Labor would exert some...
of the 'sphere (that would be Jim Treacher) is going through the Comments issue I went through a couple weeks ago. Needless to say, I can relate. My comments have been good lately, although I don't comment enough on other sites as often as I should. Time, thief of life.
who remembers Love Tractor deserves to have that fact posted haste. What can you say about Athens? To hang there in the late seventies-early eighties (this dog's day) was akin to hanging in Frisco the summer of '67. Just like Woodstock, everybody claims to have seen the English Beat at Legion Field in the mud and rain. Well, maybe not everybody.
Do not Google spastic colon lover unless you are into medieval medical fetishes. A friendly word of advice.
Every so often I like to eviscerate a comedian I think is a humorless bag of tapir dung, someone the Powers That Be at one time decreed we must adore, despite their obvious lack of talent. Today's honoree: Bronson Pinchot.
It's difficult to find a place to begin on this carp-faced fuckwad, so let's just begin at the beginning: After small roles in Risky Business, Beverly Hills Cop, and The Flamingo Kid, BP got his big break on the ham-handed sitcom Perfect Strangers, which of course co-starred the execrable Mark Linn-Baker. You'll remember him from My Favorite Year, a very fine film that was short of brilliant solely due to the glib preening of Ms. Linn-Baker. Fuck him, and his connected relatives.
But I digress: Strangers created the persona that Pinchot would milk for years afterwards with equally fulsome results: the hapless, vaguely Eastern European immigrant with an accent no one could quite understand, but which made him all the more loveable! Films like Blame it on the Bellboy revolved the entire plot around this artifice. It was never funny, it's still not funny, and he's a one-note putz with a steady stream of similar gigs lined up for the foreseeable future.
What, you say? Look at his brilliant work on Circus of the Stars? Oh, yes. Well, then. All is forgiven. Remembering Bronson Pinchot in sequined leotards at the top of the trapeze platform should shame me into forgiving him for the Balkinization of situation comedy and hope he has a successful future as RuPaul's bondage kitten. I'll bet he hangs out in The Grotto at the Playboy Mansion like a latter day Norman Fell, oblivious to the sniggering and derisive retorts, secure in the hipness that is Bronson Pinchot. No talent tool.
Fuck Bronson Pinchot. And his little dog Linn-Baker, too.
Before the current woes in Nigeria there was a civil war that killed one million people and created refugees of five million more. Yet most people don't even remember it. Ask anyone under 35.
The first of the great post-colonial civil wars, it began in 1967 when the eastern third of Nigeria broke away from military rule and formed the independent nation of Biafra, seven years after Nigeria gained its independence from Great Britain. After almost three years of war Biafra was conquered and reabsorbed into Nigeria. Just like today, the western powers sat on their asses and did nothing in the face of genocide on the African continent.
Here's a first hand account from a former Biafran soldier. Money quote:
"I have seen things in Biafra this week which no man should have to see. Sights to search the heart and sicken the conscience I have seen children roasted alive, young girls torn in two by shrapnel, pregnant women eviscerated, and old men blown to fragments, I have seen these things and I have seen their cause: high-flying Russian Ilyushin jets operated by Federal Nigeria, dropping their bombs on civilian centres throughout Biafra ... At Onitsha - the 300 strong congregation of the Apostolic Church decided to stay on while others fled and to pray for deliverance. Col. [Murtala] Mohammed's Second Division found them in the church, dragged them out, tied their hands behind their backs and executed them."
Ever seen that chick on Ripley's Believe It Or Not? that can pop her eyeballs out of their sockets about 2 inches? Criminey, that's a look. I wonder if she ever pops them out when she's making love? I know I would if I could.
to me. I was in Savannah for my big brother's 50th birthday. Had lunch with The Bride, kiddies, and in-laws today, then drove back to Jax, because I gotta work tomorrow. They stayed to spend squalidy time with her folks, which means I get to spend the rest of Father's Day alone, holed up in the Bat Cave, blogging in peace. Or mowing the lawn. If it drops below 90 before the sun sets I'll mow. Jealous? You should be.
