June 30, 2004
I was rummaging around in the compost of the 'pooter room when I found something that made sit cross-legged on the floor and study for a while. It's a notebook that I kept at work in January of 2001. I have a lot of notes about projects, deadlines and personnel issues, but there's one page in that notebook that froze my hand.
I made a list of names... all the people that I had worked with who were dead now. I had 54 names on the list and just looking at it today, I could add five more. I remember making that list, but I'm not certain why I did it. I believe that I was sitting at my desk one day, mired in some miserable paperwork, and I just needed to let my mind go elsewhere for a break.
So, I started thinking about dead people. (go figure) And I made a list.
These weren't just names on a piece of paper. They were people I KNEW. People I worked with, ate with, laughed with and played golf with. All dead now.
I don't believe that anyone becomes conscious of his own mortality until he's outlived a lot of people. That's one of the reasons that kids are fearless. They aren't familiar with death. They believe that they will live forever.
And I wish that they could.
I'm recycling an oldie because I like it.
After my son was born, the then-darling wife and I thought about having another child but decided against it. We figured that we had hit the jackpot with Quinton and we should quit while we were ahead. She had been taking some kind of shot for a couple of months (depoprevara, or something like that. I called them "Parvo Shots") to prevent ovulation and she liked the fact that she stopped having periods, too. But she became convinced that she shots were causing her to gain weight. She wanted off them but was reluctant to start taking the pill again. So, being the Southern Gentleman that I am, I said, "Why don't I just go get clipped?"
I stopped by at work the next day and saw Deniese, the company's Nurse Practicioner, and told her that I wanted to get a vasectomy. She picked up the phone and made me an appointment with Dr. Shook, her choice of urologists and I man I was later to become far too well-acquainted with, but that's another blog altogether. I went by Shook's office after work that day and filled out all the necessary paperwork for my operation three weeks later.
I had to take one form home with me for the wife to sign. In the state of Georgia, spousal consent is required before a married man can have a vasectomy. I didn't think twice about it at the time, but I find the idea incredibly ironic now. I could not go out and get clipped without my wife's permission. But SHE could go out eighteen months later and de-nut me with a divorce lawyer and I didn't have a FUCKING VOICE AT ALL in that matter. Something is terribly wrong with that picture. Okay, that's another blog, too.
On the appointed day, the wife and I showed up at Dr. Shook's office. She was there to drive me home afterward. The doctor had offered anesthesia and I accepted eagerly. As a person who has HIS OWN GAS MASK at the dentist's office, I am a certified anesthesia-hound anytime ANY doctor wants to do something I find unpleasant, and since I find GOING TO THE DOCTOR unpleasant, I just say "yes!" if drugs are offered.
I was called and told to remove my clothes and don a hospital gown. I did. I was led to an examination room and told to lie on a table. I did. The nurse lifted my gown, examined my equipment and said, "You didn't shave."
I had to admit that, no, I didn't shave. Nowhere in all that literature I read about the operation did I see any instructions about doing that, so I didn't. "Well, we'll take care of that right now," she said in a businesslike tone while snapping on a pair of latex gloves.
"I want my shot!" I whined.
I didn't get my shot. I got wet and lathered and shaved by a professional who used a Bic disposable razor. In other circumstances, I might have found the experience to be erotic. Had the wife and I known ahead of time that this procedure was required, we could have played some fun games with it. But having that nurse do it shrunk me like a spider on a hot stove. I was embarrassed, not because of being shaved, but because of what happened to me. My manhood resembled a stack of dimes 30-cents tall. My proud portabella became a button mushroom. I expected to look like a man with two navels any minute now. I was humiliated, and worried that my wanger might NEVER recover.
When the nurse finished, the doctor arrived. I got my shot then, but it wasn't much of a shot. I would rather have had my gas mask from the dentist's office and a nice bottle of nitrous. I watched as the nurse laid out a series of torture devices on the Mayo table next to me, and couldn't help thinking of the movie Braveheart, where the torturers displayed all their knives, hooks and tongs right before they eviscerated Mel Gibson. The doctor picked up a hypodermic needle that resembled a bicycle pump and gave me two shots in a place where no man EVER wants to see a hypodermic needle pointed.
But it wasn't that bad. A slight sting.... then MY NUTSACK WENT NUMB!
That is one hell of an unusual sensation. I believe that most men LIKE feeling their balls, except for those occasions where the cods absorb a sharp blow and you crawl around on all fours (actually, you crawl on ALL THREES, if you're not curled in a fetal position, because one hand will be tenderly cupping your nuts) making pig noises for a while until the pain subsides. Having them just GO AWAY like that is very disconcerting.
The doctor picked up a scalpel and said, "Do you know any good jokes?" (I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP!)
I informed the good doctor that I knew a gazillion good jokes, but he wasn't going to hear one now, because the LAST THING I wanted him doing was laughing like a maniac while he sliced into my testicles. I really didn't think that was a good idea. I wanted him to concentrate carefully on the task at hand.
He did something with the scalpel, did something with with another tool (I felt a slight tug there), then he picked up what appeared to be a soldering iron. I saw a tendril of smoke rise from between my legs, and the aroma hit my nostrils: PIG ROAST! Bejus! I knew it for a fact then. All men ARE PIGS, because I smelled just like a Boston Butt on a spit when the doctor cauterized whatever he had cut down there.
The entire operation lasted about fifteen minutes. I was told to get dressed and apply an icepack to my balls as soon as I got home. They gave me one pain pill and one sleeping pill and told me not to lift anything heavy for the next few days. I went home, took the pain pill, applied an icepack to my wound, sprawled on the couch and watched Willie Nelson in Barbarossa on HBO. I lifted nothing heavier than a 12-ounce beer can the entire time. I took the sleeping pill that night, slept like a baby and awoke the next morning with no swelling, no pain and not even a bruise. Just two sets of two stitches on my scrotum to show for it all. There's nothing to this, I thought.
My wife went out to feed the goats and chickens that morning. She came back and said, "We've got a goat problem." I figured that one or two of the escape artists had gotten through the fence again and run down the road to seduce that slut-goat Elvira at Bob and Sue's house. "I can't go rope them this time," I said. "I'm wounded."
"I think Billy is dead," she said.
Billy was my Alpha goat. He was a big, nasty, ill-tempered, head-butting, beard-pissing, sodomizing stink-bomb, but I was fond of him. He would eat out of my hand and no one else's. I suppose he recognized a kindred spirit in me. I went outside to check and, sure enough, Billy was gone to that great grasspatch in the sky.
The weather sucked. A misting rain was falling, the glowering clouds were battleship gray and the temperature was about 45 degrees with a chill northeast wind. Billy was still limber, so I knew that he hadn't been dead long. "I need to bury him," I told the wife.
"Don't you do that, Rob. You know what the doctor said. Call Ed or Willy and see if they'll do it. They owe you a favor." I said I would, later.
I went back inside and sprawled on the couch. She took Quinton and went to the grocery store. I went back outside and buried Billy in the rain. That was MY job. The other three goats stood in a line and baaaa-ed like a Greek chorus while I dug the hole, dragged Billy into it and covered him up. I was so careful about not hurting my nuts while I did all that that I damned near threw my back out using poor shovel technique. But I suffered no lasting damage from it.
I was at Keller's Flea Market a few months after my operation, and I almost bought a neat belt buckle I saw. It said "VASECTOMY--- ALL JUICE AND NO SEED."
Friday, October 25, 2002
I had a dilemma on my hands. My doorbell rang this afternoon and it was Young Jack, all excited and bouncing up and down as if he needed to pee really bad. "Mr. Rob! Mr. Rob! Come look at THIS!" He grabbed my hand and tugged me around to the side of my house. "SEE! LOOK!" I looked. Jack gave me an "I TOLD you so" grin.
Bejus. I had a hornet's nest the size of a pineapple hanging from the eaves of my roof right beneath the satellite disc. I know a hornet's nest when I see one. My friends and I used to throw rocks and dirt clods at them when we were kids. We'd knock one down and run like hell. Then, we'd meet back in the woods and compare stings. (Note to ALL little boys and young men: I don't care how fast you think you are--- you ain't gonna outrun a pissed-off hornet.)
I looked up at the nest. One scout was circling lazily around the hole at the bottom as I calculated what to do. "Let's get a stick and HIT IT, Mr. Rob!" suggested Jack. I grabbed Jack by the neck and choked him to death.
Okay, I didn't choke Jack, but I thought seriously about doing it. Get a stick and HIT IT? Got-dam! That boy obviously never disturbed a hornet's nest the size of this one before. I told Jack to get in the house. "But I wanna watch," he whined. "Yeah, and I want you to LIVE to watch," I replied.
I put Jack in the house, donned a pair of blue jeans, a flannel shirt (it's only 95 degrees outside) work gloves and hiking boots. I grabbed my shepard's crook and a can of Raid. I started to get my damn safety goggles, too, but I wanted to act while the weather was right. A rainstorm was coming and most of the hornets would be back in the nest now. I pulled a camoflage hat low over my brow, and out the door I went. "I'll be back," I told Jack.
I snuck up to that nest and nuked the scout with a Raid-blast. He fell from the sky. I nuked the nest next, and saw some gasping refugees attempting to escape. I nuked them some more. Then, I took my crook and smashed the nest to the ground. Whoa! That's a LOT of hornets! They resembled boiling water! I ran like hell, leaving a trail of Raid-fumes in my wake as cover fire.
I didn't receive a single sting, although a couple of those angry bastards buzzed pretty close to my head before I made the front door. Jack asked, "Did you get them, Mr. Rob?" I told Jack that I thought so, but the most important thing was that they didn't get me. I went out later and set the nest on fire. I am a killer of baby hornets.
And I feel good about it.
I read this post and had a real memory flashback. Somewhere in the pile of crap in my 'pooter room is a picture of me, taken back in 1976. I have long hair, a Fu-Manchu moustache and a snarky look in my eyes. I'm holding my 1964 Martin D-28 guitar and grinning for the camera.
That was my PR pic when I played semi-professional guitar for several years of my life. That picture appeared in advertisments (right next to the ones for massage parlors and escort services) in papers all over the Southeast US during my musical career. I was proud of it.
You know what I'm wearing in that picture? A baby-blue tuxedo shirt with a black cotton vest. The shirt has ruffles all down the front and French cuffs. (I NEVER wore cufflinks when playing the guitar, but I wore them for that picture.) I look downright sophisticated. The name is Bond. James Bond.
I miss that shirt. If I had any Scotch around the house, I would drink some tonight.
I bought an Arby's roast beef sandwich today and I watched the kitchen staff prepare it. Got-dam! The whole process is like an automation and the employees are robots. What the hell has happened to fast food restaurants?
I was a very good grill cook during my younger days, back when waitresses (excuse me... WAITPERSONS) just shouted out the orders, stuck a ticket on a rotating carosel and expected YOU to get it right. I did, or I faced one hell of a cussing from an outraged waitress, who was only passing the words along from an outraged customer. You become good at your job very quickly that way.
I never had a timer to tell me when the french fries were done or when the meat on the grill was ready to flip. I DID THAT! I COOKED THE FOOD!!!! Machines and clocks didn't do it for me. I was proud of my expertise. I was one of the best grill cooks who ever waved a spatula over a stove and I KNEW IT. I could work the prep table like Edward Sissorhands and I could do it in my sleep. You LIKED a hamburger I cooked for you.
I see no such pride in fast-food work today. In fact, if you really want to confuse someone at a fast food restaurant, do what I did today. Have an order that adds up to some kind of dollars and four cents. Hand the employee a $20 bill. Once she's punched in the numbers on the "think FOR you register," say "Wait a minute. I've got four cents," and then hand her a dime. Watch every neural circuit in her brain lock up.
Do you think those people know how to MAKE CHANGE? Hell NO they don't. They've been TRAINED to be robots and they like it that way. Thinking for yourself is difficult. It's much easier to be a witless drone.
I confused that poor waitress badly enough today that I probably could have walked out of Arby's with a free sandwich, but I didn't. I said, "Darlin,' I gave you $20 and a dime. You owe me $16.06 in change." She heaved a sigh of relief and handed me the money.
I did her thinking for her and she was grateful. She's been well-trained.
I am worried about my counrty.
yeah, I'm one of those
About a month ago, I lost the medical insurance I was supposed to be able to keep when I retired. I was surprised by the way the problem was presented to me, because my benefit provider RETURNED the check I sent them and said that my insurance was cancelled for non-payment. I was confused.
I called them and spent almost an hour on the phone, most of it doing the fucking Russian Roulette of "Press 1 to get the hell out of my busy life" to entering date of birth, address, phone number and Social Security number via touch-tone before I EVER got to talk to an actual human being. Then I received a brief and rude response: "We don't handle those kinds of problems here. You need to call Blah-blah-blah.
I called, got the same Russian Roulette routine and finally spoke to an actual human being who said (and I quote) "We don't handle those kinds of problems here. You need to call Blah-blah-blah," which was the same number that sent me to HIM. I blew up and demanded to speak with a supervisor. I was on hold for five solid minutes.
If the person I spoke to was a supervisor, they need to clean house in that place. The weasely bastard wouldn't answer a question, he couldn't give me ANY accurate information and he didn't appear to know diddly-squat about what he was doing. The best he could do was tell me to send a written appeal to Benefit Providers and wait for a response. I told him to go fuck himself.
I got on the computer and applied for a policy from Blue Cross. I was totally honest in filling out the application. I admitted to being a smoker and a victim of prostate cancer. They approved me, with the one codicil in the policy that any problems I have as a result of prostate cancer are NOT covered for 48 months. I signed the paperwork and sent it off.
Until it's approved and etched in stone, I am one of the 43 million Americans with no health insurance. I suppose that I should be crawling down the street with my open palm extended and weeping like a baby, crying for government to save me, but I'm not doing that. I'm dealing with Blue Cross instead.
The policy I'm buying isn't as good as what I had, but it costs 1/3 the money. All I really want is insurance against something catastrophic, something that might put me in the hospital and eat up all my money. I can handle nickle and dime doctor bills. I'm not worried about prostate cancer, because I believe that I am cured, and I also know that after almost three years with a zero PSA, I have a 90% chance of living another ten years. I'll take my chances with those odds.
The insurance doesn't cost that much. Why is health care insurance such an artificial "crisis" in this country?
one honest thought
Hillary Clinton is almost... ALMOST... as facile a liar as her HINO (Husband In Name Only). But even a congenital liar trips up and speaks the truth every now and then.
"Many of you are well enough off that ... the tax cuts may have helped you. We're saying that for America to get back on track, we're probably going to cut that short and not give it to you," she said at a fund-raiser for radical Sen. Barbara Boxer.
Yeah, it takes a village to rob you blind.
Am I really standing alone in right field and shouting at empty bleachers when I say that YOU BETTER WATCH OUT FOR PEOPLE LIKE THAT? The sheer arrogance is enough to make me want to upchuck. YOU'RE going to take things away from ME for the "common good?" Where the fuck does it say in the Constitution that YOU have the right to do that to ME? Who died and made "common good" rise and set in the crack of YOUR wide ass?
I've got a better idea. If you go away and leave me alone, I promise NEVER, EVER to ask you for a Got-dam favor. I don't want government to help me with ANYTHING, and I'll be more than happy to let you do good elsewhere as long as you don't inflict that shit on me. What??? I can't do that because I have money? And you want it? For the "common good?"
I've got your common good right here.
The e-rate tax is aimed at providing schools and libraries with Internet access. The program, championed by Al Gore when he was vice president, was supposed to help schools allow low-income students to close the "digital divide" and gain new social and economic opportunities. Sen. John McCain (R-Ariz.) began raising questions about it during a hearing on the program six years ago. Since then, its problems have become more apparent. The e-rate fund has distributed $12 billion over six years, and estimates place the amount wasted in the billions. Because of lack of oversight, it's impossible to know the extent of the losses.(emphasis mine, to prove a point.)
Hillary, why don't "rich" people just take all of their excess money, rake it into piles in their back yards and set it on fire? It'll do about as much good as sending it to the government to spend and the backyard fires will do a more efficient job of consuming the money. Then, the rich won't be rich anymore and YOU can go to bed happy at night, being rich yourself.
Bite me, bitch.
I WILL NOT read any article from any publication that requires me to register to do so. I simply will not. To register is an inconvenience, an invasion of my privacy and an insult to me. If I click a link and a registration page appears, I shout "FUCK YOU!" at the computer, spray spittle all over my keyboard and usually knock my cigarette from my ashtray as I wave "The Bird" at the screen. Yeah, I've got your registration dangling.
Then, I go somewhere else that DOES NOT require me to register and I can find the same story by a different writer, or sometimes the SAME ONE. I would much rather deal with pop-up ads than registration pages. As I said, if I have to register to read you, then fuck you.
I don't know how many other people feel the same way I do about registration pages, but I'll wager that enough of us are out here to make it a losing proposition for newspapers who do it. How much money do they make selling names and addresses to spammers versus the readers they lose through required registration? Has anybody researched that subject?
I don't care. My mind is made up on this topic.
What do we want?
I wish that I were omnipotent. I would make a fine God. Nothing EVER would go wrong on my watch and EVERYBODY would live happily and prosperously. Unfortunately for the human race, I am NOT God. I'm just a normal schlub who makes a pretty good neighbor, and someone who would jump into the ocean to save a drowing person. (Lots of lifeguard training during my youth.)
I don't like it when lawyers play God in cases such as this one. Holy Bejus! What did the parents expect the rescue workers to do? Leave their child lying on that ledge while they consulted with attorneys to make sure that they didn't fuck up and open themselves to a LAWSUIT?
Three years ago, 15-year-old Elijah Keller of Redmond slipped and fell while climbing a cliff face on the rim of the 300-foot-deep Crooked River Canyon. Keller plummeted 25 feet before landing on a four-foot-wide ledge that kept him from plunging all the way to the base of the gorge. He was badly hurt in the fall, but was conscious when volunteers from the Crooked River Ranch Rural Fire Protection District arrived on the scene. Rescuers rigged ropes and rappelled down the cliff face to reach Keller, using chain saws to clear a path through the thick sagebrush.
That sounds like a pretty heroic response to me. Of course, we have to understand that under today's standards of law, the 15 year-old boy bore NO RESPONSIBILITY for his own actions; once he fell off the cliff, the job of saving his life and doing EVERYTHING A SECOND-GUESSER COULD IMAGINE became the responsibility of the rescue workers.
Twenty minutes after getting to him, paramedics had Keller loaded into a rescue basket and began to hoist him, still conscious, on ropes out of the canyon. Once Keller was safely off the ledge, he was flown by helicopter to a Bend hospital.
What SHOULD have the rescuers done? Leave him lying on that ledge until he died and only then retrieve his lifeless body? Stand around saying, "I ain't going down there. We might get sued?" WTF do people want in this world?
If the same thing happened to my son Quinton, I would shake the hand of every person who risked his or her life in an attempt to save my boy. I love my boy, but unless the rescuers dropped him off the cliff because they couldn't tie a good knot, I wouldn't think to suggest that THEY were responsible for my son's death. He fell. You went and got him. Good job.
Do people who file such lawsuits and the lawyers who take them ever stop to think about the effect on society such bullshit carries? I can understand the grief felt by the family who lost a son. Yeah, that hurts a lot. But if you sue the RESCUE SERVICE, how many other people are you willing to condemn to death?
If these assholes have their way, they'll paralize emergency services all over the country. People who are highly-trained, highly-skilled and dedicated to their work will be AFRAID to act when quick action is necessary because they might be sued later. Thanks a lot. Your actions will certainly bring back your son, or at least give him a lot more company wherever he is now.
They allege in a lawsuit filed in U.S. District Court in Portland that Elijah's "head fell sharply down to his chest during the lift up to the side of the cliff." The Kellers are suing the people who tried to save their son for $9.5 million.
No, it's not "hard to imagine" otherwise. Just ask a lawyer. Or a couple of greedy-ass parents who want to cash in on their son's death, no matter who else it harms. It's a pure case of "Hooray for me, and FUCK YOU!" That's common in our legal system today.
I believe in the idea of a "social contract." It's an old idea from John Locke and most people today never heard of it. In essence, it means that we agree to live in the best harmony we can make by respecting the rights of others, abiding by laws established for the common good and treating your fellow man the way YOU wish to be treated. Apply the social contract to this case.
Does it fit? I don't think so.
(UPDATE: Evidently someone else thinks the same way I do about this "case.")
I have been remiss in not putting this guy on my blogroll sooner. He's vitriolic, articulate and well-armed.
Three out of three ain't bad.
Why didn't I ever have a teacher like this one when I was 14 years old? I'll bet that I might have learned a lot from her.
Back then, I studied hard...
June 29, 2004
I like fine art photos.
smells like feet
Yeah, been there, done that. It's ugly and some of the aromas are worse than sweaty feet.
I'll bet the stuff doesn't taste like chicken, either.
where's my gun?
Holy Bejus! I've had some tumultuous dreams in the past, but this is a nightmare. I want to kill the critter and then shoot whoever made that photo.
ARRRGGHHH!!! My skin crawls.
More on Moore
The inimitable Frank J. gives his impression of michael Moore and I can't argue with a word of it. Okay... MAYBE I could argue with the part about Aquaman (even Aquaman could kick Michael Moore's thunderbutt ass-- as long as Michael Moore didn't EAT Aquaman first.) but the rest of the screed is on target. (How could you MISS a target as large as Michael Moore's ass? Got-dam! A BLIND MAN could hit that.)
Anyway, Frank had one of those momentary flashes of brilliance he occasionally displays when he's not sequestered in a dark room with his crack-pipe, and I believe that you should go read it.
no more mr. nice guy
Yeah, I stole that picture from here and I ain't apologizing for it. I suppose that I AM a "digital Brown-Shirt" when viewed through a leftist lens. I consider MYSELF, however, to be much more like this:
I am under no one's orders, and I take none, from anybody, least of all from this precious parlor of pantywaist Republicans. Most especially, I don't harass Jews, I don't beat up my political opponents, and I don't get into street fights.
