This is where I talk and you shut the fuck up.
(With apologies to my friend Starrbrite).
I have to go to New York tomorrow. I'll have two sales calls. Number One will be fun, with my Taiwanese peoples, and I figure we'll sign a very sweet contract, and eat Portuguese in Jersey. Then Thursday I'll go see the Italians in Manhattan, sales call Number Two, who will flay me like a well-shot deer, and treat me like disgusting excrement.
I will then take these Italians to Chinatown for dinnah. Go figgah.
I will be back Friday night, Intrepids. Beaten and broken, perhaps, but full of rage. I hope to share this, this story with you.
Jim reminds us that life, indeed, reflects art.
Of course, I don't know why I'm ginning up Jim. He just got an Instalanche.
Something I have studiously avoided oh these many months.
New meme: Jim is gay. Because he got an Instalanche (don't shoot me, dude. I'm just saying what everyone else is saying).
Apparently I whacked the Mighty Og when I was scrubbing the blogroll recently. My bad. Please go for a visit, and leave a comment here excoriating my damnable ass for the error.
Filmgoer reacts to new Kevin Kline-Ashley Judd pic De-lovely:
"That sucked," said viewer Stovall Futch, 27, of Mackinac City, Michigan. "My bro said Cole Porter did some teabagging with Jackie-O's dad. What a let down. But fuck it, dude, I'm going bowhunting with The Nuge this weekend!"
Mr. Futch then vomited again.
Some things are just plain wrong, in a Dubbaya versus the Evildoers way. This picture at Rankin' Rob's fits that description, and then some.
I'm really casting about for something new to do. I also figure I'm close enough to Orlando I could be an impresario and start my own kid band.
I don't want a boy band, though. I'm thinking girl band. I'm also cognizant of the popularity of these Christian acts. But I figure, hey: why be exclusive? Show some inclusiveness, and some diversity.
So instead of the common Praise band, I'm figuring a Judeo-Christian quartet. Two JAP's, two Episcopalian debutantes, rocking for Higher Enlightenment. If interested, please e-mail your resume to me. Please be sure to cite "Molten Calves Audition" in the header.
Sure. Give me about thirty hours, putz.
Dropped off the Velocisuv (that possession that sucks precious fossilized resources out of Gaia's honeyhole and farts the residue out the exhaust pipe at obscene consumption rates) at the mechanic yesterday morning for periodic maintenance, as I'm going to Key West in two weeks, and it was the wise and proper thing to do. (Faulkner sentence. Slow down, boy. - Ed.)
Why Sunday? Because I didn't need it Sunday. I needed it Monday. This was at 0900. This was a significant servicing, with oil change, tranny oil suckswap, coolant purge and binge, new serpentine belt, brake oil salesman flip, etc. Not that big a deal, though. At 1830 the manager calls me and says they sheared a brake caliper screw during the brake oil flip, and couldn't get a new caliper until Monday morning.
"Fuck," says I, but I understand these things happen. No big deal. Wrap it up Monday morning. Comes this morning I wait and wait for the call, get the hem-haw on the phone, and catch a lift down to the garage at noon. Seems my trusty local automotive friends didn't think I was of any great import, didn't send a truck to pick up the caliper at 0800 and have me jizzed up by nine. Hell, no. They ordered it from the westside supplier, who brought it on his milk run at 1130. To make matters worse, the guy brought a left caliper instead of a right caliper, so I had to wait until 1:30 for Senor Shitforbrains to bring a right side.
Guess what? Right! The new caliper is also in a box marked "Left", at which point Slow Leak checked that box and the first box and discovered both contained right-side calipers. They were just in left side boxes.
At this point my 'roids were fairly prairie dogging, but I kept my cool. NEVER lose your cool while the victim is still up on the rack. I left at 2:15.
Who were these cretins, you ask? I won't say, except to mention they own a few blimps that look like Mike Moore, only they don't stink as much. They've always done me a good job in the past, and I've eschewed their newer sister franchise two miles from my house and traveled 7 miles to Mandarin out of loyalty to Tony and his crew. (I also think dealerships are staffed by little fucking beelzebubs who cause more damage than good for churn purposes, by the way).
But Tony and his crew played Fuck the Homey today, and I didn't appreciate it. In Tony's defense he was off yesterday, and today, but he showed up as I was settling, and I explained the situation, and he was merely apologetic. I expressed my indignation (profanity-free) to no avail. You see, I wanted something. A discount, some free oil changes, something that said We're sorry we inconvenienced you so. Nothing doing. Shrug and a smile.
So I told Tony he was a fucking hammerhead (the victim was off the rack), and that the franchise up the street is my new one-stop. Six years of loyalty pissed away over a couple of free oil changes. Were my expectations aggressive? You're damned right. I'm the fucking Customer. Bend to my will, or Kiss my Ass.
Jag offs. Oh, yes: they charged me for the caliper they damaged. I'll tell you one thing: the next time I pay $697 to swap some fluids the "rack" is going to be a 44 double freaking D.
Cat: clawed my new couch
Two grand: Velociman pissed
Cat: Wok Inn entree
As a child I well recall the prolific use of smudgepots at scenes of pothole filling, manhole work, car accidents. Those ominous cannonballs of alert that said Avoid At Any Cost.
Now, of course, with the advent of the long-life battery, we are waved away by the blinking amber eyeball set upon a cheap pine sawhorse. Those lights are not ominous: they are banal.
Nothing compared to the vision of an horrific automobile accident on a lonely stretch of highway at night. The fear and excitement were palpable as your father slowly cruised past the scene, the grim visages of highway patrolmen or sheriff's deputies flickering in the glow of a string of smudgepots. You could almost see the dried vomit on the corners of their mouths.
I have plenty of fancy ceramic citronella burners and pewter tiki torches deployed around the pool to keep the aerial bloodsuckers at bay, but what I really want is a half-dozen vintage smudgepots arrayed around the pooldeck, so I can stir my drink and wonder if they were ever actually used at the site of a tragic two lane bloodspill. I have no idea where to find any, however I fear an Ebay search will reveal a depraved cult of smudgepot aficianados. The bastards will probably want hellish prices for them, too. Although I don't think, say, $200 would be too much to pay for a genuine Mansfield smudgepot, or a James Dean one, or a Kopechne. Oh, right. There weren't any Kopechne smudgepots, because he didn't make the call until the next day.
Well, as they say, the search is on.
Update: Yep. Here's one. Only $19.95 on Ebay, already sandblasted and repainted. Which means the accident victims were probably only wine-stewed darkies instead of a Famous Celebrity:
Am I going to buy it? OF COURSE I'm going to buy it.
When I was about 10 years old my father took me aside and showed me a grainy black and white photograph of an infant in a bassinet who possessed, through the miracle of trick photography, a twelve inch erection. "That", said my father, as serious as the judge he was, "was me as a baby".
The conversation ended there, and I'd pretty much forgotten it, but when I was 15 or 16 I was rifling through my father's bureau for something (money? switchblade? handgun? Marlboros? I have no idea) when I ran across that old photo. I poached it, took it to school the next day, and tried the same routine on my friends. I soon lost it.
For some reason, every time I see a beautiful piece of Photoshopping, I think of that picture, and wonder what could have been.
Andrea is on Michael Moore's case, and that is no place to be.
I feel like an Anglican layreader after that excoriation. A layreader who just busted a nut at the pulpit. It was that good.
Like the lion to her prey, or the perp to his crime scene, or the dog to his urine spoor, I return tonight to Lava Grille to hear Big Engine again. This time we take Velocidaughter One and her beau, Shannon. I am a firm believer that children should be enured to the idea of being a Designated Driver as soon as they procure their driver's license. It's a family tradition, in fact.
Now I could go to Avondale and sip martinis and listen to jazz, and that's fun, too, but sometimes it's time for garage band rock and roll. As for the band: the bass player is the old bassist from Molly Hatchet. The lead singer/rhythm guitarist is some sort of Rob Zombie clone, and the lead guitarist is a head swirler, ala Blackfoot. Don't remember Blackfoot? You are saved. You will go to Heaven.
The band is collecting funds to go to Sturgis, South Dakota in August for Bike Week for a gig. That's the quality level I'm talking about. Yee ha!
Update: Rainout. Someone had the bright idea to invite everyone to the Velocihovel. With any luck this will not rise above 20 or so risible individuals.
Here is a link to the video Eric sent me of an incredibly fast journey to the Land of 72 Virgins. I had trouble e-mailing it, but, as the Stop-n-Cop dealer used to say, you can get it here.
Thanks to Leslie. And do I find it ironic that I would post a link to a killing when I deplored the beheadings, and their subsequent snuff films? Not really. This fuckwad was holding an RPG. This is just war footage.