So I was Googling bolt gun abattoir, as is my wont, and ran across this site on the correct methodology for creating Big Macs. My brothers and I used to make the Big Trip to the slaughterhouse as youngsters in order to have our pet steer rendered into dinner. Very insightful stuff, I'm sure, but we didn't watch. Which forces one to play catch up as an adult. Don't miss the pic.
Some of Laci Peterson's friends are on Greta right now, and I'm thinking they're pretty damned hot. Just an observation from a middle aged guy. As penance, I will admit that Amber Frey is a skank ho.
Time for that nut-kick. Today's NPR snippets:
The obligatory "Bush May Have Won The War but He's Losing The Peace" piece: A story on Baathist party members in Iraq who've been kicked out of their gummint jobs and have no place to turn. They haven't been paid in 3 months. I believe the idea was I feel sorry for them. And I do. I feel sorry for these quislings and Vichy pieces of shit, because their days are numbered. They will be hunted down and wasted over the ensuing months. No occupying force will be able to stop it.
The piece stressed the fact that the small private sector in Iraq would not be able to accommodate these former government workers. True, because a) they'll be dead, and b) Iraq needs a smaller government anyway. Some of the old jobs I like to see abolished forever:
Official Regime Rapist
Offical Applier of Electrodes to Prisoner's Genitals
Official Child Murderer
Official Psychotic Dictator
Offical Sadistic Son of Psychotic Dictator
Hey, it's a start.
The Weekly Castro Rimjob: Why, the perfidious Europeans are going to ban vacations to Blood Island! Or some such sanction. Those bastards! Maybe Bush the Blind Pig found an acorn when he said we couldn't trust them!
Somehow I think enough besotted Americans will visit Castrate under guise of humanitarian and educational missions to prop up his filthy regime until he and his brother are safely dead.
Hydrogen Creation is Going to Kill Us: That's right. A (read: one) study suggests that the release of hydrogen molecules as a byproduct of creating hydrogen cars and power will cause even more damage to the ozone than carbon dioxide! Forget clean cars, folks. You'd better take public transportation NOW. This story works on a few levels: First, the New Threat, worse than the Old Threat. Second, the message that environmentally friendly transportation is Beyond Our Grasp. Probably forever. Third, it perpetuates the careers of the Chicken Little naysayers. All based on one guy's study. May I have another grant, sir? Yes, you may, it turns out.
What did he study? The release of hydrogen molecules from the ocean transportation of natural gas. He claims 20% of natural gas escapes or evaporates in transit. What fucktoolery. Who could stay in business with losses like that? Ever been on a tanker? I have. And while I'm not eating off the deck, they're very clean. And the gas or oil is highly secure. And who says the hydrogen processors on a car are going to resemble a vast tank on a torquing, twisting ocean vessel anyway?
NPR, that's who.
Yup. No blogging from Your Transient Boy for a few days. But I had work to do, dammit! Specifically, two days of annual sales meetings, followed by today's obligatory day of rest. In short: strategy meetings at the Marriott Sawgrass interspersed with TPC golf. Yes, my first nine in 2 years sucked, but I finished suprisingly well on the back nine, and birdied 18. So there. The yips are gone.
The hard part was the evenings. Monday was relatively staid, but last night was Satyricon. After oceanside dinner and drinks at the Surf Club at the Ponte Vedra Inn we migrated back to home turf, the Marriott. A most shameful episode in debauchery ensued. Imagine a dozen thirty and forty something sales geeks acting like drunken latent homosexual frat boys and cum-crazed sorority sluts. It was Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas meets Pray for the Wildcats. Every other patron in that bar hated our guts. Hell, I hated our guts. We were disgusting.
