But you knew that. What I mean is, I have issues over at Acidman's, where I'm guestblogging. There are some strange fuckers out there.
UPDATE: Man, that was a tough gig. There's apparently a very fine line between loyal fan and psychotic motherfucker. Although, in all fairness, I must say the Shit Mummies blog was a bit over the edge, especially on someone else's site.
I didn't even submit an entry in this week's Carnival Of The Vanities, and yet the Single Southern Guy found a worthy old post and submitted it anyway. THAT is as cool as it gets. Thank you, Dude. And your Carnival kicked ass.
And by the way... how do I get to be shiny?
Just when I'd come to the decision that I'm way too fucking busy to blog for a while I see where my services are requested as guestblogger at Acidman's while he's down to Jekyll. Well, round up the posse, Gimp, and let's head over there. You don't leave your Blog Uncle in need. Although if Rob had a nationally syndicated radio spot at the Coastal Empire Fair I'd feel more like Lileks.
I've seen Queer Eye For The Straight Guy, and I have to tell you, it's not that good. These fellas take a Bubba and attempt to remake him into Smoov B. I don't buy it. He usually ends up looking like a redneck cop trying to blend into a popper club. And who anointed gays as arbiters of taste? You think I don't know fine cuisine? Kiss my ass. Clothes? Bite me (No! Don't!) And music? Hah. Everyone knows gays have the worst possible taste in music. You take away Babs, Garland, Merman, Diana, Bette, and these poor guys are trembling in the land of Philistines. Gays' taste in music is horrendous. They just don't have any sense of musical diversity.
I'm developing a new show. I'll find five straight guys and turn them loose on Ned Beatty's Nemesis. Nothing serious. Teach him attire doesn't have to consist of overalls with a union suit flap in the front. Put him in a decent Joe Banks sport coat, some nice slacks, and Cole Haan loafers. He'll be okay. Cuisine? Turn him on to osso buco. Man does not live by pig guts alone.
The arts? Banjoes are out, definitely. After that the music falls in to place. London Calling might get him primed. They could get him to take down his fisting pictures and replace them with, oh, some Klee.
After the bald-spot mullet is cut I think the boys might have a winner.
If I can get this show picked up (Sci-Fi Channel, are you out there?) I'll try another one. Girl Meets Girl. One hot swimsuit model has to pick a lover from a group of 12 other swimsuit models. The catch? That's the beauty. There is no catch. ALL of the girls are bisexual. It's just a matter of finding the best kisser. Hell, I may start this one first.
I'm off to Norfolk tomorrow (motto: It's Nor-folk, not Nor-fork, Dammit!) to give a presentation to the Port Authority. See, port relationships is part of my job. And a very important one. So when I saw that the American Association of Ports Authorities is having their annual convention in Curacao the end of September, I was ready to plan my itinerary. Book my bash
We are currently mired in a State of Budget Constraints, however. The second half of the year is always like that. Why can't these people plan these shindigs in March? So the Mighty Overlord of Travel and Entertainment has cast a jaundiced eye upon my Perfectly Legitimate and Essential Journey. I'm fighting back with my Arsenal of Justification (Vital Mission! Competitive Edge!) But I've been down this path before. Those folks (not forks, dammit!) will be slathering up sun and rum without me. Grrrr... and shit.
Damn. three days away from bloging is suspiciously like a three day weekend from work. I need to look into that. But breaks from anything are good. I now find funny things funny again, and cruel things are, well, still kind of funny, but not hilarious. This is progress, I think.
That Geoghan story got me to thinking about something I did a long time ago that I'd forgotten about, and had never shared, but I'm pretty certain I committed no crimes, so here you go:
In the summer of 1979 I had a couple of months to kill before going to law school, my previous employer's establishment having burned down (this business was next door to The Emerald Room, a strip club, and so we paid some rent and moved into that establishment for a couple of months in order to handle our incoming inventory out of the second floor, but that's another blog for another day).
So I took an eight week gig at the Chatham County Jail as a correctional officer. Figured I'd troll for some future clients. A jailer, man. Fuckin' A. You walk in the doors and some kind of Wyatt Earp Sadism Virus grips you. Total Control. Strange...
So they brought these two guys in to cool their heels for an appeal on their sentences. These fellows had given two girls a ride home after the ZZ Top concert in Savannah in 1974, taken them out to the woods, and raped them and shotgunned them. One of the girls lived, miraculously, and these guys had life sentences, the federal moratorium on the death penalty being in effect at the time.
We kept the inmates segregated by race, for the usual reasons, and at one point there was an influx of white prisoners on federal charges, waiting on appeals. That put the white dorm over 12, the max. Now we could have sent a few guys to the 3rd floor, but that meant paperwork, so a coworker and I took the two murderer/rapists, who had reputations as Bad Asses, and thought they were the cocks of the walk, tough guys, and put them in the black dorm, where there were only 3 guys. But what 3 guys they were. One had killed a man with one blow from a pool cue. He did 1,000 push-ups and 1,000 sit ups every day. Another had flensed a guy into about forty pieces with a switchblade. The third guy had blown away a liquor store owner. They were what is known in Bureau Of Prison Technicalese as Extremely Dangerous Motherfuckers Who Don't Play Well With Others. And yet they were actually model inmates. Never complained, never groused, ate their vegetables and kept their mouths shut. It was a pleasure doing business with them, actually.
So we put these two Reservoir Dogs in with them, for administrative reasons, and the next morning they both had two black eyes, busted lips, blood-encrusted noses, and, if I am not mistaken, seriously ruptured rectums. These fellas had seen the wrong end of a fuckstick for a change. Left them in there for three days, then, when the federal boys got transferred to the third floor, we put them back in the white dorm, where even the jaywalkers and Lysol-huffers mocked them. Our grand experiment in Social Integration was an abject failure. I had so wanted these folks to Just Get Along.
I think about those two boys from time-to-time, and hope they like Reidsville. It's better than The Chair in Jackson, which is what they really deserved.
Stomped to death in prison. Penitentiaries have a strange pecking order and sense of righteousness I never plan to experience, but I sometimes appreciate the logic embedded in them. Drop a pederast priest who's way too old to be a prison bitch into that environment and this sort of thing is bound to happen.
Regular readers know I have a serious
hard on interest in the New Orleans Playboy Club circa 1966. Somehow it's hard-wired in my soul. Go figure. Curious is the mind of man.
Just thought I'd let you know the old bunnies are having a Reunion next year. I haven't seen my invitation yet, but I'm sure that's because they're trying to decide on the perfect font and layout for my personal invite. They're cool like that.
Been a while. And I HAVE been thinking about why a grown man feels the need to knife wound his Friday nights by devolving to his childhood for images both sacred and profane. The only thing I can come up with is: it's minimally better than laying naked in one's closet, curled in the fetal position and slathered in cocoa butter, clutching Mao's Little Red Book and a double locket with one's grandmother's and Edith Piaff's pictures in it against one's breast. But only by a little bit. Excited now? Good. Let's get started.
