Yes, I'm a bit early, but one never knows when the Grim Reaper will call Velociman home.
I like this pic. It's called Genesis: Mother Earth, Father Time, or somesuch.
I hate admitting it, but that thing speaks to me on so many levels I may not resurface until Jehovah ensconces Little Richard as his Only Begotten Son.
Can you tell I hate the Holidays? Actually, I don't. I love them. But I abhor the abuse of them. Which is why I keep asking myself: why do you keep abusing them, son?
Mother Earth, indeed. Slung over the shoulder of a Nigerian with nefarious purpose?
It's a hell of a thing, losing James Brown on Christmas. It's akin to Santa Claus pupating into some larval snotbomb in front of the children, or something. But dancing feet akimbo, in true James style. Little Richard claims to have invented rock and roll singlehandedly, and that's cool. I don't think JB ever limited himself that way, however. R&B, soul, funk, hip-hop, rap... the tentacles all reach back to James. The Man.
Here a story: back in the early '60's James Brown showed up in Savannah for a gig. Now, James had pulled a no-show a few months earlier, leaving the promoter holding the bag. The promotor sued, JB's peeps never responded, and so the Senator's law partner ended up in possession of a judgment against Mr. Brown.
So when James showed up in Savannah later to play a gig for the aggrieved promoter's rival, the Senator's partner seized his Cadillac in order to enforce the judgment.
James, apoplectic, strode into Anton's Restaurant, where the Senator and his partner had lunch every day, walked up to their table, and indignantly cried "Mr. C---! You gots me on my feets!"
And his entourage murmured "Amen!"
Or so I like to think.
At any rate, Big John and the Senator laughed at James Brown, and derived great merriment from his indignation and distress, then spoke to James' New York attorney to hammer out terms.
They released the Caddy, the Godfather of Soul were no longer consigned to his feet, and the Show Went On, followed by a check for the distressed impresario ten days later.
I can vaguely recall seeing James Brown (and once with his tiny son!) dancing on TV in those early days. That was one crazy son of a bitch. A crazy son of a bitch. But, indeed, the Hardest Working Man in Show Business.
I'll miss him terribly.
By the way, that picture on the sidebar is, indeed, a maggot. Multiplified, like, a lot. That's what those doctors want to sew up in your bloody boo-boos to feast on your necrotic flesh. That's what spills out of zombie foreheads, Eric.
The Mutant slipped his electronic collar today during his annual lye bath and deworming. I haven't recaptured him yet, but Bella has him treed out back. He's pretty upset about last week's nipple-Tasering, but often as not it's the only way to get his attention.
He's been hallooing a lot in the tree, but did calm down long enough to demand, quote What the hell am I getting for Christmas?!? unquote. He then ignominiously pelted me with a giant spitball, which upon unwrapping revealed a partial wish list:
I think I can accommodate the old boy on a few of these things; it has been a rough year for him. The skag might be problematic, however.
Fergus the Forager offers his tips on the proper roadkill to eat. For instance:
Specimens need to be intact and, at the height of summer, not more than a day old; that time extending to three to four days in the colder winter months. If there is fresh blood on the road, this is a sign of recent death and, hence, freshness. Similarly, with respect to birds, if there are feathers blowing around the road this is the sign of a recent hit. In my experience – although I stand to be corrected – rigor mortis tends to set in 6-12 hours after an animal is killed. So, if you pick an animal up and it is as stiff as a board but still plump and fresh looking, this is a good sign. Also, if on a cold day the animal feels warm then, clearly, this is a strong indicator of recent death. Bad signs include: dull looking eyes, rotten smell, visible maggots or fly eggs around the eyes mouth/beak, rupture of the intestines, signs of sickness, or, suspicious death.
I was staying with my sister in Atlanta earlier this week. She lives a stone's throw from Oglethorpe University, and it dawned on me that Oglethorpe has a carillon. A carillon is a set of bells hung in a tower that are struck by a carillonneur to produce music. They're generally at least two octaves, and vary widely in size and range. Certainly not Bach on the Passau Cathedral pipe organ, but pleasing nonetheless. Which fact got me to recollectizing that Stone Mountain has a massive carillon of some 732 bells. A magnificent thing. Loogit:
Hidden in the trees, sure, but trust me, it's a beautiful beast. Plays every day, too. It was commissioned by Coca-Cola for the 1964 World's Fair in New York, and when the fair ended the following year it was donated to Stone Mountain, whence it sit.
