Died 1944 over Pueblo, Colorado on a B-17 training mission. My father's big brother. The uncle I never knew.
I like to think if he were alive today Uncle Bob would personally beat Ted Rall like a rented mule.
I haven't posted much recently for a variety of reasons, all having to do with More Important Missions than blogging.
First, my sister has been staying with me for the last few months. My two brothers and other sister (and their respective significant others) came for a visit this weekend to assist in relocating her to a new apartment. Mission accomplished, things look rosy, and it was wonderful having us all together for the first time in years. It's nice to compare dysfunctions in a team environment, although I always hate winning that game.
Second, and of greater immediate import, my younger daughter has been suffering from an extremely nasty and severely painful eye infection, one acanthamoeba keratitis, an amoebic infection that attacks the subsurface of the cornea.
Fortunately it was detected early, and she is responding quite well to her treatment regimen, which will continue for 3 to 6 more months. Misdiagnosis (it resembles herpes), mistreatment (for ordinary bacterial infection), or even non-response to proper treatment results in corneal transplant or eye loss, therefore The Bride and I have been quite absorbed of late.
Skeeter has been incredible through some heartbreaking pain in the early going, and as treatment appears successful thus far, I can write about it with sanguine prospect. As to when I resume anything like a normal schedule elsewhere is still a ponderable.
I've never been to a rattlesnake roundup, however I am sure they attract a certain element of society that I would find highly entertaining. I missed the Claxton roundup in March, and the Sweetwater, Texas monster the same week. Not that I would drive to Texas for a roundup, but I do find it interesting that they are generally held in late winter or early spring, when the lethargic creatures can be more easily harvested from their hibernacula.
There are seven roundups in Pennsylvania this summer, which I find to be greater sport. Instead of pouring gasoline down a hole, I think the snake ranchers should be forced to scavenge for them in barefeet, possibly wearing only thong underwear. I'm all about level playing fields.
Many people don't like rattlesnake roundups, of course. They are cruel to the snakes, they say, and they are driven by the skin trade, and they actually depress stockpiles of antivenin because snakebites go up due to the heightened human interaction (read: booze-addled good old boys just gotta play with them snakes in the cages).
I'm ambivalent on that issue, as I hate snakes. I just know the scene would be totally fucking insane, and that is the point in attending. Just as I am ambivalent on Elvis, but I never missed a
Dead Elvis Tribute Week when I lived in Memphis.
Perhaps a Blogger Claxton Rattlesnake Roundup next March. Who knows? Maybe I can get Harry Crews to attend.
There are furious droplets of clear liquid tumbling from the heavens, and I don't know what to make of it. I have a very faint recollection of a similar occurrence from my childhood, but I'm not sure if it had a positive outcome, therefore I am afraid to venture out.
For empirical research purposes I tossed an alien into it. Killed him. It was like acid. I may try the cat next, as a fellow member of the Class Mammalia may prove a better indicator of danger. I'm not sure the alien was even Phylum Chordata.
The grass sure seems to like it, though.
I've noticed an alarming trend recently. Alarming in the fact I did not foresee it, or create it, or maintain enough youth or vigor to practise it: I see youngsters wearing Krystal paper hats as au courant attire. Social statements, perhaps.
Step away from the Jah knits, people. Krystal rules.
I am a huge Krystal fan, of course, going back to the days when Mommy would buy a sackful at a dime per on Bee Road for a birthday party Strong Man Spectacular at the Avon. I still love Krystals upon occasion.
I grow older, however. My body leavens. Sometimes the youth that is my appetite cannot handle the old man that my bowels have become. Sometimes Krystals rip my gut. These are not broken winds, mind you, they are solar flares. Electricity may go out for three or four quadrants. Songfowl die. Lawngrass withers.
Sometimes not. Krystals are therefore not a repast, but a bout of Russian Roulette, with my pyloric valve spinning the chamber. I can live with that. Especially when I recall the night when my friend PJ ripped a fart so foul, so noxious, so egregious, in the Krystal line at two AM that they closed the store. BEFORE he had even SEEN a Krystal. He had only smelled them. Now that is something a White Kastle fan can only dream of.
And I have been to Krystal's World Headquarters in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Somehow that lends credence to this post gone awry.
Little Al's speeches recently are becoming so hysterical, so shrill, so megalomaniacal I expect him to cross his arms like Mussolini, or give the Sieg Heil during the fulsome ovations of his criminally misguided fans. He also has Adolph's effeminate mannerisms.
Gore did not used to be like this. He was a sane, sober, well-bought politician. Now he is a spittle-flecked lunatic, a raving psychotic, who 3.5 years ago was 600-odd votes away from the nukular football.
Good God Almighty.
I like that Rankin' Rob has a temporary picture of Huntley and Brinkley up. When I was a little chirren Huntley & Brinkley was the only news we watched. My old man was not a Cronkite fan, as he swore he could never trust a man with a moustache (how odd). Times have changed. I gauge my trust of a fellow man by whether his trousers shimmy when he is in close contact with me (shimmy = bad, by the way). That doesn't work for television, though, does it?
Again I digress.
I also recall my father liked to castigate Brinkley as a young whippersnapper learning the ropes from old Chet, who always had a smouldering cigarette just off-camera (Brinkley a whippersnapper! He's like a hundred now). He's DEAD, pussface. -Ed.
Britt Hume is the new Huntley. The only talking head I can look at and think "There is a no-bullshit newsman". I'm too young to remember Murrow, of course, but I think he went downhill towards the end.
Dinner with customers tonight. Great food, good people, no desire to be there. I am tired. Two glasses of Chardonnay do not whip me, but pedantic conversation does.
But. But! I just remembered I missed Slim Whitman's 80th birthday January 20th. Slim lives not too far from me, in the Middleburg area. I had intended to pay my respects, and yet this moment slipped under the radar way back when.
That's okay. He was probably flooded with well-wishers then, and a local hammerhead showing up now with an Epiphone in need of an autograph might blow the old boy's skirt up.
This is an interesting site. It gives the age of consent for sex between male/female, male/male, female/female, around the world, and state by state. Quite exciting, in a 3 am lurking way.
Check out Austria. Any of us can have anything we want, if it is 14 years old.
Not to worry. Austria will be 53% Muslim in 2042, and we all know THOSE boys will take care of these issues.
I found a note under my windshield wiper Wednesday as I was leaving the parking garage. Let me share it with you:
Dear Car Owner-
I tried to fit into the spot next to you & didn't fit. I scraped your rear bumper. I am
My name is --------, cell ph# --------. I will exchange insurance info w/you to pay for damages.
