Gut Rumbles

November 30, 2007

Beach Towns

Originally PUBLISHED 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.

A Coal Mining Camp

Originally PUBLISHED August 3,2004

The Lewellen mine opened sometime in the 1920s or '30s. It had been there on the side of that mountain for a long time before I was born. I still remember watching the man-trip run up and down the tracks on that hill and waiting by the fence to watch my daddy walk home with his entire body covered in coal dust. He was often the blackest man I ever saw.

I showered with him once at the Bathhouse next door to the Company Store. I was six years old and intimidated by all the hairy, nekkid men around me. These were all rough-cob coal miners with large muscles, calloused hands and dicks a lot bigger than mine, enveloped in the steam from the showers. My daddy told me not to worry. "These men are my friends," he said. "Nobody is going to mess with you."

Nobody did. In fact, one guy who worked for my dad scrubbed my back for me. I walked out of there feeling like a full-grown man at the age of six. I had been to the Bathhouse. I washed with the coal miners. I thought I was a Tall Dog.

I have a picture of the house we lived in back then and it's pretty much a shack. Hey! But it was a GOOD shack because my daddy was a supervisor and we lived on Front Row, right next to the highway, just across from the railroad tracks, where all the really good shacks were. We didn't have indoor plumbing and I know quite well what a winter wind feels like blowing up through the hole in an outhouse while your tender ass is perched on it, but we didn't live on Back Alley, on the bank of the Cumberland River, where the drunks and promiscuous wimmen lived. We had status, for what it was worth.

The mine ran out of coal and shut down in 1958. It had operated for more than 40 years on a good seam of Golden Ash coal, the finest coal in the world. $15 a ton back then. My daddy was without employment, without insurance and the father of a diabetic son, who required a lot of medical treatment. He had a decision to make. He was offered several other jobs in mines all over Kentucky, but he turned them all down. He KNEW that if he stayed there, my brother and I would grow up to be coal miners. That's all there was to do back then.

He and my mama loaded up all they could pack into a 1957 Chevy Bel-Air and moved to Savannah, with no prospects and no idea of what they would do next. We had a place to stay, at my grandmother's house, but that was it.

Do you realize the kind of courage that took? I didn't back then, but I do now. I admire my father more than any man I've ever known in my life. He was a hard-ass and we didn't always get along, but he had more balls than any other TWO men I've encountered in life. My dad was one hell of a man.

I think in a lot of ways I've always felt that I didn't measure up to his standards. I still wonder about that today, even though my father has been dead for 12 years.

The Lewellen coal mining camp is gone now. The company bulldozed all the houses and and sold the lumber for scrap. Somebody was growing corn there the last time I saw it in 1983. I doubt that I ever will go back.

But I'll never forget it, either.

November 29, 2007


Originally PUBLISHED April 13,2005

I love living in the South. Don't EVER get me wrong about that fact. The weather is usually great, I seldom see snow or ice where I live, and I have played golf on Christmas Eve in a short-sleeved shirt a couple of times. I like the sun and the hot weather, even in the summer when everything bakes.

But southeast Georgia has three things that can be a real pain in the ass.

#1-- Sand Gnats. I don't have them where I live now, but those flying teeth are EVERYWHERE around the coast this time of year. They will eat you alive, from early morning until around noon (when they take a break to digest) and then again from around 4:00 in the evening until nightfall. They come in swarms so thick that you can inhale a mouthfull by accident. Their bites feel like a needle prick and they make you itch like hell. The only thing that I've ever found that will keep them offa you is Avon "Skin So Soft," and you'd better make sure you don't miss a spot when you apply the lotion. I hate those bastards.

#2-- Mosquitoes. We grow 'em here the size of B-52 bombers and they can draw a pint of blood out of you with one good bite. They don't care what time of day it is, either. They attack 24-7. They can bite right through a flannel shirt or a pair of Levi jeans. When somebody tells you that burning a cintranel (I ain't sure about the spelling here, but stores everywhere sell them) candle keeps them away, just laugh right in that person's face. That crap doesn't work. NOTHING DOES, unless you coat yourself with enough Deet to kill a moose. Even then, you're probably going to be eaten by a clever Georgia mosquito. I hate those bastards, too.

#3-- Chiggers. Some people call them "red bugs" and they are tiny parasites that live in the woods and LOVE to burrow under your skin to feast. I've been covered with those little shits before, and they'll raise an itching welt the size of a quarter when they hit. And they like warm, moist places, so they go for your armpits, your crotch and other such embarrassing areas that you don't want to scratch in public. I once went camping with a couple of friends and we forgot to bring any toilet paper. Gary took a dump and wiped his ass with Spanish Moss. Big mistake. Chiggers LOVE Spanish Moss almost as much as they like infesting your asshole if you are dumb enough to give them a chance to get there. Gary was not a well boy for a week or so after that episode.

Fingernail polish is the only way to get rid of them. That's only AFTER you've been hit. The blood-sucking bastard burrows under your skin, but if you paint the welt he creates with nail polish, you cut off his oxygen supply and smother him to death. That takes a couple of days to work and you suffer in the meantime.

Those are three of the joys about living Down South.

But I have another question. I don't know what the plant is called for real (I always called them "tick bushes"). It's a bushy plant that grows about waist-high to me and it is CRAWLING with ticks. If you brush up against one in the woods, you'll end up with 50 or 60 ticks on you. I learned to avoid them a long time ago, but dogs never learn.

I've spent damn near an hour burning ticks off my dog after a romp in the woods when he ran across one or more of those bushes. The damned things look almost like a huckleberry bush, but they aren't huckleberrys. Ticks aren't unique to the South, but those bushes may be.

Anybody know what I'm talking about?


Originally PUBLISHED March 22,2005

A lot of lesbians worked for the Savannah Morning News when I was playing guitar on River Street. They got off at 11:00 at night and came down to the bar to drink heavily and listen to me play before they went home. I used to flirt with them and tell them that I could change their persuasion if they would only give me a chance. A couple of those wimmen were damned good looking.

Never happened. They were set in their ways, but they liked my music and they liked the way I flirted with them. We became friends.

One night, a bunch of them stayed until closing time and at about 2:30 in the morning, I told them that I would walk them back to the parking lot, just to be chivalrous and all. I don't know what good I would have done them with a guitar case in either hand, but I had a derringer in my pocket, and I enjoyed their company. So, five of them and one of me took a hike to the parking lot.

We didn't make it before a FLASHER jumped out of an alley and bared himself. I AM NOT MAKING THIS SHIT UP!!! The guy popped out of nowhere and spread his trench coat like a set of bat wings, and he was wearing nothing but the coat and a pair of running shoes.

One of the girls said, "Oh, my God. That looks just like a dick, only a lot smaller." The guy turned and ran away.

I had to sit down on the street and laugh for a minute. That was the perfect cut at the perfect time. I WISHED that I had come up with that one, right out of the dark sky the way she did. All the girls were laughing and giving high-fives to each other, too. I finally recovered enough breath to say, "Why don't y'all walk me to MY car? I believe that you can take care of yourselves." They did exactly that.

Don't try to intimidate a bunch of lesbians. That plan won't work. They'll make fun of your dick.

November 28, 2007


Originally PUBLISHED June 24,2006

If I lived where he does, I would have done it a long time ago. catfish got himself some chickens. He told me about his venture into wildlife farming and I responded by telling HIM to build a decent coop. If he lets those chickens free-range, they'll start sleeping in trees at night and laying their eggs 30 feet off the ground. Gravity is NOT kind to an egg laid from that height.

I offered to help him build a good coop and show him how to set it up--- but I've gotta admit. I'll do a lot more engineering than actual WORK on that project, because I simply am not able to do the things anymore that I once did all the time. But I HAVE been a chicken-farmer and I DO know a little bit about it.

He got several different roosters. That's not really a problem, even though people already are warning him that a coop has room for only ONE dominant rooster. I call bullshit on that idea, because I once ended up with FIVE roosters and 28 hens in my coop. The roosters worked out their own... "pecking order," if you will...

I had a big, mean, three-feet-tall Rhode Island Red that was Cock of the walk in MY coop. The other roosters were scared shitless of that mean old bastid, and they stayed far away from him. Usually by flying up in the rafters and never even bothering to eat unless the Tall Dog's back was turned. But when they saw a ripe opportunity, they'd fly down from the rafters, grab a couple of bites to eat, then plow a hen who was scratching and cooing with her ass stuck up in the air at the time.

Then, they'd fly squawlking back up into the rafters before big boy kicked their asses. If they were too slow, Big Red killed them. Life is brutal in a chicken coop.

But I frequently collected as many as 30 eggs out of that coop every day, because my laying hens did exactly THAT. They LAID a lot of eggs. Just provide them with hay and food. They'll build their own nests and lay like gangbusters.

You've got to watch out for your dominat rooster killing the other males if he can catch them, but something else bad is to have a real, dedicated nesting hen go into full mama-mode on you. She'll lay her own eggs and then steal others to fill her nest. Then she wants to sit there and hatch them, even if doing that means not eating for a while.

You've got to watch out for those, because they'll peck the living shit out of you if you reach under her for the eggs. She gets all hormonal and insane from motherly instincts. But the males don't like those chicklets when they hatch and the males will kill them and EAT THEM, just to eliminate future competition.

A chicken coop is a real jungle.

But If I had a place to put one, I would do it again today. You collect plenty of fresh eggs and get to watch a lot of wild, chicken-sex happening all the time. Give them corn and sweet feed to eat, plus dump any kitchen leftovers into the coop for added variety. You'll grow some good chickens and get lots of fresh eggs that way.

