I certainly have mine, but at least I am able to screw up with both of my lobster claws snapping. My poor friend Flynny is gimped to the maximum. Broketh her arm, she did.
Personal hygiene issues aside, how bad is it to have the use of only one arm?
Here you go.
It is a fiction, a mirage, that I control all of my monkeys. The cymbal bangers, the skirt lifters, the jackers off, the jeep-jeep-jeepers.
Fact is, those monkeys own me. The difference, the tipping point, is that I am a sentient being. I've compared the SATs, the GMATs, the LSATs. Kicked my monkeys' asses, I did. That nominally puts me in control.
I loves my fucking monkeys, but I am going on Safari. There is not room on Planet Velociworld for multiple primates. Usefulness is a qualitative term, and it will be a rather sad day when I pop a round in one of my monkeys, but Jumping Jesus. They are so damned fecund. Look: here comes another one:
Vexing, I say.
An altered state of consciousness in which a person may move about purposely and even speak but is not fully aware. A fugue state is usually a type of complex partial seizure. See: Seizure, complex partial.
By God, once you diagnosis yourself properly, the rest just falls into place.
Tomorrow is the World's Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party here in Jax, but I shan't be attending the game for a change. I'm bad luck for the Bulldogs. Plus the idea of paying $250 a ticket when the quarterback is down seems, well, cheeky. As luck would have it The Bride saw a client today who had given away 2 tickets a mere hour before, but as I say, I am bad luck. And I scream and lose my voice for 3 days when I go. And I run the risk of DUI, and the wetting of the britches. No, I shall stagger a few doors down to my neighbors' for the game. They let me pass out anywhere.
But to set the mood, a bit of flavah. In 1976 (29 years?? That was 29 years ago?!? Jumping Jesus! I must have been 5 or so!) my brother and cousin and I drove from Savannah to Jacksonville to see Eric Clapton. The Hello, Old Friend tour. Not Eric's finest moment, but enjoyable nonetheless, and he was smack-free. Had the Arkansas credit card for refueling, a bag of golden Columbian for level-setting, as HR departments call it now.
At any rate, as we were attempting to enjoy the show, there was a savagely wasted fellow at the front of the stage. After every song he would rise erect, shoulders back, and into the lull scream "Presence of the Lord! Presence of the Lord!" Seems this guy was a big Blind Faith fan, or just liked the song. Very annoying shit, as I was arched back screaming "Bell Bottom Blues!" but getting drownded out by this show-off, this upstart.
Did I mention he was wearing a Florida Gators T shirt? Oh, yes. Oh hell yes. The flagship uniform of the habitually fucked. And that is a Gator fan. When I was in Whistler in January aught-four it was kind of nice being away from Americans for a change, I must admit. Canucks, Chinee, Aussies, Brits. No Amerikaners. And yet, at dinner one night a drunken pustule staggered in to the restaurant, and disrupted everyone's dinner. Wearing, of course, a Florida Gators T shirt, the flagship uniform of the... well, you get the picture.
I am off. Change of plans. Screw the neighbors. Some friends have their boat docked by the stadium, and just called and insist we come party for the weekend. I'm not much of a partier myself, but to not attend would be poor form. Right?
I posted back in July '03, wondering where Rodney Allen Rippey was these days. Rodney used to make commercials back in the '70's. Cute little fellow.
And so Rodney commented at that post today:
Whats going on??? (Smile) I'm still hanging in there. I have 3 feaure films in development and I just did an interview with E! Entertainment and it will air in Nov. 05
Keep in touch you wacky people! hahaha
Rodney Allen Rippy!
As if I didn't need any more navel-gazing. Elisson and Leslie have turned me on to something that reeks of a m*me, almost, but it is too cool, too funny. The Frappr! map. Wherein one sets up a map of the continent, and peoples who find a common nexus add themselves if they feel neighborly.
Meaning this is the middle-aged version of junior high, and yes, I will be fucked just like the first time. Nobody wants to play in my sandbox. Usually because I rub sand in their eyes.
Anyhows, here mine. Feel free to play.
And one more thing, speaking of sand. Who the fuck came up with that Mr. Sandman shit? I, for one, have never felt slumber encroacheth because someone put some grit in my eyes. In fact, that sort of behavior tends to keep me up to the wee hours. Makes me surly, and intemperate, in fact.
Fuck the Sandman, that cruel bastard.
Perhaps now would be a good time to reminesce on the 1919 Black Sox scandal.
I'm a firm believer in the politics of personal destruction. Even in sports.
Fuck the White Sox. I don't even know those guys.
My bloodbrother Yabu knows me. He knows what I like. What I crave. Some folks are scrapbookers. They loves to look at pictures of the chirren, and reminesce. And I like that, too.
But what I really like is immersing myself in the recliner, or at the computer, and gazing longingly at pictures of the Dread mushroom cloud, both fissioned and thermonuclear. Something well beyond penis envy, I reckon.
And so Yabu sent me this link, a veritable cornucopia of atomic images. Sweet. And don't forget, just because they were tests doesn't mean there weren't casualties. They sent soldiers in to see how close they could get before their faces melted. They sent janitors in to sweep that radioactive detritus up. They tied goats to posts 12 miles away. Well, if they didn't, they damned well should have. Field tests are all about collecting data. Scientific method, you know.
But: the beauty. Yabu knows I've been looking for pix of the Tsar Bomba. The largest thermonuclear device ever detonated. The Russkies detonated it in 1961 as a kind of calling card that the two year mutual ban on above ground testing was over. They were unilateral like that. Like that Bush guy. And not just any bomb. 50 megatons of asswhup. That's 3,850 Hiroshimas. Armageddon. I'm pretty certain that calling card was not delivered upon a silver salver.
So I could never find a decent pic of the mushroom cloud. Just pix of the bomber, the drop, the parachute, whatever. But now I have, in all its glory, the Tsar Bomba:
That explosion to the left? I think that was our other moon exploding from peripheral impact. What? You didn't know we used to have two moons? I cannot believe what they teach kids today. Hell, we used to have two full moons a month when I was a baby. 12 tides a day. Lunar eclipses every other week. Don't get me started on the menstrual cycles. You guys missed out.