Rabbits' Feet: A downer to start with, sorry. But consider: where did this ritual come from? The carrying of a severed mammal's foot- nay, the flaunting of said animal's foot- for good luck? They dyed them! Pik yur krazie kulur! Was some Austrian chef so bored with the constant whisking away of the detritus of his hasenfeffer egregia that he finally hit on a marketing scheme to make marks off the surplus? And what happened to the equally useless bunny heads? I have a theory (I always do). Bunny slippers. You thought those nighttime fuzzies were cotton, didn't you? Nope. Expertly filleted and taxidermied bunny heads, they were. Airfreighted to Malaysia where they were crafted onto bedroom shoes. Oh, the humanity.
Cigarette TV ads: Yeah, sorry. This Nostalgia's going to run a bit sordid for a while. Here be monsters. Despair hope all ye who enter here. Sorry. These are the only forebodings I know. Back off bitch was after my time. Back to ciggies:
Us Tarleton Smokers Would Rather Fight Than Switch. And the girl had a black eye. See how far that little gimmick gets you on Mad Ave today. She looked like she'd spent a round in the ring with Cassius Clay, or a honeymoon with Tyson. A Lisa Left-Eye Lopez schtick packaged in a Richmond, Virginia wrapper. I found it erotic at 10. I still find it erotic. Don't tell.
Winston Tastes Good Like a Cigarette Should. No shit, Hemlock. THAT'S why I'm buying your product. Move on.
Cigars, Cigarettes, Tiparillos? Hell, yes. Nightclubs used to have Playboy Bunny types walking around with wooden shelves strapped to their magnificently sculpted backs, full of tobacco product. Right to your table. Lung dart, monsieur? Shore! Thankee, baby!
I'd Walk A Mile For A Camel: Dude, you look like you'd walk 8 miles for a blow job from a toothless gack freak. Just sayin', ya know?
Enough tobacconeria. How about...
Sid and Marty Krofft? HR Pufnstuf? Banana Splits? No. I knew you wouldn't want to go there, either. I still have dreams of Witchie Poo in a bustier, dammit. I need release.
I've been on the commercial side of my company for 6 years, now, and I don't miss operations at all. I was reminded of that fact again today when I ran into a coworker in the elevator. He'd just returned from his third day of depositions in a wrongful death suit. One of our terminal cranes collapsed in 2001 and killed the operator. So my friend had to sit through three days of depositions wherein attorneys for the aggrieved party told him he's a menace, a bag of shit, a man who puts profit ahead of safety, a party to manslaughter, and everything else you can think of. This man is in charge of our equipment maintenance, and he does a damned fine job. He is as good as it gets. I would entrust this man with my childrens' lives. I've known him for 15 years and he is stand up. Shit just happens sometimes. Equipment fails. People lose their lives. But to wring a man out like that is terrible.
This situation got me to thinking about how deathly my industry is. We kill a lot of people every year. In addition to the poor souls like this crane operator who die on the job we also kill a large number of people at grade crossings every year. How many? I don't know. I could get you that info in about five minutes, but I really don't want to know. People always think they can beat a train. I used to race trains across the crossing when I was a teenager. No more.
These incidents take their toll on the poor bastards who are left in the wake, as well. I had a compatriot who ran the Orlando terminal when I was running Memphis. His people didn't secure a trailer on a flatcar, apparently, and it swung out at a 45 degree angle and hit a southbound Silver Meteor Amtrak in Smithfield, North Carolina in 1997. Killed the engineer and the conductor. J--- took early retirement shortly thereafter. Was it his fault? No. But it happened on his watch.
I had a kid I worked with who was in Pricing. He wanted field experience. I didn't bother to tell him how unrewarding it was, because he wanted to do it, and sometimes you need that kind of experience on your resume anyway. He went to Charlotte as a supervisor. His first week on the job he was looking out the office window, watching one toplifter crane drag another broke-down toplifter across the terminal with a steel cable when a clerk in a company pickup blew through at about 40 MPH (15 is reckless speeding on a terminal). The cable cut right through the top of the truck, and severed this guy from the solar plexis up. He was two people. Bad stuff, indeed. That boy had to call 911, HQ, his wife, and a shrink within 5 minutes. Welcome to the Machine, son.
My personal worst? Bayou Canot, Alabama. The Sunset Limited Amtrak derailed and killed 47 people. Amtrak's worst ever. Happened when the train was crossing our bridge. That train augered into the mud at 65 MPH, and burrowed in 40 feet deep. It took them a week to dig out all the bodies. We figured busted rail, turned out a barge had struck the bridge hours earlier, creating the derailment.
It's a deathly game. That's why I drill safety into my kids at every opportunity. Push your chairs in. Put your seatbelts on. Don't take glass out to the pool. Don't talk to strangers. Eat your peas. It's crazy out there.
Yes, I let my rage get the better of me at times. And yes, I occasionally let that bile spill over, as I did last night. Do I regret that post? No. Do I apologize for it? Hell, no. But I don't want to offend some of the few good loyal readers I have, either. That's impolite. That's biting the hand that reads you. So I bagged it. Oh, I kept a copy. I have a Hall of Shame with 3 or 4 posts in it, just to remind me I'm better than that. And that's all I'm going to say on the subject. I'm still enraged, I'm just focusing it better.
Layoffs have been postponed until NEXT Thursday, which gives everyone another full week to keep their rectums puckered. As usual, I offered to submit my personal list of Totally Useless People for management's perusal. They declined the offer, as usual. Just trying to help out. I'm also convinced large breasted women are geniuses, because I've never seen one on my list. They must be smart. Come to think of it, I've never seen myself on the list, either.
I like this guy. I like poets and musicians generally, because I failed at both disciplines (Memo to self: lack of discipline - that's why they CALL it a discipline). Give him a read and a listen. The sound quality is excellent, too. He ran across me via Jargonese, who had 'rolled me and I didn't realize it (I'm the anti-blogroller, of course. I never, never check the Ecosystem to see where I'M ranked. It makes it so much easier to rationalize rejection when you pretend not to crave it). I like being the dirty little secret only the way-cool talk about in hushed tones in the au courant coffee houses in SoHo. Or the two guys taking mutual vodka shits in the Greyhound station in Pascagoula, Mississippi. I take my fans where I find them. None of this is intended to take away from Paul or Jargonese, by the way. I just get to rambling.
Our mainframe went down last night, and wasn't back up until 9 AM this morning. Which means we had a couple of hundred trains barrelling around the country and the operations center had no frigging clue where they were. Which means you had a bunch of engineers coming up on junctions and the switches weren't thrown. Which means these trains went into lockdown to avoid head-on collisions, and the crews went looking for coffee and doughnuts. THE GRID WENT DOWN! It was a CASCADE EFFECT! Or a zipper effect, as I like to call it, in homage to the zipperheads who designed the system.
So The Company sent out an urgent alert this morning advising customers that these latest nefarious viruses had corrupted our mainframe and caused this, this abomination! Bullshit. I got the skinny. It wasn't viruses. It was a mouse. A mouse crawled into the mainframe and fried his ass, and took us out. Who's going to tell their customers that? Not us.
A small microcosm of what went down last week in the Midwest and Northeast. Spend capital on terminals and offices and buildings, and let your transmission lines, or in our case line-of-road and mainframe, degenerate. You spend the money on what's sexy. A nuclear power plant is sexy. A transmission line is not. A corporate office or state-of-the art terminal is sexy. Crossties and mainframes stuck in a backwater facility in Baltimore are not.
