This is the blog of Rob 'Acidman' Smith, who passed away June 26, 2006. Acidman was a unique voice in the blogosphere; an extraordinary raconteur with a fascinating life from which to draw his stories, from his roots in a Kentucky coal-mining town through a career as a musician and as a journalist to his years managing the production of a sulphuric acid plant.

Whether writing about the best way to make boiled peanuts, his intense love and respect for his family and friends, commentary on the politics of the day, or blazingly honest revelations about his life's challenges, he had an extraordinary way of drawing the reader in and making them think. He singlehandedly created a massive community of readers, commenters, and friends from literally all over the world and was responsible for encouraging hundreds of people to take up blogging. For an idea of just how far-reaching an effect he had on the world, read the outpouring of comments on the posts from the week he passed away.

Writing about why he blogged, Rob described it as:

an exercise where I stuffed notes in bottles and threw them into a vast ocean where I hoped someone would find the bottle and read the note. But that's not really what I was doing. This blog was my lifeline that towed me to shore when I was totally shipwrecked. It kept me alive for more than two of the worst years I've lived in my life. I wasn't stuffing notes in bottles. I was standing on the shore and shouting frantically for rescue. People came. I WAS rescued. And I will always appreciate that fact.

It was Rob's express wish that Gut Rumbles remain online, especially for his son to read as he got older, and so it shall. As much as possible, the site remains in the state in which he used it. Current posts are drawn from his extensive archives and presented on the front page. To further experience this extraordinary man and his writing, wander through the links to his archives shown at the bottom of the sidebar on the left.

You are missed, Rob.

June 13, 2009

Real life update

Good news and bad news...
Good news stemming from the bad.

The bad news is that Rob's beloved Mommie passed away on April 18th, surrounded by her loving family.

If you'd like to read, or leave a message in, Mommie's online guestbook, here's the link to it.

Quinton, of course, was at her funeral service and it's said he's becoming quite an impressive young man.
He'll be getting his drivers license soon...

As much as it would have pained Rob to have experienced the loss of Mommie, I know he'd be as proud as a man could be of his son.

Quinton was his pride and joy. He loved that young man so very much.
How I wish he were here to see this.

I miss you, Rob, every day.
And, I know I'm not the only one.

I hope you've found the peace that so eluded you in life.

June 12, 2009

My left foot

Originally published March 14, 2004

My left foot still isn't right. I don't mean that I want it to be a right foot, because the toes would all be turned the wrong way and I would have a lot of trouble buying shoes. I mean that my left foot did not heal properly from the fall I took last month.

Yeah, yeah... I know. I should have gone to the doctor. Too late for that now.

All of the bruising is gone, the swelling is almost gone, but the bones aren't the way they once were. My foot still hurts and the top of the arch doesn't look the way it should. I have mismatched feet now, and I never had that before.

I believe that I also fucked-up some tendons or ligaments in there, too. Something ain't right, but at least the sumbitch can still work up a good case of foot-stink when I wear sneakers. I may walk with a slight limp, but I can walk now.

I don't know whatever possessed me to get that stupid bitch, Oddball. I haven't seen her for a week now, but I have the broken foot, chewed-up pillows and piss-stains on my carpet to show for her brief appearance here. I suspect that she's back in the pound and she can stay there for all I care. The longer I was around that dog, the less hope I saw for it.

I don't need a pet anyway. I need a good lawyer.

June 11, 2009

Sweets

Originally published November 8, 2003

I don't have much of a sweet tooth. Because my brother was diabetic, I grew up in a home that never had dessert with supper and candy was something you either bought with your own money or collected on Halloween. Mom and Dad never kept sweets around the house. I seldom eat sweets to this day.

But I like pecan pie.

I like the ones I get from the Kroger's bakery down the road becuse those pies don't come out of a box. Those broad-hipped country wimmen in the kitchen bake those things by hand and they are damned good. I bought one yesterday and I just ate a big slice of it so that the boys don't get it all before I have a taste.

I'm a good cook. I can make fried chicken that'll knock your socks off and I grill the best steak you'll ever taste. But I don't bake pastries. I never learned how to do that.

What is a good recipe for pecan pie? What is that stuff that goes in the middle?

I want to try to make one.

