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

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

I pride myself on have a very educated foul mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Rogers, I wasn't.

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

September 15, 2008

Sports parents

Originally published January 11, 2002

The hockey-dad murder trial took up a lot of space in the news today and I really don't understand why. The situation may be terrible when two fathers, one weighting 156 pounds and the other weighing 270 pounds, decide to duke it out on the ice after their twelve year-old sons finish practice one day, and the 156 pound dad ends up dead as a result. It's a stupid, sordid, senseless example of two symmetrical assholes behaving like symmetrical assholes with tragic results. If you watch CSPAN, you see congressmen doing the same thing every day. Unfortunately, they battle with blustering rhetoric instead of flailing fists and don't end up with a dead body at the end, which does untold harm to our great Republic through the tragic results of future legislation they will live to sponsor.

I don't understand the media's fascination with this trial, because somebody being beaten to death after a little league sporting event doesn't surprise me at all. When I was in college, I earned two Physical Education credits by taking a course in "Football Officiating." I passed the course and then took a test, which I also passed, to qualify me to referee pee-wee games in the City Recreation League. I was paid $5.00 per game and could do as many as four games on a good Saturday, plus one or two more during the week. I thought it was a gold mine at the time. I changed my mind quickly when I barely escaped from some of those games without being lynched from the goal posts. Some parents take their kid's sports WAY too seriously.

I was cursed many times in loud, spittle-decorated words that would have done a 30-year veteran merchant sailor proud. I was threatened with numerous ass-whippings, sometimes from the MOTHERS, for crying out loud, when I made a call that didn't suit the right team. I had things thrown at me from the sidelines, sometimes by a coach and sometimes by an irate parent. I saw children being called to the sidelines for a fully-adult, X-rated butt-chewing, complete with vicious head-slaps and shoulder-shakings by both coaches and parents when the kid made a bad play on the field. I saw fights in the bleachers between men, and fights in the bleachers between WOMEN who became totally beserk during these games. It was sometimes frightening, sometimes sickening and usually at its very worst when the eight year-olds were playing.

The news reports are treating this hockey-dad incident as if it were a total abberation instead something that was bound to happen sooner or later, and will probably happen again, as long as parents take little league sports as seriously as NFL coaches do the Super Bowl. Forget "Road Rage." "Game Rage" is a lot worse, a lot more common and totally out of control.

Organized sports can be a wonderful experience for a young person. But demonic parents need to understand that IT'S JUST A GAME!

Monkeys

Originally 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.

Good bad words

Originally published January 10, 2002

While Blogger was sick last night, I visited a site where the blogger wrote of being worried about going home to see his mama. He was afraid that he would say the word "fuck" in front of her and cause her to drop dead of a heart attack at the shock, or else slit her wrists with a kitchen knife because of her failure to raise a decent son. He had a "comments" button at the end of his blog (HEY, SCOTT? HOW ABOUT A COMMENTS BUTTON FOR ME?), so I sent him an e-mail about how to explain any slippage of the lippage he might experience. I learned this in college, and I am not making this up.

What makes a good dirty word a good dirty word is its linguistic structure. The ones that express your feelings the strongest, that feel the best tripping off the tongue and give you the most satisfaction to say are built exactly alike. They begin with a strong plosive sound, such as the letter "F," and end with a hard consonant abruptly cut off, such as a "K." Try it. Say "FUCK!" You have the plosive beginning, followed by the abrupt hard consonant at the end, and the word is perfect. Admit it; when you're angry, frustrated or at a loss for any other word, it feels good to say it. "SHIT" and "CUNT" fall into the same category. Just parse them, using the rules outlined above, and you will see what I mean.

"BITCH," on the other hand, is close, but it does not measure up to the ideal because it has a plosive at each end. It's a good dirty word, but it will never reach the realm of "FUCK" because it lacks the last hard consonant to throw the knockout punch. If you intend to use strong, effective dirty language, close enough is not good enough. The same problem occurs with "PISS," which starts out with a great plosive, but then peters out, for lack of a better expression, into slow, sibilant sounds at the end.