But...beware. Roosters like to crow their asses off every morning to welcome the sunrise. Until you become accustomed to the noise, it will wake you up with a case of the cold shivers. After a while, you beome acustomed to it and pay them no attention anymore, but that takes a while.

Two friends who spent a weekend at my house several years ago asked, in all sincerity, "How do you SLEEP with all that racket in the morning?" I asked, "What racket?" because the truth was... I didn't hear it anymore.

If Cat doesn't coop his chickens, his cats and his alligators will kill them all. If they end up sleeping in trees, he'll NEVER get an egg from them. I'm just offering him good advice.

He can take it or leave it. But I KNOW what I'm talking about here.


Originally PUBLISHED August 15,2005

I've been there a few times. Tiger Ridge is famous in Georgia for being the most inbred place on the planet since the French kings of the 1700s.

I received THIS in an email today:

The Tiger Ridgers tend to be either Edwards or Atchleys, from what a few who hail from there tell me. I'm doing a research on them for my master's thesis.

There are some good people there, and while there maybe some folk who are twice cousins or whatever, you simply should not judge them, especially if you all are not in any position to really know them or help them out.

Do not go there to gawk, or to make fun. I've had a friend who was locked up for precisely that, when he and his Navy buddies accidentally rode in there while returning to base from a night out in Savannah.

Another source tells me that a Tiger Ridger will just as soon kill you and throw you into the river for gator bait as look at you.

Having said this, if you are interested in helping me make some contacts who will tell me the real story of Tiger Ridge, how the Feds came in back in the 30's or 40's and moved some people out to keep them from breeding in too much, then kindly contact me.

Thank you sir, and have a good day.

Wanna help the guy out? I have his email address.

November 27, 2007


Originally PUBLISHED December 20th, 2004

The high temperature in Effingham County today is supposed to be 42 degrees. That's fucking FREEZING where I live. This the the kind weather meant for snuggling under warm quilts and listening to a fire crackle while you spoon with your honey. It ain't fit for nothing else.

But I don't have a honey OR a fireplace, so I opted for a big pot of pinto beans and some cornbread. I need some comfort food. Here's how you do it.

*Buy a bag of dried pinto beans. Wash them, then throw them in a pot on the stove with plenty of water and allow them to soak on low heat for a couple of hours.

*I don't do precise measurements when I cook. I eyeball everything.

*Cut about a pound of salt-cured country ham into small slivers and throw those into the pot. You can add potatoes, too, but I believe that potatoes defile this dish. If you want some home fries on the side, that's acceptable. Make your own choice.

*Dice 1/2 of a large Vidalea onion. Toss the onions into the pot . SAVE THE REST OF THE ONION!!! You'll want it later.

*After about two hours of soaking on "low", turn the heat up and simmer the beans. Smoke a joint, get drunk, go screw your darlin,' read a book, masturbate or whatever else you can think of to pass some time. Good pinto beans require patience.

*Stir the pot every now and then to make sure that you're not fucking up. Add more water if necessary as the beans mature and absorb the water.

*Taste the broth that is developing after about two hours. Add salt if needed, but remember that the country ham will provide a lot of the salt for you. DO NOT OVER-SALT. You can always add more, but you can't remove it once you threw it in there. Be careful.

*Get a good, roiling simmer going in the pot, put a lid on it and leave that shit alone for a while. Go smoke another joint. Get drunk. Screw darlin' again. Find some way to kill about four hours.

*After about four hours, those beans should be smelled by neighbors a half-mile away, even if your house is buttoned-up like a funeral vault. The beans are getting just about right, so it's time to make the cornbread.

*Put a big dollop of bacon grease in a bowl. (I don't measure a "dollop." I KNOW what one looks like.) Add two cups of corn meal, a palm full baking powder, a handful of sifted flour, 1 and 1/2 cups of milk and one raw egg. Beat the shit out of that mixture until it is smooth, then ladle it into a cast-iron skillet (buttered beforehand).

*Bake the cornbread in the oven at 425 degrees for 25 minutes.

*If you time this right, the cornbread can sit on the counter and cool (that way it won't fall apart when you carve it) just enough before you decide to eat it with a big bowl of beans. Cut the leftover Vidalea onion into slices and eat those raw with the beans and cornbread.

That's what I'm having for supper tonight. You might want to stay upwind of me.

(UPDATE: Whoo-hoo! I've got a pretty good supper here! Just some words of advice for people who don't know how to make decent cornbread-- DO NOT put sugar in it and DO NOT add honey. Goddam blasphemers. That ain't a cake you're baking. If you can't make cornbread that stands up to the taste-test on its own, buy a tube of frozen biscuits, you pathetic swine!!! BWHAHAHAAAA!!!)

I'm gonna fart at the moon tonight...


Originally PUBLISHED December 21, 2004

As far back as I can remember, I've looked at the night sky and wondered what was out there. I've seen meteor showers, lunar eclipses and I've looked at the craters of the moon through a telescope until my eyes wore out. I once climbed Blood Mountain just to see Halley's Comet in an ink-black sky at night.

I've always had stars in my head.

I stayed up all night to watch the first men walk on the moon when I was still a teenager, and I KNEW that we were on the threshold of something special and I was seeing it happen. YES! We had slipped the surly bonds of earth and taken the first step toward... who knew what? But it was gonna be fantastic.

Boy, did we piss that opportunity away.

The same people who bitch about everything today that doesn't involve government taking money from one set of people and giving it to another set cranked up their whining, called the space program wasted money and pretty much put an end to it. We've been turning around and around in a very small circle ever since.

I will ALWAYS believe that human beings are natural-born explorers and space is the next frontier. We had the chance to really DO SOMETHING 35 years ago, but the same people who told Columbus that the world was flat and who told people NOT to take any risks (just sit right where you are and be happy-- if god wanted you to fly, he'd have given you wings) won the argument. Our space program is a fucking joke today.

We put the job in government's hands, and it has the creative imagination of a traffic light. Government also has an amazing ability to spend a whole lot of money without accomplishing very much. Stars in your head? You don't belong in government.

Wouldn't it be great if private enterprise took the next step that we should have taken years ago? It's possible-- especially if private enterprise discovers that it can make money in space.

I'm not the only one with stars in my head.

November 26, 2007


Originally PUBLISHED September 8, 2005

I went back packing in the Cahutta Widlerness once, and I think we hiked the "Jack's River Trail." It was beautiful. All the leaves were in full fall color and blossoms from the mountain laurel tumbled like snowflakes around us as we walked.

We came to "Panther Creek Falls," where the trail headed steeply down the mountain. The falls were probably about 90' high and they kicked up a rainbow over the stream below. It was a pretty spectacular sight, but I didn't walk out on the cliff to look down because the rocks were all covered in wet moss that is as slick as snot.

I had busted my ass on that stuff before. I knew better.

When we got to the bottom of the falls, we stopped for a lunch break. I didn't eat anything. I dropped my pack, grabbed a bar of soap and started taking my clothes off.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Rob?" one of my companions asked.

"I'm gonna take a shower," I replied, and I waded butt-ass nekked out into the stream until I was UNDER that waterfall. HOLY BEJUS!!! The water was COLD. It beat on my head like a carpenter with a hammer. My codsack shrunk up to the size of a marble and my dick just totally disappeared.

But I soaped up and washed myself. After the initial shock, it felt pretty good, even though the air temperature was only about 55 degrees at the time. I just wish I had a shower head in my bathtub that is as good as spring-fed water falling 90' off a mountain. That'll damn nearly put knots on your head.

Nobody else in the group wanted to give it a try, but when I crawled out of there, toweled off and got dressed again, I was as warm as toast and I felt clean and refreshed.

That's the best shower I ever took in my life.


Originally PUBLISHED May 21, 2005

I happened to watch a movie today where some guy in a wagon train was blowing "Dixie" on a harmonica. I loved listening to that. I know that "Dixie" is considered to be a racist song in our hyper-sensitive society today, but hearing it still makes me want to stand up and cheer. It's a GREAT song and it means a lot to me about the part of the country I love the most.

I always stand up, take off my hat and put my right hand over my heart when I hear "The Star-Spangled Banner." I sometimes get goosebumps when I hear that song and see an American flag waving in the wind. That's our NATIONAL ANTHEM and I think it's glorious when played by a marching band. But have you ever tried to SING that song? Got-dam! You need a vocal range a lot better than mine to do it right. I prefer to hear the instrumental version.

Okay, it comes from my roots, but I sometimes get all misty-eyed when I hear "My Old Kentucky Home." Stephen Foster hit a home run with that one, even though the forces of political correctness have changed some of the words today. You seldom hear the version that mentions "darkies" anymore. I still love that song.

I may be a sap, but I believe that "America, the Beautiful" is a WONDERFUL song. I've traveled all the way from Washington State to Savannah, Georgia by car, and I've SEEN the purple mountain's majesty and amber waves of grain, from sea to shining sea. Bejus! Nobody can really appreciate just how BIG and IMPRESSIVE this country is until he takes that kind of trip. Plus, that song is a lot easier to sing than the national anthem.

You want to shut up a room full of rowdy drunks where I live? Just have somebody play and sing "Georgia on My Mind." The place gets quiet and you see rough-looking red-necks shedding tears in their beers. That one definitely IS an "old, sweet song."

