It's a Workshop. I have break out sessions, whipping, beach blanket bingo, Moondog mixing hunch punch, Gidget in bondage, Acidman in smocked pinafore.
If you ask for a room at the Conference they will be confused, and fuck you with a rate like I gave the Danes.
It's a Workshop.
Danes, like most Europeans, are crafty negotiators. Which doesn't necessarily mean they negotiate in bad faith, but they love to turn a collaborative negotiation into a competitive one as the clock strikes twelve.
After four months of intense negotiation I thought we had a deal crafted, a new contract, amenable to all parties, with my customers. Today was drop dead date, and we were prepared to walk should they not sign. Sarbanes-Oxley is my shepherd, I shall not want. So what happens? Friday, after hours, I get a call from my negotiating adversary telling me his boss, who in this case would be the Great Dane, had insisted on removing a volume commitment. Now that, piglets, is a fucking deal breaker. And they had to know that.
Here's the rasta, though: you always have to leave something on the table for the Big Cheese. In this case that would be the Big Fontina. The big dog that signs a contract has to be able to touch the deal, to make his mark, to validate his self-worth, and his worth to his board of directors. My counterpart had left nothing for the Great Dane to take out to sweeten the deal on his own behalf, so it was a matter of face. If he'd asked me I could have offered several red herrings of no value to me, huge to them, that I could have left in for the Dane to excise, and feel his manhood.
A nail-biter today. Nobody wanted to walk away from this, but no one was prepared to lose face. Finally, at 3:30 the Copenhagen crew caved. Or so they say. That fucking contract better be on my fax tomorrow, or I lose face. With all the wrong people.
By god, I loves me a deal.
And I know you're asking yourself right about now: Velociman, why the fuck do you keep posting that? Well, I'm going to tell you.
Because that is the white noise I hear when The Bride decides to spend Quality Time with me in the Batcave. While I'm trying to write, and listen to music, I hear Diamonique! in the background. It is maddening, and takes over my synaptic responses. It's Pavlovian.
Could be worse, I suppose. I could be salivating to "Velociman, Mr. deBeers on line 2".
Just as we were getting over the close call of my daughter's accident, and the incredible bit of luck she had, a classmate of hers was killed in an accident a mile or so from Emmy's wreck on Wednesday. There was a bit of a joke amongst the teachers, that they looked so much alike they thought they were sisters. Mirror images, if you will.
One survives, one does not. And although I had a bitter taste of the alkaline of fear in my mouth at the crash scene, it is a droplet compared to the world of hurt this child's family will endure, for the rest of their lives.
I posted earlier today at Key's on the chasm of indifference, and random chance, and inapposite outcomes. A bit of a prequel, if you will, to this post. Because the question is beggared:
Does God flip a coin? And I reckon He does. I won't ascribe malevolent intent, of course, but the fact remains: there is a random calculus at work in the universe. Sometimes we are lucky, sometimes we are not. Rather how I feel about gambling, and cards. If I am fortunate at the gaming table I will have a similar setback elsewhere. Call it string theory, the unified field concept, I don't know. But Fortuna spins her wheel of fortune, and, like a roulette wheel, sometimes the final clack is decidedly against you.
This child will be buried in her prom dress. The viewing is tomorrow. Someone will have to prop up her parents, and console them, and guide them through their misery. Mirror images. I am a damned lucky man right now, and I don't care to see the next clack of the wheel.
I didn't get dressed until 3:30 this afternoon. What was it Jedediah Nightlinger said in The Cowboys?
"Forgive me my Saturday drunkenness, and my Sunday sloth"?
Something like that.
And as John Wayne said at the GOP convention in 1972, "I need a goddamned drink".
I work on the 27th floor of my building. The particular bank of elevators I use runs from 20 to 30. It was nice when I worked on the 20th floor, because every elevator was express. Now they are milk runs. Stop at every floor. Bummer.
Here's my beef: floors 22 and 23 are Housing and Urban Development. Government workers. Nearly every time I get on the elevator it either stops on 22, picks up a gummint troll and deposits them on 23, or vice versa if I'm going down. Never, ever, ever, have I seen one of these people carry work product. Maybe a cup of coffee, but that's it. They're just fucking off.
To make matters worse, there is a security guard on 22 who has been there for over a year. Apparently, some worker was threatened by an ex, so they put a guard there. For over a year. That is your tax dollars at work.
Think about that on April 15th. Screwheads.
I really wasn't prepared for a blowjob theme today, but Skippy has an interesting story on a paternity suit involving a woman who kept the cum from a blowjob in her mouth (I guess), impregnated herself, then sued for paternity two years later.
You can't make this shit up.
Irons "deceitfully engaged in sexual acts, which no reasonable person would expect could result in pregnancy, to use plaintiff's sperm in an unorthodox, unanticipated manner yielding extreme consequences."
As the back island trash I hung with would say: You got that shit right, Bo.
And I can't resist:
Eyes roll back, tongue loll
Look at me when you do that!
Thank you, mo' bettah
It amazes me how quickly legends and tall tales arose in a country as adolescent as the United States. But arise, they did.
Not to piss on the rosebed, but I find the stories of Paul Bunyan and Pecos Bill arid and ungratifying. Perhaps they are too regional for my tastes.
John Henry, though, that's a tale. Having one's heart burst whilst doing single combat with a steam engine is cool. Fucking cool. Not for John, but certainly for me.
Man versus Machine. The machine always wins, don't it? Humanity's apochryphal fear of progress, I suppose. But John had dignity. That machine? Rust in a few years.
I lost the Drysdale Award for best right-of-center blog in the Perranoski Awards over at The American Street. Still, good to be read by the Sandinista Left. And I can still drink like Don, so I have that going for me. And thanks to kc for the nomination.
I've been contemplating a career change, and flynny has found my new calling:
Seeking Vice President, CMT Dukes of Hazzard Institute
Job to Pay $100,000 For Watching The Dukes of Hazzard on CMT
Now that's a job. Lookit:
The job responsibilities for the Vice President, CMT Dukes of Hazzard Institute are:
Watch The Dukes of Hazzard every weeknight on CMT;
Know the words to The Dukes of Hazzard theme song, "Good Ol' Boys," written and performed on the series by the legendary Waylon Jennings;
Serve as media expert on The Dukes of Hazzard for the CMT Dukes of Hazzard Institute: must be available for TV, radio and newspaper interviews to share passion for The Dukes of Hazzard on CMT;
Write the CMT Dukes of Hazzard Institute online blog for cmt.com;
Be passionate about The Dukes of Hazzard on CMT;
make appearances at special events such as Dukesfest 2005 in Bristol, Tenn., (June 4-5, 2005).