Forget "SONOFABITCH" or "MOTHERFUCKER." A good dirty word has only one syllable.

"DICK" and "COCK" would qualify as excellent dirty words, because they satisfy the criteria, but they can't really be considered good dirty words because we once had a president named Dick and a rooster is a cock. The double meanings take away from the effeciveness of the words. You would never vote for a guy named "FUCK," and you would never eat anything called "FUCK." But a lot of people voted for Dick and don't think twice about eating cock, even if they are not into oral sex. In certain situations, where the context is clear, both are excellent dirty words. But an ideal dirty word needs no context to be dirty. That's why "FUCK" stands alone as the best dirty word of all time.

If you don't believe what I am saying, just think about the substitute words people use when they don't want to offend anyone or be considered a potty-mouth: "DRAT!" "SHOOT" "DANG!" "HECK!" They all fit the formula.

I told the blogger that he should just walk into his mama's house and scream "FUCK!" at the top of his lungs. That would relieve all of his anxiety, get the problem out in the open and make for a much better visit.

Especially when she reacted by saying "SHIT!"

September 14, 2008

Feeling depressed

Originally 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.

I feel like Fido's ass

Originally published January 12, 2002

Ugh!
I feel like the hockey dad who got beat up on the ice, except for the fact that I'm not dead. I'm not sure if it was the fried mushrooms I ate, the bottle of pouille fouisse I consumed with the mushrooms or the fact that I slept only about three hours in two separate shifts last night that makes me feel so badly, but I'm going to blame it all on the French wine. I hate the French anyway.

My son has a basketball game tipping off about now, but I am not going to see it. His bloodless cunt mother can handle those duties and I do not want to set eyes on her. Besides, I have my adpoted nephew, Jack, over at my house playing a monster-killing game on my son's Play Station II. His coif resembles something that was done in a blender. When he rang my doorbell this morning, my first reaction was to open the door and ask him who in the hell combed his hair. "My sisters," he replied, which explains everything.

Elvis would be green with envy. Of course, after this much time underground, Elvis is probably green anyway.

Still feel like Fido's ass

Originally published January 12, 2002

Ugh!
Pumped coffee down my throat and I still feel like a beat-up hockey dad dying on the ice. I need to go to Wal-Mart today. I need to go to the tire store and pick up my freebie replacement for the tire that grew a toxic goiter on the sidewall after I hit a manhole on Bay Street. I need a nap.

I believe the nap may take top priority.

Jack just went outside with the football. If he can occupy himself for about 30 minutes, I'll stretch out on the couch and zzzzzzz....

September 13, 2008

What's that smell?

Originally published May 30, 2004

If you don't know it, you're probably a goddam yankee.

I feel sorry for you.

Friends, sons, and others

Originally published December 31, 2001

My buddy from South Carolina finally did come by. We went out to eat, then stayed up late talking about old times. He's asleep on the sofa as I write this, with some semi-porno movie on Cinemax playing loudly over his snores. I have a pot of coffee brewed and ready for when he awakens, if he ever does, and I never got the chance to use a stun-gun on him, because we talked about the infinite possibilities of a hot tub and decided that the tub was a better idea than the gun. If he dies on my sofa of a massive heart attack, I hope the ground is soft in my back yard. He is a large fellow, and I will have to dig a deep hole to bury him.

My son called me about 8:00 last night. He, his slut mama and her unemployed, dope-smoking lover returned from the north Georgia mountains and evidently listened to the obscene, spittle-punctuated message I left on her answering machine about how shitty it was to kidnap my son on his birthday weekend, when I was supposed to have visitation, and go shack up in a cabin in the woods. I'm sure she was wracked by guilt, which is why she insisted that my son call me, to make everything right, before she administered a blow-job to her boyfriend. Whatta cunt.

I'm sure she's going to want the child support check on time this month. Those mountain cabins are expensive.

