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October 31, 2007Breaking the lawOriginally published May 31, 2004 I believe that Martin Luther King wrote an essay when he was locked in the Birmingham jail during the civil rights movement that pretty much sums up my philosophy about being a law-abiding citizen. I may go Google the speech to see if I am correct, but I don't really care. No matter where I read it, it is the way I live my life. I am a free man. Government puts certain constraints on me through the threat of overwhelming force, which means that the faceless assholes can seize my assets, throw me in jail and TRY to humble me, but nothing they do to me will change what I believe. I remain a free man. I don't obey laws that I think are senseless. I also don't consider myself to be a criminal for doing so. I consider myself to be a free man. I carry a handgun in places with strict gun-control laws. I exceed the posted speed limit on the highway. I gamble on illegal games of chance. I have rented a prostitute. If I were your neighbor, you would like me. I would never break into your home, steal your belongings or molest your children. If you needed help with a home-improvement project, I would be the first to volunteer assisstance. If you went on a two-week vacation, I would collect your mail and pick up the newspaper from the driveway every day, and keep an eye on your house while you were gone. I don't behave that way because of any laws. That's just the way I was raised. I don't NEED laws to make me act like a decent human being. And I won't obey laws that I think are stupid. We have way too many laws in this country now. Government has taken a nation of free men and women and transformed them into sheep through excessive regulation, excessive taxation and excessive intrusion into things that are none of government's business. I sometimes believe that if our Founding Fathers could see what their ideal of freedom and a true republic has become, they would be twisting like windmills in their graves. You can heed the shepherd if you want to. But I won't. (ADDENDUM: I didn't write this post lightly, nor am I drunk. I am a free man staring right into the maw of the monster, and it is poised to take everything I own. I expect to go to jail for "Contempt of Court." I will be guilty, because I hold divorce court in total contempt. But I WILL NOT DO what that Court Order says that I'm supposed to do. That is a law that I refuse to obey. And I'm willing to back up my words with my actions, no matter what price I have to pay. That's a true American attitude, if you ask me.)
MonkeysOriginally published May 30, 2004 I stayed at a place called "The Hotel California" when I was in Martin Antonio, about a mile away from a Costa Rican National Park. I had some kind of big, flowery bush growing right up to the handrails of my second-story porch and a three-foot iguana lived there. I went out for a morning cigarette and said "buenas dias" to him every day. He just sat there in the bush and munched leaves. I was accustomed to my friend, the giant lizard, and I kinda liked having him in that bush. He didn't bother me and I didn't bother him-- plus, his presence added to the tropical atmosphere. If you're in Costa Rica, you're SUPPOSED to see some giant lizards, right? But The Day Of The Monkeys was something else. I bought a pack of Belmont cigarettes the night before and I was smoking one of those locally-manufactured sticks when I went outside to say good morning to my lizard. I heard a loud ruckus in the trees. It wasn't screeching or chattering that I heard--- it was simply the sound of large objects bending limbs and rattling the leaves. I watched to see what it was. The next thing I know, I have a FUCKING TWO-HEADED MONKEY looking at me from about a foot away in the same goddam bush the iguana lived in. I took a step back and glanced down at my cigarette. What the fuck did Costa Ricans put in their tobacco? Back in my college days, I smoked some heavy shit, but I NEVER saw a two-headed monkey before, not even in my worst nightmares. All of a sudden, the trees were swarming with monkeys, eating mangos and dodging some kind of brown birds that dive-bombed them with the aggression of a southeast Georgia mockingbird. I realized then that I hadn't seen a two-headed monkey. I saw a mama with a baby on its back. There were several such pairs racing through the trees. The babies hold on so tight while mama climbs and jumps that they LOOK like one monkey with two heads. I watched them for almost an hour; then, they went away. I finished my pack of Belmont cigarettes, but I didn't buy any more. The sight of what I thought was a two-headed monkey in an iguana bush at 6:00 in the morning was more than I could stand. Yeah. I had serious adventures in Costa Rica.
October 30, 2007Feeling depressedOriginally published May 30, 2004 I miss my son. I wanted to talk to him today, but every time I called I got nothing but the answering machine. I left a message for him to call me, but I haven't heard back from him yet. I wonder where he is? I have a bag full of goodies, gee-gaws and other things I bought for Quinton in Costa Rica. I want to give it to him, if I can ever track him down. I don't give a damn what the law says--- what Jennifer has done to drive a wedge between me and my son is worse than her slipping off in the dark (and later in broad daylight) to throw her pussy to the wind. I don't give a shit what she does with her pussy anymore. But I still love my son. My father made one hell of an impact on my life. We didn't agree on a lot of things, but he was one hell of a man and he helped me a lot through the years. He was my Yoda--- the wise one I consulted with when I wasn't certain what to do next. He drove me hard, and he often barked at me when he thought I needed it, but he never failed to give me good advice. I didn't always follow it, but I'll miss him until the day I die. I want to have that kind of impact on Quinton's life. I may be a crazy old buzzard, but I've learned a lot through 52 years of fire and rain. A boy needs a father in his life and I still remember what it feels like to be a young boy. I could help him a lot with things NO WOMAN understands, even if she does believe that she's Supermom. Yeah, I've fucked up. But I don't believe that I'm a bad man and I'll never believe that Quinton is better off without me. I am his father and I always will be. Nobody else can ever change that fact, no matter how many men Jennifer decides to sleep with. I miss my boy.
Country musicOriginally published May 31, 2004 I never realized that I was a fairly poor boy when I was growing up. I was fed, watered and clothed and I knew that my parents loved me. They gave me all they had to give and I thought that was plenty until I hit high school. That's when I learned that my clothes sucked. I couldn't be "cool" without Gant shirts, Gold Cup socks and a Barracuda jacket. My parents couldn't afford such shit, so I bought my own clothes. (Did I mention before that I've had a job almost all of my life since I was 12 years old?) I wanted THE UNIFORM that cool high school students wore. It took me years to realize how foolish I was at the time. My parents may not have had much money, but I was a lot richer in other ways than most of the "cool" people I tried to emulate. I was a dickwit at the time. Tonight, I've been listening to The Top 100 Country Music Songs Of All Time on CMN. My pick for the very best country song (Hank Williams: "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry") came in #32, so I am curious to see what is #1. But this has been a rough evening. I've sat on the floor and cried a few times tonight. "Coat Of Many Colors" by Dolly Parton made me think of my mama, and tears rolled down my face. "I Can't Stop Loving You" by Ray Charles made me think of Jennifer and my son, so I cried some more. "Will The Circle Be Unbroken" made me think of my whole family and I wept like a baby. "Strawberry Wine" by Dena Carter brought back memories of better days, set around a kitchen table where I played guitar and the woman I loved sang that song. "Forever and Ever, Amen," written by Paul Overstreet and Don Schlitz, and performed by Randy Travis, was the song my brother and my old-time singing partner, Sally Roundtree, sang at my wedding when Jennifer and I were married. I cried some more. Say what you will about country music, but it cuts straight to my heart. The words and music are so simple, yet so earthy that I fall head-first into the songs. They are about my life. I am a hillbilly and a Georgia Cracker. That kind of music sings to my soul. Aw, shit. I don't know what I'm trying to say. If you don't get it when you hear the music, you're never gonna get it. It's either IN YOU, or it's not. It's IN ME, and I want to watch the rest of the show.
Non-musicians won't understandOriginally published June 1, 2004 Tonight, when I was watching that dumbass Greatest Country Songs countdown, they hit #3 and brought out some finalist from American Idol to sing "Crazy," which is my all-time favorite Patsy Cline song and the best thing Willie Nelson ever wrote in his life. I sat on the floor totally unmoved by the performance. That woman hit all the notes and the band was good, but the song just didn't feel right. She sang "Crazy" as if she were happy to be on that stage. Patsy didn't do that. She broke your fucking heart when she sang that song. There wasn't a damned thing happy about it, and she let you know. Why is it that some people FEEL music and other people don't? I'm talking about both listeners and players. How can a woman with a voice as beautiful as the one I heard sing tonight just totally butcher Patsy Cline? How could people not feel the difference between going through the motions and really FEELING the music? I'll have to think about that question while I play my guitar.
October 29, 2007Killer toadsOriginally published June 1, 2004 Maybe I shouldn't have picked up that big, fat toad I saw on the street in Tamarindo, Costa Rica. It might have been one of these. Can you imagine dropping dead on the street and having your grieving family ask, "How could this happen?" "A killer toad got him. There was nothing we could do." "What?" "A killer toad got him. I'm sorry, but it happens all the time." "Rob was killed by a TOAD?" "Yes. He never should have picked it up. But he died quickly and painlessly, except for getting pissed on by the toad as he was expiring. We have the toad in custody and it will face prosecution to the fullest extent of the law." I think that Death By Killer Toad might be a good way to exit this world. That way, death could be just as ridiculous as life.
I love my familyOriginally published May 29, 2004 I went to see my mama and my grandmother today. My Uncle Virgil was there, too, and we had a nice, long conversation about a lot things other people wouldn't understand. We laughed a lot, but my family is famous for witty repartee and a good sense of humor. My grandmother just turned 93 years old. She's tiny and frail now, but she was a pisscutter in her younger days. Virgil told about how, when my grandfather administered haircuts to him and his two brothers, Mommie (that's my grandmother) always made sure that all three had enough hair left on their heads so that she could grab a handful and snatch them around when they fucked up. She would check the length of the cut, nod approvingly and say, "That's a good haircut. I can grab that." Mommie was fixing supper one afternoon and wanted to make some cornbread, but she was out of buttermilk. She gave my Uncle George some money and told him to go to the store and buy a quart. George became distracted by some game he was playing and didn't scoot off quickly enough to suit Mommie. "I thought I told you to go to the store and buy a quart of buttermilk," she said to George, who was still playing in the yard and oblivious to his responsibility. "I'm going in just a minute," he replied, which was the wrong thing to say to Mommie. She grabbed a switch and laid a nice lick on one of his bare shoulders. "You'll go RIGHT NOW!" she said, drawing back for another swipe. George went, kicking up a cloud of Kentucky dust behind him. When George came home with the buttermilk, he had a nice, red welt on his arm from the switch-mark. "Look, Mommie," he said, pointing to the V-shaped stripe on his arm. "You made me a private." "Yes, I did," Mommie replied. "And if you ever ignore me like that again, I'll promote you to sergeant." She meant it, too. I have hundreds of such stories to tell. I've heard a lot of them more than once, but I never get tired of hearing them again. I come from a long line of good storytellers. A meeting of my relatives is a lot like a blog-meet. If you want to get a word in edgewise, you'd better talk first and talk loud. My family is quiet and shy, just like me.
October 28, 2007Not me!Originally published May 29, 2004 I don't have this problem. Naw. Not me. I can quit blogging any time I want to. In fact, I've done it at least 100 times already. I don't understand people who are so obsessed with their blogs that they will walk more than a mile through the fucking jungle beautiful rain forest of Costa Rica to find an internet cafe where they can update their site. No. I don't understand that kind of mentality at all.
My top tenOriginally published June 1, 2004 My ass is still chapped from watching that Top 100 Country Music Songs countdown last night. I totally disagree with the judges. If "Stand By Your Man" is the greatest country song of all time, I'm a got-dam brain surgeon. Here is MY Top 10: 10) "Blue Moon of Kentucky" by Bill Monroe, the Father of Bluegrass. 9) "I Walk The Line" by Johnny Cash. 8) "Help Me Make It Through The Night" by Kris Kristofferson. 7) "Orange Blossom Special" by any of dozens of people. 6) "Gentle On My Mind" by John Hartford. 5) "Mama Tried" by Merle Haggard. 4) "Faster Horses" by Tom T. Hall. 3) "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" by Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs. 2) "Crazy" by Patsy Cline. 1) "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" by Hank Williams. I had to leave off a lot of really good songs, but that's my Top 10. I like my list a lot better than the one the judges chose last night.
October 27, 2007Silver hairOriginally published August 17, 2003 I had my hair cut yesterday morning. I let it grow long for a while so that it was curly and wild. It really looked like Fido's ass after I wore a hard hat at work and sweated my ass off all day. I thought about putting it back into a pony tail the way I did about a year ago. But I remembered that I resembled an old hippie when I did that, so I just had my hair cut short instead. I watched all those long, silver locks falling onto the barber's apron and I suddenly felt very old. I asked my tonsorial goddess if she could dye my hair (I also told her that I was violently allergic to henna) and she said that she could, but asked me why I wanted to do such a thing. "I LOVE that salt-and-pepper look on a man," she said. I looked at the apron and saw a lot more salt than pepper. I suppose I should be delighted that I still have hair at all. Most men in my family were bald before they were 30. I have hair, but it's all gray silver now. I think I may color my hair the next time I go to the barber shop. I have an artificial dick already. Putting a little color in my hair is nothing compared to that.