My rough estimate is (after 4 rounds of cocktails) 12 rounds of shots, with anywhere from 13 to 20 shots in each round (we were 12, but bought extras for our fellow patrons, most of whom shunned us like Molokai lepers, so we drank them ourselves). Figure close to 200 shots, at $5 per. When the Grey Goose and Stoly and Absolut were gone we went to tequila. When that was gone we went to lemon drops. Even our nice sales girls from Chicago and San Francisco were sneering at the other customers and giving them the up yours. Lots of obscenities and chest bumps and dirty dancing. Nasty, as I say.
At one point I got some side action going with the bar on my friend, who was repeatedly baring his very so-so torso for no apparent reason. Convinced them the full monty was coming, and raised $75 in wagers. He eventually demurred, but everyone forgot and I got to throw down the pot as my share of the tab. They threw us out at one, God bless 'em.
And who was the putz who was in the office at 8 this morning for the meetings we'd scheduled? Your Humble Fool, of course. When nobody else showed up by eleven I went home to work on my equilibrium. Oh. The theme of our meetings? "How to extract more revenue from our customers to cover our exploding administrative costs". I shit you not. The Bride was not very impressed. She usually likes these stories, but was unimpressed when I told her we'd forgotten to perform the ritual slaying of the pond ducks.
Wherein Velociman goes Lileks:
Certain peoples out there will understand that header: holding your child up in front of you instead of dealing with an issue head on. Guilty. Again.
Here's the deal: My ten year old ("Skeeter", to you trollers) took those FCAT's and in the fourth grade is reading at a tenth grade level. There are seniors who read below her level and cannot graduate. To them I say, fuck you. You are now destined to flip beef in perpetuity because you decided to be a screwhead for 3 years. Life sucks, don't it?
Regroup: Skeeter has also informed me that she wants to get a double major in European History and Egyptology, and then get her law degree. Why? Because she wants to be a State Senator, then a congressman, then a United States Senator, then President. Why? I have no idea. I'd pretty much convinced her politicians were hackwads. But she is a certified Conservative, and has read all of my National Reviews, all with NO INPUT FROM ME! I swear! I have not spoken to my children about politics, and yet she wants to be Reagan II. I am so proud. And so scared. She will rock our world.
I have a great friend, whom I've know for 25 years. He is a font of incredible stories, mishaps, and episodes. I'm going to exploit the Puddyhead Sagas for my own personal gain over the next few weeks. You will appreciate it, and he will enjoy the notoriety.
I'll be playing golf with my boss and a few select customers tomorrow. How bad is my game? Pretty damned rusty. Will I win? No, sir. How bad will I lose? E-mail me.
can I watch a documentary on the sinking of the Bismark? Infinitely, I believe.
I've felt very bad about the fact Velociworld has become more parochial, more slice of life, than topical. I hate slice of life. So let's change that:
The Palestinian/Israeli issue: The "road map" is bullshit, because some freakazoid from the Gaza Strip will self-detonate and kill another 13-14 Israelis. Why is the Gaza, that nasty nipple of Egypt, always worse than the the "occupied territories" of the West Bank? Because Arafat is an Egyptian, that's why.
Martha Stewart: There will come the time she faces the Shawshank moment, and I do not possess the money or game to witness it. Fortunately, video cameras are common contraband in most federal big rigs, so I can enjoy this poste-moment.
Sore Winners: Iraqis are bitching about our occupation of their country: Let them bitch. It's healthy for their lungs, which haven't gotten much of a work out in the last two decades.
The New York Times: Howell Raines and that other guy (Boyd? Black guy? AA hire?) got canned. So what? Until Pinch Sulzburger commits seppuku at a Nelly concert I will never believe that rag again.
Bummed Out Daddies: Laci Peterson was murdered!!!!!! I didn't know if you'd heard about that. A local story. Oh, and she was pregnant! Had a little be-bub in her belly! And there's Devil Worship involved! Fuck this story. Pregnant women get killed all the time around here. Only thing is they're black round these parts and it ain't Christmas Eve, so you don't get to experience the joy.