Hey: here's something else about Stone Mountain: when the Ku Klux Klan was reformed in 1915, it was atop Stone Mountain. A cross was burned, and Nathan Bedford Forrest's grandson emceed that particular roast. The owner of Stone Mountain gave the Klan a permanent easement, too, so they could conduct whateverthefuck kind of black masses they held in those days. Why, the Klan, including the Knights of Mary Phagan, even held fundraisers for that pretty carving you see. When the State bought the mountain they had to find a way to get rid of the easement, so they condemned their own property and let it escheat to themselves. No more Klan.
But back to carillons. There are carillons all over the country, and I was thinking how nice it would be to visit a few during my travels. Like the Bok Sanctuary carillon in Lake Wales, Florida.
Maybe I could do the Great North American Carillon and Strip Club Tour 2007, or something. Bribe the carillonneurs into playing the music I'd heard at the Naked Babe a Go-Go Club the night before, for instance. I wonder how Steve Miller's Fly Like an Eagle would sound on the Smith College carillon. Nice, I'm thinking. And having the carillonneur get a lap dance during his performance of I Gave my Love a Cherry could add a sweet Marquis de Sade angle. I'm always improvising the classy touch for my sojourns like that. What makes them so special.
Or, obversely, I could visit sites of famous Klan rallies instead. Sweep the metal detector for old manacles and such. I'm actually pretty flexible at this point.
Either way I should probably start at Stone Mountain, eh?
He's been practicing swallowing and vomiting rattlers for a few days now.
I've had the urge to do something bizarre for a while now. Something out of the ordinary, probably dangerous, definitely as retarded as is humanly fucking possible. Nothing came to mind, however. Except for Russian Roulette. Bizarre, for sure, And definitely retarded. But it doesn't quite fit the modifier in probably dangerous.
Nah. You can't even blog about an unsuccessful round of that game, so what's the point?
I called the Alligator Farm to see if they had a version of Dancing With The Stars. Only wrestling. With alligators. They said nyet.
The New! and Improved! Marineland won't reopen for another couple of weeks, and they wouldn't let me try my hand at artificial insemination with my Monkey Division bazooka anyway. So there's that.
I was running out of possibilities when it struck me. Of course. Slam dunk. The annual Rattlesnake Roundup in godaccursed Whigham, Georgia. Which is about three parsecs past the middle of nowhere. Perfect.
Instead of mere spectating I think I'll try my hand at milking a few of the bastards. No experience with that motion, eh? Maybe some snakehandling and gratuitous speaking in tongues would be in order as well. Nothing like getting multiculti with insanely envenomed reptiles, I say.
January 27th. They have to have these things in the winter sose the beasts are sluggish and less likely to bite your ass. Of course, the downside is the fingly things on the end of your hands are sluggish, too. So there's that.
This thing has enormous potential. Imagine hanging around a herd of horny-handed country drunkards in DeKalb Corn caps and bloodstained overhauls, who started drinking brown liquor at sunrise, then headed out to round up some fuggin' snakes! guddammit! I imagine the previous years of snakebites combined with a dangerous blood alcohol level (.42 on the Old Crow scale) render these guys relatively immune, but you never know.
And there's the young guns, too. Haven't grown out of their fetal alcohol syndrome britches-shitting days yet, but game as, well, game. I'm sure they smell gamy. Trying to show off, upstage the old geezers, cutting the fool with rattlesnakes by the tail, terrifying the littlest ones. The ones with the piss-stained calico diapers.
And don't forget the womenses neither; cackling lewdly no doubt, writhing in loin-lust, driven by some protosatanic serpent fetish so deeply engrained in their mitochondrial DNA even God Almighty Himself steers clear of Grady County that particular week.
And you an outsider. A Stranger to their Ways and deep cult Secrets. Probably take you for a cityslikkin reporter type, come to mock their Holy Days, and flaunt their idiosyncrasies for all the world to see. Happened oncet before, they'll recall. Back in '63. THAT bastard never met another deadline. And the hogs were fat and tasty that year, too.
I'm psyched. I figure it'll be a cross between Deliverance and 2,000 Maniacs! Meaning they'll likely want to cut off my hands and feet before they fuck me. Hell, they'll probably milk me. Not that I'm impugning those idiosyncrasies, mind you.
I don't mind going alone. But it sure would be fun to have some company. I always said I didn't want to die alone.
So there's that, too.