I agreeOriginally published August 28, 2003 If you're going to pick the 10 Greatest Guitarists of All Time, Kim du Toit [Ed. Link borked.] makes a valid point. The choices should be broken down by category. The electric guys have their style. I noticed that nobody mentioned Leslie West, who is pretty goddam good, and I even receieved a poo-poo from someone who DOES NOT believe that Mark Knopfler is one of the greatest alive today. Just listen to the lead on "Sultans of Swing" and then go listen to Neck and Neck when he played with Chet Atkins. Tell me that boy can't play. I can recognize good guitarists by their style if I've listened to them long enough. I'm a big-time reader of liner notes, so I pay attention to the studio dudes, too. I've impressed people many a time by hearing a lick in a song and saying, "That's Clapton." "That's Tony Rice." "That's Doc Watson." They check the liner notes and I am correct, even though I never heard the song before. Now that Chet is dead, I believe that Mark Knopfler is the best guitar player in the world. Paul McCartney is the best bass player (and yes, that IS a guitar, but completely different from a six-string) and I don't give a shit about drummers. On acoustic guitar, I would love to play with James Taylor, Paul Simon, Gordon Lightfoot, Joni Mitchell, Doc Watson, Leo Kottke and Tony Rice. On electric, I would just like to stand back and watch, maybe throwing in some rhythm. I confess that I am an okay lead player, but I'm never going to burn up the stage. I don't have the twitch muscles in my fingers to compete with some of the REALLY GOOD pickers I know. I am much better at acoustic music because I finger-pick AND play leads. Besides, I like bluegrass and country better than I like rock-and-roll anymore. Some of the "New Wave" shit leaves me cold. I like Hendrix, Clapton, West and Knopfler. The rest of those "greats" sound like they came out of the same can. That's MY humble opinion.
October 26, 2007My readers are greatOriginally published August 18, 2003 I received this email today: Rob/Acidman, I was tagged by that nasty Blaster worm too. My 16 y/o Son took the inititive to try and fix things, but didn't. Made things worse as a matter of fact. So I took over and ...... kinda fixed it. But screwed up some other stuff. I have some of the brightest, most good-hearted and humorous readers in all of blogdom. I may cuss and piss and moan a lot on my blog , but I operate a Public Service, too. If you've got a problem with a computer, post a comment and someone will help you. That happens a lot.
The F-wordOriginally published August 28, 2003 I like the word "fuck." It probably is the most functional word in the entire English language. It is nuanced and multi-dimensional, appropriate (or inappropriate for all you blue-noses out there) for any occasion. Just think about it. You meet a good-looking woman and talk to a friend the next day. "Heh. I fucked her on the first date," you brag. Then, six months later, she maxes out your credit cards, steals your dog and runs off with a used-car salesman. You tell the same friend, "Man, she really fucked me." Wait a minute. When you fucked HER it was good, but when she fucked YOU it was bad? I am confused here. "Fuck you," is a proper response right here. I'm not really sure what that means. People who don't want to have sex with me say it all the time. It gets me all fucked-up. After people who tell me to go fuck myself get me all fucked-up, I may start to think about how confused I am and go fuck-up something I was supposed to do correctly. Then, if the boss finds out, I am fucked. Is that fucked-up, or what? Why is nothing ever fucked-down? Did you ever reach for something and have someone say, "Hey! Don't fuck with that!" You'll pull your hand back right away. Then, when you think about it, you'll grab what you were reaching for and say, "Fuck this thing anyway. I'm not gonna break it." "I'll fuck you up if you do." "In your fucking dreams." "You have a fucked-up attitude." "You live in a fucking dump." "Don't you fuck with me!" "Aw, go fuck yourself." I don't want to fuck YOU, fuck WITH you or even fuck with anything you own. I want to go back to that good-looking woman that started this post. I love the F-word.
October 25, 2007Long lost pizzaOriginally published August 24, 2003 I order delivered pizzas from the local Domino's about twice every week. The boys announced hunger pangs at 6:30 yesterday evening, so I called Domino's and ordered TWO pizzas. Cheese and sausage for the mutts and All The Way for me. The person I talked to said the delivery would be here in 30 minutes. At 8:30, I called back to ask where in the hell were my pizzas? Nobody knew. The delivery person left over an hour ago. I hung up and the phone rang almost immediately. "Is this Rob Smith? Where do you live? I've got your pizzas but I can't find you." The dingbat was halfway across the county and Effingham is a BIG county. I gave her instructions, starting with "TURN AROUND!" and told her how to find the Crackerbox. She finally arrived at 10:00 when the boys were almost asleep. I probably could have called Domino's, raised hell and gotten the pizzas for free. But I didn't. I paid for the pizzas and tipped the delivery person $5.00. I figured she needed gas after all the driving she had done. She was apologetic, explaining that she was new to the job and she didn't know Effingham County very well. I hope she gets better at her work. Otherwise, she won't last long. Not everybody who orders a pizza is as nice as I am when it finally arrives three hours late and I have to tell the driver how to get here. I kept the boys awake long enough to eat, then I let them fall out for the night. I never even took a bite of my pizza. I was too sleepy by then.
Five questionsOriginally published August 18, 2003 A lot of bloggers are going around interviewing each other with five silly questions. If you agree to be interviewed, you get a link from the interviewee and you're supposed to link back to them, then interview someone else. It's kinda like a blog chain letter. I don't want to play, so I just stole five questions from another site and decided to interview myself. 1) Paper or plastic? I personally believe that this is a dumbass question. You have to ASK for a paper bag everywhere except a liquor store nowdays. We once had a paper bag plant in Savannah that employed over 400 people. Plastic bags put them out of business. The plant was closed and all 400 people laid off. But I manufacture pigment that goes into making plastic bags. Okay, SCREW a paper bag now that I think about it. Yeah, I'll take plastic. 2) At what point in your life did you feel like an adult? I'm not certain that I feel like an adult all the time even now. I have a adult job. I acted as an adult when I buried my father. I sired two children, one of whom is grown. I have gray silver hair. In spite of it all, I still sometimes think of myself just as I did when I was a kid. I don't believe that I ever wanted to grow up. 3) Who was the best teacher you ever had and why? Mrs. Virginia Woolsey in the fifth grade. The woman was a saint, she encouraged me to write and she made learning fun. She was what all teachers SHOULD be, challenging, inspiring and dedicated, but there aren't many around like her anymore. She died when I was in college, but I'll never forget her, and I'll bet she has a lot of other ex-students who feel the same way.
The meanest thing I ever did in my life happened when I was in the ninth grade. We had a Class Geek named "Steve" that everybody picked on. He was built like a bowling pin, was completely unathletic and wore coke-bottle-bottom glasses that made his eyes look twice their normal size. He sported a receeding hairline to match his chin in the ninth grade. He was blessed with bright red hair and more freckles per square inch than you could count. Plus, he had a speech impediment that made him sound like a cartoon character when he talked. "My name ish Sctheve." Everybody called him "Mr. Magoo." He was the Ultimate Dork and was treated as such. Every class has one. One day, he didn't dress out for PE. He was sitting on the bleachers in the gym when my friend, Roy and I (we were both on the football team) walked up to him. "Hey, Magoo! You're nor dressing out today? What's the matter?" "I have a casesh of diarrhea." I looked at Roy and Roy looked at me. We grabbed Magoo by the arms and bounced him up and down until he shit all over himself. Yep, he had a case of diarrhea all right. I thought it was funny as heck until Magoo started crying. Then, I couldn't believe what I had done. If some laughing, evil bully had done the same thing to me, I would have waited in the bushes with a baseball bat to get even the first chance I got. I would have busted the bully's head like a watermelon and beat the shit out of HIM, figuring that he deserved it. I was totally ashamed of myself. I tried to apologize, but it was too late for that. I was a thug that day. That happened in 1965 and I still think about that incident about once a week. Yeah, I have a conscience and it bothers me when I remember Mr. Magoo. I never should have done that. That's one act that I wish desperately that I could take back. 5) Have you ever met one of your heroes? Who was it? Did they live up to your expectations or impression of them? I always admired Joseph Heller because I believe that Catch-22 is perhaps the best American novel ever written. The book made me laugh, think and weep all eleventy-seven times I read it. I met him at the University of Georgia in 1975. He was the most boring, droning asshole I've ever heard read his own work, and I attended a cocktail party with him after the reading. He got shitfaced and acted like a total jerk. Yeah, I was very disappointed in Joseph Heller. But he's dead now. I met John Prine. too, and he's really a nice guy. He bought me a Guiness and talked music with me for over an hour in an Irish bar on River Street after he played a concert in Savannah. John Prine behaves in person exactly as you would expect from someone who writes songs the way he does. He is just a nice, friendly guy. So, I'm batting .500 on meeting my heroes and liking them. Hmmm... I wonder what I would think about glenn reynolds if I shared a nice, cold Blended Puppy at a bar with him some evening?
October 24, 2007Raining againOriginally published August 18, 2003 I believe that I've seen rain fall on the Crackerbox every day since sometime in the middle of July. I KNOW that it has rained every single day in August. It's raining again now. My rain gauge has been full to overflowing for a while now. I stopped looking at it a long time ago. We're something like ten inches over normal for this time of year. Now the thunder is kicking up its heels and dancing with the lightning across the sky. I expect another violent storm this evening. That southwest wind that's been coming in from the Gulf for two months now makes the days hot and humid. I mean REALLY hot and humid. Heat index 100 degrees plus. Then, when the sun starts down, Mother Nature throws a tantrum coupled with a hissy fit. I really wish I had planted a garden this year. I would NOT have needed to water it. I'm going to pour a glass of wine and go sit in my garage. Things are looking very interesting outside.
It rained again today. Just thought you might want to know. That makes about 30 days in a row. The mosquitoes are lovin' this shit.
The streak remains intact. It's raining again. I think this one is just a shower, not a storm. But rain is rain, and it still counts.
The limeOriginally published August 23, 2003 I took a big bite of lime off a Margarita when I was at Jekyll Island. The boys were drinking cherry Sprites at the tiki bar while taking a break from the water. They both made faces at me. "Daddy, isn't that SOUR? Quinton asked. "Yeah, it's sour," I replied. "But when I was your age, I used to peel a lemon and eat the whole thing at once. I would just pop the whole lemon in my mouth and chew. I could do it, but people puked watching me." "I could do that with a lime," Quinton said. "So could I," promised Jack. They bugged me the rest of the stay to go to the grocery store and buy them a lime, but I never did. Heh. They got their chances today. We went to the super Wal-Mart for necessary supplies, such as microwave popcorn and a new Playstation II game. I bought two limes while we were there. One for Quinton and one for Jack. When we got back home I peeled one. "Okay, kiddo. Show me what you've got," I said, as I handed Quinton a peeled, juice-dripping fresh lime. He popped the entire fruit into his mouth and started to chew. He lasted two seconds. He hit his knees, spit out the lime and made "ACK! ACK!" noises while tears ran down his tanned and freckled cheeks. The semi-masticated lime lay on the carpet between his legs while he seemed ready to die. Jack's eyes grew large. I almost choked myself to keep from laughing. "Okay, Jack. You ready for yours?" I asked. "No thank you, Mr. Rob. I'm not hungry right now," he said, while watching Quinton still making barf-noises and writhing on the floor at the time. "Okay. Your loss is my gain." I peeled the second lime and popped it in my mouth whole. I chewed and grinned while the boys watched in amazement. The explosion on my tongue was wonderful enough to give me goosebumps. That was one juicy, toe-curling sour lime, and I enjoyed every bit of it with a straight face because the boys were watching. They were amazed. "Ya'll are a couple of wussies." I told them. "I shoulda bought some more limes. I LIKE 'em." They went off to try the new Playstation II game after that. I'll bet that neither one EVER asks for a lime again.
Peanut butter and Ritz crackersOriginally published August 23, 2003 If there's a better quick snack in the world, I don't know what it is. The boys like it, too, with a glass of milk. I use Peter Pan peanut butter. I remember reading in Consumer Reports years ago that Peter Pan scored really high in insect parts and rodent dung when it was tested against other brands. Maybe that's what makes it taste so good. The boys don't mind the bug-parts and rat-shit. Neither do I. It tastes damn good on a Ritz.
