The Senator had scruples. With a capital S: Skruplz, they would say now. In all areas, be it his career, wherein his word was his bond, or in interneighborly transactions. The old fart was a man of his word. And he drilled that into our little gourds, ofttimes known as brainpans. One stood by their word.
Except in two areas, for him. Now, the marital banns, I can't really speak to. His rake-hellion days were over by the time I was a budding glow worm, but I've heard stories. I think the old man was connected enough to Fix whatever went Wrong, but we just didn't travel down that yellow brick road. Not the convo a mom has with the younguns.
The other area where the Senator felt compunction, or rejoiced, as the case may be, was in fucking with his children. We were little experiments, I reckon, and he a man with a singular sense of humour. Good Sweet Christ the man could pull a game. Our favorite was Gorilla. The Senator attended cocktail parties and sech on a regular basis. Like every Friday and Saturday. Tuxedo and white dinner jacket shit. And when he returned home he was usually completely tore the fuck up. Which, of course, made him imminently attractive to us kids. He was spry, game, hearty, completely insane. Sweet. And he would, if we asked politely, lower into a savage, dangerous ape, and swing his arms, and beat his chest, and grab one of us under his arm, and terrify us. And trust me, you wanted to be picked. No better skeer than to be the lowering old man's victim.
Mom hated this, of course. Because the Senator was drunked up, and savage, and was wont to hurt us inadvertently. But like all kids, we loved it. The old man was just another dangerous ride you sought out, like a carnival Tilt-A-Wheel with a bad operator. And all those rides have bad operators, don't they?
The old man could be a fucking hoot. I tell ya.
Lookee here what the damned cat dragged in. I drove up to central Georgia today to fetch Skeeter, who'd spent the week with my sister in Atlanta. My sister beat me to the designated rendevous by five minutes, and wouldn't you know in that five minutes Skeeter and her cousin Katie had discovered this frightened, mewling little chocolate Lab abandoned behind a gas station, sandy, dirty, with grease spots on her head. No fleas, though.
I said when I planted Master Po "No more dogs!" I love them, but I live a carefree, lazy lifestyle now. Dogs are a pain in the ass. I took the fucking whelp in just to find it a home. But she shit in the back of the rental car, which was just the thing to win over my corrupt, stony heart. She's a bloody keeper.
I don't have a name for her yet, though. In time. She basically defecates to anything you call her, so it's not like it's a pressing issue.
UPDATE: And so she is Marigot. Pronounced "Merri-go". The capital of French St. Martin. Because my girls refused to clep to raising and training the beast, and so lost their vote. And were coming up with gay names anyhow.
Pretentious? Oh yeah. Yuppie? You might say so. Grasping? Hell no. It's just a frigging dog. And I am, after all, a creature of convenience, you know? She'll just be abbreviated to "Muh" to me.
Yeah, I've been hanging with the Beautiful People. This one, however, brought me up round for a comment. Perhaps you can assist.
Whatever you call it. Same island. Southern half is Dutch. They spend guilders. Northern half is French. They spend Euros. At any rate the Bride and I will be hanging on the French half next week with Jack Straw and his significant other, the mysterious Shell Girl, because he is the fucking Man.
And don't knock the French. They have better wine, and all the beaches are clothing optional. I might even indulge you with a pic of Velociman, strolling naked, pensive, down the beach. Kind of Jean-Paul Sartre without the screwhead socialist insane baggage, and a far sexier body. Different baggage with me. Hotter baggage. You get the picture. Of course the downside is I will look like Nixon at San Clemente.
The other downside? I'm told the place is dial-up. I'm told the entire island is dial-up. Well, there you go. I was going to ditch you Impatiens anyhoo. Just hadn't told you yet.
I'll be back. Tanned, and ready for bear. Whatever the fuck that means.
Remember Hezbollah? The Satanic terroristic arm of the Islamofascists in Teheran, playing bad boy in Lebanon? Yeah. They're dead. Not today. Not tomorrow. But by next week? Yes. They are overplayed. Dead as doornails.