Again, I am
It is here. The De Luxe 2-disc Collector's Edition of The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Fully restored, with an additional 18 minutes of deleted footage. Restored soundtrack by Ennio Morricone. A wealth of behind-the-scenes documentaries. This is the Mother Lode. Nirvana. I am scared to open it. It is Christmas in May.
"My Favorite Movie!" gushes Quentin Tarantino on the cover sticker.
My brother and I were discussing the aversion, or perhaps puzzlement, women feel for this film. We don't understand it. It is perhaps the greatest example of the whole Venus and Mars divide, excepting only the Stooges.
Lookit, girls: this film has all the female character traits you aspire to: avarice, disloyalty, cruelty, and envy. And these traits are assigned to men! The perfect film for you, in my opinion.
I ponder if I will be able to squeeze in three viewings on Sunday, given my other obligations. I will certainly give it the old Boy Scout try.
So my brother J- called tonight [I am no longer allowed to reference his name] and told me Rolling Stone had a Best Of article. Seems, among other things, they asked Dusty Hill, bassist and singer for ZZ Top, what his favorite venue was. Said Dusty: The Warehouse in New Orleans. Too bad it's gone now.
Oh, ho, says I. I say that, really. Oh, ho. I also say things like Behold the merriment!, but only if I'm sloshed and working an angle on a barmaid. But I digress.
I'm glad Dusty said that, because I saw ZZ Top in 1973 at the Warehouse at the tender age of 16, and that concert is still in my top, uh, one.
My older brother, R-, not to be confused with my younger brother [who abhors any mention of himself on this site without remuneration, being an attorney] and I drove to Picayune, Mississippi in June of 1973 to visit some friends. Good people, as far as Cajun cornholers go, and they had tickets to see ZZ Top at the Warehouse.
At this point ZZ had recorded Tres Hombres, but it was still several weeks away from release. They were exercising the tunes, however, crafting the Big World Tour they anticipated.
I'd never heard of them, nor had the rest of civilization. They were a Texas bar band with a following in NOLA. Billy Gibbons was so young he couldn't even grow a beard yet. [I've blogged on this before, but I'm way too lazy to link to it, and it was pedestrian work on my part, anyway.]
The Warehouse was a private club, a converted cotton warehouse, and you could drink, smoke, crawl into the rafters, whatever. The opening act was Spooky Tooth, and I knew that band somewhat, but when ZZ hit the stage about 11pm the crowd surged forward. Some girl had passed out with her head in my lap, but I had to go with the flow, and I distinctly remember the hard harsh thud of her head hitting concrete as I bolted. Bummer, I said. Bummer.
They opened with Waitin' For The Bus, and rolled right into the rest of Tres Hombres. It was magical shit, to me. Billy channeled Bo Diddley that night.
I wax far too lengthy here, and I am about to break a cardinal rule: I don't do music critic. If I go down that path I will soon be deconstructing the stylings of Diana Krall for cheap currency from the local alternative rag. Nay, sir. Nay.
I shall cut to the chase. We left at 3am, ZZ still on stage and game; friends later told us they played until 6am. As an aside: we found a baggie with 6 joints rolled in strawberry papers right before ZZ came on, which we smoked throughout the show.
When I returned to Savannah I went to Crazy Jack Gilmore's record store and tried to buy the album. Crazy Jack thought I was crazy. It arrived two weeks later, and, unfortunately, the rest of the story is corrupted by ZZ. Sharp Dressed Man. Legs. Hell, they fired their drummer for a while and went with disco drums. Heresy. Fucking heresy.
But on a hot night in New Orleans, in a steamy old cotton warehouse, with no money in my pockets and some bootleg reefer, I saw the greatest show of my life.
Cheryl Stearns has delayed her 130,000 foot spacedive attempt until September 2005.
I don't know what the hell happened to Michel Fournier after his 2003 attempt didn't pan out.
Rodd Millner dropped out of the news in 2001.
Frustrated, I am. SOMEONE needs to do this feat. It's only a 26 mile freefall back to earth. You'll break the speed of sound, probably black out, and your nose will gush blood despite the pressurized suit, but it will be worth it. The balloon ride up alone makes it worth it.
Oh, well. Here's Joe Kittinger doing it Old School style in 1960 from 102,800 feet:
I never get tired of this picture.
You know what chaps my ass? Well, sure you do, and the list grows daily. But I mean right now: the damned televisions and DVD players imbedded in minivans and SUV's. Or, more specifically, the people who purchase them. God forbid little Joshua or Typhani has to ride all of four miles to daycare without having some mind-numbing dreck shoved in their face. They're only getting 12 hours of it a day now.
How low will the American parent stoop to pander to their precious little snotnoses? Here's a $1,200 example.
"Yeah, gimme the Warner Brothers package in that breeder box, mister."
Listen: when my kids complain of being bored in the car I give them a rubber band, to share, to entertain themselves. Then I tell them they're damned lucky it's a rubber band and not a mere loose thread off my shirt. If they persist in complaining I may take the cardboard off the windows and let them look at the outside world, but only for a little while.
Because the outside world is scary. At least, that's what the cretins who put home theater systems in their freaking cars must think. You know, a child can learn a hell of a lot more about the world by actually viewing it than by watching pixelated sponge creatures in their fucking underdrawers.
Oh, I suppose these things have value on long trips. You know, the 1% of the time spent in the vehicle other than commuting and errands. But I see these in operation in the morning beep 'n' creep, or on the way to the grocery store, or the wine and spirits merchant ("Let me buckle you in, sweetheart! Mommy's going to see the liquor man!"). And so there sit Caightlynne and Trevor, strapped into their carseats like impact experiments, blank-eyed and slack-jawed, tongues lolling listlessly, moistened by that strange paste of sputum and vomit only a child can produce (although I have nearly perfected it recently). Staring at that freaking tube, because otherwise Mommy might have to do something awful, like engage them in conversation. Shame, shame. The least a parent could do is put some John Waters on for the little wastlings.
Well, Skeeter graduated from elementary school today. I attended, of course. It was at the high school, actually, so her big sister stopped in for the ceremony after her trig final.
Cunningham Creek is 9 years old, and I have had children in it for the last 7. It's going to be strange not having one there. It won't be the same taking the occasional morning off and sitting on the front porch with a mug of coffee, listening to the children sing patriotic songs in their earnest high voices. I used to take those mornings off on shuttle launch days, because I could sit on that front porch, listen to those children, and 12 seconds after lift-off the shuttle would appear over the schoolhouse roof. I'm not exactly close to Cape Canaveral, but I'm close enough to see the solid rocket boosters separate, and take their own errant paths to the ocean, while the shuttle climbed, climbed, and eventually disappeared. I miss those shuttle launches.