That's right, Kim. No more "Mr. Nice Guy."
Go read this. Vengence is mine, sayeth the Lord, but until he returns, the US Marines can handle that job.
I have never liked William Raspberry. The guy is a one-hobby-horse rider who writes what is essentially the same column over and over again. I've never bothered to fisk the blithering idiot, but this guy did, and he did a good job.
Read it; then, tell me that Raspberry isn't a member of the Religious Left.
cats and dogs
HOW TO GIVE A CAT A PILL
1) Pick cat up and cradle it in the crook of your left arm as if holding a baby. Position right forefinger and thumb on either side of cat's mouth and gently apply pressure to cheeks while holding pill in right hand. As cat opens mouth,
1) Wrap it in bacon.
June 28, 2004
Young Jack came by today to visit with me for an hour or so. He was dropped off at his grandmother's house for babysitting, got really bored ("there's nothing to do over there anymore, Mr. Rob.") and came across the street to see me. We watched a movie and ate some popcorn.
Jack has a pet frog now. It's a "red-backed tree-frog," which is something I've never heard of. Jack captured the thing in the woods and has it in a cage now. He's made a little lake for the frog to swim in and decorated the cage with all sorts of neat, froggy stuff. He even put a hamster wheel in there and he told me that the frog likes playing in it, if Jack first picks the frog up and shoves his unsuspecting ass into the wheel.
"If I PUT him in there, he makes the wheel go round and round. It's funny to see, Mr. Rob." I'll bet it is.
What is it with little boys and frogs? I have NEVER seen a boy that didn't want to catch a frog or torture one when he found it. Quinton has come home from a romp in the woods with frogs in his pockets numerous times. (The frogs didn't enjoy the trip.) I did the same thing when I was a kid.
Jack is very proud of his frog and he told me that he catches bugs and feeds them to "Bully" by hand. "Frogs only like live bugs," I said.
"I know that, Mr. Rob. That's why I was wondering if you had a jar I could put some in if I go out and catch supper for Bully. I like to watch his tongue go shooting out when he's hungry."
I found an empty pickle jar, punched a couple of holes in the lid and gave it to Jack. "There's a lunch pail for Bully. Catch all the bugs you want." Jack went flying out the door to catch insects.
About 30 minutes later, my doorbell rang. Jack met Kevin, the new kid next door, and they made fast friends. Together, they had loaded that jar with about 40 different bugs, ranging from ants to a full-grown walking stick. I held it up in admiration and peered intently through the glass. "You boys made a real haul," I told them. "Bully is gonna like this."
Jack pointed to the walking stick and asked, "Is that one too big? Can a frog eat that?" I told him that, based on my experience with frogs, I believed that a frog will eat anything it can fit into its mouth. Besides, what could go wrong? If Bully didn't eat the walking stick, Jack would have another pet in the cage. He seemed satisfied with that idea
He and Kevin went tearing off after that to search for more bugs. I went back inside, sat on the sofa and thought about how much I miss Quinton.
Frogs, bugs and little boys. The holy trinity.
I am totally convinced that she posted a picture just for ME.
I could be wrong, but I'll hang onto my fantasy.
I've never been a big fan of commercial television shows, but Northern Exposure hooked me. I believe that it was the combination of good acting, well-written scripts and my desire to visit Alaska that sucked me in. I think I've seen every episode of that show at least twice and I would watch them all again tomorrow if I had the opportunity.
But I agree with this guy. Joel was an absolute pussy.
I would have shagged Maggie the first chance I got.
Wanna eat some spotted dick? (I always thought that "spotted dick" sounded like a horrible form of venereal disease.)
Follow the link. That's how you make it.
the religious left
Stories such as this one disturb me. Political discourse always becomes acrimonious in an election year, but what's happening this year goes beyond acrimonious--- it's becoming hideous.
I'm accustomed to having the left brand everybody on the right as church-burning racists who hate the poor, drag blacks behind pickup trucks and rape the environment for the sheer fun of it. I'm accustomed to having the right brand everybody on the left as baby-killing, tax-and-spend communists who can't pour piss out of a boot when it comes to national defense. That's just politics.
But this year is different. The hard-core left is behaving more and more like a religious cult every day. They don't want to argue the issues and they don't really seem to have any coherent philosophy except "WE HATE BUSH!" What passes for debate among that group is nothing more than a chant, a mantra. "Bush lied and people died; it's all about oiiilll.....AHHHH-MEN!"
When a political party annoints Bill Clinton (who would need KY jelly instead of olive oil on HIS head), Al Gore (who flipped the last two wing-nuts holding his brain in place several years ago) and Michael Moore (who resembles the Goodyear Blimp in need of a bath and a shave) as their High Priests, that party is in trouble. When loyal followers drink the communion kool-ade and WORSHIP such warped people, the entire nation is in trouble.
I have a troll on this site who constantly regurgitates the same leftist bullshit every time he reads a post that doesn't fit what he's been taught in the Church of the Almighty Left. He's never posted an original thought and I doubt that he ever will. He's just one of those leftist dolls with a pull-string implanted in his back, so that he has only about a dozen sentences that he can speak and they've all been programmed into him ahead of time.
"Oh YEAH? You don't like Michael Moore, but what about Rush Limbaugh? Huh? Huh? Huh?" (Well, Rush Limbaugh lost a lot of weight. Michael Moore is a fat pig. I believe that my argument is better than yours. At least I have ONE FACT on my side.)
I haven't seen the political landscape so fractured since 1968. I smell venom in the air and I don't like it. The right may still have its share of KKK nutballs, bible-thumping fundamentalists and Confederate flag-waving rednecks, but that's just normal. Those people have always been around and they always will be, sorta like environmentalists and teacher's unions on the left.
What IS NOT normal is the religious fervor I see from people who claim to care about this country when they don't bother to read the news, because nothing they see there is going to change their minds, and they ignore the fact that we are at war, because it interferes with their personal agenda. They are angry, but they don't really know why. They hate Bush, but they can't articulate the resons without resorting to cant and mantra, or outright lies. These are dangerous people.
We don't have Brown Shirts in this country today. We have jihadis.
separated at birth
I have to admit that this guy has a point.
June 27, 2004
I cooked a rack of very delicious pork ribs yesterday and finished off the leftovers today. I saved all the bones. I wanted to take them to Katie, the fertile Rottweiler, and her one remaining pup. Dogs LOVE rib bones, and I don't see a damn thing wrong with making friends with large dogs in the neighborhood.
I walked across the street and rang the doorbell. Nobody answered, so I headed off to the back yard to feed the dogs. I turned the corner of the house and almost ran into Henry. He damn near scared the shit out of me. He was taking a break from a carpentry job he was doing at the time, building a set of new countertops for the kitchen and bathroom of his house. Henry is a good jackleg carpenter.
I told him that I brought some scraps for the dogs and he told me to go ahead and feed them. I did. Katie knows me well by now but I'm glad that I also scored some points with her one remaining offspring. That mutt is going to be a BIG DOG.
Henry keeps the "pup" (who already weighs about 35 pounds) on a chain in the back yard. "That sumbitch digs like a backhoe," Henry said. "I can't keep him out of my garden and he'll chew up and eat anything he can find. I had to immobilize his ass." The dog made short work of the rib bones I fed him and whined for more. "That's the puppy in him," Henry said. "Like a woman, he whines when he doesn't get everything he wants."
Henry and I talked for a while and I agreed to help him move and install the new countertops tomorrow. Looks like I have a job for a change, even if Henry did ask if I could bring some beer when I came to help him.
i'm in love
Okay, darlin.' Tell me what you really think about Michael Moore.
Got-dam! You're good.
all my children
I've called Quinton several times this weekend but, as usual, all I get is the answering machine. "Hi! You've reached Jennifer and Quinton. We can't come to the phone right now, but if you'll leave a message, we'll call you back as quickly as we can. Have a GREAT day!" I want to puke every time I hear that message. I don't know where Quinton is or what he is doing. And the LAST thing Jennifer wants in life is for me to have a "great day." So much for "joint custody" under the divorce laws in Georgia.
My daughter is coming to visit next weekend. I'll take Samantha and Stacey out to eat or take them fishing--- whatever they want to do--- while they're here. I had a rough time with Samantha when she was going through her tumultuous teenage years, but she's straightened up and flown pretty well the past couple of years. Stacey has been a very good influence on Sam.
Have I mentioned before that my daughter is gay? Yeah, I thought I did. Samantha isn't ashamed of that fact and neither am I. My mama and my grandmother agree, which is something I believed that I never would live to see. But we all love Sam and we just want her to be happy. Stacey makes her happy, and that's good enough for us.
But I've got to admit--- I'm kinda 0-for-2 in the daddy department. I believe that both of my children love me, but I've missed a lot of their lives. I wish that I could go back and do a lot of things over again, but you get only one shot in life and if you fuck that one up, you live with the consequences. I fucked up being a father.
Samantha is a beautiful and talented young woman. Quinton is going to be a fine figure of a man. I love them both.
But I'll probably always do it from a distance.
I started to master the use of my new carpet cleaner today, but I stopped to make a plan first. The more I planned, the more daunting the task ahead seemed to be, so took a time out to watch a golf tournament on TV. Yeah, an ordinary observer might BELIEVE that I was sprawled on the couch like a rotting potato, but my mind was working HARD the entire time.
I decided to sneak up on the big carpet-cleaning job by practicing on something smaller and easier to accomplish. I decided to clean out my refrigerator. Bejus! I didn't think that kind of foolish thought when I was falling off the deep end a few months ago. I must have been saner then than I am now.
Let me tell you about what I found in my refrigerator...... No, I'm not going to do that. Unless you are an EMS professional or a Haz-Mat Incident Commander, you probably couldn't stomach the gory details. I shared this guy's thoughts.
And speaking of things in the fridge . . .
I believe that I might be better off if I just bought a new refrigerator and started over. There is a LOT of mysterious shit in MY fridge right now that could devour the Blob and never even burp afterward. I don't know what it is, I don't know how long it's been there, but it ain't pretty.
I've got to do some more planning....
(Link via this guy. No "hat tip," but credit where credit is due.)
I went to visit my mama today.
When I arrived at her house, nobody was home, so I went next door to see my 93 year-old grandmother. Her birthday was in May, but I kept forgetting to bring her the present I bought back then, so I gave it to her today. Better late than never. We had a nice, long talk, during which she kept trying to get me to eat something, anything--- just EAT.
My grandmother comes from the old hillbilly school of hospitality that says any guest who visits must be FED, or it's not good manners. I told her that I wasn't hungry, but I probably should have eaten a bowl of Cheerios or something to make her happy. Even if it's just a piece of candy, you're supposed to eat SOMETHING when you go to Mommie's house.
Mama came home from church about an hour later. She was wearing a bright pink dress and a wide-brimmed hat. She looked better and healthier than I've seen her look in a long time. I believe the reason she looks and feels better now is because she stopped going to all those doctors who were cutting slices out of her, injecting her with lethal chemicals and probing in places better left unprobed.
Mama walked two miles yesterday. She's back to doing her morning walks and that's a good sign. My mama ain't happy being bedridden and too weak to get around. She's always been a fiesty wench.
Mama sang in the church choir for years. After she got sick, she was too weak to go to church, so the church came to her. People brought her food, offered to clean her house, take her to the doctor or just come and sit with her if she needed company. I am not a religious man, but I truly am touched by what the church has done for my mama.
That's Christian Spirit in action.
The preacher came to visit a week ago and asked mama to come back and sing with the choir. Mama said, "I've got no hair left on my head, it's too hot to wear a wig, and I would feel ridiculous being up there with the choir wearing a hat."
The preacher said, "If you will come and sing, everybody in the choir will wear a hat." Mama took him up on that promise, and guess what? Everybody in the choir showed up wearing a hat that Sunday. Mama thought the entire affair was hilarious, but she appreciated the gesture.
It got even better this Sunday. Mama walked into the church and discovered almost EVERY WOMAN in the congregation wearing a hat. And these were not ordinary hats. Those wimmen made them out of collanders, with kitchen utensils dangling off them, out of paper bags, out of whatever they could find, and the more ridiculous the better. It was like a clown show out there.
But the message was clear to my mama: There's no shame in wearing a hat to church, and we love you even if you ARE bald. I'm not sure who teared-up worse when she told me that story--- me or her--- but I had to put my sunglasses on in the shade.
I love you, too, mama. Hat or no hat.
June 26, 2004
I don't know why people subject themselves to such risk, but they do. Go figure. I've been asked to guest-blog over here while Adam goes off to try to drown himself in a river.
If he survives the drowning, he may go back and THROW himself into the water when he sees what I've posted on his site.
(Never mind. I can post, but the entries won't publish. Sorry, Adam. I really did try to trash your house.)
she needs a hug
Want to help someone through an existential dilemma? Go give this woman a hug.
she'll be back
Another case of Blogger Fatigue has claimed someone I like a lot. I am hoping that Ms. Vivacious doesn't stay gone for long. She's too good (and too good-looking) to retire right now.
I understand Blogger Fatigue perfectly. When posting becomes more like a job (or even worse--- a DUTY) than it is fun, a blogger should step away from the keyboard and take a break. Recharge the old batteries. Notice that the world keeps spinning whether you blog or not. Ignore the news for a while. Sleep late, relax in hot bubble baths and take long, moonlight walks on the beach.
Paint your toenails red.
(Okay, that last one was just for me, but I couldn't help it. I have this THING for barefoot wimmen with red toenails.)
Kelley, may you live long and prosper. And I hope to see you blogging again soon.
you can't say that!
Yeah, you can't say that in the mainstream media (or at least, they WON'T), but this guy says it quite well.
"Insurgents," my ass.
What if I had said this crap, only substituted "black" for "white," and white for black? Would it be a racist rant?
"White people scare the crap out of me. … I have never been attacked by a black person, never been evicted by a black person, never had my security deposit ripped off by a black landlord, never had a black landlord … never been pulled over by a black cop, never been sold a lemon by a black car salesman, never seen a black car salesman, never had a black person deny me a bank loan, never had a black person bury my movie, and I've never heard a black person say, 'We're going to eliminate ten thousand jobs here - have a nice day!'"
Naw, that's not a racist rant from a blithering idiot. That's the brilliant thinking of Michael Moore, the darling of the left.
Recondo 32 and his lovely wife, Georgia are leaving for a cross-country car trip next weekend. They plan to drive all the way from Bluffton, South Carolina, to Seattle, Washington. They asked me to solicit anyone reading this blog for some advice. They'll be going the diagonal route, which will take them through places they've never been before.
They want to know:
*How much does a carton of Doral cigarettes cost where you live?
*How much is a gallon of gas?
*What's good to eat?
*What's the weather like?
*What are some of the good back-roads to drive?
*What unforgettable places should they be willing to drive out of the way to see on that trip?
All comments and emails will be sent to the concerned parties to help make their trip a safe and happy one.
Yep. I did it
I was not aware of this post until I read it today. I especially enjoyed reading the comments. I put the blogger in question on my roll yesterday and he's staying there unless he PERSONALLY asks me to remove him because he doesn't want to become beshitted by having his name on my roll.
Righteous indignation. By Bejus, human beings are at their very best when they work themselves into that state.
I've been blogging for more than two and a half years now. I've made more than 7,000 posts. People who don't even KNOW ME jumped on the "Ban Acidman" bandwagon over one ill-considered rant I posted when I was drinking WAAAY too much and in the worst health of my life.
Fine. Climb up on your soapbox and call me a racist, a redneck and a Cracker. De-link me. All that shit-storm really proved was the point behind my post. Some words are forbidden today, and some people reserve the "right" not to be offended. The same ones who are offended by the notorious N-word are the VERY FIRST to call ME very insulting names.
But their prejudice and scorn is RIGHTEOUS, because... well, just because.
Simulated guns are dangerous things and I believe that government needs to act NOW to ban them. If we had a law against pretending to have a simulated gun, this crime never would have happened.
Three people drove into the Fuel-N-Go gas station at 33100 Van Duyn Road about 11:35 p.m. in a Cadillac with California plates, police Chief Mike Hudson said. One man went into the store, simulated a gun in his sweatshirt pocket and demanded money.
See? That's the REAL danger in carrying a simulated gun. When somebody pulls out the real thing, you're pretty well fucked. We don't teach this fact to our children, so a law against carrying a simulated gun is essential to protect
The robber ran out of the store, and a male attendant fought with the robber, who again simulated a weapon. The female clerk fired one shot, breaking out the car's rear window, the chief said. The bullet lodged in the dashboard of the car.
That's what carrying a simulated gun will get you. You lose the back window out of your getaway car, lose some of the money from your robbery and end up in police custody with trained canines snapping at your balls. It's a sad story.
And it all could have been prevented if we only had a law banning simulated guns.
read my lips
I agree with Dick Cheney. Fuck you.
be careful what you ask for
You just might get it. Heh. I love it when the blog-world unites to
Go hit him again.
June 25, 2004
I surfed by this evening to see what jim was up to, and I discovered this gem of a blog. I believe that I may have read it before, because the name sounds familiar, but I have not been a frequent visitor.
That's about to change.
Al Gore is insane. We already knew he was a compulsive, shameless, artless liar. That has been proven beyond dispute. But he's also batshit crazy.
Go read the whole thing. It is priceless.
notes from the neighborhood
*We had one hell of a thunderstorm yesterday evening. It didn't have the gale-force winds of the one that came the day before, but it more than compensated for that shortcoming with torrential rain and one of the most spectacular lightning shows I've ever seen. I saw three strikes on trees less than 200 yards from my house as I sat in my garage and watched. The storm finally blew away, and only THEN did the electricity go off. I went to bed in the dark last night.
*My neighbor, Henry, fell down at the bank and broke the radial head on his right elbow. He walked in from the rain on flat-bottom shoes, hit the tile floor with the wet soles and did a Buster Keaton pratfall right in front of the tellers. The bank agreed to pay his medical bills, but he's thinking of asking for some gravy on top. I think he'll get it if he tries, too. I loaned him my lawn mower so that he could cut his grass while sitting down.
*Katie the Fertile Rotweiller is down to one remaining pup, and I think that one is going to stay with mama. It's a good-looking, healthy little dog that's going to go up to be bigger than a house.
*My new neighbors are not black. The boys ARE (the young golfer I met the other day has an eight year-old brother), but the parents aren't. I met "Dad" yesterday when we both stepped outside to marvel at the angry storm clouds coming our way. Dad is as caucasian as I am. I don't know whether this is a foster-home arrangement or an adoption, and I didn't ask, but those two boys are NOT the fruit of his loins. Dad seems like a friendly guy and he's doing a good job with the kids. They have manners.
*Henry saw my brand-new, Starship Enterprise, warp-factor-ten carpet cleaner today. "That's nice, Rob," he said. "Who the fuck is gonna USE it?" Okay, he's known me for a while.
I'm still eyeballing that carpet cleaner and wondering...
I wouldn't want to join any club that didn't want me as a member. The entire purpose of having a private "club" in the first place is so that people, who pay THEIR OWN MONEY to be there, can consort with other people that they want to be around. That's why it's a private club and that's why it costs money to join.
Yeah... those standards exist to keep the riff-raff out. The rules are prejudiced and unfair. People who join such clubs can be real assholes.
If that's true, why would you sue to get into the place?
B. Birgit Koebke golfs alone because no one at her country club will play with her. She hits the links late in the day to avoid running into hostile club members. If a group of golfers happens to be ahead of her, they don't let her play through. "I just sit there and wait," she says. "They've made it impossible for me to enjoy the club."
Does she resign from the club and tell the members to kiss her ass? NO! Of course not! She sues to gain membership privileges for her lesbian partner.
I don't understand this kind of thinking. It seems to go like this: I knew the rules when I joined. Now I don't like the rules. Nobody in the club will change the rules to suit ME. Therefore, I must sue to FORCE them to change to suit ME.
Why don't the loving lesbians just try THIS?
At Bernardo Heights, Judy Stillman says she and her husband enjoyed golfing with Koebke when they joined about three years ago, not knowing about the conflict.
She and her husband quit the club. Imagine that. She and her husband didn't like the way people acted at the club, so they took their money and went elsewhere. That's... that's OUTRAGEOUS! Why quit the club when a hissy-fit and a lawsuit would have been much more appropriate? Man, a good hissy-fit and a lawsuit can bend EVERY MEMBER OF THAT CLUB to YOUR will, if you get the case in front of the right judge.
That's the entire point of this affair, isn't it? I am going to MAKE YOU do it MY WAY!!! Self-important butt-rags. Who died and told those two that the sun rose and set in their asses?
I hope they win. The club certainly will welcome them with open arms after that.
I went to Wal-Mart today and bought three things. The first was a new electric beard-trimmer, because my old Sunbeam died on me and I'm looking pretty scruffy nowadays. The second was a very good Spanish-English/English-Spanish dictionary that I intend to study before I go back to Costa Rica. The third was (and I STILL don't know what possessed me to BUY it) a HIGH-POWERED, CARPET STEAM-CLEANER!!!!
Maybe some long-repressed domestic instinct raised its ugly head in the depths of my psyche. Maybe my undiscovered Feminine Side finally emerged from where its been buried for 52 years. Maybe I just got tired of looking at what once was beige carpet but now appears to be buffalo hide, laid out after a good rut in the mud by a very nasty animal.
Whatever my reasons, I bought the damned thing. I've taken nothing but the instruction book out of the box so far, and that'll probably be enough for today. I got tired of doing housework just from reading the book. I may NEVER take the actual machine out of the box.
Hell--- now that I think about it, I kinda LIKE the dirty buffalo hide on the floor.
I had to go back and read this article twice before I could grasp what it really means.
Israeli-made bullets bought by the U.S. Army to plug a shortfall should be used for training only, not to fight Muslim guerrillas in Iraq and Afghanistan, U.S. lawmakers told Army generals on Thursday. Since the Army has other stockpiled ammunition, "by no means, under any circumstances should a round (from Israel) be utilized," said Rep. Neil Abercrombie of Hawaii, the top Democrat on a House of Representatives Armed Services subcommittee with jurisdiction over land forces.
