Many thanks to savvy reader Jerry for compressing and cleaning up the Velociboy pic. I'm pretty retarded in these respects. Even my broadband was gagging on that file. Of course, run a Google on "gagging on Velociman's size" and God knows what you'll get, other than sighs, and purrs.
And if you're into schadenfreude, take solace in the fact I'm going to be so fucking divorced over this post.
Sorry. Just practising. The situation will occur, at some point. Best to be prepared.
Just in time for Valentine's Day, gents. The gift that keeps on emulating. And it's only 328 days until Christmas, give or take.
Actually, I like any product that clips the DeBeers bastards' profits, those fiendish Boers.
I would be honored to serve as Acidman's Secretary of State in 2008. My diplomatic skills are formidable, but I see no reason to waste such talents on Eurotrash. I'd rather take my bullwhip to the Continent, and exercise some discipline. Could come in handy corralling those Brazilian delightfuls, too.
Here's a pic of a 16 year old Velociman, straight from the yearbook pages. Flannel shirt? Check. Wallabies? Check. Bellbottoms? Check. Weed? Check (look in shirt pocket). How old is this? I won't say outright, but I believe the Yom Kippur War broke out that day. Funny, too, that my memories of then are just as grainy as the picture.
Here's a nice pic at Rankin' Rob's that sums up what today was all about. Iraqis voting. And not with their feet, woodchippers notwithstanding.
The purple paint reference is not only to the voting confirmation, but to the proclivity of moonshiners and dope growers in the Ozarks to paint their fenceposts purple, meaning if you trespass I might kill you.
Someone needs to explain to me again why this Iraq vote is a bad thing.
Mentioning the Chatham Artillery Punch stirred some memories, and I am unabashed about sharing a few. I've spoken of my somersault off the deck, but here is a great story:
Someone, and I won't say who, brought his girlfriend, name of Crazy Alice, to one of my mother's Christmas parties. Now my mother dissected her parties, in that her social circle, the church, came from 7 to 9 or so, then she let us youngsters take over. This debacle was during the 7 to 9 event.
Crazy Alice cornered our current priest, Father S, in the kitchen. Befucked of the Artillery Punch, Alice decided our meek, mild mannered, CPA trained, post-nasal-drip priest was Da Bomb. As you could see from the living room, where everyone was congregated (ha), into the kitchen, where Alice and the Right Reverend were, it was quite the spectacle when Alice launched her tongue into the priest's mouth. And he, having had a few sips o' the Punch, did not rebut the argument.
We stood aghast. Father S's wife stood aghast. Judges and bishops stood aghast. I remember muttering "Bring it on" under my breath, but not so's my mom could hear it. Let's face it. The entire congregation of the church watched this sordid thing unfold. The black girls handling the buffet were covering their eyes, ashamed of this honky scene. The Father was in his collar, after all. Things chilled out when someone yelled "Hey Alice! Throwdown in the bedroom!" Okay. I made that part up. It was more of a collective hanging of the heads, nervous shuffling of the feet. I probably drew attention away with a well-timed fart, or a regurgitation of a chicken drummie. I forget, as I was befucked, too.
Consider this an anecdote, or a warning. The Punch will slay you if you are not of strong character. I've seen the mighty humbled, the insouciant obliterated. No one gets out alive after the Punch, so let us hold cameras, and rumour, in abeyance, if possible.
There's just something Jolsonesque about this picture. I have to put it back up.
I work downtown, so it's going to be a bitch for the next week. Heightened security (have to wear my company ID around my neck on a lanyard, like a fucking pet), my $90 a month parking garage will doubtless be filled up, traffic jams from Philadelphia and New England mutants who don't even shake after pissing.
On the upside, the Patriots' training facility is my daughter's high school, less than a mile down the road. Perfect for privacy, a field carved out of the slash pine out in horse farm country. I think I'll ride my bike over and try to check it out, but I'll probably be stomped by goons with steroid dick, so that's a downside, too. Maybe I'll see Tony Kornholer, though, and I can stomp him. Damned pindick.
I cannot believe what Best Buy just did to me. I returned the bum scanner, and the girl told me she'd have to charge me because I had forgotten the power cord. Fair enough. Just credit me when I drop it off. But then she pulled the power cord out of the Epson I was purchasing as a replacement, and put it with the old scanner. She was holding part of the new scanner hostage.
"Bitch? What the fuck are you doing?" (I was not in a nurturing mode). She said I could get the power cord to the new scanner when I returned the cord for the old one.
"Wait," I said. "These are two separate transactions. A return, and a purchase. You can charge me for the old cord, but you can't hold the new cord hostage. Doesn't work that way." That's the way it is, she said.
I went ballistic. Told her precisely what I thought of her chunkrolled ass and her company. Used the dreaded C word in the process, I'm afraid. She won the battle, of course, and I had to make another trip to Orange Park to retrieve my new cord.
I'll win the war, though. After scanning some pics I'm returning the Epson. I'll buy a new one at Circuit City. Then I'm going to buy $2,000 worth of merchandise from the three Best Buys around town, and irrevocably damage it all before returning it. I'll also never buy another damned thing from Best Buy, except for the $20 gift certificate that came with the Epson. I bought Taxi Driver when I fetched my cord, and I may just get a Mohawk to put me in proper temper before executing my revenge. Fucking assholes. The Velocicustomer is always right! I think I can get that fat bitch fired, too.
Catfish clarifies the burning issue of our time.
I usually don't eat cereal due to my lactose intolerance, but I craved a bowl today. Imagine my surprise when my Alpha-Bits most distinctly formed a message to speak to the Weimaraner across the street. It seems there is an issue with the mayor, and the cabal needs a "go to" guy handy with weapons.
I'm girded for battle. Posting may be light.
Iraqis are voting today for the first time in over 50 years, if you discount the Saddam or Bullet to the Brain votes of yesteryear. There will be violence, cowardly acts of aggression. But over 8 million Iraqis will cast a ballot to elect a constitutional assembly today.
Someone needs to explain to me again why this is a bad thing.
Iffen I can do an "On Dylan" I can do an "On Faulkner". Here's the deal: Sanctuary. Billy wrote that for filthy lucre. No problem there. But to write in the 1930's about a sorority girl who gets compromised, and takes the pistol up the puss, well that's balls. Must have chapped Hemingway's butt, I figure. With his "darlings" and all. Bill Faulkner rocks.
You either love him or hate him. I love Bobby, personally.
Lookit: Bob put out Masters of War in 1963. Two years before Gulf of Tonkin. Pissed off the folkies at Newport when he went electric. Subjugated his Jewishness when he picked up the Jesus mantle in the '70's. Made the misguided attempt at championing Hurricane Carter. Bob Dylan kicks ass, though. I've seen him over the years, and he puts on a great show, every time. Bob rocks.
In 1968 MGM re-released a reformulated, cleaned up version of Gone With the Wind. 30th anniversary, and all that. They had a premiere at Loews' Grand in Atlanta, and the Senator took us. Wonderful movie, that, but I can remember having to piss when I thought it was over, but it was only the intermission. Long movie.
The next day the Senator took us to Stone Mountain to see The Gods etched in the mountainside, just finally completed and marketed. I do not recall seeing many nigras there, oddly enough. Go figure.
We took the backroads to Atlanta those days, by Junior's Supper Club, and the Goat Man, hewing his trade, if he really had one. I recall going back through Athens for some reason, and down state road 15, past the Iron Horse, and Rock Eagle on what is now 441. Why? No idea. Dad probably had a client along the roadside. Or a mistress. Blare of the horn, baby. Catch you on the upside. That was my dad.
I lost power to the Velocihovel, therefore I took a power nap. Just like kindergarten, except I didn't get to look up Miss Margaret's skirt, thank God. That sight always scared me. Looked like a badger bursting at the seams.
Who's the best writer in Blogdom?
You're reading him.
I bought a scanner today at Best Buy, so I could memorialize some old photos. No big, right? Wrong. Number One, Best Buy sucks in the customer service venue. Number Two, HP sucks mule dicks. I attempted to download the software to this scanner, only to hit the wall at 98% completion. New computer, running XP. Shouldn't happen. But I hit the wall. Now I can't uninstall what downloaded, or reinstall the software. Fucking hell.
Another trip over the river tomorrow to return this horseshit product. It's fucked up, I tell you. Fucked up product. I found an old HP calculator in my chiffonier, and smashed it. Fuck HP. To hell. I'm upset.
