now has a MySpace site. Pretty damned good, too. So go email him. We simply must get him to make the short journey from Nashville to Helen for the bash. I'm thinking the Chalet Kristy needs some python, tiger, Jack Daniel, and hard core rock and roll.
Been hot, dark, and lonely around here lately. Don't listen to your inner soul when it begs for alone time. It ain't all it's fucking cracked up to be. Although I do have a seemingly unlimited supply of Cuban cigars, and the pool is nice. Dog's not farting much, either.
I desperately need an albino, though. Everyone knows they're far more effective at finding buried treasure than a damned leprechaun, which don't in fact exist.
Only albino I found tonight was Johnny Winter. No pot of gold, but I'll have to make do.
Larry Munson has been the radio voice of the Georgia Bulldogs since 1964. He is truly a Southern Icon. Old Larry isn't feeling too good these days, though. He's in his 80's, enfeebled. He can't even make the road trips this year. Although I think he'll come here for Georgia-Florida.
I suggest we visit Larry, and pay our respects. Either the day before Blogtoberfest, or the day after. Rankin' Rob says he lives outside of Athens, which makes sense. I'll find the place. We should get him to sign some Dawgs memorabilia, then pin him down and pour some corn liquor down his throat. Not enough to kill him, just enough to addlepate him. Then take him south a couple of miles and make him ride the Iron Horse on Highway 15:
I'm thinking this is a wonderful way to show our respect, to honor our heritage. We'll need a blood pressure cuff, of course, and perhaps a needle of adrenalin, should Larry fade on us. Cruel? Perhaps. But envision the You Tube video of Munson lashed to the Iron Horse, screaming Lindsay Scott! Lindsay Scott! Lindsay Scott! to the determined bark of a Taser. He'd love it. "These folks are knockin' on the door of my very existence," he'd say.
Some logistics to work out. I'll get back to you.
When I was a young hellion we used to ride out White Bluff Road from our suburban prep school until it turned into Coffee Bluff Road. Then there was nothing but marsh and river and fiddler crabs. And Bob's Cafe, Bob being a Negro who knew he could sell beer to 15 and 16 year old crackers with impunity, and not get busted, because even the cops didn't go out to Coffee Bluff. And the Carmelite Monastery was there, of course. Here it are:
Man, that place was scary at night. Way the fuck back in the woods. But we figured, Hell, there has to be hot sexually repressed nuns there, right? Finger banging themselves, abusing vegetables, we were just what the doctor ordered!
So we would dare each other to run up that long, long driveway, and throw pebbles at windows. Hoping we found a sexually frustrated nun who looked like Julie Andrews, not Thurston Howell III.
No luck for me, ever. Saw a few of those nuns in the stores, though, later. Yeech! Glad I was never pulled into that place. I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, it's the beat down with the ugly stick that makes one a nun in the first place, Hollywood notwithstanding.
God damn, those were some ugly women. I'll bet Catfish did a few, though. Just a hunch. Ow! I said 'hunch!'
If I keep thinking about these nuns I may have to break left before too long.
Here's a civics test receiving attention because the average grade for college students is about 52%. That's failing, by the way. Even Harvard students only averaged 69%. Too busy making papier-mache heads to study, I reckon.
Seemed pretty easy to me. I scored 57 of 60. The 3 I missed were all economics questions near the end. Which would explain why my checkbook looks like runic scribblings in base 7. With lots of negative signs, and crude drawings of speared antelope in the corners.
$7 million. Ugh. That should make Rankin' Rob happy, though, ha ha!
We also have some cast-off jockstraps the Falcons may be interested in. Considerably less than $7 million, and they won't stink up the Dome nearly as badly as Leftwich.
The view of Chattanooga from Lookout Mountain:
I ask you: How the hell does one lose that vantage point to scurrilous Yankees? Answer: by having an adversary willing to take horrific losses. Hell, Grant and Sherman were there. The Impresarios of Satan's Abattoir. I'da probably run, too.
I think I would have had fun before the fight, though. Spending a week or two honing my artillery skills on the meatheads pinned down in that town. "Fire!" Then wait, wait, with the binoculars, until the shell landed. "A skosh to the left, boy."
I think a fellow could get downright murderous from that altitude, given enough time and cannon shells.
Or Vulva, as they've always been known in the vernacular.
