can dance on the head of a pin? I have no idea. I CAN tell you how many munchins can show up at my door on Halloween. Six. That's it. Six. I live in a nice, kid friendly, everybody pretty much knows everybody neighborhood, and six kids show up.
Why? I was ready, with bowls full of sugary goodness. A tastefully scary front porch, with no real spiders in evidence, just a coupla fuzzy ones. Why? These are my fucking NEIGHBORS!
Not that I've ever let that stop me from castigating THEM. But AHEM. That has nothing to do with this.
Here's the drill: Mommies today are anal retentive fuckheads who will drive their kids from one door to the next, and only let their little munchkins ring the doorbells of people they know, and who've been personally vetted by that guy down the street who swears he's ex-CIA and will cover their kids' ass. When they DO let their precious cargo approach your door they're RIGHT BEHIND THEM! SOMETIMES IN FRONT OF THEM! And suspicious of you. For no reason, other than the fact they've already been rifling your mailbox, and know you get National Review. I've NEVER seen this kind of paranoia, ever. Freaks.
I'm so disappointed. Soccer moms killing their kids' good times. When I was six I was allowed to roam my neighborhood at will, and chase my older brother, and vomit my spaghetti if I ran too fast, and get the literal crap scared out of me by homeowners dressed as gorillas. That type of behavior on the part of a homeowner will get you a lawsuit or a macing now.
It has to suck to be a kid today. Halloweenie.
I think bone china gets a raw deal compared to "fine" china. They're both porcelain, but bone china, the original type, is made from bone ash. "Fine" china is made from refined white clay (think Georgia kaolin). But my Uncle Don taught me there ain't no better way to drink coffee than from bone china. It transmits the heat more quickly than "fine" china, making the lip of the cup cooler, and the sip more savory. I only have a couple of pieces of bone china. The lass who
picks up after my filthy children cleans my house is Czech, and goes to Prague annually to visit family, and brings The Bride back a cup of bone china every year, and I covet it for coffee. The only better way to use bone china than sitting on my lanai is to be up in the mountains with the Georgia Bloggers today, watching the sun set in the Appalachians, with a hearty mug o' joe. I'm brewing a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain in their honor as we speak.
I do some cross-marketing. I can't help it. It's in my blood.
Ever been to The Vomitorium? No? How come?
Don't tell me I never share things with you.
Halloween night, Georgia-Florida tickets safely in my grubby paws, wearing my Don King wig and passing out candy to little children. I'm in such a good mood I've demanded no quid pro quo from the little darlings.
Oh, and guest blogging over at Acidman's, where I get to indulge in the pasttime of pissing off his Loyal Fans. I should do like that guy in the XFL and get a jersey that says THEY HATE ME. Fuck 'em.
I do wish I could have made the mountain trip, though. Next time, YOU PEOPLE explain to The Bride how much fun it would be for her to sit around and watch me get hammered with a bunch of bloggers. I'm sure she'd believe you.
I've bitched about Wheel-O in the deep dark past, but somehow it still occasionally burbles to the top of my consciousness, the psychological equivalent of a spoilt burrito.
I HAD to have a Wheel-O as a kid. When I got one, it dawned on me it was a five minute toy. The wheel goes up, the wheel goes down. The wheel goes up, the wheel goes down. What the fuck, over?
TAKEN. Just like I was taken by Spielberg with that butt-awful miniseries, I was taken by Wham-O, or whoever was popping these puppies out at the time.
It pissed me off when I was seven, it pisses me off to this day.
I just can't let go.
That 3rd Quarter GDP report today bumped my company's stock a buck and a nickel. Four dollars and 51 cents more and I can exercise some options, and
pay some bills spend it like a wino with a pee boner. That won't happen, though. My stock is like an aged consumptive; I expect a relapse, sooner as opposed to later. My old boss used to sign my checks; now he signs my currency. Nothing else has changed.
Here's a great story of youth from Donnie. I like reading about other bloggers' childhoods. It fleshes out the writer, and gives one a much better sense of where they're coming from. Unfortunately, I've done a little too much of this. And in Donnie's case, he was obviously a juvenile delinquent.
I'm not much of a collector, by nature, for the simple reason that if there is a finite set of something, say the 1969 Topps baseball set, or the autographed first editions of Faulkner, once you've completed the set you're happy for a while, then you're fucked. You can't add to it. It's done. Orgasm, quietude. On the other hand, an open-ended collection is maddening. You can't finish it! It can't be closed out! There's always something else to add. No closure. There lies madness, to me.
So I decided a while back to start collecting something that is both finite, and ever-expanding. That would be fine crystal. Because as soon as you have the 8 or 12 piece set, and you are content, your kids will break one of the fuckers toasting Barbie's first cycle, or something, and now you can go buy something to re-complete the set. Perfect, man.
So when I got into crystal a while back, two things came to mind: 1) it must be stemware. If I can't slake my omnipresent thirst from it, it's no good. Keep your crystal umee-corns and ballerinas. Those are dust magnets. Form copulating function is my gig. Always. 2) There is no two. My bad.
What's my point? I do have a point. I always have a point. Witness, then:
I have friends who would be kindly categorized as uber-yuppies. Massive incomes, usually no kids, money is no object, blah, blah, blah. Nice people, they just have materialism issues. They don't keep up with the Joneses. They rub the Joneses' collective noses in the fucking dirt, and dry-hump their dog. Why do I have friends like this? It doesn't matter. Suffice it to say they respect the fact I don't buy into their bullshit, and deep down they dig being mocked by me. It expiates their guilt, I suppose, and certainly entertains me. Call it an interpersonal symbiosis.
Cut to the chase, please: Ah, yes. So while these people have been adorning their dry-sinks and cabinets with Baccarat, I've been collecting Saint Louis. I've never told them what I have because I'm waiting for the point of critical mass, when they could never Catch Up, or to do so would entail having to repudiate their Baccarat collection to make exhibition space.
See, Baccarat is nice. I prefer plastic cups for my vino, but Baccarat is nice. Founded in 1764. Boo-rah. But Saint Louis, man, that's the oldest Cristallerie in France. 1586. That's bloodlines. Personally, I like the stuff, but I could do without it. Again, plastic cups work fine for me. But there is something perversely profane about spending ninety dollars on a glass, and filling it with Two Buck Chuck. And I kill three birds here. First, I get to collect something beautiful that I enjoy. Second, if I complete a set it's only temporary because I have more breakage in my house than a Daytona Beach biker bar. Third, one day, one day, when the time is ripe, I'm going to Explain It All to the yupsters, and send them into a fucking funk-assed panic.
Life can be good, after all.
I've been thinking about finishing law school, dying my hair blonde, and getting a nice rack job. Then I could be on Fox News at least once a week as a "legal analyst" or "neocon pundit". Hey, it's easier than getting combat experience, flag grade, and a nice gummint pension, if getting paid to
fuck with stroke O'Reilly were one's bag.
or something like that. An inocuous reference in one blog will inevitably lead me in an entirely different direction, I've found. The Fontainebleau reference triggered what will be my New Project. A book. Not a novel. No one would pay their unearned civil service euros to read the self-serving tripe I'd put in a novel. No, a coffee table book. A big freaking pictorial with background on the great post-war development of resort cities. Specifically, the luxury hotels that fueled the phenomenon of the middle class luxury vacation, after daddy beat the evil Huns and Nips.
I stayed in the Fontainbleau a few years ago, and I have to tell you: it's still cool, with its curving sweep, with all rooms facing the ocean, the lush jungle underneath, the pool, the room service. It's not South Beach, it's Miami Beach. And I can wear a Waikiki shirt and sandals there and get in touch with a completely different vibe than South Beach, where I'm so exhausted from sucking in my gut and pretending to be an overweight Paraguayan that I can't really enjoy the scene.
I've always been fascinated by the development (some would say despoiling) of the resort cities after World War II: Miami, of course, and Honolulu; Rio de Janiero and Acupulco. To a lesser degree Papeete, Nassau, and Bridgetown. These were great resorts before the war for many years, of course, but Conrad Hilton and his ilk started the trend of the attainable vacation, I believe, and from 1946 to 1958 or so the classic post-war leisure artifices were erected for our enjoyment. And any schmoe could scrimp and save and pack up the family for a dream vacation in Eden. The Ugly American? You betcha. In spades. But I truly believe the flow of United States greenbacks into these cities did a hell of a lot more good than bad, and does to this day.
I'm still fleshing this out. There's so much I don't know. Hell, I'm not THAT old.
What I DO know is some gullible Conde Nast or Sky Magazine git just might fund my research. I'll spring for the photography myself. I consider that quite a deal.
Rocket Jones links us to this site on the Worst Halloween Costumes Ever. I like it.
I must take issue with this guy's comment, however, that Shirley was the lamer half of Laverne and Shirley. Good God, man. Snap out of it. Let me help you: You're in a penthouse suite at the Fontainebleau, circa 1976. The breeze on the balcony is warm, the ocean waves are pounding the surf. You have an eight-ball of pure Peruvian flake, and a bottle of Cuervo Especial. The doorbell rings. Ouside are Cindy Williams and Penny Marshall. Penny hasn't shaved her legs in two weeks, and smells oddly of albacore. You can let one in.
Make your choice, son.
I was only going to put up the Simone pic for an hour last night, as kind of a treat for the viewers Anna sent my way. To tell you the truth, though, I kind of like it. I'll put it back up for a little while...
Baldilocks pointed out an Indymedia post that libels Charles Johnson as a homosexual pederast. Just in good fun, you know.
I believe the gist of their defense is that everyone knows Indymedia is a loose coagulation of smegma that is obviously infested with fools, liars, and microencephaletics, therefore everyone should know this was a joke. That, and since they don't KNOW for a FACT Charles ISN'T a homosexual pederast then there is no malice involved. Or something like that.
Why did they make Charles out to be gay in addition to being a child predator? Seems to me they must consider the former a CRIME, or something. Repugnant, at the very least. Oh, the tolerance of these fuckers.
I've nearly twisted my own arm out of the joint. A brief deconstruction of Gator Bait:
When a clan of lusting backwoodsmen kill Desiree's sister and kidnap her brother, she turns pretty deadly herself in this action-packed adventure. Desiree is played by Claudia Jennings, a well-known Hollywood stuntwoman and former "Playmate of the Year."
I haven't blogged about Simone in a long, long time, mostly because it's too painful. She's the first girl I ever fell in love with, and to this day she has no idea who the fuck I am. Life's funny like that.
Simone was born in Savannah, too, 3 days shy of being two years older than me. When I was a kid my parents had a river cottage on the May River in Bluffton, South Carolina, and we'd spend the summers there. Simone's family lived just down the road, on Myrtle Island, on the same river, but in a great huge brick 1920's southern mansion, with enormous live oaks that blocked the sun, dripping Spanish moss and somnolent decorum. They had a long gravel driveway that circled around a fountain in front of the house, the Sure Sign of Old Money to me. This was obviously their primary residence.
I first heard of Simone the summer of '71, when our next door neighbor told us who she was and where she lived. Simone was enjoying great notoriety for a sixteen year old, because she'd just starred in a low-budget flick called Swamp Girl, about a girl raised in the Okeefenokee Swamp with no contact with the outside world.
They call it stalking now; I called it innocent curiosity, and spent the better part of that summer pedaling around her house and Myrtle Island, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of Simone, even as the hired help chased my pimply fourteen-year-old ass out of their driveway for attempting to cut doughnuts in the gravel with a Kolkhoff ten-speed. The fourteen-year-old boy's equivalent of scratching the grass with his hind legs.
I'd often see Simone as she water-ski'd by our dock, blond hair slicked back, bikini aquiver (you know what I mean). There were usually one or two GQ-looking boys in the boat with her, all studly and such, but at least she had the decency to wave back to the skinny geek with big ears and big wood in his banlon nut hugger bathing suit.
Unrequited love. Man. Actually, unrequited acknowledgement of existence. But we stalkers never recognize that fact until it's too late.
Simone did a lot of B movies and TV work after that, but I don't think she did anything after the mid-eighties.
You want to know when she broke my heart? In 1975, when I was in college, and I saw her do a nude scene in Death Race 2000 with David Carradine. Because I felt betrayed? Hell, no. Because she'd seduced Grasshopper. Some things a man just can't forgive.
No, not the classic 1976 Claudia Jennings movie. That's for another day. This bait was an acquaintance of mine, who went five rounds with a nine-footer last Saturday, and got his ass beaten severely.
Seems D____, who lives on the Valley Course at Sawgrass, was in his backyard when he noticed a small dog barking furiously at an alligator down by the water's edge. Ever the hero, D____ walked down to the pond to scare off the gator. Unfortunately he slipped on the wet grass of the slope, and slid directly into the gator.
What ensued he described as a minute of sheer terror. The witnesses said it actually took them about five minutes to run around the pond to help him. This belies the myth that seconds seem like hours in these situations, I suppose. At any rate, the gator thought he was being attacked and went on the offensive. D_____ basically went into a bearhug on the beast, and used one arm to fend off the jaws. Between the flailing claws and whipping tail, D_____ was one huge purple bruise when all was said and done. The neighbors
beat off fended off the brute, and D____ got some first aid. The trackers caught the gator that night: nine feet, 375 pounds. Not a monster for these parts, but a damned formidable adversary.