"By no means, under any circumstances," huh? Is this illustrious representative suggesting that we tell our troops to learn to throw rocks or just take their deaths bravely if all we have for ammo is Israeli rounds? I don't know about YOU, but if I'm being shot at, I'll fire back with whatever I can lay my hands on, and I don't give a shit who made it as long as it works.
Although the Army should not have to worry about "political correctness," Abercrombie was making a valid point about the propaganda pitfalls of using Israeli rounds in the U.S.-declared war on terror, said Rep. Curt Weldon, the Pennsylvania Republican who chairs the subcommittee on tactical air and land forces.
This bullshit just reinforces a point I've made before. We've ALREADY been too "sensitive" in fighting this war, and the forces of political correctness are still crawling out of the woodwork advocating even more sensitivity. The only people they are helping are the enemy.
You want sensitivity? I would drop leaflets, announce messages over loudspeakers and warn every swinging dick "insurgent" in the world that when we dispatch them, we INTEND to use Jewish bullets on their asses. In fact, we believe that any Muslim killed by a Jewish bullet relinquishes his place in the afterlife and somebody else gets his 72 virgins. That's why we like Jewish bullets so much. Then, I would order more Jewish bullets. Let the superstitious pricks think about THAT idea for a while.
When we start worrying about political correctness on the battlefield, we're doomed.
I watched Bowling For Columbine yesterday and then I read this review of Moore's latest propaganda piece today. Michael Moore has his formula down pat. Here's what I had to say about BFC:
Michael Moore does three things really well with that move (besides pissing me off). First, he mixes just enough fact with his fiction to give it the ring of truth if you're not listening carefully. Second, he manages to hit every leftist, break-my-heart talking point he can cram into the film, even when the points don't have a damn thing to do with his subject. Last, his syrupy, unctious voice-over makes him sound like a truly caring, unbiased individual, when he obviously IS NOT.
Here's what Christopher Hitchens has to say about Moore:
A film that bases itself on a big lie and a big misrepresentation can only sustain itself by a dizzying succession of smaller falsehoods, beefed up by wilder and (if possible) yet more-contradictory claims. President Bush is accused of taking too many lazy vacations. (What is that about, by the way? Isn't he supposed to be an unceasing planner for future aggressive wars?) But the shot of him "relaxing at Camp David" shows him side by side with Tony Blair. I say "shows," even though this photograph is on-screen so briefly that if you sneeze or blink, you won't recognize the other figure. (emphasis mine) A meeting with the prime minister of the United Kingdom, or at least with this prime minister, is not a goof-off.
No, it's not a goof-off, but Michael Moore wants it to APPEAR to be one, so he cheats. He cheats a lot in his films. But when you're preaching to the choir, truth doesn't matter. "Give 'em what they want to see" works, and Moore knows how to do that.
The guy is pure slime. Or maybe just "one of the great sagging blimps of our sorry, mediocre, celeb-rotten culture.
Want to see nipples for a worthy cause?
June 24, 2004
i do, too
There's just something both humbling and inspirational about a wild thunderstorm. I like them as much or more than this guy does. Of course, I don't ride mine out on a sailboat, at least not very often.
I've seen the sea angry. It reminded me of watching horror movies when I was a kid.
I was frightened, but I couldn't take my eyes off of it. I felt as alive as I've ever felt in my life.
It was beautiful.
Just look at the title of this post. A riled-up Southern woman can out-cuss most yankee men I ever met.
As I said in her comments, I'm willing to commisserate with her.
I know the feeling, but this guy is wrong.
4) Limited talent....If I had the talent of Mr. Lileks, I would gleefully fill ream after ream with delectable prose enriching the minds of readers with brilliant flowerings of irony and humour. Tragically, I am to writing the same way that the Exxon Valdez is to aquatic birds.
I am to writing the same way a mongoose is to a snake, but that fact doesn't stop me.
that time of year
The wind has been blowing from the southwest for the past few days, which always causes the same kind of weather in Southeast Georgia. The days are hot and humid. But along about sundown, huge thunderheads start to build from all that moisture from the Gulf of Mexico and we often get bodacious storms.
Yesterday was a fine one, with winds that gusted up to 50 miles per hour and rain that fell sideways. It cleaned out all the dead limbs in the woods out back by appearing to throttle the trees like a strangler and also picked up my trash can and tossed it into a neighbor's yard two doors down. (Thank Bejus that the garbage men came and emptied the can yesterday morning.)
Another one is building now. I can see the black clouds easing toward my house and I can hear Mother Nature beating her Drums of Thunder. I didn't lose power yesterday, but I still believe that it might be a good idea to shut down the computer for a while.
This storm looks like it might be another bad-ass.
in vino... venality
This is the kind of thing that amuses people who drink too much wine.
Bejus! What sweat shop are THOSE things made in?
i like dogs
Here's a pretty good dog story.
I wrote a short story about a retired Marine and his old black lab/chow-mix dog, both of them well past their prime and living out their last days together. A couple of thugs break into the house one night and attempt to rob the old man. Together, the old man and his dog discover that they still have 30 seconds of badass left in them before the fire burns out. They dispatch both thugs.
The dog dies protecting his partner. It's really not a bad story, even though I've never tried to publish it.
I went to the store today and passed a sign advertising Red Wiggler worms for sale. Those worms make excellent fish bait, especially for bream or crappie. I don't know how much money that guy makes growing worms, but I DO KNOW that it's not difficult to do.
When I first started seriously gardening, I built a compost bin in my back yard. I threw all my grass clippings, leaf-rakings and non-meat table scraps in there and wet it down and tossed the mixture around with a pitchfork every few days. Thanks to aerobic decomposition, that compost produced some of the finest, richest soil you could ever wish for.
It also spawned incredible numbers of Red Wiggler worms.
Red Wigglers are good for a garden. The worms help aerate the soil and they devour nematodes and other baddies that kill your plants from the bottom up. When my compost was just about ready to spread in the garden, I could dig my hands in there and come up with dozens of worms every time. Big, juicy, long, FAT worms, too.
I've got plenty of room to build a large compost bin in my back yard. I could fill it up pretty quickly with grass clippings and semi-rotten vegetables, and I probably could persuade a couple of my neighbors to contribute to the cause, too. It wouldn't take more than a couple of months to have a thriving worm-farm going back there. I'm seriously considering that idea. I'm tired of telling people that I'm retired.
I want to be able to say, "What do I do for a living? I'm a WORM FARMER."
behind the curve
I know that I am WAAAY behind times with this post, but I've got to say something. I finally watched Bowling For Columbine today. I don't believe that I've seen a more manipulative piece of sheer propaganda in my life.
Michael Moore does three things really well with that move (besides pissing me off). First, he mixes just enough fact with his fiction to give it the ring of truth if you're not listening carefully. Second, he manages to hit every leftist, break-my-heart talking point he can cram into the film, even when the points don't have a damn thing to do with his subject. Last, his syrupy, unctious voice-over makes him sound like a truly caring, unbiased individual, when he obviously is NOT.
As nearly as I can tell after watching the film, gun violence in America is caused by our health care system, welfare reform, K-Mart and Charleton Heston. Too many blacks are shown being arrested on television, so whites in the USA are filled with fear and racism, which causes them to buy guns they don't really need. Canada is a wonderful country with free health care.
Just a couple of observations. Moore didn't buy a gun in Canada; he bought ammo, although you had to be watching closely to catch the sleight-of-hand. Everything else in that segment was structured to suggest that anybody can buy a gun in Canada just as easily as they can in the USA, but deaths by gunshot are lower in Canada than they are in the USA because Canadians aren't racist and they have free health care. ("I see black people everywhere here!" He interviewed two black people and both were visitors from Detriot.)
Moore says ethnic diversity has nothing to do with that difference because the population of Canada is "13% non-white," which makes them "just about the same as us." I believe that our "non-white" population, once we counts blacks, hispanics, Native Americans, eskimos and Asians is a lot higher than 13%.
He also never mentions the War On Drugs as a factor in gun deaths. Crack-heads, drug dealers and gang-bangers shoot each other all the time in the inner city. The War on Drugs is a BIG factor in creating that situation. There's lots of money in them thar drugs, and people are going to go after it, whether it's illegal or not. When you're operating outside the law anyway, what a few shootings among friends?
He made a real, leftist, puke-inducing point by bringing two Columbine survivors to K-Mart corporate headquarters, where they whined that K-Mart somehow was responsible for the school shootings because the store sold 9mm ammo. Yeah, right. If K-Mart didn't sell ammo, Columbine never would have happened. You can't buy it anywhere else.
I never realized this fact before: There is no real difference between taking a gun to school and blowing away your classmates than working at Lockheed-Martin making bombs.
And I LOVED the compassion and understanding Moore displayed when he set upon a victim of Alzheimer's like a greasy blob. Moore should be proud of that interview. He showed his true colors.
The guy is an asshole in every sense of the word and his piece of shit movie proves it.
I probably SHOULD NOT have burst out laughing when I saw this, but I did.
things I don't understand
#1) De-Caf Coffee. What the fuck is the point? If you can't cop a righteous energy buzz after a couple of cups, why drink coffee at all? Give ME the thick, turgid, muddy stuff that makes my hair stand on end.
#2) Non-Alcoholic Beer. Again, what the fuck is the point? I've tried NA beers and I'm yet to find a one that doesn't taste like watered-down possum piss. I would rather drink ice water.
#3) Vegetarian Diets. Something is seriously wrong with someone who doesn't eat meat. Human beings would not have canine teeth if Mother Nature herself hadn't designed us to gnaw rib bones and tear great chunks off a pizza with extra pepperoni and sausage. Who are the vegans trying to fool? Shitting high-fiber turds IS NOT what we were put on this planet to do.
#4) Organic Food. The very term is a lie in itself, and anybody who believes that "organic" food is uniquely healthy is a blithering idiot. Hell, they have to be idiots to pay twice the price for products dipped in shit instead of 10-10-10 fertilizer. That's California Dreaming.
#5) "Healthy Choice" TV Dinners. Got-Dam! Does anyone really believe that a frozen brick you buy in the supermarket, after you pass up all the fresh fruits, vegetables and meats, is a HEALTHY CHOICE? Don't get me wrong. The meals aren't bad, but I prefer truth in advertising. Try "Better than that Swanson shit, BUT NOT a healthy choice."
#6) Low-Sodium ANYTHING. Yeah, yeah, yeah... salt is BAD for you. Just try living without it. YOU'LL DIE!!! Again, I prefer truth in advertising, so instead of "low-sodium," the food should be labeled "HAS NO TASTE." That low-sodium crap is more California Dreaming.
#7) "Renewable Energy". That's the new war-cry of asshole environmentalists who don't know jack-shit about energy production. The only really reliable source of renewable energy that we've ever found in sufficient quantity and reliability to make it practical is hydroelectric power, but environmentalists hate dams as much as they hate coal-fired turbine-generators or nuke plants. People who do the la-la dance about windmills and solar panels should be FORCED to live with that kind of power only. After they freeze their asses off in the dark for a year or so, they may stop their California Dreaming.
#8) Saying "Gender" when you mean "Sex". This one is a pet peeve of mine, because it reflects the complete pussification of America that I've watched occur during the second half of my life. "Sex" sounds dirty. EEEEWOOOO! Can't have THAT! "Gender," on the other hand, sounds really neutral, scientific and unoffensive, even to militant feminists, who are the ones I really believe STARTED this corruption of our language. Delicate ears require a lot of insulation lest they hear something they don't like.
#9) Gun Control. If ANY proponent of gun control could show me ONE EXAMPLE of where the idea has worked to make society better and safer, I might listen to them. But they can't, and I won't.
#10) Survivor. I watched one episode of that show long ago and I never felt the urge to watch it again. I've seen enough back-stabbing and politicking in my REAL life that I have no desire whatsoever to come home and watch more of that shit on my television.
There. How's THAT for a Thursday Ten?
made my day
There is nothing I enjoy more than going to one of the Original Crew's sites and reading about a bug-eyed monster with a sore ass. I just THOUGHT I hated being cat-bombed, but dog-bombing can be worse.
That post has WAAAY to much information in it.
June 23, 2004
the "religion of peace"
Yeah, those jolly peace-lovers are impressing me more and more every day. I would follow with a string of very creative obscenities to describe those people, but it wouldn't do any good.
I would rather see a nuke dropped on their unwiped asses.
How did people EVER manage to drive cars before the invention of the cell phone? On my trip to Key West, I noticed that about one in four cars I saw on the Interstate had a driver with one of those Borg-like devices stuck to his or her ear. I'll be willing to bet you that all but one or two of those people were just bullshitting with someone they really didn't need to talk to.
"Hello? James? Yeah, I'm driving down the road now. I'll have to stop for a pee break before long, and I just wanted to let you know."
"Hi, Mary! Whatcha doin'? Aw, I'm not doin' much either. Nothin' plus nothin' means nothin,' don't it? Whoa! I almost sideswiped an eighteen wheeler!"
"May I speak to Bob, please? Wrong number? Who cares? I'll just bullshit with YOU. What's your name, anyway?"
I can understand having a cell phone in the car. It can come in handy if you break down on the road and need to call Triple-A for a tow. Other than that, the sumbitch needs to stay in the glove box. People who feel the overpowering desire to exercise their jaws every time they get behind the wheel of a car should learn to chew gum. Fuck them AND their cell phones.
I believe that we should have a bounty on assholes who don't know how to HANG UP AND DRIVE.
I've often said that the only REAL difference between the two major political parties in this country is that they disagree on how they want to run MY life. They BOTH want to run my life; they just have different ideas about how government should do it.
I don't like this. Who decides what is "indecent" and what isn't? I frequent clothing optional resorts and I don't mind walking around in my birthday suit when I'm there. Is that indecent behavior? I'm certain that a Baptist minister would think so, but nobody's asking HIM to visit or take his clothes off, either.
For that reason, I don't want the prudish bastard making rules for ME.
I believe that nudity is a GOOD thing. I find it a refreshingly honest experience to sit around a swimming pool and talk to nekkid people while I'm nekkid myself. You can't put up many false fronts when you're nekkid.
I don't believe that sex is indecent. In fact, I believe that sex is one of the few truly splendid experiences a person can enjoy, when it's done right with the right person, especially when you both WANT to be indecent at the time. I don't want the government telling me who I can fuck and who I can't (even though government already does that with hopelessly unenforcable anti-prostitution laws), and what I do in my bedroom is none of the Senate's goddam business.
Here's the kicker:
GOP Sen. Sam Brownback of Kansas said the issue had been debated enough. Lawmakers have continually criticized broadcasters for airing what they say is increasingly coarse programming that can be seen or heard by children.
People, listen to me here. ANYTIME a politician claims to be doing something "for the children," you'd better watch your ass. First of all, it ain't government's job to raise our children. Second, that "for the children" is ALWAYS a bullshit cloaking device used to justify more nanny laws and increase the power of government.
I find THAT kind of behavior to be "indecent."
he still makes my skin crawl
If I had to describe Bill Clinton in one word, it would be "asshole." I prefer "Self-Aggrandizing, Lying, Dick-Driven, Posturing, Pompous Asshole," but that's more than one word. Still, it's MY humble opinion of the man.
Go read this and tell me where I'm wrong. I feel compelled to make a few comments.
Speaking on a Panorama programme to be broadcast on Tuesday night, Mr Clinton accused the press of helping the far- right and liking "to hurt people".
No shit, Sherlock. Sex sells. Most people can't find Bosnia on a globe, but they know a Quest For Pussy when they see one. You held the highest office in the land and squandered your "legacy" for a whiff of quim. You cared more about a cigar and a 19 year-old intern than YOU did about Bosnia, you lying fuck. Does the term "self-control" exist in your vocabulary? How about "honor," or "duty?" No, I didn't think so.
Mr Clinton reacted after presenter David Dimbleby asked him why he had an affair with Ms Lewinsky when he knew he was under investigation by special prosecutor Kenneth Starr for other matters.
See? It wasn't CLINTON'S FAULT! It was that nasty right-wing conspiracy that caught him with his dick in the wringer. Poor judgment, thinking with the wrong head and being a complete horn-dog asshole had nothing to do with it. I just hope the lying bastard never wags his finger at ME. I don't know where that elongated digit has been.
"And that's why people like you always help the far-right, because you like to hurt people, and you like to talk about how bad people are and all their personal failings.
I don't know, Bill. That quote sounds a lot like the motto of the Democratic National Committee. Cry me a river, as if you HAD NO personal failings. You fucked up, big time, over a piece of ass. You're not the first man ever to do that, but I expect more from a President. Everybody should.
It is believed that he even made time in his tight schedule to talk off camera to the Panorama team for 15 minutes after the interview ended.
I am amazed. Bill Clinton talked for 15 more minutes after the interview? That motor-mouth will be talking when his coffin is lowered into the grave. That's one of Bill's problems. He doesn't know when the fuck to shut up.
Mr Clinton also revealed that in the wake of the Monica Lewinsky affair he was banished to the sofa by his wife Hillary at home, while ordering bombing attacks on al-Qaeda at work.
BWHAHAHAHAHAAA!!! Did anybody besides ME fall on the floor laughing at that line? If the man had a genuine Southern wife, he'd have been dodging cast-iron frying pans and AFRAID to go to sleep for fear of suffering a Bobbitt in the night. Yeah, he stepped all over his dick, but still bombed al-Qaeda. Whatta man.
"I was just glad to be among the living there at home and frankly, perhaps I shouldn't acknowledge this, but it was a relief to have to go to work and concentrate on something else because otherwise I would have nothing to think about all day long but what a bad fella I'd been."
You damn sure didn't want to think about THAT, did you, Bill? You didn't think when you did it, because it wasn't the first time, and you don't like to think about it now. Tough shit. Actions have consequences. Accept YOURS, you whining prick.
I've always had a picture in my mind of Bill Clinton as a strutting drum major pretending to lead a band. He high-steps and waves his baton as long as he's out front. If he band turns the corner and leaves him alone in the street, he just dashes down the nearest alley, emerges in front of the band again and keeps on strutting. He did that posturing act for eight years in the White House.
And he hasn't changed a bit since.
(UPDATE: More on the same thing here)
I find a lot of blog-fodder right here. I'm sometimes slack about giving "hat tips" to my sources (because I HATE that term), but I recommend that everybody read that site every day. Consider this post a blanket Hat Tip for all the ones I didn't do before.
Keep a barf-bag handy when you visit. Some of what you read there will NOT make you happy.
June 22, 2004
i thought he was dead
Or at least I thought he wrote me off as a lot of others did after I published my infamous N-word post. I should have known better.
Welcome back, donnie.
I've written about the importance of naming your children well before. Evidently, I'm not the only one who wonders about how some parents name their children.
there goes the neighborhood
I have a new family living in the house next door to me. They moved in on Sunday. That house has changed hands four times since I moved into the Crackerbox. It should have a revolving door on the front.
And... you know what? It's a BLACK FAMILY!!! That's right, folks. Rabid, racist, redneck Rob has black people living right next door to him now. Oh! The HUMANITY!!!
A drizzling rain started falling this afternoon, so I went outside to scatter some fertilizer on my lawn. I saw the New Kid Next Door, who appears to be about 12 years old, swinging a golf club in his front yard. He was hitting whiffle balls at red flags he had planted all over the yard. He had a pretty good swing, too.
I watched him for a while and then walked over to introduce myself. His name is Kevin and his daddy won't let him hit real golf balls in the yard. I told him that I thought his daddy had a fine idea, because I didn't want an errant shot knocking out a window on my truck. But I also asked, "Would you like some real golf balls? I have some in my garage that I'll give you for free. I won them in tournaments and they're not the brand I like to play. You can have them if you promise not to hit them in the yard."
He agreed and I gave him three sleeves of brand-new Pinnacle balls. He was impressed. "They've never been hit before, so save them for the course," I told him. "You don't need to be playing with shags when you go out for the real deal." He thanked me and went to show his newfound loot to his daddy.
I hope that boy hits every one of those balls long and straight. I also hope that his daddy doesn't think I'm some kind of deviant, attempting to lure young children over to my house with free golf balls.
Stop and think about the idea of "coaching creativity." Think about it long and hard. Then, just break out in hysterical laughter, roll on the floor and wipe the snot off your nose and the tears from your eyes. That's the most bullshit job I EVER heard of. Sounds like a fucking consultant to me, and I've got no use for ANY of those bastards.
I have a theory about creativity and it comes from long ago, when I was only an egg. Creative people will be creative whether they are "coached" or not. I also do not believe that you can take an uncreative drone and coach him into being creative. It goes against the hard-wiring in the brain.
I read once that the difference between a genius and a lunatic is very, very small. They both see things that other people don't.
Creative people are ALL part lunatic, and I'm not talking about actors here. Actors are the mushy scum on the bottom of the pond of creativity. They don't "create" anything. They are hand-puppets, playing people that they aren't, speaking lines written by someone else and as close to a shadow-person as I can imagine. I don't like actors, even though I would like to try my hand at that craft some day. I can be as phoney as a lot of them I see on the screen.
I've watched a talented sculptor work. She took a piece of rock and carved it into a statue. I was amazed by the process. She didn't draw lines or diagrams to figure out what to do. She didn't need any coaching. She saw the end result in her mind before she started and she carved it perfectly from stone. THAT'S what I call creativity.
I don't like it when people call actors or musicians "artists." They are SELDOM artists. They practice a craft, and a lot of them aren't really good at THAT. Mozart was an artist. Barry Manilow is not. Robert Frost was an artist. Maya Angelo is not. Period. I will brook no discussion on the matter, because people who can't tell the difference aren't worth talking to.
Nobody "coaches" creativity. A teacher or a mentor can channel creative energies down the right path, refine the skills with constructive critcism and encourage a creative person to pursue the talent, but NOBODY can make a silk purse from a sow's ear.
A creative person will be creative, with or without a coach. A witless drone will remain uncreative, no matter how many coaches are swarming around trying to find something that isn't there. "Creativity Coach," my ass.
There ain't no such thing.
I might have to read this blog for a while before I figure out the writer. I read one post and say "right on!" then I read the next one and say "YOU SHITHEAD!"
