I repost this from time to time, usually on Memorial Day. My Uncle Bob. Took from me before I knowed him. Slammed into the earth in Colorado in 1944. Those dirty Jap bastards. He never had a chance to kill any.
Here's a picture of my Uncle Bob, walking down Peachtree Street in Atlanta with my grandmother. Circa 1940. Bob would have been about 17.
Looks like an Italian stud, eh? That must be a 26 inch waist. And coming out of the Depression he didn't seem to be hurting for clothes.
Malcolm Robin, Jr. was the Senator's big brother and idol. As I've posted before, Bob was killed in 1944 when his bomber crashed on a training mission in Colorado. The old man was never the same, I'm told. Once in an infrequent while he'd get a bit hammered, though, and
blubber reminesce about Bob.
Life's full of What If's, though, isn't it?
I'd have liked to have known Bob. He was said to be a great guy.
I don't do holiday posts much, but as we approach Memorial Day, this is a man I'd like to remember.
And, gee. No family resemblance there, eh what?
This is one of those few occasions I cain't swear I was there. It's a Puddyhead tale. Seems he was messing around with his old pal, the mayor of Darien, Georgia, when the mayor gave him a task. A fucked up task. The mayor had false teeth, by the way, and he liked to glock 'em around his mouth. Click clack click clack. So there's that. Then there's Puddyhead's drunkenness. So there's that. I'm just scribing here.
So Puddyhead goes to this house. No air conditioning, have to fix the window unit. But the girl who answers the door is a 14 year old black girl with no shirt on. Just tiny nipples. Sweating profusely. Just a girl with no shirt on. Sweating like shit. Moisture just pouring off her. Sponges just to gather her awesome.
She was also wearing filthy, dirty cotton underwear. The kind Puddy likes to sniff. He said it had a nasty brown streak in the center. I shall take him at his word.
At this point we normally take a Faulkner moment, and regroup. But no.
Fourteen year old girl. Tiny nipples. I'm about to hire Puddyhead an attorney just hearing this tale, but no. Because he walks away. I'm afraid his boss set him up. Good fun, if you're up for it. I fucking loved it. But I find it skeery. But that's the way I roll. I don't do tiny titties. Especially on 14 year old black chicks. Fearful.
Puddyhead and I used to be habitués of a dive called Jerry's Lounge. We don't go there anymore because, frankly, it's a fucking dive. Picture Barfly, then ramp down the patrons' potential by 60%.
I mention this only because there was this one old withered crone there who was truly digusting. I'll call her Dot, because that is her name. I don't believe she's had a land line since 1976, therefore I doubt she will be internetting my ass up.
At any rate, Dot is so ugly she makes Anne Ramsey from Throw Momma From The Train look like Gwynneth Paltrow. Someone you outwardly pity, but inwardly want to euthanize with strong, bold fingers, simply because her presence as a fellow human being is so repulsive and demoralizing you wish you were of an entirely different species. Warthog would be an improvement.
For some reason Puddyhead glommed on to Dot. Loved her. So whenever we were in Jerry's he would sidle up to her and make her slow dance in the corner with him. To country songs. Truly disgusting, it was. He would dry hump her against her volition, and run his hands up and down her body like a porn actor. Then he would return to his bar stool and proudly tell me he'd stroked the small of her back.
Jerry's needed a vomitorium.
The nexus is, Puddyhead and I have been working on a cookbook. Not a real one, but a book of recipes that are excuses to wax absurdly on any number of subjects. Our first recipe? Small Back Gravy. It's a nice brown gravy with plenty of onions and peppers in it. Very tasty. But it also looks like the adult diaper remnants from a blowsy barfly from Jerry's Lounge. Something Dot may have shat from her withered old ass.
I'm excited about the book. I think it has potential. Thirty or so recipes designed around things like Dot's diaper. These are going to be extremely tasty dishes, but the background on each recipe will require a very strong stomach to actually ingest your results.
It's win-win or lose-lose, but I made some small back gravy tonight, and I haven't gotten sick yet. But's it like Houdini. You can't just lock yourself in a tank of water right off the bat. You have to practice, and build yourself up for it.