I piss upon them, too.
I know you tire of my fell tales, and would rather see beefcake pics of me, but alas a fire at Warner Brothers destroyed them all. I'm willing to pose for more however, given a requisite level of discretion, of course. That's why it says E-Mail Velociman.
Anyway, here's one more tale that is a true as an arrow in flight. When the Bride and I were still freshly married we moved back to Savannah from Atlanta, snot-nosed little whelps still. Moved between rental properties of my parents and others in an attempt to outrun the fleas my Lab couldn't shed, and the rent Nazis (sorry Mom!). At one point we bounced between 3 places in four months. Not a problem, except I was quite casual, blasé even, about such things as Change of Address forms. Who cares? Gummint shit. But. And that's always the operative word. BUT! One night, and I think we had just moved into the pump house on the river property (it was called a cottage, and it was, but by God it was really a pump house) the Bride got served papers on a check gone bad, that we hadn't realized, for a fucking pizza. $15. But it bounced, we not having one of those fancy credit card overdraft protection accounts, since I don't think they existed, and she was looking at the check, overdraft fees, court costs, penalties, something in the neighborhood of $350 for a $15 pizza we were $1 short on covering. Plus attorney's fees. There was a court date, after all.
That sucked. As I opten supped with the parents of a night, enjoying their company, and also glomming on their property and being habitually broke, I brought up the subject, because the Bride was, after all, terrified. You must realize this was during my Caged Heat and Women Behind Bars rental period (how I miss it!) and she didn't want to end up Yvette Mimieux, married to a broom handle.
So I took a chance, and broached the issue at dinner, and the Senator jumped right on it. "I got that covered!" he averred. "Leave it to me." Now, he hadn't stepped foot in a courtroom in 4 years, but it seemed like a gameplan, we being broke and all. Although we became wary when every time time he saw the Bride over the next few days he would ask "What kinda bird don't fly, girl? A jailbird! Ha ha ha!" Yes. Unnerving.
At any rate, court date came, and the Bride was sweating bandoliers of perspiration, terrified, but she felt a little better as the Senator walked through the courthouse, and everyone from bootshines to judges hailed him. I think it was good for him, being back in his milieu. She said he was like a Caesar returned finally from fierce battle in Germania with trophy heads. Okay, maybe she didn't say that, but she said he definitely strutted like a King Bastard through those halls. At any rate, they sat in court, and he patted her knee, and when they called her case he admonished her to sit still, and he approached the bench. I wasn't there, but she claims he and the judge argued under low breath for a moment, then they guffawed, and the Senator turned around and hooked an inelegant, crooked, scary finger at her. Beckoned her to the bench. When her shaky legs managed to get her there, the judge whispered she had to pay the $15, and a $15 bounced check fee, both of which the Senator had already covered. All fees, penalties, court costs, etc, the whole shebang, dropped. Most importantly, no criminal charges. The Senator then took her to lunch, and managed to lose his own napkin. She had to drive, show him the way home, he losing his mind at that point to Alzheimers.
Life is strange like that.
My reminescences on my childhood, and the old man, took a weird turn in the last few days, but here's a Senator story any person with a grim sense of schadenfreude or cruel recompense can appreciate:
1968 or thereabouts. 1969? The Senator was late, very late for dinner. A long drive from Savannah to the farm, and no cell phones of course. But he should have called by then, and so he was MIA. He finally showed up at 10:30 or 11:00 pm, with a bloodied forehead from a nasty gash, and a bleary but defiant look in his eye.
There was a long stretch of two lane between Meldrim and Pineora called the Nine Mile Straightaway, or more properly Midland Road. It is dissected and truncated now, but it was a long straight bit of nowhere then. Where the Senator taught me to drive the following year at 13 years old, because you really couldn't fuck up a 9 mile stretch of straight road.