My advice to D____? When you see a small dog that does not belong to you and a big gator square off, you're about to witness a Wild Kingdom moment. Crack a beer, pull up a chair, and watch the spectacle of Mother Nature unfold from a safe distance. Then tell your kids all about it.
Everyone knows I like a good shit blog. This one by Dong Resin is the best I've ever read. And I know my shit.
Way fucking cooler than Mothra. Lileks brings us Chernobog, the Slavic god of destruction from Fantasia. Now, is it just me, or does Chernobog sound like the great mutant nuclear beast, spawn of Gaia's fusion-deformed left ovary, hideously whelped in the bowels of the planet following the Chernobyl disaster? Chernobog, careening wildly through the Ukrainian forests, looking for hapless humans to rip to shreds with his fetid fangs for fouling Mama Earth?
Guess it's just me.
He just never said what to do about men who want to engage in incestuous daisy chains. For now I'm operating in the Grin and Bear It mode. I reckon Acidman isn't the only one pickin' banjo about now...
said Oscar Wilde. Acidman is up in North Georgia playing Banjoy Boy, and left me the keys to the Crackerbox. I may have to wander over and piss off the
Infidels True Believers. They do so hate my guest blogging...
Whaddaya say, Old Man?
Freaks! Geeks! Whiz! Dongs! Ass! Feces! Bionic Dicks! Gothic Twisted Assholes! Come One, Come All to the New Improved Cul-de-Sac!*
* For mature audiences. If you're not THIS big you're too little to ride this ride.
I read a lot of people disgruntled with the two party system as it's currently contrived. I share that frustration. I will readily admit I vote Republican most of the time, but that's because they are the less odious of the two parties. I have no hard-on for the GOP. Hell, they invaded and burned my state to the ground. Since I am constrained to live in the here-and-now, however, I generally hold my nose and pull the R.
I cannot vote for a Democrat because that party as I knew it is dead. Always an uneasy cobbling of special interests, the Dems have become so venal in the last ten years they are simply fucking shameless. They will whore any position, assume any posture, corrupt any ideal, promulgate any lie for a vote. For the reins. Prostitutes on a spectacular scale. Actually, johns, with your money in their wallets. They lined up like lemmings behind Clinton and vowed Saddam Hussein was Satan Incarnate, ready to lob biological weapons and chemical bombs at the nearest target. In 1998 the Democratic Party was steadfast in their mantra that SADDAM MUST GO. A few impeachment votes later, all was forgotten. And they will look you in the eye today and swear they never said it.
I DO respect the GOP for their commitment to the war on terror, and their understanding that this war must be fought now. Having said that, I believe the Saudis have Bush's pecker in their pocket, and until they are dealt with this war will not be won. I also resent Bush's cave-in on the domestic front. From steel tariffs to the Kennedy education bill to the absolute refusal to deal with the illegal immigration/border security issue, W has demonstrated an avuncular grasp of the pandering required to seal the deal. He's never used his veto, and signed every profligate bill the Republican Congress, drunk with power, has lobbed at him.
So let's resurrect the Whig Party. Not the Afghan Whigs, although they rock, and would be a great "house band" for the movement, should they regroup for the cause.
Let's face it: the Libertarians, like Perot's Reform Party, have some good ideas, but are awash in screwheads and loose cannons and isolationist bigotry. The Whigs, now, had some good ideas. You'd have to bring it into the 21st Century, for sure. I don't think a Free Soil platform would carry much weight now, nor do I think the Compromise of 1850 is going to stir the masses. But think:
1) Federalism and States' Rights. Not those states' rights. Not code words for boiling the Mandingo. The real deal: 10th Amendment Empowerment. A commitment to rolling back the grasp of the federal bureaucracy. Really, this time.
2) National Economic Platform: The Whigs pioneered using the collective economic might of the combined states to forge progress and change. I'm down with that, because it funds:
3) Strong National Defense. And the cajones to project that might where applicable. Regime change, destroying terror masters, and all that entails.
4) A little leavening of small "l" libertarianism. The kind that doesn't play ostrich, and coddle the anti-globalists. Stick to politics and let the social agenda work itself out. The GOP gets hijacked off the agenda all the time by the religious right. I, personally, think the religious right has far less influence on the national GOP than is popularly believed, but they do have a way of derailing the agenda, and providing fodder to the media. Robertson and Falwell are shrieking insane baboons. And while they don't have the blood on their hands Al Sharpton does, they're nonetheless gadflys one could do without.
The Whigs. Conservative, libertarian, and secular. I'm signing up.
They played a mighty Series. I wonder if they'll get pink slips with their bonus checks, like last time?
Everyone gets so worked up over state flags with Confederate emblems on them. Personally, I think they should be raising hell over the South Carolina flag:
This looks like the flag of a jihadi cult nation. Throw in a star or a camel, we've got real issues.
I think I'll register my indignation in person the next time I'm in Dar-es-Columbia.
Tim Graham highlights a letter to the editor of the Rocky Mountain News by a mother of one of the Columbine victims. Seems my favorite aspirating turd invited the families of the victims to an early screening of Bowling For Columbine, and was going to charge them admission. What a fucking greedhead that morbidly obese dung beetle is.
Years ago my brother-in-law found an old magazine at the chemical plant where he worked. I don't remember the name of it, but it was a British publication devoted to spanking. Very poor quality, all the pics in black and white. Most of these were of girls getting whipped by some guy dressed up like an Oxford don. Kind of a Goodbye, Mr. Whips motif.
I DO remember two of the articles. Two for Tanning was about a father who had whipped his son and daughter for mutual erotic pleasure all of their lives. Now they were grown, but still stopped by dear old dad's occasionally for a good hiding.
The other story was called Doreen Gets The Tawse, wherein our heroine enjoys the satisfaction only to be found in a good ass-whupping.
What's a tawse, you ask? Why, it's a rubber or leather whip that's splayed at the end for extra punishment. This was pre-Internet, and I never saw such a thing mentioned anywhere else, ever.
I recalled that magazine today, for some reason, and just had to go a-Googlin'. Look what I found:
A genuine tawse. 45 pounds at Top-To-Bottom Leather. I guess it's still a British thing.
I'd get one, but that's a pretty steep price for a novelty. Christmas is just around the corner, though. And tell me: does any other blogger bring you this kind of exotica?
In my blogging frenzy I overlooked the Peoria Pundit. Shame on me. And yet he linked me anyway. That's cool.
By the way: I'm going to the Jacksonville Sea & Sky Spectacular Sunday, to see the Blue Angels, and if I see Neal Boortz I'm going to tell him his buddy Hannity is a pussy.
And, Bill, don't let this reflect on you, man. Probably should have been a separate blog.
Hey. I know it's a short list, but I think it's important that men acknowledge the fact that mature women can be sexy. I'm all over the Older Woman-Younger Guy Paradigm, okay? So let us begin:
Okay, so it's a really short list. Let's try again:
Barbara Walters. Yeah, she chaps my ass too, but I'm thinking a little wine, a little duct tape, we have a score here.
How old is Mary Tyler Moore? Over 60, for sure. On the list.
Rhoda Morganstern Valerie Harper? On the list.
Sophia Loren? Hell, she might be on the over seventy list, I'm not sure. Pencil her in.
Brigitte Bardot? Off the list. She spent the last thirty years baking in the sun and castrating donkeys. A Burnt Case. Off the list. And that pains me.
Raquel Welch. On The List. Excuse me while I punt. There. I'm better now.
Barbara Bush. Kiss my ass. Everyone has a deep dark secret. That's mine. Can we Move On?
Joan Collins. Done. And done again.
You realize at this point I was thinking counting on one hand. Now I'm counting on my toes. I can't believe there are that many sexy women over sixty. But that's because I'm an idiot. Let's move on:
Barbara Stanwyck. Okay, so she's been dead for 13 years. It's a FANTASY, people. Did you ever see the Big Valley episode where the Other Woman wanted Babs' ranch, and kidnapped her and held her in a cave and bullwhipped her? No? You sad fuck. Let's move on.
Julie Andrews. Oh. My. God.
I posit the theory that Julie flashing her beautiful breasts in 1981's S.O.B. was far more risque than anything Tarantino has ever done. THAT was a 46 year-old Julie, and a huge stretch for her husband Blake Edwards, who directed the film.
Julie is On The List.
This is getting old, actually. Tell me YOUR fantasies of the over sixty crowd. Ladies?
Oh, Jesus. While I was playing linky lover The Bride was giving Caroline the Dirty Lowdown on Santa. And Rudolph. And the Tooth Fairy. And Tingles, the Elf, a fiction we'd created twelve years ago for Emily. Tingles was the elf who always kept an eye on you, year 'round, to make sure you were a Good Chirren.
It was time. Skeeter will be 11 in December, and starting middle school next year. She was getting Bad Vibes from the older kids at dance, and she had to know.
It still sucks. She's upset, and crying. The last childhood bubble burst. We're All Adults Now. Ah, man. I can't believe it lasted this long. My older brother popped my Santa bubble when I was, like, six. I was rifling my old man's wallet by the next season to create my own Christmas fund. Oh, the pain.
Remember how in Barfly whenever Mickey Rourke would get a little coin in his pocket instead of trying to better his life he'd go back to the bar and buy rounds, yelling "TO ALL MY FRIENDS!"? Well, this is kinda like that... and I'm going to start at the bottom of my alphabetic roll, because as the V-man I know you people are usually too tired to link me in your lovefests. That IS why, right?
Kevin reminds us of the next Bonfire. My problem is, all my posts suck so bad I can't find a weakest link...
I want a costume of that Mercury dude at Tony's, for those times when The Bride won't let me be Carl from Slingblade in our sexual role-playing.
Tiger has a nice slice-of-life on Seth, the man I hope to be in precisely 50 years.
Just for the record, I think I exhibited enormous restraint in not commenting on Sugarmama's sexblog. But I was thinking it, by God.
Someone please take Kelley out tonight and show her a good time. Stein? Ben Stein?
The Straight White Guy is off to Gatlinburg, and he didn't invite us. That's just wrong. Let's trash his comments while he's gone.
Oceanguy has a nice recap of Natan Sharansky's visits to American college campuses. It would be sad if it didn't boil my blood. I feel like I'm living in the Fourth Reich sometimes.
Our favorite Social-Reject has had issues with her local tag office. Never been there! She's also in Demolition Man mode, so back off.
David recounts a nitrous trip I wish I'D taken. Although I must say after the Valium drip for my wisdom teeth I got spoiled. Gas was never the same...
Single Southern Guy touches on a topic I find
near and dear to me perfectly abhorrent.
Serenity explains it all. All I wanted to know, anyway.
Sama has great advice for surviving solar doom. Walter Pidgeon could have used this advice.
Rocket Jones brings us Betty Bowers. She's the kind of uptight parodic Christo-freak that turns me on.
Zombyboy is feeling the pain for his Broncos. Living in Jaguarland I'd love to commiserate, but bite me, dude! Your team will rebound. Mine is on life support. And we had Beuerlein, too, back when dirt was new!
Anna is waxing nostalgic on February-December romances... Daddy, of course, like.
Parkway Rest Stop brings us a story of, well, disgusting implications.
Jay Solo's Carnival Of the Capitalists is quickly moving him into Big Dog Territory. Good on 'im. I'd submit an entry, but I AM $32 million below plan this year. It just wouldn't seem right...
Pamibe takes the Cougar boy to the woodshed for a fisking. Well done.
Laura confesses to a taste for yeast confections. Oh, the humanity!
Fritz brings us the Monster Match. Way frigging cool, I say.
Mr. Helpful has a new episode of Bionic Dick up. No pun intended.
Margi understands what I've been thinking for a long time. There are real fonts and cute fonts. I've always considered comic sans to be what I call a bastard font. I use it in all e-mails. It drives people batshit.
Lomojunkie shares my aversion to flu shots. I haven't had one in almost 30 years, and won't, and I've NEVER had the flu in my life. I DID have the Screaming Meemie Trots this week, though. Still with me, actually. I'll never mock Depends again.
Paul Jackson introduces us to the toughest hombre I've ever heard of. The Iceman. When my blog makes me famous and I need a bodyguard, Sigurdur Petursson is my man.
You don't pick a post to link from this Whoredog. You just go read it all.
The Grouchy One is in bitchslap mode. I always enjoy his work, even if he didn't invite me to go scuba diving in Bonaire with him, the wretch.
Robert Goodwin expounds on a subject that's been bothering me, too. Katie Couric and company whoring Elizabeth Smart. All I've seen, and ever will see, was the trailer. I was disgusted to see Katie trying to match wardrobes with a 15 year old girl. Give it up, Katie. We've seen your polypy old colon.