October 23, 2007My mamaOriginally published August 24, 2003 I took the boys over to see mama today. We stopped and bought a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken with all the fixings on the way. I spilled the goddam gravy on Mama's kitchen table as I was lathering up my mashed potatoes. I made a mess, but my Aunt Peggy cleaned it up. Aunt Peg and Uncle Virgil are visiting to keep an eye on my 92 year-old grandmother while my mama undergoes chemo and radiation therapy. She's got a pesky case of cancer that won't rub off. She had me sign a lot of papers today giving me access to her bank accounts and personal financials. My brother signed them all last weekend. I don't want my mama's money. I want my mama. She ran a marathon when she was 50 years old. She taught me how to farm. She took me in and cared for me when I had nowhere else to go after the Bloodless Cunt threw me out of MY HOUSE and the doctors cut up my guts. She's put up with a lot of shit from me over the years and she still loves me as much as I love her. The chemo has made most of her hair fall out, but my mama is a GOOD-LOOKING bald-headed lady. That fact is not surprising. She was a baby-doll when she was young. My dad was a lucky man. I am lucky, too. I had a father who taught me to be a real man and a mother that I woudn't trade for the all riches of the world. A lot of kids never have that experience. I did. Bejus smiled upon me when I was born. My mama feels good and remains optomistic. 15% of people with the cancer she has survive for five years or more. She says long odds are excuses for losers. And she is a WINNER. She looks good bald-headed in a baseball cap, too. I wasn't going to blog about my mama, but I become really emotional on Sunday evenings. Quinton is gone. I'm alone in the Crackerbox. I feel like shit. So, I wrote this post.
My DadOriginally published August 24, 2003 I was over at my parent's house one day and my dad said, "Watch this. That dog is about to shit in my yard." Sure enough, the 90-pound rascal made a special stop and pinched a large loaf right in the front yard. He scampered off happy after that. My dad said, "I don't have to put up with this. I've talked to those people a BUNCH OF TIMES and they just don't listen." He went to the garage and got a shovel. He scooped up the dog-loaves from the front yard. Then, he strolled down to the neighbor's house and rang the doorbell. When they opened the door, he said, "I believe that this belongs to YOU", and pitched the shovel full of dogshit into their foyer. He turned around and walked home after that. The dog never shit in his yard again. My dad was one hell of a man. He didn't take shit from man nor beast. He helped raise me. Does it show?
October 22, 2007Old friendsOriginally published October 22, 2003 I saw Recondo 32 and his lovely wife, Georgia, today. They came back from Clinton, South Carolina this morning and the funeral they attended there. I cooked them sausage and eggs for breakfast. Recondo and I talked about dealing with the death of your father. Georgia tried to wreck my computer. I am going to kill her one of these days over that CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! crap she does when she gets her hand on a mouse. No clue, but fast finger. At least I ADMIT that I don't know shit about computers. She won't do that. We sat on the back porch under a bright blue sky and drank a couple of beers. Recondo told me to buy stock in the Southern Company because of the excellent dividends it pays. Georgia told me about teaching kindergarten students to sing "La, la la... whatever." I told HER to keep her hand off my mouse for the rest of her life and to STAY AWAY from my computer. She just smiled. "Honey, you know that you WANT ME to touch your mouse," she said, that hussy woman. She was fucking with me. She'll find some way to break my ceiling fan from the computer. I KNOW her. She ain't real good at technology. Of course, she MIGHT be good at handling my mouse. I'll have to ask Recondo about that. They've gone back home now. I'm going to perform intensive study on my new laptop to see if I can figure out how to operate the damn thing.
HA!Originally published October 21, 2003 I just got a call from a person of the female persuasion who wants to buy me lunch today. I think she is worried about me. I'm going out to eat, but I'm buying. Chivalry is not dead. @11:05 AM Ha! BWHAHAHAHA!!! Okay, I had a LONG lunch yesterday. I am totally rotten sometimes... but I can't help being myself. When one thing leads to another, I just go along for the ride. My head hurts this morning. What day is it?
October 21, 2007PicturesOriginally published October 20, 2003 I have a box of pictures that the BC finally gave me almost two years after our divorce. She carefully culled every picture of HERSELF out of there, which leaves me something that resembles her memory of our marriage. It never happened. I remember when we bought our first house and paid ourselves out of incredible debt one month at a time. I remember painting white the "Bat Cave," which was the paneled den, with two coats of Kilz and two coats of white paint. We ripped up that nasty carpet and laid down tile all the way to the kitchen. We both had turf burns on our knees after that. We drank a bottle of wine and made love on a blanket on the kitchen floor when we were finished. She doesn't remember that. It never happened. She wanted a baby. We started working on that project. I rented a room at the Hyatt Hotel on River Street so that we could eat, drink and be merry at the Seafood Festival without worrying about driving home afterward. She started her period that day and cried on the balcony of our hotel room as if somebody was dead. I told her that we would get it right sooner or later. I enjoyed the practice. We got it right one month later. She doesn't remember that. It never happened. When she was pregnant with Quinton, I made moo-cow noises at her a few times when her belly was huge. She remembers THAT. I was such an asshole. But she doesn't recall the nights I slept with my head on her belly and talked to my son while he kicked me in the face from inside of her. She doesn't remember the songs I sang to him before he was born. She doesn't remember that 4:00 AM to 8:30 PM day when Quinton was born and I was with her the entire time, THEN went out to buy her a 12-piece fish dinner from Captain D's because she didn't like hospital food. That never happened. She never fucked around on me, moved an unemployed dope-smoker into my house and behaved like a bloodless cunt, either. That never happened. A whole lot of my life never happened. I've got pictures to prove it.
My childrenOriginally published October 20, 2003 I named both of my children. I didn't know Samantha's sex before she was born, so I had two names picked out. She was going to be "Samantha Lynn" if she came out female or "Steven Robert" if she were a boy. She ended up being Samantha, but she was bound to have an alliterative name. I like alliteration. I knew that Quinton was a boy when he was still rolling around in his mama's belly. The doctor caught him just right on an ultrasound and did a freeze-frame with my boy's little pecker sticking out. The doctor's office put circles and arrows on that freeze-frame and had a caption, saying "IT'S A BOY!!" I was delighted about that fact, but I wanted to give my son a unique name. I'm not talking about a ridiculious name, such as Dewwanton D'nay or Urethera Clitoris that some black parents enjoy cursing their children with. I've never understood that crazy shit. Goddam. Give your child a name he or she can spell and pronounce, for crying out loud. What is "Tiger" Woods' given name? It's ELDRIDGE! No wonder he goes by the name of Tiger. Would YOU want to go through life being called Eldridge? I've been stuck with the name "Smith" all my life. There wasn't much I could do about that fact except give my boy a name OTHER THAN ROBERT that wouldn't have 24 different variations in the goddam phone book. I never wanted my boy to answer crazy phone calls in the middle of the night from people trying to find somebody who AIN'T YOU and get mail intended for other people the way I have done all my life. I am Robert Smith, son of Robert Smith, who was a son of the Robert Smith before him. My brother snuck in there somewhere and was named David. I counted heads when I named my boy. He was #5. Quinton means "Fifth Son." I also read a lot of William Faulkner during my days as an English Lit major and I always liked that name. It's very Southern. Quinton Robert Smith. If you don't like that name, fuck you. I put a lot of thought into it before I gave it to my boy.
October 20, 2007SunriseOriginally published october 17, 2003 I like to watch the eastern sky in the morning as a new day is born. The light creeps over the horizon and spills color all over the vanishing darkness of night. Then, the sun peeks up looking huge and bright. Orange at first, it slowly rises and changes to yellow, then to blinding white. The birds sing and the morning breeze feels good on my face. The diurnal course continues, the way it has since the dawn of time. A new day. A new adventure. Another page turned in the book of my life. I like sunrises.
Things that matter to meOriginally published October 20, 2003 * I always keep my fingernails and toenails trimmed and clean. I can't stand hoary nails on anybody, especially not me. * I wash my hands a lot. I think that habit comes from working for 24 years in a chemical plant, where I kept my hands in all kinds of shit. * I like to go barefoot. Hell, I like to go NEKKID, but the neighbors might complain if I went outside the way I walk around my house most of the time. But nobody demands that I wear shoes outside, so usually I don't. * I enjoy being around children because they combine the best and the worst humanity has to offer. They are innocent, yet conniving. They are foolish but determined to fool YOU. They have boundless energy but sleep like concrete blocks when they fall out. They belive in magic and Santa Claus. They make me feel good. * I love the sea. I've snorkled a lot, yet I've never learned to scuba-dive. I want to try that. Hell, if this bastard can do it, I can. * I miss the body I once had. I was young and strong and I NEVER got tired. My hair was dark and my energy was inexhaustable. I feel like an old fart today. * I like violent thunderstorms. I've weathered a few on top of a mountain where the rain fell in sheets and hailstones pelted my head. The thunder rocked the ground and the lightning lit up the sky. I managed to survive those storms and I still keep a lawn chair in my garage so I can sit there and watch the lightning to this day. I like seeing Mother Nature all pissed off. * I once drank breast-milk from a lactating woman. I just wanted to try it. For the hell of it. The milk was warm and really didn't taste that good. But I enjoyed the experience. * I'll try almost anything once, but I don't believe that I want to jump out of an airplane. *OR ride a motorcycle. * There are some things I simply refuse to do.
Supply runOriginally published October 17, 2003 I laid in provisions for the weekend today. I went to Wal-Mart and bought a case of Mountain Dew and a fresh box of wine. I also bought a 2" thick ribeye steak, which I grilled and scarfed a couple of hours ago. I selected a big baking pan for the ribs I'll cook tomorrow and a set of knives that just looked really cool. I stopped by Randall's Liquor store on the way home and bought three cartons of cigarettes and a bottle of vodka. I am set for a while now; therefore, it's time for another recipe: Acidman's Baby-Back Ribs * Defrost the ribs the day before you intend to cook them, or cook them as soon as you get home from the grocery store. Either way, pour all that bloody, nasty juice that comes out of them all over the meat. * Preheat your oven to 220 degrees. * Put a "rub" on the ribs. I use a 50-50 combination of soy and worchestershire sauce to wet them down, then I apply by hand a generous dosage of salt, black pepper, red pepper, garlic powder and Cajun's Choice blackened seasoning. * When the oven is up to temperature, put the ribs on a baking pan, cover them loosely with aluminium foil and let them bake. * Let them bake on that low heat all day long. Your kitchen will smell wonderful. * About an hour before you are ready to eat, light a fire on the barbecue grill and take the ribs out of the stove. Gently lay them on the hot grill and apply barbecue sauce generously. (I make my own, but I highly recommend Johnny Harris or B.S. Muthah's for the true taste of Southern barbecue.) * Make a big salad, some pork and beans and home-fried potatoes while the ribs cook just long enough to brown the barbecue sauce and pick up some charcol flavor. * If you follow this recipe, the ribs will try to fall apart as you remove them from the grill. Handle your tongs carefully. GENTLY remove that beautiful meat and cut it into two-rib sections. Pile them high on a big plate, lay the tongs on top and tell your guests to dig in. * Serve extra barbecue sauce on the side and put TWO ROLLS of paper towels on the table. This meal can be messy, as it should be. It is goddam good, too. I am going to do that tomorrow. Too bad you're not invited. October 19, 2003 I like doing things that I am really good at doing. After 51 years of life I HAVE learned to become REALLY good at a few things. Some involve work. Some are sexual. Some involve gardening and planting grass. And SOME involve cooking. I am a damned good cook. I started flipping hamburgers when I was 14 years old and I worked a grill for a long time after that. Yesterday, I fed two of my friends a delicious meal and I had no doubt at all about how it was going to taste before it was done. I knew what I was doing. The ribs fell off the bone. I sauteed some Portabella mushrooms and served them with with a garlic and ranch-dressing dip. I made a fresh salad and a succotash of corn and lima beans. I cooked home-fried potatoes that were better than anything McDonald's ever served. I had a nice bottle of wine and a some gourmet beer for dessert. A good time was had by all.
DeathOriginally published February 23, 2005 I'm not afraid of dying. In fact, as sickly as I've been lately I might have considered a sudden heart attack in my sleep a fucking blessing. Life is difficult to live sometimes. I don't claim to know what it all means. People have been dying for centuries and they'll keep on doing it. It's "Earth's diurnal course." It's the way things go. Very few of us (if ANY) will be remembered in history books or have a statue of our likeness carved in the Town Square. We'll live, we'll die and the world will pretty much forget about us--- in The Big Picture, anyway. I've been doing a lot of thinking about this subject lately. Even when you're gone, family keeps you alive. LOVE keeps you alive. In my living room, I have a picture of my father's father. I never knew the man, because he died when my daddy was 12 years-old. But I often ponder that picture and wonder what he must have been like. I haven't forgotten him, even though I never met him. When you die surrounded by family, you don't really die. Your immortality is standing all around you. No, you won't make the history books and nobody is going to carve your statue in the town square. But that doesn't matter. A long time from now, a little boy or a little girl will ponder a picture of an ancestor, pretty much unknown and forgotten. But that child WILL KNOW who it was, and I hope that they do like I did. Ponder that picture. Wonder what that person must have been like. Never forget them. If you do that, they never die.