Somewhere in Fallujah, in a musty basement filled with 55 gallon drums of ammunition and human excrement, lives Abu Al-Zarqawi. Is there a reward for this pernicious madman? I thought there was, but I don't see it mentioned of late. Is Fallujah being plastered with reward posters? It should be. This viper is Jordanian. There is no tribal or familial tie that would tend to protect him in Iraq. No locals should be protecting him. We should be broadcasting the reward terms from Humvees with speakers 24/7. I'm sure there is at least one Iraqi who would like to open a $10 million bakery.
Update: Fox News just mentioned the reward is $10 million (lucky guess on my part), and they were wondering why it isn't closer to the $25 millie for Osama. I would think ten would drop the dime nicely, actually.
HIT MISS HIT MISS HIT MISS HIT MISS HIT MISS HIT MISS HIT MISS...
Sorry. I've been scrolling through my recent posts. It appears I have a Quality Control issue. I may have to deploy my Six Sigma skills to reduce the failure rate. And, yes, this is a MISS.
baby-jumping chickenman has found some, ah, very special women who want to meet you!
Release dates vary.
I think Juanita the Caged Sadist is my choice, just because her eyes scream REDRUM REDRUM, although the Bisexual Nubian Princess runs a very strong second.
My thermometer says 96, but I'm sure it's hotter than that. After mowing, weed trimming, lopping branches off the oaks, and trimming the hedges, I'm pretty sure I had a pinstroke. If I ever get the feeling back in my arms, I'll google the symptoms.
Is it just me, or has Moxie gone from brilliant to incandescent recently? Like those new light bulbs, only curvier.
I feel my own wordcraft, and, more importantly, my all important ego, suffers as a result, however, therefore I reluctantly must issue a fatwah of some sort.
I'm figuring at the very least I can get Allah to issue a Bad Hair Day Chipped Nails Devastation upon her, perhaps with cicadas. Just to give me time to catch up.
And, of course, Bush lied. Bush lies like a damned dog, I'm told in my special education classes. Lies to protect satanic interests, and Vice Presidents who tell Senators to Fuck Off, etc etc. Then they give me the little blue pill.
I did lie. I danced.
Not with anyone in my entourage. A big tall blonde biker girl, almost as tall as me. Enormous false breasts, all the better to overshadow the chunkroll she was sporting. I believe that is the extent of the biker chick aesthetic. If I get the 44 triple D's it doesn't matter how big my chunkroll is. She was not bad looking for a biker chick, though. Decent teeth. Gums weren't bad, either, as I rolled her lips back to inspect them before I danced with her. Just like my old Shetland pony Spooky. See, I'm thoroughly convinced one can catch periodontal disease from two feet away. I take no chances with my choppers.
I still would not have danced with her, but we were on the deck over the marina, the sky had broken for a slice of moon, and the band was playing my favorite romance song: Black Sabbath: Paranoid. Yes, verily, hard rock head banging. How could I refuse?
The Bride knows from long experience to stay away from me when this sort of thing comes upon me. Cheap vodka makes me both promiscuous and belligerent. A dangerous combination, but biker girl's date was flagellating himself in an air guitar orgy in the corner, anyhoo, and she had beckoned me to the sawboard decking that served as a dance floor.
One dance. These moments pass, and I am, while not forgiven, tolerated. Like a three-legged dog (which, coincidence upon coincidence, I believe I am).
Yes, I am always dragged kicking and screaming to these outings, and then dragged kicking and screaming away from them.
I missed my Intrepids, though.
I must go out with the Neighborhood Girls for a while to the local dive. The Bride coerces me into these redneck consort roles on occasion, and I oblige. I'll tell you one thing, though. I'm not dancing. Remember what I said about The Beautiful People, and their relative proximity to the Velocihovel? There will be no Shallow Hal shit going on, because I can see just fine.
I was just watching Jewel sing a duet with Jessica Simpson on television. Hey. HEY! Don't start with me. Skeeter was watching TV in the Batcave, and I do so love to indulge the child.
So: Jewel has come a long way since she lived in the back of a car. She has some scratch in her pocket. So why doesn't she fix her teeth? That nose could use a bit of planing as well.
The frontmeat can stay.
When I was back there in seminary school (screech). Wait a minute. That was Jim Morrison, trying to crawl his bloated, flyblown corpse back into the real world through my thorax. Hold on while I burn him with this cross. There. Ssssshh, Jim. Ssssshh.
Where was I? Yes. When I was back there at Tulsa School of Welding I saw a guy get that freaky deak thing you get when you watch someone weld for about half an hour without Alamagordo Brand super goggles. That thing where you go blind for about 24 hours, and writhe and squirm on the ground like a salted slug, because the pain is so intense. Lord, how he cried. I believe they were tears. It may have been molten eyeball. This was no cakeboy, either. He'd just been discharged from the Marines, and was a hoss. But he was a dumb hoss. I told that fellow to put on his goggles, but he didn't listen.
Which brings to my point. How many people really take advice? And what is the specific gravity at which unheeded advice goes from an honest desire to help to unmitigated meddling? I'm rather bullheaded, and tend to distrust others, so I usually attempt to determine why that person is offering advice, and what they hope to get out of it. If there is a complementary benefit to me I might take it.
Who do you trust with advice, anyway? I wouldn't take advice from Ghandi, for instance. In fact, I once channelled him, and the only advice he gave me was to drink my own urine, and work the loom. I also eschew advice from those who manage to get themselves capped, so he was a nonstarter.
I seldom took advice from my father, and that's too bad, because in retrospect it was usually very good advice, with the best of intentions. In the grand scheme of things, though, I think it is better if you just keep your freaking opinion to yourself, and let me flail through life my way. I'll figure it out eventually.
And, no, I never attended welding school. No, I was an untrained, uneducated wildcat welder, helping someone put up an awning on River Street. I did wear my goggles, though.
Popping that poor Korean man is having predictable consequences.
Why am I getting site hits referred by Kevin Drum? Interesting. Perhaps he is visiting himself, although I doubt I am his cup of tea. Perhaps he is collecting material on insane bloggers with axes to grind. Or maybe I'm just his filthy habit, the smoke he sneaks in the broomcloset.
I've been casting about for something to do for the 4th of July. I thought about running down to Cocoa or Singer Island, but sunbathing is so incredibly taxing, especially during thong season. And the sun melts the ice cubes in my drinks too quickly. Nor do I like sand in my crack of doom. I've done the Insane Palmist thing in Cassadaga, so what's next? Don't forget I have the dual responsibility of scarring the Velocidaughters' psyches for at least three years worth of therapy, and that is a responsibility I do not shoulder lightly.
Then it hit me: Gibtown.
Gibtown is, of course, Gibsonton, Carnie World Headquarters. The Winter Palace of the freakish, the dispossessed, the acutely afflicted, the bizarrely talented. Gibtown is where all the real freaks live when the circuses and fairs are in hibernation. Remember that scene in Dumbo, where the train pulls out of Florida? Gibtown. Only I believe they cast it nearer to Sarasota than Tampa, because they didn't do any research, and we all know Walt's animators were craven drug addicts who whored their talents by day on cartoons, then sought fleshier delights by night in a city absolutely bedecked with the sexually dissipated. Also, Gibtown ain't got no flying elephants. Drug addicts.
Gibtown did have Lobsterboy, though, until his wife murdered him.
That particular affliction is not what you would call a recessive gene, either, as somehow the mutant Stiles family managed to pass on the claws for at least three generations. Some women will do anybody, I swear.
However, ectrodactyly or no, there are sure to be some interesting sights: giants, midgets, bearded women, Magyar trapeze artists, contortionists, sword swallowers, Gypsy
pickpockets entrail diviners, hydroencephalytics, tumour bearers, chicken-footed ladies, rodent boys, legless Bucharest enema mistresses, geeks of all stripes, deformities beyond belief.
I think the girls will enjoy it. By God, I'd have killed for a weekend like that as a kid.
Today was Seersucker Thursday in the Senate:
It started as a joke last year when a group of Republican Senators, led by Trent Lott (R-Miss.), who has the Southern credentials to get away with wearing a seersucker suit, all wore their seersuckers to work on the same Thursday, with saddle shoes and bow ties, of course.
This year, Seersucker Thursday will be held this week.
It was supposed to be held last week, Lott said, but “the ladies of the Senate requested a delay.” He implied that the women in the chamber may be planning a surprise, although he didn’t know what it was. He mentioned Sens. Dianne Feinstein, (D-Calif.), Elizabeth Dole (R-N.C.), Barbara Boxer (D-Calif.) and Kay Bailey Hutchison (R-Texas) as likely conspirators.
Indeed, the Senate Seersuckers will come with ruffles this year.
“These have been hard days in the Senate. We are dealing with a lot of big and very difficult issues,” said Feinstein, who is leading the Lady Seersucker effort. “I thought it was time to lighten up a bit and inject some humor. The men of the Senate who wear these suits take great pride in them, and I thought we could surprise, or even upstage them. But it seems someone let the cat out of the bag.”
My earlier stolen picture reminded me of the fact that there have been over 2,000 nuclear bomb tests. That is an insane number. It speaks to me.