Of course, equipping the locomotives with GPS... never mind. Layoffs are tomorrow, and I'm already pushing it.
Acidman has a good post about how children can still go door to door in his neighborhood, hawking their gimcracks and gewgaws. I can relate to that. It's a quality of life issue. And I agree. Of course, when I moved to Effingham County in the mid-sixties the city was safe; Effingham was a nice bucolic region that turned into James Dickey's worst nightmare if you turned down the wrong tobacco road. But that's all changed now. Those cretins died off or were imprisoned or moved away, and Effingham is truly a nice bucolic place now, and a great place to raise your kids. Hell, Acidman almost lives in a bedroom community!
That's what's happening to me. I moved to Jacksonville six years ago and immediately selected St. Johns County, because it's one of the top 3 school districts in the state, thanks to the property tax base of Ponte Vedra Beach and St. Augustine, combined with a tiny populace. The teachers make the kids read Ayn Rand and Milton Friedman. They study supply-side economics. I don't live in Ponte Vedra, though. Lived there for six months while my house was being built, and it was great, but too crowded. I live in the Northwest area of the county, hard by the St. Johns River. It was rustic and feral when I moved in. I was the 5th house in my neighborhood. Surrounded by woods. Had a gray fox hanging out in my driveway every night. When we sat on the lanai in the evening the only sounds were owls and whippoorwills. You could hear a pin drop. The field mice would eat out of your hand (so would the moccasins, given the choice).
Now it's growing fast. The new high school my older daughter attends was built for 1500 and now has 2500 students 3 years after opening. They're throwing up neighborhoods faster than my brother-in-law gets Grateful Dead tattoos. The field mice are gone (my bad: what mice didn't drown in my pool were lunch for my cat. That's why I got him. Mice carry vermin, and plague. You can't be too careful).
Do I stay? Probably. I can make a handsome profit selling, but what the hell will I be able to afford then? I'm thinking of moving to the tater country south of here, near Hastings. Tater country? You bet. The next hamlet over from Hastings is called Spuds. That's its fucking name. So I might get about 15 acres in Spuds, put in a cement pond, and grin like my daddy when my girls tell me I've ruined their lives by moving them to Hooterville.
Maybe I'll just stay here.
I hate professional sports, but this is the quintessential picture of mortal combat.
Edgar and Johnny Winter: the Early Years. How cool is this picture? Beyond words. Although it still baffles me that Edgar has more sales and game in the history books than the brilliant Johnny. Johnny kicks hard ass.
Did you know albinos can divine gold in the ground? Hell, yes! They're like auric dowsing rods. Don't believe me? Go read your Caldwell, then get back to me.
So our 5 time Pro-Bowl receiver gets busted by the NFL for cocainum. Big surprise there. When he tested positive two years ago after a traffic stop he cried and whined that the test was faulty, and everyone rallied 'round, and gave him a shoulder to cry on. Fuck him, the huffing cocksucker.
Now he's banned for the first 4 games of the season. That's the first quarter of the season. This is why I cannot stand professional sports. I'll be damned if I'm going to invest one penny of emotional capital in a bunch of dope-addled freaks. And I pity the fool who does.
Oh, I follow sports. In my job I have to. When I see customers in New York I better damned well know how many games ahead the Yankees are on the Sox. And I have kowtowed in Chicago to the fucking thugs called the Bulls. But emotionally? No sir. The very thought of wearing a jersey to a game with some other asswipe's name on the back chills my soul. How much of a loser do you have to be to live vicariously through a gump-dicked retard who can't even spell his own name, much less tell you where his $7.1 million signing bonus resides? (Hint: you paid 82 grand for that Escalade EXT, fuckface, and you're overpaying for everything else, too).
Fantasy football leagues? You craven fuck. I'll be at your house doing tequila shots with your old lady while you're at the local sports bar arguing with your buds about the theoretical worth of Plaxico Burress. Get a life. Get a blog, for chrissakes.
Case in point: The Bride has an associate who showed a Jaguar's house in Queen's Harbour yesterday. An $800,000 house (he's only second year). The house was unlived in, immaculate, because this mongoloid lived in the garage! With 12 ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, 300 beer cans, a broken bottle of Tanqueray, and the smell of reefer so thick you could cut it with a feather.
I'd like to see the Jaguars move to Memphis, a dogshit town that truly deserves an NFL franchise. Unfortunately, that skidmark has a demographic that will only attend a ballgame/concert/fair/circus if there's a Great White Uncle handing out free passes. People in Memphis won't pay for shit.
Did I tell you I don't like professional sports? I thought so.
Margi is having issues with a bum tooth, poor dear, and pondering blowing off her reunion in the process. Negative, I say. Go tell her to show up in a Tomb Raiders costume, and stun-gun the first three people that look at her.
It also got me to thinking. I have number 30 coming up next year (hey, I skipped third grade. What can I say? I was "gifted" (beef tongue for Mrs. Moseley). And as I told Margi, I usually don't go to these things, because I graduated from a preppy-assed private school with 51 other people, and don't correspond with any of them (okay, one. But only in five year intervals). I usually send a homeless dwarf with a ruptured bladder and a "special message from Kim".
But I think I'll go next year. I may not be as rich as these jerkwads, but I guaran-fucking-tee my spouse and kids are prettier and smarter than theirs, my thrill hammer is harder, and I have more hair than most of them, although it's entering the Marcus Welby "dignified" stage. Perhaps I'll take the dwarf on a leash, and milk his kidneys at the proper moment.
When you were a kid, who was the first person you ever realized was, um, different? For me it was Dr. Smith on Lost In Space. Wayyy different. Not that I understood the nuts and bolts of it, of course, 'cause I was only ten or so, but you instinctively knew Dr. Smith was different. And it wasn't just the way he would clutch the children to his chest when he felt threatened. Hell, he wasn't protecting them. Even at ten I knew what a fucking human shield was.
Regardless, I liked Jonathan Harris. He was a great character actor. You could always count on him to show up on an episode of Twilight Zone or Battlestar Galactica and deliver a solid performance. Hell, he was walking a pink poodle when he accosted a naked Roscoe Rules handcuffed to a tree in The Choirboys. If I had directed that movie I'd have fleshed that scene out a little bit.
Useless Bit Of Information: Jonathan died last November, 3 days short of his 88th birthday. Good on the old bugger.
This post has waited months in the wings. Those who knew me when have in all likelihood cringed at the thought that I would eventually get around to it. I'd considered it, but decided to do like the English of Olde did with pheasants, and leave it hanging in the sun for a few weeks until it got sweetly rancid. So here we go:
Shorty was a diesel mechanic with a shop in Garden City near the old Traffic Circle. Basically a huge quonset hut where he worked on big rigs. He was about 4'11", and his right leg was about 4 inches shorter than his left. He told me once when I asked (kids always ask) that it had been cut off in a speedboat accident, and when it was sewn back on it was shorter. I believed that. I had no reason not to.
Shorty had a gray crewcut, smoked a pipe, and was a wiry weatherbeaten little fucker when I knew him. His wife Sadie weighed in at about four hundie, and she was the snaggle-toothed salt of the earth. Their two girls were nice kids, their two boys were worthless fucking reprobates.