I've never been very fond of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," because I am a Southerner and I prefer to hear "Dixie." The Battle Hymn reminds me too much of a durge, and it makes me think of William T. Sherman. I can't get excited about that one. Sherman had his nerve to say "War is hell." He didn't live in Georgia.

I also like the "Marine Corps Hymn," but that's just the militant in me showing. It's still a rousing song.

See? I didn't mention ANYTHING rap, hip-hop, rock-n-roll, pop or anything by Elvis or the Beatles. I still think it's a good list.

November 25, 2007


Originally PUBLISHED August 22nd, 2004

I don't cook much anymore, but I once was very good at it. I have a few dishes that I make that I believe are as good as anything you'll ever taste on this planet.

#1-- God's Own Omelet. I use a couple of eggs, diced onion and bell pepper, ham, bacon and cream cheese for the filling. I melt Monteray Jack cheese all over the top just before I take it out of the skillet. You'll take one bite of THAT and slap your mama.

#2-- Pork Ribs a la Rob. The secret to cooking good ribs is to start early. I put the ribs in the oven at 225 degrees for at least six hours before I throw them on the grill. I put a good, spicy rub on them and I make my own sauce. The meat falls off the bone and they are delicious.

#3-- Crab Stew Worth Dying For. I've NEVER bought crab meat in a store. I go catch my own. Then I cook 'em, pick 'em and make a stew that'll blow your doors off. You need the Holy Trinity of celery, onion and bell pepper, plus a whole stick of real butter and two cans of Cream of Celery soup. Throw that into a pot, along with Worchestershire sause, red pepper and black pepper. Cook on low heat until all the flavors meld together. Serve in big bowls with oyster crackers and lots of beer.

#4-- Seafood Pie. You put shrimp, crab and oysters into this, along with the Holy Trinity of celery, onion and bell pepper. I can make a pie crust, but I prefer to buy the frozen ones in the store. Less mess and less work. Throw the vegetables into a skillet and cook with butter and olive oil until the onions are translucent. Toss in the seafood and mix it all together, being careful NOT to over-cook the seafood. Bust up some cracker crumbs and use two eggs to hold everything together. Add grated American cheese, plus any white cheese you can find. Pour the mixture into a pie crust and bake for 15 minutes at 350 degrees in the oven. Trust me. It's good.

#5-- Fried Southern Vegetibles. Pick some okra, squash, zucchini and a couple of green tomatoes from your garden. Cut the okra and zuchinni long-ways, but the squash and green tomatoes sideways. Dredge them in milk with an egg whipped into it, then batter them with a half and half mixture of flour and corn meal, with plenty of salt, pepper and terrigon. Fry that stuff in a pot of grease (peanut oil is the best), then serve on a bed of lettuce. Wine is better than beer with THAT meal.

I really miss cooking. I once did it every day, but I have trouble cooking for just one person. My talents may wither on the vine.


Originally Published November 15th, 2004

According to the thermometer on my back porch, the temperature was 38 degrees F at 7:00 this morning. No frost on the ground, but pretty chilly outside for a Southern boy. I don't like cold weather.

But I like the fall. It's football season, time to steam fresh oysters, and have back-yard parties. It's jacket-weather and temperatures where it's really nice to build a big fire in the back yard while neighbors stand around, cooking hot-dogs on a stick, warming their hands and drinking alcohol.

It's the time of year when the kids come running into the house with red ears, rosy cheeks and runny noses and they are shivering from the cold. You fix hot chocolate with marshmellows and make them all sit still while they drink a cup; then, you send them outside to play again.

Gawd! I remember what fall was like when I was a boy. And it hasn't changed.

November 24, 2007

Sound effects

Originally published July 28, 2004

Last night, I was woken from my sleep by the sound of a banshee screaming. I sat up in bed because I thought somebody was dying and maybe I should rush to the rescue. I listened a little longer and decided rescue was not neccessary. I WAS HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN ENTHUIASTIC WOMAN HAVING A GOOD TIME!!!!

"Oh God, oh God, oh GOD!!! Yes...yes...yes...oh NO, ohmygod No! Yes! Oh God! AIEEEEEE!!!!! Oh, God! Oh, God! Yes...oh, no...yesssss AIEEEEE!!!!

That sound was accompanied by the thumping of the bed against the wall in the room next to mine. That went on for almost an hour before I heard the guy finally groan "Oh, my GOD!" himself. Then things became quiet.

I opened my door and started clapping my hands in the hallway to applaud a job well done. The next thing I know, people are clapping all over the hotel. We pretty much gave the couple a standing ovation for some incredible sound effects during sex.

I wonder if they heard me and Maria the other night. She was very enthuiastic and quite the screamer herself. But we did not get a standing ovation from the hotel residents.

I am disappointed.

Pissing sitting down

Originally published December 14, 2004

I've always bragged that one of the benefits of being a man is the ability to stand up and pee. Hell, we can water a tree, stop ANYWHERE on the side of the road and even write our names in the snow if we want to. Instant relief is no problem.

A pecker is a nice thing to have.

I've always laughed at the female squatting thing and the half-a-roll of toilet paper it takes them to daub their delicate pussies dry when they finally generate the nerve to squat outside a pristine-clean cubicle with a perfumed stall and a locked door in the first place. Plus, wimmen are always afraid that someone will SEE them pissing.

WTF is that all about?

Guys don't give a shit about someone seeing them piss. If you maybe look longingly at a guy's wang when you're in one of those watery conga-lines, the gawkee may just turn and piss all over your Reeboks, but that's not a shameful thing, at least not to the gawkee. He'll wave that thing at you and say "Take a GOOD look, buddy! Is THIS what you wanted???"

Not that I would know, but I'm just sayin'...

Wimmen don't do that. They piss sitting down and they like padded toilet seats to rest their fat pretty asses on, too. I was about to get wound up and pontificate about how disgusting that practice is until I thought...

Bejus! I piss sitting down sometimes. I know a lot of other guys who do, too. That's just fucking sad.

Catfish caught me doing it in Athens. He saw me sitting on the john and asked, "Whatta ya doing, bow-legs? Pissin' or shittin'?" (Can you imagine a woman asking that question? Guys do.) I confessed that I wasn't certain. My body would make its mind up whenever it was ready.

I caught Cat on the john the next day, his ass on the commode and his face buried in a USA Today. "Okay, Big Cat. Whatta ya doin'? Pissin' or shittin'?" I loved his reply.

"I THINK I'm pissin,' but I ain't taking any chances."

I just had a hideous thought. Old men become... WIMMEN!!!!

November 23, 2007


November 22, 2007

My Daddy

Originally published December 15, 2004

When I was about 10 years old, I needed to earn some money, so I contracted with a neighbor to cut her grass and edge her curb. My daddy told me that I could use his lawnmower (as long as I paid him back for the gas--- which was about 26 cents a gallon at the time) and I negotiated what I thought was a fair price-- $2.50, I believe, for the job. I told her that I would be there bright and early on Saturday to do the work.

I showed up on time and I cut the grass. But... DAMN!!! It was a Saturday in July in southeast Georgia and the temperature was as hot as the gates of hell. I was hacking away at the weeds on her curb when some of my friends came by on bicycles and invited me to go skinny-dipping in the Gun Club Lake with them. Ohhhh... the thought of that water washing over my sweaty self almost made me swoon. I wanted to go.

I thunk a thought. I could finish this job TOMORROW and go skinny-dipping RIGHT NOW!!! I wouldn't ask Mrs. Johnson to pay me until I was done, and I was pretty sure that I could talk her into giving me a break. I tried, and I was correct.

I ran back to my house to get my bicycle, but I was intercepted by my daddy. "Where are YOU going?" he asked. He had been watching me from the living room window.

"Ummm... I'm going to play with my friends," I replied. Skinny-dipping in the lake was strictly forbidden, so I kept those plans to myself.

"You finished with your work?"

"No... but Mrs. Johnson says that I can finish tomorrow. I just have a little more of the curb to do."

"Then go do the rest of the curb. You gave her your word. If you didn't want the job, you shouldn't have asked for it."

He made me go back and finish that job before I went off to have a good time with my friends. I resented what he did at the time, but I don't anymore.

My daddy was that kind of man, and he taught me a valuable lesson that day. He was not much of a multiculturalist. He believed that if somebody paid you to do a job, you DID IT. Just as simple as that.

Too few people teach their children that lesson anymore.


Originally published July 27, 2004

I leave for home tomorrow. I really do not want to go back to the Crackerbox yet, but I am ready to leave San Jose. This place is too busy, too full of hustlers and too much like St. Patricks Day in Savannah for me. I prefer the hinterlands of Costa Rica where everybody really does live on Tico Time.

I have about 150 pictures from this trip (some of which ARE NOT suitable to post on my blog--- I had some fun with both Aila and Maria with the camera-- but forget about seeing those. I am NC-17, not XXX.) and I look forward to sharing a few. I have a pretty good eye with a camera and a lot of the pictures turned out very well.

Just some random thoughts before I catch my plane tomorrow:

*You have never been righteously cussed until a Costa Rican woman does it in Spanish.

*DO NOT walk the streets of San Jose at night with a lot of money in your pocket. All I lost on this trip was a six-pack of beer, but the thieves and footpads are out there if you are foolish enough to let them rob you.

*Bought pussy is just as good (and maybe better) than all the "free" stuff any woman offers you.

*Mangos are evil. Stay away from them.

*Costa Ricans in San Jose do not like George Bush--- and I took p�ctures of some graffitti on walls to prove that fact--- but people at Jaco do not give a shit about politics. That is why I prefer Jaco over San Jose.