The baddest of the baddest? The Russkies detonated a hydrogen bomb they estimated originally at 50 megatons in 1961. The US calculated it was 57 megatons.
Little Boy, the Hiroshima bomb, was 13 kilotons. That makes the '61 bomb blast like, um, over 4,000 times more powerful than Hiroshima. If I'm wrong I'm sure Adam will correct me. I'm working with a calculator built into my Timex. As for Fat Man, the Nagasaki blast, nobody cares about Nagasaki, right? No books there, right?
My whole take on Nagasaki is: You've been nuked once, and you want some more? Can't cry Uncle? Putzes.
Anyhoo, my brother lent me a video called, ah, Nuclear Test Bombs, or some such. A nice grainy piece of video on that 57 Megger was in it. What I want is color footage. Surely the Evil Empire filmed it, right? I crave footage of that blast. The most fearsome film ever. When aliens unearth our fossilized remains they'll be looking for that film. 57 megatons. Fuck.
My daughters are 11 and 16, and, by all rights, hip within their social spheres. I must tell you, though: they are in accord with the fact that Grease is the greatest movie of all time, Copacabana is the greatest song of all time, and Three's Company is the greatest sitcom of all time. I must also add that they know ALL the words to Copacabana and the Three's Company theme, as well as every song in Grease.
Where did I go wrong? Or did I go wrong? I whispered the lyrics to Sandinista to these chirren when they were pups, ingrained in them worship of the Fab Four. Bought them Ramones t-shirts as toddlers, so I wouldn't look the fool at the grocery store. Tie-died them with Garcia mugshots.
Tis a cruel world. They care about Lola, and showgirls, and other unearthly dementia, despite my best efforts. I blame their mother.
I was having lunch the other day with some wonderful female colleagues, dear to me, and the topic of scrapbooking came up in the context of an ex-colleague. What, says I? Scrapbooking? Yes, says they. It is a Big Time Hobby.
Now, I'm always the last to know these things, probably because I spend too much time in the water closet coaxing Girth Vader to givvums a little burp, but scrapbooking? What the Hell?!?
So it's a big deal. Not just seminars, and conventions. Scrapbooking cruises. I confess I've always wanted to go on one of those Show Everyone Your Penis cruises, but The Bride demurrs. A scrapbooking cruise? Shoot me God. Smite me. Thunderbolt works fine. Don't give me cancer, please.
My idea of scrapbooking is to take all of my pictures and throw them in a shoebox under the bed, after I've laid out the negatives by the pool in the sun in order to "cure" them. Occasionally my girls will find a picture they think flatters, or amuses them, and I will grudgingly drive to the Walgreen's and buy a photo album so they can memorialize that picture, as well as four of the kitty licking her twat. If the album costs over six bucks I'm pissed. That redounds on the girls to wash my car.
I understand, and this is hearsay, because my corneas melted upon opening Scrapjazz.com, that albums get a little more expensive than that. Customised leather stuff, and all. Emboss your name in gilt. I believe some come with voodoo dolls of your ex, with 12 pins in the crotch.
ONLY WOMEN could come up with such a bizarre waste of time, and resources.
Scrapbooking, indeed. I've seen my old relations in a few musty sepia-toned photos. The ones with the serrated edges. Clue: they look like assholes, and Okies. I didn't know them, I have no desire to know who they were. They look like their life sucked.
I have, as the inmate said, seen it all.
I'm the number one hit on Google for Kim+Behead+Video. That, as they say, is a little too close to home.
If I was W I'd wire myself with about 8 blood squibs and do my next press conference in shirtsleeves. I'd pop those puppies about 10 minutes into the conference, then collapse in a heap.
Then I'd hunker down that night in the Situation Room with Rummy ("Thick Dick") and Dick ("Dick Dick") and Karl ("Puppetmaster") and Andy ("Marionette"), and study the tapes of the reporters' reactions. After swilling down 4 or 5 forbidden Scotches (Laura being in California reading to gradeschoolers) I'd issue my internal fatwah on the reporters who were grinning. The one who spooted his trou would, of course, be beheaded. They seem to respect that.
A question keeps floating through my mind during those hellish interminable staff meetings: who would win a savage free-for-all between Bob Eubanks and Alex Trebek? I mean, put them in the Ultimate Fighting Championship octagon, and see who survives? Of course, Bob's a bit older than Alex, so we would have to assume both fighters are in their prime, as these hypotheticals always do.
Now, I like Alex, he's got game, but I'm thinking Bob "The Truth" Eubanks dogslaps that Canuck all the way to Flag Day. My theory is Bob learned judo in the Army (you always learn judo in the Army, it's a tradition going back to the days when the Nips would use judo on you, having stolen it from the Koreans when they were creating The Best Little Whorehouse in the Transasiatic Sphere of Influence).
So I'm figuring Bob has the reach, the footwork, and the desire. Anyone want to handicap this one?
Oh, yes. Speaking of the Ultimate Fighting Championship: I once watched that Irishman, Shamrock, get a mutant 500 pound sumo wrestler on all fours and beat his fucking brain stem with his fist for ten minutes before he finally collapsed. That's what Pay For View used to be about. Not Britney concerts.
Aren't the Republicans the most wretched stewards of conservatism one could imagine? When they're in the minority they are positively Burkean in their eloquent appeals to fiscal restraint, laissez-faire capitalism, and self-help. Then as soon as they are in power they morph into sailors in Tijuana with a 48 hour pass. Porking the porking pork. Listen: I don't want any more fish hatcheries in my state, or highway demonstration projects, or purple pills for the oldsters. I don't even want you to teach Little Johnny to read. I'll take care of that. I want some more daisy cutters for my boys. I want some of that fancy new body armor. If you must have a demonstration project how about funding a right-wing death squad in Burgundy? It's bad enough being a Southerner and having to pull the lever for the Reconstruction Party.
Imagine that. Thousands of conquering soldiers encamped in your neighborhoods for ten years, issuing diktats on everything from sanitation to blacksmithing. I can see the colonel now:
Alright, folks, we're going to have an election. Everybody has to vote, and the only candidate we've qualified is this Negro fellow I found down by the bogs. What's your name, sir?
What is your platform, Mr. George?
I Likes White Wimmen.
Have you ever considered the Senate, sir? There's a lot of that going on.
It was probably like, like, Iraq! That's it! Bush is a Carpetbagger! Rumsfeld is a Scalawag! It's all about peanut oooiiilll!!!
Damn. Where was I? Yes. The GOP. A sorry lot when they get the keys to the government liquor cabinet. At least they know how to kick Third World ass, and that is worth a pretty penny or two.
I'm trying to do the right thing, and be a sensitive bitch, but I found this exquisite photograph of annihilation at du Toit's, posted by Greg Pierce, and I had to share it. I call it, fondly, Mecca: You Are Called to Prayer.
I hadn't realized, and just found out at Michele's and Jeff's, that South Korean abductee Kim Sun-il had been beheaded by his Muslim (!) captors.
I'm not going to rant. The maelstrom surrounding my last rant was painful to me in that, although between Andy's site and mine many words were exchanged, the two I didn't see much of were Paul Johnson. Hell, I didn't even use them myself.
I will say I don't think Kim Sun-il, a Korean, represented Western Civilization, or America, or Israel. He was just a fellow doing a job. Which means there are no root causes to flesh out here. Just plain simple terror. Plain simple evil.
If any good can come from such heinous deeds it is, to me, the fact that the terror fiends have foolishly opened a new front in the War. Those 3,000 South Korean soldiers will deploy to Iraq, and with steely resolve to be sure. Perhaps when East meets West over the charred ruins of the Middle East we can look back, and be grateful a large band of lunatics, deceased, finally brought Occident and Orient together in common cause.
Andymatic is on the Blog Roll. That was a hell of a sparring contest, and I is spent, although I took Father's Day off, and both sides used proxies quite a bit. It was sort of like Angola in the seventies (both the nation and the Louisiana state penitentiary), although I don't recall seeing too many Cuban irregulars around, so maybe it was more like the Parchman Farm.
Just in case you'd never noticed, Part the First.
And how come The Clash aren't 17% off?
I had a sudden flashback to my days of juvenile delinquency tonight as I pulled into the drive-thru of my local wine and spirits merchant on the way home and the bell hose did the bing! bing! (who did invent the drive-thru liquor store? Brilliant! While not perhaps rising to the level of a Nobel [hint: cash the check, pass on the speech] it certainly deserves a Presidential Medal of Freedom, I would think).
Consider: one does not have to lumber out of the car, trip and fall most inelegantly on the curb, dust oneself off, and then, square-shouldered, pompously sway into the store and demand Qzucxtifukl Lite, in the bottle, dammit, then peel off salaciously soiled dollar bills from one's pocket. Thirteen fifty two? No probrem. One, two. Heh, heh. Three, two. Wait. One, two. Three, four. Five, heh heh. One, two. Wait!