October 19, 2007Random RamblingsOriginally published October 19, 2003 * I bought a laptop computer yesterday. It's got Wi-Fi and all kinds of bells and whistles. I'll probably never use the fucker. I just wanted one. * Recondo 32's dad "passed" yesterday. He still came over and ate barbecued ribs with me. He is headed off to Clinton, South Carolina for the funeral as soon as he wakes up on my couch this morning. * I watched a movie tonight where some wise woman explained The True Meaning Of Life life by saying, "Everything happens for a reason." I think that's the biggest load of bullshit I ever heard in my life. Goddam. Life has NO REASON to it. * If I had my life to live over again, I would study a subject I totally despised in college. You know, Accounting or Biology or Economics. Learning to do something that I hate to do would have taught me how to eat shit every day with a smile on my face and I've never been able to do that. * I have never seen a more beautiful sight than a nekkid woman who bends over to pick something up off the floor. * I like pretty red toenails, but I'll admit that I believe HER EYES are the most attractive part of a woman's body. Nice tits come in a close second, but I still adore a woman with interesting eyes. * I believe that puberty hit ME harder than it did most other teenagers. * I want to write a novel about a blogger who meets the love of his life on the internet. I would like to live that story, too. * I want to see the Grand Canyon. Okay, that's it for now.
Easy RiderOriginally published October 18, 2003 I made some microwave popcorn and watched Easy Rider on cable TV last night. Damn! I went spiralling back in time. I first saw that movie when I was a jockstrap football player in 1969 and it depressed the shit out of me. I was down in the dumps for days afterward. I thought that the movie made the South look bad but I had to admit to knowing a few pure-assed red-necks who WOULD have fired a shotgun out of a pickup truck at some long-haired hippie on the road. I had never smoked marijuana at the time and I never expected to in my life. Two years later, I had a Fu Manchu Moustache, hair that I could gather into a pony tail and I watched that movie again at a drive-in. I was in a 1962 Dodge Dart and the dope-smoke was as thick as London Fog in there. The movie still depressed the shit out of me. I haven't smoked dope in years. My hair is short now. But I took an adventure on the Wayback machine last night and I have a few observations that I want to share. * That movie is terribly dated. Nobody says "groovy" anymore. * That movie also has the best fucking soundtrack ever. Period. I will brook no argument on that fact. Bejus! Just listen to it! * Jack Nicholson was outstanding as the drunken lawyer in his gold football helmet. My drinking buddies and I STILL do that chicken-wing wave with one arm and go "NICK...NICK...NICK... SWAMP!' when we're hitting the tequila bottle. We talk about Venusians beaming back at us, too. * Dennis Hopper had the best role of his life as "Billy." He brought just the right amout of craziness, suspicion, hostility and loyalty to that part. He was so good that he DESERVED to die in the end. * The idea of dropping acid at Marti Gras in a cemetary with a couple of hookers has always fascinated me. * I thought Karen Black was beautiful in her scenes. I just wanted her to get nekkid. * I never wanted to own a motorcycle, but I HAVE wanted to make a cross-country trip after watching that movie. Maybe now's my chance. I'll be going east to west, but WTF? I've never seen the Grand Canyon and I've never stared up at the top of a Giant Redwood. I've never thrown my body into the Pacific Ocean. I've never seen the Golden Gate Bridge. Life is short. If you don't get it while you can, it's gone forever. I am over half a century old. I need to get busy.
ChickensOriginally published October 17, 2003 Chickens are the nastiest birds in the world. They'll shit in their food and water, they will cannabalize their dead and they'll fuck non-stop all day. That's what chickens do. I know. I once raised them. I had 28 hens and four roosters. "Foghorn" was a Rhode Island Red and cock of the walk. He didn't take any shit from anybody in the chicken coop and he was always willing to drill a hen. I also had "Slick Red," who stayed in the rafters most of the time, until he saw Foghorn occupied with drilling. Then, Red would swoop down and get some, too. If Foghorn noticed him, Red always flew back to sit in the rafters before he got his ass handed to him. He usually got some pussy first, because chickens don't take very long when they are pasasionate. I don't think the hens knew what hit them sometimes. I miss my chicken coop. I got about 12 eggs every day out of there and a fresh egg is different from what you buy in the grocery store. The yolks are more yellow and they stand up higher when you cook them over-easy. The eggs are more yellow and fluffy if you scramble them. But be careful. If you have a "setting hen." you may find an egg that you THINK is fresh and crack it to discover an embryonic chicken inside. That's kinda disgusting on a Saturday morning. It's not as bad as finding your wife in bed with another man on a Thursday night, but what the fuck? We've got roosters, hens and cunts in the world. They all do what they do. October 18, 2003 Let me tell you how I became a chicken-farmer. I had Foghorn and two wore-out hens that came with the mini-farm in the coop. I also had about 10 free-range chickens that ran around the place, shit where they wanted and screwed when they pleased until we got Jingles, the Death-Dog, who killed and ate every one of them. My favorite free-range chicken was one I named "Lonesome George" because he always stayed off by himself. The other chickens picked on him when I went out to feed them. I felt sorry for George. He was a geek chicken. Jingles started picking off the chickens one by one and slathering guts and feathers all over the yard when she was six months old. That goddam dog was completely feral and no amount of ass-whippin' was going to cure her. I just got used to burying half-eaten chickens and listening to the BC excuse the dog's behavior. "She's just a puppy!" Lonesome George was the last to go because he stayed off by himself all the time. But he made a fatal mistake one day. He wandered into the yard as he crowed for a handout. All the competition was gone by then, and he wanted me to feed him some corn. Jingles spotted George and took off at a gallop. George RAN, the dumbfuck! I never understood that. George slept in a tree every night. He FLEW up to his roost. Did he fly when Jingles was after his ass? NO! He tried to outrun a dog that could outrun most greyhounds. I was on the back porch yelling, "Fly, George! Fly!" and the birdbrain just kept running until Jingles caught him and ate most of him. I beat the shit out of Jingles, but she never paid any attention to that. The dog was feral. I buried what was left of George in the back yard, then ordered 48 biddies from a chicken catalogue. Yes, you can buy Mail Order Chickens. The BC and I picked them out and we really didn't have much of a yardstick to go by. We wanted some "Easter Egg" hens, which lay pastel blue eggs. She wanted some Vietnamese "Mop-Top" chickens just because she thought that they were unique. I wanted a couple of bantam roosters just because they are little and mean, like me. We checked off the proper blocks, sent off a check and waited. One week later, I was watching the news on television one Saturday morning when the phone rang. A woman in total panic called from the Effingham County Post Office to alert me that my chickens had arrived. She explained that she got off work at noon that day and she was terrified that the chickens would die if I didn't pick them up right away. I had no idea where the Effingham County Post Office was. I asked if she also had a delivery for Susan LaFave. She did. So, I called Sue. "Sue, our chickens are at the Post Office. Can YOU go pick them up? That lady down there is kinda insistent." Sue took off down the dirt road in her SUV and was back in about 45 minutes. We had ordered from the same catalogue. I had 48 little, chirping biddies with their heads poking out of a cardboard chicken-holder. They smelled richly of chickenshit. How they were shipped from where they came from all the way to me is a mystery I'll never solve. But I had them, all alive. The BC and I kept the biddies in a spare room under a sunlamp until the stench they created was too powerful to handle. We had to move them outside. I walled off a section of the chicken coop with fine-mesh wire and put the little shits in there. That worked well for a couple of weeks until the dumbfucks learned to fly. The foolish ones would go over the wire and into the coop, where Foghorn waited to murder them, or they would go over the wire and out of the fence, where Jingles waited to murder them. I lost 10 chickens to such kamikaze dumbassery. I ended up with 28 hens, four roosters and a lot of dead chickens. What the hell. You can buy a biddy for less than a dollar. I got a lot of fresh eggs out of the deal and I became accustomed to the sound of crowing in the morning. Everybody should raise chickens at least once in life. You'll learn why chickens are called "bird-brains."
October 18, 2007Mistakes you learn fromOriginally published October 17, 2003 I was twelve years old and playing in the woods with my friends. All of a sudden, I really needed to take a dump. I thought about it. I wasn't going to run through the trees, mount my bicycle and ride two miles back to my house. I probably would have shit my pants before I made it all the way home. I decided to shit right where I was. I did well, bucked up against a pine tree and keeping the crap off my bare feet. But I made a horrible mistake once my business was finished. I wiped my young ass with a handfull of SPANISH MOSS. For those unfamiliar with Spanish Moss, it's that gray, beard-looking fungus that hangs from live oaks all over Savannah. It makes good asswipe except for one small problem. Every goddam redbug and chigger in southeast Georgia LOVES to make a home in Spanish Moss. The only thing they like better is climbing out of that moss to infest a 12 year-old boy's ass. Did you ever watch a dog drag his ass over the carpet, doing that scratch-ass thing that dogs do? You should have seen ME for the next two weeks after the moss incident. Bejus! I thought I was gonna die. I had more chiggers per square inch around my privates than you could count. I've never wiped my ass again with Spanish Moss after that day.
My grassOriginally published October 17, 2003 I had nothing but weeds and sand in my yard when I purchased the Crackerbox. It looked like Fido's ass. I went to the seed & feed store and bought five pounds of centipede grass seed and a little hand-cranked spreader. I tilled my front yard and along both sides of the house. (I decided to leave the woods where they are in my back yard, because I can walk around nekkid without worrying about shocking a neighbor who spies me in the kitchen.) I spread the grass seed. I then watered and worshipped, but the grass seed didn't do shit. My yard still looked like Fido's ass. I gave up on it. We had a lot of rain this year. I didn't set out a sprinkler all summer long and I have grass growing everywhere now. I'm talking about REAL CENTIPEDE GRASS, with long runners spreading out all over the place. My Fido's ass is turning into a LAWN! The centipede is choking out the bahia grass and the thistles that once infected my property. It looks GOOD. I went through a spell when I didn't care what my home looked like. I didn't give a shit about much back then. But I'm starting to take some pride in how pretty my lawn is now. Maybe I'll plant some flowers next spring.
Hell, yeah!Originally published October 17, 2003 I'm in on this contest and my blog has the perfect title. Here is MY favorite cocktail: A GUT RUMBLE 1) Make your own moonshine. Distill it on the back porch and catch it in Mason jars. 2) Put a quart of that skullbuster in the freezer for a day or two. 3) Remove jar and pour two fingers of that cold likker into a clear glass. 4) Drink it down all at once. Enjoy the fire in the belly, the tingle in the toes and the feeling of your hair standing on end. 5) Repeat as necessary until you are face-down on the floor or arrested for running around nekkid and howling at the moon. That's an Acidman recipe. But ALWAYS remember THIS: ALCOHOL WARNING Due to increasing products liability litigation, American liquor manufacturers have accepted the FDA's suggestion that the following warning labels be placed immediately on all varieties of alcohol containers:
October 17, 2007SunriseOriginally published October 17, 2003 I like to watch the eastern sky in the morning as a new day is born. The light creeps over the horizon and spills color all over the vanishing darkness of night. Then, the sun peeks up looking huge and bright. Orange at first, it slowly rises and changes to yellow, then to blinding white. The birds sing and the morning breeze feels good on my face. The diurnal course continues, the way it has since the dawn of time. A new day. A new adventure. Another page turned in the book of my life. I like sunrises.
Shift workOriginally published October 16, 2003 I did a lot of shift work during my career, and most of it was the seven-day Southern Swing rotation. That probably is the worst schedule in the world to work because your internal time-clock stays fucked up no matter what shift you are on. Start with a 3-11 shift on Wednesday and work that for seven days. Get off at 11:00 Tuesday night and be back at work at 11:00 Thursday night for seven days of 11-7 shifts. Get off the following Thursday morning at 7:00 and be back at work at 7:00 on Saturday morning for seven days of 7-3. Try that shit for several years of your life. It will make you old before your time. I worked that schedule for a long time and became as accustomed to it as I could, although it always sucked. I had a wife and child to care for, and bills to pay. We needed the paycheck to keep the family unit afloat. I did what I had to do. When I was promoted to a straight daylight job, the transition to regular hours fucked me up worse than shiftwork did. I had to learn to sleep on schedule and get up early every morning. That shit almost killed me. Shift work is difficult to handle, but getting OFF shift work after you've done it for a long time is even worse. That's a severe readjustment to endure. I spent a year getting used to it. I don't believe that I will do shift-work again. I could work the hours. That's no problem. I just don't want to do it. I don't have a wife and children to care for anymore. I have only ME to worry about now. I don't have a whole lot of obligation hanging over my head today. That makes it easy to say "no" to things you don't want to do.