But he did. Coming home from work, doubtless after a few pops and some to be repaid later legal advice at the bar at Pop Edwards' Lounge, and I'm certain mixing a road cup betwixt his knees as he drove, the Senator ran into a fog patch on the Straightaway. He surely didn't care until he ran into the back of a tractor trailer stopped in the middle of the road. Ran up under it in his Karmann Ghia, saving his head from the fate of so many kings.
Now, even in a state of fugue and fungus the old man was quick on his feet. The rest of this story is apocryphal information from my brother, who took great glee in extracting details from the Senator about his exploits over the years, and what I cobbled together from that night.
It seems the old man crossed the street to the solitary house there, had them put coffee on, then called the cops. Seems the ICC Law, or Mansfield Law, had just been passed, demanding trucks put low bumpers across the rear so people did not run underneath them and get decapitated. Long story short, that poor bastard truck driver got arrested, and cited, and my father got a blue light special ride home.
And knowing his great sense of impropriety when he had gotten away with something, the impulsive cockcrow in him, I am certain he played with the siren all the way home.
Still the number one Google hit for why do buzzards puke?
Here you go. My Shelf of Shame. Why do I call it that? Because it is a rather inclusive compendium of the things my fellow bloggers have gifted me with. Wonderful stuff. And I say shame because I have never reciprocated at that level. Shame, shame on me. But I can give you the blow by blow:
Monkeys: I bought the cymbal clapping thing, and named him Robbie at Jekyll, but he belongs in the tribe. The cocoanut head monkey? Some poor lass gave it to me, and she must remesmerize her name in my comments. I forgets! Think she was hot, though. Are you, hon? History here. Don't be afraid.
And of course the Curious George lunchbox from Eric. Sa-fucking-weet! Ever so often I take the George box to work with a hard on and an attitude. Banana inside. George would want it that way. Eric would want it that way.
Hats: See the beautiful fedora from Elisson? Mother, Mary, and Joseph as the Romanists say. Or Oy Vey! as Elisson would say. Dat are fine hat! I am almost as sexy as Elisson wearing it. I do pose about the Velocihovel with it on, sometimes in vigoro, if you know what I mean. Damn, I am a dashing figure!
The straw thing I came staggering out of a bodega on Bourbon Street wearing. Wanted a pack of smokes, came out with a hat. I was tore the fark down. But did I look hot in it? Bet your fucking bippy.
Travel goodies: I ate, well threw up the Marmite Chrissy gave me, but it is there in heart. And that Scottish snuff? Weird. I think my brother gave it to me, but if not Chrissy, I am so bad. Showed you the MRI, though. Looks terminal, don't it?
Birthday goodies: Well, the wonderful leatherclad hip flask Kelley gave me. Something about Kelley and black leather gets me all a whompus. Indeed! She sweet to me.
Unlike you people! Step up to the plate. I covet things like leather clad flasks.
The Rockin Rabbit. This is some type of egregious sex toy. Egregious in that no man is necessary. The Bride bought this because I kept disappearing on blogmeets. I like it. Kind of. Takes the pressure off me, but then there is the whole replacement issue. I think the Rockin Rabbit has my Social Security Number and my game. Fucker!
Key: There has to be a whole section devoted to Key, because she is a gifter to people. When I first met her she had like 3 foster children, a totally giving soul. And I think she looks at me that way. An unbathed retard, spawn of methamphetamine addicts, who must be freshified, made acceptable for decent society. A challenge. And I would agree. Although my Spanglish is pretty friggin decent!
Howsomever: witness the crowning glory of my Key Blogouvre: the Pimphat, as birthday present. Add one part voodoo doll in New Orleans because I was bitching about my boss, a doo-rag you can't see, a Zippo lighter for my birthday, and a faux testicle I won in a contest. Slam dunk! Key wins the prize. I have no idea what it is, but the point obtains.
Did I mention my cowbell? Leslie gave me a cowbell and shirt! And she in Chicago tonight at a blogmeet, otherwise we would be discussing said bell in a hot tub, I reckon. Hit's clain, I say.
I also have a small purple devil hanging from my rear view mirror that Maeve gave me. It has a double jointed silver cock, the more to bring the dry cleaner closer. I swear! That a strange tale.