No, 'tis better to roll up to the drive-thru, and smile benificently to the man with smiley glassy eyes focused on the Old Crow clock 12 feet behind him. "Qzucxtifukl", you can say with both hands on the steering wheel. "Borrles". Then give the poor soul a debit card. He will bring out a keypad on an expandable cord, and you can type in "Four, one, six, heh heh. Wait. Four, two, one... "Dude. Whas my anniversary?"
I'm sorry. I digress. Bell hoses. YES. When I was sixteen it was considered de rigeur to burn off the bell hose when you left the gas station. By which I mean peel out, lay rubber, shred that rubber cord on your way to Oblivion. It was just what you did.
Funny? I guess not. Remember: this was not today's world of convenience stores, where Gupta will merely call his brother Sijay and request another hose. This was the days of Full Service gasoline, and The Man wore his uniform and his Texaco Star proudly. Those men would kill your ass over a bell hose, because it might come out of their pocket.
Listen, children: way back then a service station attendant could own a seventeen hundred square foot house and two cars. That was a fucking career. Butchers sent their kids to private schools. You did not tread lightly on The Man's bell hose. But a '73 Celica, given a judicious mixture of clutch, gas pedal, and emergency brake, could chew that hose to hell, and bring the Esso Man charging after you with a monkey wrench the size of a sledge hammer.
Why did we do it? Dumb question. The better question: how did we ever manage to do anything right?
Given the events of the last few days, and jaundiced as I am of my own prospects at work, I believe I have a future as a mediator.
This gentleman takes me to task for my earlier screed. I believe he thinks I am a Christian Fundamentalist.
I assure you, Andy, I am not. But what if I were? What is your point, man? I just don't like Muslims when they behead my countrymen.
One other thing: you belie yourself when you conflate fundamentalists. I can't find any evidence of Jerry Falwell severing anyone's head and passing the video to the 700 Club.
Update: some insightful conversation being bantered about at Andy's. I welcome it. For the record, and of course completely out of context here, my reply:
Fine, my good sir. Please let me know what you glean. I stand firm, however, in my assertion that the VAST majority of mosques worldwide continue to preach hate, and jihad. I know of NO Christian or Jewish church or synagogue that does this. Can you explain that? It has certainly been going on long before the Iraq war. Can you explain that, sir?
Most people are aware of the Shackleton expedition to cross Antarctica, 1914-1917, I assume. Disastrous, in that their vessel, the Endurance, became trapped in sheet ice, and eventually sank, and yet miraculous, in that Shackleton took one smallboat 800 miles from Elephant Island to the whaling station at South Georgia Island to reach rescuers in the most treacherous seas in the world.
My favorite part of the saga? When the killer whales would track the men from underneath the ice, thinking they were seals, and would burst through the ice in an attempt to nab them. Lookit:
Another perceived problem was the killer whales. Spotting a seal, the creatures would dive to great depths and then smash through the ice, seizing the seal in it's mouth. The expedition found a hole 25 feet in diameter that had been created by a killer whale. As photographer Frank Hurley took a dog team over the thin ice, he would hear whales blowing behind him. He would quickly dash for solid, thick ice with "No need to shout 'mush' and swing the lash. The whip of terror had cracked over their heads and they flew before it. The whales behind...broke through the thin ice as though it were tissue paper, and, I fancy, were so staggered by the strange sight that met their eyes, that for a moment they hesitated. Had they gone ahead and attacked us in front, our chances of escape would have been slim indeed...Never in my life have I looked upon more loathsome creatures".
I am in total agreement with this sentiment. I'm also guessing Rube didn't participate in the Bloomsday festivities.
Well, my language got a little salty on that last post. Regular readers know I never use language like that, do I? I said Do I? But there's something about seeing a man's head resting in the small of his back that brings out the intemperate in me. I washed my mouth out with Dalmore as punishment.
Bad news on the Burning Man figure. A storm blew through and toppled it. I can erect it again for the big torching tomorrow, but the wood is all wet now. I don't dare use gasoline on it, either, as my insurance company is still squabbling with the Burn Unit over the last incident. The worst part? That offal I fetched from the abbatoir for the Moore and Rall effigies is really starting to stink up the Blazer.
The Damning Guinea Pig project isn't going too well, either. Retrieved the bones okay, but not being an anatomist, or having any clue really about the skeletal structure of aforementioned rodent, it's starting to look more like a ferret zombie with a monstrous head. I never should have used those two ribs for horns...
Have you ever tried to lash fish hooks to the legs of a really irate cock rooster? I have so many hooks in me I'm going to audition as lead singer for the Mucus Plugs tonight.
Just as the navies of olde used the slowmatch to ignite their cannons, my fuze burns. As the man said, Wake Up, People. We are at War. Not with Slobfuckia, or Ignoramia, but with a Civilization. A crude civilization, to be sure, but one with 1,400 years of cunning and guile under their sashes. A civilization that has ridden on the back of Western rationalism and technology, as the flea rides the hound, for centuries.
Now these scabs of humanity, these subhuman vipers, have determined we are evil, and must die.
Was it our rock and roll? Our half naked women? Our abandonment of humility? Who knows? Who cares? Beethoven drove these animals crazy 200 years ago. The decadence of modern Western Civilization is a straw man, a convenient bogie for these beasts to fling themselves against. No, it's not our Way of Life. It is our very existence.
Here is the Deal, and you can like it or not, I don't care. Nor do the coveters of your severed head: we are Infidels. We choose not to hew to the diktats of a repugnant religion. This quasi-civil service pecking order, to be honest, is abominable.
I despise Islam. It is the Uncle Waldo, the pedophile, of organized religions.
Hate me yet? Too fucking bad. Read on.
Mohammed was the Hitler, the Stalin of his day. He was an Arab conqueror, a warrior, intent on subduing the entire Middle East, and beyond. Islam was the cobbled together tao he used to make the subjugated more pliable. Nothing more. Prophet? What a fucking joke.
Listen: Mohammed conquered a recalcitrant Jewish tribe, the Qurayza. Marched them to Medina. Sold the women and children into slavery (Muslims not only created modern slavery, they still practise it). Lined 600 to 900 men (despite paeans to the Arabic advances in mathematics, they obviously could not count worth a flip fuck) and BEHEADED THEM WHILE MOHAMMED WATCHED IN ATTENDANCE. Think about that for a minute, or two. Think about that.
You can have your issues with Moses, or Jesus, I don't care. I don't recall either of those chaps presiding as impresario over the mass beheading of almost a thousand souls.
There is your Religion of Peace. Or Submission, if you speak Arabic precisely. I have no respect for a cabal that exhibits the traits of jackals, and hyenas. Actually, I figure the humane thing to do is to put it out of its misery altogether.
Unless they want to live in peace. I don't care what you practice, personally. Hell, I was a nichiren shoshu Buddhist in college. Big fucking deal. However, I hear a great fucking echo in the Muslim world, the land of people who act like pigs, and dogs. A great echo of silence about the barbarities committed by their fellow religionists. Shameful. Fucking shameful.
I suspect I'm supposed to feel sorry for the women in chadors, and burkhas, who are assumed to be against this jihad shit, who will be beaten if they speak out. Well, Fuck You Gals, too. Quit being slaves. Quit being allowed to make yourselves slaves.
I want a Muslim, ANY Muslim, to decry this shit. Not on Fox News, not on CNN. In a Mosque. IN A MOSQUE! DO IT! DO IT!
Can't, can you? You'll be vivisectioned, won't you? And that is because the terrorists, the Islamofascists, are actually the purest form of Islam. They are rectifying hundreds of years of accommodation with the West. Remember that: the beheaders are the Purest of all Muslims. And they all want to kill you.
I'll be excoriated as a Hatemonger for this screed. I don't care. At least I live in America. This rant would earn me a 10,000 Euro fine in France, because it is considered hate speech, and they are pissing their pantaloons they are so infected with radical Islamists.
I'll end this now, but only because I'M finished. And for all you pindicked Arabs:
I've got your fatwah right here.
I recall reading Grimm's Fairy Tales as a child, and they ain't all Rapunzel and Snow White. There is gruesome stuff there, provenance of Bad Dreams.
Here's a good one I ran across tonight, thumbing through my old tome: The Goose Girl, in honor of Rankin Rob sharing with us his personal vision of sex with a goose:
America A beautiful young princess sets off for the next kingdom to marry Europe an effete handsome prince, accompanied by an Islamothug a villainous handmaid. Our princess also has a moral compass talking horse. Along the way said evil handmaid besets the princess and forces her to trade places. When they arrive at the prince's kingdom the true princess is cast aside as a cowboy saber-rattler peasant goose handler, and the handmaid sets herself up as the prince's betrothed. In fear of exposure, however, she insists the talking horse be showered with Muslim hospitality decapitated, and its head nailed to the gates. Every day when the princess turned goose-handler goes out to tend geese she speaks to the horsehead, which speaks back to her. The Rumsfeld Wise Old King gets wind of this, and rectifies the situation by asking the false princess what fate should befall a fascist Islamo cocksucker pretender to the crown. "Dragging by horse in a barrel full of nails", proclaims she, whereupon the King enforces her own sentence upon the villainous bitch.