Brilliance, or Madness? I think I shall prepare a batch of Chatham Artillery Punch for the Wreckyll in Jekyll. I have no qualms with corn squeeze. Hell, moonshine makes da world go round, but we are supposed to be Respectables at Jekyll, at least until check-in. So I'll bring some Episcopalian Moonshine. Maybe only a mudbucket's worth. It DOES take six weeks minimum to make, so you have to make it in sizeable quantities. Cheer me on. Mom's recipe. Two hundred years of goodness. Yar.
UPDATE: Here is a half-assed recipe for the Punch, to give you an idea. Mine is a bit more involved, shall we say:
- 1 1/2 gallons catawba wine
- 1/2 gallon rum
- 1 quart gin
- 1 quart brandy
- 1/2 pint Benedictine
- 2 quarts Maraschino cherries
- 1 1/2 quarts rye whiskey
- 1 1/2 gallons strong tea
- 2 1/2 pounds brown sugar
- 1 1/2 quarts orange juice
- 1 1/2 quarts lemon juice
Mix from 36 to 48 hours before serving. Add one case of champagne when ready to serve.
A few days after my second birthday I was left, shall we say? unattended in the backyard. Just for a moment. That is all it takes for a boy to find mischief. My father had been doing work on the roof, and had left a ladder against the side of the house.
When my mother, nine months plus pregnant with my brother, went to retrieve me, I had scaled that ladder, and was perched upon the rooftop, straddling the spine, surveying my nascent kingdom. When Mom climbed the ladder in all her suffering pain to coax me down I complied. I was about six feet over from the ladder, however, and so I was sliding down on a path that would drop me straight off the roof.
After mastering her hysteria my mother managed to get me to shinny over to her, sideways instead of downward. She grabbed me scant inches from a plummeting death, or spinal cord injury.
I remember none of this, of course. My first memory is of the electrical socket and bobby pin mating soon afterwards. But the story was legend in the homestead, and so it is ingrained in my mind. So much so that I have it completely memorized without recollection. I imagine it not as it was, but as I institutionalized it.
Nonetheless, I like to think that for one brief, shining moment as a snot-nosed two-year-old, I was King of the Fucking World.
F words I never use:
F words I use:
Flaccid (only with the qualifier "never been")
Hopefully this clears things up.
I'm not much of a quiz taker. But since it is all the rage, the farging marathon dancing of the pixelated age, and since even the belovedly besotted Jim of Parkway Rest Stop took it, I deigned. It told me:
You are a WECL--Wacky Emotional Constructive Leader. This makes you a People`s Advocate.
You are passionate about your causes, with a good heart and good endeavors. Your personal fire is contagious, and others wish they could be as dedicated to their beliefs as you are.
Your dedication may cause you to miss the boat on life's more slight and trivial activities. You will feel no loss when skipping some inane mixer, but it can be frustrating to others to whom such things are important. While you find it difficult to see other points of view, it may be useful to act as if you do, and play along once in a while.
In any event, you have buckets of charisma and a natural skill for making people open up. Your greatest asset is an ability to make progress while keeping the peace.
Of the 82777 people who have taken this quiz since tracking began (8/17/2004), 6.1 % are this type.
I bought the rose wristlet and the red feather boa. As a gift for some benighted soul at Jekyll.
H/T Mr. Helpful
I generally don't like lists, for the same reason I don't like clubs. I'm not a joiner by nature, although I have been known to conjoin in nature, but that is different entirely. I also don't like quizzes, unless they are along the line of Guess my Girth?
But I have been called out. And so I will give this a whirl:
Ry Cooder/Manuel Galban - Mambo Sinuendo
Oxford American 2003 Southern Music CD No. 6
Putumayo World Music - Euro Lounge
Gang of Four - A Brief History of the Twentieth Century
The Verve Pipe - Villains
Bob Dylan - Time Out Of Mind
Diana Krall - The Look of Love (hey! it's my list)
The Clash - London Calling
Drive by Truckers - The Dirty South
Charles Mingus - The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady
1. What is the total amount of music files on your computer?
I'm one of those bizarre people who actually uses the fucking DVD drive on their computer! Oh. The laptop. Maybe 25 CD's there. I'm pretty lazy.
2. The last CD you bought is:
U2 - How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb
3. What is the song you last listened to before this message?
"O Death" - Ralph Stanley
4. Five songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you.
Come Together - The Beatles
The Right Profile - The Clash
Wild Thing - Jimi Hendrix
Little Green Bag - The George Baker Selection
Zooropa - U2
Pictures of Matchstick Men - The Status Quo
When I want something to be meaningful, I go really old school. Plato era.
5. Who are you gonna pass this stick to (five persons and why)?
Most everyone I would pass this on to have already been stuck. So I suppose I will pick five random Blanche Dubois's from my Red Hatter comments.
It happened again today. What is becoming a disturbingly common occurrence. I'm standing outside having a butt, minding my own, and a man walks by and says "Remember William Holden?!?"
"Yeah", I say.
"That's who you look like!" he barks, and moves on
What the hell is going on here, with strangers telling me who I look like? Where do they get the fucking nerve? I don't look anything like William Holden, which makes it more disturbing.
Now, I liked old Bill as much as the next person (he popped Audrey Hepburn twicet in the movies, after all), and when I go I wouldn't mind it tumbling down the staircase while slagged, tumbler of whiskey in my hand, but that is beside the point. Is this some Red Hatter plot to drive me insane? First I'm Al Gore, then Bob Graham, hell, everyone knows I look like Sting.
I believe I suffer from a bad case of Accessibility. I must need acting lessons. The stern visage I imagine I am exuding, the one that silently says "Back off, screwhead. Keep moving" is apparently in reality a mien that says "Blowjobs! Get yer blowjobs heah!"
Maybe I'll just smoke in the front of the building.
Intrepid reader Mark writes, in regard to an earlier post on Jimmy Carter:
What a cruel, vile and uneducated message. Instead of celebrating Mr. Carter's accomplishiments, you downgrade him... while praising the cowards that are Bush and Reagan.
The record speaks for itself. Could Mr. Reagan (conserve-a-coward #1) EVER have brokered the Camp David accords? No. Next you'll be telling me how this weak, idiotic fool won the cold war.
At least I'm confident that you really don't believe your own lies. You know the truth.
Why do you so hate America?
I am the Number One Google search response to "Frito Bandito". Eat your hearts out, Intrepids. I didn't ask for this honorific.
I thought Rankin' Rob was going to put pixel to grease on the Drive By Trucker review, but I can understand his truncated thoughts. We all exist on a quivering layer of Varsity chili anyhow, and just keeping one's balance is a triumph. At any rate, his review was better than mine, because he saw the entire show.
And that is a testament to the Old Timer I have become. Used to be I had to be blowing from both ends before I cried uncle. Now a mere trip to the vomitorium disables me. Age. Remorseless age. We hates it.
A day trip to Nashville tomorrow, because my traveling companion is not worthy of an overnighter with me. He does not rise to the level of binge drinks with Velociman.
I leave for the airport at 6 AM, I will park in my garage about midnight (actually, my inner Rainman says 11:53, but that is still 25.5 hours away. I shouldn't get too cocky). A long day, regardless.
It's too bad. Eric turned me on to a bar in Nashville that allows one to purchase personalized beer mugs with one's name etched upon them, which they hang upon the wall until you arrive and request it. I so wanted to get Straight White Guy and Velociman mugs to hang on the wall for our eventual return. Not to worry, though. I can manage to fuck this meeting up just a little bit. Just enough for a return visit in a month without that carbunkle of a traveling companion. Then I can drink in peace.
Since the sincere but adolescent Americans are dismantling those rape rooms in Iraq, The Edge and I were pondering: how does one build a rape room? Is there a bed in there? Handcuffs? A nice waterbowl of fine Irish porcelain to clean oneself up after an Uday anal stint? Bishop Tutu won't return my calls on the issue.
The brilliant Martin Sheen once said the only two good things America ever produced were jazz and Alcoholics Anonymous. I agree with the white-knuckled drunk entirely, except I substitute Elvis and the Reverend King.
Back to those rape rooms: toilet paper?
Spike watched the volleyball girls spike the ball on the Spike Channel while hefting the railroad spike he used as a paperweight, oblivious to the fact his Sitemeter stats had just spiked after a post on spiked watermelon and Ketel One vodka, with Spike Jones on the Ipod and his Spike Lee dartboard showing signs of severe abuse from the dart spikes, and, yes, I should have spiked this post.