So my Dad had befriended Shorty in one of those ways you don't care to explore. Lock up the law practice and stop off at Shorty's on the way to the farm. Sit in Shorty's "office" and drink Wild Turkey, smoke hand-rolled Bugles, and swap outrageous lies about the pussy you never got. My brother and I would go outside to the drainage canal and throw rocks at sewer rats the size of raccoons. Cokes were a dime in Shorty's machine. The little six and a half ouncers. Real Cokes. Once those assholes switched to beet sugar instead of cane sugar they were peddling a bastard product. But I digress.
Dad, being Oliver Wendell Holmes Gentleman Agrarian, gave Shorty a piece of land on the edge of our farm to build a house on, so that Shorty would be in close proximity to "work on our farm equipment". Therefore Shorty was always around. My mother found him disgusting and appalling, which accounts for my father's desire to keep Shorty close at hand.
A couple of things about Shorty, just in case you thought he was human. He once beat a decorated black Vietnam veteran senseless with a tire iron for the offense of requesting service on his car. He also had a dog, half-wolf, chained up in his garage for security. He told me to stay away from the dog, because he was so mean. Said Shorty, "I hope somebody tries to break in tonight, because the only thing he gets to eat is niggers, and he ain't eat for a week."
Classic Shorty: he was at our river house in Bluffton once (God knows why; Vagabond Villa was supposed to be my mother's safe haven, or panic room, if you will) and my little brother went into the bathroom to take a leak. Shorty was already in there, and when my brother (all of 9 or 10) tried to leave, Shorty would have none of it. "Come on in, boy, there's room enough for both of us!" Shorty had to hike his short right leg up on the edge of the toilet to keep his balance while whizzing, and my brother had to try to tinkle while Shorty shot out a huge thick stream of hard yellow piss that foamed up the entire bowl. My brother referred to it, I think, as a "saffron rope". Said it stank like hell.
Shorty. Think I'm done with him? In your dreams.
I got fifty bucks says Acidman wore Hai Karate in high school. I dare him to deny it. Myself, I wore English Leather at the age of 11. My older brother told it was "chick magnet" stuff. I'm still waiting for the first swoon. Now I wear Dolce & Gabbana. I prefer to go au naturel, but I come in close contact with wimmen all day long, and I understand the smell of Marlboro Lights, Maxwell House, and Shaver's Pork Rinds is, well, off-putting to say the least.
And where does that blog title come from? I used to work with some cabinetmakers, and that's how they said hello, goodbye, and pretty much everything in between. I never asked why.
This man is a caricature hoss. If you don't get National Review now, do it for Genn. And you can now sample his work at www.rgenn.com. I'm trying to score some autographed limited editions from him for Christmas gifts. We shall see.
Here's a picture of the Thunderbird Beach Resort's neon sign in St. Petersburg, Florida. I was staying next door, and it got me to thinking: What's the deal with Thunderbirds? I mean, there's a franchise that went awry early on. I suppose it was the fact there are numerous Thunderbirds not associated with the chain, it being a generic name, and poor management. Most of the T-birds are crap now. The one in Savannah is a flop house on hourly rates. The one in Daytona is okay, as I recall, but it's been a few years since I was there. This one was an exquisite example of postwar blue collar Florida vacation leisure, where a Detroit tire-thumper could take his family for the trip of their lives in 1960 Amerikkka. This baby still thrives in all its original glory. Greek columns, shiny tile floors, this place has been as lovingly restored as a '53 Corvette. Not a piece of trash or a cigarette butt anywhere. It has a fucking martini bar! The Bilmar next door was the same way.
Who started the 'Birds? I can't find out anything. You call one and the manager says "It was here when I was born, and that's good enough for me." But not for me. Because the T-birds represent an American success story gone horribly wrong. I sense loss of franchise control, poor accounting practices, and probably incest, polyamory, and torsos buried in the sand.
Got a Thunderbird in your town? Tell me about it. Especially if there's an old geezer around who can tell you how that particular edition of the American dream went stark raving mad.
So how was Ringo? Great! He's Ring, for crying out loud. Never has so little talent achieved such greatness for the mutual benefit of mankind. He's Ring.
You see, this was a Nostalgia for the Ages. My family always vacationed in St. Pete when I was a little fry in the sixties. The Gulf Shores Motel at Indian Rocks Beach, to be precise. Roll that in with a sentient Beatle, both of your brothers, your big sister, and two beloved cousins, with significant others, and you have a bash! It was sweet. Stayed at the Bilmar, of course, because it has a Sloppy Joe's, and I retain the craven impulses, as does The Bride.
Ringo is Ringo. He knows it. He assumes you do. So he gives you a good old fashioned show. The All-Stars have changed. The old timers like Jack Bruce, Todd Rundgren, and Frampton are gone. They're busy getting their formaldehyde transfusions. So Ringo has an eighties line-up.
My take: Paul Carrack looked like an albino with a felony to hide. Couldn't hit the highest notes on Tempted, but still good, although the Huggy Bear outfit was discomfiting. John Waite, although the wimmens were gushing over him, looked like he'd been stomped outside of a methadone clinic for his busfare. He's still a pussy, but Ring needed a bass player.
Big surprise? Colin Hay of Men at Work. I never really glommed onto those guys. It was the whole cast eye bullshit, I suppose. But Colin was very cool. He had a balding Sting high crew cut thing going that worked for him, some white striped pants, and a pretty mean lead guitar. Colin was B plus.
Which leaves Sheila E. Damn. And damn some more. As a rational creature I'd always assumed anyone who would truck with a piece of shit like Prince (spare me, my e-mail's already full) would be all flash, no thunder. Wrong. And wrong again. What a powerful performer. What a drummer! Most importantly, what a hottie! SHEILA was worth the tickie alone. And Ring knows it. I hope she's on next year's billet.
Tomorrow: The Fabulous Thunderbird. I swear.
I understand a ballistic missile was deployed over the weekend, and NORAD is denying involvement. However, seismic activity was registered when the cannonballs fell off the columns at the Ebenezer Cemetery.
Leisure Working Boy has been busy. Oh, yes. And he's missed his friends. But the Mortgagee of Darkness waits for no man, hence my Unfortunate Journey into the Bowels of Productivity.
We begin with a plane flight from Jax to Providence Monday afternoon. Into Providence late, I had a shit dinner and then to bed. Tuesday I drive to Andover, Mass for lawn fellowship. This course is so far north the back nine is in New Hampshire. Then I drive back to Providence for dinner. Wednesday I drive back north to Lexington for a sales call. I point out the Commons where the Battle of Lexington occurred to my boss. He wants to know why there aren't any grenade holes.
From Lexington I drive back south to Providence to catch the Acela bullet train to Newark. A great ride, if you're a fucking porter. Slack'jawed commuters sit in their overstuffed seats and stare at their laptops while industrious Amtrak workers rifles their personal belongings. I copped a Blackberry, two Palm Pilot V's, and a rancid gyro. You enter New York from Fort Apache, the Bronx, go under the East River, then surface at Penn Station. Still no Twin Towers. Life sucks, although I did flip the Berry and Pilots for an FDNY baseball cap in the men's room.
We had dinner with a customer in rural Jersey. The boss clipped a baby deer in the parking lot. The deer's fine. The piece of shit rental car has a crease.