Happily ever after, and all that.
Sorry, I'm not buying this. Just hours after Paul Johnson's grotesque beheading Saudi special forces miraculously locate, target, and assassinate the ringleader in a shootout? The news stories are already calling it a "coup" for the Saudi government.
BULL FUCKING SHIT.
This is the same old Saudi game they always play. They could have stopped the Johnson atrocity, I'm convinced. But as usual, they play both sides of the fence. By allowing the murder to occur, they let the Islamofascists screech and chatter like the fucking descendants of pigs and apes they are. By immediately killing the nastiest of this particular cell of shit, while the monkeys are still chattering and oblivious (or excited enough not to care much) they get praised by the West for "bringing the bads guys to justice" without paying a price from the Islamofucks. Most importantly, both sides leave them alone.
And THAT is what the Saudi royal family has always been about. Support Wahhabism with money and madrassas, while playing kissy fucking face with the West, and cashing the petrodollar checks. As long as it's Islamofascists against Westerners they get to sit on their greasy corpulent asses on the sidelines in their Rolls Royces and finger their Lady Di lookalike whores.
Now I'm no conspiracy theorist, but it doesn't take Art Bell to see through this sham. I figured they'd round up one or two in a few days, but the Saudis are so pumped by the success of their execrable shell game they popped the fucker immediately. All the better to get at the booze and the tang faster.
I hate those Saudi bastards. THEY are the true enemy, because they created all this fanaticism with millions upon millions of dollars, and a tolerant eye. THEY unleashed this hell on the West just to keep the pernicious bastards off their own backs.
I hate those Saudi bastards.
I have a special treat this year. Although I have waterfowl in abundance, this spring I was graced for the first time with a nesting pair of Canadian geese on the lake. Although Quebecois separatist by nature, they are very friendly, and have blessed us with three fine goslings.
These little fellows have plumped up nicely in the last month, and I've reverted to evil thoughts. I have this Dickensian desire to taste some goose. Every Christmas for 6 years I've pled the case for goose, but all I hear are foul adjectives such as stringy, greasy, and bony. Listen up: these little pugs are screaming to be eaten. I've scoured the turkey frying stockpot, and may make my move this weekend. Hey. They're Canadian. Who cares?
Rumour has it we will receive enlightenment tomorrow at eight of the AM as to who our new Dear Leader will be. Given the abysmal toilet drain this disOrganization has been swirling down of late I can only say with some modicum of accuracy that it will NOT be Kim Jong-Il. They wanted him, but he has the visa issue, irradiated fingers, etc. etc. Surely our fingertips would be lopped off if it were ascertained the infoflow would continue unabated.
Anyway, I'm psyched. It's always a personal pleasure of mine to get smoked out as the resident Charlie Manson on the Block by a new Czar. Let's see, 5 Czars in 7 years? I forget. It's like the Reign of Terror, only the Jacobins wear Greenbrier sweater vests. And the guillotine has been replaced by the Death of a Thousand Paper Cuts.
Wish me luck! I'm going in Late!
Well, it's Abandon Velociman time again. Why would one expect their family around Father's Day weekend? No, they're going to Savannah. Actually, they will return sometime Sunday, in order to drag my saronged hide from the gutter (the neighbors hate that), spray me down with the pressure washer (eat your heart out Bull Connor), and prop me up at the dinner table like a stuffed John Amos for some Good Times.
In the meantime, this will actually allow me to catch up on some overlooked tasks:
1) Install webcam in handicap stall at the Almost Home Assisted Living Facility. Yes, I want to know how elderly women in wheelchairs wipe themselves after a good grunt. I Am Curious, Brown.
2) Disinter Babe the Guinea Pig, bleach bones, reconstruct skeleton on hind legs, pointing accusatory finger. A gift for Velocidaughter Two, aka The Neglecter.
3) Set up camcorder in water closet, eat 8 convenience store burritos, drink a pint of laxative, and film One Virgin, an hommage to Yoko Ono.
4) Slip out at night with RoundUp, spray MY SON IS GAY, WOE IS ME on neighbor's front lawn in six foot letters. That should preoccupy the little rat bastard for a while, and keep him away from my daughter.
5) Erect 13 foot replica of Burning Man in backyard. Round up some vagabonds from bus station. Climax of Festival to consist of passing out black ski masks and performing ritual beheading of Ted Rall and Michael Moore effigies made from slaughterhouse remnants stuffed into croker sacks.
6) Perfect experimental patchouli barbecue sauce for Christmas gifts.
7) Paint front of riding lawnmower in classic P-51 Mustang shark grin. Add naked woman in bondage artwork on side. Rechristen Anal Alice.
8) Replace hummingbird chain pulls on lanai fans with Baby Jesus buttplugs.
9) Catch roosters down the road that have awakened me at 4:30 for the last 5 years, string up with number 3 fish hooks, stage First Annual Cunningham Creek Cockfight.
10) Rearrange plastic cup in chain link "Respect" message at elementary school gate with "Prevert" message.
Me and that boy gotta have a talk.
One realizes one is truly blessed with great friends when one is rewarded with a prime example of Newton's Third Law of Motion in action. And I believe the Second Law of Thermodynamics just occurred in the Velocidrawers.
I've bitched about this before, and I'm getting tired of it, so I've crafted a template e-mail, ready for immediate use:
Dear Fellow Blogger,
I recently left a lengthy comment on your latest post. Would you be so kind as to delete said post? In retrospect I consider it far too clever to be cached in the sinkhole of the comments section of your rather mundane site.
I believe with a little treatment I can turn it into a very fine post for my own site. It fairly exudes Instalanche. I'd hate to see it wasted where it currently resides.
Yours in anticipation, I remain your faithful, etc. etc.
Do you ever go to someone's site and hit all their links, trying to figure out who the "sleeper" is? The one they want you to find and go DAMN! Fucking Car Wreck! Shoot Yourself! I don't have links like that, but I'll be glad to drop the dime on a few preening hypocrites who do. For five dollars.
Semiannually (or when the mood strikes me) I like to take an unfunny comedian to the woodshed. Someone whose very existence claws the cosmic chalkboard of my psyche. Previous honorees have included Joey Bishop, Bronson Pinchot, the undead Tony Randall.
Heady company, I know you're thinking. I was also thinking perhaps I should institutionalize this honor. So I'm going to call it the Velocifist. I believe I can find a metallurgist to craft some nice brass fists about the size of Andre the Giant's paw that I will send the recipient. More focusing than those rectal beads, when inserted properly. Just a thought.
Tonight's honoree: Albert Brooks.
What a pretentious popinjay. Someone obviously told this fatuous onanist once upona that he was a funny guy. Probably his circle jerk buddy in high school, after Albert's glutinous ass had been rat-tailed to welted sausage stuffing by the strapsniffers.
Brooks' problem is that he always positions himself as Everyman, fighting an epic struggle against the vagaries of a nonsensical Universe. Unfortunately, he usually comes off as Otherman, the freaking loser who insults my intelligence with his contrived refusal to cope with those very vagaries the rest of us seem to have no problem with.
I give you Exhibits A through D: Lost In America, Broadcast News, Defending Your Life, The Muse. The reverse genius of Brooks is that he sucks as both writer and actor, allowing him to fail on so many levels at once one is left with repulsion tics, or the occasional Comic Tourette's Syndrome, wherein one barks obscenities at the screen while the moviegoers around you channel your indignation, and curse themselves because they were shallow enough to believe taking a date to an Albert Brooks film would actually get them laid. And hating you for pounding that particular rivet home, but hey, that's just gilt on the lily. Bonus question: any of you women out there ever give it up after a date took you to a Brooks flick? Quod erat demonstrandum.
Yes, somehow, in one of those spins of Fortuna's Wheel, a putz like Brooks will win Life's Lottery, leaving the rest of us scratching our collective heads, and wondering just what the hell happened.
Fuck Albert Brooks.
Skippy has the down low on Washington Senate aide cum anal whore blogger Jessica
Turdcutter Cutler. You'll have to scroll down a bit. Well said, Skippy.
Don't forget to read the Ace of Spades diary link, either.
I've been trying to listen to Billie Holiday's All Of Me out by the cement pond. I am frustrated, however, by the incessant chirruppings of the damned frogs. Chorus frogs, oak toads, barking tree frogs, gopher frogs, bronze frogs, spadefoot toads, pig frogs, carpenter frogs, narrowmouth toads, I believe I am infested. There must be a hundred thousand of the fiends out by the lake. Word up: they cannot harmonize.
I like frogs one on one. Nice simple creatures. What I detest is their insolent need to bellow position to every water moccasin in the state. I also despise their tendency to fixate on my pool, get trapped, then swim in circles like bait with wounded duck syndrome.