He's confusing me. But he is a "Creativity Coach" (BWHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!), so what else should I expect?
there he goes again
How did I miss this guy when I was growing up? We lived in the same place, did the same stupid teenaged things and he even married a girl who grew up two doors down from my mama's house. Fate works in mysterious ways.
If we had met back then, we'd probably BOTH be dead now.
I spent almost half of my life bossing people in a chemical plant. I've often wondered about what made me good at it; I didn't learn it college, that's for sure. I always wanted to be a writer, but I ended up going where the money was and I have no regrets about that decision. It paid off in the long run.
At one of the too numerous to remember training seminars I attended, the man running the show asked everybody in the room to define the role of a supervisor. I heard all kinds of cliche, textbook answers about being a coach, a motivator, a mentor, a leader and blah, blah blah. When it was my turn to answer, I tried to say what I REALLY thought my job was.
"I set high standards and compel people to meet them."
That's it in a nutshell. That's what a good supervisor does. I can't tell you HOW to do it, because I don't believe that anyone has a set formula that works for everybody. Maybe the military comes close, but even there, certain individuals stand out as simply being better than others, even though everyone is reading the same rule book.
I've seen several different types of bosses in my life. Some I liked and some I didn't, but I tried to learn something from every one of them.
#1) The Pompous Martinet. I learned what NOT to do by watching these strutting popinjays. They love their title, being bullies at heart, and they get their rocks off by trying to intimidate underlings. They hand out punishment at the drop of a hat, but nobody respects them because they ENJOY that aspect of their job too much. They are the kind of people who like pulling one wing off a horsefly, just to watch it spin in a circle.
#2) I'm Your Best Friend. I never understood those guys, either. A supervisor cannot AFFORD to be "friends" with his crew. Cordial relationships are good, but if you EVER try to be friends with the folks you supervise, they'll eat you alive and laugh about it afterward. If your goal in life is to be liked by everyone around you, don't take a job in supervison.
#3) The Wiz-Bang Glory Boy. I must confess that I have a lot of traits that fit this classification. These supervisors take calculated risks, make decisions, never dodge responsibility and usually boss a crew that would follow them straight through the gates of hell if he said to go there. But sometimes the Glory Boy forgets his obligations to his crew and thinks too much of his own career and the spotlight he seeks. Such people can be dangerous.
#4) The Quietly Competent. You don't hear a lot of noise out of these supervisors. They just show up every day, do a good job and generally have a crew that does a good job, too. They rule with a velvet glove, but they rule just the same. They know their shit, but don't feel the need to brag about it. You almost never see one of the Quietly Competent fuck up. Glory Boys do.
#5) The Professional Ass-Kisser. This is the kind of supervisor I hold in utter comtempt. He's a politician at heart and he doesn't give a shit about his crew OR doing a good job. He just wants to ingratiate himself to HIS boss, and he'll sacrifice anybody he needs to along the way. Never trust one of those bastards, and they are everywhere.
#6) The Blithering Idiot. You often see these people and wonder just how in the hell they got where they are. Maybe it's the Peter Principle. Whatever the reason, such people are in WAAAY over their heads and they don't swim very well. Their crews don't trust them, they shit their pants when they're supposed to be making decisions and their most common response to a crisis is: "It's not MY fault," even when it is. I didn't like to work anywhere around them.
The next time you vote for a politician, figure out which category he fits before you pull that lever.
Bud was Jennifer's dog when I met her, but Bud became MY dog for a long time. He's a chow-black lab mix and he weighed about 95 pounds in his prime. Jennifer had him de-nutted as a puppy (she's trying that with me now), but Bud never lost his alpha male instincts. He was a Tall Dog.
Bud always hated cats, other male dogs and any person wearing a uniform. He killed several cats that were too stupid to run from him when they invaded his property, and I learned to bury the broken-necked corpses on the other side of the fence, because Bud would dig them up and "play" with them if I planted them in the back yard.
Bud was as gentle as a lamb around children. I remember Quinton crawling in diapers up to him and saying, "Nose!" as he poked Bud in the nose. "Eye," as he stuck a finger in Bud's eye. "Tail," as he tugged Bud's tail. Bud just laid there and took the abuse as if it were all part of his job. He never even growled.
Of course, Quinton wasn't wearing a uniform. I came home from work one evening and found my back door knocked clean off its hinges. Huge claw-marks were all over the wood and Bud was in the back yard. I don't know how the guy from the electric company got away after reading the meter, but Bud went after his ass and took the door down doing it. I found a note in my mailbox saying, "I will call the next time I need to read your electric meter. Can you please secure your dog?"
Hell... I thought the dog WAS secured. That was a solid wood door he tore down. I'm not sure that I could have done that. But the meter-man always called after that incident, and I tied Bud up with a heavy-duty choke chain when the reader came to call. Bud never did learn to like him.
Needless to say, I never worried about being burglarized back then. Anybody who broke into my home would be reduced to dog turds in short order, because Bud didn't like unauthorized visitors. He seldom barked, either. But he had a low-pitched, throaty growl that sounded absolutely vicious when he was angry.
A Peeping Tom started cruising the neighborhood and spying through people's windows at night. A lot of elderly widow-wimmen were worried about the guy and I told them that I would be on the lookout for him. I didn't need to. One crisp, cold winter night, we turned Bud out in the back yard and he decided to sleep outside. He liked cold weather.
The Peeping Tom tried our bedroom window that night. Bud was coal-black and pretty much invisible in the dark. I think he was asleep under our bedroom window when the Peeper must have stepped on him. Bejus! What a commotion! I heard Bud's growl, an "OH SHIT!" and the sound of running feet. A few seconds later, I heard a "CLANG" as something hit the back fence at high velocity.
I grabbed a pistol and went outside. I found Bud panting with blood on his muzzle. It wasn't Bud's blood. The next day, the neighbor behind me said that the noise woke her up and she saw a young man vault over my fence with Bud hot on his ass. "That boy had no seat left in his pants," she told me. Bud damn nearly chewed his ass off.
We never saw or heard from the peeper again.
Bud is almost 17 years old now. He is arthritic, deaf and half-blind. His coat has almost as much gray as my beard. He sleeps a lot.
I ask about him every time I see Quinton. As of Sunday, Bud was still hanging in there. He's not the Tall Dog he once was, but if he's still good for 15 seconds, he's still a bad-ass. I loved that dog.
I still do.
Just look at the United Nations, for crying out loud. That gaseous, corrupt organization is a walking fuck-up in everything it touches. It's a joke and a farce, staffed by clowns, charlatans and poseurs. You want to put such incompetent, anti-American asswipes in charge of our affairs? I don't trust MY OWN government, let alone a bunch of holier-than-thou people who hate our guts because they envy what we have in this country.
The United States is Tall Dog in the world today. Down South, what we call a "Tall Dog" is the leader of the pack, the biggest, meanest dog in the bunch, who takes no shit off any other dog. The Tall Dog can be quiet and gentle, but the other dogs know that he's capable of kicking serious ass any time he wants to. They fear and respect him.
I believe that the United States should cultivate fear and respect from the rest of the world. I don't give a shit whether France or Belgium likes us. Who the hell are they anyway? Besides, it's not a Tall Dog's job to make friends. Tall Dog is IN CHARGE and that sometimes means pissing off a few lesser dogs if they need to be reminded of that fact. Tall Dog NEVER lays on his back and whimpers when threatened.
Tall Dog doesn't NEED petting, but he likes the gesture and he shows proper appreciation when it comes. But if you get in his face, he's coming at you fang and claw. That's what Tall Dogs do.
And the only way a Tall Dog STOPS being Tall Dog is to grow old, feeble and blind. Then, another dog steps up to take his place. That's just the way Mother Nature works.
Any Tall Dog who MAKES HIMSELF old, feeble and blind by signing away his status to some fucking committee of bureaucrats who WANT to see him fall never should have been Tall Dog to begin with.
Heh! It took him a while, but this guy finally sees my point about pretty, red toenails on a woman.
I think he sprouted wood.
June 21, 2004
My feet stink and I'm not proud of my silent, but deadly farts--- still, I shower every day, brush my teeth and I don't remember anyone EVER telling me that I smelled like a hot dog. If someone DID, I wouldn't take it as an insult. I like the smell of grilled hot dogs.
If you're a female with red toenails, you're welcome to check it out for yourself.
the death of a child
I don't know why I'm in such a morbid mood today. Quinton came to see me yesterday and Jack came to visit today, so I've gotten to visit with my two favorite boys in back-to-back days. Jack watched a movie with me and helped me finish off the last of the boiled peanuts I cooked yesterday. We had a good time.
After he left, I remembered a day from my past that I really didn't want to revisit.
When I was a junior in high school, I went out with a bunch of my teammates from the Jenkins football squad on a Friday night to watch the Benedictine Cadets play Savannah High School at Memorial Stadium. We had a bye weekend, but we were scheduled to play BC the next Saturday and SHS the week after that. We wanted to check out our opponents.
I don't remember who won that game, but I remember what happened later that night. Several friends of mine wrapped a hot-rod GTO around that big oak tree on Dead Man's Curve on LaRoache Avenue. Anybody from Savannah can name numerous people killed on that spot, by that same tree, but that one really hit home to me.
I was asked to go riding with them that night, but I slipped off to neck with a new girlfriend instead. Five people got into that car. One died and the other four were in the hospital for months with severe injuries.
My father was reading the newspaper when I walked into the kitchen on Saturday morning. "You play ball with these guys, don't you?" he asked as he slid the paper my way. I read the story and my jaw dropped. I had seen every one of them about eight hours earlier. I was invited to go riding with them. Now, one was dead and the other four were fighting for life. Holy Bejus!
The phone rang shortly thereafter and it was Coach Atwood calling everybody on the team that he could reach to set up an "honor guard" for our fallen teammate. We met in the Jenkins gym and drew numbers to decide who would spend one hour, starting at 8:00 the next morning, down at Goethe's Funeral Home, and watching people grieve over a closed coffin. I drew #2, which put me on the first shift, along with a guy named Billy Holland.
I spent the longest hour of my life standing by that coffin in my red Jenkins blazer that day. He's been dead for over 30 years now, so I'll go ahead and use the name of the fallen comrade. He was Tommy Spellman, and his father was Athletic Director of the Chatham County Public Schools. Tommy played offensive tackle and kicked field goals and extra points. He was a large, husky fellow.
His father was a big, rough-looking man who appeared to be carved hapazardly from an irregular piece of granite rock. Everybody knew MR. SPELLMAN, and he impressed every schoolboy ballplayer I ever knew. If you were around him for five minutes, you decided that you wanted to grow up to be as tough as he was.
I watched tears roll down that man's face that day. Mr. Spellman, the toughest of the tough, cried like a baby at his son's funeral. At the time, I was disappointed in him. I expected more stoic behavior from "The Rock." But I didn't have children of my own at the time.
Today, I cannot imagine a worse experience than seeing one of your children die young, when their life is still an open highway, filled with opportunity and good times never to be realized. That's got to be totally heartbreaking. I realize now why Mr. Spellman cried that day.
I would, too. I hope only that I never have to.
a small step... in the right direction
We should have been doing things such as this a long time ago. Without the government running the show.
Mankind's destiny is in the stars. We have too much imagination and too much curiosity to squat right here on our puny asses on our puny planet forever. We are explorers, always wondering what lies beyond the next mountain or across the next sea. We should go there.
I watched The Right Stuff on TV the other day and thought about how we, as a country, really pissed away a golden opportunity to pursue space exploration. Just about the time we got good at it, we fucking QUIT.
I would say that I don't understand, because that sounds like something a dreamer such as myself OUGHT to say, but I understand perfectly. An old farmer down the road from me still swears to this day that we never landed a man on the moon. "The gov'ment staged the whole thing to hide what they were doing with our tax dollars," he avers.
What were they doing with our tax dollars to inspire such an elaborate hoax?
"They were spending it on welfare checks and foreign aid to countries we should have been nuking the shit out of, that's what the bastids was doin.' Never trust those bastids, son. They make a livin' by lying and the bigger the lie, the better they like it." A lot of people believed such things about the space program. They thought we were pissing money away into a black hole and lying about the results.
I like the old man. He's helped me a lot with farming projects and he's a genuine Georgia Redneck--- he's been plowing fields, growing peanuts and corn, since his daddy ran the 150-acre farm years ago. His neck is as wrinkled as the vent hose on a clothes dryer and his hands are as rough as alligator feet. His dentures don't fit right and he makes clacking noises when he talks. He's been married to the same woman for more than 50 years. And he votes in EVERY election.
He's the salt of the earth, but as full of shit as a Christmas goose. He knows planting and fertilizing and pest-control, and he knows just how much water the crops need. He's also an ignorant sumbitch totally convinced that he's RIGHT when he doesn't know what the hell he's talking about.
We have a lot of people like that in the world. The man can grow peanuts, cotton and corn, but he really doesn't know jack-shit about government or politics. The fact that he doesn't know jack-shit doesn't stop him from venting his opinions, however, and if you dare to disagree, he's ready to fight. I wouldn't want to tangle with the old bastid. He might wring my neck like I was a chicken, or shoot me if he thought that he couldn't take me bare-handed. I just let him rant.
He has his perceptions and they are stark reality to him. I think about him often when I read some of the asswits who compare Bush with Hitler and who believe that the war against terror was a big mistake. I have a troll who keeps calling Bush a drunk. He's as full of shit as that farmer, but the troll believes every word he writes, just as the farmer believes we never landed on the moon.
Perception is a dangerous thing. Just because you FEEL something and you BELIEVE something doesn't make it true. If you never think that you just MIGHT be full of shit, you don't think enough.
Try the occasional reality check.
Quinton came to see me
I almost didn't recognize my son when I opened the door. His hair is long now, and cut in a shag just like Jennifer's. He could wrap those flowing locks in a ponytail with no problem. I liked the spike-doo he wore during wrestling last year a lot better. I believe that my ex-wife wants a girly-boy instead of a young man in her life.
Quinton hugged me and handed me a hand-made Father's Day card. "I love you, Daddy," he said.
"I love you, too, son," I replied. That hug really felt good. I started to mist up, so I rubbed his head and asked, "What's with all the hair? You look like a Beatle."
"What's with all of THIS hair?" he asked, as he ran his fingers through my beard.
"I'm old. I can grow a beard if I want to. But YOU need a haircut."
"I'll get a haircut when you shave that beard," he grinned.
"It's a deal, but you go first," I replied.
I dropped down to one knee so that I could get a better hug and look into my boy's eyes. "Thanks for the card, poot. I sure do love you."
"I know, Daddy. I love you, too. Happy Father's Day."
The visit didn't last long, because Jennifer was in the driveway with the engine still running in her big, silver SUV. I waved at her as Quinton ran back to the car. When they pulled away, I went back inside, looked at my card and cried all over it. I started to take a picture of it and post it here, but that card wouldn't mean anything to anybody but me. But TO ME, it means a lot.
Quinton made that card and he hand-delivered it, along with lots of hugs. I haven't lost my boy yet. He made my day.
But he surely does need a haircut.
my kind of attitude
I don't want to live forever. Think of how boring eternal life would get after a while. I believe that I share this philosophy:
"Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming,
I want the last check I write to bounce like a super-ball and I want to look really dead when I'm finally laid out. That's my goal, and working hard on that project.
June 20, 2004
what makes a good blog?
I am in a philosophical mood this morning, which means that I don't like watching my face peel off. That's just ugly.
I didn't feel like writing, so I cruised the blogroll to read OTHER people. I realized that I've met quite a few of those writers, and I've seldom been surprised by the way they behave in person. I think a good blog reflects the true beliefs of the of the individual behind it. If you read them, you feel as if you know the person, even if you've never met them.
A good blog has style and panache. Anybody can post links and echo what other people write, but a good blog has PERSONALITY. The writer, the individual, shines through IN THE WORDS. And if you ever meet that person, you'll discover that what you see is what you get. I like honest blogs.
I don't know what makes some blogs more popular than others. I've seen a lot of them that generate a landslide of traffic, but they leave me cold. Bejus! The fawning comments alone are enough to make me want to upchuck, especially when I believe that the writer is incompetent, full of shit, or both.
Some of those people remind me of hustling Baptist ministers, who grow a flock through good advertising and threats of damnation. They preach THE WORD and their minions listen. Reading them is a lot like reading the New York Times. It's the same bullshit every day.
They may not have the landslide traffic, but they run damn good blogs.
the guy is good
I submit, once again, that this is the most under-appreciated writer in the blogosphere.
You have a way with words, brother.
I woke up this morning with my face falling off. The sunburn I got in Key West has turned into a case of unbridled moulting, and I am peeling like a snake. My nose feels like a raw ear of corn on the cob. The only part of my forehead that remains intact is a brown streak right on top of my eyebrows. I think I left the rest of my face on my pillow last night.
I never should have lost my goddam hat.
June 19, 2004
Just a day
I haven't felt good today. I've not been physically ill; I've just been down and depressed. I mowed my lawn, but my heart wasn't in it. Once upon a time, I would have been very proud of the grass I've managed to grow on this sandpile where I live, but it doesn't matter much to me now. I just cut the grass to keep the neighbors from thinking badly of me. I never did find that loudmouthed frog in the back yard.
Henry came over and gave me some squash and cucumbers from his garden. I ate them this afternoon while I watched the US Open Golf Tournament on television. I really should wipe the cobwebs off my clubs and start playing again. I used to be pretty good at that game. I THINK I miss playing, but I miss other things a lot more.
I took all of my guns out today and cleaned them. I like the smell of gun oil. According to the court order Jennifer has hanging over my head, I'm supposed to get rid of every one of those weapons before I can see Quinton again. I don't understand that. Jennifer has at least one gun that I know of, because I BOUGHT IT FOR HER. And if I wanted to kill her, I would have done it a long time ago. It's just more bullshit from a vindictive bitch that I made the mistake of marrying.
I bought my single-shot .22 rifle for Quinton. That's the same kind of gun I learned to handle when I was young and I don't see anything wrong with a father teaching his son to shoot and handle a firearm safely. In fact, I believe that it is a DUTY. A single-shot .22 rifle is perfect for the job, because it makes a person think about every shot. Plus, the ammo is cheap.
I'm not giving up my guns. I will NOT be an unarmed citizen expecting government to protect me from footpads, goblins, rattlesnakes, rabid racoons or barking frogs. I want to be able to shoot first instead of calling 911. I don't give a shit what a judge says.
Let HIM come live where I do for a while. He'll buy his own goddam guns.
I am in a rebellious, shitty mood. I am sick and tired of being sick and tired and I've had enough pure bullshit heaped on my head to last for a lifetime. Tomorrow is Father's Day and the closest I can come to seeing my father or my grandfathers is a visit to the cemetary, which I won't make. I want to see my son, but I doubt that possibility, too. It'll just be another day for me.
I'll go see mama tomorrow. She always makes me feel at home.
I received a very nice email from my daughter this morning. She's coming to Savannah to visit next month and I look forward to seeing her (tote that pistol I gave you along on your trip--- it's always better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it). Samantha has done a lot of growing up in the past few years. She is a beautiful young woman and I am proud of her.
I don't believe that I'll see or hear from Quinton tomorrow. Jennifer has had him pretty much hermetically-sealed away from me since February. Got-dam a court system that allows a woman to pick up the phone and place a warrant on my ass without producing ANY evidence of MY malfeasance. She doesn't have to prove any guilt on my part; I have to prove my innocence. That's just fucked-up, but she's done it three times to me now.
I miss my boy. Jack came over to visit yesterday and pestered me for about an hour. I like being pestered by Jack. He's a good kid and he wanted to know when Quinton was coming back to my house. I told him that I didn't know, but I was working on it.
"Mr. Rob, me and Quinton need to get back to our point of origin," Jack said.
I was amused. "Exactly WHAT is your 'point of origin,' Jack?"
"Quinton's room, where we played all the time. I want to do that again. Besides, you haven't cooked bacon and eggs for us in a long time."
No, I haven't, and I miss doing it. Those two little farts ate like bush-hogs when they visited the Crackerbox and I enjoyed filling their bellies. I didn't know about the "point of origin" thing, but I suspect that Jack picked up that term from Quinton. It sounds like something my boy would say.
I never spoke baby-talk to Quinton when he was waddling around in diapers and he has an impressive vocabulary for a ten year-old. I love that boy. I don't recall my father ever hugging me or telling me that he loved me. Kentucky coal miners just didn't do that kind of thing. I KNEW that he loved me, but he wasn't really demonstrative about it.
Tomorrow, I want to hug my boy and tell him that I love him.
Lookie here. I've been invited to join a Cancer Survivors Group. I wonder how they got my name and address? I also wonder what in the hell a cancer survivors group does. Do people stand around, swap horror stories and compare scars?
I don't believe that I want to join. First of all, I agree with Groucho Marx-- I don't want to join ANY club that would accept ME as a member. Second, I don't think of myself as a cancer survivor. I didn't do anything heroic or brave. I got lucky, that's all.
Having cancer damn sure changed my life in ways that will never be repaired, but the only real struggle I had during that time was keeping my head on straight while my not-yet-ex-wife moved her dope-smoking, unemployed lover into my house. That was a bitter pill to swallow. It also was the most heartless, bloodless thing anyone has ever done to me in my life.
Jennifer knew how frightened I was by the high PSA test and how I watched my father and my best friend die from prostate cancer. She knew how worried I was about the biopsy results. Still, she picked that time to become an adulteress, throw me out of my home and start a torrid affair with a person not fit to kiss my ass. She's a class act all the way.
I remember the night before the surgery. I had to be at the hospital at 5:00 AM and I didn't sleep much that night. I did a lot of thinking. I wasn't afraid of dying--- the thought of dying has NEVER frightened me. It's gonna happen some day and I hope to spit in the Reaper's face when he comes for me. I just didn't want to be ALTERED and live as only a part of what I once was.