The premiere issue of the Red Hat Society Lifestyle magazine. I'll bet the inserts have that good old musty crotch smell to entice you to try that wearing your underwear on the outside thing.
Martha gets locked up for a few months and everybody is a lifestyle expert. Disgusting.
H/t to Liz for the warning.
This is a tapir:
Although tapirs are often mistaken for pigs and anteaters, they're in the odd-toed hooved animal family (perissodactyls), as are the horse and rinocerous. All four species of tapir are endangered. The Malay tapir (shown below) is native to Asia, where its natural enemies are the tiger and man. The largest tapir, the Malay tapir weighs up to 800 pounds. It also has the most dramatic coloration, with black shoulders, head, and legs and a white band around the body. The Mountain, Baird and Brazillian tapirs are native to South America, and all are solid black or black- brown. All baby tapirs have light colored, horizontal, watermelon like stripes, but these disappear by adulthood.
For those of you carrying on a reminescence on my Joe Savage post of September 2003, carry on. I'm enjoying the comment thread almost as much as the Sitemeter stats.
Well, Vick and Company could not stave off a very strong Philadelphia Eagles team today. Which means, regardless of the outcome of the AFC Championship game, two Teams of Northern Aggression will be battling on Super Bowl Sunday on the hallowed soil of
Alltel Stadium the Gator Bowl. Situs of the Georgia-Florida game. Is there no dignity in the Universe? Is there a Cosmic Joker I haven't met? This is akin to William Tecumseh Sherman and Ulysses Grant ass-grappling naked on Scarlett O'Hara's unmentionables.
Or something like that.
What, you say? It was Steve Allen? My bad.
I often ponder the following traffic dilemma, but I don't know how I would react should the situation occur:
You are in the left lane of a four lane highway. Someone pulls out in front of you. If you don't swerve right into the right hand lane you will certainly hit the car that pulled out. Yet, in that split second of decision making, you are unsure if there is a car alongside you in the right lane. Perhaps there is someone just pulled into your blind spot.
Let us suppose traffic is moderate; there is a 50-50 chance there will be someone in the right lane. So do you take the chance and swerve right without having time to look, and risk a wreck with an innocent third party? Or do you figure that third party is indeed innocent, you are screwed anyway, so why not plow into the asshole who caused this in the first place? If there's going to be a wreck, why not make sure the culprit is involved?
Part of me says hit the culprit. Fucker deserves whiplash. The other part of me says that third party that may or may not be in the right lane is no more innocent than you, so why protect them at certain damage to your own vehicle?
I honestly don't know the right answer here. The vengeful half of my brain says cream the culprit, and go easy on the brakes in the process. But I'm sure if the situation arises I will take option B, and bail like a bastard into the right hand lane, and take my chances. Nobody wants to wreck their vehicle, least of all me. And if that third party is there, and, oh, causes a six-car pileup in the process, that's just Fate, right?
And, by the way, that six-car pileup is just a scenario. Could be less, could be worse. You could go from a bad rear-ending of a culprit to a fatality by swerving right without knowing what the hell is over there. Does that further confuse things? Good.
I made the trip from Athens to Fabulous Fruit Cove, Florida in 5 hours 47 minutes. I had estimated definitely estimated 5 hours 50 minutes. I beat my estimate. I definitely beat my estimate. And made it back in time for
Judge Wapner the NFC Championship game, too.
How was the show? I'll let Rankin' Rob review it. I bailed a bit early (1:00 AM) after wretching from the heady aroma of 700 unwashed undergraduates crammed into a hellish steaming mosh pit of space meant for 200. Thank God I hadn't been drinking. That would have been a waste. I'm always tempted to reprocess precious booze vomit. Only my own, though, with my own Brita filter. And as it was 25 degrees outside, everytime I stepped out for fresh air it merely froze the sputum stringers to my chin in a kind of frigid gatrointestinal Fu Manchu. Most unsightly.
I believe the Usual Reprobates are locked and loaded, and I still have 4 or 5 suites for the Wreckyll in Jekyll April 15-16. Fancy that. Here are some people in striking distance I would like to see show up before I release these rooms on the 15th of March:
Steve H from Hog On Ice
Andrea Harris from Wherever She is Now
Joe from Attaboy
Ace. Well, not sure where he is, but the point obtains. He is always welcome.
Bill from INDC Journal (take the Silver Meteor, Bill).
Pamela Anderson. I do air fare. I don't do hepatitis shots, however.
I do believe that covers it.
I'm driving to Athens tomorrow morning to meet Jack Straw and Rankin' Rob for a Drive By Truckers concert at the 40 Watt Club. Posting will be as spotty as, well, fill in the blank. Everything I come up with is FBI material.
I do know my hotel has high speed internet, but I doubt I will have high speed brainpan.
Sunday night, then, Intrepids. Perhaps with pictures.
I recall putting up a post about Jim Cantore a little while back, 'cause I like Jim. Received the following e-mail today:
Thank you for all you do. I live in NC. I love the weather, and you are my favorite meteorologist. I named my fish after you! His name is Jim, but we call him Jimmy. What colleges are good for studying weather? Have a great day!
The World's Largest Red Hat is Being Constructed...
The current corporate currency runs thus, and these things are invariably anecdotal:
I mentioned the corporate sponsorship we ponied up for the Super Bowel, the 200 tickets, the egregious shining of Velociman in distribution thereof, right? Well, in addition to the seats for customers in the Bud Zone we also have the corporate box. This is reserved for politicos, and such. There are only 25 seats in the box, and with the 14 slaves in livery serving pâté de foie gras it's a little too cramped for the run of the mill customer.
And yet I am told on good authority the NFL called, and asked if the Craven Corporate Entity would find a place for Leonardo DiCaprio in the box. What the everloving fuck? Don't they know that Leo, the eminence grise of the Polesmoking Set, travels with a party posse of at least six? I only travel with two: my dealer and my attorney.
Apparently the Entity agreed, and so they called back a day later and asked to place Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie in the clubhouse as well. The Craven Entity said No. The girls are too controversial. Wouldn't want to see a state senator getting blown on Super Bowl Sunday, eh?
And that is precisely why I should be running this operation. DiCaprio? Out. Fuck 'im. Paris and Nicole? Certainly. Scrub them down with lye, toss a little delousing powder on them, you have a decent party. They would make excellent naked footstools. Unfortunately, the Board of Directors refuses to return my urgent calls. Despite the fact that as a shareholder I'm just trying to get jiggy with the stock price. Leo ain't gonna get it done.
Have you ever been tired of chatting people up at a funeral parlor viewing, so you walk down the hall, and see who else is there? I mean walk into another viewing room, with no one inside but the poor open-casketed deceased. I do that from time to time. Walk up and have a peek. See what they look like. Hope they are elderly, not taken before their time.
I did that a couple of years ago, and looked at the name, then looked at the departed, and realized I knew her. She lived down the street when I was a child. She was old now (or had been), wizened. I had not seen her for 35 years.
I must confess that was a damned curious sensation.
The setting: lunch with customers today. The venue is Juliette's in the Omni. Passable enough, and quiet enough to talk without shouting. In a corner, too.
Now imagine my consternation as the waiters shoved six tables together right next to us, and 30 Red Hatters walked in. Having a grand old time. They thought they were, I believe the expression is, the bee's knees. Yap. Yap. Yap. Fucking yap.
I tried to get my customer interested in the one with the ginblossoms, and the burst leg veins. No dice.
They vex me, these creatures. They ruined my repast.
Did everyone enjoy their Acidbath today? It cleans and exfoliates, you know.
And before you ask, the Senator called slot machines roscoe machines. I have no fucking idea why. Not because they are bionic, I suppose.
A very close friend, whom I shall call "N" for reasons of anonymity, and fear of the dread ass-whup, had a fair bad second senior year at Georgia. Due to financial setbacks large and small he found himself ensconced in an apartment with two freshmen geeks, marching band members of dubious coolity. Now, I am the last person to cast aspersions on the world-reknowned and beloved Redcoat Marching Band, but these kids were geeks of the first order, complete pussies.
One of the boys had the temerity to call his dad and complain that N was continually stoned and drunk, had ample quantities of narcotics about the place, and tended to wave a 32-20 pistol in their faces after drinking binges. Not unusual for Athens, but the boys made an issue of it, and so the dad came for a weekend visit to ascertain the risk his cherubic, chubby son was indeed exposed to.
