Lileks's column of 11/21 was a piece of work. He started out right, taking Salam Pax to task for his whiny "Hep Me's":
Hey, Salam? Fuck you. I know you’re the famous giggly blogger who gave us all a riveting view of the inner circle before the war, and thus know more about the situation than I do. Granted. But there’s a picture on the front page of my local paper today: third Minnesotan killed in Iraq. He died doing what you never had the stones to do: pick up a rifle and face the Ba’athists. You owe him.
Let me explain this in simple terms, habibi. You would have spent the rest of your life under Ba’athist rule. You might have gotten some nice architectural commissions to do a house for someone whose aroma was temporarily acceptable to the Tikriti mob. You might have worked your international connections, made it back to Vienna, lived a comfy exile’s life. What’s certain is that none of your pals would ever have gotten rid of that “scary guy without the hideous moustache” (as if his greatest sin was somehow a fashion faux pas) and the Saddam regime would have prospered into the next generation precisely because of people like you. People who would rather have lived their life in low-level fear than change your situation.
I understand; I would have done the same. I’m not brave enough to start a revolution. I wouldn’t have grabbed a gun and charged a palace. I would lived like you. Head down, eyes wary. When the man’s too strong, the man’s too strong.
Okay. The Pax Apology.
I’m sorry I swore. And by “swear” I mean the king-hell effenheimer, which I use maybe once a year on this site. That just shows the power of swearing when you’re not known for swearing – drop the word all the effin’ time and no one fargin’ blinks an eye when you say it for the fiftieth fricken’ time. But it was the only word that really fit what I felt. And I didn’t use it rashly; I’d written that little passage about Mr. Pax the day before, then let it sit to see if that’s how I felt 24 hours later. It was. Les mots juste. What did it get me? Linkage galore, delinkage galore, and even my own Fark thread. (Rule of thumb: if someone give you the HERO tag, it’s only a matter of time before someone insists you get the DUMBASS. Or vice versa.) Nice mail; horrid mail. You’d think I spent every day complaining about commie homersegjuls, Hillary Clinton, and them ragheads over there what needs a gud nukin’. All in all, the sort of thing that just makes me want to shut up and write about Bounty towels. Who needs it?
Acidman has a post up about doing what you don't want to do, because it has to be done. Most of us don't come across those situations often, especially in these days of plenty, when the only real sacrifices are being made half a world away. I've seldom found myself in a situation like that, either, but I can remember once, when I was 18, when I had to put my nuts in my pocket, and face down a little piss-inducing fear.
I spent a couple of years at the Coast Guard Academy. I've blogged before on why I went and why I left, and the Honor System and the corruption of it, but that's another story. This story concerns a sea voyage, and that defining moment in a life when you can either push forward, or shrink back.
The Academy had a square-rigged sailing vessel, the Eagle, that was used to train cadets in seamanship. Built by Hitler in the '30's, the Academy acquired it as a spoil of war. It was truly Old School, with underclassmen sleeping in hammocks, many hours spent hauling on lines, and days spent on sail theory, knot-tying, and, of course, brass-polishing. I spent parts of three summers on it, but the big voyage was the European cruise taken one's second summer.
On the return trip, about 300 miles off New York, we hit a nasty blow, a northeaster, that was churning 20 foot swells, with lacerating rain and following seas. About midnight we lost the main topgallant sail, which is the next to the highest of five sails on the mainmast. As I was on the midwatch on the ready boat crew, it was our job to climb aloft and furl it before it ripped into useless tatters.
There were 12 of us on the crew, and 6 had to go aloft while the remaining six tended the lines. I honestly don't recall if I volunteered or was ordered, but it didn't matter. It had to be done, so I strapped on two safety belts and swung into the rigging. Normally you wore one safety belt to snap onto a yardarm or ratline once you were aloft to prevent, you know, brain damage or broken spines or death if you fell. I took two, because I was scared shitless.
The mainmast on the Eagle is 150 feet tall, which means the topgallant yardarm must have been about 130 feet up. Getting up actually wasn't the scariest part. Climbing out on that yardarm was. Three guys out on each side. I was in the middle of my side. Reefing that torn sail wouldn't have been so bad, even in the storm and the dark and the altitude, but the problem was the yawing. The vessel had headed into the wind, "in irons", to facilitate the repair. This meant you weren't on a tack, heeling over at some degree, but were swaying back and forth. So you might be 130 over the ocean one minute, the you'd yaw over, and you were looking down at ocean from 50 or 60 feet above. Then it would yaw to the other side, so you swung in a huge ripping parabolic arc from one side to the other. All you could do was hang on.
It takes a lot to scare me, but I don't like heights anyway, and I was terrified. It took us about 30 or 40 minutes to reef up that sail and lash it down, and it seemed like 3 hours. When I finally got back on deck my hands felt like they'd been beaten with tire irons, I'd clutched the rigging so hard.
The mast captain could have let that sail shred. There was a spare. It never occurred to him not to save it, and it never occurred to us not to go aloft and do it. I think a lot of "brave" things are just doing what you're trained to do.
I was trying to find an apt picture for Thanksgiving, and my mind drifted to John Waters' 1969 film Mondo Trasho, because I recalled the opening sequence involved a masked executioner in a muddy garbage dump, beheading chickens with a hatchet. Perfect, thinks I. Now, do you think an enterprising boy can find such an image on the Glorious Internet? I reckon not.
It's been many years since I saw that movie, but I remember a toe-sucking fetishist (Acidman, call your attorneys) and the scene where Mary Vivian Pearce gets her feet amputated and replaced with chicken feet. John Waters is a lot of things. Slick is not a word that comes to mind.
Following the foot theme, when I was at Emory there was a freakish jackanape running around Atlanta stomping womens' feet. These were savage attacks, too. He was wearing huge hogpen brogans, and he was seeking out women in high heels, and when he stomped their feet he was crushing arch, bone, everything. He was crippling these women for life. What a sick fuck.
I bring this up because Waters incorporated that character in his 1981 film Polyester. There's no accounting for taste, especially when you don't have any. I can't believe I used to pay money to watch that shit.
I have no choice, and it beats the alternative. Actually, I like getting set for the holidays. Number one, I don't have to string lights on the tree. This is because I REFUSE to string lights on the tree. No tree, even the most expensive silk one, is symmetrical, and I find it annoying. I can work well with my hands, and I have an artistic flair, but stringing lights is an outside the lines endeavor I take no pleasure in whatsoever. I'll hang all the ornaments you want, but I don't do lights.
So The Bride is stringing while I set about my particular task, which is setting up my Christmas village. I really have a Queer Eye streak to me, deep down. I set it up on my grandmother's marble top buffet, and I have a grand house, a church, some villagers, stone fencing (and a My Little Pony! and a wand! and, and some Hello Kitty underwear! and...) and never mind. Indulge me.
Because I will take pleasure in the holidays if it kills me. We'll enjoy Thanksgiving as a nuclear family. My one brother was invited, but bagged out at the last minute. My other brother is spending it with his fiancee. We usually go to Columbus, Georgia, and spend Thanksgiving with my sister, but she's pissed at me for numerous grievances, some imagined, most real, I suspect. Too bad. I liked going to Warm Springs to shop in the Christmas shops for my daughters, and having lunch in Pine Mountain, my father's birthplace, and seeing that fabulous parade of lights at Callaway Gardens whilst sipping a hip flask of brandy. Oh, well. Fuck it. That ain't happening. I may call my other sister in California tomorrow, since I haven't spoken to her in a year. I assume she's still around. Christmas will be more of the same.
I don't mind, really. Spending the holidays with your wife and kids beats hell out of spending it with your extended in-laws. THAT can drive a man to drink.
One final word: The Bride has a theme for the tree that precludes all but the most carefully vetted ornaments. All the old kiddie stuff they made goes on the ancillary tree, yada yada. But. But! I WILL have my Three Stooges ornaments on the tree this year. They are wearing tuxedos, dammit. And that's as high-faluting as you can get with ornaments.
Another damned termite swarming here in the Velocihovel. This one in the guest bedroom. Bastards ate right through the sheetrock. Of course this was discovered at 5:00 the day before Thanksgiving, so there's nothing for it but to tape up the hole and nuke 'em with Raid until Friday morning.
The pisser is, when I had my first swarming 18 months ago I shelled out 1200 bucks for Sentricon and another $400 to have the stucco cut away from the bottom of the house. Now it happens again.
That's the problem with Florida. The whole damned state is one huge, pustulent, quivering, queasy termite bed. It's never a question of If, or even When. It's a question of How Often? Better to catch it at a swarming than when your frigging wall collapses, though. And hey! Massey will fix it for free, and my termite bond's still intact.
for the electric company from me again this year. It's not enough that I pull down the Christmas stuff on Thanksgiving Day so that we can be Merrily Fucking Festive by Friday. NOW The Bride wants this shit up the Wednesday before. I can't win. I did pull it all down today, including the nine foot tree. No, I don't buy a real tree, for the same reason I don't smoke cigars in bed after power drinking. I figure my insurance agent is already trickling his nuthuggers just looking at the Griswold electrical job I do on the outside of the house.
Given my druthers, I'd just make luminaria out of Foster's oil cans, line my driveway, and be done with it. Perhaps add a manger scene peopled with Barbies and GI Joes, with a Pikachu Baby Jesus. That kind of artistic license is not allowed at the Velocihovel, however.
I have to string 3.2 million lights all the way around my house, with animated reindeer in the front AND back yards. The ones in back I originally ordered for the front, but when they arrived they were too small. Looked like nasty little goats, and I didn't want the spirit of my dad getting into an argument with them and snuffing them, so they went in back, for the neighbors across the pond to loathe.
This task takes about 4 good hours, 6 if I crack a few beers first and manage not to slide off the roof. Then I get to go watch my electric meter spin like a slot machine in a Jasper County convenience store. These are icicle lights too, which means the statistical probability that one tiny bulb will burn out, shorting a six foot section of lights, is approximately twice a day.
The culprit bulb will ALWAYS be up near the peak of the roof, so I can climb up there in the dark with a baby Maglite clenched in my teeth, reading glasses perched on my nose, replacement bulbs wedged in my ears, Budweiser in my back pocket, and Fix It. If I can find it. After I've replaced it I'll put the ladder away, then see my cat, Curious Jerkoff, up on the roof. Rinse, repeat daily.
Damn, I love the Holidays.
Move along. As my site hits go up, my comments drop precipitously. THAT is nothing to worry about in and of itself, but it is the business model of a car crash. I have become the road smear of rubberneckers. I like that.
I often use Bibby as a surrogate for the Left in this Nation. You know what I say. Short bus. Three wings short of a bucket. Elevator doesn't stop on the top floor. And in my self-induced rage I've gone a-hunting for a Bibby pic to materialize my selfish anger.
Here's what I found:
This. This. And this.
I'm not so angry anymore. Except, perhaps, at myself.
And Howard Dean, that bastard!
That earlier post on drive-ins got me to laughing about my mother. I have to tell you, Patient Readers, my Mother never bought popcorn at a movie theater. Unto her last days she would smuggle her own Orville Redenbacher's into the show.
Why? Several reasons, I think. One, she preferred her own low salt, low butter variety. Two, she deep down thought that was wasteful shit. She grew up during the Depression, recall, and I honestly don't think she ever had the nickel for the odeon-bought stuff in her childhood, and probably thought, with 800 dollars in her pocket, that $4 for popcorn was obscene. She used to make us kids mule foodstuffs into the drive-in and walk-in as kids. She'd buy us Goobers, or Raisinets, or Dots. But she wouldn't eat them. Strange.
The popcorn thing reminds me of a story: I have a friend (haven't seen him in a few years) who owns a popcorn store on River Street in Savannah. His dad owns one on Hilton Head. Bert and I became good friends, and he told of the time he went to a popcorn industry function (yes, they have them, this would have been late 80's, maybe 1990). Orville was strutting around the scene like a peacock (don't let me go down that path), bragging that he was the King of Corn.
The sad fact is, Orville had just sold out to Pillsbury, or some like minded conglomerate. As Orville was proclaiming he was the King, Bert called his chit.
"You're not the King of Corn, you sell-out cocksucker! I'M THE KING OF CORN!"
I'm told you had to be there, but it was a paradigm shift in the world of variety popped corn. They tell me Bert became a God that night.
Ah, the shit's flying at work with ye olde reorge. The CEO was deposed yesterday, well, reassigned to the parent corp, and the elbowing and shoving is in earnest now. It's like a Lakers game. I wish I could say more, but as you'll notice I've already gone to full pseudonymity here, and I have 6 cars to wash and 3 lawns to mow tomorrow in my mincing attempts to stay relevant. Four more months of this. Could be worse. Those Fran Drescher Old Navy commercials could be scheduled for another 4 months, but Allah willing she'll be dog spoot by December 22nd.
I just heard the commercial:
Wednesday, a Special Queer Eye...
Hell, I thought they were all special. Just like little Bibby taking the short bus to the special needs school with a load of shit in his drawers.
Chisenbop: A method of doing basic arithmetic using your fingers. It is attributed to the Korean tradition, but it is probably extrememly old, as the soroban and abacus use very similar methods. Probably these other devices were derived from finger counting.
Do you remember this? I sure do. I remember being in college, and sitting on the couch, doing my 14th bong hit of the day, watching Another World, wondering what they were doing in class, and watching Fred MacMurray hawking a video teaching this finger counting method. For your kids who were too fucking stupid to count. Video? Did they have those back then? Surely it wasn't 8mm film. And a cassette wouldn't teach you shit, would it? Must've been videotape.
MacMurray, Christ, what are you doing, man? You were a God, dude. Double Indemnity, The Caine Mutiny, The Absent-Minded Professor, hell, we gave you a free ride on My Three Sons.
But Chisenbop? The Russkies are winning the Cold War. It's Armageddon. Better fire up that last bud and call home.
I live in a sea of CD's, all blank. And by blank I mean they're recorded, but are not labeled. My kids burn CD's like I used to do one-hits, and with equal abandon.
I wouldn't care, but they never label them. Some have one song, some have three. Only a few are full of songs, like I burn a CD.
I keep trying to go through the things with a marker, and label them, but I don't know the names of the frigging songs. Once in a while I get lucky. If I hear
All my niggaz they be livin' it up... uh, uh...
And all my bitches they be giving it up... uh, uh...
I'll take a chance and write "Livin' It Up" on the disc. Then my fifteen year old will say "There's my Ja Rule!".
I know the drill. I have to sit down with both girls and go through 150 of these things, and label them. I'm not going to like what I hear. Except for that Ja Rule. That was pretty fucking good, actually. Wish I'd had that at the drive-in.
No, it's not Friday, and therefore technically not time for a Nostalgia, but it's MY Friday, and I set the rules around here, by gum. Well, when the warden is feeling generous, and I've polished her hobnail boots to sufficient shine.
I loved the drive-in as a kid. Who didn't? My mother was always bundling the five of us kids into the station wagon and motoring down the street to the Montgomery Street Drive-In. There was also a drive-in on Victory Drive, and there was drive-in food on the Drive, but that was a luxury due to the fact the Montgomery was so much closer. This was before the days of the fancy Weis Auto Cinema, with it's air-conditioning units. Sheesh. How can a child stroll the pavement and listen to teenagers gump when the windows are all rolled up and the air conditioners are blasting?
Where was my father? Hell, I don't know. Either working late, up in Atlanta because the General Assembly was in session, spree drinking with friends, or chasing tail. He pursued work and pleasure with equal vigor, and results. Listen: he used to have two secretaries, Pat and Reba. Even an eight year old could see the homely Pat was doing all the work, while the dolled-up, sleazy Reba filed her nails. Company jump. Reba stayed on the payroll for about five years before the inevitable "or else". Dad learned an important lesson that day, I tell ya.
Keep 'em out of site, dumbass.
Where was I? Ah, yes, the movin' pitchers. My mother loved horror movies, especially vampire movies, and the sixties were the heyday of Hammer films. All the movies had the same plot: Dracula (Christopher Lee) was back, and Van Helsing (Peter Cushing) had to destroy him. Same sets, same bit actors, except for the buxom British actresses. They rolled them through at a pretty good clip to satisfy Christopher's voracious appetite.
They once flipped the roles, and Cushing played Dracula. Bullshit move. Nobody bought that.
In high school, at that Auto Cinema, it was skin flicks. She-Devils on Wheels, you know what I mean. A girl, a bottle of Mateus, another rejection.
They had a drive-in in Memphis when I lived there. Took the girls to see a dinosaur double-feature. They loved The Flintstones. I asked them if they liked the dinosaurs. They said yes. Then I said you're going to love Jurassic Park! They did not, and Skeeter was about two and a half and kept escaping and running through the pavement, no doubt looking for gumping teenagers.
They have a drive-in here, or did a couple of years ago. Took the kids to see the Rugrats movie. They liked it, but the thrill is somehow gone. The movies suck, I miss the corded speakers you hung off your window, and that wonderful greasy drive-in food gives me the screaming shits.
I'll never go back, unless the kids are away, The Bride wants to get in the back of the Blazer, and they bring back Hammer Films flicks.
I'll make light of a lot of things, including myself, but I won't make light of Warren Spahn, by God. One of the great pitchers of a generation that lost their prime years to WWII, Warren died today. Won a Bronze Star and Purple Heart, Warren did. A beautiful lefty, if you consider baseball pitching beautiful. I do.
363 wins. Boston and Milwaukee Braves pitcher Warren won 20 games 13 times, a hoss of an accomplishment by any standard.
I've always felt Spahn was the reach, the talisman, Greg Maddux strived for. I've also always felt Maddux wanted to fill those shoes. Maddux is closing in on 300 wins. He'll reach it next year.
Greg will make Cooperstown on Ballot One, with 310 to 330.
That record alone says a lot about Warren. Sleep tight, partner.
DC sniper suspect Li'l'Boy Malvo, pictured below, bragged to DC homicide detectives about his role in the infamous DC-area sniper killings:
UPDATE: Sonorous sources have explained to Velociman that it was not "Lee-boy Malvo", but Lee Boyd Malvo, that bragged of the shootings. Velociworld apologizes for the error, and any attendant hatred for ukeleles that accrued therein.
The Lovely Kelley beat me to the "WOO HOO!" post header by some 7 hours. Shame on me for not catching it earlier. Just goes to show you how retarded I am in my blogospherage.
Or, more ominously, perhaps we Middle
Agers Earthers should stop stealing from Generation Dumbfuck D.
Here's a thought: I'll exchange "bitchin" with you Gen D ponyheads for "Woo Hoo", but you must quit shaving your heads and growing goatees. You look like goddam fools. Generation L (Logroller).
I also apologize to Kelley. She's actually Gen X. I just needed source material.
I've been very alarmed at the failure rate of the dogshit M-16 in combat in Iraq, and elsewhere. I'm no weapons expert, but I can remember talk of the poor quality of this weapon since the late sixties. Every story of a Bad Scene in combat always begins, "Well, the cocksucker jammed, and then they tore our asses up with the AK-47's..."
As I say, I'm no expert, but I know the M-16 is like a 5.56mm, or basically a .22 caliber, which is what Acidman shoots cornsnakes with, and if you lose your weapon on the battlefield you can't pick up a NATO member's weapon, because they all use the AK caliber rounds. But please read the Other Kim, The Expert Kim. THIS man has Good Ideas. Rummy, heed. That's the last order I'm giving you tonight.
Whilst posting a comment over at Beth's, on a fine post, I may add, I did what a lot of folks do. I said "Damn! I like that! Why am I wasting that on someone's comments?!"
Just kinda kidding, Beth. The point I was taking was that I was always enamored of Flannery O'Connor's peacocks, and Hunter Thompson's, for that matter, and I've always wanted a couple. I have a fenced-in yard. My question: will my big cat kill these things? They weigh plenty, right? Should scare off the carnivorous bastard, right?
Let me tell you, though. When that cat was about six months old he took out my plastic pink flamingo. Took that clown to Chinatown. Hit it breast high from about six feet away, in a leap for the ages, and they tumbled all the way down the slope to the water. Took two bites of plastic and looked at me and whispered, "Fuck. That hurt."
I don't mind the Marlin Perkins aspect of it. I mind the fact the money wasted on two mating peacocks could have been invested in Mutual of Omaha stock instead.
Anna treats us to a brilliant treatise (or is it a dengue fever nightmare?) on the addictive powers of crocheting. Some strange conflation of compulsion and desire has parboiled her experience down to a bizarre potliquor, indeed. I like it. This could be subtitled Welcome to the Charnel House, or Gunther Contracts Madness in an Indochinese Brothel.
When I grow up I want to write like this.
It seems my Playboy Reunion 2004 post about the New Orleans Club reunion has garnered me a blanket invitation to the 2004 Reunion in Fabulous Las Vegas!!! in my comments section. No mention of a speaking gig, and I'm sure there is no honorarium involved, this invitation being essentially spam, but I'm excited nonetheless.
April 18th and 19th. Now there's a birthday present for a boy. The kicker? The package for the two day event is $365.00, sans airfare of course. I've got frequent flyer miles dripping out of my ass, however, and can surely cough up a few thou for this trip.