The principal informed us this morning that Skeeter's 5th grade class had the 3rd highest reading, 4th highest math, and 3rd highest science FCAT's in the entire state of Florida. That's probably a thousand or two elementary schools. Quite bitching, actually. That's why I live here.
I'll tell you a secret, though. I don't know where the beautiful people live, but it ain't Fruit Cove, Florida. Whew. There are some ugly mothers around these parts. I blame it on the influx of Yankees, of course, and the alarming upward mobility of the poor white trash in these parts. The high school moms look pretty good, even though, as a demographic, they are naturally older.
There. I have a conundrum to occupy me for the evening.
My sister sent me a video clip of a guy getting his throat cut, and his head removed. Not Pearl, not Berg. Worse, if such a thing is possible. Maybe not worse, because it wasn't as long, but more intense, closer, and I puked my dinner. I have asked for some background on this. You know, the myth of the snuff flick redounded for decades, never found to exist. Until the Religion of Peace became activists. Now it's ubiquitous. Not to mention desensitizing, perverting, and criminally savage.
These are training films, folks. Recruiting videos. I won't link these, but I will forward them if you request. I swear if you watch this you will pick up arms and kill any Islamic fuckhead you see. They don't differentiate between soldiers and civilians. Well, actually, they do. They are terrified of a United States soldier or Marine. They kill civilians. I have not heard the words I want to hear from the Muslim community. If I don't hear them soon I'm going jihad myself.
Oh, I did hear CAIR say "We deplore all violence, from the Berg thing to THE BLASPHEMOUS ABUSE OF PRISONERS AT ABU GHRAIB!!!!"
I'm still upset from that video, but fuck Islam, fuck CAIR, fuck all the ragheads. Death to them all.
I'm going to cop to a sinful pleasure. I have so few in life I trust you will not begrudge me this one. Kelley's post on trooping to a new job in college after being pole-axed by a Bradford Pear tree triggered it, but I must declare at the outset I am in NO WAY conflating this terrible mishap with my guilty sin. You will understand.
I enjoy it when a haughty girl experiences pain. Wait. Hear me out. I enjoy it when anyone experiences pain, but it's not joy enjoyment. It's There but for the Grace of Allah enjoyment. Schadenfreude. And if you don't you're a damnable liar. But I'm not talking about seeing a decent person, a friend, get hurt. That's sick, and you should rebury those thoughts you mistakenly thought I was eliciting right now, you sick fuck. Let me explain by way of example:
St. Patrick's Day, Savannah, 1978. I am downtown heading for River Street with The Later To Be Bride and a friend of hers, M. We are very young, but it is 9 am on St. Patrick's Day in Savannah, so we are already drinking.
M is fine. Very fine, but I won't dwell on that. She is also a stuck up bitch, and eager to go place the hearts of several beaux in the already piss-soaked Port-a-Lets, out of unbridled vanity and malice. I have no problem with this, because I am a disinterested party.
M is wearing a tank top and tight white jeans, which barely encase her fine firm ass. But I am a disinterested party. So, just as we cross Broughton Street M lands her heel in a sewer grate, and plunges into the muddy filth the prior night's rain has left behind. Here is where it gets good. M is not hurt, but her white pants are a disgusting mess on one side, and the biggest social day of the year has just begun.
Well, actually, she was hurt. That's the beauty. Seeing a vain, proud woman brought low by pedestrian (no pun intended) short term pain. All the barriers drop. All the mincing snobbishness is forgotten in an instant. "Fuck!Shit!Goddam! OWWWW!"
Music to your boy's ears. I helped her up, and we continued, but her day, and game was ruined, and I later peeled off to seek psychedelic enlightenment with the boys. Who needs to hang with a muddy chick?
See, the whole point is not misogyny, or callow amusement at another's misfortune. It's the hard, base thrill, that shiver, that runs up your back when you see Karma dispensed to the deserving. Physical pain? Sucks, but I've felt infinitely worse over the death of a puppy than a root canal. Of course, the vet doesn't dope me up when he puts my pet down, but the metaphor obtains, I think. The gem is seeing how the pampered deal with it. [Fuck!Shit!Goddam!OWWWW!]
Consider: seeing someone break off a nail about 3 centimeters below the quick is a defining moment. Stoic, or crybaby? Pain hurts, of course, and it sucks, but it is what it is.
What it is is how one handles quick and sudden adversity. Okay, it's also about humiliation. And, yes, I take a vicarious thrill in that.
I'm going to Hell for this post, aren't I? I imagine a special grotto in Hades, wherein I am strapped to a smouldering boulder and demons dressed as Dynasty and Falcon Crest doyennes abuse me with rigor and purposeful intent.
All because I couldn't quite explain myself, but was determined to spill my guts anyway. Karma dispensed, indeed.
I'm actually reading Pride and Prejudice for the first time. Don't blame me. I was raised in a culture where chick books were considered, well, inferior. No Little Women for this Little Man. They were always about a passel of well-to-do sisters looking for a passel of rich husbands. Giggle, and twitter. And didn't you just love the intelligent, witty sister? Oh, split my sides.
I must confess I've missed out on some good literature here, tho. And not just Austen and the Bronte slags. Here is my catch up list. I'm sure, at some point, in some drunken argument, I've not only claimed to have read these books, I've actually deconstructed a few to the occasional unconscious barfly:
Great Expectations: my sisters read it, I didn't realize at 12 it was Dickens, thought it was a chick book. There's other Dickens, too: Bleak House, Little Dorritt, Nicholas Nickleby. Woe is me, to reckon Dickens by Copperfield and Twist. Actually, I didn't. I think Cratchit was a borderline welfare case who couldn't keep his pecker in his pants, and had no gumption, but that's just me. I LOVE Scrooge. A true entrepeneur.
Bartleby the Scrivener: love Melville, never got to this one. Scribbling versus whaling, I suppose.
Madame Bovary: Flaubert. Damn! Top of the list. I understand black stuff came out of her mouth, but only because Faulkner told me. Understand she was a slut.
Remembrance of Things Past: Proust. Sorry. Not only do the experts now claim that is a bullshit translation of the TITLE, they also claim we misunderstood the boy all along. Here's the deal: reading the straighjacket ramblings of a desperate homosexual who wrote this entire trilogy standing on his head in a cork-lined room reeks of an equally desperate need to seem relevant. Fuck Proust.