Thursday: we visit the New York/New Jersey Ports Authority folks. Tony and Pussy want to know why business is down. We turn down ziti with Carmela at the risk of our lives. We take the creased rental to Baltimore, avoiding the Blackout by three hours.
The CrabFest in Baltimore is nice, if you enjoy 98 in the shade, and sweat globules the size of deer ticks coursing down your tits. That night I take customers to see the Yankees and Orioles at Camden Yards. Mt company GAVE the Yards to Baltimore for that stadium. Now they treat us like shit. Just because we moved every job we had out of that twisted town.
Great seats on the first base line. The only thing better than seeing the Yankees is seeing the Yankees lose. They win, 8-5, alas. At least from my seat I could heckle Derek Jeter every time he rounded first. Every time he rounded first. I think he took umbrage at my shouts of quadroon cocksucker! I don't know why. It was a compliment. I swear.
Now the trip gels, as they tend to do at the end. Packed the boss off to Jax on the 8:45 Southwest (before the game) and hung for the night. Which was actually bad. Because you don't want to be in Bohager's at 1:30 in the morning when you have to get up at 5:30. Never been to Bohager's? Great bar. They have a two story foam machine that floods the bar with suds, like a Mr. Bubble run amok. Girls get in and soap each other up, and, well, Daddy Like. I tried wearing the foam beard like the little kid in the Mr. Bubble commercials to impress the girls, but I'm a tired, lame old-schooler. They wanted Derek Jeter. To add insult to injury I closed the bar at Shula's at 2:00 am, nursing my first (!) cocktail of the evening. Up at 5:30, at BWI at 6:15. Got to my house at 11:00 am, spent 20 minutes packing, then drove to St. Petersburg to see Ringo. That's the next blog, if my corpuscles hold out.
would smell as sweet. Or not. Depends on the girl, I guess. What am I blathering about? Childhood names for your privates, of course. See, I get disconcerted for some reason when I'm visiting friends and their four year olds come up and discuss an issue they're having with their penises or vaginas. Some parents are uncomforatble with euphemisms. Not my Mom. Girls had po-po's and boys had wiggies. That's just the way it was. My aunt was a little different. Girls had maudy-mauds and boys had jim dogs (huh?). My brother-in-law called his his leedleleedle. And it still is.
So what did you call yours? And why are you telling me? Because you know I'm discreet, and this is data for a future Nostalgia, that's why.
I'll be out of pocket this week. Providence Monday, Worcester on Tuesday, New York on Wednesday, and Baltimore on Thursday for the Crab Festival. Then I'm off to St. Pete to see Ringo Friday morning. I'll have the laptop, but connecting may be iffy. I'll at least try to get something up later tonight and Thursday night. Otherwise it's next Sunday.
I've been listening to Skull and Roses tonight. That's not the real name of the CD, of course, it's A White Album thing. But the point is, the music scene was so bad in the late seventies you were either a Disco-Dick or a Deadhead. We were starting to listen to punk then, but it was an uncertain thing. Not quite sure about this Ramones, Talking Head shit. That didn't fully fire the synapses until about '79.
So you listened to the Dead. And brothers and sisters, when you're a Deadhead, there is no other music. Oh, sure, you might put on some Hot Tuna after 6 sides of Jerry just to break things up a bit, but we all knew Tuna was just sweet filler for the Dead.
So sad, but so cool, in its own way. I tell you, Gentle Readers: Sitting in the Fox Theater in Atlanta in 1978 at one of the Dead's Christmas shows, at 21 years of age,
smacked on all four of a four-way-hit of Donald Duck blotter acid was Nirvana. Bad craziness, sure, but when are you going to be there again?
Things changed soon after that. The Dead did their Atlanta Christmas shows at the abominable Omni (now gone), and they chased the t-shirts sellers off the streets, blah blah blah. The scene moved to Athens. The music world went good again. But I'll defer to Rankin' Rob and Jack Straw for those details. I lived the REM, B-52's, Jason and the Scorchers days full-bore then. But I was an Emory grad student then, in Atlanta with a New Bride and no pot to piss in. Those boys experienced the paradigm shift in hyper drive. I only got the weekends. Take it away, guys.
Dawn at Altered Perceptions mentioned flea bites in this blog on search phrases. It reminded me of something. Between my steamship and railroad careers I did a two year stint in trucking. Signed on as a salesman, because I wanted to be able to drink on a company dime, and immediately got transferred to Charleston to run the terminal there. Shit happens like that in transportation. You never know when you're the little Dutch Boy with a big thumb and a dike needing fingering.
Anyway, I had a husband-wife team, about fifty-five years old, the two, and the husband got sick. When I asked the wife where her husband was, she said "He's in the hospital. They say he has "flea-bite-us", Kim, and I can't understand it! We don't even own a dog!"
I have many more trucking stories, because I ran trucking operations in Savannah, Charleston, Memphis, and Nashville as a railroad guy (don't ask, we own a trucking company, and you do double-duty), but you're nice people, and I don't want to offend you needlessly. In other words, give me a reason. Any reason will suffice.
on pure principle. I don't really need a reason. See, I've been hearing a beep in my house all fucking day. An unfamiliar beep. Checked my cell phones, my answering machine, my coffeemaker (that American-made piece of shit beeps), hell, I even looked in my drawers. Then I figured it out. The Princess had been watching an Osbournes marathon in the den, and left the TV on low (I never go in the den. TV's too big, no blogging there, no dog pee in the carpeting that drives the free flow of electrons in my brain). It was Osbourne profanity bleeping, from Ozzie, his skank ho wife, and fucktard offspring.
Those Osbourne assholes put the funk in dysfunctional. If my children cussed like that I'd tear up their ass like last year's birdnest. Of course, if I was Ozzie, my kids would probably tear up my ass.
Why does Ozzie so chap my ass? Because I paid good money to see Black Sabbath in 1973. I was sixteen, and had a good buzz on from some half-assed Mexican and three or four Miller ponies. Ozzie came on, sang five or six songs, then fled the stage grabbing his throat. Laryngitis. The promoter told us to hold onto our ticket stubs, and all would be made good in the future. About 10 years later that same nickel bag promoter tried to convince people to redeem those tickets for a Dan Hill concert, or some such bullshit. I said screw that. I still have that ticket stub, and one day, Allah willing, I'll stick it up Ozzie's dain bramaged ass.
Well, at least he did Sweet Leaf and Paranoid before he fled. But I still say Ozzie Osbourne is a pussy of the first magnitude.
has a great post going on Southern Food. I'd have weighed in earlier but my ass has been working like the mulatto sharecropper I shoulda been borned as. Acidman's list is my list, although I perversely still call low country boil Frogmore Stew, like Franc White taught me. I learned to overcome the cholesterol problem by buying an extra pepper grinder. I filled it with Lipitor, and when I season I just go medium with that.
This explains a lot of issues. Laura has Southern horoscopes up. See, being an Aries, and having Mars at its closest point in 60,000 years, I was wondering why my ju-ju was going in the shitter. Now I know. Greco-Roman mythology is crap. Luna owes me an R.C. Cola.
Yeah, we start early here. Here's
Skeeter Caroline on her first day of fifth grade. I'm her hero. Other than that she seems like a perfectly well-adjusted child. My last year of having a child in elementary school. I've had the elem thing going on continuously since 1993. I'm too old for this. Where's Emily? Staying away from my camera. She's fifteen, and no fool.