N was nothing if not honest, and admitted to abuse of the hashish, and spree drinking, and the occasional deployment of handguns, because this was Athens, man, and rogue elements were about. He then left with his girlfriend to partake of the aforementioned spree drinking.
The boy's dad was not entirely convinced of N's philanthropic nature, but N had donated his bedroom for the evening , so the dad went to sleep there half-heartedly convinced his son was not in imminent danger.
Cue forward four hours. N and Co arrive back at the crib, and proceed to engage in animalistic gladiator sex on the fold out sofa. The bedroom doors remain closed, inhabitants quivering under their respective covers.
Cue forward two hours. N arises, and urinates in the bathroom. Befuddled, though, he forgets he is staying on the sofa, and staggers into his bedroom and climbs, naked, under the covers. There is a warm body there, and he spoons against it. He presses his pee boner into the small of the sleeper's back. Ah, yes. Perhaps one more go and I can bust that nut...
Cue forward two minutes. N arouses, and sees, standing in the doorway, a perplexed and frightened man, with a small blanket clutched to his chest in a decidedly defensive posture. The man's eyes are wide in fear and discomfiture. He retreats, and is never seen again. At least by N.
Second senior years are often better than first senior years, just for these anecdotal moments. Or so I am told.
It appears my stealth campaign to spike my rankings in Red Hat Society Googling are for naught. I have dropped from 63rd to 74th. I'll never get the hate mail I need at this rate. I shall retain it as an homage to Jeff, at any rate. Ya'll did get that, right?
HE: Oh, you're on the computer again. Whatcha doin'?
HE: Blobbing? Huh. Lookee there on the TV. See those monster trucks? I love them monster trucks. That's that Grave Digger fella. I love them monster trucks. I always take Billy and the boys when they come to the Civic Center. They love them monster trucks. The louder it gets the better they like it. Billy says those boys will stay up all night after seeing them monster trucks. You ever seen them? You get down there after the show, those are some pretty trucks. They had the dragracing on a little while ago. You don't mind if I watch in here, do you? You were at work and I just like to watch this stuff in here. Did you know those dragracing clutches have five clutch discs and three pressure plates and centrifugal brakes? They have five clutch discs and three pressure plates and centrifugal brakes. That's cause they need so much torque. Do you mind if I watch in here? Those discs will slip a little bit before they catch, then he just hit 325 in the quarter mile. You ever seen those monster trucks? I love them monster trucks. We should go to the qualifying rounds at Daytona. I went there last year with Billy. I'd like to take the boys this year. They sure love those monster trucks. I think they'd like those qualifying races. When I was in high school they still raced on the beach. Then when I got married the first car I had was a '55 Ford. A '55 Ford. It was a '55 Ford. I just like racing. I love them monster trucks. Those are some pretty trucks. We always go down in the pit after the race and they'll let you see them up close. There's that Grave Digger again. He fell over. Lookee there. He fell over. Whatcha say you were doing? Blobbing?
ME: Well, I was.
Nota Bene: The above was transcribed from microcassette, for the unbelievers.
When I was a child my father added a den onto our house. My grandfather owned a laundry and dairy supply company on Indian Street, and my father got one of the drivers, Freddie, to moonlight delivering building materials to the house. At least I think he was moonlighting. Seems to me he was delivering supplies during the old 9 to 5, with my grandfather none the wiser.
At any rate, Freddie's company truck had an elevator lift gate on the back, so after the supplies were unloaded we would stand on the lift and cry "Up, Freddie!" When he had the lift at bed level we would cry "Down, Freddie!" This would go on for hours if we didn't lose our concentration to the errant butterfly.
I've often felt bad about that, and figured that kind, gentle black man probably wanted to strangle us little blackguards. And then today it hit me: Shit! Freddie didn't care. He was on the clock. Up Freddie beat the hell out of unloading tons of laundry and dairy supplies. And given my workaday of late I could fucking groove on a few days of eight hours of "Up, Velociman! Down, Velociman!" I could handle that shit with ease.
Don't forget to go visit The American Street and vote for me for the Don Drysdale Award (best right of center blog) in the Perranoski Prizes.
I didn't get enough of an ass-whupping in that last contest to beat the starch out of me, so I'm back for more.
h/t for the nommy: Rogue Planet
How to Shit in the Woods: An Environmentally Sound Approach to a Lost Art. By Kathleen Meyer.
Customers who bought this book at Amazon also bought:
Up Shit Creek: A Collection of Horrifyingly True Wilderness Toilet Misadventures
How to Die in the Outdoors: 100 Interesting Ways
The Original Road Kill Cookbook
Who Cut the Cheese: A Cultural History of the Fart
History of Shit
I'm all for sticking with a theme, but a lttle diversity in reading material can be a good thing.
How did I run across this book? Well, I'm number 9 on Google for How to Shit in the Woods. That's how.
Anyone interested in joining Velociman for the Daytona 500? Or the qualifiers? Rob? I am interested in attending a sporting event where the ambient smell approximates my skid-marked boxers. Just a thought.
Pursuant to the previous post, and now that I have something to write about, I lament the loss of accents around the country. I also hate the abuse of same. I fulminate like a right cross bastard when I see some actor or actress attempt a Southern accent and screw it up, as they always do. Unless they are from the South, like Holly Hunter, and go overboard in the other direction, like an idiot. Like Holly Hunter. Brits seem to do the best Southern accents. It is equally depressing to see someone attempt various New England accents.
There are probably 25 different accents in Georgia alone. The nasally, piney accent of North Georgia has more in common with Tennessee than the too lazy to pronounce it drawl of south Georgia. Savannahians are just as guilty of the postvocalic dropped "r" as Charlestonians. Not so in Columbus, or Ellijay. Savannahians actually diphtong the "r" at times. My mother-in-law says "boid" for "bird". Of course, she also says "horness" for "harness". She is a Geechee.
Have you ever heard someone from Mobile say praline, or okra? I thought I was in a foreign country. I won't even go down the Cajun path. I just hope to catch every other word.
The issue, though, is that all of these regional dialects and nuances are vanishing. There are legions of linguists and anthropologists who bemoan the extinction of the Yanomami language, or the odd rare Bantu dialect, that don't give two whoops in hell that regional dialect is disappearing in America. They don't care that every girl from Smut Eye, Alabama to Enid, Oklahoma sounds like Malibu Beach Barbie. I hear the same complaint from my friends in Rhode Island and Chicago. My kids don't sound like me! I'm accused, myself, of sounding like a New Yorker, although I think I sound like Fred Gwynn in My Cousin Vinnie. Not that I aspire to that phonal model.
The point, and I do have one: I love accent and dialect. From Baton Rouge to Green Bay to Worcester to Roanoke I savor and relish the idiosyncrasies of the American idiom. I don't look forward to a world where we all sound like Tom Brokaw. But it is inevitable. As an act of defiance I am taking up Yanomami lessons. Just for cocktail party banter.
I wasn't going to voice an opinion on whether Texas is Southern, or not. It seems to me, however, that they killed Yankees, so that would qualify them as Southerners, at least insofar as prisoner-of-war status is concerned. My take is, like our cousins in Louisiana, the Southern heritage is a big tent, meaning we have all types of eccentrics to fess up to.
I would also like to say that barbecue is not a verb, whatever the meat stock, and grown men boot-scootin' and line dancin' is too fucking surreal for me. There's a word for that kind of behavior where I come from.
h/t Protein Wisdom
I'm back in full-caps mode on the titles. I don't know why. It just looks cleaner, I suppose.
At any rate, flynny speaks of Spanish Fly, and I have been wanting to go down that path generally for a while; however it turns out she was only referencing a Moxie post. Och. I was prepared to discuss homeboy aphrodisiacs, and the sickening urban legends that arise thereof. Perhaps tomorrow; I can share a few stories on cigarette ash in Pepsi bottles, gearshift sluts gone mad, and all of those insane themes I was raised upon.
My "boss" needs some serious brown-nosing points with the CEO, therefore when the CEO suggested we should all volunteer to pick up trash around downtown on Saturday, the 22nd, in anticipation of the Super Bowel, as part of a corporate 100-person team, my "boss" got a chubby. "You REALLY need to participate, Velociman!" says he.
I said "I'll be driving to Athens to see the Drive By Truckers, dude. I will be in a hurry, too, as I don't drink and drive, yet I work up a powerful thirst by 5 PM. I do believe we have a criss-cross of the minds going on here. Would it make you feel better iffen I threw some garbage out the car window to justify your trash-picking existence?"