They may be the safest cars from an engineering standpoint, but from a marketing standpoint, I predict mass bloodshed.
Who the fuck let those idiots release an advertising campaign in the United States U-bolted upon the fingernail-upon-the-chalkboard-unnerving "Wheels on the Bus" ditty? Don't these soulless Swedes understand how much all American adults of a certain near-luxury car-buying demographic hate that fucking song?
Why, I once throttled a six year old boy on a public bus for having the temerity to attain verse 12 of that goddam song. His parents not only applauded me, they gave me his little finger-soiled savings account booklet as reward. I treasure the $75.13 balance, too, and the 1.2% simple interest it garners. One day I'll cash it out for a mini-Ecstasy binge, but I'm waiting to meet Skippy for that particular trip.
Anyway, I'll never buy a product from those screwheads. That song sucks beyond measure. It's one thing to have a tin ear for an egregious repititious childrens' song. It's quite another to have a tin ear to your consumers' hatreds. Volvo: FAIL.
I don't care what the bobbleheads say. Here's a perfect example:
I'm going out of town this weekend, so I made two reservations today: one to board my dog, one to rent a car. $24 a day to board my dog, $18.99 a day to rent a full size car, unlimited mileage. Let me reiterate that.
$24 a day to throw my dog in a crate, ignore her 23 hours a day, and throw some cheap kibble at her twice a day, versus
$18.99 a day to hand over the keys to a $25,000 relatively new automobile to a perfect stranger of unknowable drinking and drug habits, with unlimited mileage, with no concern for where on earth he should take that vehicle, as long as he abide by the compact and show back up Monday morning. As an investor or risk manager I know which business model I prefer.
Yes, yes, I understand insurance, and all that crap, but that is really just part of the underlying risk mitigation and risk management. Because at the end of the day they don't want a check from my insurance company for a wrecked car. They want their Impala back. And they don't care a whit whether I bring it back with an additional 20,000 miles on it, or an additional 75 miles on it. $18.99 a day either way. As long as I don't scratch the paint I can jump dirt moguls all weekend, too. They don't care a whit.
That is one fucked up business model. Which I intend to exploit to the fullest this weekend. I'm going to abuse the shit out of that rental car. I have to extract the $5.01 premium Animal Walk is gouging me to board my dog, don't I?
Look, I'm just trying to seek equilibrium in the marketplace. One transaction at a time.
Now that you've finished your pukesies over my last post, I was in an all day meeting today, just like six years ago. Meetings aren't uncommon, of course, but all day affairs are.
I remember being in the boardroom six years ago when the secretary came in and told the CEO a plane had crashed into the first tower. We went into the operations center and watched the CNN feed on the plasma screen for a few minutes. Reconvened the meeting. Cancelled it for good when the secretary came back in the boardroom and said, uh, another plane hit. Kind of fucked the whole accident scenario.
So today was ugly. Especially since those Muzzie bastards had promised a "special gift" for today. So I kept getting up from a training seminar, and sticking my head out of the door. "Yo, what news?" I'd ask the receptionist. She finally told the trainer at lunch that I was giving her the creeps, so they asked me to stop.
What? I like to be informed. What if those rotten bastards had attacked again? What would I tell the grandchildren when they asked "Where were you, Velocipop, when the Statue of Liberty exploded?"
"Why," I'd say, "I was watching a 93 year old Chester Karrass tell me I had to spin somebody's flywheel to make them happy on a video, that's where, you little whippersnapper!" I'd snarl. "History passed me by because of a receptionist with loose bowels. Now give your Velicopop the secret pipe he showed you. The one with the gooey black rock in it."
One must avoid such eventualities at all costs, I say.
Deep Purple. 1970.
The first anthem rock song I'm aware of. Before Stairway. Before Yes. I still love this song. Damn, I wish I was 13 years old again, with an uncontrollable little pecker. This is typical shitty bad video circa 1970 you get on You Tube, of course. Not even sure you can get Deep Purple In Rock on CD. Never tried. Moved on. Ian Gillan married June Lockhart that year. My world changed forever anyway.