I write better than I talkOriginally published October 16, 2003 I have a Southern accent. I drop the "g" off the end of gerunds, so I say talkin,' climbin,' smokin,' and runnin' instead of speaking standard American English the way Dan Rather does as he lies his ass off on the CBS Evening News. I say y'all. I have 'druthers. I know how far yonder is. I know how to see 'bout that. Whatchadoon is a real word to me. That's the reason I don't like to talk on the phone. I sound like a goddam hick. I AM a goddam hick, but I am educated and I can communicate well when I want to. Where I live, everybody understands me just fine when I say, "Whatchadoon? I'd 'druther ya not go 'bout it that way. Lemme show ya sumpin. Thadded be better, doncha think?" That's Southern English and it works well in person-to-person communication. Try that shit over the phone when you're talking to a yankee. I doesn't work. The yankee gets all nasal, I talk Southern and the next thing you know, we may as well be from foreign countries. That's why I would prefer to write to someone I don't know. I can appear to be halfway intelligent on paper. I've done a lot of thinking about this communication gap. I COULD be like the BC and talk like a yankee at work and sound like the biggest hayseed on the farm at Quinton's football games, but I'm not a chameleon, able to change my skin color and blend into the scenery the way she can. Everything that woman does is an act and she wears many masks. I'm not built that way. Like Popeye, I am what I am and that's all that I am. Sometimes, that's not the right way to be. Honesty is not always the best policy. Just ask a lizard.
October 16, 2007Booing and cheeringOriginally published October 16, 2003 Did you ever go to a home game for YOUR football team and boo the shit out of them? I did, many times. I watched the Atlanta Falcons play for the SUCK years. I booed a lot back then. I've never booed my beloved Georgia Bulldogs, although I was tempted during the 33-0 shutout Kentucky handed them in 1977. Prince Charles attended that game and showed up on the field at halftime to accept a Kentucky jersey from one of those bastards who were kicking Bulldog ass that day. I booed The Prince of Wales. As an American, I thought that I had the right to boo the Prince. I have the right to boo anybody I want to boo. That's called First Amendment freedom of speech. So what if that guy is heir to the throne of England? I am a free man. I don't genuflect to ANYBODY.
Autumn leavesOriginally published October 15, 2003 The trees really haven't started to change colors yet where I live. The weather was chilly today, with a north breeze this morning. A few more days like this one and the leaves will change fast. I'm hoping to see a lot of color at Blood Mountain. I once hiked the Cuhutta Wilderness on the Jack's River Trail at the height of autumn. I've never seen anything more beautiful in my life. The woods were more spectacular than if someone with a case of day-glow paint had run crazy through there and sprayed every one of the trees. The colors! The beauty! It was breathtaking to see. I stopped several times on ridges just to look around and ABSORB the colors. I never felt more alive in my life. I hope I don't miss the pretty leaves this year. Georgia says that she is coming up on Wednesday night, and she will hike with me. (Recondo 32 is too goddam decrepit and lazy to get off the couch and walk farther than the bathroom.) We're going to go see waterfalls. Maybe she'll climb Blood Mountain with me. Maybe we'll see the mountains in all their color. Or maybe we'll sit around the cabin and do nothing. Who cares? I'm on vacation.
A trip to rememberOriginally published October 15, 2003 You know what happens when you grow old? You start to remember good times you had with people who are dead now. I have pictures of my friend, Steve, all over my house. Prostate cancer killed him and we once laughed about all the crap we went through together. We laughed right up until Steve died. I saw my friend destroyed by a wasting disease while I walked away from the same thing with a few months in diapers, 18 months of impotence, then a bionic dick implant. I am alive and Steve is dead. That just ain't fair. I miss Steve. We once climbed all the way to the top of Hangover Mountain, right after Steve fell in love with Cindy. I wanted to puke on the rocks when he started telling me how much he loved that woman. Bejus! She was such a goddess! He was going to marry her. I told him "FOR GODSAKES DON'T DO IT!!" Aw, crap. I was best man at his wedding. I still have the pocketwatch he gave me that day, and I keep it wound right here on the computer desk. I appreciate that watch. I've learned one thing about friendships. I don't care how tight you think you are with someone, pussy is more powerful than you are. Accept that fact, because you'll never change it. I guess I always wanted to be a little boy and camp out with my friends forever. I wanted to drink wine from that goat-skin bag that Steve always carried in his pack and I wanted to hand him an occasional cigarette, even though he didn't smoke unless he was drinking wine from a goat-skin bag. Those were good days. I'm too old and stiff to climb that mountain anymore. But I know that I left some damn fine memories up there.
October 15, 2007Bearding the lionOriginally published October 15, 2003 I am not a big man. I am 5' 7" tall and I weigh about 150 pounds now. I was an inch taller and 30 pounds heavier two years ago, when I lifted weights and farmed a lot. I thought that I was a pretty rugged dude. I don't feel as rugged as I once did. I believe that I am SMARTER now than I ever was, up to a point. My daddy once told me that I was "sharp," but I would never be "smart" until I had lived long enough to understand the difference between the two. He also told me that I had a real problem with authority figures, because I liked to "beard the lion in his den," and that shit would catch up with me some day. I thought that he was wrong. I believed that my willingness to "beard the lion" was a feature, not a bug. I suppose that some of my attitude comes from a "little man" complex, but a lot of it comes from never wanting to be second-best. When you're small and you aren't blessed with the physical assets other people possess, you just have to TRY HARDER than they do. I've done that all my life. I was raised on hard work. My son is not going to be a big boy in size. Who cares? Do you know what makes you small? THINK SMALL and you always will be. Think BIG and you CAN be. And if you think big, you must be willing to beard the lion in his den. Otherwise, you're a politician, not a doer. Some people can't tell the difference.
Go figureOriginally published October 15, 2003 I sent Earthlink a nasty email about a week ago, because they have been sending me bills in the mail that I pay on time, but ALSO charging my credit card for the same service. (I just looked carefully at my credit card bills. My bad.) I wrote them an email explaining that I didn't have two accounts and I believed that I was being double-charged for their services. I never received a reply via email. What I DID receive via snail-mail today, however, was a nasty dun-note telling me that my account was in arrears, past due and my deadbeat ass better pay up before they disconnected me. They SAY that they've attempted to contact me by email, but if they did, I have no email to show for it. I've called the fuckers three times now and I get cut off every time after I dance like an organ-grinder's monkey around their touch-tone customer service line. WTF is that? Those bastards owe ME money, not the other way around. Grrr... Why does simple shit get complicated sometimes?
I agree, sort ofOriginally published October 15, 2003 I believe that this post is overly pedantic [Ed. Blog seems to no longer exist.], but she does raise a valid point. I know several people who have college degrees but write as if they were barely literate. I don't claim to be great at spelling (as people who read this blog regularly already know) but I'm writing a blog here, for crying out loud. It ain't like I'm getting paid for it or I get a letter grade on every post. I am simply too damned lazy to look up words that I don't spell regularly, so I just take a wild guess at them. If the result looks TOO obviously fucked-up, I'll try to substitute a word that I CAN spell. I don't do that "wild guess" thing if I am writing business correspondence. I'll check my spelling every time. Business correspondence is important literature. This blog is not. I also commit several Crimes Against Grammar regularly on this blog that I would not put in formal communication. I frequently address the reader as "you." For example, you might read a sentence like this on my page. "One might read a sentence such as this one on my page", is proper diction, but it feels STILTED to me. I don't like feeling stilted. I prefer the vernacular. I sometimes begin a sentence with the words "There are..." or "It is...", which are both no-nos. I use the word "ain't" on occasion. I also use potty-mouthed language and write a few run-on sentences here and there. I don't call those lapses of mine examples of poor grammar. I call them STYLE. I know better than to write diction-impared sentences, but I write them anyway. It's my blog. I can do whatever I want to here. I DO have a few pet peeves, however; some mistakes are unforgivable. 1) KNOW the difference between "affect" and "effect." 2) DON"T write "it's" when you mean "its." 3) STOP before you write "your" when you mean "you're." 4) BE DRAGGED OFF AND SHOT for confusing "there" and "their." Okay, there's my rant on grammer. I DO find it odd that the person who authored the post that I linked to once wrote everything on her page as if the "CAPS" key was missing from her keyboard. Yeah, I remember, darlin.' That's another one of my pet peeves. PUNCTUATE AND CAPITALIZE, dammit
October 14, 2007Good questionOriginally published October 14, 2003 Jay Solo posted a Question of the Week that I want to answer. Maybe my answer will explain something about who I am. Here is the question: Even if you are religious normally, pretend that we have learned there is no deity or anything along those lines. The prophets and such were all just men, whether deluded, imaginitive, or what. What we see is what we get, plus what we can't see that is more extensive and strange than we have yet imagined, however natural in origin. Once upon a time, a village of the MOOG tribe learned to move out of their caves and live in huts that they built from wood and thatch. They hunted and gathered for a while, until Moffer, a smart little boy, learned to save seeds and plant his own crop. He grew a lot of the sacred weed that the village elders made beer from and he became rich selling his crop to the drunkards. After that resounding success, EVERYBODY started growing his/her own crops. Life was good for the MOOG. Then, one night, a terrible thunderstorm decended upon the village. Lightning flashed from the dark sky and the ground trembled from the thunder. Everyone was frightened and the children screamed. "What can we do? What can we do?" asked the bravest hunters in the tribe. About that time, Alfonso woke up. Alfonso was a skinny, pock-marked skuzzbucket who never hit a lick at anything in his life but somehow managed to bum enough beer to get drunk unto unconsciousness every day. Men hated him and wimmen wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole. But Alfonso was smart, the way a rat is smart. He saw a golden opportunity in that thunderstorm. "I'LL SAVE US ALL!" he yelled, and ran outside to do a crazy dance amid the rain and the lightning. He figured that he had nothing to lose. If he got struck by lightning and killed on the spot, it was no big deal. His life sucked. So, he yoo-hooed and boo-hooed and howled at the sky. People watching were most impressed. The storm went away and nobody in the MOOG tribe was dead. Alfonso said, "You have ME to thank for that, because GOD listens to ME," and he became the very first priest in the world. The next time a thunderstorm came, Alfonso was so drunk that he slept through the whole thing. Orrg woke him up the next morning. "I need a favor, Mr. Priest, sir. My hut was hit by a lightning bolt last night and I never want that to happen again. Can you make my bad luck go away?" Alfonso assured Orrg that he could, but insisted on sleeping with Orrg's wife and taking the fattest pig from his herd as payment. Orrg reluctantly agreed. So, Alfonso screwed Orrg's wife, ate his fattest pig and went back to drinking beer. Another thunderstorm came, Orrg's hut was hit by lightning again and Orrg was pissed. He came to kill Alfonso for dicking out on a fair trade. "YOU GODDAM LIAR!" he said, while poking a spear into Alphonso's throat. But Alphonso was smart, the way a rat is smart. "I spoke to God and he told me that you were not sincere in your sacrifice. You hid your fattest pig and gave me the second best one. Then, your wife was a dud in bed. I did not receive what I was promised and God hurled down his wrath upon you. I didn't screw this up. YOU DID!" Orrg had to admit that everything the priest said was true. He DID hide the fattest pig. His wife WAS a dud in bed. "How do I make this up to you, Oh, Man of God?" Orrg asked. "I want your fattest pig and I want to screw your wife again," replied Alphonso. "And this time, she'd better give me a blow-job!" Orrg went back to his burned-out hut, beat the shit out of his wife and sent both her and his fattest pig over to Alphonso's place. The wife put out like a Las Vegas hooker and the pig was delicious. Orrg never had lightning strike his hut again. Some people might call that sheer coincidence, but Orrg believed in God after that. Alphonso got a lot of pussy and a lot of pork because other people starting believing, too. Pretty soon thereafter, we had the Catholic Church. Unlike Alphonso, a lot of Catholic priests prefer to screw your children rather than your wife. That's the only real difference I see between then and now. Man didn't invent God. Con-men did. That's what I think about religion.
Great heaviesOriginally published October 13, 2003 I don't know why, but I started thinking at work today about some of my favorite actors who always played sleazeballs in some of my favorite movies. Bruce Dern is probably my all-time favorite western bad-guy. I've seen him shot, hanged and killed dozens of times and he always came back for more. My favorite line in his entire career was in Hang 'em High when Bruce was part of the lynch mob fixing to hang Clint Eastwood. "Heh, heh, heh.. I want his WALLET!" Bruce Dern just had the teeth and the face and the feral grin to make me want to shoot him every time I saw him on the screen. I liked L.Q. Jones, Strother Martin, Dub Tailor and Warren Oates. I liked Jeremy Slate and Albert Salmi. Who was that one-eyed sucker who went from westerns to Bert Reynolds movies? Oh... Jack Elam. I remember now. I liked him, too. Claude Aikens wasn't bad a few times and Luke Askew is another one of my Unknown Favorites. Luke was in Easy Rider. Hell, Dennis Hopper did a fine job of playing a character named "Moon" in True Grit. If you want to go 'way back, we can talk about Dan Dureya. Slim Pickins and Ben Johnson were rodeo rodeo cowboys who learned to act. Neither one was very handsome, but Ben looked a lot better than chinless Slim. I liked both of them. I like Western movies. I am a American and that's my heritage. I worship John Wayne. I also worship the bit-part actors you never heard of who played in his movies. If I wanted to act today, being 51 years old, I damn sure should pick a character part to play. My leading man days are over. Yeah. I'll settle for a bit part now.