At least, my Mom recognized his brogans under some robes at a rally when she was about six. This would have been 1933 or so. I think he treated his membership like he treated his familial responsibilities, though. If I have to show up, well...
My mother said the Klan (at least in Depression-era south-central Georgia) mainly existed to stomp wife-beaters and shiftless drunkards who wouldn't share their shine. Race was unimportant. They were equal opportunity shit-kickers.
I mention this because while in Indiana I remembered something about those folks having a ready hand with the rope, the Yankee bastards.
Now my great-uncle Henry Mobley had a reputation for shooting blacks who pissed him off on his plantation, but he only did time for assisting in killing a white man in 1948, his role captured in the book Murder in Coweta County, later a rather shitty made-for-TV movie starring Johnny Cash and Andy Griffith (my father got his Uncle Henry's sentence commuted when he was a State Senator in the fifties). Don't remember who played Uncle Henry, but Imdb.com says Harry George played his attorney. And they got that story wrong. That bastard was a thief, and got his due. Fuck him.
Remember the sweet week I had lined up? Fantasy. Fiction. Chasing the Dragon. Try an emergency trip to Bumfuck, Indiana on 4 hours notice. Remember a certain VP who was supposed to go to Indiana while I hung around here and played minaret? Dumped the trip on me Wednesday morning at 11:38. Catch the 3:50 to Indianapolis. Because it was an ass-kicking.
Easy to get there. Fly north to Indy, rent a car, then drive south again for 3 hours. Then sit in a conference room while 10 Japanese technocrats scream "You stop production line! No TV'S! You bad!" in a mantra worthy of the Ring Cycle. All over one little service failure. I don't think I helped my cause when I suggested changing my company's motto to "Failure is not an option! It's a way of life!"
So I packed so fast I didn't even remember my camera. Hell, I didn't even remember my toothbrush. So I can't share pictures of Mellencamp country, like not one, but two! "See Rock City" barns nestled in the hillsides. I think I read there are only like 10 left. Or the homemade billboard in Paragon that read 7 Room Mansion. 4500 Square Feet. $145,000. Or the sign that read Welcome to Freedom, Indiana. Home of Babe Pierce. Tarzan.
Now, being something of an expert on Apeman thespians, that one intrigued me. Babe Pierce?? Google? Nothing. Imdb.com? Nothing. I even found Peng Fei (Adventures of Chinese Tarzan ). WAIT! James Pierce. Born in Freedom, Indiana, August 8, 1900. Starred in Tarzan and the Golden Lion ). Tomorrow would have been his 103rd birthday.
And today is The Bride's, and I just got home. Better run.
UPDATE: The Bride is ill, suffering from some kind of lower GI thing. Poor girl. Won't be getting any birthday loving from me tonight. Not that THAT'S such a big deal for her. Why do you think she calls me Velociman? At any rate, looks like I'm in the Bat Cave tonight, spraying Lysol into the Oreck XL filter.
You know, in all that past shoulder-shoving over Ginger versus Mary Ann nobody ever brought up the obvious trump card: Mrs. Howell. Consider: Natalie Schafer was only 64 when the series premiered. As an anti-ageist I think Nat was pretty hot. And I know her maiden name on the show: Eunice Wentworth. That would have gained me a bit of traction, if not adulation. A little Astroglide, a little sweet talk, who knows?
Lovey. Say it with me.
Well, my nominal church, the Episcopals, the Anglican Communion, has elected Gene Robinson Bishop of New Hampshire. I understand the vote was tight until the other bishops found out he was a man-groper and runs an organization that introduces "questioning" 12 year olds to full-blown 21 year old homosexuals. That put Misfired Gene over the top. Had to have him.
You know I'm a live-and-let-live kind of person, but I'm not a live-and-let-bugger-children kind of one.
I need to find a new church. Yeah, I know I don't go, and I'm ashamed I don't take my girls more often, but you have to have a place for people to gather and swap stories about your ridiculous ass when you die. Somewhere and somebody for the Plugging Ceremonies. It's the Last Treehouse.
So I'm thinking either the strychnine-drinking snake handlers in North Georgia (North Florida Chapter) or whatever church Isaac in Children of the Corn belonged to. At least I know these folks aren't budging on their principles.
Phillip Coons has a link to a great story about a Powerball winner who had $545,000 stolen from his SUV while he was in a strip joint called the Pink Pony. The money was later recovered in a Dumpster.
I disagree with Phill, however, that the man was a moron. The moron was the idiot who threw away $245,000 in cash. The three cashier's checks I'd have tossed, too. Don't be greedy. Don't get caught. But the man who locks up over half a million dollars in his car while he's in a tittie bar is a man with whopping Restraint Balls. I respect this man.
If it was me, I'd be known as Powerball winner Jack Whittaker, proud owner of the Pink Pony.
Since Lileks has been having server difficulty I thought I'd give those of you jonesing for a Bleat another installment of the If Lileks Was Acidman parallel universe meme I started here. Let us be off...
Well, my crapshit server's been down for two days and I couldn't blog my Bloat, so I figured I'd post from here at Crackerwood. I told that girl to get my ass back up and running pronto, too. If she doesn't have me fixed soon I may have to give her an unscheduled polyp check with my bionic dick. When I can't blog, I can't connect with my flock of mindless sheep, and when I can't connect, I can't feel the love, and when I can't feel the love, I get fucking pissed!
So what have I been doing with no Bloat? Working on a new book. That Gallery of Regrettable Food did so well I thought I'd try a sequel. So keep your filthy-nailed Paypal fingers poised for The Gallery of Regrettable Shits. That's right. Whenever I make a bad meal decision I'm gonna photograph the output, and share it with you. You'll be treated to El Toro undercooked pork spray shits, Thai cat concrete ball shits, and Waffle House greaseball blood-flecked Transatlantic Pipeline shits. If my Gut Rumbled, you're gonna see it. Don't thank me. Buy the damned book.
Took Mosquito to see that zombie movie 28 Days Later.... Scared the mortal piss out of her. That's an object lesson, I told when she'd stopped crying. If you do everything an adult tells you to do your life's gonna be one big downer. Taught her to drink out of the crapper today, too, just like my dog Cracker. You know my feelings on this. The more E. coli and fecal coliform you ingest at a young age the tougher you'll be when you get older. Hell, she's going to be able to take power pulls out of a Tijuana sewer creek by the time she's eighteen, and pissing on some godless Windows user with the byproduct.
The BC finally got a job. Doesn't pay much but my fucking toenails look great! Red, too.
Well, I still have my paying work to do, so I'd better stop trolling for postcards of the Fargo landfill. I wanted to look for some more pictures of that chick with her drawers around her ankles, but I've got two columns to bang out. If I can get enough Absolut in the Giant Speedfreak and lock him in the basement with some cans of ether and a nailgun he'll do something insane, and that'll take care of one of them. Then maybe I'll go to the Savannah Mall and talk some gonorrheic chickenheads into shoplifting something for the other one. Bloat Out.
when I get a fine nod like this from a Big Dog I'm in Hour One of a 42 hour hiatus. On the metaphysical shitter. So the new visitors think "What the fuck?" and the old timers think "I always said he was a puss..."