Off to a good start

Originally published December 31, 2001

One thing I forgot to mention about my buddy from South Carolina is the fact that he finally made a legitimate woman out of his partner for the past 25 years by marrying her, naked in Key West. They have two sets of wedding pictures that record the blessed occasion. One set is for the family and not-so-close friends. In these pictures, they have their clothes on. The other set, however, which I have seen and begged for copies so that I could start my very own internet porno site, feature them both, along with the ushers and bridesmaids, butt-ass naked under a bright Florida sun. I wish I had been there.

His finally-legitimate wife is at Lake Tahoe now, visiting her daughter, which is why my friend is spending the night with me. He ate up all the food in his house and had to find another place to graze until his wife returned. She called last night to inform us that she lost $30 playing the slots at Harrah's Casino in Stateline, Nevada. She also said it was one hell of a good deal, because she consumed enough free liquor while gambling to more than cover a $30 bar tab. We told her not to fall asleep in a Nevada snowbank, have a good trip home, and check everyone's shoes before she boarded an airplane.

September 12, 2008

Aftermath

Originally published December 31, 2001

Whatta mess! Now that it's daylight, I can see why my feet were sticking to the floor when I made coffee in the dark this morning. My friend from South Carolina heaped tons of scorn and abuse upon my head when he opened the refrigerator last night and saw my BOX of wine in there. "Oh, twist-off caps are too sophisticated for you, aren't they? I know you don't own a corkscrew. So, you buy wine in a fucking BOX?"

Yes, I do. And I own a corkscrew, too.

Somehow last night, the bag inside the box developed a hole, and about three liters of White Zinfandel wine leaked out of the box, escaped from the refrigerator, and ran all over the place. It is now semi-dried to the consistency of flypaper, leaving a pinkish stain marked by about a dozen bare footprints, left by me, on my kitchen floor. This nasty accident happened AFTER I spent yesterday morning mopping, scouring and vacuuming my humble home.

Luckily, I have a Dollar-Store mop and bucket in my broom closet. Maybe I can persuade my friend from South Carolina to use them when he finally awakens from his deep slumber and goes for the coffee pot only to find himself glued to the floor in a pink quagmire of semi-dried White Zinfandel. If he doesn't want the mop, I'll throw him a corkscrew. He can take it from there.

I love my family

Originally published May 28, 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.

Almost over

Originally published December 31, 2001

It's the last day of a miserable year and it can't be over soon enough for me. In 2001, my entire life was turned upside down, shaken vigorously, folded, spindled, and mutilated, then thrown on the ground in pieces that I still am trying to reassemble into something that I can recognize. In a streak of less than 70 days, my wife divorced me, costing me the son I adored, the home I had always dreamed of, all my animals, my mini-farm, the neighbors I had grown to like and most of my sanity; then, I had my cancer operation, where they ripped out my prostate and left me weakened, scarred, impotent and incontinent to go along with all the rest. The Perfect Storm.

Lest I sound too full self-pity, fear and loathing, I want to assure you that things are looking up. I have a date tonight. We're going over to my old neighborhood for a New Year's Eve oyster roast and turkey-fry. We're staying the night there, too, because the scratch-and-sniff DUI checkpoints will be out in force tonight, and the last thing I want to do is begin the new year sitting in the county hoosegow for the high crime of having a couple of beers with my oysters. My friend throwing the party says that he has plenty of beds and both my date and I are welcome to crash there. I hope it requires only one bed for the both of us, but that part remains to be seen. I'm taking no chances, however, and intend to pack my wonder-drug and injection kit with me, in case I get lucky. The stuff will wake the dead, and that's what it takes for me since the operation.

