I've become infatuated of late with the tapered waist diner coffee mug. Why? Because I'm a geek. But wait! There's more.
The diner mug is the perfect cup for coffee for a variety of reasons. Lookee here:
1. Size: It is the perfect size. Not so big your coffee grows cold, not too small you are left wanting. Like that girl did you last night at the Hooters. Dumbass.
2. Aesthetics: the tapered waist mug is a beautiful thing. Evocative of Art Deco, the retro look just mewls cool. You know it.
3. Function: The diner mug is curved so as to conform properly to the lips. Very nice. It's also a thick enough ceramic to keep the heat of the joe from scorching the lips.
4. The wave effect: diner mugs eschew the wave effect, meaning there is less sloshing. Like baffles in a supertanker. Right?
Anyway, I love the diner mug, the tapered waist cup. Iffen you ever visit Velociman that is what ye shall partake mudda, by God.
Here's my latest acquisition, by the way. I was going to steal it, and was in fact out the door, until my best friend stepped up to the plate and forked the bastards $4 to save my soul. Oh, well. Behold the IHOP mug:
My next acquisition? The Waffle House mug, naturally:
A wink and a nod to Mel Blanc. Voice of America.
Now, about the next paradigm...
I'll be posting video of Tommy Lee getting his knob scobbed by Pammy in a few days. I can't get enough of that, you know?
I'm not too up on copyright laws, so perhaps my new meme, the Pr0n Meme, should focus on home-made videos.
Rules are made to be broken, eh? Especially one's own. Hell, I'm in the doghouse now because I keep breaking my own rules. Which is strange, because they're my rules.
Anyway, the moratorium on rocka rolla videos is temporarily lifted (here, anyway), because I found this Nils Lofgren video.
Tex Be Thy Name.
Sorry. I just realized we hadn't set the dogma on this yet.
Hubris and starvation drive this classic tale. I present:
Woody Woodpecker in 1941's Pantry Panic. Sure, Woody lost the Best Actor Oscar to Gary Cooper for Sergeant York in 1941, but we know he wuz robbed. Hell, Orson Welles lost out for Citizen Kane that year, too. It's not who you know, it's who you blow, right?
I'm not saying this writer has issues. I'm merely suggesting he's totally fucked up.
I wonder when the female edition comes out?
By the way, it's hell being a trendsetter. You're only as good as your last failure. Therefore, as humbled as I am by everyone else's glomming onto the fact I am lazy as hell and posted old rock videos as a result, I must declare that meme daid.
No, the new paradigm is old cartoon videos from our collective childhoods. Even worse for you non-boomers than old Lennon videos. But I grew up watching the fuzzy black & white from 6 AM to 7 AM with no one watching me. How I met the Stooges. It marked me.
Anyway, I begin the new thang with a classic Merry Melodies cartoon:
Let's just say my ex-host was holding my domain hostage in a nasty man thong, and it took me a while to find a
Mutant volunteer to go fetch it. And leave it at that.
Rest In Popov, Boris.
I'll miss him. The dude could bust a move.
Whosomever can fixeth my comments shall receive a prize, as yet undetermined, predicated upon my whim.
I'll entertain offers for compensation as well. Unfortunately, the lack of comments seriously kills the laugh quotient on that idea.
That true, for sure. The quote is oft attributed to William Tecumseh Sherman. The fiend who burned my homeland to the ground, and set himself up in a bilious satrapie in my very own church rectory in Savannah once he'd scorched Georgia unto submssion. Not really true, that quote, but he must wear it now, don't he?
Eh, fuck it. In his shoes, I'd a done the same thing. The burn thing. That's what you do with insurgents, rebellious hammerheads. You bring it home. Make them feel the pain. War is Hell. Properly applied, of course.
I told someone today: there ain't no winners in a war. Only survivors. And I hope I am one, at the end of the day. All wars are wars of attrition, unfortunately.
Last fool standing. There's your glory.
So after the milestone birfday I find out that as of 5 PM today I am the preening father of an official NFL cheerleader. A Jacksonville Jaguars Roar girl.
I'm proud of my daughter, my Emmy. I surely am. Brutal, brutal competition.
She's da Bomb.
I just want to know where I have to go to get my youth back!
