March 31, 2005

A New Addition to the Three-legged Footstool of Evil©

I finally got Dana of The Origin of Soul on the blogroll. It's always nice to have poets who don't speak in limerick on the roll. She's also been a great sport and commenter, and a sensitive peach.

Which is always good, as the only sensitivity in me these days is in my gums.

Posted by Velociman at 10:11 PM | Comments (3)

Let The Games Begin

This post should provide some interesting conversation, both in the blogosphere and at Jekyll.

Myself, I sit on the sidelines for these things. Of course, in my line of business I've had to visit nasty train wrecks from time to time, and offer dispassionate opinion to a most passionate situation, so I don't take work home.

As for the topic, I prefer to focus on pussy as a reward. Don't really care what behavior elicited it, either. Can't really say it's ever been used against me as a weapon, though. Except for the gladiator sex, of course. But there were ground rules there.

Posted by Velociman at 7:49 PM | Comments (12)

March 30, 2005

Killer Rabbits

Consider this a late Easter tale, a cautionary tale. The Senator suffered from a mild case of adult diabetes, diet-controlled, meaning he merely had to stay away from sugar as a rule. The old man had a Sweet Tooth to match his Liquor Tooth, however, a matched set, and he was envious of our Easter bounty.

My mother always bestowed upon us kids, as the pinnacle of the basket, a huge chocolate rabbit. Not one of those hollow ones, but a ten inch tall solid milk chocolate bunny. The kind a child could gnaw on for a week, and stay in a blissful autistic sugar coma the whole while. I swear we were always a rabbit or two from insulin shock, and dialysis.

Now, since the Senator couldn't enjoy such goodness, he would go upstairs and brood a bit. Then, in the middle of the night, he would slip out of bed, no doubt mix a knock or two, and rifle the baskets for a pristine bunny. My mother would awaken the next morning to a passed out Senator, all asnore, with the wretched remains of a chocolate rabbit on his bedside table. He couldn't eat the whole thing, of course, but christamighty he'd eat half of one. A pound or so. Always started with the ears and worked his way down.

And so one of us would check their basket on a Monday morning to find an AWOL bunny, and we would traipse upstairs together, the five of us, to see what damage had been done.

A chocolate rabbit torso is a sad sight, indeed, even with feet intact. It's like a crime scene. They didn't have yellow tape back then, but it would have been an excellent idea to rope off the old man with DO NOT CROSS ribbon, and taken a picture or two.

Posted by Velociman at 10:04 PM | Comments (3)

The Taste of Aloe

This post on plant killing, which I am a master of, got me to thinking of aloe. My mother always kept aloe plants growing, because we kids were salt water river rats, and constantly burning our fair honky skins. Water skiing and fishing, a lot of hanging out on the dock. We roasted, being oblivious in those days of skin cancer. Blisters were just a fact of life.

So the aloe was a blessing on the third degree epidermis searing. A bit slimy, but that was part of the emollient nature that made it so soothing.

Aloe is a succulent, a water-storer, and I was always impressed as a child by survival techniques. I would search for water-retaining weeds in the fields and woods, anything that would keep one alive. Weird. And so I acquired a strange taste for aloe. Not tasty in a bourbon or beefsteak way, but an evocative taste nonetheless.

I outgrew this, of course, but for some reason every now and then I will break off a piece of aloe, and give it a taste. It takes me home.

Posted by Velociman at 8:48 PM | Comments (12)

Wherein I Rethink My Approach

From Instapundit:

Is there anything more collegiate than sitting out on a blanket in front of your dorm on a nice spring day?

Well, yes, actually. Fornicating, drug abuse, and spree drinking come to mind.

But I must be in the minority here, because I'm not whipping out my Sitemeter in front of Reynolds anytime soon.

Although, you know, there are other metrics, should he accept the challenge.

Posted by Velociman at 12:22 AM | Comments (8)

March 29, 2005

I Have Been Targeted

By Sillybirds.

Fortunately I wear a flak jacket.

Posted by Velociman at 11:58 PM | Comments (8)

Return to the Hog Pen Road

The Hog Pen Road is writ large in the archives somewhere, I believe, but I'm too lazy to look, and too prideful to recycle. So a revisit is in order.

About 200 yards down the dirt road in front of our farm house the Hog Pen Road cut a swath through the swamps. It wasn't really a road, of course. Just an earthen dike backhoed through the middle of a primordial swamp. Barely wide enough to support the Ranchero, I'm sure a Suburban would have slid into the quicksands. A queasy ride on a dry day, it was a nightmare on a muddy one.

This swamp was the headwaters, the springs, that ran downhill a few hundred feet to the south to form what was known as Lake Number One at Griffin Lakes. This was a natural lake, if such it could be called. Cedar stumps and cyprus and water moccasins were the order of the day, but it was great fishing for the intrepid.

Lake Number Two ran just south again. It was the first attempt to take advantage, in 1930's technology, of watersheds, gravity, and hydrology, to create a recreational lake. It failed, ultimately, due to water table issues, more snakes, stumps that would pop up at will. No sane soul would swim in that thing.

And so the visionary Griffin (I suppose) built a concrete spillway, and dug even farther south, and created Lake Number Three. Now this one was okay. Large enough to waterski in, although most folks came for the weekend or the week like second generation Okies to camp on the banks, bathe, wash clothes, and baptize in the algaefied waters. I myself attended several sunrise services at Easter there. Interestingly, Number Three was fed by springs on the southern end, which was where the garbage dump for the community was, and I suppose now that algae was the byproduct of some seriously fetid seepage. I'm surprised we didn't all die of cholera.

But back to the Hog Pen Road. When I say primordial I do not exaggerate. Alligators and cottonmouths were the only denizens of note. Shorty Lamb told us gila monsters lived there, and went to great lengths to attest to their poisonous qualities, he having supposedly collected them in Texas, and we knew no better. To carry a cane pole down that dike, even with a Daisy pump, was whistling through the graveyard.