Oh, I am a silver-tongued devil. I can't believe I'm not Chairman of the Board yet. Actually, I cannot believe they haven't fired me. I must exude wrongful termination suit pheremones, or something.
It appears we may lose our aircraft carrier, the JFK, in the next round of base closings/downsizings. The Jack is one of only two non-nuclear powered carriers in the naval arsenal, and is an oldster, being built in '68, I believe.
The economic impact to Mayport specifically, and Jacksonville in general, would be severe. It would also leave us with Norfolk as the only major naval base on the east coast, Charleston having been right-sized a few years back.
Hope springs eternal, however. Jeb Bush called his brother and played the nepotism card, and the President responded by visiting today, and offering reassurances on the Jack.
My first experience with the Jack was when I was in Damage Control/Firefighting school at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyards in 1976. There was a vessel moored there, the USS Belknap, that had been rammed by the Jack in the Ionian Sea the year before. For reasons of weight, and cost, they'd built the superstructure of the Belknap with magnesium, a highly combustible metal. The resultant fire killed seven crew members and injured 47. That ship was a melted wreck. They later fixed it and recommissioned it. But it was fucked up when I saw it.
When I was 12 years old I was fascinated with submarines. Read everything I could get my hands on. The clunky, dangerous WWI boats with the lethal chlorine batteries, the U-boat wolfpacks, the Japanese mini-subs from WWII. The Hunley. The Squalus. The Thresher. Sunk, all.
On my thirteenth birthday I resolved to build my own submarine. It would be a modest affair, built of caulked plywood, with what I considered to be a rather ingenious submersion system involving styrofoam batts I would cull from an old floating dock. The batts would be under the sub while at surface level, then after ejecting them via a levering system they would float on the surface, and the attached ropes would allow the submarine to cruise submerged at a depth of four feet.
My engineering skills were limited, but I perservered. I worked for two months in the summer building Seaview II, and was proud of my efforts. The propulsion system consisted of strips of old inner tube, just like one of those wind up balsa airplanes, only on a grander scale. There was a viewing window, unlike those ridiculous blind Navy submarines. Captain Nemo would have been proud.
The plan was to launch Seaview II off our floating dock on the May River in Bluffton. The currents were pretty swift, but I would have a fifty foot length of rope attached as a lifeline should things go awry. I also knew this thing would leak, and pretty vigorously, too, as the gasket work and fittings were of woeful construction and design. I only planned a five or ten minute shakedown cruise, however, and would fix the more egregious leaks. That is the purpose of a shakedown cruise.
On launch day I cracked a bottle of Dr. Pepper on the nose, causing considerable damage, but not enough to abort the mission. I dragged her down to the river's edge, and swam with it out to the floating dock, where I lashed it to the edge, ready for my maiden voyage.
As I cast the mooring line and prepared to scamper through the hatch (a piece of plywood attached with some cabinet hinges) I felt a foreboding presence behind me, and turned to see the Senator with a look of bemusement on his face. "Boy," he said quietly, "what the hell are you doing?"
"I'm about to launch my submarine, Dad," I said.
"Boy," said he, "do you notice anything unusual about your submarine?" I turned around, just in time to see Seaview II sink finally, inexorably, below the surface of the river, and sink to the bottom.
"Not enough styrofoam!" I said. "If you help me pull it back up I'll fix that in no time. It just wasn't enough styrofoam."
"Leave it be, son," he said. "And boy? Don't be building anymore goddam submarines."
It was one of the lengthier conversations we had ever had, and in deference to that fact I never built another submarine. Although to this day I am positive I just didn't use enough styrofoam.
Rugby songs are great, aren't they? But I have no desire to participate at this point in my life.
I spent the first two years of college rowing crew, and loved the sport, but I hated vomiting after every race, especially when you'd lost to Yale, those effete pricks. So I figured if I was going to vomit during a sporting event it would be because we'd tapped the keg before the game. Enter rugby.
I am not a great athlete. Nor was I ever. I weighed in at 186 today, at six two, but I am down from my Barbecue Weight of 217, which I peaked at in Memphis.
I graduated from college at 155, with a 28 inch waist. But I was a terrible athlete. At that build one should be swift. I was not. But I could catch, and I could cheap shot. Nice qualities in rugby. But the others guys could cheap shot harder than me. I love rugby, but it takes a person that not only enjoys inflicting pain, but enjoys receiving it. I don't like pain that way.
Sports to me today is a 20 mile stroll on my bicycle. The only adversaries are wind resistance, and lack of lung power. You can add lack of leg muscle, lactic acid, and chasing Rottweilers to that mix if you wish.
I believe I shall race myself Saturday. Twenty miles in one hour, 2 minutes. I will probably lose.
Enough with the ass rockets. If I'm going to be Not Work Safe I would rather it be for something entirely different. If you really want them I'll e-mail them to you.
My sales brethren and I have a battle cry when we go out. That is One and Done, meaning, of course, that this is the last drink for the night. The problem, of course, is that there are on average five One and Dones on a given night. Three One and Dones is minimalist stuff.
I have taken to crying One and Done when crossing the threshold on entrance of late. The reason I mention this is I drove 500 miles yesterday, got four hours sleep, was up at 4:45 and in the office at 6:15, and I'm on my third One and Done. Perhaps I should change the hail to Rum and Dumb.
Here's what I did today without input or permission from anyone:
I booked 17 oceanfront suites at the Days Inn, Jekyll Island for $150/night for the 15th and 16th of April. There are also 5 island view rooms available for $79. It's hard to find that many rooms with decent accommodations who also exhibit a bit of, ah, tolerance. The number is 888-635-3003. Ask for Vickie in group reservations.
Lookit: this is important: this block of rooms is being held in the name of the Georgia Writers Workshop. We are on a retreat. Do not use the term "Wreckyll in Jekyll". They seemed to get very nervous when I used that phrase.
A few other items:
They do not have a shooting range. Don't ask.
They dislike the comment "Might cut each other up a bit."
They do not allow pets. If you want to step in dogshit the Clarion Buccaneer next door is for you. Human excrement is apparently okay, though. At least she didn't say it wasn't.
Vickie has kindly reserved a conference room gratis for our "breakout sessions". Do not use the term "breakdown sessions".
One final thing: these rooms are being held temporarily, but they are not reserved under my credit card. I believe you know my feelings on this matter. I would suggest you contact Vickie directly as soon as possible and stake your claim.
If anyone is coming from a distance and feels like coming in Thursday, I will put you up Thursday night and show you Jacksonville, or St. Augustine, or whatever. I will not wash your clothes. I will buy you a drink.
I believe that is all.
I drove to Charleston for a meeting today. As it is 250-odd miles, that is certainly an overnighter. Stay at the Lodge Alley Inn, sip some martinis at Henry's so the College of Charleston girls can say I wish that old guy would leave. He gives me the creeps. Dine well. But my "boss", aware of this trip, decided he wanted me to attend a 6:30 am meeting of a committee he's on tomorrow. I'd already researched and prepared the presentation for him, now he wanted me to give the presentation as well, as he is an idiot and a coward, and was scared someone would ask him a question he couldn't answer (hint: pick a fucking question, mate! Any question. This fucknugget can't answer it). And I know, I know. What kind of nipple schedules a meeting at 6:30 of the am? Well, I'm pointing at him.
And so I had to drive back today. Now, I have this thing I do when I drive to pass the time. I calculate ETA's. Not just generally, but to the minute. So I picked the time I would cross the SC/GA state line, the time I would cross the GA/FL state line, and the time I would pull into the driveway. I crossed into Georgia at the exact minute I had calculated (I'm very good at this). I crossed into Florida one minute after I had predicted (fast food wankers in Darien crossed me up. Didn't calculate the time it would take them to spit on my food. That's my bad). I pulled into the driveway three minutes earlier than my original Chucktown prediction (no, I didn't drive around the block to make the time exact).
So, Mr. Helpful, my question: is this a sign of OCD, or anal-retentiveness, or something more sinister? I don't think it's autism, but does it rise to the level of Drizzleman, if not Rainman? Or is it, as I suspect, merely a divertissement, a way to amuse myself on a boring drive?
I anxiously await your reply.
Acidman has been fucking with me of late, meaning he must be feeling his solitary little oat. So I thought I'd share a pic his hoor sent me from Costa Rica:
Pitiful, ain't it?