June 10, 2009

I may still do it

Originally published March 14, 2004

I started to sleep in the woods tonight. I went and rigged my hammock and a tarp over it today and gathered a bunch of firewood. The weather is perfect for camping and I've got woods right in my back yard. I don't like what's happening in my life right now and I think a night in the woods might do me good.

But I believe that I'll wait until after Monday. If I get to see my son again, he and Jack would consider the three of us sleeping in the woods a grand adventure. I've got a two-man pup-tent I could raise for them and they both have sleeping bags. We'll cook hot dogs and I'll tell ghost stories while we feed the campfire.

But I'm just liable to go sleep out there tonight. Just for the hell of it.

June 09, 2009

Allergies

Originally published March 13, 2004

I am allergic to all kinds of stuff. I learned early in life that if I am stung by a honey bee, I may end up in the emergency room at the hospital. Wasps and hornets don't have that same effect on me, but something about honey bee venom surely does disagree with my body.

I once was playing football in the front yard of my house and somebody either threw or kicked the ball into a big hedge bush. I stuck my hand in there to get the ball and something stung me. I didn't know what it was, but it hurt like hell. I retreived the ball and intended to keep playing. Two minutes later, however, my right hand was swollen to the size of a sixteeen-ounce boxing glove and I was having trouble breathing. I fell down in the yard and I couldn't get back up.

My brother ran to get Mama. She almost had a heart attack when she saw me. By then, my right arm was the size of my right leg and I was breaking out in red splotches all over. The fact was obvious that something was terribly wrong with me.

My father was working a 4-to-12 shift that day and Mama had no car. She ran to a neighbor's house and asked for a ride to the doctor's office. The woman agreed, but her good car was gone to work with her husband and all she had to drive was an old 1938-vintage Buick sedan that he was restoring. The car ran, but the headlights didn't work.

"We'd better make this fast," she said. "I can't drive that car after the sun goes down."

I don't remember a whole lot after we piled into the Buick and went to see the doctor. Mama had enough sense to look in the hedge where I stuck my hand and it was working alive with some kind of brown caterpillars. She caught one and put it in a jar to take with us.

I still don't know what kind of caterpillar that was.

The doctor took one look at the bug and said that it had poisonous spikes all over its back. "They can sting, but most people don't have this kind of reaction to them," he said. Well, I did. They shot both my butt-cheeks with some kind of medicine, then sent me home. We made it back before sundown.

I fell asleep on the couch and hallucinated all night long. I remember waking up once to find my father sitting beside me. He was reading a book, but I saw horns coming out of his head and all kinds of other evil, nasty things. I was out of my mind with fever. He fetched a glass of water and gave me a pill that he called a "knockout drop" and he told me to take it. I did, and I went back to sleep.

I recovered after three days and went back to the doctor. He told me that I was in anaphlactic shock when I arrived at his office after the sting. If Mama hadn't gotten me there when she did, I might have died. "Boy, you need to stay away from snakes," he told me. "If you have this kind of reaction from a catepillar sting, you won't survive a snake-bite."

Maybe that's why I still have a visceral fear of snakes.

Right now, the dogwoods are in full bloom and the pine trees are starting to drop yellow pollen everywhere. I always get a chronic runny nose and sinus problems this time of year. I've been to more doctors and tried more medicine than I can shake a stick at, but none of it ever worked.

But I've been taking Advil allergy-sinus tablets for about a week now and I like them. My nose has stopped running. The pills don't make me sleepy or fire me up so that I feel as if my scalp is crawling. I may actually get through this spring without rubbing my nose raw from blowing it all the time. I can't be sure yet, but I've seen some good signs so far.

I still intend to stay away from snakes. No sense in pushing my luck too far.

June 08, 2009

Come Monday, it'll be alright

Originally published March 13, 2004

I always liked that Jimmy Buffett song and I've performed it more times than I can remember. I go to court come Monday.

I talked with mt lawyer today and he isn't very optomistic about my chances of coming out with my Cracker ass intact. The BC is going to pummel me and there's not a whole lot I can do about it except break out the checkbook and pay every barracuda swimming around me. If that's what I have to do, that's what I'll do.

I don't have a hell of a lot of choice. It's either do that or go to jail.