But yes. There are far more beautiful images of nuclear holocaust in that gallery. But do not be fooled. Tsar Bomba was the Long Dong Silver of explosions.
Man, sometimes I miss the Cold War.
I have been the number one Google hit for Rorer 714 longer than USC has been ranked number 1. July '03. Slip your Trojans on that, boys.
I've been deer hunting. Once upon a time. Bloodsports just aren't my thing, unless you count fishing as a bloodsport. And it certainly can be. But you can catch and release fish. Hard to take that lead, that arrow out, pat a deer on the ass if you change your mind, or it didn't measure up to your exacting Boone & Crockett standards. Just a passing thought, that.
I certainly have nothing against hunters, and hunting. Our greatest conservationists, and those who keep wild game herds at healthy population levels, are the hunters of this nation. Plus, there has to be a fucking unique adrenal rush in executing a large mammal, and then gutting its sweetmeats after bleeding it out. Well, maybe not unique. I'm sure there are people on death row who would swear making a kimono sash out of that prostitute's intestines was every bit as exciting as the first deer they bagged. Meat tasted a little gamier, though.
Just kidding, ye indignant owners of high-powered rifles with scopes. Velociman is always out of season. Hear me?
At any rate, now that I've incensed most of my readership (who, in actuality, and by an alarming percentage, are intrepid pursuers and slaughterers of the fearsome and savage Sciurus carolinensis, or Eastern gray squirrel), let me continue. What was it Longfellow said? Ah, yes... a mighty man is he...
So okay, I've had my fun, poked my ribs. And my ribs are alarmingly evident today. I need to get on a lard and Frosty diet, pronto.
Where was I? Yes! My first and only hunt. The Senator took me to his hunt club over in Carolina, near Hardeeville. One of those accursed male bonding rituals, I suspect. The kind I actually preferred at 4:30 of the PM. We arrived at the lodge before daybreak, and the wizened old cook was laying out long tables of that wonderful atherosclerotic shit we all love: bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, gravy, yak nuts (OK, that may be fuzzy recall).
And so, our bellies sated, we headed to our respective positions. This wasn't hunting with dogs, or even in stands, although these guys apparently did that, too, on occasion. This was sit on a footstool near the side of the highway, apparently the logic being if drivers were killing deer in record numbers, maybe the deer liked the roads. Go where the action is.
Pretty damned cold, and pretty boring, and the old man shushing me when I'd get up to take a pee. This was a doe day, and so anything without spots was essentially fucked. The Senator, and I'm sure his respective hunter brothers, would occasionally pull a flask, take a sip o whiskey. The only thing I had to keep me warm was my bladder, but pissing the trou for a few minutes of warmth seemed ill-advised.
Finally, when a truck came by, and the driver told the old man they were thinking of tucking tail and going back to the lodge for some refreshment, there arose a great halloo down the road. A shotgun pop, then yelling. And here came this fawn, this tiny fawn, obviously grazed by the blast, because it could barely lope, and three fat men were chasing it. It ran down the highway towards us, and when it was near enough it saw us, and crossed the road into a deep ditch.
It was too injured to maneuver up the other side, however, and so it clawed with its front legs, the rear legs too damaged to assist. And so the sweating, spittle-flecked men caught up, and encircled this creature, and in a sordid instant, fueled by frustration and Old Skullpop, they unleashed about six shells into this thing. It was like Fredericksburg. The Senator watched this scene play out with a stony face. Not what he'd imagined for the little peckerhead's first hunt.
Afterward, feeling I would imagine a bit spent, they threw the illegal carcass into the back of the truck, and we rode back to the lodge. The atmosphere was rather subdued, and we left shortly thereafter.
Now, I don't need to explain that these guys were hunting with no elan, no panache, right? No climbing the tree, and spending a quiet morn marveling at the beauty of an awakening forest, the first stirrings of the woodland fauna, listening for the telltale snap of a twig. Nope. These fellows perched on the side of the highway with double-aught buck in the gun, right next to the DEER XING sign, and waited to get lucky. Class, man. Class.
So there it is. My initiation into the manly sport of hunting. Maybe I just needed better role models. Maybe I just needed bigger deer.
She says she's not Feisty anymore, however I believe her last post belies that claim. Chrissy has new digs. Please go give her bad legal advice. Attorneys love the layman's opinion. Especially when no cumbersome facts are involved.
Nice crib, C.
I swear, it takes a nice tangerine-sized slice of pineal gland for me to even crawl upon the Office Depot swivellah to post a fucking post. The only reason I am prolific tonight is because I finally figured out to make a meth lab in the back of the Blazer, epiphysian by-product being in short supply here in horse-farm and nymphomaniac housewife country. (An aside: yup. I put that 2 + 2 together, too. What's their problem??)
At any rate, the hauntingly dangerous Queenie is not only waxing chaotic and hot at her own site, she is doing a masterful job of filling the pixel void at Deadman's, with help from some friends. Man, I haven't had that much energy since I pounced on Sammy in Helen.
In my favor, I'm only 18 miles from the Fountain of Youth in St. Augustine, where I might lap the waters like a stray dog from the grudgingly bestowed water bowl. Although I have it on good authority that that particular miracle is, in fact, a grievously cheesy tourist trap. So... there's that.
Must run now. That many links, people are going to
start stop calling me a whore.
My next door neighbor brought over his portable hard drive last weekend, and dumped 20 gigs of music on my drive. Very nice thing to do. A veritable torrent of music.
Now, he's a pretty eclectic guy, and he does have a three-year-old child, half Chilean. So there's a ton of shit in there. Do you want to hear Barney soundtracks in Spanish? Nooo... we don't. But then there are nuggets. Sly & Robbie. Gipsy Kings. Ottmar Leibert. General Public.