There is so much else going on in this post I cannot begin to describe, but the fact that someone would enjoy an entire year of their life because their age was Richard Petty's number is, well, stunning. And a testament to Red State America.
At risk of offending regular readers, I must ask: what is the big about Vin Diesel?
He's just stealing the deal on my main man Joe Savage, who's had this gig locked up for thirty years, and has musical talent to boot:
Of course, there's always a joker in the crowd, eh, Schlitzie?
Check this out:
Now, this is a picture of Anna Nicole Smith which I've posted before, but I cropped it a bit to focus on her clavicles. Look at them. Jumping Jeebus. They're like monkey bars!
I must confess the clavicle is the most sensual part of a woman's body to me. They are the yardarms that accentuate the bluff lines of the feminine vessel. The skeletal equivalent of the distaff perfect storm. All comes together at the neckline, anyway, correct? The clavicles are the gateway to the heart, and the mind, at once. Beautiful.
The dimples, the little puddles, that rest atop the collarbones are the reservoir of all that is sexy, graceful, lithe, and lissome in a woman, to me.
Aye, clavs are the best. Some women get disconcerted when they know I'm not making eye contact, but I'm not exactly ogling their breasts, either. What is he looking at?
Now you know. The perfect storm.
UPDATE: To my
Intrepids Morons: this is NOT a post about Anna Nicole Smith. This is a post about clavicles. I merely used an available pic to illustrate the concept, as time is money, and three hours would not have found a better example. If you insist on discussing Anna, I suggest you go to Key Issues, who apparently has a fabulous ANS thread going if you have the proper password. She also has a quite fetching picture of clavs on her homepage.
That is all, to paraphrase.
I have found, in my single days of course, that the expression
"Hey, baby! How'd you like to suck the snotty end of my fuckstick?"
gets you absolutely nowhere. Unless you are in a tranny bar. At which point you will get totally laid.
Acidman is worth $1,610,234.91 in this quiz. I am worth $2,741,964.09. I believe he has just been punked.
I'm sure I would have been more expensive if they had thought to add a girth question in addition to the length question.
I really should stop these Denial of Service attacks, but they bump me up momentarily in the Ecosystem.
It's a hell of a thing when you have to mow the grass in January, and turn on the air conditioning. I like a little nip in the air. I'm thinking of getting a parasol to protect myself from the vicious rays of mighty Helios. What do you think of this one?
Ever seen Andy Griffith as Lonesome Rhodes in A Face In The Crowd? If not, you ain't lived, Intrepids.
I don't have many friends. That is a fact. As a result of transfer, relocation, quittings, and my own sense of unbridled self-entitlement I tend to either lose friends or chase them away. I do consider Michele to be one of my great friends, however. She has the proper mixture of compassion, intellect, attitude, and fervor that makes for a great human being. Go read this post and see if you do not agree.
Fortunately Flynny will be attending the Jekyll Wreckyll. A great opportunity to meet a great person. She is, as they said in Freaks, One Of Us.
I've had the same job for 14 years, and have had the same career for 21, but I've also held any number of occupations during my lifetime. I believe I shall recap the various hats I have worn, student being excluded, of course. And this goes back to high school:
Drug dealer (okay, that was an avocation)
Electrical supply salesman
Mutual funds broker
Trucking company manager
Real estate agent
That's pretty eclectic. It's also pretty fucked up. And I didn't even mention the six weeks I spent selling vacuum cleaners. I've seen the down side of the working world, for sure. I've also seen the downside of having seven years of college, and not being able to capitalize on it. But that's the way life is. I'm not groovy about my current situation, but it will change. The money is great, and asshole VP's flame out pretty quickly. Tomorrow has great promise. In the grand scheme of things, I am master of my proverbial domain.
You know what I hate about Google? Their unholy alliance with retailers and middlemen. I find it positively bullshit that when I do a search the number two hit is Shop for Hiroshima body count at Monstermarketplace. And the number three hit is Find Hiroshima body count at Ebay!
Those whores. Those rich, rich whores.
I used to get the occasional ship fixture, or charter, for a sugar ship. This is a bulk cargo vessel with huge holds full of raw, unrefined sugar. They would dock at the Dixie Crystals sugar refinery in Port Wentworth and unload tons of this stuff for refining. Raw sugar is a disgusting, smelly product. It is golden brown, rather oily, and clumps easily. It is a bastard to scoop out of a hold with a bucket crane, and it smells like unholy hell. Buzzards don't puke a fouler thing.
Honeybees love unrefined sugar. If you are apiphobic you'll have a problem with a sugar ship. From the time you near the pier until you get back in your car you will be swarmed with bees. Covered, like those geeks on television. It's a damned strange thing to sit with a captain and discuss sailing times when both of you have about two hundred bees crawling all over you. In your hair, in your shirt pockets, up your asscrack, almost. They are mellow, though, because they are sated, engorged, with unrefined sugar. Their attitude is like mine, post-coital. They don't give a fuck, because they just gave one.
It takes some getting used to, though. I would often walk into my house and have a few fly out of my jacket. That is unnerving.
Sugar ships. You know you've arrived when you don't have to cover one anymore.
Rankin' Rob has a nice post up about seminal rockers Gang of Four. Nice post, Rob. Now let's hear the rest of the story. Don't make me post it.
I just tried to turn the chirren onto I Love A Man In A Uniform, fer chrissakes.
Have you ever noticed how, as the cilial hairs of your colon gently urge a defecation ever closer to the evacuation zone, the aroma of your flatulence becomes more and more malodorous and pestilential, to the point of atrocity?
No? Me neither. I personally void rose petals and myrrh. But people have told me stories.
I'm with Neanderpundit on how to handle the pesky Islamist problem.
Also, vis-a-vis his comments on the Japanese in World War II: I often hear the sentiment "Perhaps we should have given them a demonstration of our awesome nuclear capability offshore, so they would understand, and surrender without further loss of life."
To which I reply: we had to nuke them twice! How fucked up do you have to be to get nuked twice before you get the drill?
What is the worst automobile accident you've ever been in? I've been in a few. Cracked two windshields with my forehead before I learned to wear a seatbelt. But the worst wreck was in college.
A friend, who was an insane and unpredictable Venezuelan, and I were driving southbound 95 from New London to Westchester County, New York to pick up some dates to see Supertramp at Madison Square Garden. He had rented a Buick Regal for the trip, and I should have been forewarned when a cop pulled him over three blocks from origin for driving like a damned fool. Apparently Oswaldo had never driven anything over a 65 horsepower four-banger in Caracas. Maybe only a Vespa.
Twice more police pulled us over on the trip down 95. He was weaving in lanes at 75 mph in the days of 55, passing in the emergency lane, you name it. Not one of those cops gave him a ticket, either, even though his driver's license was a worthless piece of Venezuelan scrip. That boy could talk his way out of anything.
I had a white-knuckle grip on the dashboard the whole time, because he wouldn't let me drive. I considered bailing a few times, but I wanted to see the show, and the girls were supposed to be the comely offspring of gajillionfuckinaires. So I ran a cost-benefit ratio on the Velocimeter and decided to stay in the game.
The moment of truth came when we reached the Tarrytown exit. The one Ozzie took at 75. I remember hitting the guardrail, then it gets a little fuzzy. They say in moments like this you experience great lucidity and clarity, and time slows down. I say bullshit. My brain must have been smacked sideways against its pan, because I just remember getting slammed around, and time speeding up. I'm not sure how many times we rolled. I think it was two. Ozzie said it was two. I know it was at least once because the car was upside down when I climbed out of the window.
Amazingly we were both unharmed (seatbelts! You know I was wearing mine). The Buick was up against the guardrail so the exit ramp wasn't totally blocked. We sat on the guardrail and smoked cigarettes and watched the rubberneckers creep by in astonishment until a state trooper showed up. He asked us where the bodies were. We said you're looking at 'em. To this day I believe that trooper thinks we ate them, or hid them in the bushes after robbing their carcasses.
We missed the concert due to the mayhem, and we both felt like caning victims for several days thereafter, but I can't believe we survived. That car was utterly destroyed. As was the Hertz manager when Ozzie told him what happened.
Moral of the story? Never ride in an automobile with a crazy Venezuelan. They don't know what they're doing. Oh, and never go on a blind date set up by a guy named Oswaldo. That girl was out back in the stables when we got there for a reason.
Another story from the steamship days. I can't believe I haven't mined this motherlode more often. Strange days.