I am in love. Let no man stand before me in my brutish, miscogynist affection for a man. A black man. It's as if I was Susan George in Mandingo. I loves Herman Cain.
His presidential declaration was powerful, empassioned, dead-on serious, policy oriented, brilliant. I love this guy. He is the best. If I had a uterus I would carry his children.
And yet I will not vote for him. Why? He just spent an incalculably valuable moment in the national spotlight without ever breaking from the call and response semantics of the emblematic black preacher man.
I do like me some fire in the belly, and heart in the soul, but there was never a moment, ever, when Mr. Cain stepped back and gave some nuance. Some gravitas. Some sense of NOT being Jessie Jackson or Al Sharpton in his intonation, his refusal to exhibit a momentary measure of humility, his inability to grasp the extreme desire of all Americans to hear someone who will lead them down the path to correction. Some moment when he was NOT a black preacher ennobled and engorged by his messianic path, but a regular American.
I dig fire and brimstone. When it is warranted. How will Herman Cain exhibit himself in a highly volatile diplomatic situation in Israel, or Afghanistan, or the Congo, however?
Call and response? Bring out a fucking gospel choir composed of the Joint Chiefs of Staff?
I love Herman Cain. But, hell, I love a lot of people. Especially women who will have sex with me.
You want to be president of the United States, Mr. Cain? Spank me some policy position papers, a speech or two where you do not invoke MLK, and a massage with a happy ending. And, also, tone your shit down once in a while, because yer finger will be on the nuclear trigger, and you need to remind people that you are not hopelessly waxed onto your own tailfeathers. Whatever the hell that means.
That 3 AM phone call? I like music as much as the next person, but I don't want Medvedev to be hearing Old Man River when his fingers are spastically hovering over his own trigger.
Because I do call and response too, Mr. Cain. I'm just speaking in a slightly different language. That Tom Brokaw thing that all successful politicians master. Be your own man, but goddam, we do not all go to revivals to see pondwater savings on Easter sunrise services.
I have no idea why everyone is ripping on the diaper boy, who is collecting Social Security (SSI) benefits for pretending to be a big fat baby.
People actually want to prosecute him for being a scheming retarded overweight 30-year-old who sips his ba ba and has some woman change the obviously enormous defecations from his diapers.
You conservatives are such hypocrites. This man is an entrepeneur. He is Main Street, not Wall Street. And certainly not Back Street.
He is reaching out and mining profits from the productive members of society. I don't hear you sheep complaining when you pay for a new memory foam mattress from Rooms To Go. Or get that F-150 pickup truck from your Ford dealer (although that Rowe fellow has pushed his Woodie Guthrie working man bona fides a little too far, in my opinion. He's kind of a blue collar fag).
The point is, this ba ba diaper fucker is just being what we Americans have always loved: a person who finds a seam in the American Dream and exploits it. And gets rewarded. It's Horatio Alger stuff. And that Standard Oil guy. Where do you think corporate subsidies come from, you poor misguided masses?
I doff my hat to the lad. And may his caretaker change many a befouled diaper at my expense as a taxpayer. This, and paying for wars, is why I pony up.
I've broken every toe on my right foot at least once, and every one on my left foot at least twice.
Usually stubbing then on the way to the bathroom in the dark in the middle of the night, with a head full of pollutants.
Ah, well. No pain, no gain. These boys will be kangaroo strength in a few more years.
I spent forty-two years thinking Tony Joe White was a black dude. Glad I got that straightened out.
Funny thing about polk weed. Be toxic. You have to boil it for about 12 hours to get the funk out. I don't think Tony Joe cared.
A couple of finches. Not overly impressive, but they have burgundy heads, so I like 'em. Two more downy woodpeckers.
And a blue jay. I have to figure something out here. I need to trap this boy and take him away. This island should be blue jay free. He'll be beating the piss out of all the other birds.
Let's see: a $25 bird trap or a 2 cent pellet?
I'm trying to do the right thing here.