My buddy Janis is going to a visitation, as I did last week. It's called being an adult, and doing the right thing. Make the best of your trip, girl. And glad I could help with the blinds.
Eschew has one of his patented blogfodders up. It even has a link to a Blackbird manual! He da man.
The Electric One 'splains her coffee druthers. Of course it's Kona. But I have a quarter pound of Jamaican Blue Mountain I want to send her way. Variety is the spice, they say, of life.
Geoffrey is doing the deed for Little Hearts, a noble cause indeed. Do The Right Thing and stop by and reach deep. I beseech you.
Dizzy-girl bought some Mary-Kate and Ashley lipstick. Looks great, too. Maybe I should rethink things and return the Bette Davis And Olivia DeHavilland Lipstick I bought The Bride...
Jeff at 15 October has a great post up with his future supermodel. What a stunner. All I'm gonna say, Jeff, is keep her away from Solo!
De Doc, who knows these things, punctures the Canadian medical miracle myth. Read it.
My Homie Dax has Karaoke Night tonight. Please feel his pain. And remember, Dax, we ALL have Karaoke night every day. There's always some fucktard pretending to speak real words while the Man Behind The Curtain pulls his strings. Or something like that. Pardon me. I've been at this for a while, and I'm getting punch-drunk.
I could have linked to this girl's Acidman responses, because they were actually well thought out, but this is a better post, to me. I liked it.
Phillip Coons has let his Freudian Slip show. I, for one, applaud his decision.
LeeAnn wants to know what Rocky Horror character you are. Negative. I will not take these quizzes. I know I'll end up being a cornholed Barry Bostwick. I don't need the pressure.
Stevie alternately slaps my funny bone and breaks my heart. She's the Real Deal. I like her tremendously.
Bogie's been keeping such a low profile lately, I had no idea she was a womanimal. I have an opening, girl.
McGeehee explores the Nunn of the above viewpoint. Geez, I was never a Sam Nunn fan, but has it only been ten years since the Democrats had a bona fide defense champion in the Senate? So sad...
Baldilocks, true to form, reminds us to remember our sacred 241. Just cool.
Do you people know Attaboy? Well, you should. 'Nuff said.
Say hello to Annessa. She's a local who makes me proud. Well, anyone who shares my dirty laundry problem makes me proud. Nonetheless!
Dawn has an excellent idea. Go visit Space.com. I know I do. Hey, that's my ancestors up there. It's YOU people who claim to be descended from apes. I'm the Godlike offspring of despicable genetic experimentation between aliens and baboons. And proud of it.
Allah has to be hating life. The Gotham Jews versus the Miami Jews in the World Series. Crimson Jihad is cooling their heels in the Bekkaa Valley, waiting for pitchers and catchers.
Donnie doesn't seem to grasp the fact his tax dollars are better spent on Congressional payraises than on his beer budget. He should be ashamed. Angry white male, indeed. It's for The Children, dude.
The Accidental Jedi. Immerse yourself. Think Calgon...
I know there are typos. I don't give a shit. I'll fix it later. Right now, I deserve a cocktail.
A jury gave local psychofuck William Joe Jarvis life in prison for the package-bomb murder of his ex-wife. Jarvis' bomb was filled with BB's and gasoline-filled condoms. That's right. He didn't just want to pump her full of metal. He wanted her to burn, too.
Good Goddamighty. What does it take to get the death penalty in this state? Oh. Killing an abortionist.
Jarvis' sentence WAS handed down by a jury of his peers, which leads me to believe she must have been a real bitch.
Get yer Ann Coulter doll here! I still think I have some of that duct tape left over from the Killer Barbie room at the Haunted House, too.
I mentioned The Tobacco Company in Shockoe Slip is one of my favorite restaurants. I eat there every time I go to Richmond. The food is great artery-clogging steak, the ambiance is old tobacco warehouse, you can smoke cigars. I don't think there is a non-smoking section. If you don't like smoke in the air, hit the road. Did I mention all the girls wear elegant sleeveless black cocktail dresses? Very nice.
My favorite place, though? If I could hang out for the night anywhere? I have my issues with Memphis, many of them documented here, but in all fairness I WILL say the best place in the world to chill is the Lobby Bar of the Peabody Hotel. This is the ultimate venue for voyeurs.
It is a great, wide bar expanding off the Peabody's lobby areas, full of mahogany and overstuffed furniture. Sitting here at two AM of a Saturday night, nursing a Ketel One on the rocks, is Nirvana. Over here you have a couple in tuxedo and cocktail dress, having a drink after a charity auction. Over there are a couple of rockers who just played a gig at the Pyramid. There is a young couple on a first date. Next to you might be some neckbones come to the Big City from Paragould, Arkansas or Tupelo, Mississippi. The Lobby Bar is the quintessential crossroads of humanity.
The Peabody Ducks are pretty cool, too, especially if you like eccentric tradition. The ducks of course live in a room on the penthouse level, and have a doorman take them down the elevator to the lobby every morning at eleven, where they walk across a red carpet to the lobby fountain to the strains of John Philip Sousa's "King Cotton March". After swimming in the fountain all day the red carpet comes back out at five, and they retire to their penthouse. 365 days a year, for 76 years.
The nonsensical nature of this pageantry appeals to me.
So what about you? What's your favorite place? A particular Irish pub in Boston? A barbecue joint in Soperton? A special cafe in Fisherman's Wharf? A tattoo parlor in Daytona Beach? The smoking
dungeon lounge at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport?
Tell me where you like to hang. I'm always looking for new places to get tossed from.
So there I was, in one of my favorite restaurants in the world, The Tobacco Company in Richmond, enjoying a 13-ounce slab of medium prime rib with a party of 7, when the stomach virus that had ravaged my chirren over the weekend announced itself in most approbrious fashion. I nearly created a sub-genre in this brotherhood. In fact, if I hadn't knocked that old lady over at the end of my mad dash I would have lost. Although for some reason I was not wearing my digital stopwatch I have the gap between catastrophe and mere degradation pegged at .62 seconds.
Remind me to expound on this story tomorrow. The horror is still too fresh to cast an objective eye upon it. Two Key Phrases: Oyster-colored slacks and Boxer Shorts.
No, not that kind. That's a blog for a different day. It's coming, though. No, I refer to Internet blockage, which no amount of roughage will cure.
Every day, it seems, more and more sites and bloggers get blocked at work. Personally, I resent a red hand held up warning me I Can't Go There. A Stalin Red Heil Hitler hand it is, with suspiciously clean fingernails.
It started with the usual, of course. Sugarmama and Da Goddess, for instance. Months ago. Um hum. I can almost see that. Some trigger words there. But now it's devolved to such deviant flesh peddlers as Lileks and Instantman. Jesus. I can access Acidman, but not his comments. I believe they have this paradigm backwards.
Yet my Outlook account is a wide open free-for-all, with spam for cock stretchers, chubby pills, shaved Asian sluts, wide open gaping anus beggars, not-even-barely-legal-but-unabashedly-prepubescent children awaiting my Special Sauce, whizz-gulpers, and razorcock-brandishing refi mortgage lenders all queuing up in my Inbox. 200 a day is mild.
Better not read that Bleat, though, you Cursed Freak.
I need to have a serious talk with my IT handlers. Perhaps if I explain I don't need the spam, or want the spam, that I am the Control Group for Johnson Enhancement, and every Viagra has a little bit of my DNA embedded in it, I can at least get a crack at some nanotechnology blogging, or the latest Gnat At The Fair pic.
Is that asking so much?
Straight White Guy has Made The Move. I know the feeling. That first post is like the first time you romp after the Big V. Or the first time you romp after claiming you had the Big V. Same thing.
Now about that blogroll, man...
I lost a screw in my cheaters this morning. You know what cheaters are, right? The reading glasses we mature folk over, ah, 25 must resort to so as to look like the lesser of ADA victims (decrepit as opposed to blind).
Of course the ONLY 150's the airport newsstand had were half moons in a tropical rainbow motif. Plunked down twelve bucks for the shits, because if I can't smoke on a plane I'm going to read.
I looked like the bastard offspring of Charles Nelson Reilly and Sally Jesse Raphael in these fuckers. And I'm certain the tres hot Melanesian flight attendant did not believe me when I told her I HAD TO BUY THESE so I could read the SPORTS SECTION and immerse myself in MANLY PURSUITS.
She threw me the pack of peanuts, but never brought my Diet Coke.
I paid twelve bucks for those hideous magnifiers that screamed regularly fisted choreographer, then threw them in the trash at JIA.
I just can't win.
*My cri de coeur: FartHellCockPissDamn!
Acidman has some interview questions. He wanted answers in his comments section or an e-mail, but I'm too lazy to jump back and forth to the questions, so I'll answer them here:
1) Does anybody really see a correlation between the size of a man's feet or his nose and the size of his penis?
Stangely enough, I have big feet, a big nose, and big ears to boot, but only an average penis. Eight inches would be average, right? I've never measured another man's willie.
2) If you are a woman, would you ever get a tit-job? If so, why?
Yes! Why? Pleasure and vanity. In fact, I've often considered giving myself huge tits just so I could play with them all the time.
3) If you are a man, would you buy a bionic Roscoe if your dick quit working? If so, why?
I'd buy a fucking trionic Roscoe, if they made them. Why? To give my left hand something to play with while my right hand was playing with the big tits I gave myself in Question 2.
4) Did you ever sleep with someone and wake up in the morning unable to remember their name? If not, WHY NOT?
Oh, yes. Myself. Several times. Unfortunately, there was usually someone around to remind me who, in fact, I was.
5) Which would you rather have for a pet? A DOG or a CAT? If you answer "cat," you've got some serious explaining to do.
I've always preferred dogs to cats, but I'm so lazy now if you can't shit in your designated receptacle, and be left abandoned for three days, you're not living with me.
6) Do you eat grits for breakfast?
Why, yes, just this morning. In a greasy spoon in Portsmouth, Virginia. Mixed up my scrambled eggs in them, too, and tossed a little Tejas Pedro on top. It looked like a Planned Parenthood dumpster, but tasted great.
7) What is the most dumb-ass thing you ever did in your life? Was it fun or has it haunted you for years?
This was going to be my Embarrassing Question for Friday, actually, but since I will NEVER reveal that story I'll pass here. I will say it did not include bestiality, homosexuality, or florasexuality. Well, better scratch that last one.
8) Do you exceed the speed limit regularly when you drive, or just do it occasionally? Don't tell me that you NEVER SPEED you lying shit! Tell the truth!
I always exceed the speed limit. Those laws aren't meant for me. They're for the regular folk. I look at speed limits as recommendations. It is true certain law enforcement entities disagree with this position.
9) Describe the happiest day you can remember living.
Split decision. Emily's birth, and Caroline's birth. Or the day I closed out Super Mario Brothers. I said it was a split decision, didn't I?
10) Do you believe that some things are worth dying for? If so, name one thing worth dying for and tell me why you feel so strongly about it.
There are PLENTY of things worth dying for: freedom, liberty, the Colonel's Secret Recipe, the right to lick nine-volt batteries, plunging over Niagrara Falls, spelunking the Courtney Love Canal, having ones foreskin reattached. Oh, you mean me dying for? Well. Belay that nine-volt battery thing.
For some reason this week has put me in touch with one of my favorite topics, Mike The Headless Chicken:
You know Mike's story. Beheaded for dinner by Lloyd Olsen in Fruita, Colorado, in 1945, Mike lived for another 18 months. He had just enough brain stem left to swallow and shit and walk. Ted Kennedy operates under a similar physiological model.
In the months he lived before choking to death Mike grew from 2 and a half to 8 pounds. A terse "no comment" from Teddy on that fact.
I wish people had paid a case quarter to see me this week, though.
Off to Norfolk and Richmond tomorrow. And because I care about my company I'll be flying the Southwest Cattle Call:
I'll also leave my Hilton Honors, Marriott Rewards, and Starwood Sheraton cards in my pocket and execute a points transaction with my Holiday Inn Priority Club card:
I WILL conjure the Feasts of Zeus, however. Some things you can't scrimp on. My belly is one of them; fresh seafood in Virginia Beach, Delmonico steaks in Shockoe Slip. I'll manage, somehow. Back Thursday.
One thing I like about my man Den Beste:
He's so terse....
becomes part of us. I'm watching Stevie Winwood on Austin City Limits and I'm asking myself HOW DID THIS COME TO BE?
It doesn't matter, really. Because it's cool.
It does remind me of something, though:
My lil bro is awash in cash, and buys some strange and good stuff. WITNESS: He has a laserdisc of Alice Cooper in concert in 1973, I reckon by my stopwatch, and Alice is in Rare Form. He's wearing a plasticine jumpsuit that is cut Just Far Enough below his navel that we are all invited to see the Disgusting Scar that traces itself from his navel to his crotch. Appendicitis? No, man. Gnarlier than that. This thing is indescribable. It's like he had this costume MADE to accentuate this scar tissue.
Well, actually, he did. He Had to have done this. The suit V's down to his cock and scar, and the Camera keys on it. It's so disgusting I must find a way to share it with you. Alice Cooper. Fuckin' A. What a guy.