I had a radical prostatectomy. It knocked me flat on my Cracker ass for a month. I wore diapers for three months after that while I practiced Keagle exercises to relearn how to control my continence. My dick was dead as a doorknob. I was one miserable sumbitch. I'll NEVER be right again, but I appear to be cancer-free. August 16th will make three years since I received the positive report on the biopsy. My last PSA test was a big, fat zero.
If I had it all to do over again, I'm not certain that I would consent to the surgery. I probably could have lived a good 10 to 15 years with the slow-moving cancer I had, and I believe that I would have been a lot happier, right up until I died, than I have been since the surgery.
Am I supposed to be PROUD and join a club because I didn't die (yet) of cancer? Am I supposed to consider myself as a "cancer survivor?" I don't feel proud and I don't consider myself to be a survivor. In fact, I wish now that I had never gone to the doctor for that biopsy.
I wouldn't fit in with a group of cancer survivors. I would rather have my old body back and die wearing it.
I have a habit that drives some of my friends crazy. I enjoy watching movies with the sound turned off on the television. Without sound, I can pay better attention to body language and the physical techniques of acting. You should try it sometime, then apply what you learn to watching people in a grocery store or a Super Wal-Mart.
Everybody is an actor, every day. Some people are just better at the craft than others.
Anybody ever been subjected to morris massey? I was, years ago. I watched the tapes and read a couple of his books. I agree with a lot of what he has to say, especially the part about having all your values set by the time you're six years old and the "comfort zone" you seek to find after that. But I still believe in free will.
Why do people get tattoos and weird piercings? I've never felt the urge to decorate my body that way, even though I was a semi-professional musician for several years. A LOT of people I knew back then did, but I didn't. I've never had a permanent tattoo and I've never worn an earring, let alone a nose-stud, a cock-dangle or something that resembles a fishing lure stuck through my eyebrow.
That crap was out of my "comfort zone."
I like to watch people and try to figure out what sort of comfort zone they have. Take the 350-pound woman in the bright pink stretch pants at Wal-Mart. Watch her walk the aisles where her ass will barely fit between the rows of merchandise. Deep down inside, she knows that she's fat and a hideous sight in those day-glow stretch pants, but that's her comfort zone. She's never gonna change.
Same thing with the acne-faced kid of eighteen with the nose ring, tattoos all over and a sunken chest, which he displays in a ratty tank-top shirt with an obscene logo on it. Looking like Fido's ass is his comfort zone.
Businessmen and "executives" are just as bad. Take away the suit and tie and you take away their identity. They couldn't do business nekkid.
Think about it. If you put the coat and tie on the fat woman, put the pink stretch pants on the teenager and dress the businessmen in ratty tank tops, they'd all have heart attacks and need EMS to come rescue them. Once you change their CLOTHES, you've driven them out of their comfort zones. They'll nut-up. They'll panic. They won't know who they are anymore.
I know my comfort zone. I'll probably spend the rest of my life trying to figure out why I'm comfortable there, but I'll never change. I picked up my values a long time ago.
Everybody's comfort zone is different. That's what makes people watching so interesting.
At least they got the bastard.
They were just a day late in doing it.
What can I say? red toenails make me excited.
June 18, 2004
I'm attempting to un-piss-off myself. I'm not doing a real good job of it. Those Islamo-bastards fired up my grill with their cowardly assassination of an American hostage, who was guilty of nothing more than being an American. I am working up a good case of utter disgust toward Allah's minions. A lot of those people are just too fucked-up to be in this world.
I have no problem living with gay people until they start acting like Islamo-gays, with the tu-tus and leather thongs, showing their uncivilized asses. I have no problem with black people, either, until they start that mo-fo ghetto shit and expect me to swallow it. I can get along with almost anybody who acts civilized.
But I cannot and I WILL NOT get along with people who butcher a human being as if they were slaughtering a hog and then take bragging pictures of the act. I wish that I could have barged into that room with my 12-gauge and found out for myself just how brave those assholes were. Kill ME, you fuckers! But if you bring your knife to a gunfight, you're dead as a doornail.
I'm still pissed. I probably will be for a couple of days.
I cannot see a future for such people unless we plant them in the ground. They are mired in 7th-century thinking and they are complete savages. If they weren't sitting on a big puddle of oil, they'd be eating sand for sustinence. They are some really bent, fucked-up people.
I say kill them all.
Here is a perfect example of the kind of people we're fighting in the Middle East. And the next time I hear John Kerry or Ted Kennedy or Hillary Clinton doing the mush-mouthed, double-talk about whether we're right or wrong to be there, I want them to look at those pictures.
You don't negotiate with such rats. You don't appease them. They're going to hate us no matter what we do, so let's just kill as many as we can. Fuck 'em. If those Islamo-asses aren't a sub-species of mankind, I don't know what is.
They committed a cold-blooded murder and took pictures of it. What balls these macho jihadists have. It takes real courage to cut off a man's head when he's bound and unarmed. No wonder those pussies try to keep wimmen in their subserviant roles and strut around like roosters in heat when no US Marines are nearby.
They have no dicks.
Don't get me wrong. I've met the guy and I like him, but he has horrible taste in pussy.
That's all I'm gonna say.
I agree entirely with this post.
It's blogspot, so the link might not take you to the right place, but just go read anyway.
damned by faint praise
I need to buy this woman a fruit punch.
Darlin,' if you met me, you'd like me.
Why is anyone "proud" of being gay?
I don't care what anyone does in consenting circumstances, and Bejus knows I've done enough wild-catting to make me a poor judge of other people's behavior, but I don't get the point of "gay pride." I can understand wimmen who like other wimmen, because I like wimmen, too. But GUYS? Who prefer a hairy ass and a set of balls over someone like Cindy Crawford?
I don't get it.
I have to admit that I would have a lot more money and a lot less grief today if I were gay. A Quest For Pussy has been my downfall in life. Anybody who EVER tells you that "I never paid for it" is a goddam liar. NOTHING in life is free, and pussy is ALWAYS expensive, sooner or later.
Still, I don't march in parades proclaiming my heterosexuality. I'm hard-wired for what I like and I don't take any "pride" in that fact. It's just the way I'm built. Why would anyone built differently take "pride" in consorting with members of the same sex? It's not as if they had to work really hard at being gay. It's just in the wiring.
To me, it's all like eating broccoli. Either you like it, or you don't. But there's no reason to be proud either way.
I usually like the sound of crickets and frogs at night. They sing up a storm and I enjoy listening to them. But you can have too much of a good thing.
Last night, some horny damned frog perched himself somewhere around my back porch and just wouldn't shut up. "RACK! RACK! RACK-RACK-RACK-RACK!" The bastard sounded as if he were singing through a microphone into a bank of Bose PA speakers. I couldn't hear my television over his love song.
I grabbed a .22 pistol and a flashlight and went outside to dispatch his noisy ass. As soon as I opened the door, he cut off his set and took a break. I shined the flashlight all through
Mosquitoes attacked me, so I gave up on that plan. As soon as I went back inside, The Frog of Love started a new set and cranked up the volume. "RACK! RACK! RACK-RACK-RACK-RACK!" If I opened the door, he shut up. As soon as I closed the door, he started singing again.
I'm gonna find that prick today and kill him.
now we know
Yep, the barking moonbats are correct. George Bush invented ties between Osama and Saddam to justify his cowboy war in Iraq.
My only question is--- how did he get the Clinton Justice Department to invent those ties in 1998?
it could be worse
I just thought that I was being fucked in divorce court. It could be worse. Of course, I find little comfort in the fact that someone else is getting an unlubricated hose-job more nasty than mine.
I'm still getting fucked.
Here's a good post on whether or not the military had a chance to intercept and shoot down the 9/11 passenger planes.
I don't believe that anyone understood the gravity of the situation until the first plane slammed into the tower. By that time, it was too late to stop the second one, or the one that hit the Pentagon. I was thoroughly convinced at the time that we HAD shot down flight 93. By the time that one crashed, everybody had a pretty good idea about what was happening.
Some armchair quarterbacks with 20-20 hindsight can bitch all they want to about what we SHOULD have done and what we COULD have done that day, but how many of them would have made the call? "SHOOT DOWN THAT PLANE FULL OF CIVILIANS!"
Even if we had the wherewithall to do it, that's not a decision anyone in his right mind makes easily.
June 17, 2004
a down day
My grass needs mowing. I didn't mow it. I sat on my boney Cracker ass and wasted this entire day. I finished reading the book I started in Key West and took a couple of very refreshing naps on my sofa. I ate some clam chowder, some fresh corn that I bought from a roadside market and then buried my sunburned face in a seedless watermelon.
I'll probably shit like Moody's Goose tomorrow.
I've begun to appreciate the simple pleasures of life. Have you ever just gnawed a watermelon where the juice ran down your chin and dripped off your bare chest? Did you ever just sit cross-legged on the floor and savor every bite of that sweet, juicy melon? I did that today.
I also think about having a woman with me when I do such things. "Sit here next to me. Close your eyes, open your mouth and trust me." Imagine cutting off a seedless piece of melon and feeding it to her with your bare hands. Imagine the sigh of pleasure she exhales when she tastes the melon. Imagine giving her a big, wet kiss afterward.
I can't help it. I think watermelon is sexy.
worth a thousand words
Go read this.
I hate those murdering, Islamist bastards.
woe is me
I ought to be checking the news and finding some intellectual subjects to blog about. I ought to be worried about what the BC and that asshole judge in Effingham County will make out of my Key West posts. I ought to be doing a lot of things.
What I AM doing is eating a bowl of clam chowder and pretty much acting like a clam myself. I don't feel like doing a damn thing today. I am tired, sunburned and lazy, burnt-out, burned up and about as solid as a melted candle. That's one of the great things about not having a job anymore. If I don't feel like doing a damn thing, I don't do a damn thing, and nobody can fire me. I kinda like that.
I've been listening to my new Yankee Jack CD and the song "Manatee Woman" is really impressive. Imagine a nice reggae-type melody with keyboards and steel drums, with these words in the chorus:
"In a two-piece suit, she's not that cute, I'm sorry. She got stretchmarks made by propeller blades, I'm wary. She lies on the beach where she shouldn't oughta, People keep pushing her back in the water. She's not a mermaid, she's a manatee woman."
Maybe you need to be in a Key West bar to appreciate that song entirely, but I like it right here in the Crackerbox.
i did not have sex with that man
Okay, let me set the record straight. And I mean STRAIGHT. I didn't have any homosexual relationships in Key West, even if I DID get up on stage and sing at a gay bar. And even if I DID get totally shitfaced that last day. And even if I DID lose my underwear.
I'll admit that Paul, the gay bartender, pinched me on the ass. But I asked for that, because I told him that I had been coming to Key West for YEARS and wandering into gay bars (hell... pick a door and roll the dice... you have about a 50% chance of ending up in a gay place) and NEVER had a gay man hit on me.
"Are you hitting on ME?" he asked.
Paul is about 6' 4" tall and looks as if he pumps a lot of iron in his spare time. "Shit no," I replied. "I'm just curious about why a gay man has never tried to pick me up. Wimmen do it all the time. Do I have some kind of invisible light shining from my forehead that attracts wimmen and repels gay men? Hell, Paul, I've never even had a gay man pinch me on the ass."
Paul walked from behind the bar and pinched me on the ass. "Ya happy now?" he asked. "This is Key West, where all your fantasies come true."
I tipped him five dollars when I LEFT THE BAR.
Things got pretty confusing after that, but I'm fairly certain that I left my underwear somewhere other than a gay bar. Maybe I pissed myself, shit my pants and threw my drawers away in utter disgust. That might have happened, especially after the tequila.
But my "brown-eyed girl" was just fine the next morning, because a guy's hairy ass just doesn't turn me on. Even after several shots of tequila.
Hmmm... I'm not sure about posting this screed. People may go all Shakespearian on me and say "He doth protest too much." If you're a skeptic and doubt my word, I have just one thing to say to you.
Go eat my underwear, if you can find it.
terms of endearment
When I call my ex-wife a bloodless cunt I don't mean anything endearing at all. Of course, I could TRY to change my mind.
"You bloodless cunt. I sure do love you."
"Come here, cunt. I want some nookie."
"Hey CUNT! Bring me a beer."
"I've never met anyone else in my life who is such a perfect... CUNT, you cunt."
"Does being a bloodless cunt come naturally to you, or did it take years of practice to become such a cunt?"
"You're built upside-down. Your cunt should be where your head is, because that's what you think with, you cunt."
I could go on, but I'm sick and tired of that cunt who won't go away and leave me alone. Whatta bitch.
My face is as red as a beet and my hair now has blonde streaks in it to accent the
Let me assure you... that shit WORKS as soon as you spend some time in the sun. Let me ALSO assure you that the Key West sun is a merciless sumbitch that will cook you like a lobster if you're foolish enough to stay out in it the way I did.
I want my missing underwear back. I would wear it over my head today.
This is a goddam lie.
June 16, 2004
My last day in Key West was a memorable one; unfortunately, I don't remember all of it.
The day started on a sour note when the quaint little restaurant where I had breakfast caught fire and burned damn near to the ground about an hour after I left. I finished my eggs and grits, walked down to the internet cafe (hoping for someone to put some more fruit punch on my tab) and went back to the hotel when no good-looking wimmen tried to pick me up.
I turned the corner and saw thick, billowing coils of noxious smoke boiling out of the restaurant. My first thought was... "I DIDN"T DO THAT... DID I?" No, I couldn't possibly be responsible. Florida has their new-fangled anti-smoking nanny-law (one which most bars and restaurants aviod by having open-air seats and rear "gardens" for the nicotine-addicted wretches who frequent such places), so I never even lit a smoke in the place. Hell, I didn't even go to the bathroom there.
Okay, I didn't do it, but the place was on fire. I arrived on the scene just in time to watch the fire trucks and cops cars come rolling to the rescue. Firemen in full turnout gear poured from the trucks and began stringing hoses all over the place. The cops started tying yellow barricade tape on anything that wasn't moving. I almost became taped in yellow myself.
What the fire didn't destroy, the firemen did, with axes, sledgehammers and water hoses. They tore that place apart. I was pissed, because I needed to find a new place to eat breakfast after this disaster. I wondered if my waitress got out of there alive with the generous tip I left her that morning.
Thinking made my head hurt, so I went down the street, away from the smoke and toward beer and Bloody Marys.
I'll try to sum up the rest of the day as quickly as possible. I lost my hat and my sunglasses sometime around sundown. I believe that I bought another hat and gave it to someone I met in a bar. A homeless guy came up to me, rolled up his shirt sleeve and showed me a USMC tattoo on his arm. He asked for $2 to buy a drink. I gave him two dollars and then saw the lying sumbitch in the Key West Cookie Store not five minutes later. I started to confront him. I was willing to buy him a drink, but if I had known he was going to piss that money away on FOOD, I never would have given it to him.
I ended up in an obviously gay bar for a while. I got up on stage and sang "Piano Man" on a dare, with accompaniment from the piano "man" employed there. I received a standing ovulation from the crowd, and I also got a free beer from Paul, the bartender.
I'm not sure what all happened next, but I believe that tequila was involved. I made it back to the hotel late last night. I asked a couple in the lobby as I was checking out this morning about whether I showed my ass or not during my revelry. They told me that I staggered into the lobby the night before, took one look at the stairs, pointed an accusing finger at the steps and said, "FUCK THAT!" and rode the elevator up to the second floor.
I must have gotten my key in the door, because I woke up in the right bed this morning. Actually, I woke up ON the right bed this morning. I never bothered to turn the sheets down. I was a fucked-up Cracker boy.
Now... I remember going out wearing underwear. I woke up in commando mode this morning. I don't believe that I WANT to know everything I did last night.
June 15, 2004
For a while, especially before I took my vacation in Costa Rica, I couldn't eat. I had no appetite. Even when I felt hungry, I would take one bite of food and want no more. I believe that I almost corroded my stomach lining out during that time.
Thank Bejus those days are past now. I've eaten like a rutting hog since I've been in Key West. You name it, I've eaten it. Sea food, prime rib, conch, soups and stews, and even one very rare redheaded woman.
I LOVE this place.
Gary Blodgett was playing at Irish Kevin's today and I went down to listen to him. He is one of the best pure musicians I've ever heard. He plays guitar, banjo, mandolin and fiddle, and he can cut the shit out of every instrument he picks up. The guy is DAMNED GOOD.
My only complaint with Gary is that he just stands up there and plays his ass off. He has no STAGE PRESENCE.
That has changed now. He has a partner who plays bass with him and that guy serves as a front man to interact with the crowd and do all the things Gary never did before. Together, they make a formidable team.
If you ever come to Key West, go hear Gary play. You won't regret it.
i am not making this up
I didn't come to Key West to get drunk, get stoned or get laid. I came only for a change of scenery and to swim through the hot, humid air down here. So much for plans.
I've always said that if you can't get laid in Key West, you can't get laid anywhere in America. I got laid, just minding my own business.
Yesterday, I came here to the Internet cafe and checked my mail, threw up a quick post and started to leave. The cashier said, "That'll be $3.00 for the internet and $3.00 more for the fruit punch." I explained that I didn't order any fruit punch. She said "That lady out there ordered it and said to put it on your tab." The lady in question was sitting on a picnic bench outside and reading a local newspaper.
I paid the tab and walked outside. I sat down next to her on the bench. "How was the fruit punch?" I asked.
"It was good. Thank you very much."
"What would you have done if I refused to pay for it?" I asked.
"I would have kept putting it on someone else's tab until somebody coughed up three bucks." I thought that her approach was audacious. I ADMIRE audacity. She was a redhead with a very attractive line of freckles running across her nose. In fact, she was a good-looking woman altogether.
I offered to take her down the street and buy something more substantial than fruit punch, but she refused. "I have to work starting at 1:00 down at Rick's Bar. Why don't you come see me there?"
I did. The rest is history.
one full day
Man--- you sure can blow a big hole in a $100 bill here in Key West. I don't have a damn thing to show for my adventures yesterday except for a Yankee Jack CD, some very pleasant memories and a slight headache.
Great lines I heard: I was in The Bull listening to Yankee Jack when a group of seniors from a cruise ship came into the bar. They were a wild bunch and they started sucking down 2-for-1 margaritas like ice water. Before long, they were rowdy and loud, which fit the atmosphere perfectly. Jack asked, "Who's been married the longest?"
One guy stood up and said, "I've been married for 47 years." Jack observed that the guy's wife didn't appear old enough to be married for 47 years. "I didn't say I was married to HER for 47 years," the guy replied. "It took me FOUR marriages to rack up that score."
Jack also accused one of the wimmen of having storebought titties. Her husband stood up and said, "Damn right they are! Those are the best titties money can buy. I KNOW, because I paid for them."
Yankee Jack is a damn good entertainer, musician and songwriter. He has five CDs out now, which he markets aggressively from his perch on the stage. He sold several to the crowd from the cruise ship, and I bought his latest release. It features songs such as "Botox Bimbo" and "Manatee Woman." Jack is NOT a politically correct songwriter. (A personal favorite of mine is "She's Never Hugged a Parrot, But She's Kissed a Cockatoo.")
I'm staying at a place called "The Pegasus Hotel," on the corner of Duval and Southard streets. It's about as close to the middle of Key West as you can get, and I can turn right or left when I walk out the door and find plenty to do.
And I'm about to go find a Bloody Mary.
June 14, 2004
Key West has a lot of beautiful wimmen per square inch. Some of them might be raging bull-dykes solidly grounded in the Gay Persuasion, but I don't care. They're still pretty to look at. I love walking the streets of this town.
I performed a modified version of the Duval Crawl yesterday. I hit several bars, listened to some good music, ate a bowl of conch chowder at Crabby Dick's and was still on my feet for sunset ceremonies down at Mallory Square. I'm going to try the same game plan today.
Hell, it worked just fine yesterday.
June 13, 2004
alive and well
I made it to Key West just in time to catch the last day of Gay Pride Week. Yes, the sidewalks are filled with interesting people. Imagine going to Key West and seeing a lot of gays. Difficult to picture, isn't it?
I had conch fritters and beer for breakfast this morning. I don't mess around when I go to Key West. I'm about to wander down the street in search of adventure and I don't know when I'll return to blogging. I think there just might be a cold beer with my name on it down at Irish Kevin's Pub.
Y'all take care, 'cause I ain't going to.
June 12, 2004
Okay, the last post was NOT my final one for today. I have to comment on this story.
After six years of regulations and restrictions that have cost builders, local governments and landowners on the western fringe of the Great Plains as much as $100 million by some estimates, new research suggests the Preble's mouse in fact never existed. It instead seems to be genetically identical to one of its cousins, the Bear Lodge meadow jumping mouse, which is considered common enough not to need protection.
Do you really believe that environmentalists give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut about that goddam mouse? They don't. What they DO care about is taking away your right to use your private property the way you see fit. The bastards scream GREEN but they are RED on the inside. The ESA has been a handy tool for those turds to tangle progress in a net of lawsuits and bullshit that makes me want to puke.
Yeah. The "environmentalists" have a campaign to save a mouse that doesn't exist. No surprise here. They needed a cause, so they invented one.
That's what they do.
why older men are better in bed
* We've done it before.
* We know what works.
* We're in no hurry.
* We feel flattered, and CHALLENGED, by a younger woman.
* We meet challenges.
* What we lack in youth, we more than make up for in technique.
* Been there, done that. Younger wimmen haven't.
* We have more money than the young stud-muffins do.
* We APPRECIATE the attention.
* Aged beef is better than veal.
That is my last post for today.
"Hey, mama, it's me."
"How are you doing, Robbie?" (she still calls me Robbie.)
"I'm okay, mom. I just wanted to let you know that I'm about to leave for Key West to spend a few days. I'll be back sometime next week."
"Where will you be staying?"
"I don't know. I'll figure out that part of the logistics when I get there. If you need to reach me, just send an email. I'll check that every day."
"Lordy! You sure are moving around a lot lately."
"Mom, I worked all of my life for this opportunity. I have no strings on me anymore and I have some money to spend. After I see Samantha next month, I'm going back to Costa Rica. I've learned to pack light and I enjoy getting the hell out of Dodge."
"You just be careful."