I once had a Polish ship in, back in the days when Poland was still under the hobnailed boot of Soviet Hegemony. Solidarity was huge, however, and Walesa was their god. The deal with a Kumminist vessel was one had to obtain permission from the Coast Guard in D.C. to arrive the vessel, and they were given a two hour window to berth. If the bar pilot couldn't bring her in within that window she was denied. Go on the hook and reapply to Washington the next day. They also had a drop dead departure hour. You would sail by that hour or federal agents would chop your mooring lines.
Suffice it to say no crewmen were allowed ashore.
So imagine my surprise when three Polish sailors managed to don coveralls and slip ashore with a crew of longshoremen and stevedores. They walked up the first cop they found, handed him my business card, and said "Political asylum!" in damned fine English. He called me, and I thought "shit!" I called my company attorney, who was out. I'm all for freedom, and all that, but I had an issue on my hands. I called my armed guard service and had them send a couple of brutes to the cop shop to pick these guys up. The cops wanted nothing to do with this, and gladly handed them over. I put the guys in a cheap motel room my guard service used for obstreperous types. You could lock them in the room, and they had no outgoing phone line. I went to see them, and cautioned them: "No press! We have to figure this out. I have to talk to my attorney, who will likely call your owner's agent. If you're lucky they'll agree to a State Department call, and you might be home free. Listen: no press."
I went back to my office to try to track down the
braying jackass company attorney. I finally reached him, and he mumbled some bullshit about international incidents and bad publicity and loss of accounts. I disagreed, but we all have a job to do. Unbridled capitalism has an uneasy coexistence with its twin tank wheel lofty ideals, and the working stiff is the sad emollient that greases those treads. He did promise to make a call to a friend of a friend at the State Department.
I went back to the seedy motel to tell the boys what was afoot. And behold! Lights! Camera! Action News at Six! How those fuckers did it I'll never know. But while the armed guard went to fetch some Church's Chicken to feed them they had managed to cobble together an outside line, and called the local news hounds. Boy, was I pissed. I chased off the news team by telling them that it was only a payroll issue, the boys were loyal citizens, then I had Clemenza drive them right to that fucking ship. Game over, boys. You can't follow directions.
I might also add I didn't really fear for their lives. That vessel was awash in Solidarity posters and Lech pictures. The captain had signalled his loyalties to the West early in our conversations. That entire ship wanted to defect.
Now, I wasn't stupid enough to not know that all Commie entourages have a political officer in their midst. But it ain't the captain, the Master Mariner. It is always a middle management bureaucrat, the most unprepossessing of the group. With the Chinese Railways Ministry I had him pegged as the senior deputy director of finance. In this case I believe it was the second engineer. Be that as it may, that fucker was outnumbered and knew it. Even in modern times the high seas are an unforgiving place. Hell, Greek captains are notorious for throwing stowaways overboard. They aren't going to lock them up and feed them for three months. Over the rail, like a canteloupe rind.
So although I felt a bit bad about returning these guys, I figured they were not going to suffer. They were heroes on the ship, and the skipper probably threw them a dinner. Or threw them over the side. I figure they're probably still telling their kids today, in Free Poland, about how they almost got away.
The moral? LISTEN to me, assholes. We have rules here, too.
I just received a phone call from my 12-year-old's school, informing me my daughter's field trip to Disney World would be an hour late returning. I knew this, of course, because she had already called us on her Emergency Only! cellphone. The school then gave me five other parents to call. "We'll make a phone tree!" she said.
I was dubious, but called them anyway. Sure enough, all five had already heard from their children. 12-year-olds are far more savvy than their custodians and chaperones.
"We'll make a phone tree!" Fucking indeed.
Many years ago, in my life as a steamship agent, I had the misfortune of having a Greek tramp vessel seized in port by U.S. Marshals for monies owed from a previous vessel call in New York. As the vessel had arrived foreign, meaning Savannah was its first US port of call, Immigration & Naturalization and Customs both put the lockdown on it. The USDA put a baby pimp slap on top of that, as they suspected medflies.
These 26 crewmen were fucked and rolled. They couldn't leave the vessel, their Athenian masters were forwarding no funds, they were at the mercy of my good graces for the simplest of tasks. And I were not a gracious person. I had smoked out immediately that anything I did for them would not be repaid, so it was a game of trimming one's losses.
I had a full plate of real, solvent payers. I had vessels all the time. I was lucky to get by every two or three days to check on these guys. The fact they were at East Coast Terminals, a private pier, and off my beaten path, did not make things any easier. Every trip to a doctor or dentist had to be coordinated with armed guards, and I had to have cash wired from Greece to pay the doctor or dentist up front. They were on the short list, and knew the drill, too. Cash.
No matter what I did for these people they were unhappy. I don't blame them, but it wasn't my problem. It was their deadbeat owners'. Every trip I made to that ship was a three hour ordeal of whining and crying. These guys were fucking crybabies. Mail this! Buy me some groceries! I must call my wife! My penis is gray!
After a month they were finally released, after their masters had paid their arrears, and I visited the vessel to pay my respects. The captain was exuberant to be going home, and toasted me with Ouzo. He also graced me with a bottle of Scotch.
When I got home I realized the seal was broken. I opened it, sniffed it, and realized I had been given a bottle of fetid Greek urine. Amused, I placed it in my china cabinet as a memento of the occasion. Now, The Bride had a friend staying with us temporarily, a girl who was frankly a rabid alcoholic we were attempting to get into rehab. Guess the rest.
I awoke one night for a whizz to find this girl on the den sofa with this bottle of urine in front of her. She was doing shots.
Did I say anything to her? Did I take the bottle away? Did I explain to her drunken ass what she was drinking?
You're damned right I did. That was disgusting. And she was drinking up my memento.
I just realized kc at Rogue Planet, whom I fondly scrap with on occasion, he being of the liberal persuasion, nominated me for a Drysdale Award (best right-of-center blog) at The American Street. Not a conservative site.
At first I didn't know if they meant Don Drysdale or Milburn Drysdale. It mattered not to me. I drink like both of them.
Turns out it was Don. That's cool. A nomination for an award named after Big Don is the shits. Even if a Drysdale was for best tapir-sucker blog. Thanks for being your favorite reactionary.
Here is the quiz. I have not taken it. I can say I have the kind of intelligence you do not want anything to do with. There is nothing in that quiz that one can find in me.
I am waiting for the "What Mutant Can You Spawn?" quiz. Ah, there I can be myself.
I haven't posted my schwa in a while, and that saddens me. It's like a rogue child you wish would come home:
I appear to have lost the Immersionist vote, if not the Catholic vote. Being an autocrat, however, I shall sleep soundly.
USC looks superb, I must say. I also must say Oklahoma still gets undeserved credit for the teams of the early '70's. Auburn could have put up a fight. They may have lost, because USC is phenomenal, but this is a fucking travesty.
Not to worry. I shall break out Frederick Exley's A Fan's Notes, and read of Frank Gifford before he married a crank, and was forced to hide his whore-mongering. Frank was the original Golden God.
Because there is more than a smidgeon of Fred Exley in me.
This post by Key got me to thinking about religion in America, and specifically in the South. I was raised in a nice established Episcopalian church in Savannah, in a tony old neighborhood, with prominent supplicants. My mother was also church secretary for a while, so I understand the concept of a church budget. Even wealthier churchs have balance sheets and income statements and must hew to the bottom line, and tend their fragile coffers.
And yet I see churches pop up all the time, with seeming abandon. There is a church 200 yards from my house that is a doublewide with a front porch. There is another 400 yards in the other direction that is of a metal prefabricated construction. This is where I vote. There is another church that is so penurious they must meet of a Sunday in the elementary school across the street from me. And try that in Massachusetts.
Denominations are specious things, too, at times. I have no idea what two of these churches are. One has Lighthouse in the name, the other has Radiant in the name. I, for one, must admit I have a little less apprehension about a church when it has published theology behind it. I call it the Jim Jones Thing.
I also tend to lump Christian churches into two categories, perhaps unfairly: Immersionists and Sprinklers. I find that those who insist upon a full wetting or submersion of the body at baptism also tend to have the spottier theology, and tend to take more to the handling of snakes and drinking of strychnine. This excludes the Baptists, of course (ahem). Sprinklers usually take things more delicately. A little holy water upon the brow of the child, let's have coffee hour. Generalizing, sure. But I have seen things.