UPDATE: Watching Stevie work that (apparently pre-64) Seafoam Green Stratocaster is nice. Makes you forget Stevie is a a keyboard man.
There's a guitar store in Memphis that will sell you these axes that have fallen upon hard times. I've been in there, and talked some smack with the owners, but didn't know my ass from my sphincter, to be honest with you. Acidman is a guitar man. He'd know better than me.
this story and tell me the Blogosphere isn't the coolest place on the face of the Earth.
You people are totally fucked. I've spent 8 hours today trying to check out my THREE accounts with you cocksuckers, and all you can give me is this:
Our System is Not Responding
You may experience intermittent delays. We apologize for this inconvenience.
While we are working to correct the problem, you can:
Try again by hitting the Back, Refresh or Reload buttons on your web browser
Try your request again later today
If you are trying to make a payment, you can pay via telephone by calling 1-800-472-9297
Uh, fuck you, AMEX. I wasn't trying to make a payment. I was trying to figure out what you did with my last one. Why don't you THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX and GIVE ME A FUCKING TELEPHONE NUMBER for THAT particular problem?
You assholes used to be Customer Service Personified. Now you've apparently outsourced this Critical Function to a backroom of Yanomami tribesmen who are so excited about seeing an actual photo of their penises they can't concentrate on the Blinking Plastic Box next to them. The worst part? These cocksuckers are probably outearning ME!!
You can still redeem yourselves, AMEX Fucks. 5 days at the Sandals Paradise Island will quell my rage. IF you fix my earlier problem.
A hint: I think I can talk The Bride into a three-way, IF the girl is young and fresh.
Or Andy Garcia.
The Bride insisted on hedging that bet. I can hardly blame her. She IS signed up for this, after all.
Check this puppy out. A gold embossed, ruby-studded, dragon-themed cloisonne ceremonial plate. Given to me by the Minister of Railways of the Peoples Republic of China about three years ago. The ChiComs had come over to see how railroads run in the West. (Hint: Bamboo makes bad crossties.)
Gift-giving is part of the protocol. I gave him a Waterford clock.
Funny part? He asked how many people worked for me. I said 3. I asked him how many people worked for him. He said 3 million. Got that? 3 MILLION. That's a lot of performance reviews.
Sad part? This guy was a Politburo member, from what I gathered, and yet he had a political handler stuck to him like a fly on shit. A 30-something punk who never said a word, had no clue what was going on. Just there to throw this guy under the bus with the Peiping warlords if he stepped out of line. Or blow his brains out with a handy pistol wafted into the country in a diplomatic pouch should the potential defection become too imminent.
Sad, indeed, but that's his problem. I gots my own.
I brought this down off my plant ledge, were it resides with the Turkish hookah pipe my brother brought me from Instanbul in 1975, and the bamboo-shaft putter my dad used in the fifties. It was not only time for a cleaning: the kitten has learned how to scale and patrol the kitchen plant ledges, and this baby was due for a knock-over and shattering. I couldn't let THAT happen.
Q: Who does the hand-clapping in I Wanna Hold Your Hand?
A: I have no frigging idea. Nor do I care, really.
Trivia questions seem like a good Saturday night diversion. Try to stump me. I swear I will never, ever use Google. Nothing too esoteric, now.
And no, Catherine The Great did NOT die underneath a turgid stallion. Too bad, too, because I've painted that picture several times, and apparently NONE of those efforts will ever hang in the Winter Palace.
looked like hammered dogshit against Vandy today. Well, actually, they SOUNDED like hammered dogshit, because it wasn't televised here. That's okay. I like listening to Larry Munson anyway. I always turn on the radio and turn the sound down on the TV when the Dogs are on, because Munson is so great. But he's better when you just listen and let him paint the picture for you. Munson is a Golden God. And internet radio is a wonderful thing.
Having said that, the Dogs offense better be glad they have a huge D. 27-8 against Vandy is pathetic. Even if they were uninspired. My niece graduated from Vandy in May, by the way, and her brother is at Georgia. Good blood feud there. Hopefully money changed hands with them today.
the training wheels and set up an RSS aggregator, which Kate told me to do in June when she set up my feed. #&@&$# sweet! Of course I still have to check out Splatters and non-feeders manually. It took about fifteen minutes for that process to seem archaic. But that's the kind of person I am. Late Adopter, Early Sneerer.
I'm using Bloglines. It seems okay.
Body glitter: $8
Seeing your daughter off to her first homecoming dance?
Remember Artie? He shot a Democratic frontrunner, too, just like Sirhan. Go try to find a picture of the guy. Or a bio. You'll find the usual pap. Dysfunctional family, daddy was an alkie, wah wah wah.
We all like to laugh about the McGovern shellacking in 1972, and how out of touch the Democratic Party was with the electorate, but back up. Wallace was winning big at the time he was shot. Not as an Independent, like 1968, but as a bona fide Democrat. He'd cold-smoked the competition in Michigan, and was a serious contender when he was shot. I think Wallace could have taken Nixon in '72. Republicans HATED Nixon. Wallace was the choice between a somewhat normal REALPOLITIK guy and the skyhooking freak McGovern, and he was touching some very sore racial buttons. Believe me. Racial tensions were at such a point in '72 Wallace had a real chance.
Now I'm no conspiracy theorist, but who exactly had Wallace shot? Bremer ain't talking. Never has. The Big Media has never shown any interest. Who cares who shot a racist mutherfucker?
It goes deeper than that, though. Again, I'm no conspiracy theorist, but why can't I even Google a pic of Bremer? I mean the one in the shades we used to see back then?
My take? Nixon. Wallace was not only a threat, he was the last great gasp of the Good Old Boy side of the Democratic Party, so beautifully exemplified by Robert Byrd. (How can the Dems accept that old Klansman into their circle, anyway? For a fucking vote? Spare me.)
Go meet someone I wish I'd met. I have uncles like this, although they didn't raise me. A shame, in a way. Not that I didn't appreciate my parents, and love them, but it's nice to be that close to other family members. I would have loved to spend some time with John, and pick his brain. I HAVE an Uncle John, as a matter of fact. I don't see him enough. He's about eighty now. WWII, Korea, Vietnam. An enlisted man, he was a huge beast of a man who became one of the first Special Forces selectees in The Great War, and was a Green Beret trainer in Vietnam. He's still a physical fitness freak, unlike me, and living large. And although he's a big bad man he's actually a pussycat, and one of the gentlest people I've ever met. I love him tremendously. These two Uncle Johns could have traded some tales.
In classic Red and Silver:
A Yuri Gagarin Soviet Commemorative Flask. Ergonomically designed to get past the Florida State Troopers. Buy It Now on Ebay for $16.99. Daddy like.
I don't know if I'm going to spring to see this in the theater. Probably so. My expectations are pretty low. I like my splatter gore a little more Herschel Gordon Lewis, if you know what I mean.
My biggest bitch with Tarantino is his insistence on casting Uma Thurman in lead roles. As somebody once said, I'd like to buy her for what she's worth and sell her for what she thinks she's worth. She damned near ruined Pulp Fiction. She is the equivalent of Eastwood putting Sondra Locke in his movies, or Lennon putting Yoko on stage with him. I've never forgiven JL for Don't Worry Kyoko.
Caveat: I am not equating these women on a Screw Scale. I'm equating them on a Talent Scale.
You know what else pisses me off? Uma's known in this movie as The Bride. Where's my fucking royalties??? Little brother, QT would likely pay $600k or so just to make me go away. Paperwork, please.
1. Name five things in your refrigerator.
A nice 3-spleen salad.
A vial of adrenochrome distilled from the adrenal gland of a Jehovah's Witness.
A Zip-Lok baggie of pineal glands, harvested from a Cub Scout outing.
Left-brain soup, with leeks.
2. Name five things in your freezer.
Braised buttock of Laotian boy.
Black barber cock gumbo.
Ted Williams' head in an orzo stock.
3. Name five things under your kitchen sink.
Rapala fillet knife.
4. Name five things in your crawl space.
Jason, that silly shit.
Rubber mask with gag-ball.
Bones. Lots of bones.
5. Name five things in your medicine cabinet.
Empty lithium bottle.
Alphecca has a good post on pets that I found at Sketches of Strain. It reminded me of a cat story from way back, for some reason.
New Year's Eve, 1988: The Bride and I used to party on amateur night back then, but this party was at least nearby at Fat Jack's (yes, I used to hang with people named Fat Jack). When we got home I built a fire, then sprawled on the floor in front of the fire and passed into the Dead Zone. I must have cracked the window by the fireplace to leaven the temperature from the blaze, because I woke up about three and there, right next to my head, was a freakish sight.
We had a mean-assed feral cat named Shelley that shot out litters on a regular basis. She was too mean to capture and get fixed. We just kept hoping she'd run away.
She'd recently had her second litter, and while I slept she'd apparently gone a huntin' for the brood. When I awoke I saw, in the flickering shadows from the fire, a dead baby rabbit deposited about a foot from my head. The three kittens were in a frenzy, sproinging into the air in a macabre dance of death around the carcass. They were pumped. Shelley sat a few feet away, pleased. I tossed the thing out the window before they could begin the Feast of Felix, but I learned something that night.
Cats will do weird shit behind your back they would never let you see. And while I like my cats, I have no doubt in my mind if I died alone they would feed off my flesh until it was too putrid to eat. No sense of moral obligation at all.
I'm finally seeing commercials for Master and Commander, the Russell Crowe take on Patrick O'Brian's novels. I'm a huge fan of the novels, having read 13 of the 20 (Patrick died in 2000, so I'm saving the last 7). Crowe will be serviceable in the lead as Lucky Jack Aubrey, although I would have 1) followed the novels instead of corrupting several plots into one movie, because that's a freaking 20 movie franchise, potentially, and 2) gone with someone younger. I'm also unsure of Paul Bettany as Maturin, who is the real thread of the narratives. Bettany is a fine actor, but Maturin should be played by a young F. Murray Abraham type.
My big bitch is it's been in the can since December, and was supposed to premiere in July, but Pirates of the Caribbean scared them off, so they delayed it until mid-November. Trailer's great, though.
Stevie brings up a good point in a comment. I often transpose letters typing. Does that mean I'm lysdexic, or just a typing spaz? And are there any dyslexics and spazs I have not offended?
I went to my daughter's haunted house at the high school tonight, and it was great! Since I'd helped build it I was hoping it would be good, and it was. Both of my daughters were in the Killer Barbie room, with Emily being Killer Barbie, and little Caroline being Slasher Skipper. I'd hung all their Barbie dolls from the ceiling, slathered in blood in various stages of bondage, with their arms and legs tied, and duct tape across their mouths. Hey, it wasn't my idea, but I'm waiting for the lawsuit.
See, kids don't learn violence from watching violent movies, they inherit it. From people like me.
Hosting Matters is down, I reckon. I figured that out, so I can quit calling Comcast and cursing some somnambulistic puke who put my name on a Homeland Security watch list.
Personally, I think Allah did it, for these sites did not praise Crimson Jihad, who are currently handing the Gotham Kufr their asses.
A Schlitzie resin figure:
Now you can play Freaks, too.
has major issues. Many of which I share. I, too, was a bottle baby.
Hat tip to Jack Straw for the link.
I can't pull up anybody tonight. The few I could get earlier I can't get now. For what I pay Comcast for this broadband I'm getting boned. Deeply and with no tenderness whatsoever.
All you never wanted to know about balsa wood. Although I did leave a comment espousing my theory that Guillow is trying to corner the balsa market. So if I can corner the world rubber band market, they'll have to come to ME to get their little machines to fly!
My old man would not have understood. He'd probably claim they were dropping fluoride in our water from up there. Then, just to show he admired their initiative, he'd have praised the taikonaut for getting that white space suit so clean.
Personally, I hope they go to the moon, and get us off our collective butts.
UPDATE: The ChiComs deployed a spy satellite during this flight. No word on whether it contained fluoride.
I haven't weighed in on this situation, or the removal of her feeding tube, because I'm honestly of mixed emotions here. Part of me suspects her husband is a sack of shit who's ready to move on with his new (now ten years along) squeeze. Part of me also says this woman needs peace.
I don't know the truth here, and neither does anyone else. The only person who knows is Terry, and she can't respond. For all I know she is perfectly lucid but incapable of any response, terrified of what's happening to her. Or she could be laying there saying Do It! Please! I've been a miserable wretch for 13 years, and my life sucks! I just don't know.
What I DO know is, if her husband and this judge have decided it's her time, then don't starve and dehydrate her to death to wash any guilt away, and assume a posture of benign neglect. Stick a needle in her and be done with it. And if you don't have the guts to do that, then maybe you're doing the wrong thing.
I wouldn't starve a dog to death. Fuck no, and if I did I'd go to jail. What makes it okay to subject this woman to a week or 10 or 12 days of death by dehydration? If, IF she's coherent that's as mean-assed a piece of torture work as I've run across lately.