Iliad, and Odyssey. Never in the original Greek. I'm told it is very powerful. Brad Pitt told me this.
Next: unread poetry. That will fill a few stanzas.
My good friend Dax, and his family, lost a beloved pet yesterday, and I only just caught up to the fact.
I've been through this ordeal lately, and my significant others have, as well, therefore I beg you to drop him a line of sympathy. Pets are God's way of humiliating us into being better people, and I unswervingly think that is a good thing.
Hang in there, my friend.
Of a sudden my new Dell won't play CD's anymore: MMJB Soundcard Problem: WaveOut Format Not Supported
Whatever the fuck that means.
Meanwhile, Dell's "Award-Winning Service" has had me on hold for thirty minutes.
I am Diogenes of Sinope, searching for one single, solitary person who is not a lying motherfucker. Even the mirror belies me, alas.
By the by: Did you know Diogenes's father, Icesias, was convicted of "debasing the public coin"?
Sometimes the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and yet sometimes the roots are inconveniently close.
UPDATE: Young Jeffrey (Geoffrey? Jefri?) fixed me up. He also ran me through some protocols that should make my computer run ten times faster. And yet, I've lost my cursor power
6 10 times just typing this. I think Jefri, from the fine State Of Uttar Pradesh, just had a howling good time fucking an American. It's Bush's fault. Not my fault I brought up the fact they should have nuked those Paki bastards 3 years ago. I believe Jefri is on a visa from Islamabad...
You know the expression. The moment a television show, or other form of serial entertainment, crosses the line into farce, and tomfoolery, and loses all credibility.
It originated, of course, when Fonzy (sp?) jumped a shark on waterski in a very late term episode (partial birth abortion was called for) of Happy Days.
I cry Bullshit. I may be mistaken, and I often am, but I believe the episode where Mork appeared on Happy Days came before the Jump The Shark Episode, and I must say having a hyperventilating speedfreak longhaired alien on cocainum in a plastique jumpsuit in 1962 California was FAR, FAR, more inane than a goober in a leather jacket jumping a shark.
By God, I had a point here. Let me regroup.
SOMEONE had a Jump the Shark post up. I had a genius retort right here in my pocket. It could have been one of those sublime moments.
I am lost.
I spend far too much time sitting on my lanai in clement weather, watching grass grow to inordinate heights, mimosas bloom pink in a vaguely Nipponese manner, hummingbirds zip by like foo fighters, and waterfowl play the fool. It's good sipping therapy, and I don't smoke in the house.
This time of year brings out the lizards, though. Southern Fence Lizards. Sceloporus undulatus undulatus, although I prefer to call them Velocisaurus terribilis. A strange smallish breed, with mottled colors and curious ridged backs. I would enjoy them more if they were not so plentiful. There is something about being distracted by hundreds of fleeting reptiles, no matter how small, that is disconcerting. Down the wall and up your chair, over your shoulder and down your back. Unnerving, I say.
Lizards love to eat ants, of course. I will watch one arch his back five inches from a conga line of packmule ants and pick off every fifth one, for half an hour.
Male lizards also like to fornicate. I've watched many a male chasing a female, rapine upon his mind. It seems the females dislike those disgusting red glottal engorgements as much as I do. I have never seen a female approach a throat puffer in sexual thrall, and I wonder that the boys continue such schoolyard antics. No, the females ignore this behaviour until the male chases her down, and achieves a decent neck bite, if he's lucky. Then it's to the honey hole with great ardor, until she escapes or he is sated.
Preen without success, then attack and assault. Shameful stuff, but pretty much how we survived as a species in the tough early years before flowers, fermented beverages, and the missionary style (a female artifice, I am sure, designed to engender guilt through eye contact).
Approximately 5% of the lizards I see have no tail, having been the play puppets of the cats. Great loss of balance, sure, but it gives the females an advantage in tight corners.
There are also a few corpses around, the sad victims of overly aggressive play-dates with the felines. Perhaps I shall preserve a few undessicated remains in grog tonight, for later examination. From hobbies come great avocations, I am told.
I was down the street at my neighbor's house tonight, because she has a party virtually every Saturday night, and it would be disrespectful not to attend, off and on.
Here is my dilemma: There is a fellow, B-, who always shows up. Not a bad guy, but somewhat opinionated, and likes having an audience. The problem is B- is a paraplegic, having had an accident of some sort, and is confined to a wheel chair. No problem with that, except he always wears shorts, and straps his catheter bag to his calf.
As B- drinks his twelve-pack, and orates upon the fantastic Journey concert he saw in '82, one is, of curiosity, compelled to watch his piss sack fill up. It is repellent, yet mesmerizing. I feel for the dude, but am offended on some level.
Were this me, would I drape a shawl across my lap? Should I?
I shall craft a letter to Miss Manners tonight, and beg her indulgence in divining the protocol for exposing one's acquaintances to the minutae of one's bodily functions, and the proper response to such.
I finally figured out, after lacerating myself for three days, that a 16 foot bullwhip is meant to be used when one is astride a fucking horse. There's no way you can wield this puppy on the ground floor.
This means I must endure the added expense of buying a frigging hossie, boarding it and feeding it, grooming it and doctoring it, just so I can crack the tail.
Or I can erect a faux horse in the backyard out of two by fours, replete with saddle and yarn skein mane, and play cowboy all afternoon, to the consternation of my children and neighbors.
Both of these scenarios reek of suboptimal outcome, of course. Perhaps instead I can stand on the roof, take a hit of red liquor, crack smart a few times, and sing the Rawhide theme. That appeals to me, unless of course I fall onto a recently paved yard.
I'm trying to understand how a person manages to educate themself, engage in meaningful employment exercising brain instead of brawn, then does something as stupid as purchasing a house, forcing them to work like a fucking chain-ball slave the entire weekend. One gets two days off for leisure, then spends it pouring sweat and popping hernias like a goddam indentured servant in an indigo field.
I'm taking bids on paving the lawn, and Asplundh is giving me a quote on ripping out my trees. I want a parking lot with air conditioning.
Let me ask you, Intrepids: how many degrees of separation would you be willing to consider to donate a kidney?
Me, I'm a one degree of separation kind of guy on this one. And that is a very, very, very restricted degree, I may add. You'd better be sharing some serious DNA with me before I cast off one of my pee-filters.