"I will, and don't worry about me. I am fine and I love you."
"I love you, too, Robbie."
My mama DOES love me, and she'll worry no matter what I tell her. I am 52 years old and I've been on my own for a long time, but I'll ALWAYS be her little boy in her eyes. Mamas are built that way.
But I had to call her. Mama needs to know where her little boy is going to play.
Thanks to Tim for this enhanced picture of me at Folly Beach. I couldn't gain much traction with that bartender, but I might be able to pick up a lonely little old lady.
Don't I just EXUDE charm?
(UPDATE: Now you can see why I don't fear walking the streets in strange places such as Costa Rica. I resemble a combination of a piss-stained wino and an axe-murderer on the run. When I walk down the street, thugs cross to get away from me.)
June 11, 2004
I've been on a roll today. I've felt like writing and I've had (what I think anyway) were a lot of good ideas for posts. Sometimes I just grind things out on the blog because I call myself a writer and I NEVER believed that a writer needs inspiration to write. It's a craft. Does a bricklayer need inspiration to lay bricks?
I'll admit that sometimes the words come more easily than they do at other times. I don't know what circumstances make the difference between a good day and a bad day, but something does. If I could figure it out, I'd bottle and sell a cure for Writer's Block.
I want to believe that staying at Folly Beach stirred my creative juices. I LOVE beach towns, especially the ones that are small, populated by natives who don't give a big shit about much of anything, and where you can walk from one end of town to the other in an hour or so, even with a couple of beer stops along the way. Folly Beach is like that.
People walk around in wet bathing suits. You don't HAVE to wear a shirt to go into most bars there, and a lot of people don't wear shirts (you KNOW that I like that!). Wimmen are barefoot, or wearing sandals, so I get to indulge in my foot-fetish at will, as long as I don't drop to my knees and start licking a set of pretty, bare, red toenails on the sidewalk. A bearded old fart such as myself fits right in at Folly Beach.
I've decided to take another field trip tomorrow. I'm going back to Key West. I'll travel tomorrow about as far as Hollywood Beach, where I intend to stay at the hotel with the rooftop pool that allows nekkid sunbathing. I'll try to keep from becoming a "baboon butt" this time, but I WILL take all of my clothes off and lie in the sun. I enjoy doing that kind of thing. Modesty is NOT one of my strong points.
I'll be in Key West about mid-day on Sunday and stay there until next Wednesday. Bejus, that's a long trip, but it's worth it. Key West is the ULTIMATE beach town. It should be fairly quiet this time of year (compared to Spring Break-- or at least as quiet as Key West EVER gets) and I know a couple of very nice internet cafes where I can blog. I'm taking my camera with me and I hope to post some interesting Key West pictures when I return home.
I won't be blogging tomorrow, but you'll hear from me when I reach Key West.
new to the blogroll
I love it when a genuine journalist finds my site and strokes my fuzzy little head via email. His ass goes on the blogroll right away.
Yeah. I can be bought. I also can be flattered into doing almost anything. Besides, the guy runs a damn good blog.
Anyway, welcome the Rosenblog to the fold.
here's what I mean
When I write about leftist barking moonbats, I don't have to look far to prove my point. My own goddam COMMENTS provide plenty of evidence about how fucked-up these people really are.
There are things that so many people forget. What about the put options on the two airlines involved ? CIA people did that. I don't think Bush knew but somebody did.
CIA people DID NOT do that, asswipe, no matter what your friends at Democratic Underground pump into your numb skull. Osama's people DID, gambling that the attack THEY planned would be a success. Where you found proof of CIA involvement is beyond me, probably because I missed the big, green spaceship the last time it came by to beam messages into my brain.
Here is another question that people should be asking. How come those airliners were not intercepted after a few minutes ? Remember what happened to that golf pro's jet ? His jet was intercepted right away. Here we have 4 airliners highjacked with no transponders on and they are not intercepted right away. That airliner that went into the 2nd building never should have happened. It should have been blown out of the sky. If I had my way 911 never would have happened because I would issue CCP on airplanes.
What utter horseshit. First of all, "the golf pro's jet" (Payne Stewart's airplane) was NOT intercepted right away. Second, more than 2,000 commercial airplanes are in the sky on any given day at the time the 9/11 attacks occurred. Is Mack suggesting that we keep F-16s in the sky and shoot down an airliner every time an instrument glitch causes concern? If Mack had HIS way, I suppose we would.
This crap is what drives me up the wall about leftist thinking. If we HAD shot down those airliners and spared the World Trade Center, the very same people bitching about the fact that we DIDN'T DO IT would be bitching about the fact that we DID. Bush would be a cold-blooded murderer who "overreacted to an unsubstantiated threat."
As if those airliners were not on radar the whole time. NORAD can see the whole US. Is that the best you can do acidman ? Just fling shit at me ? You are debating like a liberal now.
I don't have to fling shit at you, Mack. You beshit yourself quite well with your inane and ignorant comments. Why don't you do a little research on Norad before you go riding off on a high horse with no legs? Never mind. Leftists "feel" things. They don't need to know any facts.
I give up on trying to debate things here. I'm tired of being called names by self important morons. Goodbye.
Well, well. People told Mack that he was full of shit and he got his widdle feelings hurt. But Mack, I have one minor point I want to raise. You weren't "debating" ANYBODY. You were spewing insane leftist rant with nothing to back up your accusations except more leftist rant. You WERE a barking moonbat.
I've got one question to ask of the Wise One: Mack, have you EVER worked a job where YOU were responsible for decisions that affected the safety and even the lives of people working for you? Have you ever been forced to make a decision that affects the safety and lives of YOU and those around you when you didn't have enough information to make a well-researched decision?
I HAVE, fucktard, and it's not a fun job. I'll tell you what you do in those kinds of situations. You DO NOT go apeshit and start shooting down passenger airliners without a damn good reason to do so. You err on the side of caution until you KNOW that you have no other choice than a drastic action.
If you want a country where the government shoots down an airplane every time it strays off course or has a transponder malfunction, then keep thinking the way you do today. Just do me one favor.
Don't have any children.
I grew up in a household where money was scarce, but love was not. By and large, I had a happy childhood. Oh, I went through the usual ups and downs that every teenager experiences when you start to grow pubic hair and your hormones go into total uproar, but that's just normal teenaged behavior. That's a rough time in life.
I don't know how I might have fared through that time if I started out like this.
I'm a romantic
Every time I go by the battery in Charleston, I stand in front of the cannons and look out over the harbor to Fort Sumter. It's nothing but a tiny dot, like a small island, out there across the water. A flagpole against the horizon is the only thing that makes it look like a fort from that far away.
Even though I've seen it many times, I am overwhelmed by a sense of history every time I visit. On April 12, 1861, a conflict that shaped the future of this nation began, and more than 600,000 men died before it was over. The first shots were fired right there.
Nobody involved in that incident had a clue about what their actions would produce, and I often wonder what was running through the minds of the boys manning the cannons and the soldiers in the fort that day. It didn't take long for the Southern guns to pound the fort into surrender, and I'll bet that people celebrated in the streets that day.
Five years later, the South was whipped, humiliated and occupied by an invading army. Next came Reconstruction, carpetbaggers and utter contempt from the rest of the nation. We're still living with that legacy today.
Yeah. I'm a romantic. I FEEL history sometimes.
Why is it so difficult for some people to see the obvious? You've really got to have your head shoved WAAAY up your ass to think Bush is a dictator and the USA is a gulag.
But some people do. They really BELIEVE that shit. Barking fucking moonbats.
Don't get me wrong. I am no fan of the federal government. I believe that the government is a menace and that we as a "free" people are losing more and more of our rights every day as government oozes like The Blob into more and more aspects of our lives. We are over-taxed, over-regulated and treated as blithering idiots by a nanny state.
I think those thoughts, and then I listen to the whining assholes who complain about Bush being just like Hitler. If they would bother to read some history and learn to stop whimpering and get a life, maybe the government wouldn't be treating us ALL as if we were blithering idiots.
Some people are too fucking stupid to live free.
it pays to advertise
I'll wait and see how this guy does with his ad before I post one just like it for my next trip to Costa Rica.
Why would I want to take a woman with me to a country FILLED with beautiful, available wimmen? Beats the shit out of me.
Maybe I just want someone to rub my head the next time a mango tries to mug me.
sounds good to me
I kinda like this idea. Hollywood "activist" types have always impressed me with their utter ignorance of world history, so I see a golden opportunity to send them to "reeducation camps," where they can learn to live by the values that they love to preach.
They won't last long in such places, but that's not a bug--- it's a feature.
Don't miss this post, especially not today.
Ronald Reagan wasn't perfect, but he was a damn good man and a fine President.
I'm thinking about doing something that I swore I never would do on this blog. But what the hell--- a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, and I've changed mine. I'm thinking about sticking up a Pay Pal button, a Tip Jar and starting a line of Acidman T-shirts, coffee cups, bumper stickers and designer condoms, all for sale at very reasonable prices.
Hey! I'm unemployed now, and I really don't want to go back to a real job for a living. I believe that I'll try
My friends and I are having a great time over at eric's place. Read, and learn a valuable lesson from what you see.
Be careful when you hire a guest blogger.
I don't care if it's the truth. I don't care if the facts are obvious to anyone with a brain. You just DON'T SAY certain things anymore because people don't want to hear it. They prefer to squat on their asses like the three ivory monkeys with hands covering mouth, ears and eyes. Ignorance is bliss and they want to be happy.
France is leading the way in making the world a better place for the maladjusted, the deviant, the scumbags and the leeches.
PARIS - French actress-turned-animal rights activist Brigitte Bardot was convicted Thursday of inciting racial hatred and ordered to pay $6,000 — the fourth such fine for the former sex symbol since 1997.
Can you imagine that? The French were shocked... SHOCKED, mind you, that someone dared to suggest that their country is swirling down the commode like a well-flushed smoking turd. Forget the facts.
In the book, she laments the “Islamization of France” and the “underground and dangerous infiltration of Islam.”
That can't be true. Islam is the Religion of Peace and its goal has ALWAYS been to live in harmony with
In her book, she also attacks homosexuals as “fairground freaks,” condemns the presence of women in government and denounces the “scandal of unemployment benefits.”
Holy Bejus! No wonder she was fined. She hit a perfect three-fer by insulting gays, wimmen and leeches in one book. And that's IN ADDITION to the "racist" venom she spewed about Muslims.
I am SHOCKED, I tell you. Shocked and offended.
June 10, 2004
Here is a study in light and shadow taken somewhere on Folly Beach. I fell in love with the bartender at that place. On a scale of one-to-ten, she was a solid eleven--- and I was NOT drunk and staring through beer goggles when I made that assessment. She was that goddam pretty.
Everything about her was PERFECT--- perfect teeth, perfect smile, perfect hair, perfect ass, perfect legs, just enough boobery to make everything symmetrical and pretty feet in dainty sandals, too. If she only painted her toenails red, she'd be a legitimate twelve in my book.
Unfortunately, she's 24 years old. She's a magnet for the beach-hunks, the surfers with the six-pack abs and all the faggot-looking, pretty boys who resemble stars in soap operas. They all swarm around her like moths on a porch light. An old
That's just as well. She's too young to appreciate my expertise in bed and
I'm going to let the beard grow for a while. I never enjoyed shaving every day to begin with, and now I don't have to, so I don't. I kinda like the beatnick, burnt-out hippie look. It fits me like a warm glove. I tried to be bohemian once before in my life, but I was in MY TWENTIES then and I didn't understand how to do it right.
I know better now.
I'll hand out some more philosophy while I'm in my bohemian mood. Here's something for all you beautiful young ladies to think about: GO TO BED WITH AN OLDER MAN. PREFERABLY ME!!! You need to do that one thing as a true life-expanding experience.
Every time I'm just about to give up on the human race, I read a post such as this one and I am forced to reevalaute my thinking. Yes, people can be craven, corrupt, cowardly, murderous and brainless, but a fire of pure nobility burns in a lot of breasts out there.
I like to see it when it shines through.
I see that one of the original crew is up and blogging again. She's been MIA for several weeks now. Welcome back!
Now... if I can just figure out what happened to Dax Montana, my world will be a little smoother.
one of a kind
Ray Charles died today and I'm really going to miss him. Nobody EVER did more different kinds of music better than he did. Adios, Ray.
"Just an old, sweet song..."
"teacher," my ass
What is this idiot doing in a classroom? If you want to know why Johnny can't read and why he doesn't know jack-shit about history, you don't have to look far for the reasons.
Propaganda as "history." Activist mantra as "truth." Pure bullshit as "teaching." Leftist ideology as "wisdom."
Oh yeah, our public schools are doing a fine job today.
If you looked for me yesterday in Charleston and couldn't find me, that's because I didn't stay there. I went out to Folly Beach instead. I didn't remember that the spoleto festival is in full swing this time of year. Downtown Charleston was pretty much reoccupied by invading yankees and I couldn't find a hotel room.
I enjoyed Folly Beach. It's a nice little beach town with lots of good bars and restaurants. It's laid-back and informal, the way I like things to be. The beach itself is beautiful, too.
I couldn't resist taking this picture. It's TRUTH IN ADVERTISING if ever I saw it.
(No, that's not a photoshop effort. That Folly Beach law office really DOES have a Great White Shark over the door. It also shares a building with "Beach Bums" restaurant and souvenir shop. I really liked that image.)
June 09, 2004
I'm going to Charleston today.
I don't have any good reason for going. I just want to walk around the old town area and take some pictures, get something good to eat and drink a few beers. I'll probably spend the night there, so don't look for much posting today.
Charleston is a beautiful city and the ride up there is a real eyefull as Highway 17 winds its way through the salt marshes and the stands of live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. It doesn't get much more Southern than that.
I'll see y'all later.
June 08, 2004
Recondo 32 and his lovely wife Georgia came by the Crackerbox this afternoon in their
Georgia tied a really colorful doo-rag around my head to keep my hair out of my eyes. She and Recondo donned doo-rags, too, and off we went into the bright Georgia sunshine. In a convertable. With black leather upholstery. A convertable with black leather upholstery that had been PARKED IN THE SUN for an hour or so! That was nice.
I have a second-degree burn on the right cheek of my ass.
But, I'll tell you what... we looked COOL tearing down the road in that car. We had our doo-rags flapping, the wind whistling in our ears and that throaty roar from the "stang's" engine making me think of what a pussy-getting car THIS would be if I ONLY had one back in high school. Bejus!
I was returned unharmed, hours later, to the Crackerbox and no ransom was paid for my release.
falling off the deep end
I'm not sure when it started, but I just felt bad from around Christmas until I ended up in the hospital at the first of April. I reached the point where I fell down a lot and became dizzy every time I stood up. (That was the sinus/inner-ear infection I was carrying around, plus too much vodka.) My stomach hurt and I had no appetite. (That was the ulcer problem, plus too much vodka.) I broke my foot. (That was Oddball The Dumbass Dog, plus too much vodka.) I couldn't sleep. I felt like Fido's ass. (Too much vodka.)
I didn't go to a doctor about ANY of that crap. I just started drinking vodka at 5:00 in the morning and taking valium as if I were eating Pez candy. I believe, in the deep recesses of my mind, I was out to kill myself, and I was doing a pretty good job of it.
Along the way, I managed to fuck up a few friendships and alienate some people that I never meant to offend. I have no excuses except a total lack of self-control for what I did. I wish that I had never done it, but I did, and I can't take it back now. That's all blood under the bridge.
I believe that I've saned up a lot lately. I'll drink beer, but not a whole lot, and I haven't had any liquor or white zin in the Crackerbox for a couple of months. In a lot of ways, I am proud of myself. I stood at the edge of the abyss and I managed to step back instead of going in head-first. I have NOT had an easy time of it.
I can't undo what I did. I can be contrite and I can apologize to those who are willing to listen, but if you are NOT willing to listen, I don't blame you. I blame ME. I fucked up, period.
I will offer one thought on my behalf. I didn't lose any real friends during that ugly time. The ones I've known for most of my life worried about me, attempted to offer advice (which I rejected) and then just got out of the way. I've always said that a real friend doesn't expect you to be perfect. A real friend accepts you, warts and all, and probably knows those warts better than you do yourself. If you go flying off the handle, they'll still be there when you come back.
I believe that I'm at least halfway back now. I've still got some climbing to do, but I'm not so deep in that black hole anymore.
And now, more than ever, I know who my true friends are.
movin' on up
I see another family down the street from me is moving out of their home today. I've seen a lot of that lately. People bought these homes in lovely Hampton Creek subdivision because they were reasonably-priced starter homes. (Hampton Creek, by the way, runs right down the back of my property line. It is a 10-foot wide sandy ditch that stays as dry as a popcorn fart even after a heavy rain. The kids ride bicycles in it.)
I bought the Crackerbox NOT because I was charmed by the house or the name of the subdivision. I met Young Jack while I was waiting for the realtor to come with the keys and when I told him that I had a boy about his age, he was very excited. He wanted me to move in across the street so that he would have someone to play with. He sold me on the house.
The houses here sold in the $80,000-$85,000 range (mine was $82,500) three years ago and every one is now assessed at well over $100,000. Young families are cashing their equity and moving up to bigger and better things now.
I don't intend to sell the Crackerbox. Fate may dictate otherwise if the BC continues to roast me over a slow fire financially, but I like living here. Besides, the boys and I have trashed this place so badly that I could NEVER get $100,000 for it. (Not without a team of Merry Maids, two Stanley Steamer carpet-cleaning trucks, a fully-equipped Haz-Mat team and Martha Stewart along to supervise the Superfund cleanup.)
In my younger and more blissful days, I house-hopped all the way to a BIG home on five acres of land. Jennifer and I bought as much house as we could afford, fixed it up with some elbow grease and a few visits to Home Depot, then sold it for a considerable profit as property values rose and interest rates dropped. We then moved up to something better.
I envy the people I see doing the same thing today. They have dreams and they are working to make them come true. That's the American way.
I don't dream like that anymore. What for?
crisis at the crackerbox
I MUST go to the store today. I used my last can of Raid this morning.
Yeah, ants made another invasion of my domicile and attacked my kitchen trash can this time. I gassed them until I ran out of ammo. I probably killed 100,000 of the little shits, but my blood was up and I wasn't satisfied.
I went to my garage, opened a 20-pound bag of Ortho ant killer and treated my entire yard. I paid special attention to every mound or ant-burrow I saw. I used the entire 20-pound bag and I imagine that I wreaked enough havoc and devastation on the ant population to keep them at bay for a couple of days. But they'll be back. They ALWAYS come back.
You know what REALLY made spreading ant-killer on my yard just tons of fun? While I was killing ants, the goddam deer flies attacked me from every direction. Those nasty-assed, flesh-rending bastards tore me up. They had mosquitos running interference for them, too, and I was wearing nothing but a pair of cut-off blue-jeans, presenting a very appetizing target. I was damn near eaten alive before I got back inside.
Ah... life in the South...
paranoia strikes deep
If it doesn't get any worse than this, Savannah will survive the G8 Summit just fine. Read the story and tell me that the town isn't on full RED ALERT.
Bejus. What can I say? Georgians over-react sometimes.
Isn't Eric lucky to have such good friends?
Enjoy your trip, buddy. Don't worry about a thing.
Your site is in capable hands.
As I was making the long drive into Savannah yesterday to pick up my divorce appeal from my lawyer, and then making the long drive to Springfield to file it, I listened to Neil Boortz on the radio. He asked this question and he swore that the answer was true:
"Half of all human deaths in the history of mankind can be attributed to one disease. What is that disease?"
I answered right away. "MALARIA!" I yelled at the radio. Other people guessed heart disease, AIDS, murder, high blood pressure and all kinds of other off-the-wall crap, but malaria was the correct answer.
If you want proof, go check the malaria clock.
Environmentalists aren't "green." They have more blood on their hands than Hitler, Stalin and Mao combined.
that didn't take long
Leftist crackpots are out in full force, either insulting Ronald Reagan or dancing with glee over his death. I expect no less from them.
I once wrote, after seeing pictures of Palestinians celebrating in the streets over the death of a few dozen Israelis in a suicide bombing, that you NEVER see that kind of reaction to death, even the death of our enemies, in the USA. I was wrong.
You can see the same thing right now. I anticipated such shit from Ted Rall ("I'm sure he (Reagan) is turning crispy brown right about now") and others of his ilk, but I was surprised to find Christopher Hitchens in the mix. The display is sickening.
I don't know whether they remind me more of Palestinians in their vicious delight over Reagan's death, or just Munchkins--- shrunken, tiny, dwarfish people singing "Ding, Dong! The Witch is Dead" while jumping up and down on their little, short legs. Either way, what they are doing is despicable.
If you didn't like Reagan, you're entitled to that opinion. But to CELEBRATE his death and insult the man in such a vile manner while he lies in his coffin is, as we say down South, just plain trashy.
But that's how I see most of the left today: Just Plain Trashy.
amusing? or true?
The ant works hard in the withering heat all summer long, building his house and laying up supplies for the winter. The grasshopper thinks he's a fool and laughs and dances and plays the summer away. Come winter, the ant is warm and well fed. The grasshopper has no food or shelter, so he dies out in the cold.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Be responsible for yourself!
The ant works hard in the withering heat all summer long, building his house and laying up supplies for the winter. The grasshopper thinks he's a fool and laughs and dances and plays the summer away.
Come winter, the shivering grasshopper calls a press conference and demands to know why the ant should be allowed to be warm and well fed while others are cold and starving. CBS, NBC, and ABC show up to provide pictures of the shivering grasshopper next to a video of the ant in his comfortable home with a table filled with food.
America is stunned by the sharp contrast. How can this be, that in a country of such wealth, this poor grasshopper is allowed to suffer so?
Kermit the Frog appears on Oprah with the grasshopper and everybody
Jesse Jackson stages a demonstration in front of the ant's house where the news stations film the group singing, "We shall overcome." Jesse then has the group kneel down to pray to God for the grasshopper's sake.
Tom Daschle & John Kerry exclaim in an interview with Peter Jennings that the ant has gotten rich off the back of the grasshopper, and both call for an immediate tax hike on the ant to make him pay his "fair share."