The point is nobody knows. So give her to her parents. They'll take care of her. There's money involved here, rehabilitation money that's apparently never been used, so there are peripheral issues I'm not very familiar with, but cast a suspicious pall on this whole scene. I tell you, though, after 13 years in this state her hopes of rousing are slim and none, and if she did awaken her body would be totally whacked.
So that's my take. Be a man and take her down painlessly, or let her parents nurture her and cling to their last pitiful vestige of hope. But don't starve her like a fucking animal.
If I'm Jeb Bush, I'm posting 3 National Guardsmen (oops, can't do that. They're all in Iraq) 3 State Troopers outside her door, putting that feeding tube back in, and demanding to know from that judge why any human being should die of thirst in my state. Make this fucker quit hiding behind his robes, and put up.
I never write about salad dressing because, well, that's stupid shit. And yet, as I cast about for more obscure ways to convince my kids they live in the Glorious Future we only dreamed about as kids, what's more natural than to point to a half-length of grocery shelf with 800 bottles of dressing, and say See?
When I was a little chirren there were only 3 choices of salad dressing, at least at Byrd Brothers'. Bleu Cheese, French, and Italian. Period. Which meant there really was no choice at all. No kid in his right mind is going to eat Roquefort. All you had to do was smell it. It's texture and visuals as pus-like discharge only confirmed the fact that it was not be touched. No, Bleu Cheese was for sclerotic old men with bulbous noses, whose taste buds had been horribly malformed by years of scotch drinking to the point dogshit tasted like Apple Jacks. Naturally they'd like Bleu Cheese.
Italian dressing was likewise a non-starter. Why? It was clear. Kids don't eat clear food. There's no fun in that. Kids want color in their foods. Ever see clear breakfast cereal? I rest my case.
Which left French. It had color, for sure. It smelled benign. Sign me up. French dressing is awful. It's too tart. How tart? Well, as tart as a Marseilles street walker tart. But it was the last refuge of undeveloped buds.
Around the mid-sixties the marketing geeks at Seven Seas and Wishbone got intrepid, and brought out Russian and Thousand Islands. I liked those okay, just because they weren't French. Most Russian dressings are too sweet, but I'd talk my mom into buying it anyway. Made my dad think I was turning into a Trotskyite, never a bad thing.
Thousand Islands was mayo and ketchup cleverly disguised by pickle shavings. And the color was that of babyshit. Cool. One grows out of Thousand Islands pretty quickly, though, which makes the sale of Big Macs an eternal mystery to me.
The geeks weren't finished yet. Ere the sixties expired they had brought Golden Goddess to our tables, a particularly foul pastiche of cucumbers and Ipana toothpaste. You had to try it, of course. Look at the color! But only once. Now, if they'd called it by its full name, Cullings of the Green Goddess's Yeast Infection, we'd have never tried it. It's shit like this that causes little kids to distrust Madison Avenue types at an early age. That and making that G.I. Joe look like he was really flying. The lying bastards. How Ironic that I make my living in sales and marketing, eh?
My point? Kids have a ton of choices now. Especially Ranch. My kids blanche in pity when I tell them we didn't have Ranch dressing growing up. Now it is the ubiquitous dressing of choice. When did it sneak in there? Late 70's? Early 80's? I wasn't paying attention. Now there are bacon derivatives, raspberry vinaigrettes, Asian sesame, and teriyaki. Thick creamy Italian and ginger spice. I'm pretty sure I saw licorice and 44 cheeses varieties the last time I looked.
What do I eat? I usually whip up a vinaigrette with some balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil. Sometimes I'll throw in some red onion, just so it has some color, you know?
I attended Big John's visitation today. I'd wanted to hook up with Acidman for a brew afterwards, but my
punk boss called a 9:00 meeting for Thursday morning, so I had to drive back to Jax from Savannah tonight.
Good seeing old friends, even in sorrowful times, but damn my palms sweat around that many judges in so tight a space. Even though I've known some for many years, it's still a lookin' in my mirror and seeing a po-lice car vibe. I was half-expecting old Judge Head to pass sentence on me for Aggravated Battery of The English Language, and Willful Abuse of A Minor Metaphor.
I've been working like a fiend, for YOU, my loyal friends, for pics of the rest of the cast of FREAKS, and I'm turning up dummies, dammit.
I want a pic of Ko Ko the Bird Girl, and Schlitzie, the man-girl.
What I DO have is two pics:
I give you Elizabeth, your worst sexual nightmare, XXXXX. You owe me 23 dollars. That was hard stuff, indeed.
I've never seen this anomaly, but the myth of the three-nippled girl ran strong when I was a high-schooler.
Nope, the only triple nipples I've ever seen were on a man. Precisely: Christopher Lee in The Man With The Golden Gun. That was the hit man Scaramanga's identifiable mark. Got that? The villain had three tits. Good God. If 1974 was a Great Year in Cinema (think Godfather, Part II and The Conversation) this movie was the nadir of the Bond franchise.
How did Lee get talked into this shit? More importantly, how did Roger Moore get talked into wearing a FAKE third tit to pass as Scaramanga? I don't think I watched a Bond flick after that until Timothy Dalton took over. Who wrote this shit? Well, I never read the Fleming book, but I don't think Ian was sitting on the veranda at Goldeneye in Jamaica thinking triple nipple. Richard Maibaum wrote the screenplay. He wrote ALL the Bond screenplays. Actually, he wrote from 1936 to 1991, the year he died. Ransom was based on his story.
Three titted hitmen, indeed. I could do better than THAT.
I got the call from my brother that a Great Man had passed away. John Calhoun was the seminal Savannah trial attorney, possibly the greatest the city has ever seen.
I'm partial to Big John's legacy, because I knew him virtually my whole life. John was an insurance man in Macon, then went to law school at Mercer, and after a few years of practice joined my father as Dad's partner in 1958.
Those two guys tore up the legal world in Savannah. As my father was also an out-of-towner, originally from Atlanta, they weren't part of the Old Boy Network in Savannah. In fact, my father cut his political teeth in the mid-fifties exposing and ridiculing those bluebloods, and winning State Senate seats in the process. Big John was the perfect foil when Dad went back into private practice.
They were gadflys and jokers, to an extent, because they loved to hammer the judges, but most importantly they Won Their Cases. Against a stacked deck of nepotism and downright jury-fixing. They weren't clowns. These men were not ambulance-chasers by any stretch of the imagination. They were Southern Gentlemen, and Brilliant Lawyers, and adhered to the Rights and Rituals of a Savannah Attorney. They argued cases in front of the United States Courts of Appeal, when required. They just were always going to get blackballed when the Oglethorpe Club opened the rolls every five years or so. Precisely because they were the best fucking lawyers in Savannah.
So when the Chatham Club opened in '67 they were invited in, and both said piss on it. In fact, when they tore down the old DeSoto Hotel in 1966 my father hauled off the beams from the Great Room, and put them in the Great Room of his farm house. They built the DeSoto Hilton on the site, and the Chatham Club occupied the top floor, but they didn't have those timbers. No fucking way.
Let me tell you my recollections of some famous cases by these men:
My father's most famous case was representing a 400 pound black bookie/gangster in Savannah named Sloppy Joe Bellinger. Sloppy Joe was so fat he'd fall asleep at a moment's notice, and my father, in the mid-sixties, got narcolepsy admitted as a legitimate legal defense for a continuance due to incapacity (The Pickwickian Syndrome! he'd cry. Read Your Dickens!).
My favorite Big John case? James Brown came to town in the sixties, in his prime. He owed some money from a previous gig, however, concerning limos and cars, and such. So John, representing the aggrieved party, had his vehicles impounded on the current tour. My father and John were having lunch at Anton's, as was their wont, when James Brown walked in and tried to negotiate to get his wheels back. "You gots me WALKING, MR. Calhoun! You gots me WALKING!" Big John just laughed. James paid up.
A bit of lineage: there was a great, flamboyant lawyer in Atlanta in the fifties and sixties (and seventies and eighties) named Bobby Lee Cook. Matlock was based on Bobby Lee, and the old coot's still kicking. I have pictures of my father and Bobby Lee in the State House in Atlanta in the fifties. They were kindred souls. John was part of that Brotherhood.
My father's health failed him in the early 70's, and he retired early. Big John kept plugging. Ran for mayor in '73, and got licked, but he didn't care. Fully developed the brand of total client advocacy he and my Dad had envisioned years before. Kept going. Worked his ass off. Built an empire. Raised some fine boys. My brother went to work for him about ten years ago, and spent a few years under the Master's wing. It was a great symbiotic thing. My brother wasn't a neophyte at the time. He'd worked for Steve Maples in Atlanta for some years after graduating law school, and had done another stint in the fambly practice. Little brother was in his stride when he hooked up with John, and they showed Savannah again how trial law is practiced.
My brother has run his own practice for close to ten years now, but I'll warrant he'd put his time with Big John up against any year he ever practiced, if fun and exhilaration are the yardsticks. He never got to practice with Dad, but he got to work with Big John. That is, as they say, priceless.
An attorney like John will work until they drop, unfortunately. It's a truism, but you apparently can't leave the game behind.
I'm going to miss him. The vacations as a kid, his fucking with me by always scratching his head and saying "What's up, Tim?"
A Great Man. God Bless him, and his family.
A Final Note: I noticed today that my Dad was mentioned in John's obituary. That's a nice touch, and I thank John's wife Diane for that, because I see her touch there. Thanks, Diane, and I'm thinking about you, and yours.
Coons has some fresh up. And why don't I know who Victoria Silvstedt is?
This town needs some white hookers. If they exist, they're failing Marketing 101: Make Your Presence Known In The Marketplace.
Not that I'm IN the market, mind you, but when I take Phillips Highway home because some asshat's jack-knifed his rig on Southbound 95 I want a little multi-culti in my eye candy. Some Asians would be nice, too.
UPDATE: Um... is there any part of "Not that I'm IN the market" that needs further explanation? The point is, if I have to look at this shit going home, then I want it to, well, look like the vast canvas that is America. You know, like the Clinton Adminstration.
And while it's not the Coastal Empire Fair of my youth, it's sufficiently full of the quirky and bizarre to hold my attention. Of course, that's just the patrons. You don't get to see freaks at the circus anymore, which means these poor misbegotten misfires of nature have to stay at home and suckle on the government teat instead of earning an honest living letting the rest of us gawk at them for a dollah.
Sure, real freaks were on the way out in the early sixties, and I got burned a few times by charlatans passing off hippos and such as Incredible One Ton Women, but there were a few real geeks left back then. No Elephant Man, but some serious abnormalities sure to give you nightmares for weeks.
My dream trip to the fair? That's easy. Seeing Zip and Pip:
running around here. I might try the fragment thing if that old fraud Lawrence Ferlinghetti quits using the Dread Word Meme, and quits trading off his more talented buddies' works, lives, and deaths.
I prefer membrane. Now there's a word you can DO something with.
I can't believe I wrote that. Anyway, get over to Suburban Blight for this week's roundup. That's a freaking pound of work for our pleasure. And thanks for the link, Kel.
My Key Lime tree had produced one navel orange. How the hell does that happen? I don't understand citrus trees. My valencia orange tree reverted to wild lemon. I had to cut it down from 13 feet to one foot and nurse back the one valencia shoot while pruning the wild lemon shoots that keep popping up.
I thought this orange, which was on the ground at the base of the lime tree, had somehow been carted over there from an orange tree, but it's a navel orange, and I only have mandarins and valencias. Weird stuff, genetics.
I feel bad... somewhere Joey came up in a conversation but I lost the thead... so here's what I had to say about Joey once upon a time. This opinion prevails, by the way.
And, yes, Fuck Joey Bishop.
Oh, yeah. It was Kelley's Which Rat Pack Member Are You? I don't have to take that test. Everybody knows I'm Dino.
I'm busy right now, so here's my old Blogspot take on adult entertainment...
while I get parochial. But I really really wanted LSU to win today. So they'd win the SEC West. So Georgia could maybe win out, and LSU win out, and meet in Atlanta. Georgia wins THAT game and they can claim their only loss was in week 3 to a team they just beat. A lot of losses by other teams involved here, but there IS a scenario where the Dawgs get a shot. All I'm saying.
When I had my sweet baby girls baptised into the Anglican Communion by our Appropriately Grave Bishop I thought I was doing the Right Thing. Had someone told me I could have had them Immortally Blessed By The Big Dawg I would have leapt at the opportunity. Of course, these things aren't always mutually exclusive. Thanks for the pic, Rob.
Philip Fulmer is a moron. A greedy moron. Tennessee could have kicked a chip shot field goal and gone into half time down 3 points to a higher ranked team, and had the crowd on their side. When Tennessee lined up to Go For It I told The Bride "This is a stupid move. Anything can happen." When Tennessee fumbled it I just hoped Georgia would cover the ball. Instead they ran it back for a TD, and now instead of a 3 point game Tennessee is looking at a 13 point game.
Fulmer is so greedy. I'll bet he's just as greedy at the food line at the Golden Corrall. Do you think he blamed himself at the halftime speech? Doubt it.