My brother and I hiked it a few times, but we were small, 9 and 7 maybe, and we knew if a gator got us our parents would never know what happened to us. It was mock bravery on our parts, but we did it a few times. We were Rat Patrollers.

A few years later my older siblings packed ten of us in a Beetle and made it from beginning to terminus, about 400 yards to Georgia 17, and that assuaged the fear a bit, but I dream about the Hog Pen Road to this day. And they ain't good dreams.

Post scriptum: and as far as metaphor goes, this is the best I can do.

Posted by Velociman at 9:17 PM | Comments (3)

March 28, 2005

Grinder Monkey

It's like blogging, I think, but with loose change.

Posted by Velociman at 8:31 PM | Comments (14)

March 25, 2005


Travolta is in and out of town, setting up production for a film shoot. Imagine my dismay when I realized this thing, called Lonely Hearts, is based on Ray Fernandez and Martha Beck, two killers who preyed on lonely hearts respondents in the 1940's. In other words, this is a remake of Leonard Kastle's brilliant 1970 classic The Honeymoon Killers.

Fuck all. The original is so dark, so depraved, so far beyond noir it is generally considered a crime to even consider a remake. An entire soundtrack of Gustav Mahler, Shirley Stoller as Martha Beck, you can't go there.

I, for one, won't spend a penny on this travesty. Goddam Scientologists.

Wait. I had a picture somewhere. Yes. Here it is:

Mo Bettah.

Posted by Velociman at 9:09 PM | Comments (5)

On Being a Buffoon

Have you ever dressed up as an animal? I mean a full costume. Mascot. Chicken on the street corner. Promotional gig. Funny how, even though you have complete anonymity in a rig like that, you're still embarrassed as hell, and flush crimson if you see someone you know. Sort of like having an anonymous blog, and still being embarrassed posting about that terrible mistake in the bathhouse, with the ecstasy. I suppose.

I did a stint as Barney at my daughter's kindergarten carnival many years ago. Even in that purple getup I was embarrassed. I eased the tension by saying things to the children as they visited me:

"Barney thinks your mom's a fricking hottie."

"Mommie can prevent dinosaur extinction if she sits in my lap."

That sort of thing. Still, whereas any other anonymous costume allows one to be far more outlandish and outrageous, and act the fool, a ridiculous beastie outfit just kind of puts a damper on the freedom of the incognito. Or so I've found.

Posted by Velociman at 4:28 PM | Comments (5)

March 24, 2005

Is She Dead Yet?

Sorry. I know that's cruel. But it's a damnable thing when a veg can steal your thunder.

Posted by Velociman at 10:36 PM | Comments (7)

I Was Kissed By A Seal At The Zoo

Okay. I realize you are waiting for the sordid details, but they won't be forthcoming. Because that is merely a picture book I read when I was six.

I'm thinking a sequel is in order, though. Here:

I Was Deep-Throated By A Bull Walrus At The Ross Ice Shelf International Geophysical Station In Antarctica.

Working title, of course.

Posted by Velociman at 10:27 PM | Comments (5)

Waterfront Tales: the Indians

I used to get one container ship a week from the Indians, and one breakbulk ship a month. Containerships are great. In and out in eight hours, the cranes can move 40 or 50 containers an hour. No chance for the crew to even go ashore, and contract cruel diseases. The Life at Sea ain't what it used to be, poor lads.

The Indians stuffed 20 foot containers with manhole covers. That is all they shipped. They would cram 50,000 pounds of manhole covers in these containers, because you couldn't put 100,000 pounds in a 40 foot container. No crane could lift it, no truck pull it. As the covers were on wood pallets, USDA always wanted to inspect them for boreworms, and such, Indian wood being notorious for such parasites.

I used to have a friend, a USDA inspector, black guy named Joe, who was the salt of the earth. But he would call me up and chew my ass. Every time he opened a manhole container they were wedged in such that about 3,000 pounds of manhole covers would pour out, and damned near kill him. Just a fucking eight foot tall cascade of manhole covers, lethal as holy hell.

"Ha ha ha," I would say. "You should leave my cargo alone, Joe." He did not share my sense of the absurd, unfortunately.

The breakbulk ships were better. Filled with jute carpet backing for the mills in Dalton, and steel pipe for the mini-mills in Birmingham. Breakbulk is almost a thing of the past, except for the huge stuff like jute that can't fit in a container, and bulk product like grain or petroleum. The bulk ships would stay for three or four days, and you could get to know the captains. As I've said before, the Sikhs traveled alone, and I had to conjure parties with American girls for them. The Hindus generally traveled with their wives, and so you could interface with them more.

Indians are the greatest, most polite, peoples on the earth. They took the best of the colonial Raj, the British sense of correctness, and eschewed the baser instincts. Of course, I must confess the Indian class system leaves the British behind. Even the Brits don't have Untouchables. But that is a class nuance I never really understood, and the Untouchables prepared the food, so there you have it.

Wonderful folk. Lavishers of gifts. Scotch, saris, shoes, sandals. There is nothing more eye-opening than a breakfast of curry eggs at 4 am too, by the way. Especially if you crack the Johnny Walker Black upon docking at 3 am. Glorious.

Jute. Pipe. Manhole covers. Old School. Now they are famous for tech work, and customer service centers. Which is great, because they used to have to pack 50 people on a vessel to feed them. So the next time you are forced to ask "How's the Black Hole?" as you are waiting for an answer to why your Windows crashed, remember: they could have been packing jute.

Posted by Velociman at 9:05 PM | Comments (6)


The prescient Key predicted 15 comments on that last post, and as of this writing I believe she nailed it true. Self-fulfilling prophecy? Dunno. But I feel like Jackson Pollack the first time he passed out drunk with a can of paint on a canvas and scored his first $10,000.