I'm going to be infested with cottonmouths directly, if these toadies don't depart. Then you can sing Strange Fruit at my funeral.
Well, quoted, anyway. Please pick up the Spring 2004 edition of the Harvard Medical Alumni Bulletin. It's available virtually
nowhere everywhere. Peter V. Tishler doth quote Velociworld in an article entitled Pickwick Revisited.
A little background is in order. A few months ago my brother received a phone call in his law offices from a Beverly Ballaro, associate editor of the HMAB. It seems Dr. Ballaro was working on publication of Tishler's article on the phenomenon of narcolepsy, and its association with obesity.
While searching the internet for background information (God Bless Google) she had run across this post reminescing on the death of my father's law partner, including a bit on my father's legal defense of one Sloppy Joe Bellinger.
Facts are a bit fuzzy here, because apparently the good doctor's finger hovered over the E-mail Velociman link for some time without garnering the requisite desire to actually contact me. I believe she felt the site, while authentic, was a bit salty. Having some background newspaper articles on the case she contacted my brother, and authenticated he was indeed my father's son, and he was indeed my fratello.
She wanted to corroborate my father's quotes. Although my father's old law partner John Calhoun had obviously recently passed, my brother had worked with John for years, and, of course, the quotations were much discussed, even institutionalized, within and without. Yeah, verily. You spend a childhood around the dinner table with my old man, and hear those stories time and again, and you will understand the concept of institutionalized in more ways than one.
Having dealt with a sober, respectable individual in vetting the story the HMAB certainly felt better. Of that I am certain. And as I told Dr. Ballaro, while my voice may be picaresque, my recollections remain intact. And I never bullshit about my father. There simply is no need.
Just in case you cannot find this soon-to-be wildly popular edition, allow me to share a quote or two:
In 1958, the media reported widely on the trial of a colorful gambling kingpin by the name of "Sloppy Joe" Bellinger. Sloppy Joe was infamous for running numbers, whiskey, and women in Savannah, Georgia - and for weighing in at 425 pounds...
Sloppy Joe's attorney, Ralph Crawford, succeeded brilliantly in preserving his notorious client's freedom by invoking Sloppy Joe's uncontrollable urges to snooze as a hopeless impediment to preparing a defense. Crawford's argument was buttressed by Sloppy Joe's court-appointed physician, who concluded that Bellinger could not be fairly tried until he shed at least 200 pounds. "The Pickwickian syndrome!" Crawford would cry out, before admonishing the judge and frustrated prosecutors. "Read your Dickens!"
Oh, yes: Dr. B sent my brother and I two copies each of the edition. Very sweet and cool of her.
So I went to the River after buying my pistole, and I sweated like a damnable fool in 97 degree heat, to bring you, my ulcers, these pictures, and I'll be damned if my camera didn't misroll the film. Fuji film in a Nikon camera. The most fiendish Nip fucking since Pearl Harbor. I was able to salvage a few, which I will share:
The Eagle, docked in front of the Adam's Mark (motto: we don't like colored folk).
Bullet Bob Hayes, the Fastest Man Alive. Fucked over by the NFL Hall of Fame for 25 years. Dead, lo these many months. Shameful shit. Actually, this isn't a statue of Bob Hayes. It's just a runner. But I remain outraged that they would put up a statue of a black runner on the Riverwalk and go out of their way NOT to make it Bob Hayes. More shameful shit.
For those of you who keep asking me what buttercutters are, here. And quit asking me why I disdain the missionary position. I believe this sums it up.
I sweltered, and had more pictures, but I got hosed by bad film juju. I should have taken the digital, but it is a pain in the ass, and I like 35mm.
I did enjoy the beers at Hooters, though.
So I ended up getting the Smith&Wesson 642 Airweight:
Not a bad .38 caliber backup. Actually, not a bad everyday toter. I can't wait to put a couple of boxes through it. I bought it for The Bride, but I know she won't carry it. She's comfortable with her pepper spray and her right cross. I have to admit, on those occasions when I've needed a good beating, she's exhibited great form and sparring technique, so it's her call.
Just as well. I don't want to give up the little goblin stopper now anyway.
I've had some absolutely stunning butterflies in the back yard of late. They hover over the lantana, citrus trees, spirea, and mimosas. If you stand very still they will alight upon you. That's why I always carry my butane lighter, aka the Poor Man's Bug Zapper.
Alrighty then. The yard is mowed/trimmed/bikini-waxed. Time to take Velocidaughter One downtown to see the 11 tall ships, one of which is my beloved Eagle. Then I'll go across the street to the Prime Osborne for the gun show, where I intend to pick up a backup piece, hopefully a hammerless featherweight .38. Kim du Toit has some excellent suggestions on backups, so I go "forearmed". I also intend to take the concealed carry class, if One can hold out that long. I may have to return tomorrow for that part, however.
I only thought I'd finished before. The grande finale of Ron's interment was chest-tightening. I wept copious tears at the hillside ceremony, like a baby for a bottle. Those tears were for Nancy, however, and the brutal ritual protocol demanded of her.
Now I am hoping W is sitting in the White House with his closest advisors, pondering National Intelligence Estimates, and determining which evildoers we are going to send to fucking Hell tomorrow. That is embracing stuff, and makes the glass look three-quarters full. And I hope Ron looks down from Heaven, and laughs, and says "There you go again."
I haven't written of my personal hero this week, because 1) so many people have spoken of him so much more eloquently than I ever could that it would have seemed superfluous, and 2) I wanted to see the entire final drama play out before I composed my thoughts.
To be honest, I had intended to keep a weather eye on the proceedings and keep the old stiff upper lip, however I have been misty-eyed the last three days after I witnessed the outpouring, not of pundits and prattlers, but of the American people. The American soul. America loved this man. That makes me proud beyond words, that this great wellspring of humanity stood witness with love, and sadness, and, yes, joy.
I'd feared this ritual would be part lament, part chest-thumping. I thought the American people had forgotten what this man had accomplished, and how very, very lucky the entire world was that he was chosen by the electorate when he was.
Ronald Reagan freed more peoples from serfdom than any other person in history. By dent of sheer conviction, and personality. They number in the tens of millions. Was his Presidency flawed? Of course. Man is flawed; but for every person who decries Iran-Contra, I say ask a Pole, a Lech Walesa, a Solidarity member, what they think of Ronald Reagan. Ask any former inmate of the Soviet gulag who tapped secret code to his cellmate that the American president had called the regime an "evil empire" what they think of Ronald Reagan.
I'm ashamed to say when Reagan was elected I was almost afraid of him. Oh, I was as one with his principles, but my leftist northeast liberal classmates at Emory had convinced me I had cast my ballot for a Dangerous Man, who would launch Armageddon. I didn't believe that, of course, but I still feared he might be a heavy-handed cowboy, bereft of that accursed word nuance. How wrong I was. After the great courage he showed after that mutant shot him I knew this man was no actor, he was the Real Deal.
I couldn't watch the funeral today, however I listened to it on the internet; and I finally wept the full measure at Margaret Thatcher's eulogy. Knowing it was videotaped, and that the Iron Lady made the voyage at great personal health risk merely added to the beauty of the thing. She and Ron were in love, intellectually and temperamentally. They shared great big brass ones, too. The perfect team to stand shoulder to shoulder against the evil slavemasters.
I did not mean to create a stemwinder, merely a reminescence. I'd like to conclude by saying something about Nancy. I never really cared for her. I did not dislike her, I just felt she was a bit distant. Didn't care for America like Ron did. Let me tell you: after 10 years of ministering to the stricken love of her life she has been through an almost obscene hell the last few days. Three ceremonies. Three processions. Six thousand airmiles with her beloved entombed in a cargo hold; weathering time-zone changes, sleep deprivation, and the well-wishing and scrutiny of tens of thousands of people. Not to mention the burden of consoling two mean-spirited offspring. She has made the ultimate sacrifice: she has sacrificed her grieving. She will have time aplenty, I am sure, but she was there for every one of us this week, enfeebled as she is. She has grown enormously in my esteem. My heart cries out for her.
All Hail Ronaldus Magnus. Think where we would be had 1980 never occurred.
I don't drink much wine, except with elegant repasts, and in the Velocihovel that means almost never. Unless you consider Chicken Cordon Spam elegant. It gives me headaches, unfortunately. I do try to keep the wine racks filled, however. For my friends and guests. Which means I have a pretty eclectic inventory.
I have a bottle of Kendall Jackson VR chardonnay for my yuppie friends, and a bottle of Turning Leaf white zinfandel for my insanely vapid yuppie friends who take their culture cues from television advertisements. I have a Chilean table red for my next door neighbor from Santiago.
After that things get dicier. I have a bottle of Thunderbird for Puddyhead, and a bottle of Mogen David for the black Israelite I know. I have that next to the Liebfraumilch for the skinheads down the street because I have my own fucking version of feng shui.