I have a real problem with those scratch-and-sniff roadblocks anyway, even when I have not been drinking. I believe there is something inherently wrong, downright un-American, about stopping every car going down a road just to see if the cops can find something illegal going on, with no probable cause, no indication of impaired driving, nor any reason at all except for the fact that they can do it. MADD, SADD and similiar single-issue crusaders are as bad as the anti-smoking Nazis about wrapping themselves in a cloak of self-righteousness while trampling all over civil liberties in this country. Craven, gas-bag politicians and money-hungry law enforcment minions are quick to jump aboard their bandwagons, because doing so produces votes for the politicians and cash for law enforcement. Meanwhile, personal freedom erodes, slowly but surely. I would pontificate about the obviously abused property forfeiture laws that the wonderful "War on Drugs" brought us, but that idiotic, corrupt concept doesn't seem to upset anyone except those who have had their property seized and never returned, sometimes when they never are charged with a crime, let alone convicted. People who value liberty should rant, rave and scream about such things.

But very few people do. That's why we have scratch-and-sniff checkpoints, property seizure laws, no-smoking ordinances and the same gasbag politicians that pass these laws winning reelection over and over. What ever happened to the words "Live Free or Die" when people actually meant it? What ever happened to the people who carved this country out of a hostile wilderness, gained their independence by warring against the most powerful nation on the planet at the time, settled the plains, built the railroads, dug the canals, constructed the skyscrapers and kicked Hitler's ass in World War II? Have we become so weak, passive and frightened of everything that we actually WANT government to cover us with a warm blanket, hand us a teddy bear and tell us to sleep tight because Big Brother, er.. Daddy, is making sure the bedbugs don't bite?

My God, I hope not. But sometimes I'm not sure.

September 11, 2008

Words of wisdom

Originally published May 29, 2004

My daddy was a wise man. (he also looked kinda like Clint Eastwood) He taught me three lessons that have stuck with me for most of my life, and I see more truth in them every day.

1) "If it looks too good to be true, it IS too good to be true."

2) "Nobody else in this world is going to give you something for nothing except for me and your mama, and even when WE do it, you'd better step back and examine our motives."

3) "If you're lucky, you don't have to be good. But I've noticed that the harder I work, the luckier I get."

If people want to tear down the Ten Commandments in public places, let them post my daddy's advice instead. If more people took those words to heart, we'd have a much healthier country.

Oh yeah. Daddy was also fond of saying, "If it was easy, any asshole could do it."

First day of the new year

Originally published January 1, 2002

I woke up in my own bed this morning. That wasn't the game plan, but neither my date nor myself became overly intoxicated last night, despite the delicious oysters (which she doesn't eat), the exquisite fried turkey (which she doesn't eat, either) and the assorted fireworks that exploded in unison from several different directions around midnight. Stuffed baked potatos, taco salads, cheeses and crackers (which she DOES eat) were readily available, but I believe she drank enough diet cola that she had no room for the food. I pigged out.

We were sitting in front of the largest of the five different campfires burning in the yard when the sky lit up with rockets and voodoo balls bright enough to obscure the full moon that had smiled down on the evening from the time we arrived. Young'uns set off firecrackers and sparklers, couples kissed, and I almost needed a cable and chain to retrieve my friend, Willie, when his large self overdosed on Scotch liquor and began reeling around dangerously close to the fire. My son knows the "stop, drop and roll!" drill for when you catch on fire, and Willie had everything but the "stop!" down pat last night. His wife took him home shortly after the fireworks display and I pity his head today. I believe he has a bucket of Bloody Marys prepared as a palliative measure for those who overindulged last night, but he may drink it all if he doesn't upchuck in the bucket first. All in all, we welcomed in the new year in fine fashion.

Now, I'm cooking Hoppin' John and turnip greens, which are supposed to bring good luck if you eat them today. My house smells like dirty sweat pants, nasty armpits and stinky feet, which is the aroma that black-eyed peas produce when you cook them with a large ham hock thrown in for seasoning and a pot of greens simmering beside them on the stove. Maybe that smell brings the good luck by driving all the evil spirits out of your life. I don't know, but I feel good, my house smells like an underfunded homeless shelter, and the sky is crystal blue. I love it when that happens.

It's cold outside for south Georgia, but the sky is so clear and blue that it hurts my eyes to look at it.

Boredom

Originally published May 29, 2004

I've been in a really existential mood lately. I spent a lot of time in Costa Rica just examining my life, thinking about how I got where I am today and where I'll go from here. I didn't come up with a whole lot of answers, but I did come to realize one thing.