I'll be damned if a fellow didn't call my cell phone last night, and tell me he'd found my briefcase in the alley behind his music studio in Murray Hill, laptop and sundries still intact. I use the term music studio loosely, because when I drove over at lunch today to retrieve the bag I didn't see any damned recording room, mics, mixing board, nothing. Nothing but three sofas, a boom box, and a half empty bottle of Couvoisier crammed into a tiny, about to be condemned, strip mall joint. With no windows and a padlock the size of a tapir's ballsack. I'm pretty sure he was Smoove B. But an honest Smoove B. After he fetched my laptop bag and chatted me up about his woes in an old building with leaks and rats I threw some twenties at Smoove to reward his honesty and left rather quickly, because I'd noticed he'd locked that ballsack sized lock on the door after I'd entered, and I was getting a creepy vibe. I've been traumatized enough!
Back at work I booted up the old beast. It was in fine working order Still had the Lobster Boy wallpaper! I needed to purge some Totally Not Safe For Fucking Work (TNSFFW) stuff off on it, too. Yes, I confess. I've occasionally used the company laptop for blodgerage purposes. Because I'm lazy. In fact, I've closed off the Batcave entirely. I'm so indolent now my entire universe is confined to the bedroom, unless I'm attempting to char some dead animal parts in a skillet to ward off the pellagra. So the bedroom is a bizarre thing indeed. I sleep with dirty dishes sometimes, if the dog is in the crate and hasn't licked them passably clean. If the dog and I are both gaseous it's like a trench on the Western Front. I keep the sliding door cracked to let out the vapors, but it lets in creatures, both airborne and groundbound. They usually end up in the bathroom. It's best we don't discuss the bathroom.
So, I furiously got to deleting shit left and right. Now I'm not saying there were pictures of the splendid Velocirump on the harddrive, awaiting possible future posting. I'm just not denying it. Took me forty-five minutes, but I finally took it to my IT guy, and said you know that C Drive? Wipe that fucker clean. I insist. Here's a shiny silver dollar if it happens in the next thirty minutes, my fine geek friend.
Gee, now I have to spend tonight clearing out the new laptop. I've already had it a week, you know. And I can do a lot of bad shit in a week.
Tennessee is one of those weird-assed states. It's looooooong. The people in Memphis really don't give a shit what the people in Nashville are doing. I know. I lived in Memphis for three years.
It's a suck-assed town, but there's some damn fine barbecue. I blowed up like one of those spiny fish when I lived there. Yum, yum.
Here's another thing. People in Memphis don't like Rocky Top. Like the rest of the civilized world, they consider it a boorish, hillbilly song. Memphibians consider Old Man River to be their state song. And I'm down with that. I love that song. Makes me want to be an ancient Negro.
In fact, in my next life, I want to be an old guitar picking black man, endowed with one of those famous black cocks (God: an ebony version of Girth Vader will do just fine).
Anyway, the whole point of this post was to say I hate Rocky Top. You can't even listen to it with dignity. Your body starts jerking, wanting to buckdance and shit. Eric may disagree, but I say we pass an amendment to the Constitution, banning that thing. Can I have a Huzzah?
P.S. Why the hell does Georgia play Glory, Glory Hallelujah? That's what the Yankees were playing when they were gutting our boys at Chicamauga! Just a finesse point.
Dere a shocker. Redneck must be wetting his prison uniform.
Me: That Appalachian State looks pretty cool, dad.
The Senator: Why?
Me: They don't look like they go to class. Just snow ski and smoke pot. I'm up for that.
The Senator: (banging his shoe on the kitchen counter, ala Nikita Khruschev): Nyet!
Me: I know you pulled a lot of strings to get me into West Point.
The Senator: I've been rethinking that, boy. Do you know what the mortality rate of 2nd lieutenants is in the Vietnams?
Me: No sir.
The Senator: It's bad, boy. Your mama would never forgive me. You're going to the Coast Guard Academy like your brother. Protect your honor AND your ass.
Me: What about Georgia?
The Senator: Georgia??? My Playboys tell me it's the party capital of the universe. Ten years running. No sir. Ye shall go to the Coast Guard Academy.
Me: But all my friends are going to Georgia.
The Senator: Precisely. You should go to college with perfect strangers.
Me: They'll be Yankees, dad.
The Senator: Hmm. Just how much pot do they smoke at this Appilalachan State? Never mind. Ye shall protect your honor AND your ass, and keep your mama off my butt. Do you understand how mad she would be if you came home in one of those goddam body bags? And I look forward to seeing your hair cut, you fucking hippie.
Me: Aye, aye, sir.
I couldn't make these conversations up.