Back to my point. What in the world entices a handful of people from tiny freak-denominational church A to strike out and form their own even tinier church? One that has a budget measured in KFC buckets and tanks of gasoline? Surely it isn't theology. Other than Hellfire and Rapture I don't see too much of it. And, trust me, my mother oft took us to some peculiar places of worship when we lived on the farm, when corralling five snotheads for an hour drive into Savannah was impractical. Clapboard churches with pentitence measured in decibels rather than reverence, where one would fan oneself with a funeral parlor fan and scoff at the High and Mighties down the road who actually drank Welch's grape juice during their blasphemous Papist-inspired communions.
I hold nothing against these worshippers. That is their security level. My only point is what causes these splinter sects to arise, and even flourish?
I find organized religion to be a good thing, as I have commented upon occasion. But after all these years I still don't think I understand the impulse, the drive, behind so much of it. Very strange, indeed.
Update: this is an interesting and heartfelt post on the issue. I almost wish I'd writ it, but that would have been at variance with my earlier positions, and I have enough e-mail about that. I do believe I shall add her to the blogroll.
That dryer is purring like a Thai whore in an opium den.
Say it. Let it roll off your tongue. Sumatra. I dig it.
So I successfully replaced the heater coil in the
Ferrari Testarossa dryer, only to have the beast howl when I turned it back on.
"Do it dry?" I asked The Bride. "Yes, it do", said she. "But it sounds like someone is garrotting a chicken in there".
Okay. I confess. I am the one who admitted to the garrotted chicken sound. But. BUT! Do it dry?
And so, some weeks later, the belt separated. I left work early today to pick up a new belt, and lo! I arrived at 5:01. They closed at 5:00. Meanwhile I have filthy smelly clothes piled up in my closet for want of a proper cleansing. It looks like a Goodwill bin, only the clothes are crappier.
I must, I insist, on spending the equivalent of three new dryers before I purchase a new one, and give this one to the Garbage Men, who will kick it back off the truck, and tell me to "Get with the program, dog."
For those of you who don't know where Jekyll & Hyde Island is, Jacksonville is your flight destination.
$245 from Newark nonstop on Continental
$163 from Midway through Atlanta on
Exploding Cargo Bay Airtran
$198 from Providence through O'Hare (!) on United
$154 from Indy through Atlanta on Delta
This of course presumes these airlines are actually solvent in April.
60 mile drive from the Jax airport to Jekyll. A nice hitchhike, actually. Just make sure you at least hum along to Free Bird or you will get the shit kicked out of you.
When I was in college I created a game called Firecracker Chicken. As Basic Bob as a game gets. You and your adversary merely light a firecracker, and see who is the first to chicken out and toss it.
This is a very stupid game. I felt the compunction to get that out of the way now.
The real trick is finding someone as inebriated and stoopid as you to play it. Of course, in retrospect they probably weren't that stoopid, as I seem to recall my adversary always let me "win".
Which brings me to the point of the post: nothing of a non-permanently disfiguring injury compares to the pain of a firecracker going off between your precious Velocidigits. After your eyeballs finally shutter back down and your vision returns you expect to see bloody meat and bone shards. It hurts that badly. Of course, your fingers are not blown apart. They just feel like they are. Pain that is both throbbing and intensely acute. Ice will not help it. Pain killers will not help it. Your only recourse is to drink yourself into complete and utter oblivion. Trust me: it is worth the pissing of your pants for this relieving coma.
I would rather get kicked in the Velocisack five times than have a firecracker go off in my fingers. Sure, you'll likely puke from the kick, and that is otherworldy pain a woman can only imagine, but it's over in five or ten minutes. The firecracker hurt is a serious hurt that brought a toothbrush and intends to spend the night.
I must confess I tired of this game after winning one time too robustly. I did, however, have another firecracker go off in my fingers a few years later. That was the result of a jumped fuse, but "not my fault" does not compute at that point.
Watching it. I've always had great respect for Florida A&M's marching band, which is what this movie is based on.
When I buy my vanity plate I always want a Rattla plate, but I don't want my car keyed, so I puss out and buy a "Share the Road" bicycling plate. That is a brethren I cannot join, but I admire them. I have enjoyed many a FAMU halftime. They have like 4 six foot six demi-drum majors, and one six foot nine drum major. Moves? Busted. Sound? Busted. FAMU kicks total ass.
I'm glad I got this issue fixed. Because I feel the need to have my big fat thick blog attenuated. And at this rate even Goldstein may have Taranto as his bitch in the early days of 2005.
Although we all know the Broncos are pretenders to the throne, and Elway is retired and gay. That's why he sells cars. Mufflers. He sucks 'em.
I met a fuzzy bunny
Going to the fair
The fuzzy bunny said to me
Please do not call me "hare"
Okay. It needs work. It's a rough cut, for chrissakes.
This guy has an interesting site. I am honored to be linked to his Goat Man section.
I haven't watched 60 Minutes in years, but it came on after the game, so imagine my shock when I realized Morley Safer is still alive. Whose blood is he drinking? Someone should run a check on missing prostitutes, and put an end to this.
For the Jaguars to make the playoffs three things had to happen today:
Pittsburgh beats Buffalo
Jacksonville beats Oakland
Indianapolis beats Denver
Buffalo lost. Check.
Jacksonville won. Check.
Denver beat Indianapolis because that fucking inbred mutant Peyton Manning was not in the game, that big pussy. I am indignant.
It is early yet, only the second of January, and yet I proclaim the weekend of April 16 the optimal weekend for the Grovel in the Golden Isles 2005 Jawja Blogfest on Jekyll Island. Why? Because it fits my schedule, that's why. And as Nathan Bedford Forrest said, " Get there fustest with the mostest!".
If anyone disagrees please let me know. Not that I give a shit.
Rankin' Rob informs me Drive By Truckers will be at the 40 Watt Saturday, January 22nd.
Reader Ann writes:
What a bunch of narrow-minded fools there are in this world. I am proud to be a member of the Red Hat Society. I have raise 4 great kids to responsible adults. I have worked any number of jobs to support those kids, and done what ever I had to do to see that they were taken care of. During the time I was doing this, I had very little time for making friends of my own. I found myself recently with the kids all grown and out of the house, and I finally had time to have friends and go out and have fun.
Yes, we wear our red hats proudly with our purple outfits. How unfortunate that some of you resent us this little bit of fun. Perhaps you think we look ridiculous, but I can guarantee you, we look like socialites compared to the idiots you can see at any sporting event with painted faces, multicolored clown wigs, and disgusting beer bellies bared to the world. The sad things is that is not only acceptable to the male-dominated world, obviously tv cameramen seem to think that we want to see these drunken, obnoxious beasts on our television screens. Perhaps we wear red hats, but we do not encourage each other to become drunk out of our minds and bare areas of our bodies that no one wants to see.
Sounds to me that the men that resent the Red Hat Society, only resent it because they fear strong self-confident women that do not need a male presence to make them feel like a valuable human being. Get over yourselves, or crawl back into your caves.
I just keep making new friends every day.
Update: this is disgusting. Or not.
Who came up with the concept of baby changing stations in men's rooms? In the airport. In the Home Depot. What bullshit. No man is going to use those things. In a hardware store? Nope. A guy will carry around a baby with shit streaming down their legs before they will use a baby changing station in a public restroom. It's bad enough that men have to emasculate themselves in the privacy of their own homes. Not gonna happen in public.
And, yes, I've changed my share of diapers. But I had a strategy: I would pounce at the opportunity to change a wet diaper, so that when the child shit green I could say "I changed the last one. Your turn". Works pretty well.
Who has never had this happen to them before? You are merrily typing away, the inspired words flying from your fingertips, oblivious to saving in draft mode, or posting to a clipboard or Word document, and when you attempt to publish WHAM! Gone. All eight paragraphs. And it was your best stuff. It's always your best stuff.
So although you are enraged and trembling, you attempt to recreate the post at once, while the words are still fresh in your mind. But it's never as good as the original, is it? Damn!
The Bride was commenting on a red-headed woodpecker in the mimosa tree this morning, and I commented that it was more properly called a red-cockaded woodpecker, and I swear I thought she was going to slap the fucking tar out of me.
Update: I knew this would come up. Here is a red-headed woodpecker:
What we saw appeared to be this:
Any woodpecker is a red-headed woodpecker to her.
Here is a blond-headed peckerwood:
Update: This is Woody Woodpecker, with Skeeter: