I've been thinking; admittedly a dangerous thing, but hear me out. It's Blind Pig and Acorn Week here at Velociworld, so you're in luck.
France and Germany were both members of the original Gulf War coalition. This is fact. That war never ended, as there was no peace treaty, merely a cease-fire. Just like Korea. This, too, is a fact. Saddam's repeated violations of the cease-fire agreement (firing on U.S. aircraft in the no-fly zone, anyone?) precludes any reasoned argument that the state of hostilities ever ended.
QED: France and Germany are still at war with Iraq, and have been for over 12 years, whether they like it or not. By International Law they are at war with Iraq. By UN Mandate France and Germany are at war with Iraq. I suggest bringing suit in The Hague to see how much money they legally owe to defray the costs of ending the war.
As with any position, there may be a loophole or two, i.e., did they manage to declare a unilateral (there's that word!) peace treaty with Saddam while they were selling him all manner of unholy goods? Did they cry "outs" at some point and pick up their cheese ball and go home?
If so, I posit those were illegal acts without UN sanction. No, France and Germany are in deep. And they owe. Time for those pudknockers to pay up. Big. Brussels, The Hague, I'm not picky, so long as a Eurotwat has to pucker his ass and read the verdict.
Posting may be a little light today and tomorrow. I have some houseslave chores and a gig guest blogging over at Kelley's while she partays on James Island. If you're unsure where to go, the best stuff will probably over at Suburban blight.
There's some thing here in the south about black eyed peas being the first thing you eat on New Years or something? I don't get it. Anyone care to clarify?
As I was staying with my in-laws on Wilmington Island Sunday, and as I was on best behavior, and as I was bored shitless, I decided to drive down the road to the Chinaman (aka Woo's Tru-Value Hardware) to buy a couple of sponge rubber balls and a broomstick, in order to teach my nephews the Sacrament of Half-Rubber. The lads are only 4 and 6, but it's best to teach them failure and pain at an early age. It's called Old School Education.
As it happened my brother-in-law insisted on going with me. I figured he was into half-rubber, but as soon as we got in the truck he said "Fuck Woo's. It's closed. I saw on the way in. Let's do some nostalgia and hit the back door of the Crow Bar."
To those unfamiliar with Savannah in general, or Wilmington Island in particular, Ellie and Grant's Crow Bar is an institution of a dive. My father used to slip in the back door of the Crow Bar 30 years ago. I used to slip in the back door of the Crow Bar 20 years ago.
Why the back door? Just Because. Originally when I couldn't peddle my college education around town for a suit and tie job in 1980 I took a job as a cabinetmaker next door to the Bar. I loved the work, at least the woodworking aspect of it, but the pay was for shit, there was no future there, and the homeys I worked with were a special breed of back island trash. It was akin to Hunter Thompson hanging with the Hell's Angels. They accepted me, but I knew in the end I would get stomped.
I got a job in the steamship business after about 18 months, but in the meantime I built cabinets. Very nice custom work, I may add. I'd do it today as a sideline but I don't have the space or the tools. I got spoiled on other peoples' hardware.
So the drill was we'd slip out of the cabinet shop a couple of times a day and go to the back door of the Crow Bar, slip in for a shot and a beer, and go back to work. Dangerous stuff when you work around power tools. I saw one putz lose a thumb on a table saw, and another get a nailgun nail drilled up the left cheek of his ass by his buddy. It was an accident, actually, but you don't play grab-ass with power tools after a shot and a beer.
So what did I have Sunday? I really didn't want to go back to the in-laws' with a buzz, so I just nursed one Budweiser. Until my bro brought us two Chilly Crowns apiece. "For old times' sake," he said.
For Old Times' Sake, indeed.
Those bastards were tasty.
Who has the best brother in the world?
P.S. It wasn't just Crown, it was Special Reserve. Now, untapped this might go for big bucks on Ebay after my future fatal encounter with a 12-pack of Sudafed and the Dalai Lama. The seal should also remain unbroken for priceless sentimental reasons. As it is, the 4 fingers left, along with the extra Special Reserve bag, will nut some lucky heir at least eight bucks in the back-alley of an off-brand buffalo wing house.
Jack Straw, I salute you.
I love black eyed peas, but I'd never heard of the band until those XM satellite radio commercials. Maybe I'm just not down with the latest in derivative blending of old school with hip-hop, dog.
I still find those commercials unsettling, though, despite my ignorance of the hip-hop scene. See, my daughters lay the down low on me whether I want it or not, and they are nonplussed over the Black Eyed Peas thing, too.
I'll give XM the benefit of the doubt. They were looking for some urban edge when they made their commercial. Okay. But why is the same band thrown up every time they showcase (frame) the product? Continuity, maybe, since the guy never leaves his car. I still find it disturbing.
Look: The Peas are on Interscope Records. Since I have nothing to do with my fucking life I looked for a corporate connection between Interscope and XM. Nothing I could find, but then I don't own a greasy trenchcoat, nor do I keep a liquor bottle in my desk drawer, so what do you expect?
XM could have showcased three or four talents, but they had their
grassy knoll gunman tie-in.
Listen: I like XM. Avis comps me with it every time I rent a car with them. But I don't trust this Black Eyed Pea thing. There is something rotten there.
The golf was outstanding today. My first time at King and the Bear, and it is exquisite, even in winter. Designed by Arnie and Jack, of course. The companion course at World Golf Village is the Slammer and the Squire, designed by, uh, Snead and Sarazen. This town sucks at some things, but recreation is not one of them. Jax has the largest urban park system in the country. 325 sites, 6,000 acres. Then the golf. Is it Myrtle Beach? No. We don't have that many courses. But Myrtle Beach doesn't have a TPC Sawgrass Stadium Course, either.
I learned when I moved to Memphis for three years that a move can be the best thing in your life, or the worst. YOU make that new home what it is. This will be my home until I die, I believe, I like it that much.
P.S. How did I play? Poorly. But I've only played like 5 times in the last two years, so breaking 100 on a new course kept me happy.
A closing comment. My sister also gave me a suede-framed sepia-toned (!) photo of me and my brothers and father on the dock at the Holiday Isle Marina in Islamorada, Florida, 1969. The Keys. We have 52 king mackerel on the hooks. It was a splendid day. Captain Socko found the honey hole for us that December outing.
I'd forgotten about that picture, and seeing me at 12, with my brothers and 44-year-old father, hammers some shit home.
For some reason my brothers and father are in classic 1960's sneakers and shorts. I'm wearing long pants and Beatle boots. As I recall I'd sunburned my legs the day before, when we got skunked with Captain Brown, and I probably never packed my sneakers. Only thing I can figure.
We all look very happy, though, probably as happy as we ever looked again as a group of four. I'll scan this pic and post it, before I hang it in my office. You must see this, if only as a slice of 1969 Americana.
As an aside, I stayed next door to the Holiday Isle two years ago with my kids, and we had a blast. Rented boats, fished, snorkeled, it was King Hell. This year I'm going back to Islamorada, but we're staying at the Holiday Isle. I'm going to channel some Dad.
We spent the day bonding as the cold-fusion version of the nuclear family today, just the four of us, and it was a nice change. No hydroencephalitic relatives peeing in the sink, no endless miles piled in the Blazer to seek joy and companionship in another's abode. We'll go to Savannah Saturday for a few days, and that will be fantastic, but it was rather nice to spend the time together. Our daily schedules seldom allow it.
The girls slept in until 8:30, giving me the opportunity to read the morning papers to see how many jihadis went to Paradise in their vain attempt to get Pervez, and sip a few cups of Jamaica Blue Mountain & Bailey's.
I cooked cheese omelets and pigs in a blanket for breakfast, the girls' favorite. For dinner I eschewed frying a turkey at the last minute and instead bought lobster tails, steaks, and champagne. Worked out quite well.
Now I have a fire blazing with the windows open, a dry Absolut martini at hand, and I'm listening to the excellent Mambo Sinuendo by Ry Cooder and Manuel Galban, a gift from my sister, and contemplating my golf outing tomorrow with old friends from New York at King and the Bear at World Golf Village. We'll have dinner tomorrow evening at the Ponte Vedra Inn and Club with the selfsame friends, and we'll tip a toast to the Baby Jesus.
Life isn't too bad, even for a bitter old complainer like me.
P.S. Did I mention Kris Kringle stopped by last night, in the guise of my childrens' cybershopping parents? He looked well, although I believe his Atkins regimen is a bit disconcerting.
All kidding aside, I'm anal-retentive on the subject of safety. I work in an environment where people get killed. Slaughtered, in fact, at times. A most dangerous business.
My company is extremely safety-conscious, and I take this mindset home. I try to teach my girls not to leave drinking glasses on the edge of the counter. I teach them to eliminate the tripping hazards they leave everywhere. I do fire drills. I check my batteries in my fire alarms. I'm down with carbon monoxide detectors. I have exits delineated for the pets (my job, and my job only in a crisis situation).
I pass out condoms. I show my children how to treat extension cords, where the fire extinguisher is, how to jumpstart a faltering heart.
They think I'm crazy now. The Bride certainly does. But one day, possibly, it may save a life. It might be mine.
Velociman says have a Safe and Merry Christmas.
and I've never even flown the felchers. I have been infected by their invidious pop-up ad, though. I believe my daughter brought it home with a stray kitten and a cyber-trip to Neopets.
Oh, I could purge the vermin with a colonic cleansing of the old cookie file, but that whacks the embedded passwords on my spankful amputee hidey-holes, and, uh, my Anglican Missionary Outreach sites.
I know you e-genies can tell me how to fix this, so please send your helpful hints to email@example.com.
In the meantime, I'm porked with 67 Alaska Air pop-ups an hour.
I am Velociman, however, and will prevail. Here's the deal: I sneak across the border dressed as something innocuous, like a Musselman terrorist with Semtex dripping out of his drawers. Once in Nome I can wreak my havoc. I shall burn their planes, jackhammer their runways, urinate in their decaf coffee urns, and sow salt upon their grasslands.
I might even take vengeance upon the State of Alaska in general, just like Islamists rape your grammy to teach you a lesson. Dump Streisand CD's in Prince William Sound, slather Bligh Reef with Paul Krugman editorials. Penetrate that foul mosquito-infested swamp known as the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge with rusty 1930's era drill bores. Stand back and let the oil spew over Gaia like Jett Rink on mescaline.
Coup de grace? Force feed captured salmon and tuna the fouled bodies of filleted porpoise, while orca-blood coated Esquimeux perform their ritual totem strap-on dance of fertility in the background with their naked 12 year old nieces.
Or I could cleanse the cookie file. Either way, I figure Alaska Air has it coming.
This is a picture of a sweetgum ball:
Reading Dax's reminescence of the Battle of Fort Alamo brought up old memories. Sweetgum memories. The one in the picture is green, as it should be, but its points are curling a bit. The proper sweetgum ball should be harvested fresh from the tree, firm and not yet ripe, like a
Burmese prostitute good tomato. The spines will be like hypodermics. Now you are ready for war.
We called them sycamore balls as a kid. Why? Because we were ignorant little heathens, that's why. Regardless, they were the ultimate slingshot ammo. They were like MIRV multiple warhead projectiles, because they would skit across your face and leave 20 or so bleeding injection points, and a direct hit would leave five or six really deep punctures, with bruising welt.
The sweetgum ball and slingshot were the AK-47 of the day in my neighborhood. Ubiquitous and deadly. How did I learn this? Because I was younger than most of the boys in my neighborhood, and after the first impact on the back of my head by a 20MPH sweetgum sizzler I was, as they say, educated.
Not to worry. Sadism, like animal cruelty and masturbation, is a learned trait. I was soon passing the pain down to lesser folk. The only real problem was my old man's penchant for punishing anyone for involvement in an event including screaming, so I'd get it for infliction and receipt. To tell you the truth, though, after a sweetgum ball battle, an asswhipping was just an afterthought that toughened you up for the next Sweetgum War.
What is the freakin' deal with MCI and their "MCI Neighborhood" commercials? The ones cross-marketed with Michael McDonald's "Motown" release and I suppose what is the 42nd greatest hits compilation from James Taylor?
Where do these idiots get their ideas?!? Were they spoon fed mercury drippings from thermometer shards? Kids, these marketeers are not your father's baby boomers.
Listen, thalidomide babies: Michael McDonald sucks engorged pinto ponies. The boomer world is divided into two groups: Tom Johnston Doobie Brothers and Michael McDonald Doobie Brothers. Well, there is a third group. Some people just don't like the fucking Doobie Brothers. And that's okay. Not a big fan myself. But if you ARE going to come down in one t'other of the Doobie camps it better be humming China Grove, not Takin' It To The Streets. The only thing Michael Mcdonald ever took to the streets was his daddy's Vista Cruiser station wagon to take momma for her therapy sessions.
There was a whole generation of DJ's and music "critics" who gushed over the "whiskey-soaked stylings" of Michael McDonald in the seventies. These losers are all thrice-divorced tittie boys, still driving their mommas to her therapy sessions. The very idea of this limpdick singing Motown with anything resembling "soul" puckers my ass. He's Colonel Sanders' bastard grandson is all, and he's probably a wife-beater like the Colonel, too.
James Taylor is a bit more problematic. I like ole James okay, and I'm generally fond of ex-junkies as a rule, but Shower the People is almost 30 years old, and not one of JT's stellar efforts.
Query: what particular string of my heart are you nipples trying to pluck? That heartstring that seized up in terror when that old man stuck his head under my stall in the Sears restroom when I was sixteen? Wrong fucking heartstring. That one broke, to be replaced by a piece of black licorice, and a distrust of old men in general, and perverted old men in particular.
Listen, you screwheads: you want to get me nostalgia-sized and buy your product? Show me Linda Lovelace honking for Jesus, or Sylvia Kristel in a Thai brothel. These a few of this fucker's favorite things.
If you must go with musicians, how about Ozzie singing Iron Man, or Jimmy Page and the aforementioned Sylvia with a certain fish?
Work with me, people.
Ungh. Argh. Puff. 32 hits to break 20,000. Help me. I realize how insouciant it would be to comment tomorrow about, hey, I passed 20k and didn't even realize it. But I'm not like that. I'm not like you, ha ha. When you've been stuck on 19,950 for a week like me, blase is not in your vocabulary. Whore is, though, and that's where I remind you to give me some hits.
This is like Dow 10,000, of course. It signifies nothing, just a shallow kind of psychological hurdle.
P.S. DON'T MAKE ME USE THE N-WORD to score cheap hits.
Well, I'll do it anyway. That would be NEOCUNT, over at Geoff's. Ole NEO has been especially hateful today. Go share the hate with that Neopunk bastard. And give me some hits, dammit.
This is one of those reasons women were only allowed to milk goats or trim their husband's bunions once upon a time instead of earn a real living. Once you let women introduce something like Secret Santa into the workplace it becomes Tradition within a single, solitary year, and then the Diversity Council picks up on it and memorializes it in a newsletter, and the next thing you know you're screwed. Because if you don't play the game (and it is a game; a stupid, effeminate, kindergarten game, designed to allow women to fuck off instead of work) you instantly become a Suspect Individual, possibly even a Chauvinist, ready for the Scrap Pile of Corporate Refuse. Or at least a Curmudgeon. Same outcome. You're toast.
I don't know why they call it right-sizing. Politically it's left-sizing. But that's another story.
So to recap: each person picks somebody's name, and you fill out a list of things you like, like My Little Pony, and you get 5 presents over 5 days! Wee! And you don't know who your Secret Santa is! Golly gosh!
I played the Secret Santa about five years ago. I was a field operator, in from the cold, I didn't know, it seemed the safe bet. So I drew a fellow's name. Decent chap. Straight up. His wish list had nothing on it. So I purloined 5 photos of my boss, the nice 5 X 7 media glossies, and on each day I wrote a mash note on the back and left it for this guy. Day one was shock. Day two was bemusement. Day three was concern. Day four was panic. Day five was bug-eyed pants-shitting alarm.
I was done with Secret Santa after that.
One sidenote: I'd put on my form I liked peanuts and Wild Turkey. Just a joke, you know. But this poor girl left me three jars of Planter's finest, and two half-pints of Wild Turkey that week. She was left-sized two weeks later, but I'll always remember her.
Miss Savannah, Sharron Nicole Redmond, 21, has been charged with murder after her boyfriend died from the plugging she allegedly delivered over his (surprise!) copulating with another woman.
My brother's good friend and colleague, Michael Schiavone, is representing Miss Redmond. He'll be on Paula Zahn and Greta tonight. It should make for interesting viewing, as Schiavone is an interesting guy.
This is no isolated shooting, whoever the killer is(!). Savannah has a serious crime problem, and has had one for years. Murders are endemic to that mossy landscape.
Sometimes I'm so proud of my hometown I could just bust a fucking gut. Savannah is a wonderful place to be from, I just don't want to live there anymore.
James made a passing reference to Larry Olivier, with no wink, nor a nod, that I could discern.
Gottamighty. You know what's next. Yep. I predict a January Bleat casually mentioning a cocktail conversation he had with Bobby DeNiro, wherein they were discussing the ouvre of Marty Scorcese.
The saddest part? Lileks will succumb, and let them call him Jimmy.
I tried to tell people that the Opus exhumation was going to be a great, sorrowful disappointment, but I was swimming against a tide of happy herrings.
Even I wasn't prepared for just how bad that shit is, though, and it's sucking up half the front page of my Sunday comics, where something intellectual like Pickles could be.
I figure Breathed has a grace period of about 6 weeks to get his head out of the glue jar, then I would expect to see massive protests to shrink that sac of placenta to Momma size, and put in on the back pages.
Of course, I grew up on The Phantom and Prince Valiant. The Phantom is an execrable race-baiter to the syndicate now, and they won't even let Prince Arn behead the occasional Saracen. See, Valiant would be a great venue for allegory on the War on Terror, but you won't see it.
I read Doonesbury as part of my ongoing avocational studies on schizophrenia in the impotent male.
I never take these quizzes. There's no sense in it, because I know no matter how I answer the questions I'll be the Uruk-hai Lurtz:
Even though he's not listed. That's a minor detail when you have more LDL karma than HDL karma.
By the way, get your Lurtz action figure here.
Quiz link courtesy of Pamibe.
I've blogged about the Iron Horse before, but I think it was during the old Blogspot days, and I didn't have a picture to share.
The Horse was the creation of one Abbott Pattison, who welded the two-ton sculpture in 1954 to grace the campus of the University of Georgia.
Boys being boys, and neckbones being neckbones, the horse was the target of ridicule for several years, until the school put it in storage in shame. In 1959 a farmer requested the artwork be placed in his field on Highway 15, south of Athens, where it remains to this day, viewable to all who pass.
I used to see the Iron Horse as a kid when we went to north Georgia on vacation, and I loved it. I still do. When I was in grad school I danced around the Iron Horse one day whilst befucked on lysergic acid, just because it was fall and the hay was high. I likes the Iron Horse.
I bought a great CD today. Christmas Cocktails from Ultra-Lounge (motto: Hi-Fi Holiday Cheer from Santa's Pad). It has Peggy Lee's Winter Wonderland, Julie London's I'd Like You for Christmas, Dino's I've Got my Love to Keep Me Warm, you get the idea. Great stuff. It inspires me to mix my cocktails in the glasses my dad had in his dry sink when I was a kid. Those frosted Tom Collins glasses with cartoon characters on the sides. One was of a drunk at a bar, telling the bartender "If my wife calls, tell her all is forgiven." Another was a fly-blown floozy on the phone saying "Mom? Guess what? I'm married!" I don't remember the others, but that's the groove this CD inspires.
So what's the problem? The Bride wants to sit by the fire and listen to it. I've listened to it once today, though, and now The Two Towers is on Starz.
Freakin no brainer.
UPDATE: I won. God, I love to win. But see, I convinced her we could watch the movie, then curl up by the fire with the CD at midnight. Everyone's a winner in Velociman's world. As long as you play by my rules.
to see if I'm still coherent, of course. 12:53 and the girls are still up. More importantly, so are the boys, both of them. I can handle two boys, though. Pheremones and testosterone notwithstanding, these boys are lightweights next to me. They WISH they were me. As Leslie Nielsen said in Creepshow, I can hold MY breath a LONNNGGG time.
And, as Max von Sydow said in Three Days of the Condor:
"Kids. They're probably the same everywhere."
I took that one to heart. He was right, you know.
Tonight was Emily's Sweet Sixteen birthday, and she opted for a party at the house with her close friends (the girls are sleeping over. The boys are going snipe hunting with Velociman before he puts their worn, tired carcasses in the back of the Blazer for a trip home).
It swells my heart with joy that she chose this option. I would have run like Pheidippides to escape a 16th birthday party at my house growing up. I believe I spent my 16th birthday admiring my new driver's license with a Miller pony and a bong hit, but I could be mistaken. There were so many 16th birthday parties I spent that way.
At any rate, the slew of youngsters is in the den, singing and dancing to
If you like pina coladas
And gettin' lost in the rain...
And now Michael Jackson.
See, my point is, despite the fact they think they're the phattest of the phat, they're gay as hell. And deep down, they respect my innate hipness. It can only be thus. Otherwise I am mad.
One sad, interesting, poignant postscript to this wonderful night for my beautiful girl: the pina colada was invented in 1957, the year of my birth, at the Caribe Hilton. What is one to make of that piece of knowledge?
Most guys I know are secure enough in their masculinity that they can take a poke or prod to their egos over their ability to do traditionally "masculine" things. I'm the same way.
Know a better way to jimmie out that stuck shock absorber? Let me stand back so you can show me how, ma'am.
You can show me an easier way to secure that crown molding before I nail it? Lead on, bubba.
There is ONE area, however, where men brook no kibitzing, tolerate no back seat driving: starting a fire. More significantly, starting a fire in the woods. Men are natural born pyromaniacs, innate arsonists. Fire is in their bloodstream, it swells their nutsacks (well, that is a different problem. Perhaps I overextended the metaphor).
At any rate, if you want to infuriate a man, suggest his faggy little tepee of twigs will never kindle, his use of pine straw is rank amateurism, his stacking methodology is suspect. You, my friend, will have a fight on your hands. This is why when guys go camping there is an unspoken posturing around the loading and unloading of the vehicles, because each man wants to be shed of his burden in order to be the Firestarter.
It is ineluctably written that you cannot mock or question another man's firestarting, and, since you are obviously the best firestarter since Prometheus brought spark to shivering hominids it is your duty to claim the firestarting responsibilities. Otherwise you'll have to bite your tongue, shove your hands in your pockets, and swallow bile while the other guy attempts to start the fire, the poor nancy-boy. Look at his style. That method! It'll never draw! Pussy.
Look: I can start a fire a hundred ways, and can conjure spark from damp peat moss, but I prefer the traditional method my father taught me, and one which the other erstwhile firestarters appreciate, and cannot fault.
Gasoline. Two pints of 87 octane on a pyre of oak won't win you any style points, and ain't precisely Boy Scout Handbook, but you'll have their grudging respect for cutting to the frigging chase, egos are shelved, and you can get around to pitching the tents and cracking the Turkey. End of Primer One. Thank you.
Acidman weighs in on Jawja Blue Crabs, the delectable meat as purgative, and the risks of poaching the blue beasts.
I can relate. I poached a few blue crabs in my younger days, knowing full well the penalty if caught. The trick isn't outrunning a crabber's boat. Any powerboat will do that. It's outrunning the bullets. "I'll just wing 'em" does NOT fit a crabber's worldview. Those dudes in white rubber boots work like slaves, and don't like their pocket picked. They'll blow you away, and gut you if they can get close enough, and a Georgia jury will say what the hell did that stupid pudknocker expect?
The only time I got caught was when my cousin poached a dozen when we were on his parents' sailboat. I warned him not to do it, and we were happened upon by the owners, and lost that chase. Luckily I had the better part of a half-gallon of Crown Royal on board, the Flagship Intoxicant of crabbers, and twenty dollars. I believe it saved our lives.
Amazingly (but not really if the body of water you inhabited was Wassaw Sound) that same cousin and I ran across those same two crabbers a couple of years later. We weren't poaching; we'd taken out a $400 boat with no cowling cover on the outboard, like the feckless stoners we were, and had taken a wave in the carb. I'd named the boat, presciently, Danger Will Robinson.
They didn't recognize us, and were nice enough to haul us back to the Landings Marina. The tow rope was about twenty feet long, and periodically they'd ask us if we wanted a beer. Then they'd fire one like Roger Fucking Clemens straight at our heads, just for fun. We finally knocked one down into the boat, but it was a foamed catastrophe, unfit for consumption. These guys also had their women with them, and every so often one of the girls would lift up her T shirt and show us her breasts while her man would squeeze them and yell "How 'bout these fuckers, huh, boys?!?" through a gap-toothed grin. They liked my lab Prudence, and made us let her ride with them. They didn't squeeze her tits, thank Bejus, but you could tell they wanted to.
When we finally pulled in to the marina, with all the preppies hanging around the harbor in their Izods and Sperrys, we were thankful but, to be honest, a little chagrined to be rescued by these hallooing ruffians. Then, right as we got alongside the pier, one of the girlfriends dropped her Daisy Dukes and pissed about a quart of beer right off the side of the boat, in front of a hundred people, most of whom we knew.
Crabbers. If they don't kill you they can be quite entertaining.
Okay, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, and anyone else who's interested. I'll be at the Mandarin Ale House Saturday at 6:00 PM. Gonna have a drink, eat a wing or two. Regale the busty barmaids with my particular brand of clever repartee whilst The Bride looks on in amused contempt.
Come if you'd like. I'll be the guy waving plaintively for a cocktail while the staff tries to ignore me. ID: The Bride is blonde, I have that cumin artfully touched with onion salt thing going on. I'd post a pic, but as you know I'm in stealth mode during the corporate revanchism.
Hope to see you there. We can make fun of Acidman. Hell, he's looking for an out-of-town blogfest. He might even drive down.
I DESPERATELY NEED BONE MARROW
Won't you please help me?
I have a rare disease that doctors say is incurable. It's called Aphertoid Rhevatitis, and it attacks the bone marrow and hollows out my bones like a medfly devouring a cantaloupe. Aphertoid Rhevatitis makes me extremely lethargic, and sometimes I lie in my bed for weeks at a time, staring at the ceiling fan in my sparsely decorated hospice room, with roaches nipping at my bedsores.
It also causes my heart to arrest at inopportune moments, like when I'm trying to lift my infant son to give him a hug. My physician says I've only got about three months to live unless some brave soul offers to donate some of his or her precious bone marrow to me.
Won't you please give me your marrow?
Oh, who am I kidding? The jig is up. I don't have an infant son, and I'm not in a hospice. There's no such thing as Aphertoid Rhevatitis. I'm healthy as a bull ox. I just love bone marrow. Doesn't matter where it comes fromóhumans, monkeys, penguins, salamanders, turtle doves, or even the exotic giant panda. To me, bone marrow is Number One.
My love of bone marrow started when I worked as a lab technician in the leukemia ward at the local hospital. I was enjoying a lunch of clam chowder and crackers when I pulled a fresh sourdough baguette out of my satchel. I soon realized I hadn't brought any butter. Woe to the man who's forced to eat bread dry and plain! I searched frantically for some sort of spreadójelly, deviled ham, Nutella, anything! Crazed with hunger, I reached into the lab refrigeration storage unit and grabbed a random vial. In my state, I would've put just about anything on that breadóblood, semen, even earwax, but as luck would have it, the vial was full of bone marrow.
The marrow went on the bread smoothly, like chunky peanut butter. As a medical professional, I tend to frown on cannibalism, but when I bit into that marrow-coated bread, all bets were off. The taste was heavenly, like a subtle mixture of persimmons, guava and Alaskan king crab.
I was hooked, but how could I continue to enjoy this delicacy and keep my job? I decided to take only small amounts, a little at a time from each vial. I soon discovered that different marrow from different people provides different taste sensations. Bone marrow from children tends to have a fruitier, sweeter taste, while the marrow of the elderly is delightfully aged and musky. My fridge at home, now brimming with bone marrow samples, contained exotic flavors as vast as the sundae bar at Red Barn.
It wasn't long before the hospital administrators got wise to the dwindling bone-marrow supply. I had to lay low, so I killed a few neighborhood dogs to get my marrow fix. Their marrow was thinner and easier to spread than the human kind, but no less delicious.
Soon the police were knocking at my door, suspicious of the rotting dog carcasses piled by my dumpster. They searched my refrigerator and confiscated the precious ambrosia I had so diligently collected. Then they hauled me off to the pokey.
Now I'm locked in a cell with no access to marrow. I've tried chewing my arm off to get at my own marrow, but the guards here have strapped down my arms and capped my teeth with pencil erasers.
Won't you take pity on me? You probably have something in your life that you love. Maybe it's a nice new shirt, or a favorite game, or even a beloved grandparent. Wouldn't you feel sad if that thing were taken away from you forever? I may not be able to procure marrow in my own ways, but the law protects my right to ask you for the bone marrow I crave.
Have you thought about donating before, but been too busy? Do you know anyone who's depressed or suicidal who might be willing to give up their marrow after they've done themselves in? Or do you have any pets or relatives you don't love anymore? For God's sake, look into your hearts and bones and send me some goddamned marrow. Now!
Just too beautiful for words.
This guy has some serious breast-feeding issues. I was a bottle baby, too, and I feel his pain, but shit! He's fucked up.
Money line? "I won't breast feed my baby if it's homosexual."
Go read it. Please. And thank my brother for sending me the link.
Not too many people remember Otto Graham, who died yesterday at the age of 82, but he was one of the greatest professional quarterbacks of all time. Try these numbers:
Took Paul Brown's Cleveland Browns to the championship game 10 years in a row in his 10 years with the team (1946-1955).
Passed for 23,584 yards and 174 touchdowns.
His career record was 105-17-4.
Coach Graham was athletic director and football coach at Coast Guard Academy in the 70's. I worked with him when I was battalion athletic officer my third summer there, and got to know him pretty well. He was a charming, friendly, likeable bear of a guy, and a gentleman. He may have been too nice. He never yelled at his players no matter how poorly they played or were beaten, and always had a joke or a story to soften the blows of defeat. One of my roommates quarterbacked for him, another was a fullback. They worshipped him.
I did, too. Rest In Peace, Otto.
I've bought some, well, strange stuff over the years. One gets locked into a desperate bidding battle for some innocuous gimcrack of suspect worth, and logic and sanity become mere spectators, marginalized qualities of equally suspect worth. To wit:
Popeye stuff: I have that filthy little handpuppet from the thirties. At the time I proclaimed it the best five dollars I'd ever spent. That particular claim may still be true, but it signifies little. I also have two Popeye Christmas tree ornaments. Why two? Hell, I didn't want the first one to be lonely. The Stooges ornaments would never socialize with a Popeye ornament. Breeding, you know.
American Tourister luggage: I bought my daughter 8 or 9 pieces of that Marlo Thomas cherry red Tiara hardshell stuff from the sixties. The shit the gorilla threw around the cage (baggage handlers as APES?!? Make that commercial today and see how far Jesse Jackson is up your ass).
Tres chic, though. And tres pain in the ass when you're slogging through Miami International with five pieces of it lashed to your body in traditional Thai yak fashion, while your daughter pulls your two-suiter with her pinkie and gabs on her cellphone.
Service manuals: I'm the putz who buys these things. I'll get the burr up my ass and decide I can make that 1948 Keystone 8mm movie camera work if I just have the manual. Great. I have the manual. A bargain at $23.99 plus $9.95 S&H. I can now divine the camera worked all along. I just didn't realize the On button was that reverse swastika symbol.
Now go on Ebay and find some 8mm film, because Walgreen's isn't stocking it this millenium. Hint: you'll have to buy it on the black market in Juarez, and half of it will already be exposed with images of a wizened abuela power-milking a burro. Then find some dessicated fossil from the cinematography department at United Artists, who was forcibly retired in 1959 for blaspheming Panavision, to develop it for you.
Ebay. What you see is, unfortunately, so often what you get.
My system, for what it's worth:
Christmas Eve: go play a round of golf with the homies. The ones with the Cuban cigars.
Do four shots of tequila at your local watering hole. A good local bar will put a worm in each shot. Drink Cuervo Especial, not that gourmet sippin' shit. You buy that stuff to get girls drunk.
Go to Victoria's Secret. Spend 50% more than you both agreed is "the limit" this year.
Buy everything a size too small, except for the bras. Buy those a size too large.
On Christmas Day ask her to model her new step-ins and sech for you. She will look at the size tags and demur.
Say 'I understand. You might want to exchange them for a different color. Here are the receipts.'
Get your annual pity fuck. Go on, take it. You earned it.
I may be down for a while. The whole work situation is going to be a near run thing, at best. For comparison go rent Stalingrad. Although I'm in stealth mode at Velociworld, it would probably behoove me to play the fucking straight and narrow for the time being. If I do post it'll be like Salam Pax, only I won't be a dick-sucking ingrate later.
Word: I was at the emergency room at five AM this morning with my daughter (kidney stones!) when the Saddam news broke. Watching him get his head probed for lice and his gums checked for hoof in mouth disease was quite simply the most righteous I've felt in years. I wish they'd shown us the video where they looked for the contraband cigar in his lower GI tract.
In an effort to express my outrage and humility at my public skunking in each and every category of that non-linked Weblog Award Thing I decided to post a picture of some REAL Marauding Marsupials. So I went to FarmHo.com, of course. That was a given.
Well. That used to be a nice Mom 'n' Pop site for some quality shots of opossum gumping, once upon a. Nevermore.
THAT little excursion was more humiliating than any shining I took on a blog vanity circle jerk. I've never even surreptitiously brushed up against women that beautiful in my life, and here they were, hip over cervix, engaged in sexual congress with a turgid gemsbok.
Excuse me while I reshuffle my priorities, and try to grow some antlers.
Let us recount. My prurient, voyeuristic soul has asked for many things from my Faithful Readers in the past. I've asked you to share your Most Embarrassing Moment, I've asked you about the ugliest person you've ever copulated with, hell, I even think I've asked you about sex with amputees. If I didn't, I apologize. I certainly meant to. (Memo to self: scroll the archives.)
The best response I ever got was from a fellow who claimed to have bedded a retarded girl. He claimed he thought she was just slurring because she was drunk, and only realized the Horrible Truth when she was still slurring the next morning. We know he lies like a fucking dog, he knew she was motor-skill-challenged lame prey all along, but we honor him anyway.
A new question for troubling times: Have you ever been caught in flagrante delicto by your parent(s), or, even better, by your partner's parent(s)?
As usual, I'll go first to show I'm pervert partner first, window-fogging pecker-puller second.
I was never caught per se, but when I was dating The Bride my parents were out of town, so I ditched my flea-infested rental unit for my parents' house. Real food, real liquor cabinet. One thing led to another, and we ended up working over every non-breakable surface in the place, and broke a card table, too.
A few days later I was at my parents' house for some of that real food and my mother presented me with a tiny pair of baby-blue panties. "I found these under my bed" was all she said, but she looked over at Medusa and froze her ass into Georgia granite. Damn! I didn't even remember that part. We used a bed?
Okay, not the greatest story, but I have parameters here. I am necessarily limited in the full recounting of my youth by the proximity of my beloved. So you will NOT read the story of the U.S. Marshal's daughter in the backseat of my car parked outside her house, a really homely mutt, nor how I heard the tap tap tap of a United States Government U.S. Marshal issue chromed 4 "D" cell flashlight on my window. Nor of my subsequent flight after pushing her out the passenger door. I can't tell that story here.
Here's another story: when my cousin was 15 he got caught buck-fucking-naked in bed with a 13 year girl and an ounce of Columbian by the girl's mother. He jumped out the bedroom window, jeans in hand, but of course his folks were waiting for him when he got home. He wasn't exactly anonymous within the Burnside Island community. The worst part? That was my fucking lid he left behind.
So how about you? Ever get grounded for life for that sort of behavior? Shot at? Called two days later by the girl's mom for a date?
Tell me. I
want need to know.
I'm going to talk about the past because my present is far too volatile; I'm going to say something that could get me in trouble, eventually.
There was this fellow named Roger B- who lived up in Effingham and did occasional work for Dad on the farm. Roger could drive anything. Backhoe, bulldozer, combine. He dug lakes for us, harvested our corn and soybeans, clean-scraped woods. He once piled up two woodpiles the size of those Texas A&M bonfires clearing land for us. We let those huge piles of pine, oak, and lighter knot (sorry, I can't say fat lighter; it was always lighter knot to me) dry out, and we had a couple of hellacious bonfires two winters in a row. The whole north side of the county showed up for those bastards. I remember one in particular. It was about 5 degrees Farfegnugen, and my sisters were standing by the fire in white plastic 1966 go-go boots. How cool is that?
Back to Roger B-. He had a wife named Cuba. What you would call extreme buxom. Anna Nicole Smith reflected in carnival funglass. Bleached blonde hair (of course!), massive, pendulous breasts, and two ass-cheeks the size of bachtrian camel humps. Those cheeks looked like two possums fighting over an apple core in a croker sack. They had lives of their own, independent of Cuba and each other.
My father used to laugh mightily over Cuba's ass; never, of course, in front of Roger. Roger B- loved that woman. Worshipped her. She was his Goddess. Never mind that every broomsedge Lothario in the county with even less teeth than sense wanted to rodeo ride her, cellulite craters be damned. He loved that woman.
I'm pretty sure Cuba was faithful to Roger; I'm not so sure the old man didn't try to play separate the possums a few times. May have succeeded. I have no idea, being too young. Roger was apparently oblivious to the attentions lavished on Cuba, as I recall. Those were his possums at the end of the day, after all.
Here's to Cuba, Roger, and True Romance.
Snot has been pouring out of my nose today like the combined money shots in a Johnny the Wad retrospective at the Showboat Cinema. Absolutely soaked three bandanas through. I had to be at work, today, though, for that damned Town Hall Meeting. I
hope fear I infected half the organization.
18 VP's went tits up today. Oh, and I got a new CEO. Who is it? Why, the same fellow I was in a flame-war with yesterday.
Any First Coasters (or nearlys) interested in a bit of conviviality and holiday merriment during the Season (Saturday the 20th?) can contact me at my e-mail address. I was going to send out a discreet e-mail to De Doc, Rogers, Pamibe, Oceanguy, Eschew, Attaboy, Annessa, Jeff Diaz, Lomo Junkie, Lilstarmel, Sharkbitten, and anyone else, and have them spread the word, but very few bloggers in these parts give a contact. Strange. I do believe I have stumbled across the East Coast Coven of the Department of Justice Witness Protection Program.
I swear the guy across the lake from me has been burying body parts in his backyard, too.
Nonetheless, that just ramps up the excitement level for me.
At any rate the offer extends, and I'm fine with any neutral venue. Mandarin Ale House, Bukkets, the fifty-yard line of Alltel Stadium, Hardin-Giddens Funeral Home. Significant Others Significantly Welcome. Think of it as the Algonquin Round Table, without the subservient waitstaff.
And hey! Get a Hotmail account. That was Hoffa's downfall.
A big "Town Hall Meeting" tomorrow from 5 until 6:30. A new Dear Leader will be introduced, a few ominous pronouncements will be made regarding our own fates. Of course by 5PM the death squads will have been busy all day, executing the hapless ex-Big Dog Level 3's who didn't make the Cut. Even sentinel dogs can't detect those Terminators.
I love the way they call these things Town Hall Meetings. The idea, of course, is to engender a sense of warmth, community, and good fellowship as the chain guns work. The name never fooled me. Any kid who grew up watching Westerns knows only one thing ever comes out of town hall meetings: Lynch Mobs. The Mayor gets shouted down, the Preacher gets tomatoes and cabbages thrown at him, and The Sheriff (or if it's a high-grade Western, The Marshal), who had the good sense not to attend the fiasco in the first place, sits in the jailhouse, ramming cartridges into weapons.
Mob killings are not the sole province of the white-sheeters, you know. Ask Joseph Smith, if you're ever vacationing in the polyamory wing of Purgatory.
Who will the new leader be? And have I properly deployed the correct mixture of obsequiousness, arrogance, and gotdam uber-competence to the Right Person? Who gives a shit? It's all about the pageantry, isn't it?
I'm sure I'll offend someone here, so please take my apology now. There won't be another one.
Roadside tributes are mawkish, macabre things to me. I'm sorry if you lost a child or sibling or friend in a nasty car accident, especially if a drunk driver did it. But go put some flowers on the gravesite. That is the proper place for tribute, not Blood Alley on Highway 80.
Number one, they're distracting, and could cause another accident. Two, they're eye pollution, becaue they turn to withered shit in short order. Three, now you've ruined my day, too. Feel better?
It's bad enough I have to pass that nasty bloodstain on the Julington Creek Bridge every morning where that motorbiker bit it a couple of weeks ago. If that were my family member I'd have my pressure washer and a very long hose down there, with some orange cones and a St. John's County sheriff's deputy.
And those crosses with Binky's name on them might offend our Muslim brethren, kufrs.
Did you check out Al Gore endorsing Dean for President? Ranted and raved about quagmires and such. Said the world was better off without Saddam (Bush did right) but ousting him was the worst foreign policy decision in the history of the nation (Bush did wrong, simultaneously). All the while spastically jerking around with the fevered brow, popping eyes, greasy comb-over, and sweaty upper lip.
What the hell happened to that guy? He used to be kind of normal. Now he's freaking Renfield in the lunatic asylum, eating bugs and waiting for instructions from Master.
Meanwhile, Dean was in the background, giving Al's pod it's reacharound. Madness as spectacle. Joe Leiberman is well rid of this psychotic backstabber.
and stick it in the air. Which way the wind blow? Why, ask Rod Stewart. He has that damnable classics album out, he can assuredly tell you. Hawking it on Fox News, for crissakes, too, just in case you Missed the Message. THAT is shameful shit, friends.
Rod lost me once, in the mid-seventies, when he went from decidedly cool rocker to shameless disco fuck, and pabulum crooner. I put the whelp out of my mind for 25 years, ignored his marriage to the luscious Rachel Hunter for the sake of my sanity, and life went on. I even dismissed the whole "Rod sucked off the entire L.A. Rams football team", because Snopes.com said it wasn't so.
So what gives this punk the right to re-enter my life? I've mellowed myself, admittedly, but when I want to hear the classics I'll reach for my Frank and Tony. I don't need this ersatz raspy crap. It grates. It burns, god how it burns!
Someone needs to shoot that puke. I'm barely able to reconcile myself to the fact that 30 years ago I was standing 5 feet from Deep Purple's Marshall amps, blood streaming nobly from my 16 year old ears, secure in my hipness, only to be reminded now by a sac of dickcheese like Rod Stewart that I am not immortal, I am a demographic. And an apparently shallow one at that. I AM the target audience, right? I don't see the little bubble-gummers who lined up to buy "Tonight's The Night" storming the balustrades for Rod's latest.
I'm just sayin', you know?
With customers. A dangerous ploy, you may say, the week of Bloody Thursday (it's evolved). Wrongo, boyo, I say. It's just the right mixture of disdain, contempt, and subservience required. It's all about the customer, boss-man said, once upon a time.
Hang the hide over the line. I also bought these guys a nice steak dinner at Morton's tonight. I didn't attend. Just gave the maitre d' my Amex and said send me the bill. For some reason the thought of my favorite food, medium Angus, seared, turns my stomach these days. Seven year cyclical taste buds, or something. I can't eat meat-flesh right now. I can sense the fat globules choking my arteries, the bad, wicked cholesterol (disguised as circus bears) pinning the good, Sunday-School cholesterol to the mat.
This will change, and evolve, over time, but right now I can't do red meat.
Back to my point. Everyone is scared, hunkering down. I confess to that feeling myself, at times. I'd already set this up two weeks ago, however, and sometimes you poke the Morlocks in the eye, and carry on. Fuck 'em all. If I go down, I'll leave a tasty Amex bill, that's for sure.
Finally got around to checking this thing out, and I only have one question:
Where The Fuck Am I???
Obviously based on some kind of Bowl Championship Series crack-head, spoot-swallowing, snot-sucking, rectum-fingering bullshit, if you ask me.
That's okay. If nominated, I refuse to run. If elected, I refuse to serve.
Up yours, High School. You can't handle The Truth.
Rumour mill a'churning. The Deal goes down this week at one level. We will learn who our new CEO (Fearless Leader) is. He or she will be Level 3, meaning 2 levels removed from the COTB. Two front runners, a few dark horses from the nether regions of the organization. It doesn't matter to ME, of course. They are all fine, capable individuals, imbued with sagacity, fairness, wit, and a certain je ne sais quoi that inevitably leads to greatness. Even the ones I may not know yet.
I was a bootblack in a former life, after all, and can bring the fucking shine up, baby. Show me your shoes, master.
In actuality, it is what it is. I'm level 5, which means my fate will be determined in 12 weeks or so. They have to work over the Level 4's first.
Buff, spit, polish, shine. My new mantra.
Did I tell you one of my major performance management goals for next year will be implemented January 1st? Strike early and often, I always say.
I actually thought using an aggregator, in my case Bloglines, would be a good way to corral the various posts from my particular friends in the ethersphere, and better utilize my precious time. Instead of scrolling through links on my blogroll searching for nuggets of joy, wisdom, or filth, I would be instantaneously privy to a nice, neat column of my homies with parenthetical ear thumps detailing the number of unread posts. Nice, in theory.
Then you spend a few days on the road, and come back to
Dean's World (50)
Phillip Coons (32)
Jay Solo's Verbosity (57)
Cry havoc! that's a lot of reading, considering I have 45 more bloggers on the ag. Plus the ones I can't aggregate. I will do it, because I can't NOT do it. There is great wonderful stuff to be read, and digested, and enjoyed. I'm not complaining, mind you. It just seemed more fun when you randomly popped somebody and could run a streak of posts till the old stuff came up. As woefully inefficient as that was, it was like an under the radar scavenger hunt. Now I need a spreadsheet, because my anal retentive ass will have to Keep Up.
and buy Roy Kramer a ticket to La La Land. I'm sure he'd like to stroll the USC campus with a "BCS BIG DOG" sandwich board sign gracing his rounded, effeminate shoulders.
I'm no sports freak, but I enjoy some college ball, and I have a fave or two. And a crudely shaped sense of justice. And what happened to USC was a fucking travesty. Number 1 in both polls and they don't get to play for a national championship? That is utter bullshit.
Listen: A week ago Oklahoma was the undisputed Big Dick on the Block, and appeared unbeatable. And they probably still are. I'll enjoy watching them play an LSU team at the top of their game.
Oklahoma, however, got bitch-slapped and humiliated in their final game of the season (that is not redundant: one may be bitch-slapped and NOT humiliated. Depends on who's doing the slapping. And why). In the rarefied world peopled by sports writers cum jockstrap sniffers, and embittered trade college coaches with golden showers instead of golden parachutes in their contracts, tradition is everything. And tradition dictated that Oklahoma must pay a fearsome and cruel penalty for that loss.
You were Great! The Best! They were comparing you to the top 10 college teams of all time! Yesterday, you worthless pudknockers. Today you were beaten by a half-assed team with nothing to lose except pride. They humbled you, and exposed you for the tin gods you are. You must pay.
Sorry. But that's tradition. That's the way the game has been played for generations. And the BCS fucked it all up.
Actually, they are three magnificent teams. I wish there was a way to play three teams in a football game, like the gunfight in the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Then we'd see a real winner.
Am I watching the Playboy 50th Anniversary Special on A&E? Do I shit in the woods? Of course. Poor Hef. At 77 he is diminished to 6 girlfriends and a milk jug full of Viagra.
I only have one question: who would get in the Grotto with that kind of spoot count? Not I.
This is certainly not the best movie Redford ever made, but I think it rocks. It is somewhat hilarious that Redford plays a CIA handler here when he has pretty much made a career out of being the whistleblower (think 3 Days of the Condor). The fucker can make-believe, though.
I like Redford, despite his politics. He leaves his shit at the door, so to speak. He does not piss me off.
Paul Newman pisses me off, though, and I love his work, too. Newman is a freaking consummate actor, as is Redford. But Redford doesn't throw fucking salad dressing at you to subsidize Sandinista death squads, does he?
However: I will always remember the young chick finger-fucking herself to Newman's pic in Emmanuelle. THAT is the kind of legacy one aspires to. Meanwhile, life sucks, sometimes, because that ain't happening to us.
I needed closure on that last post. It was getting out of fricking control.
NOT that I'm going to change topics. Here's the deal: LSU gave Georgia a major ass-whipping tonight. Fair enough. Now that Oklahoma has lost their championship game I think it's time to call USC's number two ranking into question. In other words, you stay close to home with your loyalties. I'm an SEC guy, and I'm behind LSU all the way now. Hell, I'd be behind Florida at this point if they were the anointed. This probably has a lot to do with my college years in New England, when The Bear was fighting off the Notre Dames and Pitts and Penn States of the world. Regional tribalism. Not a bad concept, regionalism. Especially when you are the minority, the nigger of the country.
Maybe it's a Southern thing, but you root for the closest neighbor. You can kick and claw and fight like hell all season long, but when the deal goes down you stick by your conference. Your South. Sorry, Rob. Sorry, Zombyboy. I love you guys, but this is a thing. Please try to understrand.
All hail LSU, against the infidels.
I'd blog tonight but I'm busy right now.
UPDATE 2035: ARGHHH!!!
UPDATE 2045: ARGHHH!!!
UPDATE 2058: ARGHHH!!!
UPDATE 2105: ARGHHH!!!
Look, perhaps this will be easier if I just say ibid.
Time to look elsewhere for entertainment. Did you see that Chuck guy win $400 G-bones with that last toss in the Dr. Pepper can? Sweet.
More importantly, did you see his old lady? She had the whole Glenn Close 1983 Fatal Attraction perm thing going there, replete with nasty-assed black roots.
Fuck that. I'm tossing for that kind of dough with a market share that size I'm making the bitch touch up. You know what I mean?
Back to the game. When Kregg Lumpkin dropped that probable touchdown pass on Georgia's first possession I looked at The Bride and said, and I quote, "We're Fucked". You can't give that up. This is a No Mistakes game. Especially when it comes to a Seven Point Mistake.
We're still fucked, of course. At least it's halftime. LSU can't score during halftime, insofar as my understanding of the game is concerned.
Where's the Goat Man when I really need him?
UPDATE 2215: Interception. YES!!! I realize these are the ravings of a madman, and I don't give Georgia two fart blossoms in hell at this point, but it feels so good to say YES instead of ARGGGHHH.
UPDATE: Why is Fred Gibson benched, by the way? Yes, he dropped a pass, but fucking Ada, he's your go-to guy. Richt is a strange bird, sometimes. Oops, Fred's back in. And didn't know where to line up. Critical time-out burned. Richt 0, Velociman 1.
Time out: Have you seen the twins, the centerfold in the December Playboy? Brazilians, Max. Very hot. Although digesting the concept of my twin girls lathering each other up for a jerk-off mag is rather disconcerting, if I had twin girls. See, I can be an objective lens on the current worldview, when necessary.
Back to the game: 11 point spread now. Trying to hook my daughter up with Billy Bennett.
UPDATE 2242: Pick off. Touchdown LSU. Georgia will drop to 9 or 11 with this pussy show. Did you see Daryl Hannah in Playboy? Nasty! No makeup, lame bod, I wept for the girl.
By the by, Jack Straw corrected me. I had posted Watson as the pass dropper when it was Lumpkin. I, of course, acknowledged the error, then deleted the comments in order to destroy the pixel trail. Power corrupts, absolutely!
UPDATE: ARGGGHHH!!! won't do it. How about a nice, clean, Farg the Fucking Farg Farg Farg! I am Fargged.
Here's the platter:
Here's the ass Georgia handed to LSU:
Ass on a platter. There is really nothing more to discuss, unless you want to talk about those Playboy twins.
And I proffer the male ass of the species to my loyal readers because they are predominantly female, not because I have personal issues. Ladies. I mention this only in passing.
With the snow cascading at a seminar at the Port Ivory Marine Terminal on Staten Island this morning (so named because it's an old Procter & Gamble facility, where they used to import the raw materials and process it on site into the fine caked white loam we know today as 99 and 1/4 percent pure soil-remover), and a promise of a more serious blizzard in the works, I bailed the Big Apple today. No afternoon in Manhattan for me.
I first switched my AirTran flight from Saturday morning to Friday at 7:18PM. Knowing Newark, and the snow, I knew that was a bad call, so I backed it up with a 3:30 Delta flight. Tried to get on the non-stop Continental at 3:25 with my boss, but it was sold out. Good thing, too. I was able to get bumped up to the 12:45 Delta to Atlanta that had been delayed to 2:00. After two de-icings we departed the shithole known as Newark at 3:30. Got to Hartsfield at 5:30, in plenty of time for my 7:10 to Jax.
My boss, meanwhile, had his Continental flight cancelled. He tried to get on my Delta flight but it was sold out by then. He got a US Air flight for 5:00. Last I talked to him he was still in Newark, the flight delayed till 11:00 PM. I doubt it ever left.
All was not gin and roses, however. My 7:10 to Jax was delayed to 9:00, then 9:30, then 11:00 because of lack of airplanage. Changed gates 3 times, too. It then moved up to 10:00 when they found another plane, but was delayed another hour when they couldn't find the final air slut the FAA demands. Left 4 hours late at 11:10, got to Jax in 43 minutes, and I eventually arrived at the Velocihovel a bit after 1 AM.
Now I'm keyed up on bottled water and trying to mellow with a couple of Appletons on the rocks.
Dodged a bullet, really. I wouldn't have gotten out of there until Sunday night at best, and I have customers in town Monday morning. I think my boss is still up there. Heh.
My daughters talk like Valley girls. Their friends talk the same way. The boys sound like surfer dudes. I believe the Southern accent, and regional accents in general, will perish with the boomer generation.
When my daughters were very small I moved them to Memphis. When their original Geechee drawl they inherited from their grandmothers combined with that Memphibian thing they had some ass-kicking accents. No twang, though. North Georgia is twang. Savannah is drawl. Mobile is twang. Richmond is drawl. Texas is Texas. Mississippi is indescribable. All different, as different as soda brands. No actor ever gets that, except perhaps Kenneth Branagh in Gingerbread Man. Hearing a Charlize Theron Savannah accent is to feel one's family jewels in a vise, for instance.
I wander. My children's generation will have no accents other than the universal accent delivered to them by Lizzie McGuire or Sabrina the Teenage Witch. And I'm not sure that's a bad thing. Stigmas attach themselves in the working world. My Savannah accent is long gone, leached out by years in a work environment populated by peoples of all geographical stripes. It's a defense mechanism, and a subliminal need to develop common bonds, I suppose.
It's still a shame. Accents of all kinds are great devices for embellishment and nuance. I love the way my Rhode Island salesman talks about a great Patriots game, for instance. It wouldn't sound the same from an accent neutral punk like Bob Costas. Listen: there are hordes of pointy-headed anthropology majors out there bemoaning and decrying the loss of languages around the world. They devote their lives to the recording and salvation of bizarre esoteric dialects from the Amazon basin to Uzbekistan to the Aleutian Islands. And that is all well and good. These languages should be preserved for posterity as wonderful relics of the parochial days of civilization. Hell, I wish I could speak Aramaic, at least in a bar in Alma, Georgia. These same anthropologists strive to save the Geechee and Gullah dialects of Georgia and South Carolina, because they are rooted in ancient African tribal languages. However, if you ask one of these folks why they don't bother to preserve the unique patois of the quintessential Charleston stevedore, or the elderly North Carolina tobacco auctioneer, they look at you like you're crazy.
A couple of bourbons and I can comfortably lapse into the old ways. I think I'll record some of this possum talk for posterity. For The Children, damn it! They deserve no less. I wonder if I can get a Smithsonian grant to oil the works, so to speak?
Off to New York City for a few days tomorrow. I wrap up with customers Friday morning, but I'm laying over with my sales buddy till Saturday.
So what to do in New York on a Friday afternoon? Ground Zero? Rockefeller Center? Fifth Avenue? I don't think so.
I believe I'll force an upstate trip to Ossining, to visit the Sing Sing Prison Museum. That looks like time well spent.
It's a crazy world. Seems Jessica Lynch is coming to town in February to christen a new Carnival cruise ship. That's a car crash I doubt I'll miss. I just hope that champagne bottle doesn't dredge up any buried memories for the little dear. Traumatized unto celebrity, indeed.
Who knows what triggers memories, or synaptic disruptions? I was prepared to proffer a lengthy essay on the Austenesque qualities of Patrick O'Brian, when BAM! I was leveled by a Goat Man flashback.
Most people not of the South (or under 40, I may sorrowfully add) will know what in the pluperfect hell I am talking about, but if you were of a certain wormhole in time you will know EXACTLY whereof I speak.
As a child in the sixties, your father would drive the old roads on vacation or trips. There were no interstates to speak of. On those trips to Atlanta or Athens or Birmingham you would stare out the station wagon window to endless miles of dirt poor folk and scrub oak and slash pine and sentinel chimneys, the houses long since burned, leavened by the occasional town or hamlet, and, most importantly, the Goat Man. Walking with a beaten wagon pulled by a team of six or eight goats, the wagon overfilled with garbage variety tinware and kettles, the Goat Man was not just a curiosity, he was a vision, a freaking vision, to a child.
Because you always saw him. I swear, as he plied the Macon-Savannah Highway, or other backroads, scarcely a trip went by when you did NOT see him. Bearded, filthy, elderly, picaresque, he was almost a milepost for any voyage, and we all know travels as a child were voyages. Anyone who says differently never had a childhood.
Ah, to see the Goat Man made any trip a mythical voyage, yes voyage, and some small smattering of fantastical surrealism engrained itself to the trek. He was Davey Crockett's cap, or Mike Fink's raft, when Disneyland was still a flickering black and white image on a 17-inch Zenith.
I now know the Goat Man was born one Ches McCartney in Iowa in 1901. Always an itinerant wanderer, he had actually set up base in Conyers, Geogia for some time. According to the site I linked he set off in 1985 at the age of 84 to find Morgan Fairchild in Hollywood, only to be mugged upon his arrival.
I like that story. Not because he was beaten, but because he wanted to take Morgan back to Georgia as his wife.
A fable should have a moral, after all, and I like to think the Goat Man's moral is never give up on true love.
UPDATE: (8/14/09) For those interested, I made the Goat Man a central plot character in my novel A Trip of Goats. You can order it at Lulu.com. Soon to be available on Amazon!
Today was Caroline's 11th birthday. We celebrated yesterday with a party and trip to see Haunted Mansion (more on that later). A beautiful little redheaded Scots lass, eh?
Sorry for the poor quality. Dadgum digital camera. A trade off between strawberry highlights and red-eye zombie. When she was born every nurse on the Candler maternity ward proclaimed her an "exquisite porcelain doll." She still is, and she and her big sister are why I exist at all, I am convinced.
Jim Peacock at SnoozeButtonDreams is creating the Bestofme Symphony, wherein one can submit their best older work, that may not have been read when one's blog was in the embryonic stage.
I like this idea, and will certainly submit entries. I, for one, know my best work is behind me!
Yes, Kevin Costner just soiled himself. There's a smoker in the house, you see. Jim at Smoke on the Water has a new site up, and has graciously linked me on his cherry blogroll. I must acknowledge that, and respect his excellent taste. Jim must have found me at my Bloguncle's.
Jim also waxes eloquent on ceegars, and links two of my favorite sites, JR Cigars and Thompson Cigar Co. Although I must admit I still have a hundred Belmondo's still cello'd in the box from Thompson's. No room in the humidor, and sometimes you just make less than excellent choices. My bad. Still, two fine sites for the aficionado. If you want the links, go to Jim's.
Welcome to the Ravening Devourer of All Your Free Time, Jim. Let me know the first time you get shined for sex because you just had to put that one last post up, or read that last blog. Don't worry. It happens. Just means you haven't properly trained the significant other yet.
Somebody needs to put a primer out on that, by the way. I evdently need to bone up, so to speak.