We live by the rule of law in this country, but that rule of law does not always lead to justice. I am not the one who dissolved the marriage. I am not the one who committed adultery. I am not the one who moved an unemployed, dope-smoking lover into my house while I was still making 1/2 the payments. I am not the one who flushed a 10-year relationship down the drain without a backward glance.

But I'm the one who's going to pay for it. Go figure.

June 07, 2009

Gin

Originally published November 8, 2003

The boys are asleep after a tumutious day. I am tired and ready for bed myself. My right arm is sore from throwing a football as far as I can to watch Quinton catch it. That boy is getting better every day and my passes seem to fall shorter every other weekend. He's hitting his prime and I am going downhill fast. Father Time is one mean sonofabitch.

Somebody gave me a bottle of gin for Christmas last year and that sucker has been in my liquor cabinet since then. I had a bad experience with gin when I was in high school and I remember the feeling that I was puking up pine bark from drinking that stuff back then. I never wanted any more gin since that ugly evening. Tonight, I had wine, vodka and beer to choose from, but I decided to open that bottle of gin.

I poured a drink with some club soda and lime. It tasted pretty damned good. I'm on #2 now and it STILL tastes pretty damned good. Gin is not bad, as long as you don't down an entire pint straight out of the bottle as I did once a long time ago and puke your guts out afterward. I might have been bulletproof in those days, but I damned sure wasn't drunk-proof or hangover-proof.

I see now that gin is meant for sipping, so that you can savor that pine-resin flavor instead of cursing God as you hurl your cookies into the bushes on the side of a dirt road while you hope that your asshole doesn't come out right through your mouth. Bejus! I wished for a quick death that night.

Tonight is much better than my first experience with gin.

June 06, 2009

Time trip

Originally published March 11, 2004

I went back to Harlan, Kentucky in 1976 to visit with my cousin, Ernie. We took a trip to Lewellen and climbed the mountain where the old coal mine once operated.

We went up the route where the man-trip used to run. The rails were all gone, but the cross-ties were still in place. It was almost like climbing stairs. We both carried .22 rifles and shot a couple of copperheads on the way up. We also got into some heavy poison ivy, which was a mistake we didn't discover until later.

When we got up to the mineshack, it was still there, covered with dirt and leaves and smelling of old sweat and broken dreams. The mine-shaft was nothing but another part of the mountain, solid rock sealed shut by explosives that my father helped to set.

We found a lot of paperwork and blueprints that were still up there in desk drawers and file cabinets. Many had my father's signature on them. We found a big, wooden wire spool that must have been 3' in diameter. Guess what we did with it? We rolled it down the mountain.

That thing bounced, hopped, skipped and jumped until it tore itself apart. It never made the bottom of the mountain. It ended up in splinters.

We also found two boxes filled with old electrical insulators, the kind made from glass. One set was blue and one set was green. Guess what we did with them? We used them for target practice with our .22s. We broke every got-dam one of those things, and I didn't learn until later in life that those glass insulators were collectible items, worth a lot of money to some people.

The old slate dump was still burning, just as it was when I was a child. I can still remember that smell. I'll bet that it's still burning today. When slate catches on fire, it burns for a long time.

Ernie and I finally came down from the mountain. We both ended up in the doctor's office the next day because of the poison ivy we encountered. I never saw it, but we must have gotten into a thicket of it. I had that shit all over me and so did Ern.

I dreamed about walking up that mountain yesterday.

June 05, 2009

Okay, I'll tell you

Originally published November 9, 2003

I received this email from Chris:

Hi,

I grew up in NY, though now live in eastern PA. Consequently, I have no
idea as to why people still carry confederate flags. As I understand it, people in the south tend to be very patriotic and fond of our United States, so I presume that it's not from any separatist impulse.

If you had a minute to explain this cultural phenomenon, I would be very grateful.

Thanks,
-Chris

I've listened to Jesse Jackson and other race-baiting assholes call the Confederate flag a symbol of racism. I've also seen hooded members of the Ku Klux Klan waving that flag as they behave as race-baiting assholes. I see very little difference between the two, and they BOTH defile that flag.