Finally, the EEOC drafts the "Economic Equity and Anti-Grasshopper Act,"retroactive to the beginning of the summer. The ant is fined for failing to hire a proportionate number of green bugs and, having nothing left to pay his retroactive taxes, his home is confiscated by the government.
Hillary gets her old law firm to represent the grasshopper in a discrimination suit against the ant, and the case is tried before a panel of federal judges that Bill appointed from a list of single-parent welfare recipients.
The ant loses the case.
The story ends as we see the grasshopper finishing up the last bits of the ant's food while the government house he is in, which just happens to be the ant's old house, crumbles around him because he doesn't maintain it.
The ant has disappeared in the snow.
The grasshopper is found dead in a drug related incident and the house, now abandoned, is taken over by a gang of spiders who terrorize the once peaceful neighborhood.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Vote Republican
(sent to me by Catfish
June 07, 2004
I have been invited to guest blog for a friend of mine this week while he is away from his site. I like doing that sometimes. I get to track mud all over his house, drink all of his beer, leave my dirty fingerprints on the walls and then leave, without having to clean up my mess. I'll be heading that way soon.
I think Eric must have been drunk when he hired me.
I celebrated the 60th anniversary of D-Day with projectile eruptions from both ends of my body. I spent most of yesterday and half the night curled in a fetal position on my bathroom rug while tumultuous dreams ran through my head every time I managed to fall asleep. Bejus, but that was bad.
I don't know what I did (ate a bad burrito, maybe), but the worst appears to be over now. I'm a little wobbly on my feet and I feel like a wrung-out dishrag, but that's one hell of a lot better than I was yesterday.
I had to be at my new lawyer's office in Savannah at 11:00 this morning to pick up my paperwork for the divorce appeal. I agreed to get it filed at the Effingham County courthouse today to save some cash on lawyers fees. Today was the deadline to file it, too, so I HAD to get that job done. I didn't think I was going to make it at 11:00 last night.
But I felt well enough this morning to drive into Savannah, pick up the papers and drive all the way back to Springfield to get them filed. Mission accomplished.
One thing I worried about while driving into town today was encountering a bunch of G-8 protesters. They've gathered in Savannah and Brunswick because security has Sea Island locked up tighter than a tick on a dog's belly. But I didn't see any goofballs, lunatics or bedwetters on the street (other than the ones who are native to Savannah and are there ALL the time). The only unusual sight I saw was a caravan of about 25 city police cars heading down Oglethorpe Street toward the Talmadge Bridge, which is closed to commercial traffic today.
A lot of locals are worried that Savannah could turn into another Seattle if the protesters kick up their heels. I don't think that's going to happen
It's too got-dam hot for that crap in Georgia this time of year.
too late now
Some things you just don't get to change your mind about after you do them. This is one of them.
A Transsexual who spent £60,000 on surgery to become a woman is suing her doctor after claiming that he misdiagnosed her with gender dysphoria.
It didn't take
June 06, 2004
i don't feel good
The last time I started feeling this poorly, I ended up in the hospital for a few days. I ache all over and I think I'm running a fever. I want to go visit my mama today, but I believe that I'm going to lie in bed for a while first. I am tired.
Besides--- if I'm coming down with something contagious, I don't need to spread it around among my family.
d-day, plus 60 years
I stole the logo from this guy. I don't think he'll mind. Go read his post and think about those numbers.
My father was 16 years old when WWII ended. He told me that he almost cried because he didn't get the chance to go fight for his country. But he DID participate in scrap-metal drives, help hoe a Victory Garden, learn to swap ration tickets and watch sadly and silently when a government vehicle pulled up to a neighbor's house to deliver a telegram--- while every family in the neighborhood with a son in uniform watched and prayed that the car would not stop at THEIR house.
Times sure have changed since then. I don't know that we, as a nation, have the stomach for that kind of fight anymore. We have too many pacifists, appeasers, spineless gas-bags and America-haters in our midst today. They don't realize that the heroic efforts of people 60 years ago ensured their right to show their asses in anti-war protests and barf out dumbass speeches today.
That's a sad fact.
June 05, 2004
When I played guitar for a living, it didn't take me long to understand that the only music a bar owner gives a shit about is the ringing of the cash register. If I couldn't draw people inside and make them sit down and spend money, my music wasn't worth a damn. So, I learned to be an actor.
The music I played was good and it was the most important thing to me, but that music didn't keep me working for six years as a solo act. I taught myself to juggle, tell jokes and introduce most songs with a funny story. I interacted with the crowd, handled hecklers and generally had a damn good time on stage. Even when I WASN'T having a good time, I acted as if I were. That was part of the job. I developed "Stage Presence."
But I never believed that the fact that I could handle a crowd in a bar made me any smarter than the next guy. Whatever celebrity I enjoyed at the time didn't make me smart. I learned a craft, that's all. Intelligence had nothing to do with it.
So... I always wonder. Why do some "celebrities" believe that their opinions count for diddly-shit in this world? Especially ACTORS, who gained their fame pretending to be people that they aren't and parroting words that they didn't write? WTF gives THESE PEOPLE the right to opine on ANYTHING and expect to be taken seriously?
I give you Danny Glover:
"We all know Reagan's legacy, from the Iran-Contra affair to the funding of the Nicaraguan military in which over 200,000 people died. The groundwork for the move steadily to the right happened with the Reagan administration. People want to elevate him to some mythic level; they have their own reason for doing that." - actor Danny Glover, at an anti-war rally in Los Angeles.
Danny, you dickwit. Read some history instead of your next script and you might understand Nicaragua, and what actually happened to the country under Daniel Ortega, which you obviously don't now.
No, I have a better idea. Just shut the fuck up, asshole.
I've been watching some of the tributes to Ronald Reagan on TV this evening and I've found a lot to think about and a lot to remember. I truly believe that he was the greastest President I've seen in my lifetime, and that's 52 years.
Was he perfect? Not hardly. But who is? I didn't believe that we should have cut and run in Lebanon after the barracks bombing. I didn't believe that Reagan should have listened to lying Democrats and signed a back-door tax hike on the promise that Congress would cut $2 in spending for every $1 in increased revenue. I didn't believe that he handled Iran-Contra very well, although I see that affair as a tempest in a teapot and far less damaging to the country than Bill Clinton giving nuke material to North Korea, selling secrets to Red China or ignoring Osama Bin Laden the way he did.
I also remember the reign of Jimmy Carter. Those were dark days for this country. Double-digit inflation, a stagnant job market, 18% interest rates and a general "malaise." Carter laid the groundwork for the problems we face in the Middle East today with his neglect of the military, his policies of appeasement and his total betrayal of the Shah of Iran. But he personally booked the White House tennis courts. Whatta man.
Reagan was like a breath of fresh air after a long time underground. His optimism, his wit and his patriotism were refreshing to me. I also agreed with his idea that "a rising tide lifts all boats." During the brief recession of 1991, Bill Clinton mastered the ability to curl his lip and sneer about "trickle-down economics" as if someone were pissing on every taxpayer in the nation. But trickle-down economics worked and Bill Clinton floated HIS boat on Reagan's tide.
I've read Reagan's letters and I know that NO ONE could write such eloquent words without believing them. He was an intelligent man and a wonderful speaker. Sure, he was an actor and trained to perform before a camera, but he also performed from the heart. Bill Clinton performed like a TV evangalist.
Reagan restored the United States to greatness. He ended the Cold War, and when he told Gorbachov "Tear down this wall," he meant it. The wall fell and so did the Soviet Empire, which WAS EVIL, even if nobody but Reagan had the balls to say it.
Maybe that's what I really liked about Reagan. The man carried a full set of stones and that fact was obvious to me. I believe that the fact was obvious to other world leaders, too. Reagan said what he meant and he meant what he said. That quality scares the shit out of some people because they are so unaccustomed to seeing it in a successful politician. Reagan could schmooze with the best of them, but he always let people know who was Tall Dog.
He brought back respect to this country. He brought back prosperity. He resurrected American pride. He will have my eternal gratitude for making me happy to say that I voted TWICE for him.
I loved the man.
so long, gipper
Ronald Reagan died today. America lost a great man.
Of course, he's been out riding the sky for a long time now and death might be a blessing to both him and his family. I hate to see the good ones go the way he did, while a prick like Jimmy Carter probably will live forever.
Ain't no justice in this world.
more on names
I once interviewed a guy for a job, and I almost burst out laughing when I saw the name on the application. His first name was "Shithead." I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP!
I figured that it had to be some kind of misprint or spelling error, so the first question I asked him was, "Is this the proper spelling of your name?" as I showed him the application. He confirmed that it was. "How do you pronounce it?" I asked.
"Sha-THEED," he replied. Okay. Here I have a guy who appears to be in his mid-twenties who has gone through life being named "Shithead" and he sees nothing wrong with that name. I gave him a test that Quinton could ace in 10 minutes and he made a whopping 20% score. I don't know who filled out his application for him, but he obviously didn't do it himself.
I didn't hire Shithead.
I was sitting around a swimming pool in Costa Rica and some English-language music was playing on the hotel stereo. I wasn't paying a lot of attention to it, because I reading a good book called The Naked Detective by a writer named Laurence Shames. I traded a book I brought with me and finished the day before for that one. It's set in Key West and I know a lot of the places referenced in the story.
All at once, my ears homed in on these words from the stereo: "Sometimes I see my unborn children in her eyes."
I sat up and put down my book, thinking THAT THIEVING BASTARD! HE STOLE THAT LINE! It's right out of "The Dutchman."
That song is about a senile old coot whose daughter takes care of him, despite the fact that he's pretty far gone in the head. The words bring tears to my eyes and the melody is beautiful. With two guitars (finger-picking, or course) and some harmony, that song will make a crowd of drunks shut up and listen.
The Dutchman's not the kind of man
Amsterdam in summertime is golden
There's the evidence and I rest my case. Mike Smith wrote that song, Steve Goodman recorded it, and it's been around for AT LEAST 25 years. Did the bastard who clipped that line think some old fart ex-musician such as I am wouldn't RECOGNIZE his plagarism?
I don't remember the name of the song I heard or who sang it. But he damned sure stole that line.
My daddy was a Navy man. He enlisted when he was eighteen years old and found himself leaving the hills of Harlan County, Kentucky, to end up stationed on Guam, halfway around the world. He was a "scaly-back" sailor, because he crossed the International Date Line twice during his service.
He was proud of that fact until the day he died.
I must have been somewhere around Quinton's age when a submarine docked on River Street in Savannah and the Navy opened it for tours. My daddy took me to see it. Bejus! It wasn't what I expected.
I was accustomed to thinking all submarines were like "The Seaview" from Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea, which was one of my favorite television shows at the time. You know... wide-open, spacious, brightly-lit and very comfortable. The REAL submarine I saw was NOTHING like The Seaview.
It was dark. It was cramped. It smelled of farts, diesel fuel and body odor. The racks where the sailors slept were mere cots, spaced in stacks about 18" apart in the crew quarters. I learned that TWO MEN shared every rack--- they just staggered shifts so that one man had a bed to sleep in while the other one pulled duty. I was allowed to look through the periscope, but even there, a 10 year-old boy had to be careful not to bump into something.
Any ideas I ever had about being a submariner went away that day. I am NOT claustrophobic. I spent a lot of my working career crawling through narrow boiler steam drums filled with cyclones and chevrons that made turning around in there impossible, even for someone my size. Doing that never bothered me.
But thinking about living on that boat, under those conditions, for months at a time just gave me the willies. I remember my dad saying, "Now you've seen a real submarine. What did you think about it?"
"I didn't like it, Daddy," I replied. "It's just too... I don't know. It's just not what I thought it would be."
That wasn't the last time I had that reaction to something I had never seen before.
i don't want to ride this boat
I don't really have anything against Jimmy Carter, except for the fact that I believe that he is an idiotic, misguided, mealy-mouthed, leftist assipe who was incompetent as governer of Georgia and even more incompetent as President of the United States. I'll give him credit for knowing how to grin like a shit-eating dog. I've heard that he can drive a nail.
But I wouldn't name a got-dam nuclear submarine after his worthless ass. If I were in the Navy, I'd rather sail on the USS Billy-Bob. That name carries more dignity.
Bejus. Will Yasser Arafat be the captain?
I don't believe in mulligans
But I believe that this is a pretty good blog.
For the uninitiated, a "mulligan" is a term used to describe a Don't count that shot! Let me try again! situation where a golfer gets a second chance to hit the shot right, with no penalty for the one he just fucked up. I've played with a lot of people who want a mulligan on the first tee, but life doesn't give you that chance and I don't think a golf course should, either.
Mulligans anywhere else on the course? I call that CHEATING.
Golf can be a humbling game, truly a "good walk wasted" at times. But it's also one of the few games (other than shooting target practice) where your only real opponent is the target you're trying to hit. If you miss, you miss; live with that fact.
Golf probably also is the most cheated-at game in the world. I've been pencil-whipped in a few tournaments where I KNEW some bastard wasn't capable of shooting the score he posted, and I've seen people tee the ball in a sand trap and fudge like hell when they marked a ball on the green. Pull that kind of shit in a poker game and you stand a good chance of wearing a bullet home that night. But people do it all the time on the golf course, then brag about their scores.
Bill Clinton is a perfect example of the kind of golfer I don't like to play with. I believe in counting them all and playing it where it lies.
That's one reason I respect PGA professionals so much. They play by some very complicated (and sometimes ridiculous) rules and abide by them faithfully. In what other professional sport have you EVER seen a player call a foul on himself? Pro golfers do it all the time, when lots of money is at stake. They never ask for mulligans, either.
And like me, they don't believe in "gimme" putts.
song of the south
A post such as this one is why I believe that a day without Velociman is a day without sunshine.
Now... can anybody tell my why I get a "FORBIDDEN!" notice when I try to visit Dax Montana?
Here's a page run by an 11 year-old kid. It's worth a look.
I wish he'd drop the annoying music on the main page, but that's just me. His writing is pretty damned impressive.
I found that blog via dog-snot diaries and Geoff tells an interesting story about meeting the kid (over the phone at least) and helping him with his page. Also, read the comments on that post.
It takes a truly sick troll to flame an 11 year-old kid, but trolls are those kind of people.
I've done all but two of these things. I haven't visited eight foreign countrys and I don't have any grandchildren.
And about the hammock thing, Kim... it CAN be done!
June 04, 2004
unheard of greatness
A lot of my readers become bored when I blog about music, but music is an important part of my life. Lately, I've been playing guitar a lot and I worry that I'm developing arthritis in my fingers, especially in my left hand. I am not as supple as I once was and my knuckles start to ache after about 30 minutes of playing.
The thought that I might reach the point where I can't play anymore scares the shit out of me. Sweet Bejus! You took my love, you took my son, you took my job, you took my dick, you're after my money and you left me where I'm liable to piss my bed on any given night. Isn't THAT enough of a price for one man to pay? You want MY FINGERS, too, you rotten bastard?
Excuse me. I'm getting off on a rant here.
I'm going to post a list of my TOP TEN seldom-heard songs, that didn't make gold records, didn't rocket anybody to stardom and lay now in the discount bins of many record stores. You can buy 'em cheap today, and I recommend that you do.
10) "Freaker's Ball" I'm not sure who wrote it, but I believe that it was Steve Goodman.
9) "Pancho and Lefty" as performed by Townes Van Zant before he killed himself.
8) "I'm Alive" by Mac MacAnally on his first album.
7) "The Dutchman" by Mike Smith (who I met and sang with once in my life)
6) "Free Man in Paris" by Joni Mitchell
5) "Hello in There" by John Prine
4) "I'm Alright" by Kim Ritchie
3) "That Bitch" by Fat Yankee Jack (you have to go to Key West to see him.)
2) "Pamela Brown" as performed by Leo Kottke on a 12-string guitar.
1) "Mother of a Miner's Child" by Gordon Lightfoot.
If you've never heard these songs, you need to make a special effort to do so.
good news, bad news
I saw my new lawyer today. All is not lost, but I'm in a big hole.
On the bright side, he knew what a blog was and he promised to read mine.
notice the reaction
I've admired Bill Cosby since I was a kid. The man is a brillant comedian, a great actor and a fine father. He also got a college education and took the road to success at a time when it was much more difficult than it is today for a black man to do it.
Have you ever noticed that he can do a one-hour comedy routine, have the audience rolling in the aisles and NEVER use the word "motherfucker?" In fact, Cosby doesn't cuss on stage at all, except for that hilarious story about believing his name was "Dammit" when he was a boy, because his father always yelled, "Dammit! Come here to me!" when young Coz was in trouble. (Wasn't Coz also convinced that his brother was named "Jesus Christ" because that's how dad called his brother to task? "Jesus Christ! Yeah, you. Not YOU, dammit. The other one. Jesus Christ, come here to me!")
Cosby said some things that a lot of black people and guilty liberals don't want to hear. I am not surprised that the speech he gave didn't get a lot of coverage. It was politically incorrect.
The guy who really nailed the Cosby story was Knight-Ridder/Tribune News Service editor Gregory Clay. He witnessed Cosby's speech, and penned an op-ed. Clay wrote, "Cosby openly chastised some black people for our dirty, little secrets. We are exposed.... Cosby broke the black code.... Give Cosby credit for having the guts to voice his displeasure at such a regal event.... Some have said Cosby is pitting lower-income blacks against middle- and upper-class blacks. That's silly. Cosby's central theme simply was this: Better parenting and educational achievement are in black people's best interest, and some have failed miserably. Don't let the Brown case die on the vine. We have to admit this; it's about survival."
I've beat this drum before and received a lot of flack about it. But I don't care. I WANT to see black people succeed in the USA. I WANT this place to be a true melting pot, a gumbo of every cultural ingredient anybody can bring to the party and throw in the stew. I WANT to see rich, prosperous people all around me, and I don't care what color they are.
But blacks will never get to the party if they stay on the track they've been following for the past 40 years. Illegitimate births. Gangs. Ghettos. Prison. Murder in the street because somebody "dissed" you. Wearing pants around your goddam knees with only boxer shorts covering your ass. Illiteracy. Dropping out of school. Becoming "street-wise" instead of educated. Crack cocaine.
That IS NOT the path to success, people, and when society either turns a blind eye or condemns you as a racist for saying so, we're in a world of trouble. I don't give a damn what the Democrats say--- I know one thing for a fact. NOBODY can help someone who isn't willing to help himself.
Just look at Bill Cosby. He is rich, successful and he also has the intelligence to recognize a problem when he sees it. But when he speaks his mind, he is ignored or chastised for doing so. There are some things you just don't say in this free country, because the truth pisses people off.
I don't buy that philosophy.
I don't know what kind of statement some parents try to make when they name their children after fruit. That question puzzles me.
I grew up with the name Robert Smith. I had two strikes against me right off the bat because I have the most common name in the USA. You can't shake a got-dam bush ANYWHERE in this country without a dozen or so Robert Smiths falling out of it. Try using that name if you want to perform music on stage or write for a living. You won't exactly stand out in a crowd.
When my daughter was born, I named her Samantha because I liked the alliteration in Samantha Smith. The first name was unusual without being ridiculous and I always had a secret lust for Darren's wife on "Bewitched." I remain proud of the name I chose for her today.
When my son was born, I named him Quinton Robert Smith. That way, he could share the Robert that my grandfather, my father and I bear, but he could have a unique identity of his own. Quinton also is a fine Southern name. I'm proud of that one, too.
But I don't believe that in my wildest, drunken, dope-fueled delusions I could EVER name a child "Apple." Or "Moon Unit." Or "De Wonton." What the hell are parents thinking when they curse their children with horrible names that they'll have to lug through life like a millstone around their necks? Names count for a lot, and what you think is "cute" now may backfire later.
Face it. If someone in a Human Resources Department is sifting through a stack of job applications and sees "Rainbow," "Dewberry," "Toyota La' Trelle" and "Gary" in the mix, who do you think gets first shot at the job? It'll be Gary every time. The other names just sound too flaky. Even a Robert Smith stands a good chance when faced with competition from "Placenta," "D'Andre Lawanna Shithead" and "Blossom."
Graham Nash said "Teach Your Children Well." I say name them well first.
June 03, 2004
notes from the home front
Katie, the Fertile Rottweiler, is down to two puppies now. Somebody took "Brownie," an alpha male, and the two leftovers are brown females. All the ones who looked like genuine Rotties went pretty quickly.
Henry got kicked out of his house by the darling wife, came over to the Crackerbox in search of beer, told me his sob story, but charmed his way back in one day later. That guy makes ME feel sane.
I haven't seen THE JOGGER for a while now. Maybe the running bastard dropped dead of a heart attack the way Jim Fixx did on his way to perfect health.
The FAT LADY might not be singing, but she's walking several times up and down the road every day. She does that ridiculous power-walking thing that makes me want to run over her with my truck. Maybe she ate THE JOGGER. (Side note: never trust a woman with a belly bigger than her tits.)
A grackle attacked me in my back yard today, then had the nerve to hang around and squawk at me. I shot his ass dead with my pellet rifle.
I don't trust one of my neighbors. He has three things going against him. His ass is wider than his shoulders, he smokes brown cigarettes and he has an electric lawn mower.
I have an Effingham County sheriff's deputy living on my street. He knows me by name. I'm not certain whether that's a good thing or a bad thing.
I ate lunch at Weisenbacker's Restaurant today after my visit to the dentist. I must be going there too often. As soon as I sat down, the waitress came to me and said "The Killian's Red is on tap again, Rob." That tap has been broken for a couple of weeks, and that's what I always ask for. I had a Killian's, with a meal of BBQ ribs, mashed potatoes, fried okra and corn and tomatoes. It was good and I tipped my waitress generously.
I cut my grass. And I didn't use an electric lawn mower.
As you can tell, it doesn't take much to excite me anymore. That's one of the reasons I love living in Effingham County, Georgia.
okay... I've eaten chicken before
This story is just too much.