*I took my daughters advice (apostrophies do not work on a Spanish keyboard) and I have not paid ANY attention to the news for almost two weeks now. I made the mistake of listening to highlights of the speeches from the Democratic Convention last night. I started to call room service for a barf-bag.

*If you decide to visit Costa Rica, first talk to someone who has been there ahead of you. You can save yourself a lot of money and confusion through good advice.

*242,000 colones goes fast when you spend it like you are the federal government. Unlike the government, however, that was MY money I was pissing away, not somebody elses.

*I will sleep alone tonight. My choice.

*Somebody said in my comments that the BC will have a field day in court because I blogged about buying a piece of ass. I hope that she DOES bring that up in court. She sits on the most expensive piece of pussy I ever had in my life, and I will pay for that gash for years more if she has her way. And she GAVE IT AWAY to someone else when she was still married to me. Yeah--- let us discuss that in court. THAT is a true puta. Fucking whore.

*I am going to spend the rest of my colones tonight on food and drink. I hope to sleep on the plane ride home.

November 21, 2007

The right to choose

Originally published July 27, 2004

I did one thing in Costa Rica that I have never done before in my life. I BOUGHT a piece of ass in a straight-up business deal.

When I came back to the hotel after watching a play, I spied the guy I met at the bar at beginning of my trip--- the guy who operates the escort service. I sat down at the bar and he remembered me. We talked for a while, sipped a couple of cold cervesas and he asked me again if I wanted a woman.

This time I said yes.

He whipped out a cell phone, make a quick call and said, "Maria is coming. You will like her. She is very HOT." About 20 minutes later, a taxi pulled up outside and one of the most beautiful wimmen I have seen in my life stepped from the rear seat, paid the driver and walked into the bar. She was my "date" for the evening. And she was, indeed, hot.

Later that night, when Maria was gone, my blood pressure was back to normal and my legs did not wobble when I tried to walk, I pondered upon what just occurred. I bought a piece of ass. I got my moneys worth, too. She had a commodity for sale that I wanted to buy, and we agreed on a fair sales price. In business, I believe that is called a "win-win" situation.

Any man who says "I never paid for it" is a got-dam liar. If I had back all the money that "free" pussy has cost me over the years, I would be a rich man. I believe that prostitutes are more honest than most other wimmen. At least prostitutes tell you right up front how much the pussy is going to cost. You never know how much you will pay for a woman who is not selling it outright. Either way, it{s going to cost you money.

Besides--- why is abortion legal and prostitution is not? A woman has a "right to choose" when it comes to ending a pregnancy. The same people who keep prostitution illegal are the ones who constantly harp about a woman having a right to do what she wishes with her own body. She can have all the abortions she wants, she can GIVE AWAY her body anytime she wants, but if she sells a piece of ass, she is a criminal.

Somebody explain that to me.

The third rail

Originally published December 15, 2004

I have a shameful confession to make: I am a member of AARP. Yeah, I joined even though I despise their political views--- but I can get EXCELLENT motel rate discounts with my card, and I'm old enough to qualify. Why not take advantage of THAT???

But, deep in my heart, I agree with this post. Geezers are the most greedy, money-grubbing, selfish, hooray-for-me-and-fuck-YOU people in this country today. They've already torn off a large chunk of the American Pie, and they hover over it like ravenous dogs while they clack their dentures and bark for MORE, especially now that they aren't paying for it.

Greatest Generation, my ass.

Anybody with a functional brain KNOWS that Social Security is headed for a train-wreck. The Geezers know it, too, but they don't give a shit, and the craven politicians we call "leaders" today don't give a shit, either. Geezers get their checks and they vote in droves, so politicians kiss Geezer ass. Both sets of shitbags expect to die before the perfidy of their actions comes home to roost. It'll be somebody else's problem then.

The common philosophy is: I got MINE!!! That's all that matters.

I go to Florida a lot. I see Geezers living in resort communities, enjoying the high life. They play golf every day, drive like fucktards, dress as if they believe they are still young and whip out pictures of their grandchildren at the drop of a hat. Oh, yeah. They LOVE those grandchildren, but they don't care about the load of debt their Geezerdom is heaping on Little Timmy's head.

I tried this once, when I was fairly drunk in Winterhaven, Florida.

ME: "Yeah, Timmy is a cute kid. Poor bastard."

Geezer: "What do you mean?"

ME: "You're bankrupting his ass. You KNOW that, don't you?"

Geezer: "What do you mean?"

ME: "What did you do today, before we sat down here and had a $50 lunch?"

Geezer: "I had breakfast at the Country Club and then I played golf."

ME: "You hurting for money? Having trouble paying for your prescription drugs"

Geezer: "No, I'm doing okay. I worked 40 years for the same company and I invested well. Sold the house in New Hampshire and made a killing."

ME: "Bush wants to cut Social Security."

Geezer: "KILL HIM!!! VOTE HIM OUT OF OFFICE!!! He's trying to take MY MONEY!!!"

Forget about little Timmy. THAT'S the real Geezer mentality.

November 20, 2007

A night on the town

Originally published July 26, 2004

I did something last night that I have not done in a long time. I went to see a play in a theater. The play was called The Love of Rosa and it was about three guys trying to win Rosa by destroying each other. It was pure slapstick comedy, filled with eye-rolling mugs, ridiculous wigs and costumes, Three Stooges violence and a happy ending where Rosa rejected all three suitors and went off with a stranger. I enjoyed the play tremendously.

I went back to the hotel after the play and I saw an old friend in the bar. I took him up on his offer this time. I was lonely and I wanted some company.

Between the play and my company, that is best fifty dollars I ever spent in my life.

kill me!!! kill me now!!!

Originally published December 15, 2004


Bejus! I went to the grocery store today. I listened to the "Golden Oldies" station on the radio in my truck. One of those rare Ultimate Truth moments washed over me in the Kroger's parking lot.

Tommy James and the Shondells are the SHITTIEST BAND THAT EVER EXISTED!!! Hands-down. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. So far beyond other shitty bands that the contest isn't even close. In fact, I believe that they DEFINE a shitty band and will for a long, long time.

Now, I've got "Crystal Blue Persuasion" stuck like a worm in my ear.

If you shoot me immediately, it would be a mercy killing.

November 19, 2007

Win some, lose some

Originally published July 23, 2004

I won 212,000 colones playing blackjack in a casino last night.

Alia and I went out to eat, then strolled down to the beach to watch the sunset. It was beautiful. She asked me if I liked to gamble, I said yes, and she took me down the street to a casino. She likes slot machines. I don't. I prefer cards.

I broke a US $100 bill at the cashier's cage and gave Alia 5,000 colones to piss away on the one-armed bandits. She converted that money to coins and went off with a bucket full in her hand to get raped by the machines. I took 30,000 colones and sat down at the blackjack table. By the time Alia went broke, I had more than doubled my money.

She whined for some more fodder for the machines, but I said "NO!" and told her to sit down and watch. I was on a roll and I don't like anyone fucking with my luck when the cards are coming my way. They were at the time, and I was taking advantage of it.

A big, burly guy named Dave, from Indiana, was sitting to my right, betting 1,000 colones per hand and losing steadily. I usually bet 4,000 per hand, but I was so far ahead at the time that I was up to 12,000 a pop. "Dave, don't leave this table," I told him. "If you go broke, I'll GIVE you 1,000 colones per hand just to stay where you are."

"Hell, man," he replied. "I'll PAY 1,000 colones per hand just to watch what you're doing."

I kept winning. The chips were piling up like smokestacks in front of me. People stopped playing at other tables and came over to watch. The house switched dealers three times. The pit boss started lurking around to see if I was cheating. Still, I continued to win. I hit a "rummy," (three, four, five of spades) which pays three-for-one, and I had 12,000 bet at the time. I took 24,000 off the table, left 24,000 out there and drew a pair of sevens off the deal on the next hand. Three sevens pays four-to-one. I took a hit and drew another seven. KA-CHING!!!!!

I was really on a roll. Dave put a hand on my shoulder and said, "I see God sitting on your shoulder." I don't believe in God, but Lady Luck sure was with me. I never count my money at the table, but I knew that I was really in the black at the time.

Then, something happened that I've never seen before in all my years of card playing. I was back to my standard 4,000 bet and I was dealt a pair of aces. The dealer had a seven. I split the aces and doubled. I drew another ace. I split that one, too, and put 4,000 more on the table. I drew another ace. I split THAT one and put 4,000 more on the table. And I'll be damned if I didn't get a FIFTH ACE on the next card. I split it and put 4,000 more on the table.

What are the odds of drawing FIVE STRAIGHT ACES in a game of blackjack played with five decks of cards that have been run through an automatic shuffler? I don't know, but the odds have to be really remote. I hit each of the aces and drew king, ten, nine, eight, nine. That's 21, 21, 20, 19 and 20. I thought, "Sweet Bejus! I just may break the bank tonight."

The dealer hit his seven and drew and four. The next card was a king. He had 21. So, for my FIVE FUCKING ACES, I ended up with push, push, lose, lose, lose. I couldn't believe it. I looked at Dave and said, "I just heard God speak to me. He told me to QUIT, right now." I cashed my chips.

I had a total of 242,000 colones. That's not really a lot of money (about $500), but it sure looked impressive when the cashier paid me off. I had a wad of bills thick enough to choke a horse. For the first time since I've been in Costa Rica, I felt nervous walking home. Alia was pissed at me because I wouldn't let her go dump any of it in the slot machines.