October 13, 2007Trust meOriginally published October 13, 2003 As a genuine pervert and a person who enjoys adventurous sex, I don't want to hear any more "uuugggghhhs!" about mentholated cough drops. If you've never tried them, you're missing the Midnight Train. Let me tell you how this works. For MEN: Put a Hall's Cough Drop in your mouth and work it around really good until you feel mentholated coldness on your tongue when you draw in a breath. Then, go down on your woman. Keep the cough drop in your mouth, but use a lot of breath and tongue as your mentholated saliva annoints her nether regions. She'll curl her toes and cum like a mink in heat. For WIMMEN: Put a Hall's Cough Drop in your mouth, work it around really good, then go down on your man with the cough drop tucked away in your cheek. Be sure to use lots of breath. That REALLY accentuates the menthol. When you see his toes curl and he starts to scream for Bejus, you can either quit or get ready to swallow. That's up to you. That is an Acidman Handy Hint For Mentholated Sex. If you've never tried a Hall's Job, you should. If you think the entire idea of mentholated oral sex is disgusting, what the hell are you doing reading this blog? I'm giving good advice here. I don't claim to be rated "G."
Moody MondayOriginally published October 13, 2003 I've been in a pissy mood all day. Yeah, I know... I get in pissy moods a lot, but today was special. I just kept running into asswipes, barking moonbats, whining wussies, lazy bastards, brain-dead scrotum-wits, galloping cretins, walking canker sores, pucker-butted fucktards, idiots on a stick and plain old dumbasses all day long. Goddam! With so many defective units among us, I wonder how the human race stays at the top of the food chain. My day began with a whimper from that senile old fart andy Rooney, with the bushy eyebrows and the empty brain-pan. I have a 13" TV on my nightstand and CBS is the only channel it will receive. Therefore, I get a liberal dose of liberal news every morning to start my day. Mondays are always the worst day of the week because they replay Rooney's "60 Minutes" drooling from the night before. You might not think so from listening to me, but I like to be liked. Not only that, I like my country to be liked around the world and it isn't. Andy, I DON'T LIKE YOU!!! And I don't give a shit what the rest of the world thinks about my country. I damn sure ain't for kissing France's ass to make people "like" us. Fuck that. I wish President Bush would try to make this country less hated. He could do it if he set his mind to it. I TOLD you that the bastard was senile. Let's see if I understand his message. Our President should grovel a little bit in order to be "liked." We should give the corrupt, assinine, nutless fools at the UN hegemony over OUR COUNRTY to become "less hated." Andy, go pound sand. And wipe that slobber off your chin. When the president spoke at the United Nations, he came off as arrogant and it made all of us seem arrogant. We are a little arrogant, of course, and we ought to watch that. Yes, as the world's only superpower, we need to work hard at kissing unwashed asses to get along with the rest of the world. Clinton did a fine job of that. We still got 9/11, thanks largely to the fact that Clinton had a throbbing erection, but no balls. Andy, you puff-muffin, you're older than dirt and you still don't get it. In the political arena, I would much rather be feared and hated than treated like a beloved butt-boy. I would much rather be feared and hated than loved by people who want to fuck me blind. In a dog-eat-dog world, I want to be Tall Dog. The rest of the world may hate me and envy me, but that doesn't change the fact that they'll be looking up MY ASSHOLE when the sled goes down the trail, not the other way around. And if you think the United States of America should content itself with staring at UN assholes while some gelded bastard from Bumfuck, Neverheardofstan claims the lead spot in the traces, you need to be dragged off and shot. Goddam, man! Where did your brain go when you got old? It doesn't matter what I think, but I think like millions of Americans and they do matter. I was opposed to going into Iraq without the approval of the U.N. Things went well at first and I decided I was wrong and apologized. Andy, you are right. It doesn't matter what you think. You are an idiot. LOOK AT WHAT YOU JUST SAID! The UN is a namby-pamby organization of gutless wonders and the French and Germans were doing a lot of business with IRAQ in VIOLATION OF UN SANCTIONS. Yet, THESE are the people we need on our side. Andy, go to sleep. If you live much longer and keep blathering like this, you're going to shit all over your reputation the way Walter Cronkite is doing now. It won't bother ME, but it should bother you and Grandpa Walt. That's the first Fisking I've done in a while. It felt damn good. I TOLD you that I had a pissy Monday.
October 12, 2007A nightmareOriginally published October 12, 2003 Jack fell out early, so Quinton and I watched the Georgia Bulldogs slaughter the Tennessee Volunteers last night. We sat on the floor and ate popcorn while making "woof! woof! woof!" noises and giving each other high-fives every time Georgia made a great play. Yes, I have taught my boy to bark like a DAWG! I don't think Quinton had seen Georgia play before last night, but he is a huge fan of David Pollack now. Number 47 is his hero. That's a good thing. Quinton told me a lot of tall stories and outright lies about how good HE is at football, until I mentioned that I have watched him play every game he's had this year. He just explained the facts away by saying he's gotten a lot better since that 28-0 game I watched last Tuesday. I'll accept his story. The boy just wants me to be proud of him. He's got nothing to worry about in that department. I AM proud of him, whether he plays football or not. Bejus, but I miss him when he's gone. He is smart, he is good-looking and he is all boy. I love him so much that it makes my chest ache. Yesterday, all the neighborhood kids came over to bug me. I was elected to play MATH GAMES with the little shits. Here's how THAT works. Take a line of seven children, all about the same age, and ask them "what is five plus three times nine?" Quinton was first with the right answer almost every time. The boy is sharp. He was still wired at midnight last night and I had to make him lay down and go to sleep. He always sleeps on the couch when he stays at the Crackerbox. I believe that he thinks his bedroom is haunted. We went to Wal-Mart yesterday. I bought some essentials and a 25-inch Sanyo TV just because it was on sale for $149. I now have TWO televisions in my tiny living room. One is hooked up to the satellite dish and the other is hooked up to an antenna. I can multi-task now, which is a GOOD thing during football season. I dreamed last night that I went to Caruso's in Dalonega on November First and nobody showed up for the blog-meet. It ended up with just me and Recondo 32 sitting there drinking beer. I did most of the drinking and he said, "See? I TOLD YOU nobody likes your Cracker ass." I hope the blog-meet doesn't go the way it did in my dream.
itty bitty tittiesOriginally published October 11, 2003 I don't understand why wimmen worry so much about their tits. I went almost two years with a broke dick. Now THAT will fuck you up. I would have been happy with a LITTLE dick during those months of limpness. Hell, I stuck a hypodermic needle in my member to jump-start him during those days. I had a "fix-a-flat" kit. If someone marketed an "inflate my titties kit," would wimmen buy it? I shot my dick with elixer because that's the only way I could get it to work. Would wimmen do it just from vanity? ("I really want to impress this guy tonight. I'm going to take a couple of tit-shots before he picks me up for our date.") I don't care about how other men feel about this delicate and most lucious topic, but I am not a big-tit guy. I prefer wimmen with just a handfull. I like .45 caliber nipples, but I'm not crazy about huge knockers. As a matter of fact, I have known a couple of wimmen with almost NO KNOCKERS who were blessed with EXCELLENT NIPPLES, and I found them to be quite delightful in bed. Big tits just get in the way sometimes when you want to roll around and try different positions. I like a nice, round ass on a woman. I like pretty red toenails on pretty, feminine feet. I like to drink wine out of a woman's belly-button. I like to perform oral sex on a woman. I like to give nekkid massages. I like playing with finger-paint, whipped cream and mentholated cough drops. I don't care that much about big titties.
October 11, 2007Sheer ignoranceOriginally published October 11, 2003 Just go read the comments on this post about that terrible Booger-Man, "acid rain." Bejus! The most self-righteous people in the world are the blithering idiots among us. I live a place with a lot of "black water" creeks running through the woods. Whadda you think makes that water black? It's TANNIC ACID formed by all the leaves that fall from trees and decay in the slow-moving creek. That "polluted" water has a low pH but still makes for some fine bass and bream fishing. Power plants didn't put acid in the water. Mother nature did. Why do you suppose the Smokey Mountains were called "smokey" long before power plants were built in this country? Why are the Blue Ridge Mountains named for the haze that hangs over them most of the time? GODDAM TREES DID THAT, YOU ENVIRONMENTAL ASSHOLES!!! What really chaps my ass now is the fact that the same people who claim to be "protecting" the environment make it too expensive and too time-consuming to build clean power plants today. The idea of nuke plants sends environmentalists into apoplexy and they oppose construction of new gas or coal-fired plants with clean-burn technology; therefore, the old, dirty ones keep operating. Want to bitch about acid rain? Look in the mirror you environmentalist assh
DreamsOriginally published October 11, 2003 I dream vividly, in techicolor. I dream about having wanton sex, I dream about snakes and I dream about being able to spread my arms and fly. I dream about showing up at work nekkid. (Being NEKKID doesn't bother me becaue I look damn good nekkid, and I've walked around with no clothes on many times in Key West. I am disturbed by that dream because I can't wear my safety equipment.) I dream about falling when I can't spread my arms and fly. I've had a recurring dream for as far back as I can remember about falling from the rigging of an old sailing ship into a dark, angry, roiling sea. I started having that dream when I was a boy in Kentucky and the ocean was 500 miles away. I woke up screaming back then. I've had that dream so often that it doesn't frighten me anymore. When I dream it now, I KNOW that I'm dreaming and I KNOW what's going to happen. I just kinda go along for the ride, then wake up when I hit the water. I simply think, "There it was again." I had some new-age, crystal-gazer tell me that the dream was a glimpse at how I died once in a previous life. I think "The Highwayman" is a great song and I would LOVE to believe in reincarnation, but I don't. I believe that I simply have a vivid imagination and once, long ago, I saw something that triggered the image of an old sailing ship in a storm at night, with me falling from the rigging. I've dreamed about it ever since. What the hell. Maybe she was right. Maybe I AM on my second or third or 500th go-around in life. If so, I damn sure didn't learn much from my previous experience.
October 10, 2007ABC quizOriginally published October 10, 2003 A-ACT YOUR AGE: 51 That's better than a Friday Five, isn't it?
Geronimo! without a 'chuteOriginally published October 10, 2003 This is a very interesting read about people who jump off the Golden Gate Bridge. It's fairly long, but well worth reading. Try this for an appetizer: Every two weeks, on average, someone jumps off the Golden Gate Bridge. It is the world’s leading suicide location. In the eighties, workers at a local lumberyard formed “the Golden Gate Leapers Association”—a sports pool in which bets were placed on which day of the week someone would jump. At least twelve hundred people have been seen jumping or have been found in the water since the bridge opened, in 1937, including Roy Raymond, the founder of Victoria’s Secret, in 1993, and Duane Garrett, a Democratic fund-raiser and a friend of Al Gore’s, in 1995. The actual toll is probably considerably higher, swelled by legions of the stealthy, who sneak onto the bridge after the walkway closes at sundown and are carried to sea with the neap tide. Many jumpers wrap suicide notes in plastic and tuck them into their pockets. “Survival of the fittest. Adios—unfit,” one seventy-year-old man said in his valedictory; another wrote, “Absolutely no reason except I have a toothache.” It's a good article. It tells you what kills someone when they jump into the water from that height. It's kinda gross. LEAP at the chance to read it.
October 09, 2007Just thinkingOriginally published October 9, 2003 I watched a couple of ironheads at work today installing a hoist on an I-beam about 150 feet off the ground. They were tied off and wearing harnesses, but they didn't worry about falling. Their harness ropes stayed slack the entire time. They walked the beam, passed tools to each other and ate lunch up there on that narrow piece of steel. When they were finished eating, one of them laid down on his back on the beam and took a nap while the other one stood up to watch a big container ship sail down the Savannah River. Those crazy bastards. I would have shit my pants up there. I suppose your comfort zone depends on what you KNOW. When I ran the acid plant at work, that place scared a lot of people. I wasn't frightened of it, even though I was well aware of the dangers, but I KNEW what I was doing there. Those ironheads I watched today probably felt the same way about working at high altitude. They KNEW what they were doing. I become frightened today when I realize that I DON'T know what I'm doing. I don't run into that situation often anymore after living 51 years, but it happens sometimes. Today marks my two-year anniversary of my prostate surgery. That frightened me because I wasn't sure about what I was doing. Yes, October 9, 2001 is a day I will remember for the rest of my life. I wasn't really frightened then, but I've never been the same since. I was simply reconciled when I had the surgery, then I railed against the repercussions for a long time afterward. But it wasn't like crawling a beam 150'above the ground and doing grunt work. It was just a passing bad time. I am over that now.