Most of my life, from the age of six, has been run by schedules, time-tables, deadlines, and the relentless ticking of a clock. I always had to be somewhere on time, do something on time or finish my work on time. I had assignments to complete, classes to attend, "deliverables" to deliver and places I had to be. Bejus! No wonder I have gray silver hair.

When Kerr-McGee fired me retired me, they gave me a nice watch as a going away present. Isn't that ironic? Why the hell would I want a fucking WATCH when I don't have to work anymore? I lived 24 years of my life on a Work Schedule, and I was on call for 24-7 most of that time. I looked at that watch and laughed out loud.

I've never taken it out of the box it came in and I doubt that I ever will.

I like being bored now. I'm not talking about sitting around a twiddling my thumbs. I mean the freedom a person feels when he or she doesn't HAVE to do much of anything. On my trip to Costa Rica, I really didn't plan a goddam thing. I bought my plane tickets, arranged for lodging and transportation, but other than that, I played everything on the first bounce.

If I felt like touring, I toured. If I felt like reading, I read. If I didn't feel like doing a damn thing, I didn't do anything. In Martin Antonio one morning, I was nodding in a lawn chair by the hotel swimming pool and I thought about getting up, walking about 50 feet to the bar and buying myself some fruity rum drink with an umbrella in it. But that seemed like too much work for such a beautiful day, so I just went to sleep in the chair.

I don't fear boredom. In fact, I wrap it around me like a warm, fuzzy blanket today, and I find it very comfortable. I like not needing a watch anymore. My body clock is all the time-keeper I require.

I met two retired school teachers from Colorado when I was in Arenal. ("Recovering educators," as they described themselves.) They were very friendly ladies and I had dinner with them a couple of evenings.

But they did one thing that drove me nuts. They had every waking moment of every day planned right down to the minute. They had a SCHEDULE to follow. That's not a vacation; that's just work by a different name. I got tired just watching them dash after tour buses and worry about where they were supposed to be next.

I'll never live like that again. Anybody want to buy a really nice watch? I have one that I'll sell cheap.

I don't need it anymore.

September 10, 2008

My driver

Originally published May 28, 2004

I became good friends with Gerio when he was ferrying me all over Costa Rica. I figure that I spent about 24 hours total in the van with him, and he taught me Spanish while I taught him English. He always was prompt and polite and he always got me to where I was supposed to be, on time, even though the roads were very dubious in certain places.

He brought his famila to meet me when we left arenal and they rode with me back to San Jose. I believe that they all wanted to say "Thank you" for allowing them to use the van. I enjoyed the ride.

Gerio has a wife who is muy hermosa. She is a small, dignified woman who teaches math in a local escuala. She told me that she didn't speak English, but I learned better on our car ride. Her English was ragged, but still better than my Spanish. We communicated quite well.

Gerio's daughter is 16 years old and absolutely beautiful. She has the long legs, the fine ass and the ample bosom so typical of Costa Rican girls and I felt like a dirty old letcher when I first looked at her. I told Gerio and his wife that "su nina es muy linda," which is supposed to mean "you have a lovely daughter," and I hope I said what I meant. Her name is Victoria and she's going to have to beat the horny boys away with a stick one of these days, if she's not doing it already.

Gerio's son is named Renaldo, and he is one year older than Quinton. The boy is a good-looking kid and obviously well-cared for. He and Quinton could make friends with each other very quickly. I asked him, "Juegas basebol? Mi nino es un SHORTSTOP. Pueda juegar mas mejor con otros ninos." (That's as close as I could come to asking "Do you play baseball? My boy is a shortstop. He plays better than most other boys.")

Renaldo explained that he liked futbol, which every kid in Costa Rica plays. Gerio confirmed that his boy was a top of the line soccer player. His pride was obvious and his esposa nodded her head in agreement. I got a high-five from Renaldo, told him to keep up the good work, and we all settled in for a ride through some of the most scenic country I've ever seen.