Anyone familiar with the Stardust? For that kind of money I'm planning on taking my Raid for the roaches, and cattle prod for the rats. One other problem. I actually believe they think I'm an ex-bunny, which means someone will have to wax my chest and back. I'll hide the packie myself, thanks. And, finally, who's in???
I was thinking about the fact I haven't read Instapundit or Lileks since my IP Nazis decided to blink them at work, and you know what? No big deal. At least I can read Velociworld. That guy fucking rules.
There are movies I haven't seen, as well. I didn't see ET until about 5 years ago. It kinda sucked, to be honest.
Movies I haven't seen:
Titanic - they drown, right?
Powder, or whatever that movie was with the albino.
Ya Ya Sisterhood - fuck it. Chick flick.
Popeye - oops, sorry. Saw it. It sucked real bad.
The Outsider. The whistleblower movie. How about the meatblower movie. Fuck it. Sounds boring.
Finding Nemo - Actually, I saw this. It was called The Little Mermaid.
Monsters, Inc. - One-eyed monster? Ray Harryhausen did it better 30 years ago. Think Sinbad.
Toy Story 2: I regret not seeing this one. I also regret not porking Sally F. in 11th grade. I'll survive.
That's about it.
I used to see lightning bugs ALL the time as a kid. You'd catch them in a Mason jar, and poke holes in the lid, and they'd die anyway, but not before you kept them in your tent as a primitive Coleman lantern for a few hours.
I never see fireflys anymore. I wonder if the Malathion they spray for mosquito control kills them as well? Or have they merely moved to South America, where they can enjoy Carnivale?
I want to know what happened to the lightning bugs. I'm going to put Jack Straw on the case.
I was raised an Episcopalian. This was the result of a nice compromise between my Mother, raised a Southern Baptist in rural Georgia, and my Father, raised a Methodist in Atlanta and Savannah. Actually, this was a decision by my Mother, who became a politician's wife, and felt she needed a more upscale form of Protestantism to sustain the family virtues. That is not meant as a slam on my Mother or the Baptist Church, just an opinion. My Mother truly loved the Episcopal Church, and was smart enough to eschew Christ Church, the Episcopal Church of the bluebloods in Savannah, and join St. John's, a far more beautiful church, but not Uppity. Uppity was a sin to my Mother. St. John's WAS beautiful, though. It's parish house, the Green-Meldrim House, was Sherman's headquarters in Savannah at the end of the March To The Sea. The chimes in St. John's tower were melted down for cannonballs. My Father had the street between the Church and parish house closed off when he was a senator, and bricked over into a nice contemplative gardens area, to make my Mom happy. It kept him out of the doghouse, too.
So my Mother found her True Church in the Anglican Communion. My Father went along because he didn't give a shit one way of the other. He was a C&E'er (Christmas and Easter), and only did that to please his wife. My Father had Issues with Christianity, to be honest. He'd wax eloquent on Saturday night about how the holy communion was symbolic cannibalism, then beat our little asses the next morning when we balked at going to church. I believe his message was "It's Bullshit, but it will make you a better person, and you might go to Hell if it's real. So you'd better believe, you little smartass. Listen to your Mother."
Which rather sums up my position. It's superstition, but not necessarily a bad concept. If you force your society to live by immutable laws against commonly recognized
sins crimes, then vagaries in public opinion won't lead you astray in those times of plenty when worshipping a golden calf or buggering children seem innocuous enough. I also tend to like the theory of Rene Descartes (or was it Blaise Pascal? I can't remember. They were both Frenchmen, however, which means they both wore satin codpieces, so they are of a sort) who posited one must Believe, because if it was true, you were okay, and if it was Not True, no harm done anyway, eh? See, he rationalized it, and I like that.
I've wandered from the topic at hand, not unusual for me. I wanted to speak of Primitive Southern Cracker Religion, because once we moved to the farm it was a tough nut to drive an hour into St. John's every Sunday. So my Mother would take us to a smattering of local churches. I suspect she secretly still pined for the Old Time religion, just as she kept a jar of pickled pig's feet in the back of the refrigerator, hidden behind the martini olives.
Our two options were the Tusculum Primitive Baptist Church, and the Egypt Church of God. They were both very small, and populated by madmen and women, but they didn't bite. Foamed on occasion, but I never saw them bite. They also lacked air-conditioning, whcih meant you fanned yourselves with cardboard fans from the local funeral director.
Tusculum was actually the more upscale of the two, in that they actually held communion, albeit with Welch's Grape Juice instead of wine (dry county). I've always found it amusing that these people took the Bible so literally they would scream at you if you thought the earth was older than 5,672 years, but didn't take the Bible literally when it came to wine. The Tusculum crowd was alright, just not what I was raised with. They'd shudder when you told them you were baptised as an infant and confirmed in an Episcopal church. That was akin to being a fucking Papist, only without the world hegemony.
The Egypt crowd was tough. Baptism and communion meant nothing to them. You had to be SAVED, saved in the eyes of the crowd and God, and Fully Immersed. I spent the night with a friend of mine once. His father had a regular job, but was known as a Blue Light, which meant Smokey was recognized as a man of the Word, and could preach, prosyletize, or speak in tongues at these churches as the mood grabbed him. When I was 11 I spent the night with his son, and Smokey told me Episcopal baptism and communion were heresy, and bullshit, and made me let him Save me before I could go to bed that night. I told my Mother about it the next day when she picked me up and she just laughed. I didn't think it was funny for shit.
A little speaking in tongues from these folk, but no snake handling or strychnine drinking. We were flatlanders. They save that stuff for the mountains. To this day, though, I ponder those fundamentalists. They were strict and bigoted and tight-assed as hell, but they never taught us in Sunday School to blow ourselves up to kill Muslims or Jews. Nope. They even let us sing "Jesus Loves The Little Children". You know the song. The one with different colored chirrens in it. They were good people, just working through the belief set they inherited. The South is strange, and Southern religion is stranger indeed.
Fortunately, I've always been able to multi-task, and could keep my Mom happy on the religion front while developing my own religion around one Hugh Hefner.
One final thought. My Mother passed away four years ago, and I've only recently had the stomach to go through her writings, for she did write. I found a short story she'd written, an autobiographical piece she'd shared with me as a kid, and I'd forgotten, about her black playmate as a child. It seems she'd always considered him a good playmate for a nigger, but couldn't believe his wild tales of his importance in his community for such a small child, until she snuck into the balcony of his church one Sunday, and realized he was the crucifer of his church. So for all my knowledge of the white Southern Cracker religious experience, I understand the Black Southern Church is an entity which I am totally ill-equipped to describe.
Forty years. It's a long time. I was six, in Mrs. Schunamann's first grade class at Heard Elementary. A teacher came in and told us the President had been shot, and school was dismissed. A lot of teachers were weeping in the hallways. My best friend David Mallory and I went to the bike racks, and as we were saddling up I remember saying "I don't know why everybody's making a big deal out of this. My daddy says Kennedy was a son-of-a-bitch." Six years old, and cussing like that. I don't know why I said that, other than it made me feel better that something bad hadn't happened to a good person. Supposedly my dad and his partner, John Calhoun, shut down their law office that day and threw a party. That seems a little hardcore in retrospect, even for the old man, but I don't entirely dismiss it from the realm of possibility.
My only other real recollection of JFK was a year or so earlier. We were staying at my aunt's apartment in Waycross. The adults had gone out apartying, and left us kids to fend for ourselves. I hated that musty old apartment, and was terrified of my aunt, and remember thumbing through a magazine. It was Time, or Newsweek, or something. I don't recall. I don't even think I could read yet. On the cover was JFK and Alfred E. Newman. Alfred's "What, Me Worry?" character represented some kind of bad news for the President, because he was holding his head in his hands like he had a migraine, and was grimacing. Could've been the Cuban Missile Crisis. I KNEW who Alfred E. Newman was, but I didn't know what pissing match he was into with the President. I just remember that cover scared me.
I've looked for a copy of that magazine cover for years, but can't find it. I wonder what it meant.
I think I have this figured out. Ohio State loses to Michigan. LSU beats Ole Miss and gets a trip to the SEC championship. Dogs beat Kentucky, when a Blue Moon rises. UCLA beats USC. The Dogs beat LSU in the SEC championship, and now become a team with not 2 losses, but 1.5 losses, because they beat the team they lost to earlier, and win a trip to N'awlins. Swine fly out of my ass. Bobby Bowden passes a kidney stone in the exact shape of Britney Spears's fourth vertebrae. Georgia beats Oklahoma in the Sugar Bowl 13-6, with David Pollack recording 7 sacks, one returned to the 12, setting up the game-winning field goal.
I don't know what I've been worrying about .
This thing is in the bag!
With the gay themes that have been running through my blog for the last two days, for whatever reason (bad feng shui in the Batcave?) I have to break down and weigh in on the MJ situation.
Number One: I find Jackson to be a disgusting, narcissistic, pampered freak, who has destroyed himself with plastic surgery. I also think MJ was a much better dancer than musician/singer, a lucky bit of coincidence that propelled him to great heights, fame, and riches. I don't care for his work or his dancing.
Number Two: I think the man has a very naive view of the world, having been able to shelter himself from life's vagaries and realities from a very early age.
Number Three: I tend to agree with this assessment of "sleeping with boys" to a large extent. I believe Jackson was sleeping with and pampering these boys, but I don't think he was molesting them, or fucking them, or anything else. I actually think he put boys in his bed instead of girls to avoid that very charge.
Number Four: I believe the family of the first kid, the $20 million kid, put their child in that situation intentionally to shake down the deep pockets of a naive freak. I think the family of this latest kid were doing the same thing, but from what I understand, this kid spilled something to a therapist (part of the plan) but the therapist went to The Law, and it was out of everybody's hands at that point. Shakedown screwed, you'll have to get your money later in a civil suit. Or maybe THAT was the strategy all along. We all learned from OJ (guilty fucker that he is) that a high profile criminal trial can lead to big bucks at the civil court.
Perhaps Michael had successfully foiled enough civil attempts at extortion that these particular fucks figured it was a better bet to get him arrested.
I don't trust anyone. Especially parents who would willingly put their kids in Jackson's care, knowing what everyone says about him.
I don't think Jackson is stupid enough to do this sort of thing.
Is Jackson gay? Is he a pedophile? Shit, man, I don't think he's grown up enough yet to even think about it.
I may be wrong. Way wrong. But I usually follow the money in these things. Greed is the best barometer I've ever found to gauge the atmosphere of the human psyche.
I'm working on a vast, king-hell linkorgy, I swear I am, I'm just waiting on you folks to
get off your lazy asses and post something worthwhile put up your Friday best.