Alia has to work today, so I'm off on the town to spend some of my money.

I've never seen it

Originally published December 15, 2004

A small cemetary rests somewhere on the side of a hill in eastern Kentucky, and it is dotted with small, white tombstones, some of which are so old and weathered that the carving is difficult to read anymore. My Uncle George went there a few years ago and took a video of the place.

A lot of my family is buried in that ground.

The stones read, "Baby Jacob," born 10/11/22, died 10/13/22. "Our beloved Clara," born 2/25/06, died 6/14/08. "Davy," born 11/21/03, died 11/21/03. Bejus! I watched that video and I wept. My grandma came from a family of fifteen children, but only 13 survived to reach adulthood. The same was true all over the family. Dying young was common in those days, and childbirth was a risky proposition.

Too many people don't appreciate how good we have life today. My grandma still jokes that when my mama was born, the midwife who delivered her charged two live chickens and a dozen eggs for the job. "I think I rooked her," she still says. "Those were the two worst chickens I had." My uncles still tell my mama, "You shut up! You ain't worth no more than two chickens and a dozen eggs."

Yeah, we sit around and laugh at those things today. But there is a tear in every laugh. How many smart hillbillies who could have clawed their way out of those hills and made something out of life lie buried there without ever having the chance to prove what they could do? Nobody will ever know.

Maybe that's why I have little patience for the professional whiners of the world. Got-dam, people! You think life is rough NOW? You couldn't have cut the mustard back then.

You are pathetic.

I've never visited that cemetary, but I intend to go next summer. My roots are buried there.

November 18, 2007


Originally published December 15, 2004

If you had the chance to talk to my grandmother, my mama, or my aunts and uncles, they'd all tell you the same thing. Looking back NOW, they realize that they grew up poor. But they didn't know that fact at the time, and they never FELT poor. They might have slept three to a bed and ate a lot of pinto beans and cornbread, but they had a roof over their heads, clean clothes to wear and they knew that they were loved.

How much richer do you really need to be?

Besides... even though we can afford steak today, we still like to eat pinto beans and cornbread. That's good home-cooking.

Clean shaven man

Originally published July 22, 2004

I no longer have a beard. Aila, (prounced Ah-EEE-la) said that it tickled her neck when I kissed her, so I started to shave it off yesterday. I was halfway through whacking off my beard when she came to the bathroom and said, in Spanish, "Let me do that." She took the sissors and razor and did the job herself. I looked very handsome and 20 fucking years younger when she was done.

Then, she unbuttoned my pants and let them fall to the floor. My cut-offs made a "CLANK" sound when they landed, because I had about 800 colones in change in my right front pocket. I was commando underneath. She mentioned that I had another beard that she didn't like, so I let her cut that one, too. Yeah, I allowed her to take sissors and razor to my crotchital area. I kinda liked it. She didn't Bobbitt me.

After she was finished, we took a shower together and then went to the luxurious king-sized bed to test-drive the new equipment. Both she and I agreed that the experiment was a grand success.

Y'all forgive me for not blogging much these past few days. But really.... I have more important things to do.

November 17, 2007

Crazy day

Originally published July 19, 2004

Rain has fallen off and on all day today, sometimes in torrents. That's why I ended up at the internet cafe early this morning. The skies have been cloudy and there's no sport around the swimming pool or on the beach. I don't mind getting wet in la lluvia, but it's difficult to get a suntan that way. Plus, I didn't want to just sit around my room (excuse me--- my SUITE) and read or watch TV all day.

So, I post some Random Thoughts:

*I don't believe that Costa Rica has the prudish sexual harassment laws that we have in the US. The wimmen are beautiful, they dress to show off their assets and they are flattered when men notice. They don't sing "I Am Woman, I Am Strong" one minute and collapse in a fit of tears and trembling, crying for a lawyer the next because some man whistled at them. No weak sisters here.

*Security guards and policia all carry 9mm handguns. I haven't seen a .38 or a .45 since I've been here, and I look at such things. Jose told me that in order to buy a handgun in Costa Rica, the buyer must petition the government, be granted permission by the government to own a gun, and then take a handgun training class before a license is granted. No Second Amendment here.

*Costa Rican wimmen don't paint their toenails red. They either have nekkid toes or that white-shit French thing wimmen do today.

*According to people who know, iguana tastes just like steak. I am going to try to check that out for myself.

*Costa Ricans admit: their economy is based on three things. #1 is tourism, #2 is laundering drug money through their banks and #3 is sex. Everybody knows what's happening, but the government and everybody else ignores #2 and #3. It's good for the economy.

*A Cuban cigar is not all it's cracked up to be.

*Costa Rica grows a lot of sugar cane, but they don't make rum. I don't understand that.

*I am reading John Grissom's Bleachers. now. I have some things I want to say about that book, but I'll wait until I finish it to do so. But if Grissom didn't play high school football for a tough coach who produced winning teams, he damned sure knows somebody who did.

*Why can't I just stay here forever?

Musical tastes

Originally published December 15, 2004

I'm a troglodyte.

I always though that if I was locked up in a jail cell with Rod Stewart, I'd make him my bitch inside a week. Skinny, raspy little fuck. Wimmen loved him, though, but they loved EVERY singer who sounded as if he had his nutsack in a vice with somebody slowly turning the handle back then. (why do you think wimmen LIKED that sound?)

I miss ballsy bands with ballsy front-men.

Elton John? BEJUS!!! I'd have to pay the guards to keep HIM offa ME in jail!!! The same goes for that bald-headed Genesis guy... what's his name?... oh, yeah... "Take a Look at Me Now" and yada, yada... Phil Collins? Was that his name? Who gives a shit?

You know who I think was a gutsy, tear your balls off singer? I know a few:

1) Jim Morrison. ("The Doors.")

2) John Kay. ("Steppenwolf.")

3) John Cougar Mellincamp. (if you don't already know, then fuggataboudit.)

4) Warren Zevon (Just try "Werewolves of London")

5) Bob Seeger ("Down On Main Street" is one of the meanest songs ever written. I LOVE that lead guitar part.)

I'm tired, so I quit right here. But YOU tell ME any girly-boy singer who can compete with those five. I'll tell you to kiss my Cracker ass.

I know what's good.

November 16, 2007

I give up

Originally published December 16, 2004

I am about one more frustrating moment away from taking my fiddle out in my back yard and jumping up and down on the sumbitch until I break it to splinters. Then, I'm gonna set it on fire and be done with the cursed thing. I'm NEVER going to learn to play it worth a shit.

The got-dam thing needs frets on it, and I should be able to play it with a pick instead of a bow. I am a MUSICIAN, for crying out loud, and the best I can do with that bastard is make noises like a cat hung on an electric fence--- and that AIN'T a pretty sound.

I never learned what I wanted to do on a harmonica, but at least I can play songs folks recognize on one of those. My harmonica playing isn't bad around a campfire in the woods. Sounds pretty good when there's nothing else to listen to except bean-farts and snores.

But people want to SHOOT ME when I drag out my fiddle, and I don't blame them one bit. I want to SHOOT MYSELF every time I fuck with that thing. The more I try, the worse I get.

I give up. I suck as a fiddle player, and that is that. I could practice for another ten years and I'm STILL gonna suck. Just DAMN!!!

Vassar Clements made it look so easy...

And a cat in my lap

Originally published July 19, 2004

The hotel has a resident cat named "Brunda." The hotel has 11 rooms on the ground floor. Guess which covered porch Brunda likes best? You got it--- MINE!

Last night, a rip-roaring thunderstorm blew through, with lots of thunder, lightning and torrential rain. I went out on the patio to smoke a genuine Cuban cigar, a Cohiba, that someone GAVE ME in the tiki restaurant yesterday. Those babies cost at least $6.00 each in the tobacco shops I've visited.

I was enjoying my cigar and the thunderstorm when the next thing I know, Brunda is sitting in my lap. That fucking cat just made itself right at home and started rubbing its head on my chest. "You don't know what you're doing, gato," I said. "I am not your friend. I hate you and all your kin. If you tried this shit at the Crackerbox, I'd grab you by the tail and throw you into the stormy night." The cat just sat there and hummed like a kitchen appliance.

Hell, I let her stay there. Something about Costa Rica just really mellows me out.

November 15, 2007

It's Acidaughter

Originally published July 17, 2004

While Acidman is out cruising the beaches of Coasta Rica in search of beautiful women, red toenails, and good music, his lovely daughter has broken in and taken over Gut Rumbles. I sure hope all you acidfans don't mind. I'll only be here a while, and for the acid-obsessed trolls out there, fuck you. Start in with me and I'll track you down and violently murder in your sleep.

July 17, 2004


I've always wanted to post something about my dad. Many people like to leave comments and bullshit about him when they know absolutely nothing. Here are some things about Acidman that I know some of you out there don't want to read.

I don't care what anyone thinks about my dad, he is an all around nice guy who would do anything for anybody anytime unless they've given him a reason not to.

He's really NOT a racist. Again, I don't give a flying fuck what any troll, or de-linker out there thinks. I know the guy and I've never in my life heard him call anyone the N-word. When he uses the word in a post, he's trying to make a point. If you go back and read a little bit, he never says that blacks are N**s. People seem to only read what they want to read and the one's who were offended, are the one's who have an issue with racism themselves.

Jennifer really is the bitch that he says she is. No over exaggeration there. I lived with the woman for a few years and I myself can say that she is everything that he says she is and more. Not only was she abusive, she was manipulative, a liar, and just plain cruel. At the time, my dad was so infatuated with her that he overlooked me, but I blame her for my so called "childhood trauma". My dad realizes all this now and we've talked. I don't blame him for the past.