I took the scenic route back from north Georgia last weekend and as I drove through small Southern towns along the way, I noticed something. Almost every one has a monument to fallen Confederate soldiers. The South bled hard in that war. Then, when the South lost, the carpetbaggers came to rub salt in the wounds during Reconstruction.

I live in the only part of the United States that EVER was conquered and occupied by an invading army. That crap may have happened over 150 years ago, but memories live long in the South. We still sit on the front porch, drink sweet tea and talk about great-grandpa and great-great grandma and smile at the memories.

We remember. Most of the Southern men who died in that war were not rich, they didn't own slaves and they followed Lee, Jackson and Longstreet out of loyalty to the South. They were sons and grandsons of men who fought the British in the Revolutionary War. They believed in THEIR RIGHTS and didn't want a strong federal government telling them how to behave. They were willing to fight and die for those beliefs.

That flag is not a symbol of racism. Only a fuckhead such as Jesse Jackson or some sheet-wearing loon from the KKK sees it as such, and both have a vested interest in doing so. They use the flag to further a political agenda. They both make me want to puke.

That flag is a symbol of DEFIANCE. That flag is the symbol of a REBEL, someone who will NOT be a docile member of the herd no matter what price he has to pay. Goddam, but we have too many docile members of the herd in this country today. I refuse to be one. THAT'S why I have that Confederate flag on my truck.

Southern men have represented themselves in our armed forces far out of porportion to the national population ever since that war. Southern boys grow up running the woods and handling guns from an early age. They hit what they aim at, they can build a fire and they know what a long walk in oppressive heat is like. They make damn good soldiers.

And deep in every Southern breast burn memories that can NEVER be erased. We talk a language all our own, we eat food that nobody else does and we HAVE OUR PRIDE. Southern white males are the last minority in the country that "polittically correct" people can insult with impunity and we've had that shit heaped on our heads for a long time.

So, we REBEL. We DEFY.

And we fly the Confederate flag.

If that pisses you off, kiss my Cracker ass. We do that TO PISS OFF people such as you.

June 04, 2009

Paranoia

Originally published March 11, 2004

I keep a loaded Colt .38 revolver in a holster that hangs from a hook just inside my front door. I keep the door locked all the time now, which is something I never did in the past. If the doorbell rings, I grab the pistol first, then look outside to see who is there. Only then do I open the door.

I sure have freaked-out some Jehovah's Witnesses that way.

One thing liberals and gun-control freaks don't understand is that the sight of an armed man is enough to convince most criminals or people of low degree to leave you alone. I believe in that fact.

I also believe that the gun by the front door is not a bad idea.

And NO!, you trolling assholes. I don't keep it there when Quinton is around. But he's not around now, and I'm getting death threats from people who don't have the balls to follow through on their words. Come ring my doorbell, assholes.

See what you find.

June 03, 2009

I apologize

Originally published November 9, 2003

I've gotten a lot of email from people asking, "What the fuck did I do to piss you off?" because they can't comment on my site. I had some folks banned. The bans were aimed at two individuals who crossed a line I will NOT see crossed on my site. I had entire IPs blocked to get rid of them.

If you were caught in that large net, trust me about one thing. I am NOT pissed at you. TWO PEOPLE just could not be civilized in the blogosphere and I had to cut a big hole to get rid of them. Rid of them I am, and there's another shitwit asking for it tonight.

I like having open comments. I appreciate flattery, but I also enjoy the contrarians who tell me that I'm full of shit when I am. Hell, I am full of shit a lot of the time.

But my comments are NOT a forum for some fucked-up asshats to insult my friends, bespoil people's reputations and hold court as if THEY were paying for my bandwidth. They don't, and they won't. Period.

I regret banning anyone who didn't deserve it. You have two people to thank for that fact and THEY KNOW WHO THEY ARE.

If you read this blog, you probably know, too.

June 02, 2009

Nostalgia

Originally published March 11, 2004

Who can remember the products advertised by these slogans?

*Take a puff... it's SPRINGTIME!

*A little dab will do you.

*We're #2. We try harder.

*We'd rather fight than switch.

*"I'm Gertie Smirts. I iron shirts. I iron shirts 'till my fingers hurt."

*Mr. Whipple.

*See the USA... (sung by Dinah Shore)

*Where's the beef?

*I can't believe I ate the whole thing.