I would hang myself, too, if I ever got caught flagrante delecto with a goddam hen.
beer in costa rica
Imperial is a damn good beer. A brand called Pilzen also is brewed locally in Costa Rica, but it tastes a lot like Miller Lite. I preferred Imperial.
But be careful when you order a beer in Costa Rica. For some reason, they serve it in a glass over ice if you don't tell them differently. Da mi una cervesa, por favor. Un Imperial, con no vaso y no hielo.
You need to master that bit of Spanish if you visit Costa Rica. That phrase means "Give me a beer, please. An Imperial, with no glass and no ice." Drink it straight out of a cold, frosted bottle. Otherwise, some well-intentioned bartender will pour your beer into a glass full of ice and hand you a saltshaker on the side. Yes, Costa Ricans like salt in their beer.
I wandered into several establishments that might be called "working-class bars" by American standards. They weren't fancy and the crowd wore work-boots and raincoats because of all the lluvia falling from the sky. They sat around drinking beer on ice, with a dash of salt, while they ate arroz con pollo (chicken and rice) from steaming bowls, piled high.
These weren't rough joints, just down-to-earth, and I enjoyed visiting them. With my shitty Spanish, I didn't exactly fit in with the crowd, and I am certain that they knew I was a tourista, but everybody was polite and friendly. The beer was cheap, the music was good and arroz con pollo ain't half bad when you've been walking around in the rain all day. It felt pretty good on a hungry belly.
One other thing to remember: They also put the hot water faucets on the RIGHT HAND side of every sink and shower that I saw there. I knew what "F" and "C" meant on the faucets (That's "frio" and "caliente," cold and hot) but I never quite got the knack of remembering that the faucets were backward down there. I damn near scalded my Cracker ass a few times in the early morning before my eyes were open well.
I didn't get my fill of that place. I'm going back very soon.
I haven't taken one of these tests in a while, so I thought I'd give this one a shot. I can't argue with the results.
(Shamelessly stolen from this guy.)
checking my archives
I'm still proud of this one. It's good advice and you should try it.
grouchy old bitch
I mean that as a compliment. this woman reminds me of my mama.
And I can give no higher praise to anyone.
the face of leftism
I do not like Ted Kennedy. I don't like ANY rotten bastard who got away with manslaughter and went back to the Senate instead of a richly-deserved jail cell. I don't like filthy rich people who claim to care about the poor and never met a tax hike they didn't love, as long as they get to keep their own money.
I don't like posturing gas-bags. And I damn sure don't respect ANYBODY who got his ass whupped by Jimmy Carter. But I believe that old Ted serves a useful purpose. He represents everything in this world that I never want to be.
That's the face of leftist America today: puffy, mottled, ugly and devoid of conscience.
(UPDATE: Anybody got a caption for that photo? I just thought of several good ones. That finger in the air really triggered my creative juices.)
not a mouse, but a rat
I like stories such as this one, where truth and justice prevail.
NEWPORT NEWS -- A woman who said she found a mouse in her soup at a Cracker Barrel restaurant last month made up the hoax, the Commonwealth's Attorney's Office said Tuesday.
Just think about the kind of people who do such things. I've stepped in better dog shit.
that was fun
I no longer have an abcessed tooth. In fact, I never really had one to begin with. The tooth is perfectly healthy, with no cavities. It's just fit as a fiddle.
But my gums are not. I have an advanced case of gum disease in spite of brushing, flossing and using peroxide in my mouth as part of a daily routine. The dentist examined me, listened to my complaints and took a couple of X-rays. After that, he grabbed some sort of tool off his tray, told me to hold still and he cut me, right above that tooth that was driving me crazy. I could feel all sorts of blood and corruption draining into my mouth.
Believe it or not, but it was a GOOD feeling. All the pressure went away from my left eyeball and I felt almost human again. That's when the dentist began pressing strong fingers against my sinus cavities and attempting to break every bone in my face. "Ow, doc! That HURTS!" I whined.
"Yeah, and it smells like a dead cat in there, too." he replied. He kept mugging me until he was satisfied with the results. "You can rinse and spit now."
Bejus! I don't want to talk about what came out of me. Just imagine squeezing the biggest pimple you ever had in your life and seeing the results come out of your mouth. It was disgusting. It was humiliating. It was horrible.
But it was one hell of a relief, too.
I feel a lot better now. I DON'T feel good about the fact that I'm probably going to have to do this again or lose my teeth in a few years, or both. Gum disease is no laughing matter and that's another complaint I have with God. If I were omnipotent, I would have made better gums than God did.
Going to the dentist delayed my lawyer appointment until tomorrow. That's a good thing, because the swelling is gone and I can talk to him with a straight face now.
Bejus! I have GOT to go to the dentist today. That sensitive tooth that's been bothering me for almost a year now has gone into a full-blown abcess, and the entire left side of my face is swollen and sore. I can barely open my mouth this morning (which some people might think is a GOOD thing).
But just imagine a visit to a divorce lawyer followed by a fucking root canal. That's an ultimate two-fer.
my fame lives on
I'm not exactly proud of this, but I still believe in my central point. I just shouldn't have been so "vicious" when I posted it.
I believe in freedom. I have a real problem with people who can't handle being free, then make lame excuses for the way they behave. With freedom comes personal responsibility. That's why a lot of people can't handle it.
People who can't run their own lives either turn to government to run it for them, or else they behave so outrageously that government FEELS OBLIGATED to step in and run it for them. Either way, these people are doing NO ONE, including themselves, any favors.
And if you're black, female or a coal-dusted hillbilly from Harlan County, Kentucky, you need to know that the bar is set just a little bit higher for you than it is for the rich white boy down the street whose daddy owns a bank and two car dealerships. It may not be "fair," but that's the way it is. You have to try harder and be BETTER than that rich kid. (In the long run, you WILL BE, if you try.)
You don't accomplish anything but self-destruction when you show your ass in a riot at a got-dam basketball game. That's not how ALL of my family, who grew up poor in the armpit of the Appalatchan Mountains, got out of those hills and made something of themselves. They all carried wherewithall on that trip to better things. They worked hard, learned anything that they could and NEVER stopped trying.
I'm sorry, and you can call me a racist if you want, but blacks, by and large, do not have that kind of attitude. They listen to assholes such as Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton, who have nothing more on their agenda than to KEEP the downtrodden right where they are, and they vote 95% Democrat, which has never done a fucking thing except keep them right where they are. If you think of yourself as a victim, guess what? You will ALWAYS be a victim.
You can be a victim or you can be free. That's a personal choice, and it's up to YOU to make it.
Who ever told you life was "fair," anyway?
(UPDATE: Okay, let's just put it this way: "Freedom isnt always supposed to be pretty; it can be messy and at times ugly if it does not conform to what you would rather see...but it is supposed to be real....a true expression of what we are in all of it's forms. It requires discipline above all else, tho, which sounds contrary to those who do not understand it.
(Another Update: be sure to read the comments on that post. While you're at it, vote for me. Chap a delicate ass.)
June 02, 2004
When I was young, I had very few scars on my body but I was proud of every one I did have. I called them "war wounds" and I showed them off to my friends.
I took a shower this morning and surveyed the scars I wear today. Bejus. I look as if someone cut me with a chainsaw, and those are just the OUTSIDE scars. I have a lot of others that you can't see, because they are on the inside. I'm not sporting "war wounds" anymore. I'm just wearing a worn-out body.
I remember every scar that I have and I know exactly where each one came from, but they are almost too numerous to count anymore, and I don't want to think about them in the first place. I've beat myself half to death in this life and the marks show that fact today. My scars are ugly and they testify to 52 years of hard living.
That's one reason I like giving Quinton a bath. His body is scar-free, except for one little character mark on his face from where he fell into the trampoline springs at a neighbor's house one day. Everything else about him is unblemished, unworn and pristine. I wish I still had a body like that today.
But I don't. I resemble Frankenstein's monster.
I picked up a guitar this afternoon and surprised myself by the number of really good Roger Miller songs I remember. Yeah, everybody knows "King of the Road" and "Can't Roller-Skate in a Buffalo Herd," but how about "Chug-a-Lug," "Kansas City Star" and "Dang Me?" Those are damned good songs. I sang 'em all today and I enjoyed the hell out of myself.
I even did "England Swings."
Roger Miller was an excellent songwriter and one of the best white-boy scat-singers of all time. (for those who don't know, singing "scat" is subsituting SOUNDS for words in the middle of a song. Just listen to Roger and you'll know what I mean. "Bweep-bweep-bweep-bweep-da-da-diddly-da dooo...")
He was one of a kind and he died far too young.
hello in there
I've never had to go through anything like this. I've had relatives die, but they never were any more demented than they were all of their lives when they finally kicked the bucket. I come from a crazy family, but we all have pretty good sense. Even my father, hooked up to a morphene pump and riding the clouds, still had his wits about him when he wasn't asleep, right up to the moment when all the monitors went flat-lined.
I don't know what I would do if something like Alzheimer's hit somebody that I truly loved. I've talked with many people who have weathered that storm and it isn't good. Your mama doesn't recognize you anymore. If someone isn't watching, she'll go shit in the closet because she thought it was a bathroom. Your father becomes angry and violent, but he doesn't know why. You look into their eyes, the eyes of the parents that raised you and gave you presents on Christmas morning, loved you with all their hearts and sent you out as best they could into the world, and nothing is there.
The lights are on, but nobody's home.
Bejus. I don't know how I would handle that situation. I don't know that I could. I can't help remembering a John Prine song:
You know that old trees just grow stronger
Say "Hello" every chance you get.
I have an appointment to see a new lawyer tomorrow morning. I fired that incompetent prick I had in Effingham County and hired a land-shark to take his place. Hell, if you're going to war, bring the right equipment with you.
I see this entire affair as totally unneccessary and beyond the realm of my comprehension. It makes no sense. It is a painful and disgusting experience to live through. It's going to cost me a lot, but I didn't start this fight. Once I was in it, however, I couldn't just cave in and walk away. There's too much at stake.
Besides... I've never walked away from a fight in my life, and I ain't starting now.
Wish me luck tomorrow.
truer words were never spoken
I got a kick out of this.
If you live in a place where you don't have fire ants, consider yourself lucky. Those pestiferous bastards breed faster than houseflies and a bite raises a white-headed blister that itches for at least a week. They are aggressive, implacable and absolutely vicious. I hate those sumbitches.
I've tried every insecticide on the market (and yes, I even did the dry grits trick) and all I've ever managed to do is run the ants off into my neighbor's yard, where he does the same thing and runs them back to me. We play "Dueling Anthills" all summer long. Between us, we've probably killed more than 1,000,000,000 ants, but I swear that we have more ants now than when we started.
You can't beat those bastards. All you can do is hold them off.
this offends me
What the fuck? We shall NOT gather at the river?
I'm an athiest. I don't believe in God. But I also have no problem whatsoever with people who DO believe and practice their religion every day, as long as they don't try to FORCE ME to participate.
Religion has been a great comfort to my mama and the church has been her lifeline since my father died. Now that she's sick with cancer and undergoing a lot of treatment, people from the church call her every day to check on how she's doing. That's a good thing. That's what churches and good, Christian people SHOULD do.
And people, including unbelievers such as myself, should get out of their way and allow them to do it. I'll rant and rave about a lot of things, but I'm a TRUE BELIEVER when it comes to individual freedom. Worship, pray and go baptize people in the river if you want to. As long as nobody is trying to haul MY Cracker ass down there and dunk me when I don't want to be dunked, I'll respect their beliefs and their freedom to exercise them.
There's plenty of room in this world for everybody, as long as we don't deliberately step on other people's toes.
i knew that
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Wacko-environmentalists are religious freaks, every bit as obsessed and misguided as Islamic extremists. Those people give me the creeps.
Environmental alarmism/hysteria is a fascinating psychological phenomenon. It bears many traces of ancient myth and similarities to religious mania. It also has close ties with that most powerful, and delusive, of all political religions: socialism.
Close ties to socialism? I would call it more than that. Environmentalism is anti-individual, anti-private property, anti-capitalist and anti-progress. Environmentalists don't care how many people die because of their idiotic cause. In fact, they would be the first ones to throw virgins into a volcano to please the appetite of Gaia. They are that goddam superstitious and that goddam crazy.
They won't be happy until we all freeze to death in the dark.
What's so hard to understand?
Go read this.
The American Dream is out there, folks. It's there for ANYONE to achieve, regardless of skin color or sex. But you've got to work for it if you want it. And if you shoot yourself in your own foot by indulging in self-destructive behavior, don't blame "racism" as the cause. Admit your own choices.
Too many people won't.
June 01, 2004
i love it
Nothing brings more joy to my heart than the fact that I occasionally inspire someone. That's not a bad list, either.
Eddie Arnold had a voice almost as sweet as Jim Reeves did. Did you know that "The Dance" was written by a guy who lives at Tybee Island, Georgia? I love that song. I play it often because it's a good finger-picking number on the guitar.
I had to leave two of my favorites, Marty Robbins and Roger Miller, off my list because I ran out of room. Just damn!
"El Paso" and "King of the Road" should have been in there somewhere.
I didn't blog about this incident in my life when it happened, because I worried (BWHAHAHA!) that my readers might lose all respect for me. I woke up at 3:00 in the morning last night with a severe burning, itching sensation in my crotchital area. I tried to ignore it and go back to sleep, but the sumbitch just wouldn't stop. I was trying to think about what I had done in Costa Rica that could affect my crotchital area when I felt something CRAWLING ACROSS MY FACE!
I sat bolt upright in bed and slapped at the lamp on the nightstand until I could turn it on and see. HOLY BEJUS! My bed was working alive with ANTS! They were EVERYWHERE and biting me in my most sensitive areas. There were THOUSANDS of them.
I hopped out of bed and ran to the kitchen, where I retrieved my trusty can of Raid. I returned and gassed the shit out of the invaders, then I followed their trail to the Mother Hill, which I coated with Diazinon to teach those fuckers a lesson. I murdered a lot of ants last night, even if I DID have to go outside in my underwear, in the dark, with a flashlight and a demonic look on my face to get the job done.
Effingham County, Georgia, has more ants per square inch than any other place I've ever seen. Something about the sandy soil around here just attracts ants the way a ripe dog turd attracts flies. It wasn't as if I'd been eating crackers in bed and left a lot of crumbs to lure the ants my way. Hell NO! If the bloodthirsty bastards wanted something to eat, they should have been crawling all over my kitchen.
But they attacked me in my bed, in the dark of night, for no good reason. Goddam communists.
After I killed all the ants I could, I was faced with a dilemma. I had to wash my sheets and remake my bed. I am not good at making a bed. I forget which movie it was (I believe that Clint Eastwood starred in it), but the lead character said, "A man's got to know his limitations." Well, I know mine. Making a bed is one of them.
I washed the sheets and put them in the dryer, but I thought seriously about sleeping on a bare mattress tonight. Have you ever seen a monkey fucking a football? If you haven't, just watch me make a bed. It's the same thing.
It was ugly to see, but I finally got the job done. I have fresh, clean, ant-free sheets to sleep on tonight and no children or animals (other than ants) were harmed in the process. I feel lucky to be alive.
But I'm sleeping with the light on tonight.
nice to know
I've read a lot about ME lately on certain other blogs. Some of it was quite flattering, but others seem to think that I make them feel dirty if they visit my blog. I checked out a few of those sanctimonious assholes and I came to this conclusion: Ya can't write, ya can't spell and your blog sucks.
There. Now you have a damn good reason not to read me. Wanna feel REALLY dirty?
Go fuck yourself.
some things never change
I watched the movie Blackhawk Down! for about the fourth time today. I also read the book twice. Let's stop and think for a minute about what happened in Somalia.
We went in there with a multi-lateral bunch of United Nations "allies" who didn't do shit to help when we needed them. We also sent our troops into harm's way without the armor they needed for street fighting, because Bill Clinton didn't want to offend our "allies." Too much force displayed on the streets might piss somebody off.
As a result, 19 Americans died; then, we cut and ran like whipped dogs, even though our troops inflicted tremendous casualties on the Somali "insurgents."
Doesn't that remind you of some of the philosophy coming from the left-leaning, anti-war crowd today? Don't fight a war if we might piss off a country that doesn't make a pimple on a rat's ass. If we DO fight a war, let's not fight too hard, because we might piss off the country we're fighting against, or we might anger the French. Also, let's cut and run at the first opportunity, because war is a bad thing.
Thank Bejus these people weren't in charge during World War II. We'd all be goose-stepping and speaking either German or Japanese now.
I wish that I had written this.
I just wish the guy would say how he REALLY feels.
I'll probably go watch this movie, just to see if I can get through the entire propaganda effort without barfing in my popcorn box. The review I linked to isn't negative, but it does fuel my suspicions that the movie is a cliche-ridden, Gaia-worshipping, tree-hugging manifesto of environmentalist bullshit.
Of course, as an exercise in the pure Willing Suspension of Disbelief, it might be a good way to kill a couple of hours. I like cheesy, end-of-the-world movies, and the more ridiculous they are, the more I like them. I grew up watching B-grade science fiction movies at the Avon Theater on Broughton Street in Savannah. I always liked the scene at the end, where some dignified-looking "scientist" in a lab coat said, "There are some things best left alone by mankind."
Sounds a lot like today's "Precautionary Principle" to me.
Al Gore probably believes that the movie is gospel truth, just weeks away from actually happening if we don't ratify the Koyoto Accords.
my top ten
My ass is still chapped from watching that Top 100 Country Music Songs countdown last night. I totally disagree with the judges. If "Stand By Your Man" is the greatest country song of all time, I'm a got-dam brain surgeon. Here is MY Top 10:
10) "Blue Moon of Kentucky" by Bill Monroe, the Father of Bluegrass.
9) "I Walk The Line" by Johnny Cash.
8) "Help Me Make It Through The Night" by Kris Kristofferson.
7) "Orange Blossom Special" by any of dozens of people.
6) "Gentle On My Mind" by John Hartford.
5) "Mama Tried" by Merle Haggard.
4) "Faster Horses" by Tom T. Hall.
3) "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" by Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs.
2) "Crazy" by Patsy Cline.
1) "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" by Hank Williams.
I had to leave off a lot of really good songs, but that's my Top 10. I like my list a lot better than the one the judges chose last night.
Here's a post that I really like. Some of the stories he quotes convince me of something I've always suspected: a lot of people in this country are just too damned stupid to handle freedom.
And if these people have their way, you'll lose YOUR freedom, too.
Maybe I shouldn't have picked up that big, fat toad I saw on the street in Tamarindo, Costa Rica. It might have been one of these.
Can you imagine dropping dead on the street and having your grieving family ask, "How could this happen?"
"A killer toad got him. There was nothing we could do."
"A killer toad got him. I'm sorry, but it happens all the time."
"Rob was killed by a TOAD?"
"Yes. He never should have picked it up. But he died quickly and painlessly, except for getting pissed on by the toad as he was expiring. We have the toad in custody and it will face prosecution to the fullest extent of the law."
I think that Death By Killer Toad might be a good way to exit this world. That way, death could be just as ridiculous as life.
Why am I not surprised by this story?
Lomborg pulled off his biggest coup in Copenhagen last week. He assembled a jury of eight world-renowned economists who spent five days trying to prioritise the world’s biggest problems - HIV, hunger, education and so on. Their verdict was damning for the environmentalists. Money spent on global warming, the panel declared, is "a bad use of our finite resources", compared to solving the planet’s other woes. It takes enormous expenditure to achieve very small reductions in greenhouse gases, with uncertain results. Funding to fight, say, malnutrition with iodine pills and vitamin A is a much better use of the limited finance the world makes available for such causes.
Environmentalists don't give a damn about the human race. They are modern-day Druids who worship at the altar of Gaia. When their beliefs are challenged, they don't argue their point with logic or science. They bring out 20-foot dinosaurs and intone "ominously," like the fucking witch doctors that they are.
Ignorance may be bliss, but it's no basis for running the planet.
how low can you go?
Here is one reason that I hold the American legal system in contempt. "Post-traumatic Slave syndrome" caused that man to beat his two-year old son to death?
A Los Angeles native, DeGruy-Leary has been working on the theory for two decades and said she is still a year from publishing a book on it. She coined the name in her 2001 dissertation on African American male youth violence.
It's also complete bullshit.
non-musicians won't understand
Tonight, when I was watching that dumbass Greatest Country Songs countdown, they hit #3 and brought out some finalist from American Idol to sing "Crazy," which is my all-time favorite Patsy Cline song and the best thing Willie Nelson ever wrote in his life.
I sat on the floor totally unmoved by the performance. That woman hit all the notes and the band was good, but the song just didn't feel right. She sang "Crazy" as if she were happy to be on that stage. Patsy didn't do that. She broke your fucking heart when she sang that song. There wasn't a damned thing happy about it, and she let you know.
Why is it that some people FEEL music and other people don't? I'm talking about both listeners and players. How can a woman with a voice as beautiful as the one I heard sing tonight just totally butcher Patsy Cline? How could people not feel the difference between going through the motions and really FEELING the music?
I'll have to think about that question while I play my guitar.
I call bullshit!
Here are (allegedly) the top ten country music songs of all time:
10) "Mama's Don't Let Your Boys Grow Up To Be Cowboys" (Waylon and Willie)
9) "Behind Closed Doors" (Charlie Rich)
8) "Galveston" (Glenn Campbell)
7) "I Fall To Pieces" (Patsy Cline)
6) ""Friends in Low Places" (Garth Brooks)
5) "Your Cheating Heart" (Hank Williams)
4) "Ring of Fire" (Johnny Cash)
3) "Crazy" (Patsy Cline)
2) "He Stopped Loving Her Today" (George Jones)
1) "Stand By Your Man" (Tammy Wynette)
Bull-fucking-shit is all I have to say. "Help Me Make Through The Night" didn't make the top 100. Neither did "Gentle On My Mind." I still believe that "I Walk The Line" is the best song Johnny Cash ever recorded. Go through the grist-mill of divorce court the way I have and listen to "Stand By Your Man." You'll want to upchuck.
I don't know who picked that Top Ten, but I think they need to dig some serious wax out of their ears.
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