I believe this blog has saved my his life. For him, blogging is medicine. It's his anti-depressant, his therapy.

I don't suggest anyone break into his home, assault his family, or threaten his life. He'll do what it takes to protect his family and property.

I only get to see him twice a year and we rarely speak on the phone, but I love him and am proud to be guest blogging on Gut Rumbles.

Qualities I appreciate in a friend

Originally published December 16, 2004

Yeah, I'm gonna make another list.

But I find myself THINKING in lists anymore, and that fact really disturbs me. My mind has always been just as disorganized as my house, so I wonder WHY I'm starting to fit things into priorities, shuffle the blocks into the proper order and weigh things on a goddam scale every day.

I never did that before. Sure, I did AT WORK, because that's what I was PAID to do--- but I didn't do it in my personal life. At home, I just rocked along and figured that I could handle any problem that reared its ugly head. I was pretty fast on my feet. I'd fix it after it happened.

Whoa!! I fucked up with that calculation.

Do you know what was really wrong with me in those blissful days? I became COMFORTABLE!!! That's what!!! I see it all now, just as plain as daylight. WE ARE NOT MEANT TO BE COMFORTABLE in life. If you struggle every day, you stay sharp; as soon as you become complacient, you're dead. And the jackals of the world will rend your "comfortable" corpse with their sharp, ravenous teeth while nobody but the buzzards pay any attention at all. THAT'S THE TRUTH!!!

But... I digress.

Catfish and I talked about this subject on our (short) ride TO Athens, not the LONG ride back home. I have many, many dear acquaintences, but very few friends. The friends I DO claim as mine have stuck by me through thick and thin for a very long time. Fire and ice went into that mix. Let me tell you what it was:

1) Loyalty. This may sound stupid today, but once upon a time, I did things that I KNEW were going to cost me personally for the benefit of a friend. Why? Because I knew that if the roles were reversed, he'd do the same thing for me. At least I thought so.

2) Trust. I've always said that if my friends got together and wrote my biography based on what THEY saw, I'd be a fucking outlaw legend. I never hid a damn thing from them, and all have seen me at both my best and my basest. They all know stories that they've promised not to tell, not even to each other, and they HAVEN'T either. Yeah. I trust every one of them.

3) The Gimlet Eye. If you believe that your FRIENDS don't know everything fucked-up about you, you don't have a head on your shoulders. Friends don't ignore your faults. They accept you warts and all. They know your goddam faults better than YOU do. Try lying to one of them.

4) Nostalgia. Okay, he's not the same guy you went to college with. He looks a lot older, he's running his own business now, and he's got the wife and three kids. (Nod over the pictures extracted from the wallet.) We both feel lots of pressure in our jobs, because nobody is a little boy anymore. But for one golden moment, over a burger and a beer, you both remember a time when you were young and invincible, and you both laugh your asses off, thinking about the same moment at the same time. History matters.

5) Track Record. A good friend doesn't ask for many favors. But YOUR good friend won't abandon you when you need somebody. And the best thing about a good friend is that you don't even have to ask. He KNOWS. And he'll be there.

If you don't have friends like that, I pity you.

November 14, 2007

One more

Originally published July 14, 2004

How long do house spiders live? I've had this same brown spider behind the commode in the Master Bathroom since I moved into the Crackerbox almost three years ago. It's weaved webs all the way up to the ceiling now. It ran a stringer clear over to the towel rack about a year ago and I broke that one. "Bad spider," I told it. "You can have all of this house you want behind the commode, but stay out of my towel rack."

I believe that the damned thing knew what I said. It never again tried a horizontal attack on my bathroom. It went vertical. It went REALLY vertical.

That's a healthy, web-spinning spider and it's welcome to stay right where it is. I like looking at the artistry of the web, and it catches and eats mosquitoes, too. I like my spider. I don't have to feed it, it doesn't shit on the floor and it never whines at night.

How long does a brown house spider live?

A rant

Originally published December 16, 2004

I'll apologize beforehand. I've met the woman and I like her. We sang "Please Come To Boston" together and harmonized, before she got drunk on moonshine and started runnin' nekkid up and down the creek in Helen, Georgia. That started a stampede and I was embarrassed by all those ugly blogger asses shining in the moonlight....

...but I digress, again...

If this is a chili recipe I'LL run nekkid down that creek in Helen on the coldest day you can find in January. WHITE BEANS???!!!??? Ohmygod!! CHICKEN???!!!???

I gotta go fire a gun off my back porch and just HOPE that I hit something. The world ain't right tonight.

Darlin,' that's the most yankeefied chili recipe that I ever read. In MY humble opinion, you should be dragged off and shot, NOT for making a shitty meal, because I believe that it probably tastes pretty good, but for CALLING it "chili."

*Real chili has no beans in it.

*Real chili is so spicy that it will melt your spoon.

*You can eat real chili with a fork. The fork will melt, too.

* Real chili has BEEF, not chicken in it.

* A bowl of cold chili should still make you sweat. A bowl of cold chili should TASTE GOOD, too.

* You experience real chili twice--- and if you don't know what I mean, you never ate any real chili.

Sorry, Mamma, but you need to try some REAL chili. You think that moonshine was something? I'll have you dancing nekkid on my ROOF if after a couple of bowls of my MY all-day, big-pot concotion.

I make some bad-ass chili.

November 13, 2007


Originally published December 17, 2004

Here is the understatement of the year.

The argument against raising the minimum wage has always been that it tends to reduce the number of jobs available at the low end of the scale; however, since government demand for services is relatively inelastic, increased costs are generally greeted with shrugs rather than with layoffs. This suggests to me that while the living-wage programs may work, after a fashion, for the small number of employees they cover, extending them to the entirety of the private sector, where demand is elastic and cost control is more critical, is likely to be problematic at best.

I wouldn't call it "problematic." I'd call it "FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE!!!" Only starry-eyed whiners and people who already suck contentedly on the government teat believe that a "living wage" is practical in the business world.

Government doesn't HAVE to be efficient. It gets paid whether it does anything well or not, so usually it DOESN'T do anything well, and it just hires more people not to do the work it's already not doing. And everybody gets a raise.

It's not the same in business. If it costs you more to run your business than you can bring into the till, you're gonna go broke. Period. Them's the rules. So, you pay employees what the business can afford to pay and still make a profit. Without a profit, NOBODY gets any wages.

And before I get a blast of shit from the usual commie trolls who lurk here, I don't want to hear about "sweat shops" and "worker exploitation." Sure, it happens. So does murder. I say it's an exception to the rule and smart businessmen value good employees. They don't want a trained, capable person walking out the door. (Unless that person is old and he writes a politically-incorrect blog. But... I digress from my central point.)

If you're good at your job and you don't think you're making enough money, BITCH about it and ask for a raise. If the boss says, "NO!," either accept that decision or walk. If you let yourself be shit on, that's YOUR fault, not the boss'.

I want to ask small business owners: How much is a good employee worth to you?

Drive-in movies

Originally published July 14, 2004

I passed a drive-in movie theater on the way back from Folly Beach a month or so ago. You seldom see those big screens with the elevated car-bumps in the parking lot anymore. I miss them. I got laid a lot at drive-in movies in my younger days.

There are few drive ins left in operation. Before this drive in, I think the last show I had seen at one was Disney’s “Black Hole”. The best way to enjoy a drive in is to prep well for it. Stock up an ice chest full of Cold Ones and goodies, because a Drive In is more of a tailgate party than just going to the movies. As soon as they switch the features, we will be going again.

That's from the mad ogre and he knows whereof he speaks. Going to the drive-in once was a rite of passage, a glorious experience, a place to make out and watch a movie at the same time. Even shitty popcorn tasted good there, especially after you smoked a good joint and watched Moses part the Red Sea.

I liked drive-in movies in the winter, when I could throw a blanket in the car and "snuggle" with my date under that blanket when we got cold. Man, I did a whole bunch of snuggling back then. Fogged-up windows and a blanket leave a lot of room for exploration at a drive-in movie. I've searched the floorboards for a missing bra more than once after a rewarding night of snuggling.

Damn! If I ever win the lottery and become stinking rich, I'm going to open a drive-in movie theater. I owe it to The Children.

November 12, 2007

Bless her

Originally published December 17, 2004

My 93 year-old grandmother, waxing nostalgic today:

"I never thought much about the Great Depression, the soup lines and nobody having a job. We lived through it and didn't know anything about it. Where we were, we didn't have a radio and we didn't get a newspaper. Great Depression? We didn't know or care about what was going on 'out there.' We knew we didn't have any money, but neither did anybody else. We grew almost everything we had to have. If I needed flour, we'd shuck a bushel of corn and trade it for flour. I had about 25 good laying hens, so I collected eggs and traded them for salt, pepper and what-not, the stuff we couldn't grow ourselves. And your Papaw could build almost anything. We didn't have much, but we never went hungry."

I love that woman. They don't make 'em like that anymore.


Originally published July 13, 2004

When I was talking to the reporter from People Magazine today, she asked me why I kept blogging when I began to suspect that it might cost me a lot if I kept doing it. I gave her three reasons.

First, I know good and well that I would be dead now if I didn't have this blog. Only people from the Original Crew or the ones who go 'waaaay back in the archives know just how hurt and broken I was when I started writing on the internet. I DID wake up every morning and look at my alarm clock on one side of the bed and a .38 pistol on the other side and wonder which one I would reach for. I was that bad off.

Second, writing every evening gave me something to do to fill in TIME, which weighed on me like a ton of bricks in those days. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I knew the woman I STILL loved was screwing around like a mink in heat, right in front of my face and my friends, and I had a dead dick and an ugly scar running from my navel to my crotch. I lost 30 pounds and I've never gained it back, and I wasn't a real hefty guy to begin with. If I wasn't busy doing something else, I dwelled on that shit and it sucked me into a black hole of depression. I could fill in the sunset hours at my keyboard and I didn't think about anything else. That was a blessing.

Third, I feel a sense of "community" in the blog-world. If you look down my blogroll, you'll find some interesting people there. I've met a bunch of them by now, and I hope to meet many more, but I know it's unlikely that I'll ever see 'em all. Still, I believe that I KNOW THOSE PEOPLE!!! They are like an extended family to me. Some of them piss me off, some of them make me laugh and some of them make me want to hug them--- you know, just like family. I don't know what it is, but something about blogging makes me feel connected and I got that feeling at a time in my life when I needed it the most. I thought that I had lost everything. I was sinking fast.

But I didn't drown. I always reached for the alarm clock instead of the .38. I did that because of the Original Crew and the outlet for my emotions that I found here. You can like me or you can hate me--- I just ask that you understand one thing: this blog cost me my job and it's causing me problems in divorce court. But it saved my life.

That's the truth.

November 11, 2007


November 10, 2007

More on names

Originally published June 5, 2004

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.


Originally published June 5, 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? [Ed. Article "expired".] 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.

November 09, 2007

Song of the South

Originally published June 5, 2004

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?


Originally published June 5, 2004

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.

November 08, 2007

Some things never change

Originally published June 1, 2004

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.

Unheard of greatness

Originally published June 4, 2004

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.

November 07, 2007


Originally published June 1, 2004

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.

Notice the reaction

Originally published June 4, 2004

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.

November 06, 2007

Roger Miller

Originally published June 2, 2004

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.
[Ed. So were you. And, so did you, Darlin'.]


Originally published June 4, 2004

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.

November 05, 2007

Notes from the homefront

Originally published June 3, 2004

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.


Originally published June 2, 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.

November 04, 2007

Things you never forget

Originally published May 6, 2005

* I remember the first girl I ever kissed. That was the most thrilling kiss of my life and no other has ever measured up to it.

* I remember the first time I got laid (in exqusite detail).

* I remember the first time I ever got drunk. (well... I remember MOST of it.)

* I remember the birth of my first child and just how frightened I was by it. I felt the yoke of responsibility close around my neck.

* I remember the day I married Jennifer and just how happy I was. That was the best day of my life.

* I remember the day Jennifer betrayed me and said that she didn't love me anymore. That was the worst day of my life.

* I remember being handcuffed and escorted into a police car for the first time. (Those weren't actually handcuffs. They were these plastic twist-tie kinda things that you use to seal up garbage bags. They were NOT pleasant to wear.) I also remember the time I spent in jail. It is NOT an experience I care to repeat.

* I WOULD like to repeat getting laid for the first time again.

* I remember burying the first dog I ever loved. I've done that several times since then. It never gets any easier.

* I remember sitting on my back deck with a glass of wine in my hand and thinking that I had achieved more than I ever dreamed I would.

* I remember when I lost every bit of that and how it felt to start over from scratch at the age of 49. I managed to do it, but it wasn't fun.

* I remember being a kid, running wild in the woods and living like a savage. I loved doing that.

* I remember 24 years in a chemical plant, where I tried to go straight, climbed the ladder fairly well, but still went down in flames because of who I am.

* I remember my son, even though I seldom see him anymore. What Jennifer wants, Jennifer usually gets, and this is what she wants.

* I remember burying BOTH of my parents. That's a lonely feeling and I am not convinced that I will ever get over it.

I can't remember a lot of other things I've done in this life, but I damn sure remember those.

I believe it

Originally published January 26, 2005

If this story isn't true, it ought to be:

Doing the Right Thing is seldom easy-but never too late....

Many years ago, Al Capone virtually owned Chicago. Capone wasn't famous for anything heroic. He was notorious for enmeshing the windy city in everything from bootlegged booze and prostitution to murder.

Capone had a lawyer nicknamed "Easy Eddie." He was his lawyer for a good reason. Eddie was very good! In fact, Eddie's skill at legal maneuvering kept Big Al out of jail for a long time.

To show his appreciation, Capone paid him very well Not only was the money big, but also Eddie got special dividends. For instance, he and his family occupied a fenced-in mansion with live-in help and all of the conveniences of the day. The estate was so large that it filled an entire Chicago City block. Eddie lived the high life of the Chicago mob and gave little consideration to the atrocity that went on around him.

Eddie did have one soft spot, however. He had a son that he loved dearly. Eddie saw to it that his young son had the best of everything: clothes, cars and a good education. Nothing was withheld. Price was no object. And, despite his involvement with organized crime, Eddie even tried to teach him right from wrong. Eddie wanted his son to be a better man than he was.

Yet, with all his wealth and influence, there were two things he couldn't give his son; he couldn't pass on a good name and a good example.

One day, Easy Eddie reached a difficult decision. Easy Eddie
wanted to rectify wrongs he had done. He decided he would go to the authorities and tell the truth about Al "Scarface" Capone, clean up his tarnished name and offer his son some semblance of integrity. To do this, he would have to testify against The Mob, and he knew that the cost would be great. So, he testified.

Within the year, Easy Eddie's life ended in a blaze of gunfire on a lonely Chicago Street. But in his eyes, he had given his son the greatest gift he had to offer, at the greatest price he would ever pay.

Police removed from his pockets a rosary, a crucifix, a religious medallion and a poem clipped from a magazine. The poem read:

The clock of life is wound but once
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop
At late or early hour.
Now is the only time you own.
Live, love, toil with a will.
Place no faith in time.
For the clock may soon be still.

World War II produced many heroes. One such man was Lieutenant Commander Butch O'Hare. He was a fighter pilot assigned to the aircraft carrier Lexington in the South Pacific.

One day his entire squadron was sent on a mission. After he was airborne, he looked at his fuel gauge and realized that someone had forgotten to top off his fuel tank. He would not have enough fuel to complete his mission and get back to his ship. His flight leader told him to return to the carrier. Reluctantly, he dropped out of formation and headed back to the fleet.

As he was returning to the mother ship he saw something that turned his blood cold, a squadron of Japanese aircraft were speeding their way toward the American fleet. The American fighters were gone on a sortie, and the fleet was all but defenseless. He couldn't reach his squadron and bring them back in time to save the fleet. Nor could he warn the fleet of the approaching danger.

There was only one thing to do. He must somehow divert them from the fleet.

Laying aside all thoughts of personal safety, he dove into the formation of Japanese planes. Wing-mounted 50 caliber's blazed as he charged in, attacking one surprised enemy plane and then another. Butch wove in and out of the now broken formation and fired at as many planes as possible until all his ammunition was finally spent. Undaunted, he continued the assault. He dove at the planes, trying to clip a wing or tail in hopes of damaging as many enemy planes as possible and rendering them unfit to fly.

Finally, the exasperated Japanese squadron took off in another direction. Deeply relieved, Butch O'Hare and his tattered fighter limped back to the carrier.

Upon arrival he reported in and related the event surrounding his return. The film from the gun-camera mounted on his plane told the tale. It showed the extent of Butch's daring attempt to protect his fleet. He had in fact destroyed five enemy aircraft. This took place on February 20, 1942, and for that action Butch became the Navy's first Ace of W.W.II, and the first Naval Aviator to win the Congressional Medal of Honor.

A year later Butch was killed in aerial combat at the age of 29. His home town would not allow the memory of this WW II hero to fade, and today, O'Hare Airport in Chicago is named in tribute to the courage of this great man.

So the next time you find yourself at O'Hare International, give some thought to visiting Butch's memorial displaying his statue and his Medal of Honor. It's located between Terminals 1 and 2.


Butch O'Hare was Easy Eddie's son.

I don't want to run that one by Snopes. I like it just the way it is.

November 03, 2007

if nature abhors a vacuum, then why does the world suck?

Originally published May 12, 2006

I hurt. I'm in a foul mood. I can't read the news without thinking that I am surrounded by idiots. I ain't serene worth a shit. I feel old and I don't remember how I got that way. I pray:

THE SENILITY PRAYER : Grant me the senility to forget the people I never liked anyway, the good fortune to run into the ones I do, and the eyesight to tell the difference.


Foul mood, part II

Originally published July 2, 2005

I get advice. BOY, do I get advice from people who don't have a fucking clue what they're talking about. Advice is EASY to give. YOU don't have to live it.

I challenge ANYBODY to go through what I'VE BEEN THROUGH over the last three years and THEN lecture me about life. YOU walk ONE MILE in MY shoes and tell me how easy it is. Fuckwits.

Face a horrible death when you've already seen TWO people you loved die from it. Do that while the woman you loved is fucking her brains out with another man, right in front of your son and your friends. Lose everything you worked all your life for at the same time.

Get bored at your mama's house one day and TRY to walk around the block, with a catheter bag strapped to your leg and staples all over your belly. Make it 100 yards down the road and run out of gas. You can't walk any farther, and you're not certain that you can make it back home, either.

Sit on the curb and cry. Then, drag your ass home. I FUCKING DID THAT!!!