And so: Shame? Oh yes. I can never repay this largesse. My peeps are too good to me. And I appreciate it. As Mickey Rourke said in barfly, To All My Friends!!!
Update: Ach! Elisson reminds me I forgot to mention the Blown Rectum Spidum Yabu gave me that led to those misunderstandings of the liberties of breaking left. I had it hanging below the pimp hat, but I must have posted the wrong pic. Probably deserves a post of its own, though.
Update 2: the pic is fixed. Long live the Blown Rectum Spidum.
So I was at the beach today, and I'll be damned if a manta ray with a 5-foot wingspan didn't break the surface a couple of times, like a flying fish. Accompanied by two black porpoises. It was beautiful, I tell you, and only about twenty yards away. That's what living in Florida is all about. That's what a beach sojourn is all about. Communing with the best Mother Nature has to offer.
And let me tell you: if I ever find myself at the beach again without a harpoon, shoot me. I could be grilling manta fin now.
And speaking of prey, my 13 year old daughter, the One Child Left Behind, ran into a friend there, and they strutted their stuff all up and down Ponte Vedra. Good lord, deliver us, as my church sayeth. And yet another reason to tote that harpoon.
Today is my parents' collective birthday. The Senator would have been 81. Mom 79. My father always resented the fact that the French didn't employ some of that Nostradamus shit, and divine that he would be born on that date later, and they should start their revolution gone bad another day. Say, Friday the 13th.
The Senator never liked the French. "How can you trust people," he'd tell me, "that fight with their feet and fuck with their face?"
Bless him. Never told him there was something to be said for that second part.
Anyway, happy birthday, my loving creators.
Oh, an aside: my mother was quite the naif. She wouldn't let the Senator near her until, like, the second month of marriage. He finally had to go over to her parents house and say what's the deal here? Refund?
I don't blame her though. She was so naive he had convinced her that opossums had sex with their faces, just like Frenchmen, and she believed it. And apparently unfortunately the old man queered the whole sex thing with that practical joke, I reckon.
The best part? My mother was 50 years old before she told us that story, and we had to sit her down, and say, hey...
Sometimes I'm such a drama queen. But that's what makes me so damned loveable. Right?
Some fellow with my company just got awarded his 60 year service pin. Excuse me, but are you fucking kidding me??? He started in 1946. Back from the War, no doubt. This just blows my pea pan. And it isn't a desk job, either. He goes out on the road when he works, staying in cheap motels with bedbugs and flying cockroaches. The way I figure it, this guy either:
LOVES his job
HATES his wife
Is a widower
Of course, he probably gets 50 weeks of vacation a year, so how hard can it be? Still, at some point you have to call it a day, and plop a frigging line in the water.
When I was a little tyke we used to visit Solomon's Drugstore after Sunday School. It was one of those great musty places crammed with sundries, with a huge soda fountain bar. It sat catercorner from our church on Monterrey Square.
Once, when I was six, we made our usual visit. As I browsed the aisles, I realized that I had rabbit-ear pockets, nary a coin to my name. That's when I decided to boost something. Not being a professional thief, and this being my first foray into disorganized crime, I decided to lift a single solitary Mary Jane:
A one penny piece of candy. The lowest common denominator in pilferage. One literally could not steal anything of lesser value in the Western Hemisphere. But I was proud of my heist, yes I was. And so as we drove home afterwards, I kept my hand in the coat pocket of my seersucker suit (with shorts, naturally), fingering my prize.
Now the game plan had been to wait until I was home and alone in my room to enjoy my bounty, but avarice being one of the compelling components of my pysche, I caved. I eased the Mary Jane out of my pocket, and commenced to unwrap it. That's when my big brother ratted me out. Blew me in. Threw me under the bus. My mother whipped the car into a U-turn and raced back to Solomon's. She then literally dragged me by the ear back inside, and made me confess all to old man Solomon. The tears were coursing in shame by now, of course. I was a little blubbering miscreant, busted and confessing my crime to my victim.