The childrenOriginally published October 9, 2003 I got this delusional view of the world from a child today. At least I HOPE it was from a child. It may have been from a typical Californian. My science teacher said to find information on the webv about engergy. Why do you want to make eclectric from coal. Coal is bad way to do it. Acid rain is very harmful to the environment. Acid rain damages everything over a period of time because it makes the living things in the environment die. Acid rain affects the life in the water as well as the life on land. It is almost worse in water than on land because the fish that are in the water need the water to breathe. When the water gets polluted, then the fish get sick and end up dying. Please write back to say why you think it is a good idea.Thank you Jason. Jason, I hope with all my heart that someday you'll stop listening to the shit being pounded into your brain and learn to think for yourself. I don't have a lot of hope for you, because your all-wise and all-knowing teachers haven't taught you to write, punctuate or spell, but they've made you a farking EXPERT on the evils of coal burning power plants. Somebody needs to SLAP your mama and daddy for allowing that crime to occur. That that's what Public brainwashing School is all about today, isn't it?. Jason, I have a homework assignment for you. Search the web. Go to "Google" and plug in BACT. If that doesn't give you a lot of sources, try BEST AVAILABLE CONTROL TECHNOLOGY. Then get back with me on acid rain and the evils of coal-burning power plants. Jason, there is no excuse for being ignorant. You CHOOSE that path if you are easily led. You are listening to people who cut figures out of construction paper and made a college degree out of it. I've worked in a chemical plant for 24 years. Jason, who do YOU think really knows what's going on? Jason, I don't know how old you are, but I would like to talk to you some more. Write me at my email address on this page. Ask me any question you want and I'll answer the ones I can. If I can't answer, I'll point you to a place where you can find the answers. If you don't write me, I'll write YOU. We'll talk about coal and boilers and generators and scrubbers. After that, you'll be thrown out of school for DARING to challenge your dumbass teacher with facts about coal and boilers and generators and scrubbers. Well, face it, Jason. If your teacher WANTED you to know facts, he/she wouldn't be pumping your head full of bullshit at such an early age.
October 08, 2007The things I doOriginally published October 8, 2003 I throw a lot of my private life up on this blog. I get a lot of criticism for doing that, but I don't really care. There is no doubt in my mind that if I didn't have this blog to vent my emotions, I would have been dead a long time ago. I write what I feel like writing and I put up with the trolls, the hate-mail and the hurt feelings I cause. Wanna know MY attitude about it? Fuck 'em all. I don't call this site "Gut Rumbles" for nothing and I don't blog as "Acidman" by accident. I stay pissed off a lot. When I am pissed, I write about what has me pissed off. I don't worry about repercussions, because I should not be alive today. I had a fucking doctor tell me that. Everything that happens to me from here on out is either gravy on my grits or another load of bullshit dumped in my lap. Either way, I can handle it. I am free. Peering first-hand into the abyss and being hauled back from the edge will make you difficult to embarass in the future. I am far beyond worrying about what people think of me. I go to work, do my job and still like to see a blue sky over my head. That way, I can check the exhaust stacks for dust, and schedule a baghouse changeout if I see a contrail from one of the stacks. Goddam. That's what a blue sky means to me today. It's a good day to read the stacks. If my daughter is pissed at me, that's okay. She spent most of her life being pissed at me anyway. If my MAMA is pissed at me, that's okay, too. Hell, it won't be the first time I've caused that. Understand one simple fact if you read my site. I am incorrigable and guilt-free. Get used to it.
Stupidity knows no boundsOriginally published October 8, 2003 I've done a lot of backpacking and run into many wild critters, a few of which made me very nervous at the time. Wake up in a hammock in the middle of the night to the sound of something trying to drag your pack out of a tree, figure right away that it's a thieving racoon and yell, "GET OUTTA THERE!" while shining a flashlight on the perp. When you find yourself staring at the business end of a SKUNK in the spotlight, trust me... your blood runs cold. I've never encountered bear in the woods, but my friend Cop 3 did once. The bear never came in the tent, but he DID drag both packs out of the trees and off into the night, where he proceeded to destroy everything in them. My friend can tell a pretty good story about that night, because the partner he was with brought a big, fat summer sausage into the tent that night that made the entire tent smell like pepperoni. When the bear started snorting and growling around outside the tent, Cop 3 pulled out his pocketknife. "What the hell do you think you're going to do with THAT puny thing?" his partner asked. "You can't hurt a bear with a pocket knife!" "I ain't trying to hurt that bear," Cop3 replied. "But if it tries to come in ONE side of this tent, I'm going OUT the other." But, some people like to play "dancing with bears." They often end up as bear shit in the process. A California author and filmmaker who became famous for trekking to Alaska's remote Katmai coast to commune with brown bears has fallen victim to the teeth and claws of the wild animals he loved. They aren't called "wild animals for nothing." A self-proclaimed eco-warrior, he attracted something of a cult following too. Chuck Bartlebaugh of "Be Bear Aware,'' a national bear awareness campaign, called Treadwell one of the leaders of a group of people engaged in "a trend to promote getting close to bears to show they were not dangerous. Well, he surely proved his point, the fucking dipwit. Typical "eco-warrior" mentality in action. "He was kind of a goofy guy," Dixon said. "It took me a while to get in tune with him. His whole life was dedicated to being with the bears, or teaching young people about them. That's all he ever did. It was always about the bears. It was never about Timothy. He had a passion and he lived his passion. There will be no one to replace him. There's just nobody in the bear world who studies bears like Timothy did." Well, he can study them from the inside out now. Fucking dipwit.
October 07, 2007Sweet little Acidman
The "real" Acidman (he named the picture)
Sweet adult Acidman Shhh... he's sleepin'... Sweet dreams, Darlin'...
October 06, 2007WordsOriginally published April 28, 2004 If you've read this blog for any length of time, you know that I am totally fascinated by words and the impact they have on people who read them. I just watched some shit-ass black comic on HBO whose entire act consisted of "niggah," "whoes" and "mutherfucker." The crowd went wild. I wrote a post about the notorious N-word and a lot of people ceremoniously de-linked me, and called me a racist bastard to boot. I wonder why? It can't be just the word, because that fucking dead-beat comic makes a living calling people "niggahs." Why don't people ceremoniouly boycott his concerts? That's because it's not the word that matters. It's the PERCEPTION that counts. I am a Southern white male. I can't say "niggah." If I say that word, I am branded a racist. Let some jive-ass fool on HBO with black skin say the same thing over 100 times in a 30-minute stand-up act and he's fucking hilarious. I don't like double-standards. I also don't like a lot of words in the English language. Take "penis," for example. That's about the most obscene-sounding word I ever heard. It's even worse than "ointment." I LIKE Roscoe, but I don't claim to have a "penis." Penis sounds like some kind of intestinal parasite you pick up in a Third World country because you didn't boil the water before you drank it. How about "vagina" or "clitoris?" Those words sound like medical conditions where the doctor calls the family in to inform them that the patient has less than 24 hours to live. "The vagina has spread and we can't stop it. Plus, a case of clitoris has set in, also. I'm afraid that our most powerful antibiotics won't do any good." Got-dam! Try "cock." Yes, if you want to see my cock, I'll show it to you. It hangs right between my legs where a "penis" is supposed to be. But I don't have a penis. I have a cock. I don't want to see your "vagina" or your "clitoris." Let me see your pussy and let me play with The Man in the Boat. We can make beautiful music together as long as we get our language straight. Words. If you want to detect a true liar and a con-artist right away, just check the language. That's how "gender" came to mean sex, a "woman's right to choose" came to mean abortion and "moderate Rebublican" came to mean a fucking RINO. Dishonesty made stone. And all you people who de-linked me can kiss my Cracker ass. As Jack Nicholson said in A Few Good Men: "You don't want the truth! You can't handle the truth!" A lot of people can't.
THINGS I LEARNED ON JEKYLL ISLAND WITH MY SONOriginally published July 26, 2002 1) It's a beautiful place. You really don't want to leave when your time is up. You also can spend a lot of money really fast there. 2) Every restaurant has a chef in a big, white hat and his job is to drench everything you eat with exquistie, garlic-laden sauces. The food is delicious, and my son and I ate it all, then raced for the bathroom afterward to see who could make the loudest "barking fish" noises on the commode. Damn! That's good stuff, but four days of seafood will make you believe that a covey of quail is flying out of your ass every time you have to fart. I wouldn't recommend that experience to everybody I know. Only the really staunch can survive it. 3) The weather was perfect. We went and ate the breakfast buffet at around 9:00 in the morning, lounged around the pool for an hour or so, then went to the beach, which doesn't exist at high tide. The waves come all the way to the big granite breakwater (which didn't exist the last time I was on Jekyll Island), so you have to wait for the tide to ebb before the beach becomes visible. Once my son saw a foot of sand, we hit the Atlantic Ocean. We collected sand dollars and hermit crabs and sea shells and we built the most exotic sand castles on the strand. My son attempted to make friends with some of the yankee boys in their clown-like costumes (you know-- the water shoes, the fins and goggles with a shark's fin on top, the jiggling, white, jelly-bellies and the SWIMMING GLOVES, for crying out loud) and Quinton finally asked me, "What's WRONG with those guys?" He stood there knee-deep in the surf, barefoot and bare-backed, looking tanned, muscular and altogether comfortable as the waves broke around him. I told him, "They're YANKEES and they can't help being dorkles. They don't know any better. Just try to be nice to them." He did, but he learned the EARLY WARNING SIGNS of a yankee and identified them left and right from them on. "DADDY! LOOKY THERE! THAT'S YANKEE FOR SURE!" Uh, Huh. Water shoes, doofus water toys, snorkel, mask and a bad attitude. "Don't point," I told him. "That's bad manners." 4) We returned past the Tiki-Bar at around 5:00 every afternoon. I bought my son a cherry coke and a frozen marguarita for me. We went back to our room and waited for the evening fireworks, which happened on schedule every day. Around 6:00, thunder, lightning and cosmic rainfall fell from the sky for about two hours, then we went out to eat. We did rent three movies that we watched during the rainstorms. The Scorpion King is one of those entirely witless, highly-entertaining movies you really want to watch during an early-evening thunderstorm. I LOVED IT. Bwhahahaha! I insisted on watching Blackhawk Down because I read the book, and the movie was excellent, except for the fact that Quinton couldn't keep track of all the characters and kept asking me pestering questions all the way through it. I shut him up when I told him that he was acting like a YANKEE! I made a mistake last night by renting Blade II which was a shitty movie filled with more fucking F-words than the fucking law should allow, and I didn't like all the fucking dialogue, which was mainly, "Fuck you!" "Oh, yeah? Fuck YOU, TOO!" My son didn't like it either, and asked me, "Why does everybody have a potty mouth in this movie?" I said, "They're yankees. They can't help it." 5) My son wants to start his own blog. He wants to tell scary stories on it. I think it's a great idea.
October 05, 2007LinkageOriginally published April 28, 2004 I am very grateful for the readers who visit my blog. A lot of them have been around for a long time and I feel as if I know them as friends, even though I'll probably never meet more than a handful of them in person. They do two things that I really like. First, they visit me almost every day. They are my audience and they often inspire me to write when I really don't feel like doing it. It's like when someone sends you a present. You need to send back a thank-you note, just to show good manners and proper appreciation of the gift. And yes, I consider my readers to be a gift. Second, they follow the links I put on my page. I surf a lot of blogs. When I find a good one, I immediately check to see if their site meter stats are open. If I see a good blog that gets 20 visitors per day, I'll link that blog, just to generate some traffic to the site. I'm no Instapundit, but my readers definitely light up the hit-counter for a blog with few visitors. I've jump-started a few worthy sites that way. I'm just passing it along. Some of the big guys really helped me when I was starting out, and I want to return that favor. Blogging is a lonely task when no one reads you. I've seen a few people use clever marketing and mass emails to boost their sites, but I prefer the ones who toil in obscurity and hope to build readership through good work instead of salesmanship. Those are the ones I link. As Glenn Reynolds once said, an Instalanche will give you a lot of visitors in a single day. But if you have no product to offer, that 'lanche is a one-shot deal. The readers won't be back. I still believe that if you build it, they will come. But somebody needs to let people know that you're out there. That's what I often try to do.
Getting readyOriginally published July 22, 2002 I found myself running dangerously low on cigarettes this morning, so I still haven't decided about the golf clubs. I probably ought to take them even if I don't go play-- it's better to HAVE them and not WANT them than to WANT them and not HAVE them. They're kinda like a woman that way. We don't need to leave until about 2:00, so I have some time to kill. I really should mow my grass (grass, hell-- I oughta cut the fricking WEEDS) but it's already 10,005 degrees outside with 150% humidity and that grass-cutting crap sounds far to much like work for a man on vacation to do. I am certain that I can find a reasonable excuse not to crank up the old lawn mower ("I DON'T FUCKING WANNA!" .... okay, sounds reasonable to me-- ed) Yeah, I believe I'll just empty the trash cans, haul my $100 "Curb Caddy" out to the edge of the road so it'll be there for the Wednesday pickup, wipe my sweaty brow, throw in the towel and declare my work complete for the next four days. Plan your work, then work your plan. That's me. And I plan to work seriously on my suntan.