Ain't happening, is it? That's okay. I'm very proud of my girl.
Here's a picture of Rosie's canned strawberries, from her aunt's recipe:
Wow! Those look scrumptious! Unfortunately, the only things my mom ever canned included the bacteriterrorist botulinium. She was a horrid canner, and her product was woeful unto the intestines.
I can share my own favorite canned good, however:
He may have been full of shit in the hemophilia curing gig, but he had game going on summaires! And, yes, GV has crawled back into his shell to hide. But I must say Mr. Ed did, too, after seeing that. And Trigger.
I bow before no man in my admiration of Burton Cummings as one of the greatest fucking rock and rollers of all time. Here American Woman, 1970:
That's sweet shit. Now here's Burton in 2003, purloining his own legacy:
I'm a jaundiced old boomer. I don't need to see this tired shit. He was beating a damned cow bell, for God's sake. Iffen I wanted to see somebody burn out that bad, why, I'd just go to a Swingin' Medallions concert. Not hard to find one. They play every city every fucking day, it seems.
What did De Niro say in The Deer Hunter? Oh, yeah.
I don't post about my birthday on my birthday, you know. Going linkwhoring, and all. Especially on them milestoners. At least not recently. It's unseemly business, and I've been striving to be very seemly lately.
However, since so many loyal and dedicated readers of my bile saw fit to honor the occasion, I must at least acknowledge that fact. Elisson, Rosie, Leslie, Key, Denny, Erica, Richard, Marci, Jessica... I'm tetched by your thoughtfulness. And also to the many commenters, who were too fucking lazy to gimme a post or a call. Ye shall be haunted, verily, by midjits and sideshow freaks in your dreams. Preferably the ones borned without bones.
For what it's worth, because I know ya'll are dying not to know, I had dinner with two beautiful young ladies. My fustust and lastust born. The twin apples of mine eye. I had the bloody ribeye, they dined more delicately upon salad, and chicken stroppings.
Oh, how those chickens must cry when flayed into slender strips like that. I should have had veal, to compleat the Feast of Agonized Creatures.
A calm night for me, as I am apparently eligible for all manner of discounts, and excrudations (and you know what those are).
As a newly-minted Senior Citizen I suppose it is incumbent upon me to pack the thrill hammer away, and take up a nice hobby like whittling. I must work unfortunately, a bit longer. Those four years in Bhutan, pleasure-milking the yaks for a criminally cheap 30 ngultrums a day was exciting stuff, but got me off my retirement plan.
I do like those North Georgia mountains, though. And settling up there with a boffo yak-milking scheme might not be so bad. A dollar a picture, $20 for a reacharound video? Easy retirement money, iffen the ngultrum holds up against the dollar.
I'll need a photographer, of course. And a large animal veterinarian. Any takers?
P.S. Simone owed me reciprocal birthday tidings, since hers was last week, yet I await, saddened. Abiding, but saddened.
Those who know me (and ye are few) know how I despise the Jitterbug phones. Stupidified cell phones for, let's face it, our decrepitly aged parents. Their slogan should be "Even you can operate it, you fucking moron."
My fave is the Jitterbug One Touch. It's really a three touch, of course. 3 big, BIG buttons:
Hep! Hep! Fix my broken wing! My colon's twisted, too!
I'm broked down! Canne givva lift? I doned run the Caddylac aground agin!
Heart attack! Going down! Myocardial infarctixxsnxzz... Never mind.
Man, I wish I could pare my life down to three buttons. Actually, I probably could.
NO SMOKES! button
NO BOOZE! button
NO TWAT! button
Of course, all that would fall by the wayside when I looked imploringly at my taxicab delivered prostitute, Saran-wrapped with Winstons and minibottles, and gasped, JJJJJItterbug! Face it. No game there.
Anyway, these phones give me the creeps. Should my parents even be alive I would counsel against them. "No good!" I would say. "I always thought of you as more organic. Don't you fucking hit that TOW button!". I have a reputation to uphold, you know.
I have a new business model in mind. Based on the rampant STD's the old folk are sharing at The Villages, and other active retirement homes: Jitbug. One button. A shot of intense antibiotics in the bum bum. All done.
I like it.