Now, harvesting a kidney? That's a different story entirely. I'm willing to go 10, 12 degrees of separation on that one. Especially if Thanksgiving is tomorrow, my in-laws are on their way, and the mouth-breathers at Publix have given my kidney pie to some obstreperous bitch in a red hat and purple dress just to get her out of their face.
Perhaps I am too rigid in my thoughts here. Vous?
Well, there you are. I am so shocked. As are, I'm sure, the dozen or so Hollywood producers who are watching Brad's turn as the Greek buggerer Achilles with reminescent, moist, wistful eyes. The good old days, eh, boys? The kid needed a break.
I'll still see it. Hellfire, when you've grown up on Sampson, Tarzan, Hercules, and gladiator movies homoeroticism is almost second nature.
But in a fair fight I reckon Eric Bana would take Pitt down, all the way to Chinatown.
Yes, Homer had Achilles pegged. In so many ways.
Blogging IS a strange thing. Rob and I were discussing the fact that the posts you are most proud of draw nary a comment, while some off the wall drunken blurts draw comments like, well, black flies on Velociman's ass.
I liked my Texas Towers post, for instance. Nobody gave a flip shit. Meanwhile, week in and week out, I get comments from tore down stoners on my Jimson Weed and Quaalude posts. Fukkin' rokkin' bitchin' drugs, dude! Where can I get some? I swear, FBI agents are so transparent. They still teach them the Spicoli method at Quantico.
The Ass Hatters are still field spraying estrogen all over the Velocihovel as well, which will haunt me forever, apparently. Smells funny, too.
Carol Burnett would be a strange bit of sex, n'est-ce pas? Especially since she's, like, seventy years old. Sleep tight, boys and girls.
Bogie was speaking of black flies (well, actually, she promised black flies in the title, but I don't recall her ever actually getting around to black flies), and that triggered a memory I'd shared with Acidman last Friday.
A few years ago we were ataying at my in-laws' condo on Tybee Island, and walked down to the beach for a bit of sunbathing. For some reason a swarm of black flies proceeded to chew our asses up. These were not deer flies, or house flies, or horse flies. They weren't bluebottle flies, greenbottle flies, or blowflies. Hell, they weren't even tse-tse flies, much less Brundle flies. They were eat your ass up black flies.
So after 30 minutes of ineffective battle I was overjoyed when my cousin strolled onto the beach and asked if I would like to go fishing with a mutual friend. We took S's boat to the Islands Expressway boatramp [that's the boatramp notorious for businessmen getting busted at lunch for sucking each others' pricks in the public restrooms. Now that is a bail call to make to a wife].
So we sped to Wassaw Sound, where we proceeded to catch naught but baby sharks, one after the other. Then the black flies hit again. They ripped us so hard I had a hand towel literally covered in blood from their corpses. We wisely decided to leave, but halfway back to the ramp a summer squall hit us, replete with malicious bolt lightning. There was nothing for it but to beach on a small uninhabited island, a hammock, really, but heavily forested. One of those tiny isles that are great for camping, drinking, and gunplay, but little else.
There the black flies caught up to us. They chewed us so badly we resorted to using palmetto fronds to brush our calves, which only served to lacerate our calves, which bled, which attracted more flies.
The thunderstorm passed, and we fled home. The next day the flies were gone. Totally gone.
Perhaps they were mayflies. They only live a day, right? Does anyone know if mayflies are black, and crave Velociblood?
I believe there is another civilian hostage being held by the inhuman vipers in Iraq. I wonder if they've showed him the Berg video? Wait: I wonder how many times they've showed him the Berg video?
Forget winning the hearts and minds of these vermin. They have none. Oh, they have pumping units in their thoraxes, which would look jolly good hoisted on pikes outside a few choice mosques. The slimy pulp that is held in place by their crania would make excellent crab bait, too.
Never forget: Nick Berg was not killed because of Abu Ghraib: he was already a hostage. They already had plans for him. Nick Berg was killed because he was a Jew. Just like Daniel Pearl. Neither of these men were soldiers, combatants. They were Jews, and THAT is why they were killed.
Am I pissed? You bet your fucking ass I'm pissed. I can drive a truck, too. I'm sorely tempted to sign up for a stint in Iraq as a contractor, where I can engage in my own version of nation-building, one skull at a time.
I made some earlier statements about punishing the miscreants at Abu Ghraib, but after these Muslim fiends sawed Nick Berg's head off in slow motion I see things differently.
We should take these foul pieces of shit out of that prison, and parade them down the streets of Baghdad in their women's step-ins and their leashes. Let the Iraqi populace take a good hard look at them, and see if they recognize any one they would like to spit on, or stone.
I'm still waiting for the outcry and indignation from the usual Moslem spokesfools over the Berg slaughter. I hear nothing. That's what these Moslems don't understand: when you refuse to decry the barbaric practices of your brethren, we civilized people can only assume you condone that sort of behavior.
Listen up, raggies: this silence makes you complicit, and I get the feeling the phrase "collateral damage" is wicking away from the American vocabulary: you are ALL the enemy now.
Fire at will.
Well, the big Sales and Operations
Iraqi prisoner dog show is in town this week. Thus far I have blown off dinner for the International team at Serenada Beach Club last night, and failed to materialize at today's big meeting at the Omni. I'm neglecting to attend tonight's dinner at the Ponte Vedra Surf Club, and I'm shining tomorrow's meeting, most especially since my boss will be making a presentation, and I'm in no mood for a gratuitous acknowledgment during that presentation from the hypocritical cocksucker.
Come to think of it, it appears I'm boycotting this entire event.
Leaving the office at one o'clock today was probably ill-advised, but I did forward my phone to my cell. I received one call all afternoon. Wrong number.
Dong Resin's Joint is back. Hide your plunger handles and dive in...
Did I mention my bullwhip arrived? Oh, yes, 16 feet of heat, my Heathens. It is still stiff, however, and must be broken in, like a recalcitrant gardener. I had no idea working a whip that long would be so damned difficult. The only discipline inflicted thus far has been upon mine own carcass. Fortunately, I took M. du Toit's advice and used safety eyewear during the initial Breaker Morant sessions. My new whip credo: Eyeballs: Must Stay In Sockets.
My current blogrank on the Ecosystem is 666. Which means nothing, except that I'm not only a pouch-packing putrid marsupial, I'm also carrying demon seed in my loins, and will start recruiting bent-pecker Musselman baby-killers into my Army of the Dead unless I am bumped up the food chain.
Perhaps Moxie or Maura could pitylink me, and avert this calamity.