October 04, 2007A comparisonOriginally published April 28, 2004 From my friend, Catfish: It is time to do a comparison between two things treasured by men, beer and pussy... A beer is always wet. A beer tastes horrible served hot. Having an ice cold beer makes you satisfied. Beers have commercials making fun of skunky ones. If you get a hair in your teeth 24 beers come in a box. Too much head makes you mad at the If a beer is brewed with yeast, it is If you come home smelling like beer, 6 beers in a night and you better not Buy too much beer and you will get fat. It is socially acceptable to have a beer in the stands at a football game. If a cop smells beer on your breath, With beer, bigger is better. Wearing a condom does not make a beer Pussy can make you see God. Beer can If you think all day about the next pussy Peeling labels off of beers is fun. If you try to snag a beer at work, If you suddenly drop a beer, it may If you change to another beer, your The best pussy you have ever had is The worst pussy you have ever had is Bad beer: Schlitz, PBR, Old Swill. Good beer: Samuel Adams, Moosehead, The government taxes beer.
Tips for dipshits who think they know everythingOriginally published July 21, 2002 It takes a lot to make me belligerent, but THIS DOES: Tips for men who like women online dating etiquette 1. Let's start at the beginning. Choose your screen name wisely. We're not favorably impressed with the likes of what BeachBum876, or 6FootSwell has to offer. We've worked hard to have a successful career and expect the same from the men we date. We're skeptical that SuccessfulRichDude is anything but a dude. Romantic_Dreamer makes you sound like a sap. Nothing about those names is encouraging. 2. The women tend to get bombarded on these services, due to the male female ratio balancing clearly in favor of those with boobs. Don't expect a response. Similarly, don't write your life story on the first email. We're sorting through tons of emails. Respect our time. 3. Equally bad are first emails containing questions that would require us to write a novel in order to adequately answer it: 4. If the woman specifies she's looking for someone between the ages of 30-40 and you are just shy of 23…she's not interested. Similarly, if she wants a black man, and you are white…you aren't going to be the one to change her preference. If you are gay, don't contact a woman no matter how much you the love the handbag she's carrying in the photo. She probably won't have a child for you and your partner no matter how nicely you ask. 6. Don't write a poem in your "about me" section. Don't write a poem in the "about your ideal woman" section. And don't, under any circumstance write one in the first email you send your prospective mate. 7. Spelling still counts. Grammar will get you everywhere. 8. Don't send the same stock email to every woman. We often sign up for these things with our friends. We talk. A lot. 9. If she says, let's get together Thursday and you don't hear from her she's not interested. It sucks, I know but so does the email saying "I don't think we're a match." 10. Which leads me to perhaps the most important one. If we say it's not a match, don't send emails telling us we're a bad person for not feeling the chemistry with you. That only makes us more confident that we made the right decision.
October 03, 2007NiceOriginally published April 27, 2004 Today was a great day for sprawling on a lawn chair and reading a cheap, throwaway detective novel. The sky was crystal blue without a cloud in it and the sun was bright. But the temperature was only about 75 degrees and a crisp breeze blew from the northwest. Those are perfect sunburn conditions. I got a little pinkish but I had enough sense to come inside before I fell asleep in the lawn chair. I fucked with the computer for a while and I believe that my comments are regestering again. I don't know whether I fixed it or it fixed itself. I went to the grocery store today and bought some scented kitchen garbage bags. I tried one, and my kitchen trash can no longer smells like a ripe compost pile. Now, it smells like a ripe compost pile with flowers growing in it. For me, this was quite a productive day.
Sunday stumpers on a wednesdayOriginally published July 21, 2002 1) You know about a company on the brink of a major advancement. This will make you a killing on the stock market. Do you use the knowledge to your advantage? 2) Your best friend is about to make a major mistake. He/she is going to marry/commit to a very unsavory person. Do you say something? 3) Kissinger, Abe Vigoda, Jennifer Connelly....who needs their eyebrows tweezed more? 4) Gay Marriage - legal or not? 5) Your pet is old and feeble. The best friend you've had in your entire life is in pain. Do you euthanize?
October 02, 2007I wonderOriginally published April 27, 2004 I was a graduate student at the Henry W. Grady School of Journalism at the University of Georgia from 1974 through 1975. I was there when the idea of "advocacy journalism" first began to take root and grow like kudzu in journalism schools. I didn't like the idea, because I met some of the most ignorant, uneducated, left-leaning dorkles I ever saw in my life in GRADUATE SCHOOL, for crying out loud. Most of those people never had an original thought in their lives and probably never would. They swallowed every leftist rant from every leftist professor like a baby bird eating mama-bird's vomit. But THEY were going to "intrepret" the news for ME? I didn't think so at the time and I don't think so now. I believe that I witnessed the inevitable culture-shift that came to pass after Woodward and Bernstein won the Pulitizer and brought Nixon down with their Watergate reporting. They became celebrities and every wanna-be in grad school held those guys up as heroes. I didn't. I still want to know who "Deep Throat" was, or whether or not he was a complete fiction created for advocacy purposes. Hey... if a good guess pans out, attribute it to an unnamed source and it's not a guess anymore. It's reporting. I now wonder whether the press has played its string out to the end with this crap. Looks at the scandals at the NYT, USA Today, CNN and the BBC. Manipulation. Falsification. Plagarism. Outright Lies. Bribery. Looking the other way to gain access to high officials. It's a bleak picture. If I've learned one lesson in life, I know this: A tarnished reputation is much more difficult to refurbish than a reputation that's never been sullied. The press laid down with pigs. Scrubbing away the muck now is a difficult task. Too many people got a good whiff of the stench when the press was wallowing in the sty. People remember bad smells. I agree with president Bush on where the press stands today. They DO NOT have a direct conduit to the American People anymore. They pissed all over that conduit and shorted out the wires years ago. And they don't seem to understand what happened. Here the Bush Thesis is like a mafia read, a Sopranos script: "You don't have that kind of muscle any more, so shut the f... up." He basically said that. I don't read you or watch your news. NPR? Sorry, I don't listen. Am I out of touch with the American people? Nah, not worried about it. Playing Gotcha when America's at war-- now that's out of touch! Fifth data point: at the top of the government, the press is seen as a declining power. Bush sees it, the shifting public opinion about the reliability of the press, which the press brought crashing down upon its own head through irresponsibility and hubris. The members of the press remain blind to their own shortcomings. Adapt or die, fuckers.
Properly aged, or fermented?Originally published July 20, 2002 A frightening thought just occurred to me. If I actually generate a large audience for this page, I may have to clean up my act a bit, listen to my Mama and stop using all that fucking obscene language I sometimes apply in situations where I deem cuss-words necessary to get my true GUT RUMBLE across. I'll need to go straight and write for MY AUDIENCE instead of for me. Naw... ain't gonna happen. What you read here are the unvarnished, freshly-hatched thoughts that fly from my imagination like a frightened covey of quail going airborne into a clear sky from the brush. I don't know where the rumbles come from and I seldom know where they're going to go, but what you see here is the way I do it. I don't believe that I could change if I tried. (That's a goddam lie! This asshole was an advertising copywriter once upon a time. He can whore any way you demand---ed) Don't listen to the editor. He drinks a bottle of Scotch for lunch every day, the reeling bastard, and he doesn't understand what a highly-sensitive life-form I have evolved into since starting this blog. He remembers the OLD ME, if he can remember what he did with his car keys five minutes ago. The NEW ME is different. I used to be raw moonshine. I am fine, aged wine today.
October 01, 2007The blind guitarist at K-martOriginally published April 25, 2004 After I posted about the soapbox preacher on the corner of Bull and Broughton Streets, I received a couple of emails asking me if I remembered the blind guitarist at K-Mart, who played for tips right outside the front door of the store. Of course I remember him. The old fart was pretty good. He played an ancient Gibson guitar with a tin cup hooked on the head. Tips went into that cup. He wore dark sunglasses and one of those Bob Dylan harmonica rigs around his neck. He played a lot of old-time traditional music, and he would sing and blow that harp with enthusiasm. I tipped him more than once. The Savannah Morning News did a feature story on the old man one Sunday and it answered a few questions I had at the time. Yes, the gentleman WAS completely blind. He drew a small Social Security check and supplemented his income by doing his sidewalk show. He had a son who moved him from Savannah, where he played in the summer, to some place in Florida, where he played when the weather grew cold. He did all right. My guitar playing has gone to shit lately because of the numbness in my fingers, but I can still play all the basic chords. I just don't have control of the twitch-muscles for the hot licks anymore. I've thought frequently that if push comes to shove on the money front, I could pick up enough to get by just by playing on the sidewalk. I'm really not a bad entertainer. I don't want to do the bar scene again, but I could play the sidewalk. I'm going to answer this question: On another related topic, you often post about your musical life. If you were going to play a set at a big festival, what would your set list be? What 12 songs would you choose to be represent your musical identity? Maybe you could blog on this sometime if the spirit hits you. I always liked to kick off a set with a loud, fast, rousing song. Not many people have heard it, but "Better Times," by Mike Cross was one of my favorite opening songs. It's a foot-stomper and an easy song to play and sing to get rid of the butterflies in the belly. I liked to segue from that song into "Angel From Montgomery," by John Prine. It has the same chord pattern, but it's slower and I always loved the words. After that, it was time for some finger-picking, so I went from "The Boxer" to "Lincoln Duncan," both written by Paul Simon. Time to lighten up next, so I played a couple of original songs: "Ain't No Moss Growing On Me" and "Justice Laid Me Low," both crafted by Yours, Truly. Next came "Samuel Arising," by Mac McAnally. That's another unheard-of song that is a really good foot-stomper. I loved these lines:
I came home from work one day and I heard noises I then liked to simmer things down a bit and go back to the finger-picks. "If You Could Read My Mind," followed by "Early Mornin' Rain," both by Gordon Lightfoot. Okay, the audience is somewhat subdued now, so play another foot-stomper to shake them out of their comas. "Fish and Whistle," by John Prine did the trick every time. People start singing along with the chorus even when they've never heard the words before. That's a damn good song. I usually went from there to another original song, "Blockade Whiskey," which is about moonshining, and I am delighted to announce that someone heard that song in Seattle, Washington a few years ago. I don't collect any royalties, but I'm glad to know that my songs travel well. And I always liked to finish a one-set performance with "The Scotsman," by Mike Cross. I believe in leaving 'em laughing, and that's just the right song to do it with. If I was asked for an encore, I did "American Pie," by Don McLean. There you have it. A musical picture of me.
PerspectivesOriginally published July 19, 2002 A strange thing happened this evening. My BC ex-wife showed up with my son at 6:00 and he had his suitcase with wheels loaded with the clothes he needs to spend the week with me. He tore into the house, gave me a hug and went straight to his room to crank up the Gameboy II. He left the suitcase in the middle of the living room. The BC walked up to the door and asked for an "emergency phone number" so she could reach Quinton if she needed to speak to him while we were gone. I told her that I didn't have a number yet, but we would be at the Jekyll Inn from Monday night until Friday morning and that I would have Quinton call her EVERY NIGHT if that made her feel better. I was standing there with the door open and the 105 degree heat outside competing seriously with my air conditioning. I finally said, "Why don't you just come inside and sit down?" She did, and we talked. She said, "I'm sure going to miss that sweet boy every day he's gone." I said, "I miss him every day of my life. He's been gone a year now for me." "Yeah, I know how hard that must be." "I've noticed that it bothers you a lot." "It does bother me. I'm sorry that things worked out they way they did." I kept my mouth shut. I didn't say the obvious, which is "THINGS WORKED OUT THE WAY THEY DID BECAUSE YOU FUCKED AROUND WITH A DISEASED, UNEMPLOYED, DOPE-SMOKING ASSHOLE AND FLUSHED EVERYTHING WE ONCE HAD RIGHT DOWN THE TOILET, YOU BLOODLESS CUNT!" No, I didn't say that. She asked me for a cigarette and I gave her one. We talked about work, and we locked into an old, familiar pattern of both of us thinking scarily alike about how to deal with the latest problem on the horizon. The scene reminded me of what we once did every evening around the kitchen table after supper. It was eerie. She's still an attractive woman, but she doesn't appear nearly as beautiful to me as she once did. I've seen the monster inside, and that changes a lot of my perceptions about her. She once was my partner, my lover and the best friend I had in the world. Not anymore. But I can close my eyes right now and feel every nook and cranny of her body, smell every scent of her and recall the way she warmed her cold feet against my warm belly at night while making purring snores as she slept. I don't know if I'll EVER forget that. Hell, I still sleep on "my" side of the bed today. When she left today, she paused at the door and said, "Thanks for inviting me in. It was nice to talk to you again." Then she hopped in her fancy sports car and went home to suck the unempolyed dope-smoker's cock. Yeah, it was good for me, too.
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