What I need: a bottle of Mateus in memory of an old high school buddy who was savagely beaten by neckbones, and lived in 1975 for 10 years before he finally died of a tragic combination of epileptic seizure and automobile driving. I also need a bottle of Boone's Farm Apple wine, because I chugged a bottle of that when I was fifteen while bowling with friends at Victory Lanes, rolled a 202, then yakked the entire bottle onto the lane. I want that bottle to crack for a sniff when I need a purgative, as the smell will surely bring on the hurl.
I have some decent wines as well, for personal consumption, but they are delicate, savory things, and therefore too boring to discuss. No need to go all Wine Spectator on you, because my collection attests to my belief that wine quality, and price, is 90% marketing bullshit. Blind taste tests prove this point again and again. If you like it, drink it.
Here is yet another thing that pisses me off. I used to think I was pretty much a live and let live type, but I am not. At least in my dotage. Everything pisses me off.
I cannot stand these people who work out during their lunch hour at work. My sporadic exercise is accomplished quite well at home at the end of the day, not in front of God and Hell's Minions downtown.
These people are posturing grandstanding cocksuckers. They are preening. Look at me! I work out! I is healthy! You: you are smoking a cigarette, you foul scum.
Well, yes I am. But I will likely put 20 miles on the bike this evening, without making a complete fucking ass of myself.
Here's the deal: I really don't care if you work out at lunch. Just use the company Y to shower before you get your sweat-sopped ass on the elevator with me for an odiferous ride up 27 floors. I cannot believe the men and women who get on an elevator, in their exercise togs, pouring sweat. Then they change clothes in the restroom and sit their sweaty asses right back at their desks. Monkeyfuckers.
Here's the other thing: I don't want to see men running around downtown in short shorts with no shirt on and their hairy backs refracting dangerous ultraviolet rays into my face. Good God, my mother would spin in her grave if she knew I was cavorting downtown with no shirt on. That is positively un-fucking-seemly. I didn't even do that as a 15-year-old stoner. Some things are just not done. I'm not saying one must wear a suit downtown, but I can remember as a tadpole my mother and sisters wearing gloves downtown to shop, and I carry that sense of respect for the center of commerce in a city, no matter how many piss-stained vagrants stagger out of the Greyhound station.
One final point: all of these "health nuts" are ugly shits. The good-looking people work out at the health clubs and play the skin game. The ugly ones exercise at work, because they are attention-craving fucktards. One lament: I have yet to ask that nagging question: if you exercise so much, how come your ass is still so fucking big?
Certain close friends understand my propensity to obsess on certain things. My latest obsession, which actually goes back twenty years in some way shape or form, is the laying of the Transatlantic Cable. Listen: that was the Civil War era equivalent of the Apollo Project.
One crazed venture capitalist/entrepeneur made it happen. Cyrus Field raised four separate small fortunes attempting this feat over 9 years. Why did he fail the first three times? Just like Apollo: the technology couldn't keep up. He had to help invent the fucking technology of the waterproof submarine cable, and the vessels able to lay 1,800 miles of the shit.
Too cool. All in the face of disdainful governments who wouldn't lend a hand. Why did he do it? He wanted skinny on the European stockmarkets. In 1866 it took a week at best for news to travel across the Atlantic. Cyrus figured if he could get it in a matter of minutes he could jimmy the markets and reap large coin. He was the original quant.
Greed is good, people. Greed makes it happen. Greed creates jobs, and wealth.
I always thought the Cable was a monstrous pipe, 10 or 12 inches in diameter. Seems it was only about 3 inches in diameter, as it only had to house a copper line. There is glory for us fellows yet, apparently.
Damn. Geoff informs that Eric's blog broke on us just as he was about to take me to school on how to properly guest post for a fellow blogger, right after Acidman's primer on the same. That's a shame.
Lookit: I am not blind to the fact my guest blogging generally results in disgust, disdain, or indifference. However I think most people who ask me to guestblog understand I will always open with a full broadside of 24-pounders. That's the fun part. I generally settle down, though, and attempt to favour my patron with some quality work (which by the by engenders the same reactions). Unfortunately, Eric's readers will apparently have to settle for the initial salvos, and will not be graced by my sensitive musings on The Chicken-Footed Lady, or the hurl impulse one gets when a raccoon gut is accidently popped.
Personally, I think Acidman janked it in order to have the last word.
Isn't Velocigirl One beautiful? I carry powerful genes. And virtually no sense of shame posting this after that earlier, um, epiphany.
Yes, there are black panthers in Georgia. I mean, besides H. Rap Brown. If anyone tells you differently they are mistaken. I saw one at Griffin Lakes some 35 years ago, and I have a friend who saw one in Screven County last year. I trust my own child's eyes on that long ago day, but I have far more respect for B-'s sighting, as he is a teetotalling professional hunter who shot a lowering coyote not long ago. Another acquaintance claims to have seen one on the Jimmy DeLoach Parkway, of all places.
Most zoologists claim the "black panther" sightings are cryptids, or cryptozoological beasts, like Bigfoot. Cases of mistaken identity. I beg to differ.
There are several theories as to what these sightings are, as they are most definitely not close kin of the bobcat, lynx rufus. Some theorize they are black cousins to the Florida panther, and migrated north over the years. Others believe they are jaguarundi, Felis yagouaroundi, 30 to 60 pound big cats that roam from Central America as far north as Texas. According to my linked source a population was imported into Florida in the 1940's (why, I wonder?). I'm skeptical of the jaguarundi theory, however, as these cats are generally dark gray to blond in color, and what I and others have seen are coal black. My belief, and that of others, is that the Georgia panther is a merging of the two subspecies Felis concolor coryi (Florida panther) and Felis concolor cougar (Eastern Cougar, which once ranged from Texas to Maine).
Experts can be wrong, I suppose. They claim, for instance, that the endangered Florida panther is confined to Southwest Florida in meagre in-bred numbers, and yet there are numerous accounts of sightings as recently as last year in Volusia County, perhaps sixty miles south of me. No pics, of course.
Now, I'm no Sasquatch speedfreak. I don't believe in apeman creatures or uneecorns or any other wild thing without an identifiable Family or Genus. I respect Linnaeus. Nor do I roam the woods looking for faeries and elves. I just like the idea that our sophisticated selves have perhaps not yet fully crosshatched the entire biological matrix yet. There may be a surprise or two out there yet.
Regular Intrepids know I have a thing about sitting to pee. I have been a very slow convert. However, it occurred to me today that whilst squatting to squirt I can actually hold my head in my trembling hands, shake it in dismay, and ask myself how in the hell did I ever arrive at this station in life???
THAT is multi-tasking, friends, which I am told is a good thing. I feel better already.
I find myself sitting alone on the lanai, the party having pooped, the other combatants writhing in silent agony in various cubbyholes of the Velocihovel.
I truly love my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, but they are 10 years younger than me, and better equipped to weather these storms. My diet over the last 72 hours has consisted of chuck steak burgers, vodka, Ballpark franks, vodka, Fritos, vodka. My aged sweetmeats cannot process such disgusting swill with any manner of efficiency, and yet I am the Last Man Standing. Hah.
I knew to take a vacay day today, Monday, I say. Recuperative necessity.
About that vodka: the Ketel One was osmosed by Friday night, then we reverted to foul breeds of unknown lineage. I don't think grain or potato played in the mix. I suspect it was something more along the lines of essence of Norwegian wharf rat.
Bonus: as we had the Velocigirls' dance recital Saturday night (for which we were clean, sober, and respectable) The Bride's parents were in town. They smoked out the game early on, however, and took a room at the local hostelry. A good thing, however I am somewhat chagrined that they were not around to hear one of my forty or fifty screaming renditions of "Mr. Gorbachev, Tear Down This Wall!"
I'm also a bit smoked that my brother, Shelley, and Puddyhead are in Antigua, and did not invite me. It wouldn't have worked anyhow. I meant to tell him to find Clapton's house, and break in and grab some axes, Clapton being in Texas for that 60 guitarist shindig of his. Wouldn't want a Peter Tosh thing going down over a simple B&E. Sinful? Oh, yes. Criminal? Absolutely. But somehow I think Eric would overlook it, he being such a fan of the blog.
I almost forgot to mention the bullwhip injuries. Ah. Yes. We had the leather working last night, stupefied as we were. I got by with a small chunk of flesh excised from my left ankle. My brother-in-law was less fortunate. He managed to crack the thing around his upper arm, right where the barbed wire tattoo was going to go. He doesn't need the tattoo now, as the scar tissue will provide a reasonable facsimile thereof. Ouch. Some of my tears of mirth were actually tinged with sorrow.
I must close. There is one more lichen-encrusted Ballpark left, and it is calling my name.
Too much company to blog, however I have committed to a guestblogging stint at this fine fellow's, so perhaps you can catch me there. It will not be pretty, I assure you...