Timing. It's why I've hired Ping Masters. Kind of like a party posse, only they mind your site and page you when you've got a hit while you're
buying fag-assed hydrangeas chairing a symposium for the Council On Foreign Relations. I can't be everywhere at once, people.
Lightning has immolated 800,000 gallons of Jim Beam Straight Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey. Act of God? Nay. Act of Allah, no doubt. I've already called the Director of Homeland Security. The terrorists, alas, have won.
I admit it. I like Ann Coulter. She can be a brilliant writer when she wants to be, and can write circles around a certain shanty Irish tramp currently employed by The Shades Of Gray Lady.
But Jumping Jesus, do you reckon she could ever chill? Who are the poor bastards spending Croesus' fortune trying to bed her? She ain't that hot. Why would you get in that game? (Oh, yeah. For the same reason you do with any woman. So you can run go tell all your friends).
But the ones who do... I pity them. I don't need that kind of pressure. Constant jabbering and directive, I'm sure. Left! Right! Faster! Slower! Is that all you got, you fucking Stalinist?
No, I'm convinced the only way to deal with Ann would be a Tarantino ball gag. Because I like the way I do it, and if she wasn't careful I'd start whispering the names of Stasi assassination targets in her ear just to ruin her own orgasm.
How's my week shaping up? Let's take a look:
Tuesday: Boss is in Phoenix. This is a no-brainer. Lots of paper to push around the desk. I did schedule a meeting I was supposed to have last week. Better get that sucker out the way before it comes back to bite me. About three I'll send an e-mail to the Senior Management Team advising them of some-asskicking Complex Queuing Theory software I ran across, that "could be the answer to the efficacious movement of flatcars across the network." Hell, I even have the poor sod picked out I'm going to volunteer to handle it. That blighter's going to be underground with this one for two years. When he finally comes out we'll have to take him into the sun in eight second microbursts so his eyeballs don't melt.
Wednesday: Boss still in Phoenix. This is getting sweeter. I'll push that paper back to the other side of the desk. I did schedule a meeting I was supposed to have two weeks ago. Better get that covered before it bites my ass. About three I'll send an e-mail to the Senior Management Team advising them of an article I saw in trade publication Internal Auditor, warning that "Ravel's Bistro" in Phoenix is actually the credit card front name for The Shaved Monkey adult entertainment establishment, and they should have the auditors red flag those receipts. Perhaps I should add that Tuesdays and Wednesdays are transgender nights at the Monkey. Think I'll leave early and catch Seabiscuit.
Thursday: Boss is in Indiana. I really need a new picture on my office wall. Maybe a nice Thomas Blinks copper etching of some English Setters. Expense Account code: Miscellaneous. About three I'll send the Senior Management Team an e-mail decrying the cluttering of cubicles on the 27th Floor with cat calendars and Garfield birthday cards. Hey, I have customers that visit this floor! A little fucking decorum, gentlemen!
Friday: Boss is back in town. Work! Work! Work! That's all I do in this snakepit! Look at this paperwork on my desk! I really need another analyst, boss.
It seems the American Academy of Pediatrics wants parents to have their kids' Body Mass Index tested annually to look for signs of obesity. Well, first of all, BMI is bullshit. Body-fat ratios are much more indicative of fat, not weight. All body builders are obese by BMI standards. Kate Moss is pudgy by this ridiculous yardstick. And secondly, stupid tests like this are why my insurance premiums are so high.
Do you want to know if your kids are fat? That's why you were born with thumbs and forefingers. Grab little Trevor or Siobhan around their side meat. If the "C" is filled up with blubber, you have to ask yourself why you're letting your kids bloat up like a Saracen eunuch.
Because I don't see any kids pushing shopping carts around the store, lardering up on Zebra Cakes and Crisco, and swiping their SpongeBob Visas at the check out. I do see a lot of corpulent little peccaries getting pushed around the store in those asinine shopping cart-cum-Playskool forts. And maybe that's part of the problem. Ditch those aisle-hogging pieces of shit. Leave my SUV alone. These are the real behemoths. If your kid can't fit in the bread tray and dangle their legs out they're too damned big to be in the cart in the first place. Now let your kids push the cart for you. Put a few watermelons and 12 gallons of distilled water in the bottom just to give it traction. Make sure at least one wheel is frozen in freewheel mode. Then, if you still like your kids hanging with swine let them rearrange the pink flying pig rides out front instead of riding them. Then give 'em a celery stick, and tell 'em Uncle Velociman was thinking about 'em.
Christopher Hitchens didn't think Bob Hope was very funny. Apparently Bob never told any jokes about having sex with Mother Teresa. That, I'm sure, Hitch would have found hilarious.
So I'm blogging at close to midnight, and Skeeter's watching me, because she knows genius when she sees it, and is trying to absorb the tao, when Skinemax goes soft core. Dutiful dad that I am, I flip it to HBO, where Slingblade is laying the pipe to Halle Berry in "Monster's Ball". Switched that too, but Skeeter's a smart little ten year old. Smart enough to feel my discomfiture, and tell me it's okay. Damn. I think I'm going to rabbit ears and DVD rentals. I need more control. And since I stole his line, I need Dax's input.
I like Janis' site. I wish she'd add comments so that I could
insult praise her.
I got the okay from The Bride to redo the Bat Cave. Well, actually, I got a look of bemusement and an eyeroll, which I construed as approval per UN Declaration of Human Rights Designatum 227, the Free Womens' Corollary On Having To Heed Their Misogynist Husbands. So there.
The Bat Cave, of course, is the foul, dank, musty bonus room I inhabit 24/7. It's the 11 x 20 room that should have been the third bay of my garage, but which I had the builder finish off for the remarkable sum of $1300. Now, a real man would have insisted on a 3 car garage, because garage space = willie length in these parts, and a real man would have set up his computer in the garage and blogged through sweltering heat and frostbitten fingers. But I grow old, alas, and take solace in my creature comforts, so I had the Bat Cave constructed. Modest by normal standards. 27-inch TV, DVD/VCR, 100-watt stereo, computer station, sleeper sofa, my library, my Kunstler print, my Oscar Merte hunting print, and a kick-ass Oreck XL air purifier. I normally don't smoke in the house, but the creative juices demand the occasional Marlboro or Habana Monte Cristo. Also, my feet begin to smell after a while.
But I digress.
For my makeover I want Paige Davis and the other hotties at Trading Spaces to give me the makeover. Yes, I know, that violates the compact they have contrived, which involves the element of surprise, but once they see me in the leather codpiece my wish will be their command. I'm thinking an Africa theme. Not the Great White Hunter, Bwana Don theme, though. More like Mandingo (memo to self: buy that damned picture of an enraged Cassius Clay standing over Sonny Liston's carcass. It's only 300 dollars).
So we're talking leopard skin cape and cheetah skull headdress. Zebra-striped recliner and Hottentot artwork. If anyone has a bootleg AP picture of a Congolese rebel eating a Pygmy's spleen, I'm in the market.
I want them to replace my carpeting with bullrush mats, and slather my walls in wildebeest blood. I want Gordon's head on a pike in the corner. Neck-stretcher rings and lip-enlarger disks. Is there a Moroccan separatist movement art coven somewhere? I'm down. Any pictures of Charles Taylor eating Samuel Doe's recently removed penis? I've got your back. When the girls are finished, I'll be cool. No second-guessing.