Well, that's the Shepard Smith around the world in 80 seconds view. I'd really like to expound on that Pali/Izzy thing, but life interferes.
Well, the in-laws are in town for the weekend, and Bride Brethren are due tomorrow, so let's hole up in the Bat Cave and do a Nostalgia!
The Tiger Tooth Belt: Well, you wouldn't remember this, but you might know something like it. My playful uncle cut serrated teeth in a leather belt so that my parents' beatings would acquire a Republican Guard flavor while tripling the welt marks. I love that Uncle. He's still a hoot! A practical joker, I don't think he had any idea my parents would grimly set to task with that novelty item. I still have it in a drawer, and while I never spanked my girls with it (or anything else) I've had great sport over the years threatening them with it. Know of a personalized corporal punishment tool? E-mail me.
Beany and Cecil: I really loved this cartoon. I could relate to Beany. He had a fictional sea serpent friend, I had a fictional dad, who looked like Ward Cleaver. Little did I realize at the time Hugh Beaumont was a fucking raving party animal. Apparently made my old man look like a 12-step facilitator. Cecil, of course, was the evil twin of Puff, the Magic Dragon. Whereas Puff represented marijuana, the sea-sick sea serpent represented heroin, Cecil being Oahacan street slang for Mexican smack. How do I know this? Because B&C was a Bob Clampett cartoon, the Warner Brothers genius who brought us Porky, Daffy, and, of course, Bugs. And we all know what Clampett did on those Mexican vacations. Wheels within wheels, as they say.
Ray's Playhouse: You don't know this place, but you might know something like it. When we had our farm in the sixties there was a ramshackle gas station down the road. This was in Effingham County, Acidman's current stomping grounds, but this wasn't in Rincon, the civilized part of the county. This was in the northwest quandrant, north of Guyton, near Tusculum and Egypt. No Man's Land. At any rate, I could never figure out why, of all the gas stations in the world, my dad frequented this one. It was a plyboard piece of shit, painted pink (like Chico's Monkey Farm, A-Man). Sold shitty Colonial gas, brand of the local oil shieks. My dad would buy us all the weevilly penny candy in the store and disappear for a few while we sat in the car and gorged on insects and ancient sugar products. It all came together when the door to the back swung open one night, and I saw the real Ray's. A juke joint in a dry county, with pool tables, moonshine, slot machines, some illicit labeled booze, and some seriously skanky wimmen. This was the old man's last ditch pit stop, in case Pop Edwards' on the county line was off-limits for some reason (as Pop's lawyer, my dad knew when plausible deniability was in order). An old man, with a nose like marinated cube steak, saw me gawking inside and pressed a nickel in my hand. "Go play the piccolo!" he demanded. "Go play the piccolo!" I was about eleven then, saw no flute-type instruments around, and didn't know if the piccolo he was referencing was the jukebox or his cock. I demurred, like the smart boy my mama raised, and thus missed the only opportunity I ever had to enter the necrotic inner sanctum that was Ray's. I'm glad of that, looking back.
The midget is gone. I asked the building security hacks if they knew where he went and they denied knowledge. This, of course, proves the Bilderbergers, Freemasons, Trilateral Commisson, and Council on Foreign Relations are ALL IN ON THE DEAL. I was such a fool. Plain as the nose on your face. Poor bastard's probably having the genital cuff ratcheted up another notch about now. It's the neocons, man. They've taken over.
has been hanging around my office plaza for the last three days. I see him when I go outside for a smoke. He seems interesting, but when I try to engage him in conversation he's a bit standoffish. When I finish my smoke and go back inside, he's usually on the short phone in the lobby, cursing at someone on the other end of the line. I believe he is insane. Kafka would die for my life.
For dinner tonight I ate a grilled hamburger patty that had been machine-chopped into a strange amoebic shape. I believe it was the State of Texas. As a normally skeptical person I have to revisit the wisdom of that decision. In the meantime, reminesce on the hip vibe of the original Emmanuelle.