Lest I would be unable to commit, here's the kicker:
Ben "Cooter" Jones, a favorite character on The Dukes of Hazzard series will lead the CMT Good Ol' Boys (& Gals) Executive Search Team.
Maybe a little haircut on the pay, but what the fuck, right? I'm in!
Are there any more powerful words in any language? I think not. Rob is carrying a powerful burden here. My heart reaches out to him, because he is a great and dear friend. But those words speak volumes to me. Of a man who knows his origins, and who he owes his life, wisdom, and sense of love to.
Rob is a great guy because of how his mother raised him. And his father, of course. Mothers are the great sculptors of our souls, though. That is a given. One's father quarries the raw stone that he lugs home, then watches, in amazement, as a mother sculpts that uneven, unwieldy mass into a child, then a boy, then, finally, a man. Who she is proud of. And who engenders pride in himself.
It isn't rocket science, but it is damned hard work, and I've seen it go awry many a time. To produce a child who turns into a man you are proud of, who treats others with fairness, grace, and dignity, is as immortal an achievement as any mother, any woman, can ever hope for.
Miss Elva has done that. Twice. That is powerful, and affirming.
My thoughts are with Rob tonight, and tomorrow, and on and on. His mama is tough. She'll continue to be tough. Wish them the best, Intrepids. They are the the salt of the earth, and my kind of people.
Feisty hit a slammer with Chapter Four. A descendant of the Mafia Kingfish! Can the evil spawn of David Ferrie and Clay Shaw be far behind?
Have you ever been stuck in traffic, with a lane closed for repairs, and seen a guy working a jackhammer? I mean, really punching the chiseled hard tip into Gaia at about 800 reps per minute, and thought
Yup. Yup. Been there.
No? Yeah, me neither.
But: have you even driven over one of those rubber bell hoses that measure traffic counts, and thought to yourself
Yup. Yup. Been there.
Yeah. Me, too.
I'm not much of a joiner, or follower, by nature. Just the bark of my personality. But I guess I'm the only male in this corner of blog world who has not responded to Chrissy's burning question of our time:
What do guys do to make themselves feel confident and sexy?
Hell, that's easy. I read my blog.
Okay, I also shave the lads.
I spotted a tribe of Red Hatters in the building lobby today. I figured from the pointy umbrellas they carried they were on velocifari. But I'm like a chameleon, see? I can blend into any background, become one with it. Unfortunately, in this case that turned out to be a fat guy named Earvin.
But they left without trophies, by god. I am smarter than they. No velociskull to mount in the powder room this time, babies.
"Woman is the Nigger of the World" - John Lennon
I don't know, still, if I like JL's verbiage, but I certainly relate to his message.
Even in these enlightened times there is a strong undercurrent of misogyny in the heartland. To wit: The Bride arrived home tonight, and asked me if I liked her new 'do. She'd gone from a long flip to a shorter flip. "I like that", I said, because there's a certain level of indifference when it comes to these things, eh?She could have pierced her tongue, or her nethers. I wouldn't get upset. That would be her gig.
And yet for some reason that triggered memories, recent ones, of people I know, I work with on occasion, who say insane shit to me: "She told me she was gonna cut her hair and I told her NO WAY! I like your long hair!"
Wah? Where the fuck does someone get off telling their beloved that? Or their slave, for that matter?
"Why are you on the internet? Where did you go to lunch? I don't like your friends."
I tell you, these creatures exist. As a male in post-1931 America I am appalled. I would like to say it would be easy to say tell him to step off. Ditch him. Move on with your life. But there are intelligent, talented, rational women who are not in a position, financially or otherwise, to pull the pin on that grenade.
Where does that hatred come from? That put down? That need for control? I'm a damned control freak, but only as it pertains to my personal shit. I would never consider extrapolating that onto my romantic interest. Or my slave, should I live in Dubai.
It is 2005, and I still see this bizarro world unfold. And as a husband, as a man, as a father of two girls, when I encounter a controlling fuck like this I want to take them out in a field, like in Casino, and beat their abusive sadistic asses to death with an autographed Hank Aaron Louisville Slugger 44 ouncer. Then dump them in a shallow grave.
And then weep. Not for him, but for our culture. Because this sort of pull the curtain behavior happens all the time, and we, as a culture, look the other way.
Miles to go, Intrepids, to level the field, I think. If you don't see it, feel free to tell me.
Twenty-four hours later and that urine is still staining the granite. Cripes. That's some toxic piss. We should weaponize the stuff.
I have been accused of being "hateful", and "dismissive", in my cursory eulogy to Hunter S. Thompson. I would agree, and I would add that I treated HST as he treated his consumers for the last 20 years: as pieces of garbage.
I have also been chided for linking to Steve's post on Thompson, to which I reply fuck off. I don't agree with Steve's assessment of HST totally, because I happened to love Thompson in his prime, and I get the distinct feeling Steve never did, never how, never would. But it was a powerful indictment of Thompson's legacy, and a worthy piece of writing.
HST was a funny, brilliant writer, and a great biographer of his times. To those who think he led a generation astray into wanton drug use and anomie I say those were the same susceptible fucks who were going to overdose anyway.
Anyone with half a brain could read through the hyperbole and enjoy the ride. For the record I thought Where the Buffalo Roam sucked. Depp's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was brilliant in capturing the novel.
My problem with Thompson is of more recent vintage, and his ravings have been despicable. He is the classic example of a burning fuse that simply did not know when to die. I would have been far more generous had he done so.
And that's all I have to say about that.
I was forced to listen to doo wop in the crib over the intercom radio; helpless, like a drugged brainwashed POW, or an abducted Pascagoulan.
Which would probably explain the nipple angst I experience to this day. And, oh, a host of other issues.
I had my annual physical this morning, yet another episode in gracious living. The major components appear to be in order, and nominally the right place. Now I will coldsweat my bloodwork results, and hope the PSA gods smile upon me.
Did I tell you I'm a control freak? That's why I hate doctors and dentists so much. Total lack of control. You can fire your accountant, and jimmy up a new tax plan, but you cannot run, cannot hide from The Findings.
I won't lie to you, though: I have the body of a 30 year old. Unfortunately it's in the back of the Blazer, and I don't know what to do with it.
He approached, with hobbled gait (but great sense of purpose), the seven-foot granite monolith labeled Tower Mall. An ancient black man, adorned in begrimed tatters, he wore with utter indifference the raiments of the dispossessed.