Update: I'm not much of one for bloodsports. I have no moral code against them, I'm just more of a fisherman.
Having said that, it was kill or be killed, and that blue jay is now drifting down Johnny Mercer Inlet on the outgoing tide with a pellet in his thorax, there to be fish food. Kind of like a Palestinian. You don't want to whack them, but you know they'll do more harm than good.
Every time I think I'm the worst person in the world someone like Schwartzenegger comes along and proves me wrong.
Well, except for that other thing. But who's counting?
Politicans whose breasts I like:
My daughter passed her kidney stone. Since I don't happen to have a picture of a goat testicle I thought I would share this with you.
I'm obviously between gigs, but there's no shame in admitting I do side work. Hell, I love it. It's very inspirational to not have to lie to someone for a living.
So I'm renovating a house for an old friend. Flooring, walls, this place is a hundred and fifty years old. Challenging, but nice. Solid. Here's the thing: as I'm waiting for a construction front my friend's dad shows up.
Easy Ed. At least that's what we've called him since 1970. The last man to have a Mutual of Omaha franchise before they went corporate. So I'm told. Easy Ed has always been a bad ass.The fucking Go To Guy. The only man The Senator trusted.
Anywhats, as I'm chatting up Easy Ed, I realize, at 82, he still has a full head of wonderful silver hair. The bastard. I'd have to scrape my anus to come up with that much hair. And still come up short. What a magnificent beast this guy is.
I won't make 82, but if I make 72 I hope I look as good as Easy Ed. Which I already don't. He's a fucking machine. Two women stopped him on the street while we talked. Gave him phone numbers. I am so jealous.
My little wunderkind Caroline is prostrated with the dread kidney stones. Again.
Nothing I can do to holp.
I'm not much holp, anyway. I haven't been in a hospital since my mommy whelped me and they punched me out and told me to go the fuck away, you little Caesarean bastard.
Life ain't fair like that. I hope she passes it soon.
So the olde monster was actually a porn aficionado, they tell us (Thanks, Ty Ty!). Typical. Just like suicide Islamists frequenting titty bars and snorfeling down single malt Scotch.
My sources tell me bin Laden downloaded this pic six times.
Trying to make a Warhol silkscreen, apparently.
I reckon I need to re-read Robinson Crusoe. It's been 40 years or so. I'm just struggling to recall why it was ennobling that a castaway, who hadn't seen a human being in years, finally runs across a black one, and immediately enslaves him. And gives him a fancy day-of-the-week name.
That seems rather fucked up by any societal structure. Although I do recall something about cannibals, and the fact that Crusoe himself had been enslaved by a Blackamoor. There might be a payback angle I missed.
When I read it at 12 I wasn't looking for racial homoerotic overtones, either. I'll be doing that this time, for sure.
Do you know what chills my ass? What drives me insane?
People who blog about their fucking food. Then act like they are some kind of chef.
I'm cooking breakfast!
Look what I had for lunch!
I'm a serious chef! Look at the dinner I prepared! Hearts of Lamb recently harvested by an Israeli child on the Golan Heights! A couscous lambasted with the scrotum juice of a Moroccan tribal elder! a Russet potato dribbled with a rather effeminate reduction of soil derived from the Mountain Meadow Massacre!
How you peoples bore me. This is why I don't read blogs anymore. Or watch the Food Channel. I don't GIVE A FUCKING FLIP what you had for breakfast. Losers.
Having said that, look at the Memphis dry rub ribs I cooked up tonight. In solidarity to my former hometown, which folks are feeling the pain of flooding.
Downside? Memphis is drowning. Upside? I lived in Bartlett. High ground. I may be an idiot, but I'm not a fool. Here are my ribs, and even the Neelys would love these:
Yum fucking yum. And no Palestinians were killed during the making of this cooking.
Only because I couldn't get my hands on any.
Bringing you the finest goods from Communist China, at egregious prices.
Man, the last time I saw a red star that big it was on a tank in Tiananmen Square. Or tattooed on some lesbian teacher's ass at a Wisconsin protest. Lack of perspective prohibits empirical comparison.