I love the people and I love the country of Costa Rica. I have memories from there that I will cherish for the rest of my life.

That was the best vacation I've ever taken.

Hoppin' john and greens

Originally published January 1, 2002

I just won a bet with Jack's Mom and Grandma. I invited them all over to the house for Hoppin' John and greens, and they came, expressing great wonderment over the vittles, because they are from Texas and never heard of eating Hoppin' John and greens on New Years Day. They bet me that Jack wouldn't touch the stuff and I bet them that he would eat it for me. I fixed him a big bowl of blackeyed peas and rice and he scarfed it down like a hungry dog. Then I told his mom and grandma that they could pay off their bet by cleaning the rest of the white zinfandel residue from my kitchen floor after the wine box disaster from Saturday night. They laughed and went back home. So, I'm still stuck with doing that job myself. You can't see the pink quagmire anymore, but stocking feet make a "thuck, thuck" sound with every step and it feels like walking on matching Velcro strips that try to snatch your socks off when you walk across the floor. I've mopped it twice, but I believe it's going to take lots of cleanser and detergent to make my floor whole again.

I think I'll watch football for a while. The kitchen floor can wait. After all, it is New Years Day and all the bowl games are on television. If the games aren't entertaining, maybe I'll call Willie to make sure he didn't drown face-down in his bucket of Bloody Marys this morning. Maybe I'll invite him over for some Hoppin' John and greens.

My boy

Originally published May 28, 2004

I talked to Quinton on the phone last night. He said that he hasn't received any of the letters that I sent him from Costa Rica. I don't know whether the mail is that slow or whether Jennifer got my letters and didn't let Quinton see them. Divorce sucks, and it keeps on sucking long after the initial ordeal is over when a child is involved.

Hell, I suspected my ex-wife of being behind the crash of my blog. It's the kind of thing she would do to me.

But... I digress. I wanted to brag like the proud father that I am. Quinton made the Effingham County All-Star team as a starting shortstop in his age group. I TOLD you people that he was good!

I want to see if I'm any good, too. My blog became quite popular for a while, then I let my posting slide and I took a long vacation, after which I had nothing but a blank page to display. My readership took a nose-dive, which I expected, and now my archives have vanished except for the posts I saved on disk. Can I lure readers back here with what I write when I start from scratch?

I don't know, but I still believe that if I build it, they will come. Long ago, I described this blog as an exercise where I stuffed notes in bottles and threw them into a vast ocean where I hoped someone would find the bottle and read the note. But that's not really what I was doing.

This blog was my lifeline that towed me to shore when I was totally shipwrecked. It kept me alive for more than two of the worst years I've lived in my life. I wasn't stuffing notes in bottles. I was standing on the shore and shouting frantically for rescue.

People came. I WAS rescued. And I will always appreciate that fact.

So... I'm starting over now. Can I do it again? I don't know. YOU tell ME.

September 09, 2008

Stupid laws

Originally published January 2, 2002

I read a news item today about some dingbat representative in Maine or New Hampshire or one of those other sanity-deficient New England states who wants to make adultery a crime punishable by fines and jail terms. I believe that is an absolutely ridiculous idea, although I do believe the commission of adultery should count for something in divorce court, which it doesn't if it's your bloodless cunt of a wife doing the adultering instead of you. I don't know why divorce laws are based on the premise that All Men Are Swine when there are a lot of really shitty women out there, too. For every OJ Simpson and Joey Buttafuco in the news, there have to be at least two equally twisted, bizarre and selfish women doing things just as vicious and nasty, but we rarely hear about them unless they murder their children.