And because there ain't no Biafra to bitch about anymore. And I just do this to piss off Steve H.
Meet REQUIP! The medication proven to cure my Restless Leg Syndrome.
I'm happy about that. But, truth be told, I hope they don't come up with a cure for Restless Dick Syndrome.
When we moved to the farm in 1966 we effectively went from two television channels (three when you were lucky and could pick up ABC from Charleston) to zero. Signals were weak. What you could get, even with an antenna, were fuzzy ghost images, a bit of audio. Black and white, of course.
Then the Senator came home with a fancy antenna with remote direction. You could turn the antenna hither and thus, via remote control, and hone in on a signal. This was huge bidness. It was only connected to his television upstairs in the master bedroom, of course, where resided, by the way, the only color television in the house. In his magnaminity the Senator had decided that the family deserved color TV, and a state-of-the-art rotating antenna. But only in his room. We scrubs could settle for the black and white ghost images downstairs. He was generous like that.
It didn't work out that way, of course. As the parents had a king-size bed, we would all get our baths and sprawl all over my parents' bed, and watch TV up there. With 3 channel options we were pretty much in accord most of the time, too. The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Time Tunnel. The Invaders. Seven people in that bed, and my mother was probably in hoggie heaven.
The Senator was there, of course, but whether he was awake or not was a throw of the die. He generally dined early, and burrowed himself into a mountain of blanketed, snoring content. He thought television was bullshit. Personally I think he was disgusted by the fact there was no pornography. He was an avid aficionado of the naked female form, and likely thought TV was a brilliant medium, wasted. Just a theory.
So anyway, here's how I remember this story. I believe we were all ensconced on the bed, watching The Smothers Brothers or some such. Recollection and legend are uncomfortable roommates, to say the least, but legend wins out, usually. Seems at the climactic point of a show the Senator roused from the fever swamps of his slumbers, addlepated from an earlier bout with John Barleycorn. He stared blankly around, attempting to focus, and blurted out
"Well, Little Miss Earlymouth! What pig are you riding?!?!"
I've tried, over the years, through suasion and necromancy, to enter that dream. It still exists somewhere, a bit of subconscious ephemera, floating like gossamer in the space-time continuum, but to no avail. For that had to be one kinghell dream. Parse it as I might, it could only have been pig races of some sort. Was the Senator racing a pig? Little Miss Earlymouth certainly was. Were the pigs saddled? Who won?
The Senator professed no recollection of that dream later, of course. Naifs that we were, we thought nothing of querying him incessantly over the thing, and precisely who Little Miss Earlymouth was. But the Senator hadn't fallen off a turnip truck. He wasn't budging, especially in front of our mother.
The old man had probably been flogging Miss Earlymouth with a riding crop in his dreams for years, for all I know. But if one of us was indelicate enough to broach the subject, he would merely stare down the dinner table and aver "I have no idea what you're talking about". With threats of retribution both express and implied in that statement. We eventually let it drop.
So there's a Senator story for you. Triple-X dream sequences, busted. Racing swine. A young lass with (apparently favorable) oral issues. I just may try to channel that dream again tonight.
Not a bad video for 1966. Maybe I'll just post Beatles videos from YouTube until my tail grows back.
Thar my sitemeter.
Man, it's like the roller coaster that never went back up. It's like thrombosis, whatever the hell that is. Sounds painful, so I'm in.
Could have something to do with the fact I quit posting a while back, but I would submit Hemingway sold better the year after his meeting with Dick Cheney (oh, you didn't know that?) than the year before, so who knows?
The Shadow Knows.
Maybe onlyElisson and Denny gets that. Which fact I appreciate.
Man, I'm too old for this gig.
Lookit: this is my my favorite pinko puppet, you bastards. Fuck with him, you fuck with Jack Straw.
Or something like that... him being dead and all.
Enjoy the video, as Che admonished us.
And it's uncanny how much Lennon looks like Puddyhead there. But that is a thread of a different color, as they say.
And I AM a gentleman. I never even mentioned the fact that his wife was knitting some kind of Workers' Party lobster bib onstage, whilst she was blindfolded like an Iranian hostage.
They had it all wrong. Woman isn't the Nigger of the World. Yoko is.