January 28, 2011
Originally published October 14, 2002
It's still dark outside, and I have most of my travelling stuff piled in the living room floor. A cold front is moving in today, and the temperature is supposed to be in the low 30s in North Georgia tonight. Good fireplace and campfire weather, but maybe not so good for sitting on the deck of the cabin and playing my guitar to the trees. Or playing that mountain golf course in Blairsville, either, but I'm taking my beloved Martin AND my sometimes-beloved King Cobras with me. I can always play guitar INSIDE the cabin, and if I don't touch the golf clubs, it won't be anything different from the last year and a half.
I've also decided to come back home next Friday. That way, I don't have to work out a change in my son's visitation with the despised ex-wife, and I'll have some time before I go back to work to complete at least some of the 500 things I should have done already but didn't. Besides, I'll probably be suffering the DTs of serious blog-withdrawal by then.
I'm kinda looking forward to the drive up there. I know all the back-roads and shortcuts between here and Athens (thanks to my days as a student at The University of Georgia) and I want to see if I can get from here to Blood Mountain in five hours. Unencumbered by a wife and a child, I won't have to stop for food (twice) and bathrooms (every 50 miles), so I believe that I can make the trip in a blue streak, as long as I avoid detection and detention by any local constabulary I encounter along the way.
I believe that speed limits are fungible rules, to be obeyed only if you have a good chance of being caught violating them. So, I drive fast. I intend to do that again today.
And I'll be back Friday evening, if all goes well.
January 21, 2011
Originally published October 13, 2002
I went down to Weisenbaker's Bar yesterday to watch the Dawgs on a big-screen TV and eat dead, burnt beef while young waitresses with red toenails provided me with frozen mugs full of beer. I don't drink beer often anymore, but the Killian's Red was delicious, especially when the bar was not crowded and the Dawgs kicked Tennessee's ass while I cheered and barked as if I were on the 50 yard-line at Sanford Stadium. One of the waitresses, named "Nichole," was very attentive and mentioned that her mama has been divorced for a year and NEVER goes out, and I am "perfect" for her, being the handsome and charming "older" man that I am. She gave me her MAMA'S PHONE NUMBER, too. Mama is named "Lisa."
I called Lisa last night and got an answering machine, so I left a message saying that I would call back. I didn't have to. She called ME back. I may have dinner with her AND Nichole tonight, just to prove that I'm not a crazed rapist and a sexual deviant. (I am NOT a crazed rapist... just crazed.) Lisa lives about two miles away, and I hope to meet her this evening.
I've never had a daughter set me up with her mama before. Is that strange?
January 14, 2011
Originally published October 13, 2002
No one should be suprised to learn that GEORGE CARLIN is one of my favorite comedians. He is outrageous, insulting, acerbic and profane, always capable of behaving like a red-assed baboon, and reminds me very much of me.
I also find STEVEN WRIGHT incredibly funny. Those two comics, one over-the-top and one completely deadpan, are about as far apart in presentation as you can get. Both make me laugh out loud when I watch them perform. Does that say something puzzling about my sense of humor, or does it say something very frightening about ME?
That's my enigma for today.
January 07, 2011
Originally published October 9, 2002
I remember exactly where I was one year ago today, and I wasn't happy to be there. Actually, that's a lie. I was EXTREMELY HAPPY, thanks to the morphene, but the IV in my arm, the catheter in my wang, the staples in my belly, the drainage tube with the suction bulb on the end and the cute little red-haired nurse who shoved suppositories up MY END every four hours tended to ruin my opium dreams. Plus, the pestiferous hospital staff kept pounding on my back and demanding that I blow into some bong-like device and float a ping-pong ball between two marks on a cylinder, instead of giving me more morphene and catering to my every whim.
They wanted me to get out of bed and walk around, too. So, I did, bare ass exposed from the back of the hospital gown and dragging all the tubes and baggage with me. I went straight to my overnight bag, retrieved my cigarettes and lighter, made my way to the bathroom and had myself a much-needed dose of tar, nicotine and carbon monoxide. I was sitting on the commode amid a rich swirl of Marlboro smoke when a nurse showed up unexpectedly and caught me.
"Smoking is not allowed in the hospital," she announced.
"I'm not smoking," I replied. "Go away and tell EVERYBODY YOU SEE that I am not smoking in the hospital. I'll back up your story."
She shook her head and went away. Damn good nurse.
I am delighted that I am where I am today rather than where I was one year ago. It took a while for me to recover from 10/9/01. As long as I don't over-indulge in the white zin tonight, I'll be fine after 10/9/02. That's a good thing.
I still regret that I didn't ask the red-haired nurse for her name and phone number. She had nice fingers.
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