Old man Solomon was a kindly soul, though. He felt my pain, and told me since I'd been to Sunday School, and had returned to confess my sin, I was probably a pretty good little fellow as a rule. He then opened a huge jar of penny candy, and told me I could take as much as my hand would hold as a reward for repenting. I shook my head, of course, knowing what a hide tanning that bit of greed would earn me, but my mother had softened by now, and said it was okay.
And so I triumphantly climbed back into the car, nose still running, and proudly displayed my reward to my siblings. My mother kept her eye on me in the rear-view mirror, however, and so I magnanimously shared the candy with my siblings, even giving a piece to the Rat.
This was my first experience with morality, and good and evil, and responsibility, and doing the right thing, and as such would have a profound impact on me in later years. If I could distill the lesson I learned that long ago day, boil it down to its essence, it would probably be:
Crime. Sometimes it pays!
I promised you scabs a-molting, and the viscera that must necessarily accompany such painful incidences. And I will, I will. But first, I must backtrack to the Road, as I had forgotten a few bits of minutae that tend to flavor this story. Here:
As the Senator tore down Georgia asphalt and I, peanuts and Coke in hand, gazed out the window at the skittering rabbits and copulating goats, life seemed , if not great, at least in Drive. Not bad stuff. Too many pine trees, too many pecans, but we were making Progress, and I'd seen enough of Disney's show to know Progress was our Friend.
Well, Progress took a screeching diversion to the befouled latrine of Currahee when I glanced over at the old man, and beheld a spectacle of horror. His face was purple and bulging, eyes apoplectic, lips drawn in a thin white crease, turned down at the corners. To make matters worse his head was shaking, nay tremoring, side to side, as if he were afflicted with St. Vitus's Dance or something, and his knuckles were gripped white upon the steering wheel.
So this is Death, I thought, and watched for a moment. Miraculously our path was true, barrelling down the highway oh so fast, but steadily within the white lines. Angels, I thought. They guide your hand when you're dying to protect the innocent.
But that was a short lived moment of realization, because the Senator then immediately burst forth with an enormous exhalation, a great Wheewww! Beezlebub's flatulence ain't in it, I say. Sputum on the windshield, he heaving all aquiver. Dad! I said terrified. Are you all right?
The old man turned a gimlet eye to me, considered my mild frame and innocent fear, and laughed. "Hell, boy. I had the hiccups. Had to hold my breath to get rid of the bastards. What the hell is the matter with you? See a ghost?"
Indeed I had, but it would be some years before that particular apparition manifested itself again. I thought he was a goner! I was also very sulky, because I knew the only way to get rid of hiccups was by fear, and he'd just scared the hiccups out of me for the next seven years.
I also remember fidgeting in the front seat a bit. Cars, even fancy ones, were bereft of play pretties back then. The radio was AM only and had a mere ON/OFF switch. The air conditioner read OFF and ESKIMEAUX (Fords said ESKIMO. Lincolns said ESKIMEAUX. Pretentious? Yes).
Tired of the Road? You anxious beasts. I'm going to quit calling you Intrepids, and call you Impatiens. Although I never could figure out why a flower that was impaled in the ground was in a hurry to go anyhwere. Queer, that.
One more Road note. We did not see the Goatman that trip, and I was incensed. Of course the probabilities of seeing the Goatman on the side of the road in rural Georgia circa 1967 were slim indeed, but once you had seen him as a child he was Legend, and just as you did not realize a brand name of a product was just a brand name, and not something anointed by God, well, then, you expected to see the Goatman.
I promised you a washed off scab, though, and you shall have it. My puncture wound, caused by a piece of lighter knot slung by a bush hog, had left a very neat 2 inch deep hole in my shin, just astride the shinbone. A nice round hole, one that a person could put a forefinger in to that depth, should they be so perversely inclined. Now, my parents, being Depression Era babies, thought stitches were for pussies. And only a total fucking mambypamby Little Lord Fauntleroy would assay to call them sutures! Oh, ain't he high and mighty, with his fancy fucking Sutures holding his face together after that mad plummet throught the windshield. I'da put a butterfly stitch, or 40, on that, I would have!