P.S. I'm so glad we have Heather Cox on ESPN2 on the field instead of the rancid half-man Jill Arrington. I also apologize for subsuming my universal appeal to the masses to the vagaries of parochial SEC football.
Curry is color boy on the Georgia-Tennessee game, and it reminds me of his stint as the Alabama coach. In a game in 1990, I think, a Very Important Game, possibly a Bowl Game (I really can't remember, maybe the 33-25 loss to Miami in the Sugar Bowl that year?) some player, a black kid, had Fucked Up Bad. On the sidelines Bill was in this kid's face. An inch away, and screaming at the top of his lungs. Twice the poor kid's head would drift off to the side to soften the blow, and twice Curry grabbed this kid's facemask and SNAPPED his head back to attention. It was awful. I don't think Curry ever coached for 'Bama again after that game.
Was it Woody Hayes at the Gator Bowl? No. And I have no problem with jacking a kid when he screws the pooch. But this was abusive shit, and The Bear never would have done such a thing. It was Curry's frustration taken out on this boy.
Every time I watched that asshole Spurrier abuse a boy it always reminded me of Curry's tirade.
Fuck Bill Curry.
I have a question for Venomous Kate. When did Hawaii grow an apostrophe? Here's the Great Seal Of "Hawai'i":
I don't see no apostrophe there. Nor does their website have one. Is this a well-known effort to return to a truer spelling of the name, after it was bastardized and Anglicized years ago, and I'm out of the loop, as usual? I know the Polynesian language makes liberal use of apostrophes, or at least the original conversion into English did.
English interpretations of Chinese Mandarin went through this a while back. Mao Tse-Tung became Mao Zedong. Peking became Beijing (although I perversely still use Peiping, which had some traction for a few years in the seventies).
Again, I'm just curious. I don't want to look like a hillbill'y.
Oh, and a useless bit of information: The Great Seal was designed by Viggo "Aragorn" Jacobsen in 1895, when the island was a Republic. I believe Viggo envisioned the beach battle that resulted in James Cook getting his head stove in as the Battle of Helm's Deep. Just a theory.
Every few months I go to the website of the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and peruse the Sexual Predator/Offender files, to see what's living around me. Let me tell, you, folks: I don't care how bucolic or serene or yuppiefied your neck of the woods seems. I don't care if you live in Mayberry, R Fucking D, there are sinister forces hovering in the shadows. To wit:
This sumbitch lives within a mile and a half of me. Sexual battery of a child under 12.
This sumbitch lives within four miles of me. Sexual battery of a child under 12.
There are 8 sex offenders in my Zip Code. Only two are listed as Predators. You just saw them.
I try to remember this when I leave my door unlocked, and neglect to use my alarm system. These pics are on my fridge for my kids to remember. And I know my brother will give me some incisive legal advice telling me to Take This Shit Down NOW!, but I got it off a public site. I'm just fleshing out these monsters' stories a little bit.
The Ultimate Photoshopper is at it again.
My Uncle Don, a personal hero to me, as any regular reader will know, sent me this story, and wanted to know my opinion on it. And you know I have one.
MOBILE (AP) - Wanda Hudson nearly starved after spending nine weeks locked inside a storage space she had rented, and she says in a lawsuit that the storage company was to blame.
Hudson, 44, is seeking $10 million fron Parkway Storage, claiming negligence on the part of the company that rented her a unit in early October 2001, her attorney said.
Creditors had foreclosed on Hudson's home and tossed her possessions into the street, her attorney, Mallory Mantiply, told jurors during opening statements Thursday in Mobile County Circuit Court, the Mobile Register reported.
Hudson rented an enclosure measuring 30 feet by 10 feet, paid a month's rent, then moved her furniture and other belongings inside, Mantiply said.
On Nov. 7, 2001 Mantiply told jurors, Hudson paid another month's rent. That night, while on a security check, the facility's manager found Hudson's storage unit unlocked and partially open, and locked it, Mantiply said.
Two months later, on Jan. 9, 2002, a customer using a nearby unit heard sounds coming from unit 611. It was Hudson, who apparently had survived on juice and canned foods, her attorney said.
During testimony Friday, Hudson was vague about why she was in the storage unit so late on Nov. 7, and denied she heard the metal door close. Parkway's attoreny, Bert Taylor, suggested she was sleeping and, furthermore, that she had been living in the unit. She denied Taylor's supposition.
When she realized she was locked inside, Hudson testified, "It was just total panic. I tried to breathe. I had to believe I was not stuck inside." (sounds like Hillary hearing Bill confess. - Ed.)
The company argued that during those two months that Hudson claims to have been locked in the unit, customers renting nearby units never heard her trying to get help.
Hudson testified that wasn't because she didn't yell out. She claimed that more than one person heard her screams, but did not respond.
"I screamed, I banged, I banged, I banged," she said.
Gloria Turner, a former nurse with Providence Hospital, testified Thursday that when Hudson was brought into the emergency room she weighed 85 pounds.
Dr. William Asher, testifying for Hudson, said he studied Hudson's case after her time in the hospital.
Her condition when discovered in the unit, Asher said, was of "advanced starvation, unusual to find in medical circumstances in America today."
Circuit Judge Rick Stout told jurors to return Monday to prepare for deliberations.
Allah is Back in the House. I have to say, if I'm churning out product this good there's no way I'm anonymous. One must have, not just feedback, but recognition and acclimation. Right? Right? It's not like you can go into the local Ale House and whisper to a girl "I'm Allah".
There MUST be signs. Bogeymen. Tips and Clues. I'm going to parse the site this weekend. Tear it apart like a fucking Saddam WMD site. I'll find something.
Okay. I've fought the Friday Five because before I heard of it I always did a Nostalgia on Friday nights. Since my brain cells continue to snuff themselves at a deleterious rate, however, I switched to the Embarrassing Question. But since my readers are quivering cowards and won't give it up when I ask shameless questions about their homosexual encounters and sexually transmitted diseases (wait - I haven't asked about those yet - make a mental note, dude) I'll give the Five a whirl:
1. Do you watch sports? If so, which ones?
I prefer college sports to pro sports. I think most pro sports are fixed. Follow the money. Always. I DO like to watch Australian Rules Football. Why are these guys so mean? They make them wear satin short shorts. And the referees wear formal attire. So queer a set up you HAVE to beat someone senseless.
2. What/who are your favorite sports teams and/or favorite athletes?
I've always loved the Georgia Bulldogs, although I always thought Vince Dooley was a cretin. Now that Mike Adams is president of the school Vince actually attains decency status. The Braves. Those fucking losers.
3. Are there any sports you hate?
Women's basketball. I prefer my women a little less simian.
4. Have you ever been to a sports event?
Duh, no! A better question: Have you ever fucked a Tsutsi girl on the fifty yard line of a pee-wee football field? Not yet.
5. Do/did you play any sports (in school or other)? How long did you play?
High school: football through eleventh grade. I sucked very bad. Very skinny and very slow. Soccer through twelfth grade. Again: very skinny and very slow, but we smoked a lot of pot on the away trips.
College: rowed crew for two years. I was actually very good at this, but I hated a sport where I threw up at the end of every event, so I switched to rugby. Again: very slow and very skinny, but any sport where you tap the keg before the game is A-okay in my book.
Now I ride my 20-speed bike.
preclues me from calling Molly Ivins what she truly is. I DO like the fact the Florida Times-Union now runs both Molly and Ann Coulter together on Fridays. A bipolar junkie's Dreamland.
You can read her puke-screed here. I might get around to fisking it tomorrow, but I generally prefer a challenge if I'm going to exert my good efforts.
Let's just say Molly wins this week's Earl J. Waggedorn Trophy for Goofy Honky.
One good thing to come out of my
hissy-fit temper-tantrum reconsideration of my blogging merits was a multi-ethnic-cleansing of my blogroll. It was bloody, so bloody I'm calling it Kill Bill, Volume 3. But I'm not naming names. You, Gentle Readers (yes, I'm dressed as Miss Manners tonight, just like EVERY Friday night) don't need to know, because if you visit here, you're still on the roll. And if you're not, tell me. I'm too stupid to set up an RSS Aggregator, so I have to scroll through the roll. I had to separate the slag, the detritus, the chaff, from the sweet wheat. That's all.
Some of you may recall my screed about the Red Hat Society. I'd be the first to agree it was not pretty. Now, inevitably, there's a novel based on these twits. I can't stand it. I, Misanthrope, swim against a tide of Oprahfied mediocrity. But not alone.
There's a lez on the 21st floor whose only apparent criterion for hiring is that the applicant is a 19 to 22 year old hottie with centerfold qualities. I do not exaggerate. These girls could all dance at Cheetah III with the best of them. It is a fine concept, and I, personally, am dee-lighted! to paraphrase TR. Now if I could only find one (or, preferably two) with alley-cat morals and daddy-fixations, and convince The Bride that this will strengthen our relationship...
What's the drunkest you've been, and what godforsaken thing did you do?
As usual, I'll start off. You have to give a little to get a little, correct? Well, there are so many things I could say here, but I generally prefer easily corroborated stories, in order to institutionalize my shame.
Here's one. When I was a freshman in college my parents had a beach cottage on Butler Avenue on Tybee Island (it was called Savannah Beach then). My two brothers and I decided to have a New Year's Eve party, and invited some friends. Long before anyone showed up my older brother bought a half gallon of Old Mr. Boston pre-mixed screwdrivers. Being the rookie I was I proceeded to nail about half of it in the space of two hours. I then stripped down, climbed the palm tree in the front yard naked (yes, it hurt very much the next day) then ran about a mile down the middle of Butler Avenue screaming Helter Skelter before my brothers could hogtie me and get me back to the cottage. All this before the sun went down.
After some Helpful Hurling I spent most of the rest of the night sitting naked on the throne. Except for when my friends showed up with their dates. I insisted on answering the door naked, slathered in vomitus.
There. I told you mine, now tell me yours. I really want to know.
The upside of catching a smoke on the back side of the Bellsouth Tower is I don't run into the couple of Executive VP's who are Criminally Reformed Smokers, and never hesitate to lecture me on the damage smoking can do, not only to my health, but to my career. The downside of smoking around back is the Greyhound station is across the street, so in addition to the local cadre of sky-cursers, pants-pissers, mumblefucks, turd-toters, butt-huffers, tit-flaunters, dick-flayers, and hedge-hovelers I get the vacationing variety as well.
Take yesterday. I had just fired up a 'Boro and seated myself on the granite wall, next to an apparently normal woman in her early sixties. Decently dressed, hair coiffed, with a small piece of roller luggage, she looked like anyone's mother or grandmother.
Until she sensed I had glanced her way.
"What the hell are you looking at?? Why do people think they can fucking stare at people and there's no water over here and I just don't know I just don't know What the Fuck are you looking at???"
Now, I generally give these people a pass. I figure their life is screwed up enough without a good smackdown from me. Except for the Bearded Baglady. When she shows up I just pull out a couple of smokes and throw them as far down the sidewalk as I can, and let her scamper for them. It's a bad idea to let her get too close. Her aroma is a subtle blend of three day old Night Train urine and partially digested pickled eggs, with a little gangrene scraping thrown in for after-effect. And the black dwarf. I've learned to ignore him because he's cranky, and oh-so-fucking superior. He acts like all of humankind is but gum on the bottom of his size-three sneaker.
Sorry. Back to yesterday. So I ignore the barking seal, and start hotboxing the cig so I can move on. Jut then a man approached me and asked directions to the public library. As I started telling him I heard a blistering
"Shut UP! Shut UP! Don't you tell that man nothing! You lying bastard! Just you shut UP! I'LL tell him! Don't you say a fucking THING!" The man was taken aback, and looked at her, and then me, and tried to figure it out. Was this guy lying to me? Sending me on a wild goose chase? Is it because I'm black? I could see the wheels spinning...
That's when I wanted to take my cigarette and grind it into her insane fucking face. If I want to hear someone talk to me like that I'll call a customer and ask how their service is.
Instead I rose, tossed my butt into the shrubbery, and walked away. I looked back in time to see the realization dawn on this guy's face. She's frigging insane! The last I saw of them he was shagging up Laura Street in the direction I'd sent him, and she was running after him with her roller luggage clattering behind her, screaming gibberish. He looked pretty fit. I don't think she could catch him. Or maybe down the street HE finished what I couldn't, or wouldn't.
One of the things I noticed weapons inspector David Kaye had found in Iraq, in addition to such innocuous items as Congo Crimean Hemorrhagic Fever and ricin research centers and C. botulinum Okra B. in the vial was brucella. Now what the hell is that, I asked myself. So I looked it up:
Brucellosis is a severe acute febrile disease caused by bacteria of the genus Brucella. Relapses are not uncommon; focal lesions may occur in bones, joints, genitourinary tract, and other sites. Hypersensitivity reactions can follow occupational exposure. Infection may be subclinical. Chronic infections may occur.
Brucellae are Gram-negative coccobacilli; non-spore-forming and non-motile; aerobic, but may need added CO2.