And, yes, I know everything comes from China. It's just that most companies are smart enough to wrap a fucking Old Glory around it.
And because my daughters are awesome, and always share the joy with the old man.
Man, look at these Romas grow:
I'm like Paul Bunyan. Or Clarence Birdseye. Or Burpee! Yeah, that's the guy. I'm like Burpee. Everything I touch turns to heavenly fruitiful gold.
I don't think there is anything else I can do in the conscious mode that can top that. I should just take a nap, and dream I'm that seed dude. Look at those little fellows grow, and be jealous, Ye.
So Puddyhead and I are heading to south Georgia for the weekend, to shoot guns and drink unbonded liquor with a moonshiner. Who also makes false teeth. What could go wrong, right?
Well, Pud is already wasted, out of the chute, and takes umbrage at a comment I made, and dumps me back at the crib.
Which I can handle. What I can't handle is the fact that, after retrieving most of my guns, he hauls ass with my .357 on the floorboard.
I wouldn't care, except this is my bedside gun. It's a killer. Loaded with Hydra-Shocks, plus I had a friend step on the rounds a little bit. Added a few grains. These motherfuckers will rock your world. Even I won't shoot them. They kick like a goddamn mule. Only meant to destroy
And so Puddyhead is somewhere in south Georgia, intoxicated, with my gun in his lap. With hopped up Hydra-Shocks, of which he knows nothing. Won't return my texts and calls. Hates cops. Has 5 DUIs under his belt. This is Darwin Awards shit. But fuck Puddyhead. I want my gun back. If it ain't melted after the World As He Knows It ends. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
There's a little spot in Golden Earring's Radar Love, where he says Brenda Lee is singing Coming on Strong. Yes. Indeed.
I'm no fan of partying in the streets over the slaying of a monster, however I have no problem with releasing a solemn photo of dead said ex-fiend. It fits in quite snugly with my narrative of Rational Adult Parents Showing Acting Out Retarded Children What Happens When You Cross the Boogie Man.
These are grown-up lessons, deterrents, not to be confused with treating a killing like the fucking Pistons won a title. Or a random criminal Negro was beaten in L.A.
As overjoyed as I am at the death of Osama, I am somewhat disconcerted at the partying around the country. What does it remind me of? Ah, yes: the Palestinian celebrations after 9/11.
Don't get me wrong: I understand we are the Good Guys. But this ain't the World Series. Killing people is an ugly business. The SEAL who busted the cap on OBL (new handle: Hottest Stud in the World) probably isn't dancing in the streets. Although he probably IS smoking a fine cigar or two.
Just seems unseemly to me. Kill the fucker, bow your heads, savor the moment with Grace.
I don't care how heinous the slain monster be, people who dance when blood is spilt have a little bit of their soul missing. Justice is grim stuff, and should be treated with respect. I don't recall Frank Hamer breakdancing in the middle of the road after gunning down Bonnie and Clyde.
That's my take. And I'm glad that goat-fucking bag of shit was dumped in the sea, probably right after the toilet waste.
Eric posted a video of an older Sting performing Every Breath You Take on Facebook, and it reminded me of this, the original, which I reckon you can't embed anymore:
And that got me to thinking about 1983, and that song. You knew when it came out it was a swan song. Not only for the Police, but for punk rock, and new wave in general. It was over. College was behind you, you'd petered around with grad school, it was time to face the Big Bad Wolf.
There was a recession on, too, lest I remind ye. Jobs sucked. And no one knew where music was going to head. Yes, we actually cared about music then. Now it so much noise, personally.
And what did we get? We were given a decade of hair band vapidity. Tripe, crap, shit, Prince, tripe, crap, shit. And the occasional visage of Bono. He Who Must Be Bullwhipped.
Verily, that was the end of an era. I had to put away my childish things in 1983, and put my nose to the grindstone.
That's the way the world works. And I still love that song, even as I knew it was ushering in the silly things, like responsibility, and parenthood, and waking up at 6 AM and going to fucking work. Fun stuff, that.