But we are not here to belabour class struggle, are we? I rule, you worship. It's very neat that way.
Anyway, my PUNCTURE! wound had been glossed over by primeval Band Aid butterfly stitches for the previous 4 weeks, and my dog had smelt no gangrene, nor the savage canines patrolling Camp Wahsega, so it seemed healthy. Or not deadly. But here is where I fucked up, Impatiens:
Upon finally escaping from the clutches of the Dread Pirate Senator, and seeing my siblings splashing for what must have been the third! day in the surf, I took the plunge. Calvinist asceticism be damned, I forgot, and frolicked in the Gulf surf for an hour or so. I was a dolphin! I was a seahorse! I was a horseshoe crab!(?) But in the end, I was a kid who forgot he had a nasty-assed puncture wound, and I dragged my way back to the room, my parents' room, too, not the boys', with ecru and grayish lo mein stringers hanging out of the hole. Nasty stuff. The little old ladies around the pool were murmuring blood poisoning! but I didn't know what that was. Nor did I understand the red striations running up my calf were not scarlet begonias.
My parents did what any parent would do in that time: they promised a severe ass whipping once I had passed the stage of survivability, and then proceeded to pour horrid Merthiolate, that iodine whore, into the gaping, sand-encrusted hellhole.
To call it a wrap, I did get the ass awhomp two days later, but it was laced with motherly kindness, the Senator even being so gracious as to decline his turn with the cat 'o' nine tails, and then I was the aggrieved, injured little fellow. Ice cream was purchased to celebrate, as I recall. And we all lived heavily ever after. Nice, eh?
Tomorrow: Nigras show up at the motel next year!
A story is a story, and we all like to feel ourselves immune to the scurrilous tides of revision. Our story is the true story. And yet, even our own story can change, depending on perspective. The Benjy Factor, or Sound and the Fury factor, I call it. Anyone can tell the same story, but the angle is, as they say, the angle.
And so I've told this story before, but not from the idiot manchild perspective, and therefore it is new. Afreshed.
Tampa, 1967 indeed. But we back up a few weeks. Your loving and temporarily crippled correspondent is at a 4-H camp in Dahlonega, Georgia. Ten year of tender age. Wasega, I think it was called. But that is for the bloody revisionists, eh? An Indian name, though, state employees no doubt feeling the winsome loss of aborigines after that Trail of Tears fiasco. But good Indians were dead Indians, we were all taught, and we could now dignify them with 4-H camps. And with any luck we could show the little girls there our wampum. Or in my case whompum. Wait. I was only ten. Okay. See what I mean about revisionism within ones own worldview? Hell, even I almost bought into that bullshit.
And so I was in camp in North Georgia in June 1967, a feckless little idiot manchild redneck with a puncture wound in his leg, courtesy of a bush hog. I wasn't allowed to go deeper than my ankles in the stream, and I obeyed that admonition like a fucking Calvinist.
But the Senator picked me up on cast off day, in order to take me to Indian Rocks, a decent area of St. Petersburg, where we alternated vacations every year. The alternate years were Fort Lauderdale, the Senator being blessed with very many Jewish friends in Savannah, but he having a bit of culture shock in Miami Beach, not cleaving unto the Yankee variety of Judaism, and so he found Fort Lauderdale more to his taste in obsequious waitstaff. There can only be one bellowing calf in a room, I suppose, and Big Daddy were going to be that calf. I tend to inherit that sense of Me! Me! Me! So do you, Intrepids. Admit it.
Anyhows, I've told before how I played the practical joke on the Senator, and hids from him in the bowels of the SceniCruiser, only to pop out at the last minute as it pulled away. Reprehensible, but very, very sweet. He almost had the infarction right there. I still feel bad about it.