Several hundred albums properly foldered by artist, then a frigging bazillion singles, of dubious, scofflaw origin. I could spend three years pulling that shit together. And I think I will.
There is a reason (well, many reasons) why I read the estimable (and quite possibly insane) Bane. This is one of them. A delightful tale, just the right length for a good bedtime story, especially with the weather chilling down.
I cannot believe the comments I get on my Jim Cantore post. Most of these people actually think this is Jim's weblog, and leave mash notes and other gushy type stuff.
On the other hand, some are very young, and seem very hot. Not that those two things are compatible, mind you. Just sayin'.
But I pay for this bandwidth just like Huggy Bear paid for his Caddy, and I swear, if I ever find out Jimmy tagged any of this jailbait I'm going to sue for remuneration.
Or, actually, perhaps a business proposition is in order...
Hey, Jimbo! Meet your new partner.
I, for one, love a good hoax. A pulling of the wool over the collective eye. An emasculation of the self-important professional classes. Hell, just a good old fashioned Gotcha!
I have friends who deplore, despise a hoaxer. They consider them the most common of upsetters of the welfare of the commonweal. They believe they pull a hoax out of pure mean-spiritedness, usually even at no personal gain. I disagree.
From Piltdown Man to the Cottingley Fairies to the War of the Worlds broadcast, I would posit the rationale for each and every hoax is unique to the hoaxer. Whether skewering the supposed giants of the natural philosophy establishment, or scrambling to escape punishment for innocuous playfulness gone awry, or pure mischievous overreaching, the motive for any singular hoax is unique unto itself.
I delight in seeing the gullible take the bait, in other words, regardless of motive on the part of the hoaxer. Sometimes it's just cool to watch the fur fly, mass hysteria incorporate itself, normally reasonable peoples resort to ad hominem attacks to prove or refute what ultimately is smoked out to be a laughable cosmic wedgie.
Crop circles? Ha ha ha! Alien autopsy film? Double ha ha ha!
Perhaps it is the fisherman in me, but rising to the bait is as self-gratifying an emotion in me as any.
Now, I will be the first to admit that certain hoaxes have egregious consequences. The Protocols of the Elders of Zion has caused untold damage over the last hundred years. However, I discriminate between a well-executed hoax, a gotcha, with what otherwise is a pure and unadulterated fraud, created for no other purpose than to create ethnic and spiritual strife. The Protocols isn't a hoax to me. It is propaganda. Leni I'm sure loved it.
What about other supposed hoaxes? Is the Shroud of Turin a hoax? If so, to what aim? To prop up and legitimize the Church? Ah, that's not a hoax, if it do indeed be fake. More propaganda. A genuine hoax is meant not to impassion devotees, it is meant to poke a finger in the eye of the comfortable. Making the self-serious look ridiculous, and pompous.
The Emperor's New Clothes. Now, yes, that is fable. But it demonstrably proves the positive benefits of the occasional hoax, to wit: dropping the scales from the eyes of the hypnotized masses. Would someone had been able to pull that one off on Josef Stalin.
To conclude, should I ever be busted for any hoaxes, please remember: I not only did it for the pure hell of it, I did it for your own good. And I might be calling you as a character witness.
I thought it was rather well known around the Sphere that Velociman does not cotton to being tagged with memes. Me, you know, being a leader, not a follower, a blazer of trails both unique and exotic, what I tell myself in my premature senility is the mark of a True Original.
Okay. Scratch all that shit. Just pulled a muscle thumping myself on the back. Now I'm whimpering for a soft massage, and a chocolate chip cookie.
Regroup: I don't take kindly to tags, because they remind me of chain letters, wherein one is obliged to pass on the fart of the day, or God Almighty will smite you, and give you seven years of bad luck, and Stevie Wonder won't return your calls, and you will develop cluster warts in the crack of your ass, locusts being very Yesterday on the Omnipotent Designer's list of pestilences.
And yet. And yet! The sizzling Key Monroe feels she can sweep aside my curmudgeonly demands, and tag my ass. Tagged like a damned white-tailed deer. I wonder she didn't just bolt the meme through my ear, with a DNR tag attached.
I feel a little ill-served here, because the lovely Key knows I cannot resist her demands, she being an amorphous combination of Braniac and Wonder Woman, and she apparently has some kind of thought control thing going. Or maybe it's just the magic lariat, and the continued threat of its use for purposes of discipline. Whatever the reason, I cannot say no to the girl.
I've strayed again, haven't I? Yes. All because I refuse to address the topic at hand, that accursed meme. Well, never let it be said I was pussy. Twat? Oh, yes.
So here we go:
What were three of the stupidest things you have done in your life?
Climbing the rigging of the Coast Guard Barque Eagle at midnight, 130 feet into the night, to repair a blown out topgallant sail that was rent asunder during a tropical storm 200 miles off Long Island. TWO safety belts on me, strong as seat belts, and they ripping as that vessel pitched from side to side in a satanic 120 degree arc. I later submitted a white paper advising the service they should employ fetch monkeys to carry out such fatal tasks, said paper being dismissed. I submitted a second white paper after that, advising the service should train dolphins to carry impact mines strapped to their dorsal fins, and sink that Nazi vessel once and for all. Dismissed, as well.
Drinking mine own Chatham Artillery Punch at the Helen Blogtoberfest. I damned near broke my neck in 1992 doing an almost perfect one and a half gainer off my mother's deck drinking that shit. What was I thinking??
Having Godzilla's cock surgically attached to my body. Sure, it's impressive, but what can you do with it? Found a few blue whales that could handle it, but now even they are hiding in the Marianas Trench, passing crib notes.
At the current moment, who has the most influence in your life?
My creditors. At last count there are approximately 6,201. Hey, GMAC Mortage! Love ya, baby. Where is the unctuous free month grace period you blew up my ass in 2003? I miss that.
If you were given a time machine that functioned, and you were
allowed to only pick up to five people to dine with, who would you pick?