This movie shaped me in ways I would rather not explore. Suffice it to say it bridged the chasm of Hefner's Playboy philosophy circa 1969 (which I wholeheartedly embraced at the age of 12) with the glorious hell-hole of love/sex/hash oil/white liquor that 1976 spawned. A passage of rights, it would seem.
Since I am genetically engineered to be lazy, I bring you two old blogs from February, mostly because Zombyboy likes screeds:
About halfway between Orlando and Daytona Beach is the hamlet of Cassadaga. Founded by George Colby in 1875, it's a right odd place filled with pyschics, mediums, seers, visionaries, palm-readers, spiritualists, transcendentalists, Ram Dassians, Raelians, seancers, necromancers, Wiccans, animists, humanists, crystal pimps, New Agers, tea leaf readers, entrail extrapolators, diviners, ball gazers, toad-boilers, newt-blinders, and ensorcelors.
If you're ever in the area stop in for a reading. I guarantee it will be worth it.
Every so often I rent Tod Browning's Freaks. Because Halloween only comes once a year, and I need that gut-check in April. I also admire any movie that's best blurb begins "A grisly but compassionate portrayal...". Real life Siamese twins, an armless girl, the Human Skeleton, Radian the Living Torso, The Pinhead Snow sisters, my God. And you know what? No prosthetics here. The real deal. These folks were troopers. Tod Browning gave them a moment of fame (or infamy) which they were able to parlay into a, well, not decent living, but better than they had. And Johnny Eck (Half Boy) was a beloved and admired figure in his hometown of Baltimore. Browning did this and Dracula in a two year period. That's output.
your destiny is at hand. In other words, did I mention kelley quotes Faulkner on her homepage? That is reason enough for a visit, don't you think?
Somehow I've neglected to link her, her, and them. I thought I had done that. Then again, it was ten o'clock today before I realized my damned boxers were on backwards. Mr. Maxwell House, Esq. was not amused.
read my mind earlier, and called Martha Stewart's pending arrest tomorrow "The Mother Of All Perp Walks". That's okay. I'll enjoy it just the same. I had sympathy for her when the Dems were lambasting her, and publicizing the whole issue out of proportion. But when she went to the Donkeys and explained how much money she'd been giving them and Terry McAuliffe (or whoever) coached her to blame it on a GOP witch hunt I promptly fell into carwreck mode. Can you say Caged Heat?
or, There's No Such Thing As Bad Publicity (I'm on a Rocky and Bullwinkle thing).
Let's see. Acidman walked away from the Blogosphere on May 31st. He launched his Jihad the next day. Two days later he's jumped 8 spots to 86 on the Ecosystem. That is impressive market share gain by any measure, and especially by One Who Does Not Market Himself. I'm fucking impressed. He also helped give Kate a leg up 2 slots to 78. Synergy is a beautiful thing, my friends.
It's also a beautiful thing I'm not a cynical, jaded man. I might reach the unhealthy conclusion that they conspired to hatch this plot.
to reengage with the real world and step away from my pixelated danse macabre: I left my screen doors open and the skeeter man hit my street. Now my bedroom smells like forty bobcats (sc: lynx rufus) sprayed it. On the positive side the malathion seems to have driven the hummingbirds berserk. It's a fight to the death of four-ounce furies out there. Kinda like a blogfight.
and elucidate some original thoughts. That's my problem. I don't spend enough time at this for my writing to be worthwhile, and yet I spend more time on it than I feel is healthy. My interests have dwindled. I used to come home from work and do 20 miles on the bike. Now I do 20 Marlboro Lights at the keyboard. I haven't swung a glof club in six months.
Maybe a Bleat style one-up post a night would work. IF I have something worthwhile to say. I'll check jackstraw's comments to see if I indeed had a worthwhile comment that day, just to be safe.