I have 25 backed up e-mails because the downloads keep choking on a particularly massive piece of cybermail. Listen up, Whoeveryouare: this is Outlook, not Linda Lovelace. It can't handle your Powerpoint presentation with 24 embedded pics of you taking an ass-pounding at the Piedmont Bath House and Colonarium. You're killing me. Send the pictures one at a time, please, if you must send them at all. High school graduation is an edifying experience, to be sure, but trust me: later you'll wish you'd kept a few of these milestones to yourself.
I really had nothing to say, that I wouldn't later find glib, or maudlin, but I was going through my mother's writings today. I've had them over two years, I think, since my sister forwarded them, but I just couldn't screw up the proper frame of mind to read through more than a handful. It's mostly prose, with some comic strips she'd written about her beloved chihuahua, a breed I normally do not care for, but this was a sheltie trapped in a teacup frame, a frustrated cow herder.
I found this bit:
The Hours Rise Up
The hours rise up, dismissing
the stars, and bringing dawn.
The city awakens, with
a babble of noise, after the quiet
somber dark of night.
The world of the day is a world
of realities with little heed
for the idealist.
In the streets I see strong men,
engaged in manual labor for
just a daily living. And yet,
their faces seem brutal to me.
They are contented, hideous
hopeless, cruel, and happy.
They are living. They are at home
in the world of reality.
In the mirror I see myself
as only a dreamer.
I cannot find a real world,
for I can only dream.
Now it is night. Lights begin
to flicker on as people
return to their homes,
having done a day's work.
I am in my bed, having
done a day of dreaming.
The night carries over
the sounds of day:
for a while.
Finally, full night comes
full of beauty,
and only remembered sounds.
I like this. I know exactly what she meant, I think.
Coming of age in the early seventies as a pseudo-hippie, I was sure the expression was "God is Acid, man". Now I'm convinced the correct phraseology is "God is Acidman". Punctuation is everything, people. I had the pleasure of hoisting a few sasparillas with the Great One yesterday, and it was a hoot. He even picked the Exchange Tavern on River Street, where I used to drink beer thirty years ago as a sixteen year old, and Rob was no doubt playing guitar in there during some of those times. The fact my old
ship barky the Eagle was docked outside meant the karma was in our favor.
I hope I didn't corrupt the fellow. I think he was disappointed when he met me. He was expecting someone as handsome as my prose, not the edemic sloth that presented itself. Well, too fucking bad. I didn't paint my toenails red, either.
We decided to have a summer blog meet in Savannah, and will try to arrange it around Kelley's schedule. We tried to pound too much into too short a span of time, I fear. Lacerating other peoples' reputations takes time, and stamina.
I then went to my brother's, to visit him and my older brother and Puddyhead. Good Lord. I had to mix it up with Puddy, and so I engaged in two bouts of spree drinking yesterday. I fear I debauched myself in front of my brethren, and can only hope they found this behavior picaresque. I think I kissed Puddyhead a couple of times, or he kissed me, but I swear to Allah this was only a male-bonding ritual. I don't have a gay bone in my body, although I cannot find my butane lighter, and I have a most unpleasant sensation in my nether regions, right near my Point of Departure. Well, all thing must pass, as they say, and until then I'm using matches.
I awoke at four a.m. with a splitting headache and a powerful need to whizz, but fortunately Puddyhead was not in my bed. Not remembering where I was, I spun in a circle at the top of the stairway landing, trying to get my bearings. The stairs looked familiar, and I almost peed down them, until my good friend Reason raised its head above the oil-slicked surface of my consciousness, and I recognized the bathroom door. I then proceeded to sit and piss like a girl for four full minutes, like the sad, sad clown I am.
The drive back to Jacksonville this morning was Hell. My jangled nerves could only withstand Beach Music, but luckily I found just the station. Wilson Pickett knows from shit, friends. Mashed Potato, indeed. What a sublime metaphor for my state of being. And don't even get me started on Brown-Eyed Girl. I think the lads were calling me that last night. Or Brown-Eye Girl.
And so I must shower, and hasten to World Golf Village, where I have already missed Skeeter's solo routine. If I miss Emmie's, too, I may have to move in with Puddyhead, doomed upon our passing to have our livers encased in Lucite by the medicos, which will then be sent on a Fair Warning Tour of high schools.
No pr0n spam, no Hiram Maxim machine gun bursts of spam and pop-ups, no crashes. It's a sweet nostalgic trip, accelerated with broadband. I think I just came.
I'm no idiot, of course. I WILL be infected by something, and soon. But tonight is a night to remember.
I have no friends. None like that show, anyway. I have aquaintances, mostly unacknowledged in public company. I like it that way. Give a person a bail-out, an ability to disavow you, and you have a friend for life. And a heavy debt to be repaid.
Where was I? Ah, yes, that wretched sitcom. I was disappointed none of the beloved characters blistered up with Kaposi's Sarcoma, or leprosy, and so I was therefore left to pan the quotidian like a drifter at Sutter's Mill three years after the gold washed out.
Yeah, verily, sons and daughters, I hated that show. I hated the shallow nature of the plots. I hated the weak acting. I hated the fact they were younger than me. I hated the fact they were marketed as the Youngster Version of Seinfeld.
Let me say this about Seinfeld: at least in the last episode the writers acknowledged their characters were self-absorbed assholes who deserved punishment. There is much to be said for that fess up.
Tomorrow will be a bonus. I excurse to Savannah for a 10:30 meeting with the Port Authority whelps, then I plan to hook up with my fellow unrepentant reprobate Acidman for a few breezy beers, or perhaps merlots. Hell, we might even go total nut-up and try to find a wine cooler or two, if they still make them.
I also intend to interface with my brothers, Michelle, and Puddyhead. Then back to World Golf Village early Saturday for the Neverending Story called dance competition. They really should just award the trophies based on the pubescent screams of the performer's allies. It would hasten things a bit, and keep the area clear of stray dogs.
I finally gave up on repairing the olde computer, and pulled the new Dell out of the boxes. A little initialization, a few calls to Comcast, and I'm up and running like a scalded dog. Or a cat with turpentine on its ass. Depends on which species you choose to abuse.
As for the olde computer? The only thing I really want on there is last year's taxes, which I can always save to CD. I was going to cascade it to Number One daughter, but it was her egregious downloads that crippled it in the first place, so she must do penance for a while. Then she can use the laptop whenever I get around to hooking up the network server. The olde computer I may encase in Lucite, like Derbyshire does his books.
Bored yet? Too bad. I still have to call Comcast back for the third time tonight and regroove my e-mail. I can't wait to tell you all about it.