But here the story veers from culpable little rodent. The old man could drive like a fiend, a ghost rider, when he knew a fine Canadian cocktail or seven lay in the lurch. And he knew the rest of the family was already ensconced at Indian Rocks, awaiting his retrieval of the Velocipup. And so he put the ennobled hammer down, and screamed through the backroads of Georgia, with no doubt an empty whisky bottle on a ten-penny nail floating on the dashboard as a compass, screaming South, Massuh! South!
He managed to pull into a fleabite in Gainesville, Florida about 9 of the Christian clock, a HoJo. I remember, because I remember the placemat hawking the 32 flavors like I can see my hand while we placed our order. I believe for appetizers he two-fisted four Canadians, then slumped back, grinned at me, and said "Heh! That was great! What say we get those clam strips, Ral... Gre... what the hell is your name, Boy?!?"
"Steve," said I.
"No, you're Kimothy Sam, the Biscuit Man," said he.
"Yup," said I.
So now that we knew who each other were, not a great stretch for me, we had those classic clam strips, and retired to the room, wherein I was afeered I would have to see the Senator in all his old boxer glory. And so I did.
But he also turned on the television, and was there shocked to see Negroes rioting in the streets of Tampa, a stone's throw from Indian Rocks. Being calm by nature, the Senator immediately ascertained that these two hundred disgruntled blacks would morph into several thousand screaming Zulus, who would descend upon St. Petersburg and Indian Rocks with the rapine and pillage of white womens on their minds. "Human nature," he affirmed to me. "Can't be hepped."
So he called my mother, and warned her the television showed great black hordes swarming upon the land, but he was right up in Gainesville, and could be there anon!
Gainesville, Georgia? she asked. No! he crowed. Florida! He winked at me. She said okay, we'll watch the news, then the old man went to his glove box, assured himself he could take out six of the marauders, saw that there were 4 or 5 people pushing shopping carts around Tampa proper, and fell into the deep slumber of the self assured.
I did, too. Because I guarantee that Lincoln Continental would have smashed its way into the heart of Indian Rocks, if necessary, that night, and it would have been Rorke's Drift all over again. The old man could shoot, whatever the BAC, and he could certainly pick a target.
Tomorrow: my 4 week old scab disintegrates in the Gulf surf. I am grounded.
Key expressed concern that Elisson hadn't quite sized the Reservoir Dawg picture properly, leaving us all a bit, ah, avoirdupois. I agree. I also took it upon myself to obtain the original, and reproduce it herewith in its verité form:
I had to add this blog to the roll. I mean, when someone describes you as
Sort of a modern day Rhett Butler-Edgar Allen Poe mix crossed with a monkey and steeped in a solution of alcohol and opiates.
Saw this on eBay. Yes, it is the one and only Wery Wearsome Wearable Wooden Wayang Monkey Mask. It even has what appears to be a hole in the mouth for a cigar.
I don't kow about you, but this thing just screams blogmeet to me. Or Beneath the Dignity of the Planet of the Apes sex. Or both.
As we bloggers were toasting Acidman's mortal remains, or what was left of them (anyone look in the box? Because I was fucking curious) at Spanky's, I was trying to explain to the few people who would attend to me that Spanky's was a special place because Robbie liked it, and because it was Grand Central Station for me in the mid 80's. I was in the steamship business then, and my job was to board the vessels upon arrival, and clear the ship with Customs, and USDA, and Immigration. Filthy graft was involved upon occasion, iffen the ship was Communist, but that was neither here nor there.
So I was explaining how we would spend most of the day in Spanky's, drinking beer, waiting for the vessels to show up. And when the ship would pass by Spanky's I knew I had exactly one hour to hoist another beer, and drive to Garden City Terminal to board said vessel. I was generally erect, but my knuckles were badly scraped.
Anyhoo, we had fancy walkie talkies then, cell phones being figments of Swedish nerds' imagination at the time. Our main principal at the time was Yang Ming Line. Fine Taiwanese brutes. All the ships were named Ming something. Ming Moon, Ming Sun, Ming Universe. And so the clarion call, the hidden message, was I'm sailing the Ming Spanky. That meant one was at Spanky's getting toasted, and the expected vessel was the excuse, why one was not in the office.