THEN maybe I can get some blogging done.
but I'm ready for a tit-ripper of a hurricane. Growing up in Savannah, and now living in Jax, I've usually missed the big blows. I can remember as a tot getting bruised by Dora and Cleo in 1964, but those weren't direct hits. David in '79 was the Tony Randall of storms, although my parents lost a magnificent oak to that one. The curvature of the East Coast around here generally spares the Jax to Beaufort area because the Gulf Stream is so far away, and 'canes take that right turn when they hit the warm water. I had to evacuate for Hugo in Savannah because I lived on a barrier island, and I'm glad it turned north at the last minute and hit Charleston. Those fuckers needed a wake up call. I did not evacuate from Jax for Floyd, and I'm glad I didn't. It was a clusterfuck. My neighbor evacuated, and returned 9 hours later. He'd made it three miles up the road. So now I have precut plyboard for the windows, an assload of jugged water and Spaghetti-O's, and the ridiculous desire to see Mama nature at her baddest.
Bring it on.
if this story is true, but my parents told me growing up that during WWII the blacks in Savannah rioted on West Broad Street (now MLK Blivvid), and the Army pulled up in jeeps with quad 50's and machine-gunned them down. And it didn't even make the papers. Which seems a harsh price to pay for people upset that Yockum and Yockum had run out of spats, or whatever they were rioting about. I don't think it was a draft riot, because everyone was drafted, and I don't think it was because of a shortage of services, because rationing was in effect, and nobody had shit. Has anyone ever heard this story before? Just curious. My mother worked for a general at what later became Travis Field when she was 17, in 1944. I think he told her about it.
This certainly would have come in handy at Acidman's last week.
I just hate it when my daughter has hit the computer and replaced my perfectly good London Calling wallpaper with a picture of that little pussy Ashton Kuchner (sp- I don't google little shits like that for proper spelling) or Mandy Moore or Nelly. Well, the Nelly was okay, but I want to boot up to a spavined punk rocker smashing his guitar on the stage. It mellows me.
I would be okay with that Lizzie McGuire chick, though. She's hot.
Posted by guestblogger Roman Henley.
No, this isn't about me. The first is an old Justin Wilson one:
"Mama, Mama! Poppa just hung himself in the garage!"
"Well, did you cut him down?"
"Hell, no, he wasn't dead yet."
A woman told her husband she wanted a boob job.
"Gee, honey, isn't that expensive?"
"Only five thousand dollars."
"Five thousand dollars?!?"
"Yes, for the left one, and five thousand for the right one."
"Ten thousand dollars? Tell you what. Do this. Every night before you go to bed rub some toilet tissue between your breasts."
"How will that make my breasts larger?"
"I don't know, but it sure worked on your ass."
Terry Teachout, at NRO, has turned me on to the Internet Anagram Server. Punch your name in and see what comes up.
Gee, my name is an anagram for:
FIRM ROD WACK (I can vouch for that)
FORWARD, MICK (huh?)
FOR WARM DICK
Somehow, I feel up to the task.
UPDATE: Finally got the link fixed. My Gooberbug buddy told me last night it was broke, but I was asleep at the wheel, as it were.
Just one entry this Friday. When I was a chirren there was no Disney World in Florida, so we Crackers went to the good, bad, and ugly of Florida attractions. One I remember well was Ross Allen's show at Silver Springs. Ross was a rattlesnake master of some reknown, and he had a glass room at the Springs where he would walk around in snake boots with fifty or so rattlers, all striking at him, and pick them up and, well, fuck with 'em a little bit. Then he'd bring one up to the glass barrier and milk it, dripping its venom into a cellophane covered glass to our squealing delight. Ross had been bitten so many times snakes died from biting him. He was, in a word, envenomed.
In retrospect I'm not sure I dig the concept of a man milking a snake (my personal private behavior is not on trial here). And I'm somewhat suprised The Senator let us boys watch such obviously deviant behavior. But as an open-minded, live-and-let-live kind of guy, I'm going to defer to the acclaimed Venomous Kate for direction on this issue.
Vaclev Havel, poet, ex-President of the Czech Republic, ex-interned Enemy Of The State, and a personal hero of mine, gave Rolling Stone Keith Richards (remember in the sixties when he dropped the 's' in Richards?) a T-shirt that read Fuck The Communists on stage at a concert in Prague.
Unfortunately, Keith smoked the shirt.
When, I ask you, is the last time a man of letters of any stripe, much less a poet, made such a statement against the indefensible crimes of communism? And, having said that, how can Gabriel Garcia Marquez, a brilliant writer, continue to prop up the fascist regime of Castro? The last word from Garcia was he was protecting Castro from an imminent invasion by the US. Shit. That imminent invasion is already four decades aborning. If Gabriel has some time on his hands, I'd like to take him into the woods and show him The Sugar Plum Faeries.
Got kids? I feel your pain. Got no kids? I feel your pain, too, because W has 800 smackies coming my way. What are you going to do with yours? My options:
1. Pay off out-of-control lawn gnome bill at Lowe's.
2. Pay 2nd bookie, tell 1st bookie number 2 is holding my cash.
3. Corner Fruit Cove, Florida smack market.
4. Begin sex change with butterfly tattoos and 18 karat gold connecting nipple string.
5. Buy a homeless man's kidney.
6. Install webcam in showers at local Truckstops of America.
7. Send boss's wife roomful of flowers from Kobe Bryant.
8. Pay attorney for 3 hours' advice while I open that penis extender e-mail.
9. Give Czech housekeeper a "consulting fee".
10. Pay Lileks to skip Bleat for 4 Thursdays.
Get off your lazy ass, get your freak on, and send me YOUR Top 10.
Chechnya and Chernobyl share a shitload of letters. Perhaps the Russians could take the lessons learned in the latter and apply them to the former. Faster concrete entombment, in other words.
Acidman's back from vacation, and it sounds like he and the boys had a great time. I thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to play guestblogger with Shell, Da Goddess, and Grouchy Old Cripple. I haven't had that much fun in a long time, although the girls had me craving for a shaving. Of course, writing for the audience that is Rob's party posse is like tightrope walking without a net, a head full of Testors Finest, and a sweetgum ball up your ass. In other words, my kind of thrill.
And by the way, Acidman, that thing hanging from your ceiling fan is GOC's truss. That's the GOOD news. The bad news? I was wearing it at the time.
I've often wondered why they call them mule skinners. Who the hell would skin a mule? Beat him to death for stubbornness, sure. But skin him? That is sick shit. Although the gay bars would certainly get a little more exotic if the patrons started wearing mule leather. It turns out to "skin" a mule is to outsmart him. Because mules aren't actually stubborn, they're just smarter than most of us.
Faulkner said a mule "will work for you patiently for ten years for the chance to kick you once", and that about sums it up. Ever seen anyone get kicked in the balls at a donkey basketball game? Same thing.
We had a mule once named Myrtle. The beast loved to eat Chesterfield cigarettes by the pack. Was I saying how smart they were??
I'm working on developing a new search engine called Googli. You'd go there to look for Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck's apparently mythical sense of shame. Say you type in the search words Jennifer oral. It might take you to P Diddy's website. Or if you typed in Affleck oral it'd take you to Matt Damon's website.