Damn, I just realized that's two posts with YMCA's referenced in them tonight. The first was gratuitous, the second fortuitous. I'm beginning to worry that Stiles post has done something to me.
And another thing: ever go to a baseball game and watch the little boys boogie to the song, replete with arm signals? Man, I always want to go take those lads aside and explain a few things to them. The only time I've ever been in a Y was when I took my scuba lessons when I was 15, and I didn't use the showers.
On this, the 40th anniversary of Kennedy's assassination, my thoughts turn to LBJ. If he hadn't had Kennedy killed, he would have had to kill someone else out of pure frustration. Who do you think LBJ would have killed? I'm guessing Walter Jenkins. That whole DC YMCA dick sucking thing was very embarrassing to the Prez. Think I'm kidding about Johnson? Here's a picture of LBJ giving the grassy knoll gunman, who'd been on Lyndon's payroll since 1958, the "shoot" sign at opening day at Griffith Stadium in 1961. With no clear shot, and the entire stadium looking at either the gunman or a foul pop, Gunman X was forced to wait two and a half years to pop the shot:
I'm going to have to cut some Velocifambly ass if these women don't quit leaving their hair in the kitchen sink. I don't care if they shampoo their lovely tresses in the sink, all women do, but clean the freaking trap when you're done. I actually use that sink for cooking.
Which brings to my point. Women shampoo in the kitchen sink because they bathe instead of shower, and can't get their heads under that tub spigot. And why do they bathe instead of shower? Beats the hell out of me. You can't get pregnant from a shower stall, although at the 47th Street Y you can get some pretty funky lichen growing between your toes.
Here's my take: when I cleanse I do so because I am dirty. I might not be able to see it, but I'm dirty. So why do I want to loll around in the filth I've just taken pains to slough off my body? That's sick. I want that shit going right down the drain. When you bathe, all that dirt and dead skin cells and whatever else you're attempting to remove just float around the tub, and when you get out it's still on you, only rearranged, and plastered to you with old soap. That's why a woman's towel is nastier than a man's (unless he cut a wet fart getting out of the shower). She has to scrape off the dirty soap film with the towel. I'll bet Heidi Klum's towels are filthy, for example.
No, down the drain with that crap. And another thing: how do you put a Shower Massage to your nutsack in a bathtub? I rest my case.
For you fellows who felt a twinge in your britches over the Stiles post, allow me to give you a little Betty Page, in a most compromising position:
Feel better now? I know I do.
Stiles was the first gay person I ever knew, or at least the first gay person I knew after I knew what a gay person was. I was about twelve. Stiles had a thing for me, but I don't want to get ahead of my story (I count three grim double entendres there, and I wasn't even trying to do it - shit, make that four).
Stiles lived down the road from our modest summer cottage in Bluffton, in a picturesque area called, alternately, Brighton Beach or Alljoy. This would have been about a mile down the road from Simone Griffeth's. It had a beach, and was salt water, but it was on a river, actually.
Stiles' parents had a big plantation in Aiken, South Carolina, and as was the wont in those days paid Stiles handsomely to stay the hell away so as not to embarrass them in their smallish town with their high social standing. So he ensconced himself in a very nice house on the river, with a bit of beach in front, but close enough to the public boat ramp so he could check out the eye candy.
My old man met Stiles through a neighbor of ours, Bill, a great big bear of a man who worked for the Corps of Engineers. Now this might seem like an unlikely trio, but it worked somehow. Stiles (mid-twenties), Dad (mid-forties), and Bill (late thirties) had a mutual affinity for going out in Dad's boat and drinking liquor and fishing. I DO believe the affinity ended there, although I will not vouchsafe for Bill. I MUST vouchsafe for the old man, because to do otherwise would raise more issues than I am prepared to deal with over the next thirty years.
So you could hang out in Stiles' yard and hear them out in the river, with Stiles yelling, in his effeminate Southern drawl, "Dranking Suthin Comfit from a Dixie Cup! It don't GET anymore Suthin than thayut!" As I say, a bonding fellowship.
Stiles always had other young men hanging around, and sometimes girls. Since his "cousins" were late teens, early twenties, I didn't mind hanging around for the girls. I was fascinated by hippie girls with sweet unholstered tits. Stiles also threw parties. Big parties, and the family was often invited. Bacchanal would be too strong a description for what went on in the public parts of the house, but they were pretty damned wild for me. This would be about 1969, so my little nostrils would try to sort out the difference between weed and incense, wine and piss. I don't think my mom cared too much for these scenes, especially with two teenage daughters in tow, but she was too much the lady to offend Stiles.
I must digress here to remind you that at that age I was formulating my own Playboy Philosophy. I used to mock the kids at school who brought cheap whack books for a nickel a peek. My old man had had a subscription to Playboy since about 1964, and the mailman would deliver it in the ubiquitous brown wrapper, and dad didn't care where he stuffed them after he was finished with them. Then he'd walk around swinging his huge chrome Playboy Club key on its ballchain, and whistle like a Zoot Suiter on Shakedown Street. And as I was refining my self-abuse technique, and developing my measurements of the perfect babe (36-24-36, just like they build them now), I was also reading these things from cover to cover, and absorbing Hef's worldview. Yes, at twelve I wanted to be an attorney with a mod haircut with stylish long sideburns, like Barry Newman in The Lawyer, single with plenty of cash in my pocket to buy those neckerchief ties and $400 Italian bicycles and Maseratis, and get laid, laid, laid! So that's where I was, and Stiles had the game.
Oh, he had the game. In a closet, because he was discreet for the times, he had a statue fountain named Boy. You've seen these things. A cherubic child with the water pouring out of his stubby little pecker. I never had, though. Stiles would fill the fountain with wine or sangria for a party, and you'd open the door and fill your glass from this cherub's dinkie. Even Mom liked Boy.
So, as I said, Stiles had a thing for me. He'd walk up to me at one of his parties and hand me a drink, and say I made you a special Coke, Kim. I'd take it out by the river and drink it in the hammock. After about three parties it dawned on me they were weak rum and cokes. So I'd get mellow out by the hammock until Stiles couldn't find me, and I could hear him scream over the noise, and voices, and rock and roll, "Kayumm!!! Kayumm!!" in that Aiken drawl. And I'd go back inside for another rum and coke.
Stiles had the Playboy Philosophy down cold, except for the homosexual part. Hef never went down that path. But I just knew Stiles was into Hef, and I liked those young girls with their pert nipples poking through their halter tops.
Someone, I think my mom, finally explained to me exactly how Stiles was different. Damn. Never went back there. I think she also made dad understand he was inadvertently using his kid for queer bait.
I'll tell you what, though. Gay or straight, that fucker had life by the balls. Of course, if your rich parents pay you to stay away, you can indulge those fancies.
And I won't say Stiles was a pederast. Never laid a hand on me. Never tried to. Just took a shine to me. Not a crime. Except in 1969 South Carolina. The important thing was I was disabused of some heady notions I was formulating at the time, and gained an understanding of how the real world worked.
I go to the Heritage/MCI Classic (whatever it's called now) every year on Hilton Head, and I go via Bluffton and its speedtraps instead of Hardeeville, just because. I think about old Stiles, and wonder if he's alive, or if the AIDS got him. My dream? Before I die, I'd like to live that damned carefree, and that fucking cool. But if you're not 25 and unattached, it really doesn't matter anymore, does it?
Jeez, my new title on Acidman's blogroll almost makes me feel bad about this. And this. But not really.
Gut Man and I share a mutual disdain for regrets, and besides, he started it. But he was gentleman enough to finish it. I'm guessing. It might be short for Velocigoddampaininmyass. Or it might be Velocifuckface next week. That's cool. As long as the o and the i aren't transposed.
in my blogsite, that is. A complaint of inability to comment. Anyone else having that problem? I'm used to inability to desire to comment, so hold that thought. Meaningful feedback only.
UPDATE: For the learning impaired: Use the e-mail link.
I saw a woman on Fox tonight (activist? expert opiner? I'm not sure. I really wasn't paying attention) named Linda Stasi. Stasi. Damn. I wonder if that's a married name?
Maybe she has sisters, too. Brenda Savak and Glenda Gestapo.
I'd change that name.
One more thing: how do you suppose the Germans in the Russian-occupied zone, who'd fought the Red Army on the Eastern Front to the death, in Leningrad, Moscow, and Stalingrad, ended up being the most fervent Soviet puppets in the world? Maybe because they were the only ones who weren't butchered at war's end, I suppose.
But that only explains the survival aspect of it, not the utter embrace of it. Think about it. After all that, becoming the Soviets' bootlicking minions. Fucking A.
I do not like this cinema Cat,
I do not like him 'cause he's Fat.
The Cat I know was very Thin,
And smelled of somewhat cheaper Gin.
So who, besides this Myers, Mike?
Or played on stage by Rosie, Dyke?
I wanted someone sallow and Wry,
Who'd make those children start to Cry.
Unleashing furies Things Two and One,
Just for a bit of twisted Fun.
I know that there was little Chance,
But I was keen on Henricksen, Lance.
Ever get that sharp pain behind your navel, the one that feels like somebody's trying to push an icepick through it and pin it to your spine? WTF is THAT all about?
No? Perhaps I will be famous after all. In the New England Journal of Medicine.
Remember my post on the
Ass Hat Society Red Hat Society? Well, the book's out. I know what I'm giving for Christmas.
Just reading the synopsis made my ass hurt. The only thing worse than a Chick Flick is a Bloated Bag Book.
Way back when in Guyton, when I was a Cub Scout, I was really excited when I was old enough to become a Boy Scout. I never did, because the older boys told me the initiation was to have the scoutmaster, Lonnie Nease, suck my willie. Now, those boys could have been kidding, but the way they described their own initiations sounded a little too real to me.
For the record, Lonnie was married with two pretty high school daughters, and owned the nice gas station in town. Stranger things have happened, though. I know. I've seen them.
And consider: my old man never patronized Lonnie's nice service station. He always went to Mack's Grease Pit 'n' Fule around the corner, he of the enormous rupture. So maybe dad knew something about Lonnie, or maybe he just liked to freak my sisters out by making them look at Mack's sweetmeats engorging his nutsack while he gassed our car.
You could never be too sure with the old man.
One of my favorite bloggers, Jeff at 15October, is not only a fellow Jaxer, he actually lives in my neighorhood! Literally a good non-slicing drive away. I'm going to have to get together with him, as I so seldom get to meet good bloggers face to face. He might even want to get in on that Gatornationals thing.
I leapt out of bed at 4:30 AM this morning when the kitten jumped on my head. I'd been dreaming I was in a circumspect motel room for some nefarious purpose, the central thrust of which I am still uncertain, and being bitten by indignant fleas. The cat pounce simply brought the whole scenario crashing down.
I was at work at 6:00, thinking "what the hell just happened to my morning?"
It is wearisome and depressing to have the almost daily litany of American soldiers slain or otherwise killed in combat splashed across the airwaves and print. All are painful, but they are sacrifices in a just and noble cause.
So why can't we get a daily scumfucker body count? How many of the enemy have we killed in these two wars, anyway? 15,000? 45,000? I want to know. I'm putting Risk pieces in my little scales of justice here, and would like to use a scoop to shovel in the casualties we have inflicted in, to cop a term from the jihadists, righteous wrath.
At least during Vietnam they'd give an enemy body count. Of course I was young and naive, and didn't realize they were lying; U.S. losses - 53, Enemy losses - 8,675 should have triggered a little skepticism, even in a youngster.
But that's about the reality in the War on Terror. And we SHOULD KNOW THAT. I don't believe in hiding losses of Americans, or even refusing to show flag-draped coffins. People need to understand the butcher's bill of war, and acknowledge the blood spilled for us by, let's be honest, our betters. But give me the whole story. I figure one in every thousand Muslims is an Islamist, so I want to keep track, even if it goes to a million.
We're too nice to do that, though. That would be bloodthirsty gloating. Oh, and it'd let the world know we're kicking the piss out of these vermin. Can't have that. People might support the War. Surely can't have that.
And I wish we'd quit using their term for killing a poor child because her uncle or brother raped her. That's not an "honor killing". That's fucking bullshit. An honor killing is when an American soldier or Marine busts a cap in a fucking jihadi.
It doesn't have to be that accurate, by the way. I understand bunker-busters and tank-killers don't leave much behind. But I'll round up, if necessary. I have to count to a million, anyway, so a few here and there won't matter.
My daughters' kitten has been licking her chops for the gimp parakeet for a year now. She's actually pulled the cage over a couple of times, but fate and my daughters intervened to preclude disaster.
The old tom wanted that bird at one time, too, but he's lost interest, preferring the fatter species of bird to be found in the back yard, corpulent on my avian granary, too fat to fly.
I don't care for the gimp anyway, and would like to make her free range. If you consider the environs of the Bat Cave free range. Let nature take its course.
Query: how do I sell this natural phenomenon to the kids? I'd just feed the bird to the cat, given my druthers, but that takes all the sport, and fairness, out of it.
God this is bad stuff. I wrote it in my early twenties, and it drips with Heavy Influence. The Herb Faulkner, or something. A snippet from a novella about drug smuggling and redemption in the South, which I share with you because I am beyond the embarrassment of the thing, and can laugh now. The original work was called, alternately, Ray's Playhouse and the Bacchus of Sandfly, depending on the whack mag I was submitting it to:
"Do you remember the last shark hunt?" They were reminescing.
"I do, said Russo. "The last one."
"Likely to be the last one ever," Bayer averred. "It was more than a hunt. More even than a last hunt. I don't know about you others, but that long blistering day that seemed to last forever has become more than a faded memory to me. Somewhere that afternoon we crossed the Equator, so to speak. It was a rite of passage. That illative moment when you realize you can no longer go back to the way it was before even if you wished to, because the line was crossed before you, any of us, realized it."
"It was Van," Russo said. "It was his fault."
"No. No fault to be laid on any one of us, least of all that asshole. It just happened."
It was a full moon wen we left. Still high enough to see the markers without the running lights. We had sardines and deviled eggs and bourbon for breakfast. You and me and Van and Rabago. We cut through Runaway Negro Creek and were at Hell's Gate by sunrise. By eleven o'clock we were twenty miles out, knifing through the ocean swells in Rabago's dope boat like Visigoths with swollen groins. And when we hit the Gulf Stream we were ready. You and I rigged the lines while Van ladled chum and Rabago got his bearings, cutting the swells at the perfect angle and watching the birds and currents for the prey with his mariner's eye. I remember the chum so vividly. A potent, stinking pile of guts he had fetched from the slaughterhouse. He ladled with his hand, and when he thought we weren't looking licked his fingers.
And then the mackerel hit and we laughed and cried "Further!" and headed out to the banks, you and I taking turns shooting each other's macks as we reeled them in, and not at trolling speed either but full tilt, and Rabago looking on in disgust. "Where's Van?" somebody asked. Down below, said another, with the trim. And it's a train? you asked and Rabago said we came to hunt shark and we're here now and I said nothing. We looked through the plasticine windows of the prow and there was Van, locked in love, ass-up, and plenty of noise and we became embarrassed and Rabago came down from the tuna tower and said to Hell with you both we came to fish and I said yes we did and you said yes we did and we left to catch shark me ladling the chum now.
Around three we heard the screams. You had that big bastard lemon on the line and I was readying the gaff. Rabago came down the stairs soundlesly, buttoning his frayed madras shirt, and you said fuck the shit, let him drag, and the sun was so hot and beautiful, scorching my bare back already burned, and Rabago burst the door open and we gaped.
She lay wraithlike, lacerated and tainted, bound to the bunk by a span of anchor line. Van Hedges held the object in his hand. He turned and proffered it. "Your turn." And then Rabago had hit him once, a coldcocking blow, and we untied her and poured bourbon on the wounds to cleanse them, her screaming, Rabago cursing, and the lemon still bouncing and slapping the surface, a degraded sacrificial beast.
A bad end for a young man this morning. I came upon a wreck a couple of miles from the house. Seems a guy on a motorcycle was speeding over the Julington Creek Bridge and ran into the back of a tractor-trailer cab. He got hung up on the cab and was dragged 40 or 50 yards before the driver could stop.
One came upon the bike first, about halfway across the bridge. A Suzuki rice rocket, shattered into pieces. Then came the tractor cab. There was so much blood pouring out from underneath I thought the fuel tank had ruptured, until I saw the body on the other side of the truck. In fact, state troopers had deployed a fuel spill boom to contain it. Just horrific.
It transpired this guy was speeding, and weaving in and out of traffic, and not wearing a helmet. Still, nobody, nobody, deserves that sad fate. One can only hope he never felt a thing.
Sweetums turns 16 in 4 weeks, so I'm in the market for a vehicle. Any recommendations? I'm thinking low-horsepower V-6, but that leaves the field wide open. Of course my self-centered little brother just dropped his Lexus for a mere 17 grand when he flipped for a Toureg, but, HEY! I don't mind you not thinking about me. Putz.
I always wanted to get my oldest a convertible BMW, or Range Rover, when she turned 16. That ain't going to happen, unless she wants a junkyard chassis. There ARE some good options out there, though.
My focus is on dependability. Safety second. Sex quotient is a distant third. My tiny knot of readers are, if nothing else, way fucking smart. Turn me on to a few options, folks.
I SO did not want to go down this path, but, as the wounded bank robber said in Dirty Harry, "I gots to know".
Am I the only person who has been so passionate in his lovemaking that he's awoken the morning after with two red chafe strips on the corners of his lower lip? The kind you have to use your wife's makeup to cover because you can't go into the Monday morning staff meeting looking like you've been, well, Up To Something?
Familiarity does, indeed, breed contempt, and spastic lovemaking produces pussy fangs. Feel free to comment, or not.
And for what it's worth, this is the only post I've ever put up that I had vetted by the War Department, aka The Bride. It somehow seemed appropriate.
I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: 'O Lord, make my enemies ridiculous.' And God granted it.
Time is not one's enemy. It is the enemy of one's vanity, however. I was pondering this fact as I watched the Andy Griffith reunion on television the other night (yes, I watch these things. I can't not watch an Andy Griffith reunion).
Andy Griffith just isn't the same character since his eye job. Now those soulful, droopy eyes are bright, sparkly eyes, signifying a perpetual smile. It just ain't right, damn it. Something was lost in the translation, and I'm the poorer for itl.
The worst eye job of all was Jack Lemmon's. Those basset hound googlers were the most expressive eyes in the history of cinema. He could evoke bathos, fear, and tenderness with a mere crinkle. Now he looks like a grinning skull. I don't see how the man blinks. What a fucking shame.
I realize the upper eyelid droop can actually impede vision, and become a serious pain in the ass, but these guys went beyond the pale. Sad stuff.
I may be speaking out of turn, and heading to the surgeon de plastique myself one day, but I can't see that happening. I like the lines on my face. They aren't flattering, but they tell a story. I like that story.
Oh, for sure, I occasionally grimace at my past, and remembrance can be a callous mistress, but I don't regret a damned minute of it. A person who regrets their past hasn't learned how to live yet, and will never enjoy their future.
I have a story for every line, and a dream for the ones still abirthing.
Oscar Wilde said "I can resist everything but temptation". I would add I can appreciate nothing but what I've rued.
One final comment, apropos of nothing: men have two recollections of their youth: the times they went too far with a girl, and got rebuked and shamed, and the times they didn't go far enough, and missed out on a wonderful time. Which of these recollections, do you suppose, absorbs a man later in life? Regret nothing, but it's okay to rue the missed opportunities.
Thalmia is obviously making sex romp videos with Shannon's ex. Calliope moved to Starke, where she is cruelly toying with anti-death penalty activists. Erato has been jerking my chain for years. Feels good, but there's little output, if you know what I mean. Clio, Euterpe, Terpsichore, and Polyhymnia are banned from Velociworld for personal reasons, although Clio gets a pass on Nostalgia nights. Urania is an air-head.
That leaves Melpomene, my great go-to gal, and she's in a worse funk than me.
after I ran across this Prison Flicks website. With an entire section on Women in Prison, it affirms the site author's fine taste. Sayeth he:
I think it was Thoreau who said, "the soul of man exists in the contemplation of the nature of women behind bars." Or something like that. Who knows?
I just wanted Ronnie up for a while. Solo would approve.
Eric brings us the sad news that Penthouse magazine is folding its pages, just months after Screw went down.
When I was a lad you could benchmark the whackbooks thusly:
Playboy: the girl bared everything but her crotch.
Penthouse: the girl showed her crotch.
Hustler: the girl fingered her crotch.
Screw: the girl placed a foreign object in her crotch. Then she showed you her anus.
Now you can go on the internet and watch a girl with a strap-on hedgehog a peccary while chugging a glass of penguin urine. How do you compete with that kind of consumer targeting?
Just like the Democratic Party, pornography has become such a conglomeration of granular self-interested fetishes that you can't please a magazine circulation of any size. Everybody wants their own particular kink represented. The onanists don't want to look at the leather freaks, and the bullwhippers could care less about the fecalarians. None of them wants to hang with the homobestialists.
Hello. I think I'm onto something here. How about a magazine that's divided into 10 or so different sections, each with a particular perversion? That's cross-marketing on a scale I can appreciate. Terry McAuliffe could be the publisher. You could call it, I don't know, Velociworld or something.
And a pouch? Rita Cosby looks kinda like a possum. A possum I would boink. What the hell does that say about me? More importantly, what does it say about Rita? That, in my opinion, is simply gratuitous abuse of plastic surgery.
Got Damn! Did you see that Drudge pic of Wynonna after her DUI arrest? Christalmighty. I thought it was Anthony Zerbe in drag.
An appropriate aside: in the course of my Zerbe background check I discovered something about Tony I'd never known, despite being a fan for years: he was the fucking leper in Papillon! THAT fact presages a confluence of Zen, karma, biorythms, and EST self-actualization that just might Shake The Foundations of all we know.
Now it gets creepy: you know what else? Zerbe was totally into EST.
Ohhh, shit. Heaven's Gate was right. They just had the wrong comet.
The Beloved Employer made the top of the fold again today. It seems they spent a million dollars for Super Bowl tickets at Alltell Stadium for the 2005 game (I say, again, I don't do Roman numerals. Nor do I do cuneiform or hieroglyphics. They're all dead dogshit forms of communication. If I want to discuss a long-legged wading bird I'll fucking write "long-legged wading bird". For the record I believe it's Super Bowl XXXXVIIVIXXII).
I wander. So a Disgruntled Employee called the junior business writer at the local menstroplug and Spilled The Beans on this millie. "And they're laying off a thousand loyal workers while they spend this money!" quoth the DE. "It's just not right!"
Neither is life, fucktool. Get used to it. That million was committed three years ago to Get The Bowl Deal. It's called Corporate Citizenship. And in the grand scheme of things it's a pimple on the organizational ass.
I feel for the newbie writer, and the editor that let that non-event make the fold. Unless there's a dead body, or the CEO gets popped soliciting ho's on Phillips Highway (that was Modis! Not us!) there's a good ole boy network that turns a blind eye to certain things. And this was not a "certain thing". It was just a business decision that wouldn't rate a yawn any other day.
How do I sound? Pretty good, huh? I've been practicing my Subservient Eunuch posture all week. I think it's paying off. Besides, if you want to pick a fight, what about that new $2 million hangar for the corporate jets? Now that's a story.
I did not say that! I did not say that!
Like my new mascot, courtesy of Chuck Jones? He's a chickenhawk, and pound for pound can whip the living shit out of anything in his path, including
Ted Kennedy Foghorn Leghorn.
I have a juice glass from the seventies that somehow made it through multiple moves and upheavals. It has Henery running with a huge chicken egg, and it says, appropriately enough, "Henery Steals An Egg!" I have no idea where it came from, but I only drink tequila shots out of it, which happens about once a year. It's a respect thing.
I like having my computer station in the Bat Cave. I can do my thing here. Anyone else in the family can, too. However, on the other side of the wall I have a butler pantry with a shitty counter top that is perfect for a kitchen workstation. The counter top is too narrow as installed, but the space itself is huge, and perfect for a workstation with a better counter top. I could run my cable through the wall and have a sweet setup just off the kitchen.
I'd lose that Bat Cave privacy, though. No blogging with a 27-inch TV, stereo, DVD player, library... damn.
The trade-off? I could put this in:
Shit. Dry saunas rock. I got spoiled on them in college, when Uncle Sam provided a seldom-used 1935 spa for my use. What to do?
Option 3: Save that remodeling money and go to Cabo San Lucas. Spend it on bails and bribes. That is what God made money for in the first place, until we all got wussified, and scared of little inconveniences like spending a month or two in a Mexican jail. Our ancestors were made of sterner stuff, I tell you.
I have a multimillion dollar technology group at work. Nay, let me correct that statement. I have a multimillion dollar profit-driven Technology Corporation imbedded within my company, which means I have access to the Best Technology money can buy, only they're too fucking expensive, so we can never afford our tech needs, we aren't allowed to outsource it, and our projects get scuttled, and thrown onto the dung heap of history. Nice fucking brochures, though.
Why do I mention this? Because I don't get one porn spam e-mail at home, where I have no filters in place, yet at work, with my multimillion dollar Technology Corporation behind me, I have to spend ten to fifteen minutes every morning clearing spam from my e-mail, mostly porn spam. Dudes, I don't need Viagra. I need a pill to keep it down. I don't need an enlarged member, because the one I have is in lock-up and I can't afford the per-inch monthly storage as it is.
The only spam I get at home, and that's my own fault for buying my tickets online, proclaims
The Mahaffey Theater Foundation proudly presents...SPYRO GYRA
I don't need this shit either. I've seen Spyro Gyra, and it looks like this:
Oops. My bad. That's a SPIROCHETE. Not to worry, though. That's merely a Lyme Disease Spirochete, not that nasty Syphilis one. You can touch your keyboards again.
Flynt says he has nude pics of Jessica Lynch a rompin' around nekkid with boyz. Out of compassion for her, however, he will not publish the pictures. Plus the fact that she's a pawn of the Bush Killing Machine.
Translation: I paid big bucks for these pictures, and I'm gonna whack off to them and you can't. And I don't care about Jessica Lynch or I wouldn't have told you I had them in the first place. It's all about ME, you fuckwads. Life is sweet.
My take? Lay off Larry. He paid for them. She let them be taken. Have at it, if you can, big boy. It's the American Dream.
It's generally a good thing, I think, to be intimately connected to the story on the top fold of the front page. No publicity is bad publicity, right?
Unless of course you were behind the wheel of that hit and run that left that toddler dead and your Jim Beam bottle smashed, or you were caught up in that dragnet at the mens' public restrooms at the boat ramp, and your wife/boss had to bail you out for aggravated sodomy, or you're a participant in 1,000 layoffs.
This will take four months or so. It will be painful and brutal, especially if I am one of the anointed. A thousand out of 5,000 non-union people. I'm calling it the New 1 In 5 Plan, because I think that sounds snappy, and pisses my boss off without infuriating him (he, of course, is also a reluctant participant in the New 1 In 5 Plan). But I ride my luck and talent and hope I bring value to the org, because I can't rely on being a suck ass, but that's okay because I'm known for that fact, and because I have survived a dozen of these, but only a couple this heavy duty. The severance isn't bad, and my modest pension would be intact, way down yonder when I'm 58, but I'm not quite ready to buy my four hot dog stands at the beach yet, and I'm worried I'd burn through my severance interviewing bikini babes to staff them.
So I'll shut my pie hole, and ride another Mad Wave.
More and more people are beginning to eschew W's blandishments of "Islam Is A Religion Of Peace", and "We Are Not At War With The Muslim People" because, frankly, they know that's bullshit. There are 1.2 billion Muslims out there with their fingers crossed the Islamofascists succeed in beating us back from the doors of the Middle East. I know this because 0.0 billion Muslims have spoken out against the Holy War. I retract that. I think there are 3, but Cat Stevens isn't one of them.
A Crusade, though? Not to me. God does not represent me in this war. I'm represented by my determination to keep these Stone Age cocksuckers out of my face. Thanks to the hard work of my forebears, and my own efforts, I have a pretty good life, and will frag the living shit out of anybody who fucks with it.
This means if the billion plus Muslims out there refuse to differentiate themselves from the Terror Masters I will have no choice but to lump them all together. Does this mean I might discriminate against them in the grocery store line, or call them hurtful names? Nope. It means I'll fucking cold smoke them if I feel threatened, and unfortunately I'm starting to feel a little threatened lately, what with them killing my neighbors.
Step up to the plate, and be counted, Musselmen. Choose a side. It's all I ask.
I've spent a good bit of time on Ebay over the last few years, picking up a few pieces of silver and china to fill out my sets. I don't know why. I'm a paper plate and plastic cup kind of guy, and never pull this stuff out on the best of occasions. Perhaps it's because this was my Mom's and Grandmother's stuff, as well as the stuff The Bride and I got when we were married, and it brings some small measure of comfort and closure to complete the sets. Or maybe I'm turning into a nellie little cakeboy in my dotage. Who knows? But if I extract some small measure of satisfaction from it, I don't care. So few things bring me pleasure anymore I won't begrudge myself a momentary bit of indulgence now and then when I get that eighth cereal bowl, and can pretend I'm eating Fortified Oat Flakes at my childhood kitchen table with my mother's fine china.
But this piece takes the cake. A "Food Pusher" in my Granny's Milburn Rose pattern:
Why in the name of all that is unholy do you need a piece of silver to push your fucking food around? It reminds me of the Clampetts pushing their food around the billiard table with the pool bridge.
I have to admit I went through Granny's silver set, and there was no Food Pusher in there, so perhaps she would give it psychic blessing. But Jumping Jesus. A Food Pusher. Starting bid on Ebay? 35 bucks. It's just perverse enough I may have to go for it. I'll bet I'd have the only Food Pusher on my block.
I might even take it to the office for a paperweight, or to push the bullshit back across the desk when some limp dick foolishly tries to outwit me.
I took a year off between college and grad school, mostly because I hadn't bothered to apply to any graduate schools, except for a Historically Black Law School in North Carolina, and they turned me down. Racist bastards.
So I took a job at an electric supply company owned by a friend of my dad's, and sold lighting fixtures for exorbitant sums. I do not lie. We sold $90 ceiling fans to yuppies for $600, and made them wait 6 weeks to get them because we ordered everything but a bit of floor stock. The owner was not into carrying costs, or inventory.
The place burned down one night, most likely because of the haphazard wiring upstairs in the lighting fixtures department, so we were screwed. We had all that inventory ordered, but luckily we were located next door to the Emerald Room, the local strip joint, so the owner worked out a deal with the Emerald Room owners to rent out the upstairs of the club, where we could store inventory as it was delivered.
There was nothing to do all day but wait for the delivery trucks, so we sat at the bar of the Emerald Room and drank sodas with the strippers. Those were fine young ladies, I must say. And although the pay was for shit, those were the best four months I've ever spent on a job.
Brutus was the first real dog we had. My uncle had given me a psychotic Cocker Spaniel named Sandyman when I was four or five, but that was just to get the spastic bastard off his hands. My father also brought home a bird dog named Cleopatra once, but she was insane as well, and lasted only a week or so. Brutus was a good old mutt, however, and we took to him quickly.
Brutus got his leg broken as a pup following my brother and I down Waters Avenue. We were riding our bikes to the health clinic on Intermediate Road to get TB shots. A car clipped him, so the old man took him to a friend of his, an alcoholic vet, to patch him up. Doc H---- did such a shitty job the dog was gimp for the rest of his life. He could only drag that leg behind him.
As an aside, or historical footnote, my father later sold that vet one of his airplanes, a Cessna I believe, which Doc flew down to Mexico and loaded up with a few hundred pounds of reefer. Got forced down at the border on the way back and arrested. Who knew my dad had friends who lived the lives of characters from a J.J. Cale song?
So Brutus was a gimp, but he loved that move to the farm. He got to chase all the satanic barnyard creatures dad bought, and he could shit wherever he wanted. He used to chase us in the Ranchero when we'd take the garbage to the dump behind Lake Number Three. Got that? You took your garbage and threw it down a slope on the backside of the nearest excuse for a recreational swimming hole in the county. Very sanitary. We used to laugh at Brutus because he'd follow you the whole two miles. We called him the Running Corpse, with that gimp leg dragging behind him. It never occurred to us to pull over, and let him in the back. He was a dog! Dogs are supposed to run after you, right?
We found Brutus dead in the weeds one day. He must have been six or so. Could have been a snake bite, may have been heartworms. He'd never been to a vet since Doc fucked him up. We buried him in the pecan orchard, and I played Taps on my trumpet. We should have treated that dog better, but at the time we thought he was getting royal treatment. At least my father never took him into the woods for an argument.
I was pretty psyched for the lunar eclipse tonight, but sporadic cloud cover ruined the first act. Now that it's almost over the clouds have dissipated, but I had a knot of anxious neighborhood children in my driveway to catch a glimpse through my telescope. Better luck next time, kiddies.
My disappointment brought to mind the Great Solar Eclipse of 1970. I knew that baby was coming for nine months, and scrimped and saved my pennies to buy an adapter that would allow me to hook up my sister's camera to my telescope for some pictures. It took nine weeks for the adapter to show up after I mailed my money order, instead of the 6 weeks promised, and by then the eclipse had come and gone.
I DID attempt to watch it, but cloud cover ruined THAT celestial phenomenon as well. I remember my father, having a one PM highball on the bluff of our house in Bluffton with a neighbor. He told me if I looked directly at that eclipse he'd beat my ass good. I started to tell him the neighbors would look askance at a man beating a newly blinded boy, but thought better of it.
Maybe next time.
My first three pies were pretty damned good. I gave one to my neighbor, ate one, and have one in the icebox. I also went ahead and juiced all the other limes with my King Hell Proctor-Silex Juice-It, and froze the juice. One quart of key lime juice is enough for 16 more pies. I'm going to try a few variations, with lime zest and cream cheese. I also may include the egg whites on a couple to fluff the pie up a bit. The key is whipping the cream fresh for the topping. None of that Redi-Whip shit for me. The only good part of a Redi-Whip canister is the nitrous propellant. Everybody knows that.
Tomorrow I harvest lemons, and those puppies are as big as Goliath's balls.
As I was scrolling through my copious library of Shirley Stoler nudes I felt compelled to mention Lina, one of the greatest directors of cinema of our time. Lina is a sick and twisted person, which I appreciate in an individual. Witness her ouvre:
The Seduction of Mimi (1972), Love and Anarchy (1973), All Screwed Up (1974), Swept Away (1975), Seven Beauties (1976). Ah. Such talent is rare. Rent Seven Beauties this weekend, and enjoy.
I took a much needed day off from work today and pressure-washed the exterior of my house. It was filthy, and with white soffits and eaves it starts to look bad quickly. Let me insert the caveat now. I cleaned the front and sides. The back and lanai will happen tomorrow.
I get off (so to speak) on pressure washers. Man, those babies can put out the force. I think all guys like pressure washers. It's that whole "Dudes, if I could piss like that" thing. And you're holding a four foot wand in your hands.
Am I going Freudian here? My bad. I WILL fire that puppy up tomorrow, however, and discharge fluid in all the right directions.
I harvested 42 Key limes off my tree today. Not as gratifying as the kidneys I harvested off those homeless guys last week, and not nearly as rewarding financially, but I'm cooking up some pies anyway. I'll let you know how good they are, as I've never made one before. Kidney pie, sure, but never a Key lime.
but moving off Blogspot definitely puts you in a different club altogether. Ocean Guy has moved to greener pastures. Do that adjustment thing on your blogrolls.
HERE'S some Nostalgia for you. Back in 1970 some wag got the idea of putting out a pinup of a fat chick, and the rest, as they say, is history, because there was a vast untapped market of guys who actually craved nude pictures of heavies, and they couldn't keep the damned things in stock. I gave my Father a Bridget in the Buff jigsaw puzzle for Christmas in 1970, but there are deeper issues there than a mere gift, so draw your own conclusions.
Why do I bring this up? Because you need to know these things, and I am your spiritual guide. That, and the fact I found an interview with Bridget. I understand she likes bionic dicks, too, but I mention that only in passing.
1. What food do you like that most people hate?
Finger foods. Literally. I generally remove the fingernails, though. They tend to get stuck in my teeth. Did I mention I'm a liver guy?
2. What food do you hate that most people love?
Cooked food. Blech. How do you enjoy a nice pineal gland once it's been ruined by fire? Heathens. You Cookers are heathens.
3. What famous person, whom many people may find attractive, is most unappealing to you?
Uma Thurman. No meat on those bones. What an anorexic stick. I'd have to stuff her into a chitlin surprise casserole to get any taste out of her.
4. What famous person, whom many people may find unappealing, do you find attractive?
Jack Sprat's wife. What a comely, obese wench. She lends new meaning to the term "I'd eat that bitch!"
5. What popular trend baffles you?
Veganism. Those are some freaky people. Don't they know their teeth will fall out if they don't get some red meat? And they taste for shit, like old socks.
I'm changing GutRumbles on my blogroll to Acid Queen until he gets rid of that Velicowhatever bullshit. Velociwhatever would work, for instance.
My father moved us from the city to a farm when I was nine. Life truly imitated art, as this was 1966, the year after Green Acres premiered, and here was a city lawyer with lovely wife moving to the bucolic hinterlands, there to be abused by all manner of redneck jackanapes with cruel streaks of barbaric cunning. There was a Mr. Haney in the form of Old Man Butler, who had a tiny store on the banks of Griffin Lake Number 3. Old Man Butler also had an ancient bus filled with moldy foodstuffs and sweetcakes, which he would peddle from hamlet to hamlet.
The character of Jeb was played by James Sowell, our gap-toothed "foreman", three wings short of a bucket and with an eye for my sisters. I think he was looking at my sisters. With that cast in one eye you really couldn't tell what the hell he was looking at.
Greeley Finley filled the dual roles of Ralph and Alf, the handyman brother and sister. If it was fixed, Greeley could break it for you.
For comic relief in those un-PC days we had Peter and Floyd, two black guys who spent twice as much effort avoiding work as the actual task would have entailed. Every enterprise they attempted invariably ended with Floyd dropping something bone-crushing on Peter's foot. You could set the atomic clock by it.
My father persevered with those 300 acres for six years before giving up and selling it. His successes were mixed. Crops of soybeans and corn did well, and he cleared a lot of land and sold a lot of timber. His greatest failure, by far, was in the field of animal husbandry.
I firmly believe animals of all stripes can sense uncertainty in a human, and will exploit that fact for pleasure, and as brilliant as my father was in the courtroom he could not win with animals. Let me peel back the onion a bit:
The first critters Dad got were goats. Six or seven of them. He fenced them in before we even moved to the farm, and they escaped with regularity. A goat will eat through anything. Fencing is merely the sorbet to cleanse their palates before they tackle the really tasty stuff, like old tires. So these goats would eat through the fence, and escape down the old Central of Georgia train tracks. My father would take the Ranchero and chase them down. Corralling goats is no mean feat, and my dad would return from these round ups angry and, often, drunk. It takes a little fire in the belly to wrestle these things into a truck and hogtie them. The goats finally escaped for the last time. My father threw his shotgun into the Ranchero and set off down the shoulder of the train tracks. As he came upon a goat instead of catching it he would shoot it, and go after the next one. He killed them all, and the word goat was never spoken of again in that household.
We had one mule, named Myrtle, a birthday present for my mother. Laugh if you will. She got a tractor for Christmas that year. Myrtle's favorite food was my mother's Chesterfield cigarettes. She ate them by the pack. This beast was lazy and sullen, good for naught. We tried getting her to pull a wagon for us, but she only farted and grazed. I'm actually not sure what happened to Myrtle. She just sort of disappeared one day. I suspect my father took her into the woods and shot her. It was apparently his only way of winning an argument with an animal.
My horse was actually a Shetland pony, a black, mean fucker who would bite you for no reason. My father insisted I learn to ride him, and tame him, but that vicious fiend would buck like a bull, and throw you every time. I would rather have smacked my toe with a ball peen hammer than get on that bastard, but I tried. And tried. Spooky eventually disappeared as well, no doubt the loser in a heated debate in the woods with my father.
My older brother had a real horse, named Dan. Well-tempered and kindly. Snakebitten to death. Such was our luck.
The Senator got my brothers and I two baby calves once. We loved them, and would arise at five am to mix up their milk formula and feed them from giant bottles. My older brother mixed the powdered formula too thickly for his steer one day, and it set like Sakrete in its stomach. Ever buried a calf? That's a big hole.
My little brother and I raised our calf right. I forget his name, but it was something stupid like Bucky. When Bucky reached a certain weight, my father loaded him on a truck and told my brothers we were taking him for a ride. We thought that was cool, until the truck stopped at Sweatt's Abbatoir, and a blood-bespattered man shot Bucky in the head with a bolt gun. I cried for days, but in retrospect I have to admit Bucky was tasty, and well-marbled.
The Old Man got a bull once, with the intention of renting him out for stud. He bought a 12-volt electric fence kit from Sears, and we corralled the bull. 12 volts isn't shit to a bull. He'd just walk through it. 12 volts IS a big deal to a little brother, if you can get him to piss on the wire. That joke only works once, though. So dad ran some heavy gauge wire along the fenceposts, and hooked up 220 to it. Knocked the bull into Screven County, and smoked his nose. My father loved that, and tried to get the bull to do it again. No way. I think that bull eventually swam across the lake and escaped. He was a three month project at best.
If you've never raised hogs you have no idea how foul those things smell. You can smell them literally a mile away, and the hogpen was 200 feet from the house. Watching a sow give birth is disgusting, fascinating stuff. We used to let the week-old piglets run through the house, until the Old Man found out, and threatened to take them to the woods for an argument. The smell eventually forced us to give up hog farming, but if you've never gigged a pig with an electric cattle prod, well, you haven't lived, my friend.
My father's idea of fun was to have a hundred chicks or baby ducks delivered to a friend on Easter. This was also his friends' idea of fun, so we ended up with two ducks once. The idea was they would swim in the lake, and look pretty, but they just hung around the back porch and ate the dogs' food, and swelled up mightily. We still loved them, and treated them like pets, until the day The Senator made my older brother get his shotgun, and they slaughtered those two ducks right outside my bedroom window. Shock and awe, indeed. My older brother was crying so hard he couldn't shoot straight, and only wounded his prey, so Father had to finish him off. Brutal business, and I don't eat duck to this day, especially since I had to help wax the boys to get their feathers off for cookin'. I also have paraffin issues now.
I think that's all the beasts of the field we had. Never had much luck with them, but they certainly provided an education.
I like sharing my hate comments, especially when subtle death threats are involved. I figure any pussy who won't leave their real name isn't going to do anything serious. Hell, they probably peed their T-backs just writing this stuff:
From "Tuco", IP: 188.8.131.52:
Hello Monkey! I love monkey! Monkey is nice! Let me play with monkey! BOOM BOOM! YOUR DEAD
Very post-ironic. I get it. Don't you?
From "I HATE JACK STRAW" (and don't we all, really?) Same IP:
U THINK U KNOW EVERYTHING! TUCO IS A SUPREME GOD AMONG MEN! SO GO SUCK A MONKEY AND DIE IN A DITCH!
I'm detecting a theme here. I believe this fellow plays with his monkey a bit.
From "unknown". Same IP:
your clock is wrong
But of course! It's all about the time.
All this on a post about Tuco's crimes. I'll bet this guy would really be pissed if he found my secret hate blog directed at gays, blacks, Jews, and Catholics. And monkeys.
Ban him? No way! This is some of the best feedback I've had in a while.
I was thinking today about the first time I encountered certain bloggers, and it's pretty funny. If you're me. If you're not, humor me. Or leave.
The first time I ran across Acidman was when he commented wayyyy back when on a post I'd put up on my old Blogspot site on the Georgia Wrestling Hall of Fame. It was some months later before we mutually realized the wrestler I was looking for, Bill Cooney, the "Green Hornet", lived six houses down from Rob when he was growing up. I know this because The Bride lived 5 doors down from Acidman.
The first time I ran across Venomous Kate was when she commented on a Billy Jack post. Her comment made me feel like a racist, because I was mocking the movie, until we realized we were both Choctaw Nation children.
I have more of these "meet cute" stories, but I understand you must go puke.
I do believe Donnie is formulating the next Jawjah blogfest in the comments section of my drag racing post. I think he's upset I missed Dahlonega, but he doesn't KNOW upset. I'm the poor bastard who missed it.
Paddy's Day could work, though. That is debauchery writ large, or it used to be. I haven't been in years. Is it true they've pussified it by fencing off River Street and making you wear wrist bands, like Night In Old Savannah? Have they soccer mom'd the best waste-on this side of Mardi Gras? I hear tales, and rumors of such.
I can remember taking a 32-gallon cooler full of Mickey's Malt Liquor and Wild Turkey down to River Street, and laying it on with a head full of blotter back in oh, 1976? 1978? Sorry. I can't recall the year. I had no idea I had responsibilities to posterity, or I'd have gotten a tattoo to commemorate the event.
I'd like to enjoy a more mature, age-appropriate Paddy's Day next March, but I sure would feel like a bonomo monkey if I were caged so as not to Offend the Appropriate Authorities.
Hey, let's burn that bridge when we come to it. I'll be there. I'll stay with my brother, probably, but everyone else feel free to stay at the Crackerbox. I insist.
I know where I WON'T be staying. The Westin Savannah Harbor Resort & Spa. My last two-day stay there cost me $850, and The Bride and I only drank $80 worth of top shelf at the bar. Screw that. I can stay at my company's Greenbrier Resort for that kind of scratch. Actually, I can't. But the fact remains, that's deep coin for a chain hotel. And I didn't even use their Greenbrier Spa.
Of course, if all comes to pass, I'll have that RV for the Gatornationals trip parked downtown, with a "Please Retch Behind The Rear Bumper" sign in the window.
LeeAnn has a picture of Wild Turkey up on her site. By God, I knew there was yet another reason to love this girl.
I used to drink Turkey, but I'm not man enough to drink it now, I'll freely admit. Had a turkey decanter or two at one point. I would only drink the 101 proof, of course, whish iss why I won go neer it nowwww...
went down at work yesterday. The peripheral fallout will take a few months, but it should prove interesting. This won't be as bloody as regime change in Iraq or Afghanistan, but there will be a few carcasses to poke and prod afterwards. Turn a few over to see if they have ants in their mouth.
I like drag racing. It's the stupidest-assed sport in the world. Five seconds of delicately balanced terror and control, with no finesse or strategy other than survival. I went to the Mid-South Nationals once in Memphis, but I'm ashamed to say I've never been to the Gatornationals in Gainesville. I've left some skidmarks in my drawers that looked like they came from there, but I haven't been. Never saw Shirley Muldowney race either, and now she's retiring. Too bad. That broad could lay drag.
I'm gonna fix that Gatornationals issue this March. I may just go up to Savannah on the 17th for St. Patrick's Day, which I haven't attended in at least twelve years, get a bag on, then head south for three days of redneck mayhem. I'll dip Skoal and piss outside my rented RV instead of using the toilet within, and bond with the pepper of the earth.
I might even take
my family some bloggers, for the pure hell of it.
for capital punishment. Gary Leon Ridgeway murdered 48 people and got life in prison. The Green River Killer. If I ever Get The Urge (not likely, but humor my hypothetical) I'm going to Washington State to commit my mayhem. Those DA's just declared open war on their citizenry.
Oh, I understand the reasoning. Ridgeway was cooperating. We need to find those bodies. The victims' families need closure. It saves the state $11 million. The prosecutors get to chase their underage sex kittens around their pussy pads instead of preparing for The Big One.
But think: there will never be another execution in that state, ever. And every John Wayne Gacy and Ted Bundy knows it. Because no matter how revolting your crimes, if you can't beat the bogie of 48 bodies you're a fucking piker. Your lawyer will play the Ridgeway card and you walk into a life sentence. No holiday, but have you ever actually considered getting hooked up to The Drip? THAT is scary shit, and a deterrent to clever, conniving fuckers like most mass murderers. For some reason Seattle Slew comes to mind. I don't know why.
Do you have a particular place in your dreams, which you happen upon every so often, but you don't know the place, and aren't sure how you got there?
I'm not talking about Uncle Waldo's broomcloset with the hot water bottles, either.
Bigger. I have a city. I've been visiting this burg for at least 12 years, and now know it like the back of me hand. It is big. The size of Atlanta, or Denver. And I know virtually every square inch of it, although I do get turned around from time to time trying to get somewhere. Dreams are like that.
It's pretty moutainous, and at the top of the big hill is the restaurant district. Some pretty good eats as I recall, but I seldom eat in my dreams. The waiter usually pulls away my plate and drink while I'm preoccupied with something else. The interstates connect rather well, with a semi-perimeter leading to the basin of the city. To the north are suburbs, and to the south are tourist areas, including an old train station with bohemian shops and boutiques.
There are no waterways in this city. I have no idea why.
I'm here two or three times a month, year in and year out. I believe it's a metaphor for my travels, and, more importantly, my relocations over the years. I love it here, but I never get to stay, and it has no name. I thinks it's on the same latitude as Ulan Bator, but I'd rather not go into why I think this is so. That dream was a bit of an outlier.
I know the backroad shortcuts, and the Bad Parts of Town. The best hotels, and the ones where I stay. Sometimes my family is with me, sometimes just my wife; I'm usually alone.
I've never had sex in my city, but I've come close.
Have a dream place like that? It can be both terrifying and comforting, often simultaneously.
Fred Boness wins the picture contest. Warren Oates. An Outer Limits episode, The Mutant, 1964. I KNEW there were kindred souls out there. Or perhaps this scene is just scored into Fred's retinas, and so scarred the lad in his childhood that he couldn't forget it if he tried. The dreams just won't go away. That's what happened to me.
I'm getting my marketing tight. Buzzwords. That title should get a few pops.
Got a horrific vasectomy story? Share it! ONE of my brothers-in-law had a very tough go of it, indeed. Ran into some scar tissue from a prior hernia, had to dig, dig, dig, dope wore off, sheesh.
For the record, mine went fine. Read a Batman comic during the procedure. I only
squealed like a little girl yelped once. I felt bad for the nurse, though. I think she wanted to compliment me to keep me calm, but what could she say? She finally admired my massive, manly vas deferens. Ropes, or hawsers, I think she called them. Doc had to saw through them with Craftsman tools. I'll take a compliment where I can get it.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Tell me horrendous stories. I'm doing research on the sequel to The Myth of Male Power.
I decided to leave my Halloween picture up until someone identifies the actor, and title. After that it won't be cool anymore, anyway, right? That's how we shallow people think. Blodwyn Pig was cool until the acned little AV nerd next door listened to them. See what I mean?
I HAD to speak to my little brother, the reknowned criminal defense attorney, after that video shooting. Actually, he called me. I thought he'd be indignant about that sort of client behavior. He was laughing his ass off.
Don't you think that was reprehensible? I said.
Fuck no, he said. That bastard probably deserved it. I've seen clients screwed over by the likes of THAT guy for years. He's lucky he wasn't killed. Probably fucked his client over real bad.
I think that's kind of cool. And to the Georgia Bar Association Ethics Committee I say, for the record, my brother never actually said that.
No, I'm not going to talk about The Game. The Game, at least this year's edition, can kiss my ass. I would like to talk about SEC crowds, however. There are two great old schools that exemplify the Old Tradition of college football in the South. Georgia and Ole Miss. When you go to their games, the women, hell, the Girls, are decked to the nines. And the Boys wear blazers and ties. I went to an Ole Miss-Georgia game in Oxford a few years ago and that type of tradition is still there. Alabama has that Old South thing going on, too, to a lesser degree. Florida doesn't have that type of tradition. This is Neckbone Country. They are mere beasts, recently risen from the primordial fever swamps.
At Georgia-Florida the Georgia fans don't play the Old South game either, though. This game is The World's Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party, and those Georgia kids leave their little traditions at the state line. This is a hedonistic free-for-all in neutral territory, where Anything Goes. A vacation from Tradition, as it were, while maintaining a singularly different tradition at the same time. And I must say this, and The Bride would concur: flesh-pound for flesh-pound, the Georgia-Florida game brings into eight very cool acres the finest assemblage of Beautiful Women in the world. The mind, literally, boggles. And THAT is one of the many reasons I like this town.
That, and the fact my daughters are going to be Florida Gators. I bow to the inevitable. The school is 60 miles from my door, and their friends will go there. The upside? I can get hammered at the game, and not care who wins. SOMEBODY in my house will be happy.