Update: E-mail is good, but I wouldn't know it from the incoming.
I see they are running commercials now to show the old fucks how to use their prescription cards. I wish someone would give ME free drugs.
Alas, upon retirement the Greatest Generation became the Greediest Generation. The LAST generation to see a real and full retirement, as my friend Michele reminds me, and the last generation to actually see a return on their Social Security input.
I figure roughly 70% of the country's personal wealth is in the hands of the over 55 demographic, and they are sucking us dry to pay for their drugs, and their Social Security welfare, and their discounts on joe at MacDonald's like we're lined with money.
I say fuck these graspers. They have their nut. Leave mine alone. Oh, and I'm sorry if you don't consider yourself valuable to society anymore. Guess what? I don't either. Too bad they don't have ice floes here in Florida, because I would likely load your sorry asses up, give you 5 pounds of seal blubber and a cyanide capsule, and personally kick your asses into Valhalla.
You should be ashamed of yourselves. Shaking us down like that. But you can afford great lobbyists, can't you? And you certainly make for great copy as you wheel in one of your ilk on an oxygen mask at the latest congressional hearing on the urgent and pressing matter of fucking over Velociman.
It's our generation's fault, in a way. We middle-agers feel guilty, and want to pay you back for all the shit we got away with 30 years ago. Just remember, however: guilt is a shallow thing, and we do this out of obligation, nothing more, and our kids still think you smell funny. So there.
This screed brought to you by your favorite orphan.
Entire phalanxes of good old boys around here belong to hunt clubs. Many (or most) of those clubs are located in south Georgia, where the hunting is superb, and the land is cheap enough to fund such usage. They decal the back windows of their pickups with the names of their clubs, as they are proud.
I've never felt the thrill of the hunt, but I love hunt clubs. My father used to take us boys to a club near Hardeeville, and you would arrive at 5 or 5:30 in the morning and an old geezer about 80 would be piling the long tables with insanely massive bowls of scrambled eggs, and grits, and bacon. Make your own toast, and if you want sausage well up yours, Charlie, it's bacon today.
When you are 9 or 10 or 11 this is as good as it gets; entree into the hallowed mysteries of what grown men do of a Saturday when they used to lie and tell you they were going boodling down Tar Road.
I've mentioned before how I was repulsed at an early age when 5 or 6 semi-drunken men unloaded their buckshot on a wounded fawn in a ditch (I saw the spots. They saw closure). But that is not why I don't hunt.
I just don't care for venison. I think hunting is a great sport, and hunters the great conservationists of our natural resources, and hunting in general a great bonding experience between man and lad. I will admit I have an aversion to killing mammals, but that is bullshit in its own way, because there are several dogs I'd like to shoot, given the opportunity.
I'm thinking about joining a hunt club, though. There's always the wild turkey, and eventually I just may bust a whitetail in an effort to excite the bloodlust in my daughters. Femmes can be great predators, given the opportunity. Those odds are extremely remote around here, however, given the warpaint in my bathrooms, and the manicure bills I foot, but I have no boy to ritualize, and someone else's child will likely stand in as my protege cum experiment. Or I could just go by myself. I have some fine shotguns.
Post Scriptum: Michele reminds me that there are also pigs to hunt. I'd neglected that point. Shooting a pig is not half bad, given my perpetual hunger for barbecue. I've shot pigs, culling the spotted ones from a wild herd, and felt no guilt. So perhaps I'm a hypocrite, perhaps not.
I am still attempting to delete the double-fucking-farging eZula from my hard drive. Apparently it must be done manually, using the regsvr32 file in a DOS command prompt. As I was still calculating by chisenbop when MS-DOS was the rage my skills are a bit rusty. Anyone willing to assist me with a simple command help will be amply rewarded with 5 shiny Sakajawea faux-gold dollars, backed by the full faith and credit of John Snow.
Yes, I know. I take, and take, and never give back.
But lookit: it took me 20 minutes to post this, my pop up blocker being so choked with the detritus work product of the scumsucking Generation D.
Sweet Jesus how I hate these movies. Plots as thin as my aortic wall, costumes that make Edith Head look like a Bike Week doyenne, alternate universe hockum thick as a Tiger Ridger's skull.
Find one of the 12 steps, people, any step, and cleave unto it. Help is on the way.
Action sequences: Well, we've all seen this shit before. Crouching Tiger, of course, but Big Trouble in Little China popped this cherry. And I'll take Jack Burton any day over the effeminate, doltish Neo. Keanu Reeves is a total prison bitch. Carrie Moss looks eerily like Madonna after a hellish night with the Chili Peppers and an eggbeater. And Fishburne? Hell, he's just cashing the check. Clipping the coupons.
The Keymaker: I kept looking for Rick Moranis, but never saw him. Never saw the Gatekeeper, either.
Alternate Universes: Give me Evil Sulu anyday, or Savage Spock. Easy to tell what the REAL universe is here: if you're dressed like a vampire in a USA channel series, and wearing midget polarized eyewear, chances are you're in the "real" world. If cheap cinematography ploys leave you suspended in mid-air, you are surely in the "real" world. If everything is normal, you're fucked.
The only thing I can truly compare these movies to is a bitch slap fight I saw in the bathroom in a gay bar once (don't ask. I was truly pissing).
I hate these movies for the same reason I hated the Hellraiser films, and even the Poltergeist films. Don't deny me my logic, and intuition, and ability to unravel a thread, or a mystery. Don't foist an impossible concept on me without first giving me the opportunity to reach that conclusion on my own. If you have to explain it to me at the end, you've failed me, and you.
You see, when you take your audience out of the process, you've committed the ultimate cinematic sin. You have become a pedant.
Let it go. Don't let your children throw this shit up you face in 10 or 15 years. Rent Rabbit Proof Fence, eschew this spoot, and feel good about yourselves.
Those cretins who abused the Iraqi prisoners are scumbags. They represent the very antithesis of what an American soldier or Marine stands for. As such, I hope the actual perpetrators get a hard seven years in Leavenworth, where rumour has it they don't pose you in suggestive sexual poses to take your picture, but to take your temperature, if you catch my drift.
I also hope every direct commander of these pus sacs gets cashiered out of the service, up to the commanding
bitch general of that dump, and if it can be proven any of them gave an order, or witnessed, or was aware of these transgressions, I believe they have additional room in Kansas.