Everyone is aware of the sexual dynamic ascribed to vampire bites, correct? So when a male vampire bites a male victim that's disgusting shit. Male vampire bites female victim, I'm liable to get some wood. Male vampire bites male victim, I'm liable to hurl. That's why you seldom see the latter in film. It often happens, but it is seldom shown.
Don't even get me started on those plots wherein the master vampire will only allow the slave vampire to feed on rodents, and cats, and such. That sort of abomination is never actually shown on film, and we are the better for it.
My apologies. This has been bugging me all morning. I had to get it off my chest.
I am a big fan of character actors. The heavy lifters of the cinema business. From Jack Elam to Eli Wallach I appreciate a person who puts in a hard day's work, takes home a decent paycheck, and doesn't become a headcase, while the elitist fucktards he works with melt down under their self-induced visions of grandeur.
To that end I believe I shall profile a character actor occasionally, to pay tribute to the baling wire and kite string that holds our entertainment-industrial complex together.
Tonight: GD Spradlin.
GD is the consummate sumbitch. From Senator Geary in Godfather: Part II to Coach B. A. Strothers in North Dallas Forty to the General in Apocalyse Now to General Durrell in The Lords of Discipline GD has consistently been an A Number One Asshole. He plays senator, general, and coach with equal despicability. A craven man is he. As an aside GD was also Dr. Tristler in that bullshit Heston movie Number One I lacerated recently.
Bonus points: GD is a dead ringer for my asswipe high school football coach, right down to the accent. Another reason to love/hate him. Here's to GD. An infinitely pleasing SOB.
Next week: J.T. Walsh.
One of the great things about working downtown is the odd cultural ping you get now and then. In the gift shop of the Bellsouth Tower is a sculpture of the Last Supper. Only all the characters are Negroes. There is certainly some hair straightener at work, but they are definitely Negroes.
What's up with that shit? I mean, I've seen Black Jesus often, but never the Holy Baker's Dozen in ebony. I've seen black Santas, and black Cleopatras. What's up, I say?
Is this an attempt to more closely connect with Christian and Western ideals, dieties and icons? Or is it an attempt to co-opt these ideals, and claim everyone of any import was really black, only the fucking Man rewrote history to hide that fact? It's bad enough when Jesus is portrayed as a blue-eyed surfer dude, but from an historical perspective I believe it is pretty well established that he was Jewish. Santa was some kind of Scando Eurotrash, but Black Santa is food for another post.
My take is there is a great feeling of inferiority amongst a handful of blacks because they never had any of the good action figures of history. My advice: don't push it. You'll be sorry. Eventually there will be Black Stalins, Black Genghis Khans, Black Typhoid Marys. Hell, eventually someone will come out with a Black OJ. Trust me. You don't want this.
It seems my CD/DVD player is on the fritz (sorry, Nazis, that's life), and will only accept certain CDs without a good puke. I was marveling, therefore, at Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except for Me and My Monkey, because the White Album is the only CD the fucker will munch on now. A Lennon song, of course, and yet Ringo is framming that fucking cowbell like, I don't know, an SNL skit. I can only picture McCartney in the background.
"It's for your own good, Ring. I'm blowing the band, and you'll need some audition material. It's only Johnny's song, anyhoo."
So the piece of shit dishwasher they installed in this house crapped out two days ago, and with yet another round of out-laws coming to town this weekend I figured I'd better replace it. It was a toss-up between the KitchenAid and the Bosch. Both are superior products, with essentially the same features, but after some thought I came to the healthy conclusion that those Nazi bastards could kiss my ass. I bought the KitchenAid.
Yes, I know the Bosch dishwashers are made in New Bern, North Carolina, but still: those profits go back to Deutsche Bank at the expense of the tobacco proles who work that plant. Bilderbergs roll naked in those profits in Bavarian hideaways. Nope. It's the KitchenAid for me, made in Amerikkka.
Why, I'm sure you're asking, does a virile, studly man like you care about a kitchen appliance, anyway? Well, shutthefuckup and I'll tell you. I live in a house with three females. I do all of the outside work and half of the inside work. I love them, but my slags barely get their shitpaper in the rim, much less tidy up. And they have a maid! I'd fire her, but she is a Czech hottie who wears buttercutters that say "SEXY" across the ass as she's leaning over my bathtub for a good scrubbing. You men will understand. She's a keeper.
Back to my tale: so I don't give a good damned halloo who does my laundry or dishes, because it will not be me. Most of my clothes I dry clean anyway. Personally, I don't care if the dishes are licked clean, and the clothes are washed on a washboard in a number 8 tub out by the cement pond. In fact, from a purely emotional standpoint, I think that is the only way the bacon strips should be cleansed from my drawers.
I am attenuated to the ululations of the chore-laden, however, and I desire my peace. So out with the GE, and in with the KitchenAid. I must confess there is some thrill in a beast like this. I cannot wait to slosh some single malt around while I kick the tires in front of my father-in-law.
"Yup. Here's the bitch. Got yer stainless steel innards, yer five jet levels, this here would scrub Jesse Jackson almost clean. It's a bastid, I tell ya. Hums like a hoor. Too bad you ain't got one."
Which, of course, is the point. My in-laws crave whatever I have. They must have it immediately. Which is why I will laud my rectal stringwarts this weekend. Buy yourself some of those! I'll finance!
Anyhow, I have a new plate scraper. I figure the slags will break it in six months or so.
I want a seersucker suit. This traditional blue and white ensemble used to be the ubiquitous raiment of the Southern Gentleman, and they are still sold, but the utility has dwindled tremendously.
I blame this on the standardization of business attire, and the inexorable falling away from regional clothing. For a seersucker suit is only worn in the Southeast, and it is seasonal as well. One would look a fool in Chicago or Manhattan in one, but right at home in Savannah or New Orleans or Charleston. Even the old lawyers don't wear them anymore.
The beauty of the seersucker is its light weight, no mean feature on a steamy July day. The suit gained enormous popularity in the 1930's, before the birth of air conditioning, and a lightweight fabric in a light blue color was a godsend.
I used to have one as late as 1986, but they really fell out of fashion before that. I seem to recall Matlock wearing one on occasion, but truth be told I never watched that show. Andy Griffith is a beloved icon of mine, and when he had his eyelifts I was destroyed. That thing on the television wasn't Andy, it was a horrible facsimile. The pod people looked better than that. And that's what clones will be like: perfect in most respects, but with a flaw or two. A sixth finger, no septum, a tit in the middle of the back. Little things like that. I'll call them Matlocks.
Actually, I believe what Andy was wearing is what is often referred to as pincord. Designed to look like seersucker, but without the welts, and wrinkle free. Pincord doesn't breathe, either. As for the wrinkling, that is another superior quality of seersucker: don't bother to iron or press it, because you can't unwrinkle it. So the seersucker suit on the lawyer walking down Broughton Street after a shave and a trim at Jimmy Tagaglio's looked just like the seersucker suit on the drunk just let out of the holding pen. Except for the urine stain, of course.
Seersucker suits conjure images to me of Atticus Finch, with sweatstained underarms, shooting a mad dog. Or Bobby Lee Cook haranguing a hostile witness in a sweltering Fulton County courtroom. Noble images.
The seersucker was traditionally worn with white bucks, a straw fedora, and any color tie you pleased, although a red tie intimated you were a bit of a rakehell, which I like. You could not button a seersucker jacket when you wore a red tie. That cancelled the equation, so to speak. And let's talk about that hat: as I say, it was de rigeur until the mid-sixties, and the straw fedora is yet another of those things that separate the Southerner from the Yankee. A Yankee would wear a porkpie hat, signalling his aspiration to the career of cabdriver, or at best a snapbrim hat. I posit a hat, if worn at all, should have a nice wide brim, for surreptitiously winking at the ladies, or shielding one's emotions at poker.
A brief aside: did you know that's why Muslims wear the fez? Yes. They are not allowed to shield their eyes from Allah. The Omnipotent One might miss the errant wink. Ataturk took care of that with his Turkmen, though, didn't he? Banned the fez, he did, and made the Turks wear fedoras. Ha ha. That explains why there are still ancient Ottomans who secretly wear womens' panties and the fez at home (something I would have liked to have seen more of at Abu Ghraib).
To sum up, then. I believe the time is right. Although wearing a seersucker suit in the olden days of the suit and tie might have been problematic, it could be just the thing in today's business casual environment. Open-collar shirt, keep the bucks, lose the straw fedora, unless I'm going drinking at the beach. Maybe even some suspenders. Not braces, damn it, those are too Queer Eye for me. I mean red clip-on suspenders, to keep my britches up whilst sitting on a park bench.
I've found a few suits, but not the suit. Brooks Brothers has one I may give a try, but it looks awfully tailored. Perhaps a night on that park bench could fix that. Ashford Lane's looks better, as does Joe Bank's.
At any rate, I have found a new pursuit: I want a damned seersucker suit.