*A silly millemeter longer

*"Look Ma! No hands!"

*I'd walk a mile for...

*I'm coo-coo! Coo-coo!

*Tastes great... and they are mild.

*It's the soap that floats!

*It's TWO! TWO! TWO mints in one!

*Less filling, tastes great!

*The King of Beers

If you don't know the answers, I'll post them later.

June 01, 2009

Marking territory

Originally published November 9, 2003

When I was over at Mom's house today, my Uncle Virgil and Aunt Peggy came to visit. I was worn out from playing football with the boys, so I went to sit on the screen porch and talk with my family while the boys choke-slammed and killed each other. Virgil enjoyed the show. "They don't get tired, do they?" he observed.

No, they don't. But when the back yard became quiet a few minutes later, my ears pricked. I looked back there and couldn't see Quinton or Jack. "Where did those heathens go?" I asked.

"They went behind that oak tree over yonder," my grandmother answered.

I knew what they were doing. They were pissing in the bushes. I stuck my head out the door. ""Are you guys peeing in the bushes?" I yelled. "Yes, sir," was the reply, in perfect two-part harmony. "Okay," I said, and went back to sit on the porch.

"Ain't nothing wrong with peeing in the bushes," Virgil said. I agreed. Ain't a damned thing wrong with peeing in the bushes. I did it as a kid and I still do it today.

When Quinton came back on the porch for some chicken, Virgil asked him, "Boy, what were you doing back there behind that tree?"

"I was marking my territory," Quinton replied, with a big grin.

"Marking your territory? What happens if some other little boy goes back there and pees in those bushes today? There goes your territory."

"No, sir! I've been peeing in those bushes for six years now. That's MY territory."

I thought Virgil was going to choke with laughter.

Damn, but I like being around my family.

May 31, 2009

Deal 'em

Originally published March 11, 2004

I shot up a deck of cards on Tuesday. I went out to the beautiful six and one-half acres of land that I once owned in Coldbrook Plantation and saw that the young couple who bought it still haven't started building a house there.

Back behind the pond on that land, a big live oak tree lies, either tipped or ripped from the ground, and it's a good place to shoot. The oak came up by its roots and it tore a lot ground with it. So, I had a giant dirt-mound as a back-stop and nothing but miles of wetlands behind it.

Someone had been there before me. I found several casings from a high-caliber rifle on the ground. I figured that some deer hunter knew about the place and came there to tune in his new scope. As I said, it's a good place to shoot.

I had an old deck of Bicycle playing cards in my pocket and a single-shot .22 rifle. I stuck the cards in the roots of the oak tree, walked back about 30 yards and had some target practice. I started with the ace of spades.

I took four shots to obliterate the spade in the center of the card. I shot at the three of diamonds next, and I put one shot right through a diamond and winged the other two down the middle of the card. I like that .22. It's very accurate.

I assassinated all the kings, queens and jacks with head-shots, then replaced the targets with more number cards. I played all kinds of games. After a while, I decided just to hit the card in the middle and be done with it. I fired about 200 rounds, including one that blew away a grackle who had the nerve to land on that oak tree. I HATE grackles.

I kept the ace of spades. If I can get my camera to work, I'll post a picture of it.

May 30, 2009

Addendum

Originally published November 9, 2003

To go with the post below:

I potty-trained Quinton by teaching him to piss outdoors. He was outside with me one day, and he started grabbing at his diapered crotch as he usually did when he had to pee. "You need to wee-wee?" I asked. I didn't get a response. "Well, I do," I said, and I whipped Roscoe out and let loose right by the back fence.

The next thing I know, my boy half-masted his pants and started pissing right along with daddy. "Feels better than wearing it in your drawers, doesn't it?" I asked. I believe that he figured that part out that day. The only problem we had after that was teaching Quinton to go TO THE BATHROOM. If he needed to wee-wee, he would break for the door and go outside.

That was fine until the day he took a shit in the front yard right when the school bus was going by. I remember Jennifer saying, "See what you've taught him?"

Hell, I figured that shitting in the front yard was a vast improvement over shitting in his pants. We had the message transmitted. Now, all we had to do was refine the translation. That process didn't take long to accomplish.

But my boy STILL likes to pee outdoors.