Upon reaching the monolith he stood within inches of it, as if reading minuscule hieroglyphics where none existed. Then, with great dignity, and barely perceptible melancholy, he urinated upon it, and the spumescent broth trickled down the sheer granite surface, and puddled at his feet momentarily until it sought its own equilibrium, its own destiny, in the cracks of the granite paving stones.
Due to some odd sense of misplaced decorum he did not untie his ragged sweatpants for the act, but instead pissed directly through them onto the stone.
The security guards were on him in a nonce, and ushered him firmly, but not forcibly, back to the bus station. The broth continued apace downhill.
I extinguished my cigarette, and reentered the building, pondering the strange conflation of events that made these circadian events seem so innocuous.
Sad, really, what Thompson had become. Or maybe, defiantly exposed himself for what he always was. I thought he hung the moon as a kid, but what a cratering meteorite he became. I'd say more, but Steve H pretty well sums it up.
It's very cool to be blogrolled here. That's good work. I have a bit of an eye for the pure erotica, and this is it.
Rankin' Rob doesn't remember the English Beat concert at Legion Field in Athens, and has requested a memory jolt. Now, I was an aficianado of narcotics myself at the time, and it is utterly plausible that Rob wasn't there after all, but I find the concept of seeing the Beat without him implausible. But here goes:
1982, as I recall. I was visiting my sister in Macon, and remember telling my mother I didn't trust myself behind the wheel of my car, and may I borrow hers instead? She relented, for some reason, and The Bride and my brothers wheeled over to Athens.
It had rained for several days before this, and Legion Field, being a sunken punchbowl anyway, was a ghastly mudpit. The Beat came on anyhoos, and played in the drizzle, and I seem to recall Stand Down, Margaret was the high point. One had to climb the slope to cop a urination, and I remember slipping down the slope several times attempting a whizz. I was covered in mud by the end of the show, muttering she rankin full stop...
I think we hit the Varsity after that, because the opportunity to pass out and shit chili cheese fries in one's pants is a compelling thing, not to be denied.
None of this rings a bell, Rob? Sure?
I thought the Daytona 500 kicked ass today. A real headhunt up to the last three laps, delivered to fans by new NASCAR rules after 11 cautions. I'm waiting on Rankin' Rob's take. Personally, Jeff Gordon leaves me cold, though I applaud his victory. I wanted Mark Martin to win, as he stayed in the game to the end, and it was his and Rusty Wallace's swan song at the mighty superspeedway.
Gordon played a brilliant hand, however, and lurked with hidden power. I think Tony Stewart thought he had the dick in the bag, and had his doors blown in.
My pledge: July at Daytona. It could be a blogmeet, with smouldering rubber, redneck chicks with tattoos, bad whiskey. I wonder if the speedway is a wireless zone? To hell with political conventions. Blogging live from NASCAR events could be the new meme.
We used to have flying squirrels at the Bluffton cottage. Pretty prevalent, too. I thought they were bats at first, until I saw one climbing up a tree trunk. They're nocturnal, like bats, so the confusion was obvious. People domesticate flying squirrels, but I'm damned if I could figure out how to catch one.
The May River we were on isn't really a river at all. It has no headwaters. It is actually a huge tidal estuary. A giant finger of salt water that feeds into Calibogue Sound between Daufuskie Island and Hilton Head Island. With estuaries you get coves, and we had a killer one knifing through the property. Great exploring territory for kids. I once found a flying squirrel carcass in the cove at low tide, and took it to the Senator for his perusal. He remarked that I would catch rabies from a dead bat, and seemed otherwise uninterested in my find, which hurt me terribly. Didn't believe me when I said it was a flying squirrel, either.
He usually found that sort of thing interesting. I guess flying squirrels just weren't his bag.
My friend Rankin' Rob posted a wonderful eulogy, of sorts, to his erstwhile friend Coach. I remember Coach well, although I didn't move in their circles. Coach was also an erstwhile friend to my brother, but I was at Emory, they were at Georgia at the time. I never really meshed with the fellow. But I remember a huge sort of meltdown, and a diaspora to Texas, and the destruction that accompanied that. So sad.
I've had friends like that. They just melt in front of you, and there isn't a goddamned thing you can do about it. They usually die, and that is a corker. Sometimes it is merciful and quick. In Coach's case it was apparently a drawn out deal.
I love to read Rankin' Rob. He brings out the best in me. One day I hope he writes about that English Beat concert at Legion Field in the mucking fucking rain and mud. That was a time.
I love me a damned pineapple. That is the best food in the world, regardless of what it does to my blood sugar. I am reluctant, often, to bare my soul on many issues lest it be used against me later in a court of law, but I love me a damned pineapple. Sweet, sweet stuff. If there is a heaven I hope I am ensconced on a seashell throne, having buxom Jewesses feed me the pineapple.
Some thoughts on this delicacy:
My mother used to make my sister pineapple sandwiches. Dole slices on white bread with mayo. By the time lunch rolled around they were soggy messes. Unfit for consumption. But we had a friend by the name of Meatball who loved soggy pineapple sandwiches. He would trade his PBJ every day for those things. That is a free market resolution I would like to see more of, frankly.
Pineapple supposedly makes the spoot taste sweet. I am eliciting volunteers for a double blind study on this phenomenon. And work with me, here. If it tastes like PBJ you are in the placebo group. Just pretend, okay?
They grow a shitload of pineapples in Hawaii. I reckon every pineapple I ever ate came from there, but I may be wrong.
Manuel Noriega was called Pineapple Face, due to scarring from smallpox, or some shit. He was a drug-running bastard, but I still can't believe George H W Bush dethroned him, and put on a show trial in Miami, and locked him up. He was a fucking head of state. That is shameful. If I'm ever a tinpot dictator I expect a little more respect.
I like to core my own pineapples. Do the whole 9 1/2 weeks thing. Freak.
Old fragmentation grenades from WWII were called pineapples for obvious reasons. They were nasty things. I understand the German "potato masher" was a far less dangerous device, and was actually meant to be used by advancing troops. You threw it and ran forward. Not what one would do with a pineapple.
I think I'm pretty well spent on this subject. I think I'm spent, period. Pineapple exotica can be draining. I do hope I don't dream of Noriega tonight.
TJ did a ripping job on Chapter Three. As a prior participant in Chrissy's novella ventures I enjoy acting the carnival barker for these exercises. Chapters One and Two are here for the reading. Fun stuff, indeed.
Rankin' Rob has the skinny on Daytona 500 festivities and gaming, although I'm not sure I grasped all of the KashOut thing.
I just wanted to see the race. I may stroll down Sunday anyway, and see how badly I can be gouged in a state with Zero Fucking Tolerance for ticket scalping.