Except for the part where I score the ten large, of course.

Posted by Velociman at 7:35 PM | Comments (3)

March 23, 2005


Posted by Velociman at 9:59 PM | Comments (26)

March 22, 2005

Marathon Man

Catfish mentioned a dentist he had a problem with on Jones Street in Savannah in the 1960's. By damn, I think that was my guy. Not many dentists on Jones Street. This sadistic bastard filled every tooth in my head when I was a young whelp, and he never used Novocaine. Ever. I didn't know the shit existed until I was 18. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure those teeth had cavities.

Jones was one of the few streets in Savannah that still had cobblestones, and I can remember the fear, the knot in my gut, turning onto that street. That drilling hurt like a motherfucker.

I don't know what the hell my mother was thinking, but that cocksucker was a fucking butcher. I still go weak kneed going to the dentist, but I am armed with knowledge of drugs now. I insist on a Valium drip for a cleaning.

Posted by Velociman at 8:24 PM | Comments (12)


After eliminating Karl Rove, The Mutant unleashed his telepathic powers on a hapless W...

Posted by Velociman at 3:19 PM | Comments (4)

March 21, 2005

In The Grip of the Grippe...

I've been ill. The Sickness Unto Death ill. Fortunately I received quite a few RSVP's to my Phlegm Ball tomorrow, and I intend to pass the hat, and announce the Phlegm Princess at a later date.

Codeine. Goose. Lemurs. Sclerotic investment bankers. Buckdancing chipmunks.

I'm gonna take inner counsel in my dope addled brain, and proffer my advice in the morning.

Posted by Velociman at 10:26 PM | Comments (8)

EBay Has Let Me Down

I have been searching in vain for a new, or vintage, Greyhound Professional Motorcoach Operator's uniform. I get to see quite a few of these as the "bus drivers" wander next door to my building for a cup of real coffee instead of the ground bones of Cambodian killing fields victims, coloured with brown crayon, that they serve at the bus station, in a sordid business deal with the emperors of Ho Chi Minh City.

I tell you, that's one smart uniform. If anything exudes authority, macho, and sexual swagger it is the Greyhound driver's uniform. I'm figuring Brando and Dean had one or two in their wardrobes. I must have one.

This will of course expand my role-playing abilities, too. I'm thinking Exasperated Driver and Obstreperous Slattern in Seat 12. Works for me.


See? Stud. Looks like a Tuskeegee Airman, dammit.

Posted by Velociman at 7:51 PM | Comments (7)

March 20, 2005

Been There

Well, except for the part where the shoe filled up. Never been there.

Posted by Velociman at 9:27 PM | Comments (7)

You Better Not Flinch!

My great-grandfather was a blacksmith, and owned a farm in Pine Mountain, Georgia, then known as Chipley. It is where my father was born. During the Depression my grandfather was working in Atlanta, but during the summers he would send my father down to the farm to "fatten him up".

My great-grandfather was apparently a mean old cuss, because my father said when he was seven, eight, nine, his job was to hold the tongs while his grandfather beat horseshoes on the anvil. The only instructions he ever received were "You better not flinch!" Because white hot flecks of metal would fly off the shoes, and land on his bare arms. A flinch in such a circumstance would earn you a whipping, so he learned to ignore the burning flecks of metal, and hang on to those tongs.

My father said his grandfather once had an abscessed tooth. He stuck an icepick into his forge for a few minutes, then he... well, I'll let my father describe it:

"He RAM it up there and let the pus drip out." My father would invariably move his forefinger up and down at this part of the story, to simulate the cascading pus droplets. He loved to tell that story.

Sterner stuff than I'm made out of, that's for sure. I get queasy popping a back zit.

Posted by Velociman at 6:37 PM | Comments (8)

March 19, 2005

Butterbean Beach

Savannah: as one leaves Pinpoint, home of Clarence Thomas, and heads across the causeway to Skidaway Island, there is a boat landing just past Johnny Mercer's Moon River. Couple miles from Acidman's young stomping grounds. I have no idea what the proper name of that boat ramp is, but the locals call it Butterbean Beach.

While the locals plunge their boats into the water for a day of skiing and fishing, a cohort of misfits sunbathe and drink red liquor to the smell of exhaust fumes, and calumny, on the shore. A strange sight it is. I've never actually lingered at Butterbean Beach, but I've certainly put a boat or two in. It is like having a traveling trailer park follow you around. Bad drugs. Bad people. Girls with caterpillar eyebrows. You know the drill.

Butterbean Beach is a fucking bummer, but not a bad place to catch up on gossip, and see some shit. If Rob and Catfish deny knowing the Beach they are lying through their tooth.

Posted by Velociman at 9:13 PM | Comments (16)

A Recollection

My old man suffered from Alzheimer's Disease his last three years or so, and that is a sobering, frightening thing. Sobering in that you get to witness a brilliant mind turn to oatmeal before your eyes, frightening in that it is genetic in some form or other. Very sad indeed to see a formidable intellect find humor and solace in a sailboat race because the spinnakers are pretty, in a supermarket buggy because the front wheel is askew.

There were moments of comic relief, fortunately. In particular I recall the Senator attempting to jump start a smoldering fire in the fireplace. His solution was to fill a juice glass with 87 octane gasoline, and throw it on the wood. For some reason none of us interfered, and it was ennobling to see him, explosive flames licking his eyebrows, hollering "BURN, BABY, BURN!" as the tinder ignited, and the blaze reflected in his reading spectacles, melting the plastic frames even, and he with a shit-eating grin on his face.

He was like that. Even when in control of his faculties. Push that envelope. Make it burn. Joy in immolation. A strange and wonderful man. Half Ambrose Bierce, half William Faulkner. I miss that old fart.

Posted by Velociman at 7:56 PM | Comments (3)

Rubbah, Rubbah

Isn't that what Michael Jackson told those boys to do to his little piece of gristle? Yes, I suppose it is, but that's not what I'm talking about.