Jesus, the Prince of Peace, to keep me in line. We could compare scars, too, although a Rasmussen poll I commissioned tells me I will lose. Is okay. I'll give 'er a go anyway.
Billy Faulkner, because I'd be needing a drinking buddy, and someone who can out think me even when he's in his cups. Even Velociman needs a dose of humility now and then.
Genghis Khan. The ultimate success story. Carved out the largest empire the world has ever known, whilst riding tiny, sturdy ponies. Would charge him with giving the motivational speeches, and explaining why literacy is somewhat overrated in world domination circles.
Sir Isaac Newton. The Father of Physics. Sure, he had no clue that it was all about quantum mechanics, but he was, as they say, the layer of serious tile. All that came after him was because of him. Ike a keeper.
Cleopatra. Had to throw her in because despite what you hear, Sandra Day O'Connor is not the most powerful woman in history. That, and I would enjoy a reach-around.
If you had three wishes that were not supernatural, what would they
Peace on Earth. Okay, I take that back. I like conflict. Reboot:
That Moe was still alive.
That Larry was still alive.
That Curly was still alive.
Name two things you regret your city not having, and two things people should
I wish we had major league baseball, and a definable cuisine.
Avoid the northside (Murder Capital of Florida! Why we keep those peeps on the Northside!) and Fruit Cove. Because I live there, and I have enough growth issues, thank you very fucking much.
Name one thing that has changed your life.
Blodging. I was pretty normal before you people fucked me all up, getting entwined in my shit. If I had to pick a second? Fatherhood. I had no idea I could be so wrong, so consistently, for so long. I guess I know now, don't I?
Oh. And thank you, Key. Your (fill in the blank) is in the mail.
UPDATE: I have been informed by the shapely Ms. Monroe that I have forgotten the last point of the meme: to wit, to pass it on. Well, Ach, as they said when the crematoriums were overfilled.
The lucky five:
All folks who cannot reach my precious neck with a razor blade.
Christ, I can't believe I had to actually follow through on this. I feel dirty. But, you know, that's the good part.
I believe I've posted on this before, but I can't find the post. I haven't seen a small circus in a long time. Not the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Baily spectacular, or even the Clyde Beatty Cole Brothers circus, but the little mom & pop circus, mom being bearded.
Alan C. Hill's Great American Circus. The Hoxie Brothers Circus. And some even smaller. I saw one in St. Augustine that only had two dogs that could walk on their hind legs and three albino pythons. No pachyderms marching trunk entwined to tail, no genetic misfires, no high-wire acts, not even a tent. Had fun, though.
That has to be the toughest of careers. Most everyone will go to the fair in the fall. Most no one will go to a fourth tier celebration of freakish abilities, and shitting, despondent animals.
I'm still kicking myself in the ass for not buying that silk tour jacket when I caught the Hill circus in Charleston in 1990, by the by. That bitch rocked.
And so now I'm determined to seek out these pathetic sideshows, these Sisyphean attempts to bring Thrills! Chills! Spills! to the ball-scratching masses on a ten dollar a day budget. Boosting wallets being considered tips for the sporadically employed Features. It's all word of mouth, of course. No websites advertising the Imminent Arrival. Perhaps a blurb in the local, but I need to know what is in a 300 mile radius. I suppose I could go to Gibbtown and ask around. I'm sure the fair freaks interact on some incestuous level with the circus freaks, right? I mean, a carny's a fucking carny, right?
In a way, though, I'm finally ready to run away from home. It sucks here. I figure, talent levels being what they are, I could merely turn on the cymbal-banging monkey and engage him in a one-sided conversation and make liveable coin in a small-top circus. I mean, a freak's a fucking freak, right?
No, I haven't taken any m*me tests. I just felt like being Marcus Aurelius tonight. Don't want to be an asshole, but could you let these trousers out a bit in the crotch? I'm struggling, here.
And may I be commemorated in alabaster? I don't ask for much, do I?
That mention of bonfires got me to thinking about the couple the Senator held. Fresh to the farm, he had to clear a lot of land to force that soil unto agriculture. Now, it saddens a boy's heart to see wondrous forest levelled to mundane fields of corn and soybean, but the payback was the bonfire.
I recall two, one especially nice. This wood row (I think that's what they called the pile before it was alighted) was old pine, and oak, the pine heavy with sap, and lighter knot (what some people, whom I shall deem gays, call fat lighter). Sassafrass root, too. A huge pile, redolent of turpentine and oak musk.
Our pile was much bigger than the one at Texas A&M, but flatter, still three stories tall, but not being engineers we didn't kill anyone with ours. It didn't collapse.
And so one let that half-acre pile of wood, gnarled stump, trunk, branch, rootball, sit for a month or so, and dry out. In the meantime my brother and I would climb it, scale it, kill fucking Nazis and Nips in its crevasses, and hidey holes. Creosote is a naturally occurring phenomenon, I believe, because we ruint a lot of jeans.
I'm very safety conscious with my children. To the anal-retentive point that I will chastise them for leaving their drink glasses too close to the edge of the dinner table. Suffice it to say the adults in this crowd thought Safety consisted of saying "If you catch on fire, boy, you better drop and roll. Iffen you run you're going to flame up like a marshmeller."
So we kept the respectful distance, the sole metric being when one's eyebrows melted. You would then take a step back.
Half the county showed up for these things, of course, and because it was a dry county you can be sure there was plenty of whiskey, both bonded and home brewed, in evidence. The volunteer firemen were there, however they couldn't bring their fire trucks because they wanted to drink. If this had been Southern California the entire state would have ignited.
Oh, the joy of an unearthly sky high roaring flame. Armageddon to a child, especially a little fire sign Aries. Weiners on cane poles, plastic go-go boots melted on the girls.
I want to see a fire like that again. I understand there is some urban development scheduled for downtown. Maybe I can work something out.
Bane and Queenie seem to be in the mood for Devil's Night of late. Ghastly tales of Strange Fruit, Blackened Shadow, and other things that go bump in the night. Good Lord, Deliver Us, we Espicopalians would suffix that with. In fact, that Scottish prayer is framed upon my wall.
Me? Never seen a spook, or ghost, or haint, or spirit. Been skeered aplenty as a lad, but I chalk that up to the power of suggestion, an abandoned farmhouse late of a blustery October night, a rat infested hayloft when the frost is on the pumpkin, about-to-go-out-of-control bonfires with drunken men in nominal charge.
It's not that I don't believe, or disbelieve. But it would be nice if once, just once, someone came up to me and showed me a wandering tormented soul, belayed of being interred for unspeakable reasons, trapped in a Mason jar. And say "Lookee here what I brought you, Velociman." And I could put it in the Batcave, and torment it further. Now that would have legs, as they say.
The Bride and I were attempting to remember how many vehicles we'd driven since we met lo those many years ago. Had to put pencil to paper, actually, and I'm still not sure we didn't miss one or two. To wit, and forget model years. That would just be made up stuff:
Lincoln Continental Mark IV
Silver Chevy Caprice
Jeep Cherokee Laredo
White Chevy Caprice
Another VW Jetta
Chrysler LeBaron convertible
Dodge Ram truck
Mercedes Benz S Class
7 of those cars were wrecked. 5 by me, all my fault, but only one totalled. 1 by The Bride, totalled, not her fault. 1 by my daughter, totalled, her fault. Another car was stolen. Chopped up like a head of Romaine lettuce. 2 company cars in there, a coupla loaners I refused to return to the rightful owner for upwards of 4 months.
That's 21 sets of wheels. A few lemons in there, but the later models have held up well for 6 years. One thing about wrecking and flipping (selling) vehicles: you don't spend much on preventive maintenance. Hospital deductibles can be a bitch, however.
A bigger bitch is I don't see any Lamborghini Diablos, Maserati Quattroportes, or Ferrari Testarossas in that list. I'm obviously in the wrong business. Should have been a drug dealer. Well, I mean a successful one.
UPDATE: Sam picked up on this theme, and Terry seems to think I should tag people, make it a m*me. Sorry. Can't type that word. Well, since I have been known to issue fatwahs against those who would tag me with pedestrian m*me lists, and throw horny rabid badgers into the backyard with their Yorkie Muffums, let's just say pick it up or not. I really don't give a shit one way or the other. I'm all about the credit, not the idea.
I always scoffed at quicksand in movies. Nothing could be so soupy and yet so grasping, so bottomless and yet so wide as to suck a man down, he not able to swim through the oatmeal porridge of it to safety. On the upside, I can't recall ever seeing anyone succumb to the quicksand that didn't deserve it, so, as they say, there's that. What we aficionados call the Big Gurgle.
This mindset obtained until a certain day in Savannah in 1982. There is a huge marshy jungle near downtown, bordered on the south and west by Wheaton Street, on the east by the Savannah Golf Club, on the north by President Street. When they built the Truman Parkway through it they had to erect a bridge, forty feet off the ground. It belongs in a fucking Tarzan movie, really. If they still made them. And, hell, if you adhere to the continental drift theory this area broke off what is now Gambia, or something.
At any rate, a friend and I had been trying to restore a stained glass window in his studio on Wheaton Street, a hopelessly destroyed piece of work whose only redeeming value was the fact we figured we could hump a few hundred dollars off the church desiring the restoration. We suffered from the dread disease mafundsalow at the time, and so we spent a few hours drinking vodka so cheap it came in one of those old black and white GENERIC containers, casting jaundiced eye upon this piece.
We finally decided we couldn't return it to its original image, which as I recall was the seventh station of the cross. But we could make a pretty bitching Satan taunts Jesus in the Wilderness out of it. And so, of a common mind, we decided to take advantage of the sunny afternoon, and explore that jungle behind his studio, carrying our sloshing vodka screwdrivers with us.
The first half mile or so was pretty interesting. Certainly "old growth" forest. Vines, oaks, strange stuff I couldn't identify under subpoena. And then I stepped on what I thought was a puddly area of swamp grass, and plunged in.
I immediately sank to my hips, and felt that little prickle of alarm race up my back. This wasn't like that sandy oatmeal in the films. It was like the flat gray oozing mud on a saltwater estuary riverbank, only a bit more liquid. It grabbed my sneakers, filled them, pulled at me like a black hole sucking in an unawares teenage mallrat star into its filthy, corrupt van. The van with the tinted windows in the shape of a playing card Club.
I said to my friend "I think this is some kind of quicksand." He said "Yeah, looks like it. What should I do?"
I said "Grab a long branch, dumbass. Like the movies."
He grabbed said branch, while I was attempting to worm my way through this shit back to firm ground. Trouble was, it wasn't that it so much sucked you down as formed like concrete around you. First branch broke. Second branch broke, only my friend fell in when it did so.
Now we were fucked. Except for the fact he could eventually, after clawing his way, grasp some sawgrass on the edge of solid ground, and finally worked his way out.
This time we went with vine, and he dragged me to safety. I'm sure I would have eventually gotten out on my own, but that shit was like a rip current, sucking you in the apposite direction of where you needed to head. And it tired you tremendously. And it was deep.
I was kind of scared, actually. And firmly sobered.
Did we continue the trek to President Street? Nope. Lost my tenny-pumps in that morass. Smelt like a hog's ass, too.
I think about that bog now and then. We all fall in the metaphorical quicksands from time to time. Sometimes somebody else gets you out, sometimes you get yourself out. I've found it's usually a team effort, though.
This one isn't pretty by any recognized standard of beauty, but it bespeaks volumes of the Olde South, circa 1963. What did they call that? The Jim Carrey Era? Something like that.
At any rate, my father and his law partner were at odds over who the biggest hard-ass was in the Great Cross-Examination Competition. And I won't aver here and now that this was the actual Prize, but it occurred nonetheless.
The Senator had an especially plum hostile witness on the stand. Hostile being not what this poor black woman considered herself, but what she had been entered into the Senator's ledger as. Nothing personal, I suppose. Just an opportunity for a bit of gamesmanship. For all I know it wouldn't have made any difference if that had been my father's own grandmother in that chair.
Legend has it he whooped , hailed, cajoled, threatened, barked, screamed, postured, emoted, gesticulated, spittled, all under the baleful eye of a compliant judge on the bench. All under what artistic license allows me to imagine was a smouldering summer afternoon in Savannah, ante-air conditioning. Hand fans languidly fluttering.
And when all was said and done, when that poor woman was finally released from her torment, there it be: a small, unmistakable puddle in the center of the witness chair. Testament to a vicious hectoring by one intimidating mother.
I have no idea if any small trophy exchanged hands, or if there was even a verbal acknowledgement between them. Could have been a simple cocktail. But there was a new cock of the walk that day. And the Senator could play bantam rooster with the best of them.
The old man would be positively nonplussed in today's environment, I think. A Different World, as they say.
I have 3 woodstorks that habituate the lake. How can a creature be so damned ungainly on terra firma, and yet so magnificent in flight? They resemble Alice the Goon from Popeye while walking, and yet are incredibly beautiful and graceful on the wing.
Perhaps an autopsy would reveal the secret. I keep throwing my kitten at them, attempting a clean take-down, but the little rascal appears to be afraid of them. Might be the fact she is way out of her weight class.
I scored a distlefink once upon a time. An Amish thing. Good luck upon one's house, and all. Blessed my mother with one, too. And my mother-in-law. I bought the shit out of distlefinks after a trip to Gettysburg one weekend, and a drive through Lancaster County, PA.
I'm pretty sure they are actually bad news. No good shit arose from those distlefinks. Just bad news. Fuck those Amish. I think they sold me bad, bad, ju ju.
Every once in a while, and I mean not often, my mother would give the Senator shit about not spending more time with me, number 4, and my sister, number 3.
And so the old man would take us to the drive-in, where he could mix cocktails, and cop an E-buzz, and come home claiming he'd spent Quality Time wif da kids.
Problem was, he'd find the filthiest shit Hollywood produced at the time. And so I was gaw gawed to Modesty Blaise, Matt Helm, The Adventurers, Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice, whatever shit the old man could find. I liked it. Within 3 years I was going to the drive-in myself, watching Emmanuelle, The Story of O, all that great soft core porn.
I am damaged by porn, certainly, and yet... and yet. There is an upside here.
I believe I am the recipient of a Porkalanche. Thanks, Steve.
A local dumbass was shot and killed by the police as he stood in the surf at Jacksonville Beach, brandishing a pistol.
Upon questioning his 2 roommates, one of them admitted they were planning on kidnapping the Jaguars cheerleader who lived below them, raping her, killing her, stuffing her body into her car, driving to Miami, dumping the body, and selling the car.
He fucking copped to that!
I don't care how much evidence is strewn about the apartment, what part of keep your fucking mouth shut did this idiot not understand? The most they could have been busted for was intent to kidnap. Now they're looking at attempted murder and about 50 other charges. Too bad the cops couldn't have just shot the lot of 'em.
My old buddy Rob has the hankering for the Big Sleep. Not really, I think, but it do get him a place in the sun, and the occasional Instalanche. I cry Bullshit on his sorry ass, of course, and yet I'm pretty sure he doesn't care if he dies or not.
Given that, I think Rob would appreciate the fact that we have a game of chance on his ass. Deadpool him. Bandylegged as the fucker is, I reckon he's still good to go until the clock strikes 2006. Therefore I posit we take gambling positions on the next year. Me? I'm going with April 11. My birthday. Always lucky.
I came up with this after a conversation with Dax Montana, predicated on this post. Dax will swear I am full of shit, and he's right. We never had that conversation. Did we?
Nonetheless, I can't cram a can of Castleberry's Beef Stew up Rob's ass, nor does he want it. He needs sustenance, but he won't partake.
Just a thought: perhaps Rob could take us all to Negril, and we could smoke da spliff, and drink da wine, and torch his remains on da beach. Yo. Been there. Robbie and I know the same prostitutes, I think.
Or someone could step in and attempt to save Rob from hisself. Eric?
Nah. I like this take. At some point I will get this fucking peckerhead up, and eating broth, and strolling like a man. Or I will perhaps get lucky on the deadpool.
Been great, Rob. Thanks for the links. We've been great bros. Sure you don't want some Dinty Moore up the keister? I'm game. I'm always game.
Ain't my offspring cute? Even with bear tracks painted across her nose? I'll indulge for this. Still draining the swamp, though.
Have you ever seen an ancient body of water drained? Swamp, lake, pond? One doesn't see too much of that anymore, as nowadays they are termed wetlands, and the very idea of draining these lowlands to erect housing communities or strip malls is considered blasphemous.
And I agree with that sentiment, truth be told. Go build your subdivision on the sandhills. Kill off the gopher tortoise habitat, not this magnificent fishing hole. I likes me a nice piece of boggy swamp, full of bass and bream and perch and sunbellies and cottonmouth moccasins and allimagators.
The percolating abdomen of a drained swamp is the point here, however. Dismaying, it is. Even the most primordial, primeval of swamp reveals, in its enforced nudity, a most foul exposition. Dead fish, beer cans, otter skeletons, ensnarled fishing line, rubber boots, trash, garbage, stump, algae, all civilization's and nature's foul detritus. What was beautiful and pristine masked a nasty underbelly of corruption.
I hear the call of the marshland, lately, and feel the need to drain my swamp. It's a cyclical thing I indulge in every five years or so. Indulge being perhaps too kind a word. I drain the swamp of my soul, and cast my eye upon the psychic fish hooks, hydrilla, and oil cans that have inhabited my world for a while. Clean house. The cypress stump be grinded, the rotted fish are incinerated, the garbage taken out.
Two weeks? Maybe more. No timeline on this, just get 'er done before the rainy season refills the swamp.
Some knucklehead stole a $7 million private jet from the St. Augustine airport Sunday night, and flew it to Atlanta with friends on board, it being found at the Gwinnett County Airport Monday morning. The 22-year-old has a commercial pilot's license, but he's not qualified to fly that plane.
I hope they don't throw the book at him. He'd come in really handy for all those damned blogmeets I go to in north Georgia. And you just know those private jets have killer liquor cabinets.
I'm a pretty slack fucker. I'll give ya that. I am almost as slack as Key, who finally posted Helen pics. And since I have sibs who actually tolerate and read me, I thought I'd give a recap of blogpics, as my siblings will pinch their noses and tolerate me, but they'd prolly hate you, and wudna visit of their own accord, they being elitists, and all.
And here a few I took:
Kelsta. Dunno what happened to the focus. I believe I breathed on the camera, and jaundiced it.
Birthday kiddos. I've ordered subscriptions to Modern Maturity, lest they feel an overweening sense of adolescence overtake them. Cute couple, though, eh?
Dax and Recondo32. The two hosses I want on my side when
I fuck up and start a barfight I can't finish all hell breaks loose.
Other gratuitous pics below. Ansel Adams? Matthew Brady? Diane Arbus? Nope. Those fuckers wish:
Elisson. Moogie. Denny. Chou. Just...... Damn.
Sig Frohlich, the last surviving flying monkey, has died. Damn. What was more fearsome to a 4 year old? The Wicked Witch's soldiers, or those flying monkeys?
Apparently Sig got an extra $5 on top of his $25 pay because he was the monkey that swooped down and scooped up Toto. That has to be impressive on a resume.
Ah, well, I still have Meinhardt Rabbe living down the road at the Penny Farms retirement home. The Munchkin Coroner. Not far from Slim Whitman, actually. Mebbe I go visit the Coroner this weekend.
I'm glad governments around the planet are taking a possible pandemic of bird flu seriously. One mutation away from the Spanish Flu of 1918, and it could wipe out millions of peoples.
I have vaccines, of course. However I shall be very discriminating about who I repopulate the earth with. Better gussy up.
Pleasure, and pain. My favorite feelings. I field-stripped the Batcave Friday night, as the club-footed bird finally went to the Great Aviary in the Sky, and I was able to haul out the shit-encrusted cage, the surreptitious random cat turd, the vomitus that belonged to either me or Fosse. Then I painted that disgusting room Saturday, in that metro faggo dijon mustard I painted the rest of the interior in. It's a respectable room now, worthy of Southern Living, and will no doubt give me writer's block for a month.
In between, though, I watched Georgia prove they are not bullies of Division 1-AA crotch-sniffers, having handed Tennessee their wee balls on a plate. Now I am watching the Jaguars beat the undefeated Bengals, for the time being. The Jags are a mediocre team, but they DO have the two best defensive tackles in the NFL. Picked up Marcus Stroud from Georgia and John Henderson from Tennessee a couple years back, coincidentally, and those are some bad fucking hosses. After they take you down and drive your face in the turf they stand over you and scream obscenities at you, and grab their cocks, which happen to be attached to 330 pound frames. Love those boys.
And yet there was, oddly, nothing to drink in the Hovel tonight, except for a couple of bottles of cheap champagne from Helen, and so I had to decide what to celebrate, champagne being a festive drink, and all.
Monday morning was out of the question, of course, and so I settled on Ramadan. Hell, there's a Musselman with his face in the ground somewhere, I reckon. And so I salute his hasty demise. Did I mention how cool professional football is when you have the Chili Peppers at 12 on the JBL's?
Cleaned out my garage, too. Filthier than a Green Street whore, it was. Found two year old banana peels in there, a dessicated mouse corpse, threw out forty pounds of pure fucking junk. If I don't quit this place is going to become respectable like, then I'll be tempted to sell it.
P.S. Fuck the Braves. Six and a half hours of my life, wasted. I can never get those hours back, either.
My bestus buddy Zonker sent me this pic from Helen:
Swilling champagne with a fucking Brown Recluse spider encased upon my neck in Lucite, a gift from Sammy.
Perhaps Zonker really ain't my bestus buddy. He a fucking troublemaker. I love him anyway.
See, it isn't about WHAT you drink. It's about HOW you drink it.
Well, that's my take. And if you piss me off, I go run and hide, and not post anymore. Which is where I was when Zonk sent this.
After an interminable hiatus, Queenie is back. I wondered what had happened to her. There was the unfortunate incarceration in the psychiatric ward, of course. She would slip me the occasional note via the sadistic screws, who always wanted more than the market bore, if you know what I mean. Tried to stay in touch. But then they stopped altogether. What the fuck? thoughts I.
Of course, it was a month before the screws finally told me I couldn't have notes anymore because I wouldn't eat my gruel and take my pills. Thank God they don't know about the laptop I have to hide up my keister every night at frisk down. Thankfully it's only a little X22. Anything else would be far too painful.
Welcome back, Queenie. We mussed you.
There is an unspoken caveat amongst drug dealers: don't sample the wares. We learned this as whelps pushing biphetamine in junior high school, long before de Palma had Scarface nose down in the blow. Pushing drugs is a business, like serious games of chance. You can't beat the house soused, nor can you make any scratch huffing alongside your customers.
No, dealing is a business. Which is why I was so disappointed I actually indulged in the Chatham Artillery Punch. That was meant for my Jonesers. And yet, after the ceremonial sip, somehow I managed to dive in headfirst, like Baby Shamu after a fucking bit of herring.
Oh, well. We all backslide, eh? When one sells, or in my case, gives away, pleasure, it is tough, indeed, to refrain. One wants to bond. Actually, one doesn't. One wants to get fucked up.
At any rate, one doesn't partake around one's users, for fear they will roll you, steal your stash, leave you beaten and naked in an alley.
Not so Blodgers. I did indeed end up in that alley, naked and beaten, but I did all that to meself. No, my Blodgers looked out for me. Gave me pajamas. Gave me a bed. Protected my valuables. Gave me shelter unto the storm.
Then they rolled me. I still can't find those sunglasses. Don't laugh. I paid $7 for those bastards. And I want them back.
A 13 foot Burmese python swallows a 6 foot alligator in the Everglades. The gator apparently kicks hard upon ingestion, and the python ruptures mid-intestine.
This speaks to me on so many levels. All visceral. I could name names, but what's the point? Those people know who they are.
Spree drinking is a kids' sport, of course, a fact I have been aware of for any number of years. But then Blogtoberfest raised its ugly haid in Helen, and I fancied myself something of a party boy.
Now, I knew better than to indulge in the Chatham Artillery Punch, it being for the more spritely of the Jawja Blodgers, and honorary Blodgers. But something went awry after the Honorary Sip, and thar she went. All downhill.
The Blodgers are a fantastic group of people. Hell, it's criminal that I even attempt to mingle with them. But they are a
condescending amenable group of folk, and allowed me to play as long as I wore the choke collar (which I slipped twicet).
But enough about me (not really. That's just a figure of speech). Meet my special peeples!
Sam I Am: Whether it was sharing Lucite-embedded brown recluse necklaces, helping me up after yet another nasty fall off the swing, or refusing to pose for hot man-on-man pics, you indeed Ain't Right. Mebbe next time you pass out first, eh, hombre?
Zonker: You're the ultimate Mullethead, and don't forget it. I have some great pictures of your birthday party, however I believe the statute of limitations comes into play here. That, sir, is considered a crime in White County. Thankee for the Grey Goose brother. It bumpled me nice. And you are hereverafter the Inky Tight.
Shoe: you have to love a person who flies across time zones to party with reprobates. I especially appreciate your sharing your cabin with, well, whoever was trying to avoid me, and for loaning me your fancy pajamas. Although the pants were a little tight. I looked like the Dark Knight version of Robin Hood in those things. Which ain't a bad thing, mind you.
Donnie: We finally meet. You a helluva guy. A gentleman. AND a scholar. Heck, you could read the hieroglyphics in my pupils that you knew meant That dude's going down in about ten minutes. Seen it before. A pleasure, Donnie.
Dax: Fug, man. When I grow up to be a strapping feller like you maybe I can hang. I doubt it, but maybe. In the meantime, I am available to be given piggyback rides. And Shiner Bocks. Just Damn!
Key: Key is the ultimate blogmeet attendee. Kind, considerate, even pretended to like her birthday present until she could foist it upon her child. Cupcake eater, too. And one of the few people to say "Dude, you shouldn't use a funnel to drink that punch. Don't forget: Velocidog is Velocigod spelled backwards. Kinda."
Kelley: The third branch of the Holy Trinity of Gurl Cabin. Luster of the Punch. Playah. Hinky Tight. Not a blogmeet without the Kelsta. And one who saw my morbidly green complexion shovel chili hash browns into my gullet on Sunday morning at the Huddle House and say "Don't you have a 7 hour drive ahead of you, Mr. Extended Thinker??" Well, it ended up being closer to 8. Brown tsunami stops, and all.
Denny: The Grouchy Old Cripple is one suave, mellifluous cat. Raconteur, singer/guitarist extraordinaire, blower of kazoos. It ain't a blogmeet without my special friend. Literally, unfortunately. He fucking follows me everywhere!
Elisson: the man I wanted to meet. And the man who gifted me with a genuine Elisson fedora. And a Sazerac (uh, thanks, hoss. I was in dire need of 180 proof alcohol at that particular moment). Elisson brought his lovely wife, SWMBO, and she seemed to actually take to ole VMan, in the way that a person takes to a creature by whispering "Elisson, when they walk sideways like that, it means they have the rabies. Be careful. No sudden moves".
Straight White Guy and Fiona: Damn. I didn't know if my homey was going to make this trip. But he did, with his beautiful bride, and he even behaved! Which was kind of a letdown. A blogmeet without Eric and I scrapping, or his knife coming out? Pussified, I tell ya! We'll rassle next time, amigo. This was my turn to howl.
Leslie the Omnibus Driver and Buckaroo Banzai: To fly all the way down from Chicago to party with us was an honor for me Leslie. And to be presented with my very own cowbell. And More Cowbell shirt? You were truly too kind to me. And that Joann lady from Alabama? What said I was a dipshit? She was right. Even a blind pig from Alabama can find an acorn every now and then. Thank you. And BB. Please come visit.
Moogie: One of my favorites, this girl. I wish she and Ward could come to one of these things together. Still have the deer in the headlights look, dear, but it appears the low-beams were on this time. I keep telling you: Relax, it's not about the biting. That's just gravy.
Acidman: Really glad you could make it man. I enjoyed talking to you. It would have been even better if you had, you know, reciprocated the conversation. It's called dialogue. What I look like, Demosthenes? You get kudos for allowing us to see you on that massage table upon returning from the Troll, though, your skinny ass sitting there for all the world like a chicken breast about to go in the oven. And I'm sorry I felt compelled to ask your masseuse if she was an actual licensed massage therapist, or a handjobber from the yellow pages. If the latter I was gonna sell tickets.
Recondo32 and Georgia: Two of finest people I've ever been graced to know. Let my drunken ass crash with them when I couldn't find my room keys. And, yes, next time I will actually check the door. Just because you can't find your keys doesn't mean your dumb ass locked it in the first place. And my laptop wasn't even there. It was at Sammy's. Thanks for the punchbowl setup, Georgia. And a little head up next time you come to Atlantic Beach.
Last but certainly not least the Velocibride. She is a trooper. Puts up with my alternating tripolar states of arrogance, puling, whining, bitching, moaning, arguing, cursing, foaming, flecking (that be when the mouth is dry, and the foaming gets a little sinewy) for nigh on 30 years. She should have that bullwhip in her sole possession, for animal control.
And what's with me losing shit? No big. I do it all the time. I considered the entire compound my personal domain. Your room? Don't think so. Your clothes? Look good on me. Your liquor? Don't even go there.