I also saw Quinton score his first goal in a soccer game after Jennifer showed up 15 minutes late for the game with DRIED CUM in her hair. She'd been busy fucking all night long, and she ENJOYED the disgust I displayed when I saw her.

I've been there and done that.

Until you have, just shut the fuck up with advice.

I'll tell you something else, too. If all you ever get is a "pinstroke" from something like that, consider yourself a lucky person. That shit almost killed me, and sometimes I still wish that it did.

I've not been a happy camper for a while now.

November 02, 2007

Things I don't understand

Originally published August 3, 2004

I am an old fart. I lived 52 years (pushing 53 really fast) and I've done a little bit of everything in my life. Some of it was very good and some of it not so good, but I tried to learn something from it all. I believe that I have a lot more WISDOM today that I did when I was 23, even if I don't have the same bullet-proof body or the ability to climb mountains the way I once did.

I know more now than I did when I got out of college with a degree. Some things just seem so OBVIOUS to me now that I can't understand people who don't see reality.

*Life is not fair. Accept that fact and deal with it. Government ain't going to make life fair, either. If you believe that GOVERNMENT is the answer to your problems, you need to be dragged off and shot, you fucking parasite.

*Socialism doesn't work. Communism doesn't work. Both have been tried over and over again with miserable results. The only people who still believe in that crap are fucking parasites who want something for nothing, or people who court the parasite vote.

*Guns are NOT dangerous when you know how to handle them. I am not afraid of guns. I am sometimes afraid when I am unarmed.

*There is no free lunch. Everything in life comes with strings attached. Any time somebody offers you something for nothing, you'd better put a hand on your wallet. If you don't, you're gonna lose your wallet.

*Anybody who says that he or she loves EVERYBODY is full of shit. If you dole out your love like alms, it is worthless. Love, like trust and respect, should be EARNED by the recipient.

*You can love the wrong person and be hurt really badly. That's one reason love is a precious commodity.

*Most people don't read history, schools don't teach it anymore and too many people don't have a clue about what the world is really like. Human nature has not changed in 10,000 years. Money, sex and power make the world go 'round. Always has, always will.

*A lot of people who oppose the war in Iraq couldn't find Iraq on a globe. They are too ignorant to know how ignorant they are.

*If I were President of the United States, I would rather see our country feared than loved. You don't kiss ass when you're the biggest, meanest player on the field. Others kiss YOUR ass. If you're Tall Dog, act like one.

*Talk softly, but keep one hand on your gun. Some people will fuck you every chance they get. Know that fact.

*ALWAYS cut the cards.

*Don't fall for a slick-talking salesman. Most of the politicians in Washington today ARE NOT the best and the brightest "leaders" this country has to offer. They are salesmen, selling themselves. Do NOT trust them. They will lie to you if it benefits them. They care more about money, sex and power than they do about you.

*Wimmen ARE NOT the same as men and they never will be. I'm all for equal RIGHTS, but I'll NEVER believe in lowering physical standards to allow wimmen to hold jobs that they are not capable of doing. I refuse to deny the obvious. I know very few wimmen who could pick me up and run 50 yards with me on her shoulders. I know a lot of men who can.

*Blacks in America have more opportunity for success than blacks in Africa. Why do they insist on calling themselves "African-Americans?" Most of them would run screaming for the first plane home if they ever found themselves marooned in Africa. That place is a cesspool. I wouldn't go back to Harlan County, Kentucky if somebody PAID me. That place is a cesspool, too. Why can't Blacks see what I see so clearly: getting me out of there was the best favor my parents ever did for me. The same is true for Blacks living here today, if they just pull their heads out of their asses and look around.

*Teach your children to read and to ENJOY reading. That's the best gift you can ever give them.

How's that one for a rant?

Don't ask me why

Originally published August 3, 2004

Well, I said that I was going to blog a lot today before I hit the road tomorrow, so I stole this quiz from a fellow Georgian.

They are supposed to be white, but I think they are more nicotine-yellow now.

Why Every Son Needs A Dad, by Gregory E. Lang, and it's depressing the shit out of me. I miss my boy.

All kinds of notes, phone numbers, links and passwords. I have no clue what some of that crap is, but I wrote it down for some reason.


I don't subscribe to any magazines anymore, but I once liked Sports Illustrated a lot.

The grass on a freshly-mown golf course. That's heavenly.

Red. And Silver. And Black. GOOOOOO DAWGS!!!!!

Pink. I HATE pink.


My 1964 Martin D-28 guitar. It's the best friend I ever had and it has NEVER let me down.

Chocolate Almond, although I don't eat a lot of ice cream.

Hell yes. If you drive the speed limit in Effingham County somebody will run over your ass.

Bejus! I hope not, but I'm afraid to look under the bed. Lori Hacking may be there.

Cool. I always sit in my garage and watch thunderstorms. The more violent, the better.

Imperial beer in Costa Rica.

February 16, 1952. Aquarius.

Shuck beans, black-eyed peas, fresh spinich, baby lima beans, Vidalea onions and homegrown tomatoes.

Piano player in a classy whorehouse.

I don't give a damn what color it is as long as I still have enough to run a brush through it.

Yes. Biggest mistake I ever made.

Forrest Gump, True Grit and The Wild Bunch.

Shit no. I type about 60 WPM using just two fingers.

I don't want to know. Jimmy Hoffa might be there.

30. That was my number when I played football and it also means "the end" at the bottom of a newspaper article.

College football. GOOOOO DAWGS!!!!

Snakes. Or heights. That one is a tie.

Crosby, Stills and Nash-- the very first release. Right now it's "Bitter Sweet" by Kim Richey (if you've never heard her, I recommend that you do)

The original Star Trek. Right now? I don't have one. Maybe The Sopranos.

Both. At the same time. I am a carnivore.

Jaco Beach, Costa Rica.

31) WHAT WALLPAPER AND/OR SCREENSAVER IS ON YOUR COMPUTER RIGHT NOW? Nothing. I like looking at a black screen when I'm not blogging.

McDonalds skimps on taste. I don't eat there unless I have Quinton with me.

Taco Bell. I know it's junk. but I like their tacos.

That ain't going to happen. I had a vascetomy in 1999 and prostate surgery in 2001. I don't ejaculate anymore. But I named my son Quinton Robert Smith because I wanted him to have a unique first name (because I couldn't do anything about the "Smith" part), plus the name of his great-grandfather, my father and me. I think I did good naming my boy.

The banjo or the harmonica. I've been trying for YEARS to learn those two instruments and I'm still half-assed at both.

November 01, 2007

Three wishes

Originally published August 3, 2004

If I found a magic lamp and a genie popped out to give me three wishes, I wouldn't ask for money. I have never really cared that much about money. I didn't like being broke (which I have been), but money never was my motivation for what I did in life. Yeah, it's better to HAVE money than not, but it's not a cure for all of your ills.

My Three Wishes:

1) Make my mama well.

2) Let me talk to my father one more time.

3) Give me a woman who loves me as much as I love her, and let me help raise my son.

Fuck money. I would give up every dime I've got to have those three things.

The fine art of cursing

Originally published May 31, 2004

The proper use of profanity has been cheapened and defiled by gangsta rappers, professional athletes and people who never were trained in the art of good cussing. I really hate to see poor, ignorant foul-mouths abusing our colorful language that way.

I was trained to curse by some true experts. I never heard my father use a foul word until I started playing golf with him. Then I learned that my dad could cuss a golf ball as well as anyone on the planet. He was imaginative and creative in his cussing, too. He didn't use the same lines over and over.

"Sit DOWN, you wicked bitch! Don't fuck me like that! Awww, you heartless whore. Go on into the water, you rotten piece of shit! You need a goddam bath anyway, cocksucker." My dad could have been an excellent Marine drill sergeant.

I pride myself on have a very educated foul mouth.

But I also agree with this guy that turning off the cuss-instinct is difficult to do sometimes. I try not to cuss around Quinton or Jack, because little pitchers have big ears. If you say "fuck!" one time around a young'un, you can bet your sweet ass that it's coming back at you very quickly. I don't want my son to cuss until he's old enough to know what he's cussing about.

I learned to cuss well from a lot of time playing guitar in bars and working 24 years in a chemical plant. Some people just can't understand the message you're attempting to send unless you reinforce it with some creative cursing.

Handle a heckler in a bar. If you can't out-cuss that troll-like bastard, you're fucked, right there on stage. You've gotta put a big chomp on his nasty ass right off the bat, humiliate him in front of his audience, or he'll heckle all night long. I could chainsaw those assholes.

Working in heavy industry, I found myself bossing a lot of rough cobs. If you tip-toe around such people, say please and thank you, they'll eat you alive. I am not a big man. In fact, I'm kinda short and a lot skinnier than I want to be. But I had a job to do, and I relied on sheer, unmitigated attitude, combined with creative cursing to keep those people in line.

If I ever cursed an employee in front of a witness, I was subject to a grievance from the union, so I usually did it with no one else around. But when the time was right, I let fly.

"Just what the fuck did you think you were doing? I ain't puttin' up with that kind of assholery on my watch. If you can't get your shit in one sock and do your job the right way, I'll have your nutsack flying from the front-office flagpole tomorrow. I'll cook you like a goddam Christmas goose. And if you think I'm lying, you dipshit, just go back out there and fuck up again. I'll have your ass on a stick over the hottest fire YOU ever felt."

Mr. Rogers, I wasn't.

Cursing sometimes is a very effective way to get an important point across to someone who doesn't want to listen. I keep practicing every day.

I love it

Originally published June 1, 2004

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.