Put new rubbah on the truck today, and it is very nice. Goodyear Fortera. Seems when a man gets down to a quarter inch of tread it's very emasculating. No game there. But I have huge tread, and machismo now. I can corner, baby. I can drive it home. Don't get me started on laying drag.

Got me some rubbah.

Posted by Velociman at 6:49 PM | Comments (0)

March 18, 2005

Apres Nihilism

Here is a picture my uncle took when I was literally a babe in arms:

I believe the medical experts call that a Persistent Vegetative State, but I seem to be enjoying it. In fact, I enjoy it to this day. I just needed to find a new woman to feed my indolence. Drop me a line. Doubt I'll answer unless it's new diaper day, and they are forced to waken me, but my personal secretary will no doubt send a pic.

And how old is this picture? Well, it ain't coincidence that I look like Dwight Eisenhower.

Posted by Velociman at 9:20 PM | Comments (5)


I ain't finding my centered spot. One should have that of a Friday night, but as I was vigorously scrubbing my feng shui in this shower this morning I thought: You ain't centered, boy.

And so I suppose I'll have to wade through my prior infatuations with nichiren shoshu Buddhism, Catholicism, crystals, narcotics, and necromancy, just to prove to myself that my current infatuation with nihilism is a profound and rewarding thing. It fits like a damned glove, actually. A leather glove.

Posted by Velociman at 8:13 PM | Comments (8)

March 17, 2005

Catfish Pic

Because he was there. Sorry quality, of course. Cellpic, no experience.

Posted by Velociman at 11:45 PM | Comments (7)

Lest Ye Doubt

Acidman and I have had an undercurrent of incompatibility over the whole shinizzle thing. I can appreciate Rob's dismissal of hip hop culture, and whitey's cavalier amusement with such. F'ar enough, as they say in the hollers of West Virginia, down by the Greenbrier.

I will submit this, though: I bought a house on Memorial Drive in Atlanta in 1981. $19,000. I was going to get the jump on the gentrification yuppies by going four blocks south of their wildest dreams. Well, I succeeded.

The Bride and I were the only white folk in a three square mile area. Gentrification stopped three blocks north at the Stop n Cop. South, east, and west were Indian Territory. I had fuckers free-basing in my crawl space (the CIA hadn't invented crack yet, nor spread it to the east coast), screwheads breaking into my house and stealing my pistols, threats of rape and bodily damage on a daily basis.

My next door neighbors on both sides were awesome. But even they were compelled to say, after six months, "KC, you have to get the fuck out of here. You ain't welcome. Your wife is, you ain't. I can only keep the wolves off so long."

And so my blighted experiment in Social Justice, and Assimilation, came a cropper. I moved to 6th Place, near Piedmont Park, to a brick condo, with association fees. It was very stuffy after flailing foodstamps at the Food Giant cashier, though, so I moved back to Savannah shortly thereafter. Reagan Recession story. And much more.

That house on Memorial Drive was later a crack house, then a fire victim.

My whole point being, Rob, I can play shinizzle. Been there, done it, ripped off the t shirt. And I know the difference between joke, and reality.

Posted by Velociman at 10:47 PM | Comments (5)

Death and Mayhem in the Town Square

It is a savage world, Intrepids. Flynny's service station friend was brutally murdered last night in an act of despicable barbarity. Senseless, evil. I hope they catch the bastard and Taser his ass to death in a series of apprehension accidents. It is unnerving and appalling when such violence visits your little slice of heaven.

Flynny spoke to me about it today, and we talked about the attachments you form with your local merchants. The people that take care of you day in and out, and who are salt of the earthers who largely go unheralded, but are a vital part of your daily existence. She was quite moved, and eloquent, although her post is even more so.

So it was when I stopped at my local wine and spirits merchant today, and learned he had died of a massive coronary. Trust me when I say he was an integral part of my world. A retired Navy man from Boston, who shared much enthusiasm and joy with me over the last few years, especially when the Bosox won the World Series, and the Patriots won another Super Bowl. All I can say is Ron died the happiest of sports fans. I'll miss our conversations, and his unbridled joie de vivre.

Local merchants. The corpuscles of the body economic. They really do become a part of your life. And a terrible hole is created when they are gone.

To Brandon, Flynny. May he be avenged, or at least justice rendered. And to Ron.

Posted by Velociman at 7:21 PM | Comments (7)

March 16, 2005

Uh, Fore!

Next week is The Players Championship at TPC Sawgrass in Ponte Vedra Beach. The "fifth major". A great tournament in that the field is comprised of the top money winners from the previous season. The best golfers in the world, in other words. Also the biggest purse on the tour. No amateurs, no old 92-year-old codgers with lifetime exemptions, just the best golf of the year.

The Players Championship will never have the cachet of The Masters, or British Open, of course. History. Tradition. Amen Corner. Bobby Jones. St. Andrews. Royal Troon. Etcetera, etcetera.

I would submit, however, that TPC is a better tournament than the PGA Championship, and rivals the U.S. Open. The Stadium Course at Sawgrass was made for nut-wrenching golf at its best, and is the ultimate spectator-friendly course in the world. The island hole at 17 alone quivers the soul.

At any rate, I'll be there. I smell a mini-meet, too, should anyone be visiting Where The Wild Hairs Grow.

Posted by Velociman at 8:10 PM | Comments (6)

Like Bigfoot, Only Smaller

Sightings of the black dwarf are rare, and I was off my game when I espied him in my peripheral vision today, but I was able to get a poor shot off with the phone. Just so you don't think I'm, you know, bullshitting you. Note the cane. I believe it is an affectation, as he walks fine, but he is arrogant, and seeks attention at times. Just not from me.