The presentation of brucellosis is characteristically variable. The incubation period is often difficult to determine but is usually from 2 to 4 weeks. The onset may be insidious or abrupt. Subclinical infection is common.
In the simplest case, the onset is influenzalike with fever reaching 38 to 40oC. Limb and back pains are unusually severe, however, and sweating and fatigue are marked. The leukocyte count tends to be normal or reduced, with a relative lymphocytosis. On physical examination, splenomegaly may be the only finding. If the disease is not treated, the symptoms may continue for 2 to 4 weeks. Many patients will then recover spontaneously but others may suffer a series of exacerbations. These may produce an undulant fever in which the intensity of fever and symptoms recur and recede at about 10 day intervals. Anemia is often a feature. True relapses may occur months after the initial episode, even after apparently successful treatment.
Most affected persons recover entirely within 3 to 12 months but some will develop complications marked by involvement of various organs, and a few may enter an ill-defined chronic syndrome. Complications include arthritis, often sacroiliitis, and spondylitis (in about 10 percent of cases), central nervous system effects including meningitis (in about 5%), uveitis and, occasionally, epididymoorchitis. In contrast to animals, abortion is not a feature of brucellosis in pregnant women. Hypersensitivity reactions, which may mimic the symptoms of an infection, may occur in individuals who are exposed to infective material after previous, even subclinical, infection.
Steve Lopez of the L.A. Times (can you believe it?) has pumped Arnold over the last week. He delivered the coup de grace today, referring to Arnold as Der Gropenfuhrer. How fucking cool is that?
My little line of business is $25 million off plan. That's the good news. The bad news? With 80-something days left in the year we'll end up $34 million off plan. That's heavy-duty. And although I just rejoined the group in May I have to wear these numbers.
More good news? We're already fucked on bonuses, so all they can do is fire me.
Anybody out there got $30 million in freight they can lend me? I swear I'll pay it back.
What's that from?
John Lennon would have been 63 today. That's a scary thought. An even scarier thought? That makes that wenchbag Yoko at least 70. Those hoo-hoo's must be dragging the ground by now.
Do not open www.shiteaters.com. I've been too scared to open it for two years. The homepage alone will freak your willies. I have no idea what's on the homepage now, but I'm sure it's disgusting, and they are open for business. If you open this from work, you are so fucking fired.
However: if anyone dares, e-mail me and we'll set a time to open it simultaneously for the hell of it.
We WERE speaking of Vincent Price weren't we? Well, I was. Last Man On Earth is right after You Know What as one of my favorite movies. Not that it's that good. In fact, it kind of sucks. But my mother took us to the Montgomery Drive-In to see it as kids, and it scared shit out me. Hell, Mom took us to all the Hammer Films as well. If Christopher Lee was Dracula, and Peter Cushing was a killin' him, I saw it.
Price was amazing. All the Edgar Allan Poe movies; hell, I still have nightmares about The Pit and the Pendulum. I even like the Dr. Phibes movies. Although I will admit Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine left me a bit, ah, underwhelmed.
Vincent beat Martha Stewart and Jaclyn Smith by decades in pioneering upscale mass merchandising in the early sixties when he commissioned artwork for retail sale through Sears & Roebuck to us suburban-dwelling knuckle-draggers. If Vincent had selected it, well, your Mom had to have it hanging over the dinette. Such style, such polish!
The other thing I love about Vincent? He had the perfect English accent. You could catch a whiff of Oxford dons and Balmoral in that accent. Not a bad feat for a boy from St. Louis.
Of the lactose variety. Have been since college. I love milk, and All Things Milk, but that shit hates me. A shot of Half & Half in my coffee, no problem, mon. Twelve ounces of Starland Dairy's finest, though, and I'm powering Ariane rockets four hours later. Followed by, well, let your imagination run wild.
Fact is, lactose intolerance hits mostly black people. Which means I must have a nigger in the woodpile, somewhere. That doesn't bother me in the least. What bothers me is I got the brown eyes, and I would have preferred the Big Dick. Fortuna's Wheel spun cruel that day, by God.
I'm rambling, aren't I? Well, yes. So this afternoon on a whim a bought a medium frozen yoghurt downstairs. A little afternoon snack, you might say. I love ice cream and such, but I only eat it occasionally, in small quantities, due to my aforementioned affliction. I nailed that yoghurt, though, and now I'm shooting jets of methane that have drawn a crowd of hysterical eco-warriors outside my front door, brandishing pitchforks and butane lighters. They're like the vampire zombies in Last Man on Earth. Only I ain't Morgan. I'm M'organ. Short for Malodorous Organ. By ten o'clock I'll be staked out in the WC with the latest NR and the radio blaring for the sake of my children's tender ears. Crafting my ADA lawsuit.
Satan's Purgative. How stupid was I? I always think I'll outgrow it, since I grew into it. But it doesn't work that way, does it?
Aren't you glad I shared that with you? Maybe that's a new Embarrassing Question™ for Friday. "What's the most disgusting thing you can make your body do?"
Go read this mindless dreck, if you can stomach it. I meant every word of it, and still do, but it was such bad fucking writing I had to pull it down. That's no legacy. It's a pretty damned good imperative to seek spiritual guidance or something, though. Funny thing is, in a strange way I'm kinda proud of it. It's like having the ugliest kid in the class, and flaunting him.
I'm going to revamp this thing. I don't think the format is working. Having said that, I'm the poster boy for gradualism. Cold turkey ain't my strong suit. Also, there's something I need to blog about.
Well, after my obligatory Sunday off, I think I'll take a Monday off. Come to think of it, I just might take a few weeks off. I've earned it.
When the bad joss starts flowing at work, and the long knives are out, my blogging heads south, anyway. Humor quotient goes down, the distasteful bile rises.
Symptomatic. I can't help that. Any more than you can keep pus from rising in a warhead. You either excise it, or let it go down on its own.
I love this school.
The Allman Brothers Blind Fucking Willie McTell wrote "Statesboro Blues" about the town. I went to a band camp the summer of '69 as a baritone player and ended up winning the trumpet competition. My sister went there from '69 to '72.
So I'm glad they won today. They are 3-2 now. Back in the hunt.
Georgia Southern was originally a teacher's college, and dropped football in, like, 1946. After the Bulldogs won the 1980 national championship Southern resurrected their football program, and hired Erskine Russell (Erk), Georgia's defensive coordinator, a bald-headed bastard who used to bang heads with his players. A Man's Man. A Leader. A Winner.
Erk started that program about 1981 or 1982, then in 1984 took it to the 1-AA level. Within two years he had his team in the National Championship game in Tacoma, Washington. I watched that game, and cried whem Southern lost to a fine Furman team by a point. The next year Erk took the team to the championships again, and won in Pocatello, Idaho. He won the next year, too.
Erk retired after that, and turned the keys over to Tim Stowers, who won TWO MORE championships. The Eagles are always in the hunt now, and won ANOTHER championship two years ago.
Allen Paulson saw the value and sprang the money that built The Field. My buddy Morgan Derst had his family buy the first skybox at Paulson Stadium, and I had a lot of fun in the Eighties watching the Eagles destroy their opponents. So after a 2-2 start I'm happy to see the Eagles soar again.
Now that the sod is starting to fill in on Flounder/Master Po's gravesite I find myself thinking about the first dog I got The Bride. Floundie was a good dog, and at 12 he was the pet with the greatest longevity, but he was never really a GOOD pet, bless him.
We got Prudence right after we got married, when I was heading off to law school. She was a Labrador mutt, meaning she had some Irish Setter in her. Goofy and crazy, but smart as all hell. We tried for years to pen her in, but Prudence could scale a six foot privacy fence like a ninja.
Prudence was a Bad Girl. Before I eventually caved and fixed her I used to have to sit on the roof of The Cottage I rented from my parents on Wilmington Island, and pop dogs with a pellet gun. She also knew the seasons, and knew when the Heart Run 10K was going to pass the house on the Island. She'd lay in wait for the first bunch of runners, then chase them barking like she was going to take a piece of meat out of their leg. She loved doing that.
On the Fourth of July my parents and I would have a party on their dock. Lots of fireworks and people. Prudence would dive in the Wilmington River after the buzz bombs and try to eat them. It would take a year for her burned off whiskers to grow back.
She'd chase the sailing ship Barba Negra down the River, to the delight of the guests on board, only to discover she'd been swimming WITH the tide, then have to swim a mile back against it.
I could have put Prudence in the greyhound races. She wouldn't have won against those big beasts, but she wouldn't have come in last, either. Even after a broken leg from a car accident she could FLY.
My favorite Prudence moments? She broke into my parents' house and ate half of a gingerbread house my mother had made for my niece. A HUGE gingerbread house. Mom had spent a week building it. My parents were out of town, so I went to Gottlieb's Bakery to buy a replacement. They had one about half the size I needed for $500. I didn't have $500, so I had to come clean with my parents. Katie, if you're reading this, I'm sorry.
Prudence also ate the corner off my eldest daughter Emily's first birthday cake. I had to build up the corner of the cake with icing. I fed that corner of the cake to my in-laws. Hey. I had no choice.
Prudence got pissed off when you'd have a conversation without her. She'd growl and mewl and bitch till you included her. Then she was okay.
Prudence got throat cancer at ten. A huge tumor. We had it removed. Then it grew back. She couldn't even swallow. We had to put her down. I couldn't bear it, and had the vet dispose of her remains. I've always regretted that decision, which is why I brought Flounder home. Prudence deserved that, too.
Shame on me.
Yeah, verily, they put it on Alabama. They didn't look great, but they certainly looked serviceable. They could pull out an SEC championship yet.
I imagine UGA VI is licking his balls right now, trying to get the taste of Crimson Tide out of his mouth.
I don't like this actor. It's really nothing personal. He seems able enough at his trade. I just can't stand people who insist on using three names. It's pretentious bullshit. Look at me! I use THREE names! I'm more important than you, obviously!
Lookit. I call you by one name, dude. Just like Cher or Sting or Madonna. And that name is Asshole. Oh, you want two names? Fine. How about Pretentious Asshole?
Cripes. You're insisting on three names? Fine. From now on you're Truly Pretentious Asshole. Feel better? I do. And uncross your eyes, you fucking git.
I'm Chicken Mel (what's that from?). And just because I'm paranoid it doesn't mean the sky isn't falling.
Acidman had a good post yesterday about W's betrayal of the conservatives who voted for him. I tend to agree, however I'll vote for him anyway in '04 as the least of any number of evils.
Let's understand one thing: there will never be a real conservative or libertarian in the White House. Ain't gonna happen. There are too many special interest groups and grievance mongers to ever get a plurality of votes without selling out to a critical mass of these peckerheads.
W spends tax money like a drunken sailor in Bangkok. Guess what? So did Reagan. While both of them beefed up the military, neither had the balls to take on the truly onerous task of downsizing the beast that is the federal government. Hell, Reagan was going to axe the Department of Education. Remember that? Bullshit.
American conservatism is one long retrograde movement. You bust a cap on the truly egregious people who raise their heads too high while you retreat, retreat, retreat. We are ultimately doomed as a free society. For every gain in gun control laws, partial birth abortion, whatever, the losses are treble. In five years you not only won't be able to smoke in your car, you won't be able to smoke in your own house. Against that backdrop I really don't care if there is a small victory against illegal immigrants getting California driver licenses, or affirmative action being banned in graduate schools. We're fucking hosed. Better to slow the inevitable. You aren't going to get a flat-taxer or bureaucracy-buster in the White House. EVER. We are a Balkanized, single-issue society now. That is not going to change. That fact sucks, but it's still a fact.
I'm going to spend the rest of my life merely tripping the feet of the Brave New Worlders, and hope the society my kids inherit isn't totally fucked up.
I'm swamped with lizards this year. Thousands of them. The Bride's taken to calling the place Jurassic Park. These aren't the plain chameleons, either. These are baby ridgebacks, with tiny little
velociman velociraptor fangs. The Jesus ones run across the surface of the pool.
I'm going to catch a couple and wet a hook with them. I'm betting the bass in my pond would love these guys.
I've added some more local flavor, including Jeff Diaz, Eschew, Lilstarmel (born in Savannah!), and Pamibe. Why? Because I like 'em, and I may want to borrow money from them some day.
Now I need to go through my blogroll and excise some
losers people I don't read anymore. Starting with the assholes who dropped me first, or never linked me at all. Take that, Lileks.
Every post-season it's the same-old same-old. The Big Bats go silent and the errors kill 'em. Thank God the Dogs are on at 3:30 and I won't have to watch the Bravos fold like a cheap suit.
The Dogs need a win, but I'll always have a bit of a soft spot for Alabama. When I was in college in New England in the mid-seventies it was always Bama vs. Pitt, or Bama vs. Penn State, or Bama vs. Notre Dame for the national championship. I was damned proud of the Bear, even if he did get his ass handed to him in those games. And he got his back-to-backs at the end of the decade.
Having said that, piss on Alabama. Go Dogs.