My posts have certainly tended to get shorter as time goes on. This is partly because I've run out of things to say, but more importantly because I've found lengthier posts elsewhere don't grab my attention. You'd better hook me good in the first paragraph if you want me to hang around for a book.
Pithy, my English teacher taught me. Be pithy, Velociman, she said. Oh, I'll still spew some verbosity out there. My postprandial work tends to be positively logorrheic, for instance. I'm working on that. But in the land of Short Attention Span the Terse Writer is, well, Regent at least.
All of this to avoid the obvious: I'm lazy as hell.
I scroll through my last 20 posts or so, and detect no discernible pattern to my madness.
Unless you consider satanworship abortion homosexuality fearsomecarcrashes porno redhatters mutants loathesomerednecks boermercenaries keymonroe to be a pattern. Maybe. I'm not sure.
I should stick to politics, or something. I'm all over the place.
I see Art Linkletter is going to be on Hannity & Colmes. Good lord, he's still alive? He must be 147. And still looks 47. What manner of Mephistophelian deal did he cut with Beelzebub for this sickening immortality?
I'm wagering he has to host a monthly Goats Bleat the Darndest Things show at some black mass in Ann Arbor for the privilege of that longevity. Shivers, man. He gives me the willies.
I have no fricking idea. But if Abe Lincoln can be gay, I suppose Sir Isaac could be, too.
And I have to tell, you: while I'm not exactly trolling for clues, For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction sure as hell sounds like buttsex to me.
The inimitable Jim at Parkway Rest Stop avers, via Rita, that your first pet's name + your mother's maiden name = your porn name.
That would make my porn name Brutus Brannon. Man, I like the sound of that.
I'm going to go block out a few scenes this very minute. I don't have a plot yet, but I have a money shot in mind.
I believe I'm going to skeeze up to Jekyll a day early. Come in Thursday and do some exploration. There's an old Donald Ross golf course there from 1927, I think. I've played it a few times, and it's reasonably well-kept. Cycle the island a few times, surf fish if I can catch the tide, and sip some whiskey and tell tall tales that night, even if it's to the rummy with the marinated nose at the worst dive I can find on the island.
I need to decompress now so badly I feel like I have the bends. By April I'm going to be the poster child of earthquake pills. If anyone wants to join me that's cool. I might not even get a room. I haven't slept in the back of my truck on the beach in years. If the state fascists don't run me off I may take that route. Smoke some daily catch from the marina on a hibachi. Swim buck naked in the ocean at midnight. Because I'm going to be on better behavior the rest of the trip, what with the ardent photographers and all.
At any rate I'm going to bum it, pure and simple.
No disrespect to Dostoyevski, but he didn't know the half of it. Parsed from my temporal lobe, for your amusement:
ME: Mom, what's fucking?
MOM: Go ask your dad.
ME: Dad, what's fucking?
DAD: What that damn dog does.
ME: Mom, why does my wiggy get all stiff? Am I sick?
MOM: Go ask your dad.
ME: Dad, why does my wiggy get all stiff? Am I sick?
DAD: Don't wory about it, boy. You have a tongue like a damned steer.
And from those conversations I have crafted my worldview, ultimately. Skeery, ain't it?
There is a scene in one of Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey-Maturin novels where a supposedly erudite man picks up Maturin's narwhal horn and proclaims it to be the horn of a unicorn. Claims he's seen the same thing before in the Arabian desert, or some such.
Now, the scene is the captain's cabin of an 1815 Royal Navy privateer, with letter of marque, but the point obtains. How many times a day do you see people defend the indefensible, too fucking stubborn to admit they are wrong, or full of shit?
My corporate environment is a Petri dish teeming with these bacteria, these amoebic fucks. The bad thing is, if the buy-in is beneficial to enough swinging dicks it becomes ingrained, and immortalized and immemorialized as The Truth. And bad decisions result.
Every now and then I raise my hand, and cry foul. But don't tell the Emperor he not only has no clothes, but a button mushroom for a cock. That doesn't play in Peoria. And it makes Velociman an Enemy of the Organization.
Remember that bubble in the '60's television series The Prisoner, with Patrick McGoohan? You stray, that clear bubble tracked you down, swallowed you, and brought you back to the compound. I see several of those bubbles in the rearview mirror every day. And like McGoohan, I always think I can outrun them. But I'm just another Number Six.
Time to play admin ho and get some things out of the way.
I originally booked 17 suites and 5 rooms at the Day's. Why? Because that's what they had, damn it, and they promised to overlook our foibles and fetishes. Now stop interrupting me. Quit playing grab ass back there.
To date we have 13 suites and 3 rooms booked. That leaves, by Excel formulae, 4 suites and 2 rooms. These are held until March 15th, I think. That is also bail date, should your olfactory senses and extrasensory perception scream BAD IDEA. Smoke 'em if you got 'em, and book 'em if you want 'em.
Another thing: if you're flying into Jax you may want to forward your arrival time to me. I'll post them and you can get with similar arrivals for carpooling if you desire. I may run a ferry trip or two that day, if I'm feeling magnanimous. But I'm liable to be hungover, and surly, so you'd better check with me first and attempt a bribe of some sort if you want to ENSURE I'm there.
One more thing: whoever stays in the room next to me better not mind the sound of the lash, or my repugnant whimpering afterward. I snore a lot, too. That's just the way it is.
I was always intrigued in mathematics classes by the concept of the null set. The squiggly, buxom parentheticals (there's a name for them, Lexis-Nexis it for me please) that denote a set, but no fucking values within!
I never understood the concept of the null set. Why do you need a placeholder set with no values? Hell, I have no values, but I don't strut like a peacock with buxom parentheticals strapped to me.
I understood today, however, when V Man got shined for V Day. My buxom parenthetical arms embraced a fucking null set of nothing. Now, I understand the near-tragic accident with Velocidaughter 1 destroyed any semblance of normalcy around the 'hovel today, but I had taken care of business Sunday morning, and after I had seen to the disposal of the Mountaineer I had a nice Valentine display awaiting the arrival of the fambly last night after suturing.
Truth be told, I wasn't entirely ignored. I received a very nice display at work from a Secret Admirer, with pineapples, so I have that going for me. But, as Secret Admirers go, you generally don't want to get on a fucking seesaw with them without a pressure suit and extra oxygen. Launch only meaning a midday repast in Cajun Country.
Shined. I suppose I better get used to it.
P.S. Did I mention my anniversary is in three days? And that I am a cold, vindictive bastard? I am for some reason reminded of Granny Clampett's wedding ring: a piece of pig bone, with gristle for the diamond. I'm sensing anniversary band here. But Billy is off the table. He's in the tribe.
Back to your lives, you rubbernecking popinjays.
P.P.S. I smell nascent Fatalism. Smell it? Like burning tires? Sorry about that.
When I was a kid I used to love to read Doc Savage novels, pulled together from the original magazine stories. Doc was a superhero of sorts who existed in pulp fiction from 1933 to 1949. He was the Man O' Fucking Bronze, part superman, part brilliant genius, who combated evil from the 86th floor of a Manhattan skyscraper with the assistance of his five friends - the greatest braintrust ever assembled - and the resources of a Mayan treasure trove.
This was back in the days when scientific knowledge was the be-all, when technology was the greatest of human triumphs. Doc was part Tarzan, part Holmes, part Einstein. He was da fuckin' Man. He also drove a Rolls Royce Silver Phaeton, as I recall (and I'm way too lazy to fact-check that) in the midst of the Great Depression, which made him an Oppressor of the People as well, which I am down with.
Doc had bronze skin, hair, bronze-flecked irises. A freak. The Mutant would like Doc. If he ever learns to read I'll turn him on to him.
The only film I am aware of is 1975's effort with Ron Ely as Doc. It was too lame to link. Ron Ely? The most pussified Tarzan ever? As Doc Savage? Please. Why not just cast Richard Chamberlain as Doc, and hang a velour scrotum from the rearview mirror of the Silver Phaeton like fuzzy dice?
My point is it is time to bring Doc back to the big screen. I applaud Hollywood's efforts at cinematizing the Marvel pantheon, but I must say they have, as a rule, left me cold. Too much CGI, too little plot. I could have found a far superior Mary Jane for Spiderman from the porno casting couch, too.
If I could raise about $35 million with a Paypal button I could possibly pull this off.
No idea who would play Doc. But if that Affleck chipmunk came sniffing around I believe I'd have to bust a cap in his ass.
What you don't want your child crawling out of:
Well, actually, I guess you do want your kid crawling out of that.
As Dax would say, Just Damn! As I would say, Fucking Ada.
I was speaking the other day of externalities, those events beyond our control that have inordinate impacts upon us.
Velocidaughter 1 had her first accident this afternoon, and it was a freaking doozy. She pulled out in front of a 4 ton panel truck, which T-boned her on the driver door at about 45 miles per hour (I'm guessing. My friend Bruce, who witnessed it, said the driver was locked down on the brakes, so his 50-55 had to be reduced). The impact rolled her vehicle twice, and it ended up across State Road 13 on its side in the ditch.
She miraculously escaped with ten sutures from various glass cuts. No concussion. When the wrecker finally righted the thing it was bloody hell. Both driver side doors staved in. Windows exploded. Windshield shattered. Roof flattened. Hood crumpled. There is not a quarter panel of the truck untouched. The engine also ran for ten minutes with no oil while Bruce extracted her, the truck having rolled onto the driver side. He didn't turn it off for fear of fire.
Luck. Karma. Joss. It's a hell of a thing to see your child sitting bloodied on the roadside, with two county cops, a Florida state trooper, a fire truck, an EMT unit, trying to figure out what happened. I damn near fainted myself when I realized just how lucky she was. I've seen fatalities, severed limbs, from rollovers like that. Brain damage, disfigurement generally accompanies wreck of this intensity. It was a brutal thing.
A brief aside to say the Mountaineer held up splendidly. To those who disdain SUV's, a polite up yours. That truck is utterly destroyed, but it did its job. It saved my daughter from her folly. Curb weight, sheet metal. Wrap that around your precious cargo. Pity the child in a Mini Cooper.
Luck. Karma. Joss. That site on the side of the William Bartram Trail was a hell of a thing, indeed. But it could have been far, far worse. Fatalism? Never heard of it.
I regret to announce my application to join Wu Tang Clan has been denied. And lest you think they had broken up, that was ECHELON disinformation.
Personally, I don't think they could handle the fucking pressure of having me in the clan.
The Sauronic Forces Of Red Hat Evil march to assault the crumbling defenses of the Velocihovel. Thank God I built that trebuchet, and have an ample supply of fresh roadkill to launch at them in a preemptive biological warfare ploy.
For those of you still trying to figure out what to buy me for
VelociDay Valentine's Day, this 1/6 scale model of the Mutant would please me greatly, and give the real Mutant something to play with when I'm away. Not to mention the romantic angle he engenders, of course. Available here, Intrepids. Just saying.
When we moved to the semi-fecund acreage we called a farm when I was nine, we kids met a new breed of character. Here is an instance:
My father employed a fellow named James to do dick-all work around the farm. A slow leaker, he, but he knew how to entertain kids. We'd pile in the back of the '66 Ranchero and he would take us to the feed store, the abattoir, the black part of Guyton, where I suppose he was auditing income tax returns. He liked to fishtail on dirt roads, speed outrageously, and do 180's with the handbrake, slinging us around pretty hard. The kind of ass-puckering ride boys love. And it beat the hell out of pulling peanuts out of the ground.
James wore out his welcome after a while, though. My mother was incensed when he put a bare naked lady license plate on the front of our Ranchero, which we allowed him to use as a semi-personal vehicle, and he angered the Senator when he directed one too many cracked-tooth grins at my sisters.
Saw him a few years after we sold the farm when he delivered a Sears refrigerator to our river house in Montgomery. He was still a veritable loser.
In retrospect I certainly understand why my parents ran him off, but I missed those Ranchero rides.
Afrikaner killer bees
Suppress the rebels
Key Monroe has Chapter Two of Christina's Blog Noir up. Jim at Parkway Rest Stop's Chapter One is here.
My hat is doffed to Key. Jim did an excellent job, and left a snakepit of characters, innuendo, and plot possibilities. Key pushed the envelope, and delivered a barn burner.
I'm glad I didn't have the second chapter. I'd have farked it up.
For several weeks I have noticed a mottled piglet, feral of course, along I-295 as I beep and creep to my labor day. About twice a week I see him rooting along the roadway, for all the world a happy lad.
Understand: this is not a rural area. There is a tree line of barrier woods about twenty feet deep between the interstate and apartments and houses, but it stretches for a mile or so, so apparently this pig has enough foraging area to sustain him.
There have to be 10,000 cars passing him everyday, and not once has a bubba pulled over and made the sausage play on him with a .22, or a handgun. Perhaps because he is small. And, of course, speckled pigs are suspect by nature. Not like he's black, or a nice russet. He's not even properly spotted. Just a mottled little pig, rooting for all he's worth, against unimaginable odds.
So much ambition, so little space. I've named him Billy, and he's in my tribe.
I wasn't going to say a damned word about the Super Bowl in Jacksonville after the
cunts assholes who comprise the major sport media decided before they'd been here to excoriate the town. They wanted to be on South Beach rubbing women's breasts with no game of their own, emboldened only by a once a year expense account. Fuck them, I said. But I cannot let the spurious comments lie.
By any measure, and there are many, my adoptive hometown kicked some Major League Ass. Logistics, venues, parties, waterfront, airport throughput, cruise ships, fireworks, halftime show, we kicked ass. No major glitches.
Every sportswriter had a whore he could afford, which speaks volumes. Everyone else had glorious women on their arms. Celebrities had huge times, and huge parties. Maxim, Playboy, Hustler, Sports Illustrated, HBO, Velociworld (closed to media) , they all went off beautifully.
The Main Street Bridge was stunning. The Hart Bridge was beautiful. The River was mesmerizing. The City put on the Fucking Dog, and it was beautiful and seamless. A far cry from the Atlanta murder, the Houston nightmare, the debacle that will occur in Detroit if the weather varies from between 28 and 30 degrees next year.
Think my town stinks? That's your asshole, man. See you in 6 years.
I'm not sure when the passion seeped out of the Velocirelationship, but the role playing sucks of late. No longer do we enjoy the vagaried pleasures of Ripper and Whore in Whitechapel, or Rape of Nanking Comfort Girl, or Lizzie Borden's Submissive Gardener.
Forget Tatar Meets Ukranian Peasant Lass, or Buffalo Soldiers Explore the Pueblo. We had a brief bit of luck with Aileen Wuornos Cops a Ride, but that was short-lived, due to autoerotic suffocation issues.
Perhaps we can reinvent, overcome. The reality of Nodding Blogger Eschews Will and Grace Rerunner is, shall we say, less romantic than Reservoir Dogs are Seduced by Juliette Lewis.
lie say in my world, I'll get back to you.
Now I'll be the first to allow I probably should have thought through the idea of having a blog that begins with a "V". But I didn't realize how damned structured some people are. Alphabetizing their blogrolls. THAT'S why A Small Victory is so popular. It ain't fucking content.
By the time the average blog reader gets to the voluminous "S" blogs they are burnt out, pissing themselves in narcoleptic narcosis. That's where I get fucked over.
Just as the savvy criminal attorney will list his law firm in the yellow pages under A-Able Attorney, so the next year he will be supplanted as first in the jailhouse yellow pages by AAA-Able Attorney.
So, since you are all so tied to the concept of the alphabetized blogroll (and, hey, I do it to. Poor Rube at You Bitch is constantly shafted when the narcosis grips me) please consider me, and henceforth blogroll me as, AAA-Able Velociworld. It will make your lives much easier. Trust me.
I busted my ass like a sharecropper on the Velocihovel the first five years I lived here, but I haven't done dick for the last two years. The exterior needs a paint job, but I've always owned brick and this looks like a serious pain in the ass to me. Plus I have a couple of dryrot issues I have to fix first. I was going to fix those last summer, but it was hot.
I have old fencing stacked up along my fence in back that has been there for two years, but every time I called the county to see what day they picked up shit like that they never answered, so I quit calling. I used to have a yard like a putting green, now I have the kid next door mow it. He does a shitty job, but it's passable. I pay one service to treat my yard every other month to keep it on life support, and another to keep the Sentricon monitored to keep the fucking ubiquitous termites from ravaging the place.
I need to pressure wash the eaves and pool deck, but I put my pressure washer in my neighbor's garage lest I be tempted to use it. The pool cleaner only works half the time because I never clean it out, therefore I have something or other swirling around the bottom constantly.
The Bride wants granite countertops, new hardwood, and for me to lay the fucking tile I've had for a year in the kitchen. I don't know what the half-life on ceramic tile is, but I'll wager that stuff is dust before I lay the first tile. She wants a new kitchen table, a new entertainment center, new dining room furniture. I haven't sat at a table to eat in a year.
Better to flip this place and buy a condo at the beach. I'd rather stare at the ocean than that pond in the backyard, although the birds are better here. I spend 90% of my time in the Batcave or sleeping, anyway. Now she's yammering to fix up the Cave, just when I have it in a very comfortable state of decay, and disarray.
I'm not lazy. I just finally have my priorities set straight.
As I grow older I become increasingly enamored of the concept of Fatalism. Not necessarily the construct that our fates are predetermined, and unavoidable, but certainly the idea that there are external forces that determine significant outcomes in our lives.
The idea that we control our lives is at once arrogant beyond belief, and naive to a fault. I'm not saying we can't control a large measure of our existence, but those externalities are the true factors in our lives. Consider: there is always the possibility of a criminal around the corner, an accountant who will embezzle your retirement, a drunk driver careening toward your family. Any of these things can happen, and you can't control that.
Sometimes a giant shitball will just fall in your lap, like a daisy cutter, and fuck up your world. Externalities. You can't control them. That is a dangerous conceit. The best you can do is control the day to day, and avoid those shitbombs when possible. But it's not like they send an invitation before they arrive.
And so, as I wizen, my youthful optimism is supplanted by a grim case of Fatalism. Once you've seen enough bad things happen to people for no reason you finally realize you aren't driving your life, you're strapped in the passenger seat with a tenuous grip on the steering wheel.
That's my opinion, anyway.
Acidman used excoriate. Boy, howdy, I love that word. Entered, and acknowledged. Go read his children poems BTW.
Have you ever castigated someone, and felt like a shit for it, but you had to do it?
1. To inflict severe punishment on. See Synonyms at punish.
2. To criticize severely.
Sorry. It's dictionary day.
1. Lasting for a markedly brief time: “There remain some truths too ephemeral to be captured in the cold pages of a court transcript” (Irving R. Kaufman).
2. Living or lasting only for a day, as certain plants or insects do.
3. A markedly short-lived thing.
Ephemeral. That's a hell of a word. There's no synonym for it. But there are plenty of instances to use it.
From my earliest memory I can recall seeing, from Richmond Hill, Georgia, to Yemassee, South Carolina, black folks' shacks on the side of the road, whitewashed, with bright blue paint for window trim. Call it a shade lighter than royal blue.
They called it haint blue, and it was meant to keep the evil spirits, the haints, or haunts, or ghosts, out of their house. Fair enough. I don't cotton to that particular faith set, as Al Gore would call it, but I understand the mighty power of belief, and faith, so who cares how you paint your window trim?
No one paid this sort of thing much mind, voodoo being an ingrained part of a lot of the subculture in my old environs.
My father lost a case or two he thought he had nailed, only to find some black sorceress had slipped salt in his pocket. He took it in good nature, and his agnostic nature made a mental note.
What chapped my ass was that point in the mid 70's when the Savannah Hysterical Society decided that they would be the ultimate arbiters of architecture and taste in the Historic District. They laid out a pallette of approved colors and styles (a color wheel!), and one of the colors was called, in giggly fashion, Haint Blue. As if any chicken shack with haint blue windows ever existed in the Historic District (probably, but those places had been torched), and if so, where did these supposedly blueblooded doyennes get off choosing the color as an "historically correct" color suitable for downtown? You can paint your brownstone windows haint blue! Your law office windows haint blue!
Fucking jerk offs. Taking a good old fashioned superstition and yuppifying it. Whitifying it. Bullshit, I say. Next thing you know these doyennes will be dancing on the tabletop at Bob's Cafe. (Whoops).
After my older brother left for college, the Senator felt a bit saddened by the occasion, or a bit thirsty, so he took me and my younger brother to Rock City. I think I was 13, Junior 11. Ruby Falls, Rock City, Cherokee, dry counties are hell on the driving man, but we persevered.
All was well until we dragged the old man to the pinnacles of Rock City. After negotiating Fat Man's Squeeze, no mean feat for a 250 pound free sweater, we forced the Senator to pass through an even narrower crevasse, called the Needle's Eye. Attempt it he did, to his everlasting glory, but I swear for a moment or two we thought we were going to lose him. Wedged tight, no going back, no going forward, squirming, stuck, Junior and I eased close and peered intensely into his face for signs of distress. Incipient apoplexy, perhaps a myocardial infarction.
Ah, the Senator was fantastic that day. Survived our torments, and still managed to finish off two packs of Marlboros.
We celebrated that night with eight Canadians for the old man, and one of HoJo's 57 flavors for us. Male bonding can be a beautiful thing.
From my earliest days on the road, driving to Picayune, Mississippi at 16 with Sly Stone blaring from the eight-track in my '73 Celica, to today's CD cavalcade, I have certain rituals, mannerisms, or
fucked up OCD habits when it comes to traveling sound. Some music is just suited to certain stretches of road. I wouldn't listen to, say, Johnny Winter between Orlando and Tampa any more than I would listen to Beethoven between Georgetown and Wilmington. Certain things just aren't done, but I'll be damned if I know why.
To me the road , and its singular undulations, and the landscape and scenery, meld with the music I am currently listening to. Certain music just matches the vista. I know that sounds
fucked up OCD strange, but it just is what it is.
Now here's an odd thing: I'm listening to Mambo Sinuendo, and that CD has been forever associated with a drive north. Specifically, I usually can only listen to it north of I-16, heading to Helen, or Athens. It just wormed its way into the collective consciousness while heading to Helen, and I can only hear it between Dublin and Athens.
But I'm enjoying it now, so I'm trying to break the cycle of road dependency.
Do I have issues? I have issues. And not those good issues, either. The bad ones.
Rather serendipitous (okay, coincidental. The Stooges would never say serendipitous) that Dax posts about shaving, Eric posts about shaving, and I was going to post a shaving thing today. I attribute this to the fact that guys are boring asses, and only want to talk about themselves.
And yet: what the hell is up with quality control at Gillette? I buy a pack of those expensive Sensors I've used since, like, Sadat got whacked, and three will last one or two shaves and feel like they've been fastidiously nicked with a cold chisel. Bloody awful. Then two will last for twenty shaves. They're fucking impervious to dulling. Strange. I realize tiny thin razor edges are difficult to replicate a million times a minute, but this is my craggy mug here. Careful!
Of course, if I remember my Nordhoff and Hall correctly, the Tahitians shaved by tweezing each hair with a clamshell. Took about a week. No, suh. No fucking way, suh.
I want a straight razor shave, too, but damn. Every time you see one in a movie Bad Things Happen. I don't want that much cold sharp steel near my jugular, in the hands of someone I really don't know. Whose wife or daughter I HOPE to hell I don't know. Notice you never see someone get a complete shave in the movies? Something Big happens, he wipes his half-shaven face with the towel, and is off. Not me. Too anal for that. Finish the shave, cornbread. Then I'll save the world.
And wait: didn't my first post of the day have shaving in the title? That was a completely different shave, but still.
My favorite Jersey lawyer/musician/questioning toenail fetishist has written a brilliant Chapter One in Feisty's Blog Noir. Unlike the previous Blog Novella this thing looks like it might just have coherent plot, fleshed-out characters, and gritty undertone.
That is because I sense an undercurrent of Teamwork, unlike the Ego Fuckfest of the Novella once Christina gave the immature boys the keys. Not that I didn't enjoy myself immensely participating, and it stands tall as a brilliant piece of anarchy, but this looks very good.
I anxiously await Chapter Two from the mesmerizing Key Monroe.
I submit one of the most intriguing aspects of hosting a Super Bowl is the influx of high grade, top shelf prostitutes to the city. I hope the sports writers are generous, and Kornheiser tips his boy well.
I realize Neptune Beach isn't South Beach, but would you rather have the chrome sucked off your trailer hitch by the malnourished, opossumic Paris Hilton, or an ex-professional wrestler who calls herself, strangely enough, Barbasol?
I rest my case.
Savannah Gray Brick is awesome stuff. In "brick and a half" size, it is unparalleled in beauty. It's virtually impossible to find now, as it hasn't been made in decades, if not a century, and the process is lost. You need to find an old building to knock down to harvest them, and let the Savannah Hysterical Society catch you doing that.
Here is a good description of the Brick, and a nice picture of its attributes. My house growing up was Gray Brick, but it had been whitewashed. Still is. What a shame. Someone should sandblast that house.
I have a friend who, as a tugboat captain, found a cache, a treasure trove, of Savannah Gray Brick at the bottom of the Savannah River. It had been ballast on a vessel that sank, and he'd picked up the anomalies on his depth finder. He dove the site, saw what it was, and staked his claim. This was in 1983. There it sits, to this day. His, legally, but there is no way in hell he will ever be allowed to close the shipping channel to salvage it. The Bricks were going for about $10 to $20 apiece, I think, back then. I'm sure there are people with more money than sense who would pay upwards of $100 a brick now. He estimated there were twenty to thirty thousand of them at the bottom of the river.
Nowadays the only real use for Gray Brick is as an expensive paperweight for a Christmas present, unless you can happen upon an old house outside of the Historical District, and you don't mind rendering it into a vacant lot to collect the bricks.
Rob or Catfish may know some source, and correct me here, but I haven't seen it on the open market in sufficient quantities to build more than a fireplace in years. Course, I haint lived there in 11 years.
My favorite example of the brick? Oakleigh, on Wilmington Island. That is a Gray Brick house.
And my inadvertent use of haint for ain't reminds me to explore the use of Haint Blue paint in Savannah and South Carolina, and the voodoo culture contained therein. For another day, Intrepids.
Sorry. I had to put something up so that Kornholer wasn't grinning at me every time I checked in. He needs to shut his
Here's a picture of Tony
Kornheiser Kornholer. He's a sportswriter for the Washington Post, and a pindick. The first sign of his pindickedness is that growth. He cultivates around his mouth what grows wild around my ass. But I have never issued forth from my ass the disgusting shit that flows from this guy's mouth. To wit:
Shit like that he writes. The pindick hasn't even been here before. I would submit that, regardless of the weather Sunday, the Game will be a success. And after the sleet and Ray Lewis murder of Atlanta, and next year's certain Devil's Night-type riots in Detroit, the River City will still look pretty good.
How did Jacksonville get the Super Bowl? What, Tuscaloosa was booked?
If going to Jacksonville for a week is the reward New England and Philadelphia get for being the best teams in the NFL this year, Peyton Manning ought to be happy he didn't get there. Imagine how Manning would have felt, having to play all year in Indianapolis, and then landing in Jacksonville? Which gods would he have offended to get that killer quinella?
But when you pick Jacksonville, people are agape and say, "Who in Jacksonville has a photo of Tagliabue with a goat?"
Have you ever been to Tampa? It's heaven, if you like Waffle Houses.
Jacksonville makes Tampa look like Paris!
My friend Tony Reali, "Stat Boy" on the "PTI" show, flew to Jacksonville a few months ago to emcee some dopey trivia contest. And when he walked off the plane, he got a whiff of something that almost brought him to his knees -- it was Jacksonville -- and he made the not uncommon observation, "This place smells."
"I am from Staten Island, and I have lived in New Jersey," Reali explained. "I know bad smells. This was right below Secaucus."
I think, once and a while, about the cognition we label poignant. What is it, really? I have an idea.
I was in the train station in Lisbon in 1975, catching a run to Costa de Estoril to lay upon the beach and burn like a chicken, under the fulgent sun, and ogle Portuguese, Spanish, and German girls with hirsute armpits.
The station was jam-packed, as we say, and it was a hassle to get to one's gate. In the confusion of that rush hour I noticed something underfoot. I looked down, and realized I was standing on a pair of rubber waders, the kind fishermen wear to wade into the cold waters to flyfish. Attached to these waders was a legless local man, a young fellow, about 25 (older than me, but young). He was apparently trying to catch a train, and was having a hell of a time with peoples like me stepping on the waders.
To be honest, I don't know why he was wearing them. He had no legs, and these appurtenances merely slowed him down, but I think they lent him a sense of wholeness, or completion. I think he felt like a complete man with those faux legs dragging after him as he clawed his way through the filthy terminal to his destination.
I apologized, of course, in a language I doubt he knew, but the look in his eyes was mesmerizing in its, well, poignancy. There, unadulterated, was humiliation, supplication, helplessness, shame. I felt like an ogre, treading upon him like that.
One of my companions spoke Spanish, fortunately, and he was able to ascertain the poor creature's destination, and station, through the similarities in language. I hoisted him in my arms, and carried him to his destination. He was not of gardenias, or rose petals, for sure. But I carried his loathesome body anyway, and I have never been so shamed in my life, even as I realized I was blameless.
Some people are certainly less fortunate than the rest of us, but I am generally immune to that. They reap what they sow, as a rule. But every now and then a true unfortunate crosses your path, and humbles you a bit. The cruel world, indeed.
This is for Acidman, the Skeptickal.
Warning: not even close to Work Safe. To all those attorneys out there, I could probably use some serious professional advice.
Intrepid reader Ali Emami comments:
Oh what a topic you've selected!
Not bad if you know that in my culture the male people avoid pissing while standing! In my country it's so, as my religion has recommended not to pee while standing, and to do it while sitting or squatting. I know there, they teach the kid when he can stand up, how to pee while standing, but it's not so here. However, I am male and quite healthy, but I don't pee while standing. You should consider that there are many different ways and theologies around the world.
To my own, peeing while standing is a nasty actions, also it does not feet a man's character, that's like you imagine a respectable man standing up still some where, his penis is out and his piss line in front of him! Who made the rule that males MUST stand up while urinating? And don't relate it to the nature, potentially many things are natural as an ability; one can bring it out (gun), aim and kill, but he has choosing power, although he has the ability, but he may not do it if he is sane; one can just bring it out, aim and piss, but does it mean he can not do it in a way but that?
Why stand to pee? Why aim? Aiming is for the time when you are distant to your target and can't be close to it, but when you can be close to it, and if you are sane, you prefer being close to your target than aiming to the target. So sit down and be relax, the name of the place you are doing that in, is rest room! And why you waste your time and energy in cleaning bathrooms? You can save it for more useful affairs by reducing the need of bathroom to be cleaned!
As for those who say "peeing while standing is of a few pleasures of a man!", I should say that a man is more valuable than way of peeing places as his pleasure and property! It does not fit a man to consider that as his worth! Men have more valuable special abilities to be mentioned! And as for those who say "peeing while standing is much easier than doing it while sitting or squatting", I should say that bending over and pulling down pants, and keeping a part of panties down for a while and aim for a while both need an attempt; and the fact that which one is easier for a person depends on habit. The way in which one's habit is based on, is easier for that one, and to which you habit, it will be easier for you! As God has made the ability of peeing while standing easily in guys, it must have an advantage, and yes it has. In men's jobs some times urgent situations happen, and some times they have to do some thing in a short time when the speed is important, and some times men have situations that they can't sit or squat or are in places where sitting or squatting is not easily possible; in such times they can use their ability of peeing while standing easily. But these urgent times just some times happen, not always! So I think there should be a project for men to stop, or to say better, manage peeing while standing. One group are already doing that and their site is: http://www.mapsu.org . As I mentioned, there are some occations when it's needed to pee standing up, then it happens for both men and women! So what should women do? So easy, they can instantly pee standing up using a small device, one is here: http://www.travelmateinfo.com/page002.html .
However, it will be great if the current way of peeing of guys in toilets and bathrooms, in the most parts of the world changes.
Ali, he and I see things in the same light here.