Posted by Velociman at 7:12 PM | Comments (12)

March 15, 2005

A Fellow Sense of Self-Entitlement

I thought someone was going to call me out for ghostwriting this haiku. Hell, even I had to check twice to make sure it wasn't me. 'Tis a lonely trip to the mailbox, ain't it, Key?

Posted by Velociman at 11:25 PM | Comments (2)

In the Bag

A mighty finish to the Blog Noir from Sadie. Incredible efforts by the talented authors.

When does filming start?

Posted by Velociman at 10:12 PM | Comments (4)

Achtung, Babies

I am calling Vickie at the Days Inn at Jekyll tomorrow and releasing whatever rooms are unreserved lest I be charged for them. Regular readers know I abhor eating extra rooms, even on an empty stomach.

Here endeth my stint as an administrative assistant. You are on your own now.

If you want to see me you'll have to find me. I will offer up that I am bringing golf clubs, half rubbers, a broomstick, the bullwhip, a 5-gallon mud bucket of Chatham Artillery Punch, and a tan that will make George Hamilton cry like a fucking baby. I will likely be busy on the beach with any combination of these devices. The concept of three miles of continuous sandtraps is appallingly luring.

And here endeth the epistle.

Posted by Velociman at 8:57 PM | Comments (12)

March 14, 2005

I'm Confused, Yet Again

My daughters have been calling me Velociman ever since I got home today, and sniggering. Educate me, but that's a bad thing, right?

Posted by Velociman at 9:35 PM | Comments (11)

From the Inbox

This, from some guy named Fair Pwincess, aka one Jack Johnson, in reply to this post:

i bet every single one of you would let me blow u and fuck my arse in a second!

who made us gay people the "queens" of fashion???Society. Women predominantly. Women started to stop looking at you fat redneck slobs and started looking at gay guys who took pride in their appearance and social manner. And then all of a sudden fricken "straight" homophobic idiots come along and decide to steal the idea and become all "metro".

Gay people will always have better taste than hetero fat fucks. so you guys can get off your homophobic high horses and honestly get a life!!

dont u have anything better to do with yourselves than to put down gay people and the gay revolution which only wants equality?

I couldn't have said it better myself. Really, I couldn't.

Posted by Velociman at 8:57 PM | Comments (17)

A Serendipitous Encounter

As I was departing Savannah today, and about to onramp I-16, it dawned on me that I needed sustenance. I was quite starved, and the eleven margaritas I'd had the night before with Rob and the crew were taking their toll.

I U-turned and headed to downtown, looking for soup, actually. I happened to see the Six Pence Pub, and went in for sweet tea, a corner to chain smoke with trembling hand and wetted brow, and shrimp chowder.

As I cast a nervous glance about the place who did I see but A---, my high school senior English teacher. This is the selfsame person I recently posted about breaking and entering on, and stealing his Thanskgiving turkey, and liquor. I had not seen him in 30 years, and, in fact I believe the last time I saw him was the morning after the heist, when I returned what was left of the turkey and liquor, and apologized.

I walked over and introduced myself, and we had a good chat. He was aware my brother was in town and doing well, and I felt better after we talked, although I was still under the effects of the earthquake pills.

I did not mention the turkey, however. Although I sense he detected my continuing fondness for John Barleycorn.

Posted by Velociman at 8:16 PM | Comments (6)

March 13, 2005

The Awful Downside of Baching it

I'm up at 3:30 for the simple reason that I can't recall when I passed out. I awoke to the spectacle of a perfectly seasoned New York strip steak awaiting cooking, neglected. I may cook it now, as I am famished.

I apparently need guidance, and rote discipline. Which clashes with my issues with authority, but you can't have it all.

Posted by Velociman at 3:57 AM | Comments (4)

Wherein I Take Umbrage...

I cannot believe I didn't get 100 comments on the Marmite tasting. That was sheer genius, and I had been holding the tasting close to my vest for several months, waiting for the right moment. I was very pleased with the outcome: you were not. Which leads me to consider:

You're a bunch of assholes.

Posted by Velociman at 3:45 AM | Comments (13)

March 12, 2005

A Beautiful Sight

I was sitting on the lanai today, talking on the phone to this reprobate amigo, and a bald eagle flew right over me at rooftop level. There are two nesting pairs within five miles of me, but I seldom see them. The osprey around here are plentiful and tend to scare off the larger eagles out of sheer numbers, and prodigious fishing activities. I think the eagles like to take their own counsel, hunt their own grounds, and avoid the magpies of the raptor set.

Anyhow, it was a pleasant spectacle. And another reason to keep bunnies handy. Hasenpfeffer and spurned psycho boiling on the kitchen stove being the other reasons.

Posted by Velociman at 5:49 PM | Comments (2)

Miss Elva

Rob's mom passed away this morning. It's a tough, tough thing to lose your mama. I lost mine six years ago, and think about her every day.

Please drop Rob a line, and keep him in your thoughts.

Posted by Velociman at 9:17 AM | Comments (0)

A Feast of Snakes 2

I noticed at Dizzy-Girl's that today is the annual rattlesnake roundup in Claxton. Weren't we supposed to have a blogmeet there at one point? I forget.

Posted by Velociman at 9:00 AM | Comments (3)

March 11, 2005

Where's My Monkey?

If you are like me (and, yes, I realize you aren't) you wanted a monkey pet growing up. Better than dogs and cats, right? Almost human! A monkey can learn shit, after all.

My parents always said NYET! and they were right, of course. Monkeys shit everywhere, and are foul creatures. But you always grudgingly admired the monkey owner, right? I dunno. I could use a monkey now, if only to do my job. I am apparently incapable.

Posted by Velociman at 10:44 PM | Comments (6)


My first post using my new wireless network card on the laptop. My tech guy ordered it for me. It dials a Verizon wireless number and instant wireless broadband, baby. Who gets the bill? Fuck, I don't know! I don't care, either. He said don't worry about it, so I won't.

Poolside blogging, bachelor weekend, likka, hell yes. All I need now is for the Mutant to mix my drinks, and grill me a steak. Sweet!

Posted by Velociman at 7:05 PM | Comments (9)

A Vile Experiment

When Christina was in England she brought me some Marmite back, because I'd always wanted to taste the stuff. It is the scourings, the dregs, of the brewing process, and I was told it was foul. Well, Chrissy came through:

Since tasting this was going to be an obscene proposition, however, I decided to sub out the work to my alter ego Don the Porn Star Fight Promoter:

The proof is in the pudding. Or the mouth. Here it are:

All in all a disgusting experience. Nasty, nasty stuff. Don had a problem with aftertaste:

Don't try this at home, kids. Don almost passed out, and he's all alone tonight. Could have busted his head open.

Thanks, Christina! Next time you're over there I'll take a kilt from Harrod's.

Posted by Velociman at 5:37 PM | Comments (10)

March 10, 2005

Goin' Mobile

There is nothing more wrenching than a daughter who's rolled her vehicle, and then feels aggrieved when she must slip-seat with the parents for a ride. I believe I was supposed to give her my car, and fend for myself until I could find a suitable replacement for her. Strange how things didn't work out that way.

But I must confess I think the sense of entitlement gene is apparently inherited, so I cannot fault her. I created this. All this to say I replaced the Mountaineer with a 2002 Explorer. She had a psychological need for similar hardware, and I am nothing if not obliging (except to everyone else, of course).

And so she is freewheeling again, and somehow I walked away from this with injuries only to my wallet. So be it.

Posted by Velociman at 7:24 PM | Comments (10)

March 9, 2005


For some reason I have been graced with a plethora of male coworkers who suffer from halitosis. And I'm not talking about good old-fashioned bad breath from garlic, or Grey Goose indulgence, or unflossed teeth, or espresso breath. I'm talking clinical chemical fetidness and imbalance, peptic and duodenal disgust.

What the fuck is that all about? They have spouses. Don't they experience it??? Christ. The Bride would have me at the doctor if I was exuding this horrific stuff.

Very weird. I've never met a woman that has this problem. Oh, the cycles of the moon change a woman's breath, to be sure. There are certain tastes, a pallette of them, that accompany menses. But this is different.

The funny thing is these people are all in sales. Buttonholers. Collargrabbers. Close talkers. One way to skin a cat, I suppose, but they aren't selling me anything.

I want a fucking cease and desist order on the halitosis. Or at the very least a pill to cure it.

Posted by Velociman at 11:56 PM | Comments (13)

En Français

I've been catching a fair amount of shit over my affection for Grey Goose vodka. So be it. I run a public forum here, primarily because I need the fodder to prove myself infallible.

For the record, here are other things French I like:

The French kiss

The French twist

The Foreign Legion

The French Tickler

The French Connection (Hackman fan)

The Velociphallus Eiffel Tower

The Citroën

Le Tour de France

Edith Piaf

The seine net


The shameless consumption of horseflesh in Marseilles

Uncle? Cry uncle, damn it.

Posted by Velociman at 11:15 PM | Comments (12)

A Brief Recap on my Absence

And so: breakfast at the governor's mansion was good, despite the soggy French toast, and a huge surly dog standing in the kitchen whenever the staff opened the doors to bring out food and coffee. What the hell was that all about? A big Rottweilery thing just standing in the kitchen, shedding, no doubt, licking plates and utensils, no doubt. Maybe that's a Georgia Dispose-all.

Met Sonny Perdue. Nice, affable fellow, and the kind of guy you can imagine being a real nut buster in his General Assembly days, a ruthless operator in the Machiavellian world of Georgia politics. I wouldn't want to get crosswises with him. That's a fact.

A bright note: I met former U.S. Senator and ambassador Mack Mattingly after breakfast, a long time hero of mine, and after chatting him up about his Senate career you know I was compelled to ask him, well, here's the exchange:

V: I've always wanted to ask you, Senator: what were the Seychelles Islands like, dude?

M: Nice....

V: Sweet!

M: Dude!

Or something like that. Asked him about tsunami damage, being the caring soul I am. He said it was not extensive, and the girls are still hot. Dude, sweet! I said.

Photo op at the Capitol later. Twenty or so of us and Sonny signing a proclamation. Don't know if I'll see a copy of those pics, but if I get one I'll post it.

Long day. Back to the River City and an SUV purchase for V Daughter 1 to replace the crushed one.

I am whipped, like an old dog with urinary issues.

Posted by Velociman at 9:18 PM | Comments (6)

March 7, 2005

Blech Blog

Customer dinner tonight. Which meant two Grey Goose on the rocks with those dog testicle olives at the Omni, followed by a strip steak at Morton's the size of an otter. I'm really out of entertainment shape. My rather ascetic diet of late isn't enured to these rich repasts.

With the steak was, course, two bottles of merlot, baked potato, salad, asparagus (I shall take solitary counsel with the smell of my urine for the next 16 hours).

The group was good. An Aussie, a Taiwanese, a girl from California whose parents are from Shanghai, a Brooklyner, and a Rhode Islander. Eclectic enough to be interesting, with a mutual love of the New York strip. But I suffer from Jabba bloat. I've never binged and purged, but it's looking pretty enticing right about now.

Glad I had the espresso.

Update: Okay, I feel better now. I am a firm believer that belching is as effective as leeches at dispelling the vile humours. Wish I'd gotten the key lime pie now.

Posted by Velociman at 10:06 PM | Comments (9)

March 6, 2005

Ha Ha Ha!

We mutts out there can empathize with this.

Posted by Velociman at 11:22 PM

A Bad Day

When I was in seventh grade I wore a new pair of houndstooth britches to school. This was before the days of blue jean chic. Jeans were still called dungarees, and it was a sign of your hayseed quotient to wear them, especially in a hayseed environment like Effingham County was at the time. But everyone wore jeans anyway, because that's all they had. Except for me and my brothers, of course. My mother insisted on dressing us up like the city slickers we were, lest there be any possibility of, you know, fucking assimilating.

So anyway, on this day, in the yard by the gym, this girl jumped me from behind, and kicked my ass. Well, she was bigger than me, 9th grader, and she got the jump. But I'm pretty sure she would have taken me anyway. I was 11, she was probably 15, a serial repeater. I tore my trousers in the tumble. I'm pretty sure she wanted me. After she'd softened me up a bit. But she smelled of body odor and tobacco and tooth decay, and I wanted no part of it.

Of course I was whipped that night. By my mother for tearing those new britches, and by my dad for getting my ass kicked by a girl, and not even getting a kiss on the fat lip she gave me. It was a tough day, a tough year.

Posted by Velociman at 10:21 PM | Comments (9)

Punk Rock Girl

Skippy waxes romantic in his inimitable way. Must read.

Posted by Velociman at 8:40 PM | Comments (4)

Bat House

Rob wasn't sure what a bat box was, so here you go:

Box, house, whatever. I shot it from the bottom so he could see the slot at the bottom for the beasts to crawl in and nest. I'm not sure how many could fit in here, or if they share. This would probably handle two cozy, four very cozy.

And I figured out where it came from: Skeeter made it in school, so I'm glad they're teaching kids the proper things here. She did a jam up job, too.

Posted by Velociman at 7:17 PM | Comments (8)

Chapter Five

of the blog noir is up, and a fine, violent piece of work it is. Nice job, Liv.

Posted by Velociman at 1:08 PM | Comments (2)

Bat Box

Speaking of bats, I have a bat box that's been sitting on my dining room floor forever. I have no idea where it came from. I gave one to my mother once, but this ain't it, obviously. I need to hang it on my fence to attract some bats, who will repay my largesse by swallowing voluminous amounts of mosquitoes. At least that's the theory. God forbid I should catch dengue hemorrhagic fever while sipping on a cold one poolside. I should probably put up about twenty of these. Just to be on the safe side.

Posted by Velociman at 12:56 PM | Comments (15)

On the Batcave Wall...

Night Crossing, by Mort Kunstler. Lee and Stonewall Jackson retreat across the Potomac after the Battle of Sharpsburg. Jack gave me that. It lends some dignity to the squalor it resides amongst.

Posted by Velociman at 12:21 PM | Comments (5)

March 5, 2005

The Inconsolable Virtue of Light

Plants are interesting entities, as they as a rule open up to the light. Photosynthesis. Food. Nourishment. Some do not, of course. There are nocturnal plants, such as the evening primrose, that eschew it. But as a rule plants love the light.

Humans are different. Shine a light on a person and you are begging for trouble. Warts, blemishes, ignominies are splayed upon the ballfield. We are all, I suppose, a bit skittish about the remorseless light of day. It's a shame, though.

What is it about people that makes them seek the darkness, the hidey-hole? Community probation, for one thing. The measuring stick, for another. People love to skewer each other. I, for one, am ashamed of nothing I've done. Regret? Sure. Shame? Naw.

If this post makes no sense, then you can take solace in the fact that I, too, am struggling with the relevance of it.

Posted by Velociman at 11:21 PM | Comments (6)

What to Wear?

I'm having breakfast Wednesday morning at the governor's mansion in Atlanta as part of a Ports Authority function. I imagine that place can seat a couple hundred in a pinch, so I doubt I'll be bumping the fuzz with Sonny, but if I can get a pic I'll post it. I have a nice old Georgia flag Joe Frank Harris sent me when I was in college, but it certainly won't fit in my back pocket for an autograph.

Still, what can I wear that won't make my ass look big? Actually, at the rate I'm losing involuntary weight I may need buttock prosthetics to fill out my trou. I want my bum bum to look good for Sonny. Guys are like that. Aren't they???

Posted by Velociman at 9:25 PM | Comments (5)

On Biker Chic, Horse Farms, and Ketel One

The Bride and I escaped to St. Augustine for the night yesterday, both of us having had an horrific week for the most part, and decompression being required. It's only twenty miles from my house, but it is a completely different world.

As an aside, my little quadrant of northwest St. Johns County is horse farm country, and today's St. Augustine paper had an article on the loss of horse farm acreage to development, a sad thing. Although the number of horses is up to 817 from 1989's 250, the farms are 5 to 7 acre hobby farms now, as opposed to the old 40 or 50 acre horse farms that existed before. Only a few of those remain, the rest being sold off piecemeal for the filthy lucre of development dollars. The other problem is the road paving. All the dirt roads are getting asphalted, and there isn't much dirt road to ride one's horse on. But it's still a nice rural atmosphere, even if the horse farms are in freaking developments.

Back to St. Augustine: We stayed at the Casa Monica, which is the only four-star hotel around, then slummed at the Trade Winds, an excellent dive for live music. Bike Week in Daytona is starting, so there were plenty of bikers in the 'Winds, but that's fine with my blue jean and silk sports coat ass. I get along well with bikers, I just don't think I'd look good in leather chaps. As long as I refrain from mentioning the fact that I like my outer garments to cover my anus, we get along fine. Of course, I wasn't wearing my bicycle attire, which they consider equally faggotty. Note to self: I shall design bicycling chaps, to keep road grime off the discriminating cyclist. Then I'll open a bath house in Key West with the profits, and die a rich man with Kaposi's Sarcoma in five years. That's a plan.

So we were sitting with some dykes, a salt and pepper couple, and I was, against my inner counsel, swizzling double Ketel One vodkas on the rocks, with olives the size of dog testicles. The opening act was solo, a good act. He played Brown Eyed Girl, which I love. I love Van the Man. No problem. But when the main act played the same song later I looked at the dykes, and slurred something to the extent of "Brown Eye Girls or Back Door Betties?" I would like to think they didn't catch it, but the tone became decidedly icier. Ah, well.

Dinner at Harry's beckoned, although I couldn't eat it due to hiccoughs, so we staggered (well, I staggered) back to the room. The fucking farging No Smoking room. The entire building is non-smoking. They made me sign a disclaimer when I checked in stipulating I wouldn't smoke. Fancy that. Seemed reasonable at the time, but of course at 11 pm I was saying "Watch this!" and lighting three cigarettes simultaneously in my mouth in the room. Of course, I was standing on the toilet lid and blowing the smoke up the air vent, so it wasn't all that macho, but I enjoyed it.

That's pretty much all I remember until I awoke this morning with a layer of something that could only be mine own mucous covering my eyes, nostrils, mouth. I went down to the lobby like that and what? smoked a cigarette outside. In jeans around my scrotum, hair in fifty directions, bloodshot eyes, barefoot, facially encrusted. Leering in the window at the elegant Saturday brunchers, to their utter disgust.

Decompression, thy name is St. Augustine.

Posted by Velociman at 7:39 PM | Comments (6)

March 4, 2005

Ministering to the Children

Just when you think you've heard it all: I ofttimes keep the local real estate TV channel on in the background, the ubiquitous white noise, because it is interesting to see what is going on vis-a-vis one's investment, and both The Bride and I have licenses (although mine is of the unused, musty variety). But what the fuck:

I just watched an ad that called the upstairs playroom, what I would call the unnecessary space doting parents add on to accommodate their overwheening little whelps, the Children's Ministry!

I suppose that means where yupfucks minister to their childrens' needs. I call bullshit.

We had a childrens' ministry in my house growing up, too. That was your bedroom, where Dad ministered to you with a tiger tooth belt, and beat some damned appreciation into your sorry ass. If you needed a greater appreciation of "playspace" there was a most unusual territory called outside. If one was smart he took his special needs outside, lest his fucking ass get ministered to inside.

That model worked for me, although the underlying rage in some of my posts may lend the lie to the fact I needed a Childrens' Ministry, after all.

Posted by Velociman at 12:18 AM | Comments (5)

March 3, 2005

Praise the Lord

When The Bride and I were first married - or perhaps when we were still living together: I forget, as I recall those days with Saran corneas - we lived on the 12th floor of the Chatham Apartments, the highest residence in Savannah, with an expansive view of Forsyth Park. God, that was a great apartment. Downtown, two blocks from a grocery store, two blocks from Johnny Gannem's restaurant and liquor store, perfect. It was an old biddy home, but The Bride's grandmother lived there, and got us an in. There were only six people under 65 in the building, and we were two of them. All for $110 a month, utilities included.

Our favorite pasttime on Sunday mornings was to stagger across the street to Clary's Drugstore for breakfast - fast, greasy, atherosclerotic - and try to recreate the prior evening's events. After achieving a modicum of agreement we would return to the apartment, climb back into bed, and watch local soul preachers on television while smoking gold bud.

Our favorite was the Prophetess Idell Cheever amen!, who was a huge, glorious woman who could shame the socks off the most unrepentant congregant amen!, bellow fire and brimstone from a morbidly obese body amen! and wore huge, flowery hats that must have made her milliner rich as Croesus amen!

The Prophetess could bring it on, and she took no prisoners. Witnessing in the aisles, impromptu baptisms, fainting in thrall, knee-crawling abject confessionals, Springer had nothing on her. She had class, though. No laying on of hands. No audience plants. No money grubbing. No blathering in tongues. This was tent religion with electric guitar and snare drum, organ and lighting. Television as a vaste wasteland? You weren't watching what we were. Hell, occasionally I would stir from the haze and be actually, you know, moved. A fleeting thing, of course, but still. That is power.

Posted by Velociman at 10:36 PM | Comments (11)

March 2, 2005

Reason to Blog

I normally don't write for link solicitation without payment up front, but I'll make an exception in Christina's case. The question? Why do we blog?

I believe I'll answer in Letterman Top 10 format:

10. It is the thinking man's way to avoid one's family.

9. No matter how bad my day I can find someone who had a shittier one.

8. I meet people who share my odious and abominable tastes.

7. I occasionally run across a bit of writing I am compelled to reluctantly admit, "That ain't half bad".

6. There is occasional T & A in the blogosphere.

5. It is a way to exorcise daemons without resorting to the Gerber blade.

4. I get to party with my blogmates on occasion, a visceral and beautiful thing.

3. I can hone my skills for the novel I will write next, always next, year.

2. I can gratuitously insult total strangers, and be repaid in kind.

1. I get to use that memorable phrase the inimitable James Mason intoned in Salem's Lot, to wit: Kneel before the Master!

Posted by Velociman at 11:02 PM | Comments (8)

Requiem for a Pig

I haven't seen Billy the speckled piglet in about three weeks, leading me to believe he has been harvested, the last of his tribe culled. He was far too smart to get hit by a car. This was the diabolical work of Man.

It was inevitable, of course. His Sysiphean task was enormous, impossible. I just admired his struggle against the odds.

RIP, little hog. I should erect one of those roadside memorials I generally detest:

Four Legs Good

Posted by Velociman at 9:16 PM | Comments (14)

Evil Sulu Moment

I've been blogrolled by Shelley Long, and she's quoting Maya Angelou. I, for one, know why the caged Velociman sings.

Posted by Velociman at 12:20 AM | Comments (11)

March 1, 2005

Springtime in Beirut

It appears the Lebanese have snorted a big fat line of freedom, and are irreversibly committed to kicking the fucking Syrians out of their country after 25 years of helpful occupation.

Goddam Bush. You see the shit he's causing?

Posted by Velociman at 11:09 PM | Comments (1)

I Get Confused

It is 1:08, and I am tearing into a box of Girl Scout Tagalongs. That makes me something, but I am not sure what.

Posted by Velociman at 1:12 AM | Comments (10)