Having said that, I really want to know who leaked these pictures to CBS and godalmighty. THAT is giving smack to a junkie. Publishing these pictures has done untold damage in the Iraq conflict. We may never recover from this. Americans will DIE as a result of enflaming the Iraqi masses with this stuff. They don't understand only six or 20 or whatever out of 137,000 soldiers behaved this execrably. All they know is Uncle Ahmed was forced to pose like a bitch for the infidels' cameras.
There was partisan bullshit in CBS running with this, and they will have blood on their hands. Anything to destroy Bush and his War for Oil. But they are jackals, anyway, and reknowned as jackals.
Who leaked these pictures? I have yet to see that. And I would like to, because I would love to see them swinging from the gallows.
This was throwing gasoline on a fire, and some of the most egregious hit journalism I have witnessed in my lifetime. This makes the publication of the Pentagon Papers look like an expose on the fact that hey! Anna Nicole Smith is a bit of a floozy, and not wrapped too tight.
The Army had this under control. They were investigating, and punishing. Hellfire, this was old news. If they really had to print those pictures, put them in the numerous post mortems that will be published on this war. Next year.
This was a blatant attempt to sabotage this effort to free the Iraqi people, and an effort to undermine the turnover of power in June. Fucking assholes.
David and I were swapping stories about the Green Hornet, and Flight of the Bumblebee, and such, and it got me to thinking about Al Hirt.
Al was never considered a jazz master as a trumpet player (a little too commercial?), but I think he was. He, of course, always considered himself a pop musician. He was great, wherever you classify him.
I also remember the time in 1970 when Al was busted in the mouth with a brick while riding a Mardi Gras float. That is a cruel thing to do to a trumpet player. Irony ain't the half of it.
Big Al headlined the first Super Bowl in '67, and ended up headlining 5 of the Games. That beats Britney, and Janet, and Bono. I believe that beats the
paederast Gloved One himself.
Al died in 1999. I think the big boy actually made it to 76. Not bad.
I'm a great fan of Heston's, but he's made some real shit movies in his time. He is miscast in these movies as something of a disaffected stud. It's laughable. The first one I remember is Number One (1969), wherein Chuck is a washed up quarterback for the New Orleans Saints. Pitiful film. It's been many years since I saw it, but I seem to remember Chuck swilling a lot of booze and glowering at his wife (Jessica Walter), and snarling "I'm having an affair! Are you happy?" Then he would go fuck his mistress.
Another classic, of course, was Earthquake! (1974) Chuck was the kept man architect, of course, and I seem to remember him swilling booze and glowering at his wife (Ava Gardner), and snarling "I'm having an affair! Are you happy?" Then he would go fuck his mistress.
I'm a go along guy, of course, and can forgive Chuck these lapses. It was the sixties, and seventies, and est and primal scream and Sexual Revolution had taught everyone to Get It Out In The Open, Man. Be real, man. Don't hide behind those old bourgeois hangups, man. But it's still laughable shit. I can't picture any of my homies Getting Real with the bride, man. Not that they are necessarily more chaste than Chuck, which I wouldn't know, nor care to know, but I would imagine they would swill down some liquor and then sew their mouths shut with twine, like a shrunken head, then go see their mistress. That seems to be a better formula in the great race for survival, at any rate.
Yeah, I generally scream "It's a madhouse! A madhouse!" when I see these films. I've also been known to scream "Soylent Green is Chuck Heston's agent!"
Once upon a time I used to fly the hell out of kites. My friends and I would go to the cliffs on Skidaway Island (the same fields they used to film the African scenes in Roots) and soar some birds. The winds there were steady, and magnificent. We would have 8 or 10 kites up, way up, and would scramble when a line separated.
THAT is the part of kiting no one reminds you of. Lines do break, and a kite might stagger and fall for several miles while you attempt to react, and determine its downpath.
I was in my early twenties then, and it's shameful to admit it, but there was not a lot of money to be had to spend on a kite. If you had a nice one (mine was a bat kite for most of these endeavours) you tried to keep it. I spent a lot of time chasing a fallen kite. I lost one or two, but I always seemed to find the Bat Kite. My friends and I were fans of the film Quest For Fire, and those co-opted ululations were used to great effect to notify each other of a kite's recovery.
I tried to get the girls interested in kites once, but they have the attention span of sand gnats. They love kites, but they are not into the maintenance of a kite. String is critical, of course, and one must nurture the kite itself. Replenish crossmembers, where necessary, and redo the tail (prevailing winds on a given day determine the length and scope of a tail).
Tomorrow promises to be sunny, and windy, at 5 to 7 knots, from the south-south-east. I may try a launch.
By the way, as an update: those prostitutes on the beach, with their tricked out dancers, aren't real kiters. They are wind muppets, nothing more or less. Anyone can fly a kite at the beach, for God's sake. And they fly so low. Fuckarounds. A good kite should be so high you can't determine its place of birth.
Consider: somewhere out there is an asteroid with our name on it. Even a grazing blow could be catastrophic. A relatively small asteroid of 1,000 metres in length could pulverize us into the New Stone Age. I don't tend to dwell on these things, but perhaps you could do so, for me.
I've told you about my short-lived experience as a prison guard, right? I took a year off between college and law school, and in desperation for funds I took a job as a prison guard at the Chatham County Jail for 3 or 4 months. Figured I'd drum up some future clients, but Good God, man.
It is a cliched truism, I know, but my coworkers were infinitely more fearsome than my wards, except for the few mass-murdering rapists I encountered. By and large, though, jail is filled with the wanton miscreant, with only a few hard cores passing through on appeal.
Here's a story: one of my coworkers was a triple tour Nam vet. Kojak, the detained called him, due to his shaved head. Kojak swore when in Vietnam the locals would string up a pregnant dog and beat her belly with bamboo canes until the aborted effluvia would pour out. Then they would eat it, after some cooking. They called it pupgullion, as best as I can interpret/recollect.
Google has no reference to this. But I swear this story is true. Not the fact that it happened, but the fact that it was told to me by someone I have no reason to disbelieve.
Too radical. Perhaps Uncle Ho was not the peaceful grandfather we were led to believe he was.
Why am I sharing this story? I have no idea, unless it is to share this burden with you, and somehow mitigate it.
Apparently very few people share my autodidactic love of the abacus. Fair enough. But I must warn you, tomorrow is quantum physics night, wherein we shall discuss Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, and plumb the nature of the humble electron.
Hot yet? I knew you would be.
and I sit on the front porch swilling squeeze and cleaning my Winchester. With a 2:30 curfew I may not be coherent enough to post anything later.
It does help when one's daughter is squeaky clean Malibu Beach Barbie, and her boyfriend is squeaky clean I'm Saving Myself For Law School Ken.