So I was explaining this during the post-wake, and gathering huge yawns, when Lo! Behold! A vessel approacheth.
I walked outside, and fired up a smoke, and I'll be damned if it wasn't a Yang Ming ship.
And so I went inside, and dragged Key out, and said "I'm sailing the Ming Spanky!" Because no one else would come. And she a tolerant individual.
Anyway, she said that's very nice VMan. You should take a pill. I smell Alzheimers. I agreed, because I was certainly apropos of nothing. But for one brief moment, I was, 20 years later, sailing the Ming Spanky. And it was sweet. Woo hoo. Rob would have understood. Or at least not made the circular finger to the forehead thing.
Well, the Shuttle blasted off okay. Of course from my yard it looked more like a humongous bottle rocket. But it does my heart proud to see $10 billion worth of chewing gum, bandaids, and baling wire go into orbit in order to conduct middle school science projects.
Maybe in a few years we'll go to Mars. And hope the astronauts don't bring back an abomination. Some virulent microbial pox that wipes out mankind. That would suck! I'll bet they quarantine those astronauts in a hermetically sealed room for six months, and peer at them anxiously to see if their faces get eaten away by space disease. At least, I hope they do. Peer, that is.
Here's a pic of The Senator I found, wearing a Shriner fez:
He's in the middle. I have this pegged at about 1964, and he was president of the Clown Unit. I notice they haven't glommed on to Beatle haircuts yet, though, they being inordinately retrograde on the crewcut.
The guy on the right is JC Lewis, who was mayor of Savannah at the time. Owned the ABC television affiliate, the Ford dealership, Green Island, and the southern tip of Skidaway Island, among other things. Croesus ain't in it. The man has coin, by God. JC was the outgoing president, as I recall. The guy on the left? No idea. But he looks gay.
Now, black and white photography is a strange thing, but I do believe I detect a roseate glow in the old man's cheeks. A hale fellow, well met. And he seems extremely pleased with himself, a trait I obviously inherited.
Me? Yeah, I have one of those fezzes too. But I only wear it for Barbary Pirate Christian Sex Slave nights in the Velocihovel. You know how it is.
A bit of beefcake for Lisa W. This ain't staying up long, though, me being a shy bitch and all.
I thought I had a sweet deal here. I love me, you love me. Very easy stuff. I am allowed to strut, and preen, and massage my ego. It's all about me, gotdammit.
And then these girlies get involved. Make me look bad. To wit:
A comment from Key Monroe:
Red toes for Vman? Naw, Vman gets off on deformities. Extra thumbs, third nipples, bulging hernias, missing belly buttons. Those are the pics that'll float his boat. Vman be freakie-deekie.
Well, we all know that. But you're not supposed to splay it vicariously across the playground, damn it. Where is my dignity now?
And then Kelley posts this. My skillsets were subsumed by the second paragraph. It was as if she were rubbing my nose in it. Sent me back to hunter-gatherer mode. Picking up mastodon bones for bleaching, and the furtive gnaw when no one was looking. Man, you send these girls to college, and they actually learn shit. Other than spree drinking, which was my major.
Erudite hotties. What's the world coming to? And where do I fit in?
They call him Flipper, Flipper, faster than lightning,
No-one you see, is smarter than he,
And we know Flipper, lives in a world full of wonder,
Flying there-under, under the sea!
Everyone loves the king of the sea,
Ever so kind and gentle is he,
Tricks he will do when children appear,
And how they laugh when he's near!
They call him Flipper, Flipper, faster than lightning,
No-one you see, is smarter than he,
And we know Flipper, lives in a world full of wonder,
Flying there-under, under the sea!
I dunno. Something about the lyrics to Flipper freaks me out. Maybe the part where he is faster than lightning. Zounds! That's fast.
Flipper fucking rocked. Much smarter than Lassie.