The pitcher half of exotic animal team Siegfried and Roy is in critical condition after being mauled by a tiger.
I hope he gets better. And I hope those boys rethink their ability to tame pussy.
rocks, by the way. I'm a shitter for catching up to my links.
Hey. Piss off. I can barely control my own bladder, and you want me to control the Universe? Baldilocks is on the "A List", though.
has hit his stride. I don't know what to say, other than I'm jealous no one has ever made MY pecker the protagonist in a torrid tale of love, hate, and betrayal. I'm going to hold out for the Primal Purge version.
Got an e-mail from the Mahaffey Theater in St. Pete, because I see shows there upon occasion. Seems they want upwards of $75 for me to watch some guy pretend to be John Lennon. I'll pass. I think the One To One tickets in 1971 to Madison Square Garden were $25. I take inflation into account, and I still think that's a sad bunch of people at the Mahaffey next month.
Smoke some OxyContin. Beat off. Whatever you do, DON'T pay $75 to see somebody pretend to be John Lennon. You'll hate yourself in the morning.
Where's Acidman? He's pinging like a fucking Soviet submarine, but he's gone Tarbaby on us... saying... nothing. That's what Tarbabies do.
UPDATE: He's up, he's awake, he's full of piss and vinegar, and down on my case. Cool.
Sama sent John Gibson an e-mail taking him to task for not challenging a putz reporter:
You just let that idiot reporter you were interviewing get away with saying that GWB said Iraq was an imminent threat and that's why we went to war. In fact, GWB said the precise opposite, and you just let your guest revise history.
It's a politics/race night. I'm in a burned out mood anyway, going back to my first post of the day.
Election 1964! Second grade. My parents put a Goldwater button on me and sent me to school (AuH2O!). I was the only Republican kid in a sea of LBJ styrofoam boaters, buttons, and bumper stickers. Hell, I was the only Republican in the State of Georgia. My father was a Goldwater fan, but he had spent the last seven years in The Georgia General Assembly as a Democratic and Independent Senator and Representative. I truly learned what a minority was that week at Heard Elementary. I was one. We lost that election, as I recall.
I also remember the prior November, when we got out early because the President's brains had been blown out. I got on my bicycle alongside my best buddy David Mallory, and said "I don't know why the teachers are crying and everybody's so upset. My Dad said Kennedy was a son of a bitch." First grade. Ah, youth. My Dad was a Teacher. In the school of Hard Knocks and Object Lessons. And a damned good one.
In the sixties blacks would play juju on my dad in courtroom trials. Put salt in his pockets and sacrifice chickens and shit so he'd lose a case against their relatives. My father, a Skeptic from the Old School, swore that shit worked.
Why else would he lose a case?
Well, here we go. This will be a Sordid Nostalgia™.
Did you have a maid growing up? I was raised by a huge black woman named Etta. Loved her. Loved to torment her, too. I'd climb on top of the fridge to get away from her, and she'd chase me down with the broom. I saw more of Etta than I did my own mother. Bridge, Altar Guild, hula lessons, hey. My mom's plate was full.
Etta was great. We'd been through a couple of maids before that, one of whom locked my older sister in the closet for a few hours. My dad almost ripped that woman's head off. He could have paraded the head down Broughton Street and gotten away with it, too, because this was The Segregated South, version 1963, and she'd dared touch that child.
I bring this up because I really liked Etta. She was always good to me. And yet on Thursdays (Etta was daily, but a lot of people had a maid on Thursday only), we'd hide behind the Tysons' brick wall on the side of their yard and play Nigger Maid Raid Day.
You filled up water balloons, and when all the maids walked together to the bus stop at Althea and Waters you'd pelt them from behind the wall. The only rule? You couldn't, wouldn't hit your own maid. Everyone else's was fair game.
I was about six years old.
Somebody taught us this shit. My older brother and his friends, sure, but kids don't think this sort of thing up on their own. Those maids took that shellacking, and never said a word, because they needed the job.
It never crossed our minds this sort of behavior was repugnant. My dad once beat our asses for putting frogs in our slingshots and shooting them up in the air so they'd splat on the street coming down. But I don't think he'd have batted an eye about Raid Day. Maybe. I don't know. Actually, that was a valuable domestic resource we were tormenting. Yeah, he'd have beaten our asses.
I often wonder about the terrible things I did as a child, not knowing any better, but knowing better, even at that age. I also wonder how many times Etta probably peed in my orange juice, and went home to a gin and tonic and a good chuckle. I hope she peed in my brother's more often, and took pity on me.
UPDATE: I'd almost forgotten. My sister Robin convinced me at one point that black people laid white turds. So every time Etta would use the bathroom I'd race in after her to see if I could see a white turd swirling down the bowl.
That probably explains more about my adult psyche than a decade of analysis could unearth.
Because there IS no title that could accurately reflect what I'm feeling.
A coworker had her baby today. David is still alive at the moment, but she'll bury him in a few days. He was born with some type of brain stem birth defect that left him missing half his skull and half his brain.
She's known about this problem for five months. Knew how this would turn out. Made the decision to carry him to term. She said as long as his heart beat she'd carry him. Made funeral arrangements along the way.
I honestly don't know what to say.
Kevin at Wizbang wants to know if I have a pickup truck with a visible gun rack to deter would-be Don Juans. Not exactly, Kevin, but I do like to sit in the back of my Blazer in the driveway and clean my 1969 Winchester 1894 Teddy Roosevelt commemorative 30-30 carbine:
The effect is virtually identical. And I always take a long slow pull on my red liquor before I dry-fire it at the boys. Hey, I know dry-firing is bad for your weapon, but it gives 'em such a rush.
I feel bad because I put my little one's pic up on occasion, but never my elder daughter's. Not that The Kids or The Bride reads this site. Of course, if I ever get hit by a truck it'll be like the widow in 8MM, if you know what I mean.
So here's Number One:
I've got problems. I've also got males. They hang around the yard like a pack of wolves. Fortunately Emmy has a boyfriend, and the neighborhood Lotharios are smart enough to be terrified of me, so it's not a real problem.
I wonder if that Carmelite Monastery is still open in Coffee Bluff? Even with a Vow of Silence Emmy could be, like, the Dancing Nun or something.
Just got the official word today. No bonuses for us this year. No bone. Deboned. We'll make a pile of net operating income (high eight figures) but not enough to scratch out a little pissin' around money for chumps like me to buy their kids a few gimcracks and geegaws for Christmas. I wouldn't really complain, but you kind of depend on 6 to 9 G-Boys around then.
Please turn your heads for a moment.
Fart!Hell!Cock!Piss!Damn! I'm Pissed!
You may resume your viewing. Thank you.
That's what my old man would say when whatever he was looking for ended up right in front of his nose. Because in my intermittent search for local bloggers, from De Doc it quickly cascaded to Rogers Cadenhead's Workbench, which led to Sharkbitten, who just saw the Bastard Sons of Johnny Cash right down the road from me (not only did I not know they were playing, I did not know they were existing), the Ocean Guy at Somewhere on A1A, whose views on the Middle East bear a striking resemblance to my own, Attaboy, whose views on Ted Turner bear a striking resemblance to my own, Annessa, who has somehow conflated Mad Clown bookends with Kyle McLachlan, Lomojunkie, whose views on the movie Armageddon bear a striking resemblance to my own, and several others I'm getting around to checking out.
All right hyuh on the First Coast. It's almost like playing with yourself then noticing the bathroom door's open. At work. Check 'em out. Good local talent.
UPDATE: That great sucking sound you hear is apparently the Jacksonville Blogoworld humming "there goes the neighborhood" under their collective breaths.
It's Domestic Violence Awareness Week, people.
And having studied this phenomenon at great length, I can tell you why there are so many battered women:
Because they just won't listen!
Da-dum. Actually I find domestic abuse appalling. Almost as appalling as tolerating it.
Listen: A dollar's worth of unleaded and a match, problem solved. If anyone was beating me, I'd set their ass on fire.
But what about the children? Kids are pretty smart. They're survivors, too. If my father was beating my mother and I was five, I'd understand if she torched him. Well, I'd understand that better than her taking it day in and day out.
And of course I've pissed somebody off, I'm sure. But I'll be damned if anybody would ever slap my ass around, I don't care what God put between my legs.
I've been meaning to add Parkway Rest Stop to the 'roll for a long time, but I've been meaning to change my oil for 4,000 miles, too. I get around to it when I get around to it.
Which explains The Bride's, um, frustration lately, I suppose. Hey, wake me up. I'm usually game.
This is a great post. I wish I could write like that.
I probably can, of course, but I choose to play the fool. And Bill could have trimmed that puppy up a little bit for the sake of elegance, and made a few drachmas off it.
But read it anyway. It's sublime.
You know I've wondered why there aren't any bloggers in Jacksonville. I figured everyone was too busy playing golf or arguing over whether Free Bird was better than Sweet Home Alabama. But we have De Doc! Give him a visit. He's great!
Although after that last post I doubt he's thrilled with this plug. But cheer up, Doc. I sandwiched that post between this one and Sama's. He's probably not too happy, either.
It's been a while since Velociman probed his readers' psychic trashcans for the detritus they would prefer to forget. But I had a lot of fun with the last one (Tell Me Your Darkest Secret). One fellow even claimed to have had sex with a retarded girl. Now, he claimed he thought she was merely drunk, but we know better, don't we? One must maintain a fiction of empathy if one is to discover these little gems, however, so I take him at his word.
Tonight's question is actually a two-parter:
Who was the ugliest person you ever made love to?
Why? (Concert tickets, a trip to the Hamptons, a can of Sterno?)
Now I wouldn't plumb the depths of your soul without sharing, would I?
When I was nineteen I made it with a big biker chick from Detroit in Daytona Beach. She was a big, sturdy girl. Had a Harley tattoo on her chest. Technically, she wasn't the homeliest girl I ever did, but she was certainly the most feral. Hell, you can take a homely girl home to Mama, but not Marlene. She had no redeeming values whatsoever.
The best part? She came through Savannah a week later on her way to Michigan and I did her again. The only public place I could take her was the aquarium at the Oceanographic Institute on Skidaway Island. No way I was taking her to River Street. Even my sordid reputation had a threshold.
Why? Lust. Fear she would beat my ass if I didn't. Genetically encoded perversity. Sick thrills. All of the above. Hell, if I were single I'd probably pop her again tomorrow. I'm loyal like that.
So, I've shared mine. Tell me about yours. I really want to know.
Sama's Deus Ex Culina got mentioned in Forbes as one of the best food blogs. And you can vote for your favorite. Do it now! Or as they say in the Deer Hunter: Didi Mao!
He's currently in second place (behind None of the Above. I guess everybody else considers Moxie a food blog).
Autralian opposition leader Simon Crean was disappointed he was unable to meet President Megawati on his recent trip to Indonesia. Sources say the President was tied up in planning sessions with her new Energy Minister, Redi Kilowati.
Sama is handicapping the next Pope. Well, I don't want to be a pessimist, but the poor pontiff is on his last legs. I'm not Catholic, but he is a personal hero of mine, from his anti-communism to his conservative protection of the Church to his advocacy for the rights of the poor. I think the American scandals have destroyed him with anguish.
I think Rob is right and wrong. Yes, the next Pope will be from the Southern Hemisphere (the "Third World"), but I don't think he will be African. I think he'll be from South America. THAT will be a huge leap for the Church, at any rate. And Rob is also right the next Pope will be conservative. This is a great huge moment in the Church, and how the leaders proceed after the late unpleasantness. We shall see.
My cuz Alicia tells me a missed a classic: Tarantino on the Tonight Show hammered. Sorry I missed it.
I DID see Dean Martin stagger onto the Tonight Show set about, hell, 1980 to 1983? Who knows? He was unscheduled, but Johnny let him on. As an object lesson, I believe. My hero Dino was so shit-faced he couldn't speak. He gibbered, he guffawed, he gesticulated, he grimaced. But he did not speak. Not technically. So sad.
I'm sorry Elia's dead, and to all the people who say "But He Named Names!" I say fuck you. He answered a straight up question truthfully, to the duly-empowered Congress Of the United States of America. Now they call them whistleblowers and give them first run movies and Ecstasy and whores.
If Elia had named the names of Hollywood elites who had been members of the Nazi Party in America in the 1930's they'd be lauding him still. And we weren't at war with Nazi Germany in the 1930's. We were at war with the Communists in the 1930's. We didn't know it, but they did.
I still recall the holier-than-thou pained expression on Nick Nolte's face when they gave Kazan the Lifetime Achievement Oscar, and I can only say
FUCK Nick Nolte.
P.S. Don't give me any shit about the Nazi's, either. My old man killed those cocksuckers, and I lost an uncle in that war.
Well, Madonna's finally got her wish. After years of lobbying to be a Bond Girl, MGM United Artists has agreed to make her a Bond Girl in the next flick. Apparently she's going to play Blofeld's insane mother:
UPDATE: Gee, sorry, that's not Madonna, it's Gloria Swanson, circa Sunset Boulevard. Those two are looking more alike every day.