But I meander from my central theme, which is: stupid laws created by pissed-off, sanctimonious bullies for the sole purpose of bludgeoning otherwise law-abiding folks into changing their lifestyles to suit the bullies. Nowhere is this phenomenon more apparent than in the ever-escalating war against second-hand smoke, that insidious villian and slayer of children used to justify every anti-smoking ordinance on the books, from that certified nut-bowl state of California to my own beloved state of Georgia, where now it is illegal to smoke inside Sanford Stadium when the mighty Bulldogs play. Not one single anti-smoking law has anything to do with protecting the health of the non-smoking public. That noble cause is used to justify the law, but it all really boils down to a pissed-off, sanctimonious bully saying, "I don't like cigarettes. I don't believe people should smoke. I can't make them stop, but I can make them SUFFER by doing something to make their lives as miserable as possible. And when they are miserable, I will feel sooooo gooood!"

The bullies received a real sledgehammer when the EPA issued its fraudulent report in 1992 showing a positive link between second-hand smoke and lung cancer. That study has since been royally debunked, with a federal judge throwing it out, concluding that it cherry-picked and manipulated data so egregiously that it "bordered on fraud." Hell, it didn't BORDER on fraud. It WAS fraud. But none of the laws passed in its wake has been rescinded or even rethought; instead, more laws are enacted every day, still using that fraud as justification. And when the World Health Organization spent ten years on a study of its own, newspapers announced "WTO Study Shows Link: Second-Hand Smoke Causes Cancer." The results of that study have never been officially released, but it can be found on the internet, where one can read the conclusion, in plain, simple English, that the relationship between second-hand smoke and cancer is "statistically insignificant."

Second-hand smoke may be obnoxious to a non-smoker, but it is not a health hazard. It may irritate people, but it won't kill them. So how to we really justify all of these ever more stringent anti-smoking laws, banning smoking outdoors, within 1000 feet of a school or even in a private residence?

It's all done by a bunch of pissed-off, sanctimonious bullies, the same people who pushed the skinny kid down on the playground at school, called the child wearing glasses "four-eyes" and pulled the wings off flies when they were young. Some people are born shitheads and stay that way all their lives.

A golden oldie

Originally published May 28, 2004

The earliest memory I have is catching a butterfly with my bare fingers in the front-yard flowerbed by the fence in my Old Kentucky home. I may have been four year-old at the time. I remember a lot about living in the coal mining camp and I remember being very happy there, except for the trips to Dr. Begley's office for typhoid shots and polio shots and smallpox vaccinations, things my son will never know (unless terorists have their way).

I remember listing to my grandmother tell stories about her childhood (she was about 45 at the time, but she was OLD to me) and I recall vividly thinking about a path through the wildflowers on the other side of the railroad trestle where we lived, and how she had travelled a long way down that path where I was not allowed to go. I envied the memories she had.

I am five years older than she was then. I have travelled FAR down that path in my lifetime, not only through the wildflowers, but into the weeds, the briars, the poison ivy and the quicksand, too. I look back now and I really don't understand how I went from being Beaver Cleaver (although a lot of those traits still survive), to a high-school jockstrap, to a dope-smoking bohemian English Major in college, to an advertising copywriter, to a six-year professional musician, to a 23-year employee in a chemical plant. I had about one hundred "girlfriends" along the way and never contracted a single STD during my swashbuckling days. I never cheated on a wife. I am loyal, if nothing else.

I have two ex-wives and two ex-children to show for it. I really don't know whether I have been blessed or extremely unlucky. (BAH! As my late Daddy would say, "You make your OWN luck, son!") I have more stories to tell than the average man, whatever THAT is, but all the stories aren't pleasant ones. I don't like what the prostate surgery has done to me. I once swore that I could never become a heroin addict because I HATE NEEDLES! Now, I have a prescription for them, and I get all I want. And I use them, too.

Who would'a ever thunk THAT? Not ME!

I like living by myself now. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. The Crackerbox is a nice home (Joan? What would it cost to buy this place on 1/2 acre of wooded land where YOU live?). I own all the toys a man my age should own (except a trophy younger woman). I'm not rich, but I have more money than I know what to do with. I spend it freely; that's what it's for.

But I keep looking back and wondering how I fucked up everything in the rear-view mirror. It's too late to go back now.

I hate that.

(originally written almost two years ago, in 2002.)

Enviromentalism

Originally published January 2, 2002

If you want to risk a serious bitch-slap from me, walk up and tell me you are an "environmentalist." I am a non-violent person and I believe in different strokes for different folks. If you're a homosexual, that's fine with me. If you're attending church at a mosque and studying Islam, that's fine too, as long as I don't see detonator cords hanging out of your Rebok's when you're over at my house preaching about the virtues of your newfound faith. But the tree-hugging, whale-saving, organic-food munching, hard-core greenies started to chap my ass a long time ago and now I rate them higher than the anti-smoking Nazis as a genuine menace to my freedom, the American Way of Life and Civilization as We Know It. The really scary part is the way they've managed to infiltrate what passes for a public education system in this country so they can begin to brainwash children at an impressionable age. I've seen what passes for a "social studies" textbook in schools today, and it sends shivers down my spine.

My son is learning that "chemicals" are evil. He is not learning that the reason he can read his social studies book in the first place is a series of chemical reactions taking place constantly in his body and his brain. Hell, his bloodless cunt of a mother IS A CHEMIST, for crying out loud, and his poor, old daddy has worked more than 20 years in A CHEMICAL MANUFACTURING PLANT. He is aware of these facts, but he is beginning to eye us both with suspicion because of what he is learning in school.

I blame a lot of the success of the environmental movement on the news media. I once wanted to be a journalist, until I spent two years at the Henry W. Grady School of Journalism at the University of Georgia. I met some of the dumbest, most uninformed, unquestioning cretins I've ever met in my life there. Many of them are successful reporters now. Lots of them, no doubt, became "environmental" reporters.

Most of the "environmental" reporters I read seem to be those who could not write a decent feature story, fell asleep at town hall meetings, didn't understand sports and misspelled names in obituaries. But they could find a way to use the word "toxic" at least once in every paragraph they wrote about environmental issues. Therefore, they rose to a top position, through sheer natural ability, the way a turd floats.

"Toxic" is probably the most abused word in the language today. That's because most people, especially environmental reporters, don't understand that it's not the poison that kills you-- it's the dose. Pure nitrogen is toxic, yet 78% of the atmosphere we breathe is pure nitrogen. Distilled water is toxic if you try to breathe it, but people pay $1.00 a bottle to drink water not nearly as pure. Simple table salt is toxic when taken in sufficient quantities to overload your kidneys, but without a sufficient amount in your diet, the LACK OF IT is toxic. Phosphoric acid is toxic, but when combined in the right "toxic brew," another requisite phrase for hard-hitting environmental reporting, you have a can of Coca-Cola.

I've also wondered why most self-proclaimed "environmentalists" seem to be cut from the same bolt of cloth. I can pick them out of a crowd almost without fail. The men are skinny and bald on top, with pony tails behind. They almost always wear those round, wire-framed John Lennon glasses and have jobs that keep them in air-conditioned offices all day, which gives them a pasty and pale complexion. They have carefully clipped fingernails but dirty, untrimmed toenails that they frequently display in leather sandals. They drive BMWs or Volkswagon beetles.

The women are no better, because they wear no makeup, don't brush their hair, appear shrill and somewhat deranged, and care more about the fate of a southern oak tree-slug than our soldiers in Afghanistan. They drive mini-vans and curse SUVs. They are attracted to skinny, bald guys with pony tails and dirty toenails, which is a good thing, because without that sort of CHEMISTRY, neither type would ever get laid.
They both make me want to puke.

I don't know a single serious farmer out here where I live who is an environmentalist. In fact, most of the conversation I hear around the seed and feed store is about how to keep the environment from taking away your crop and leaving you bankrupt. Mother Nature is not the farmer's friend. Farming is a constant, everyday battle AGAINST Mother Nature, to keep her from sending plagues of vermin that devour your crop, too much rain that drowns it, or not enough so that it cooks in the field. But these guys and their wives aren't pale and skinny. They are sunburnt and rugged. They have dirty fingernails from tending the soil and I have no idea what their toenails look like, because they wear stout boots meant for working. They drive pickup trucks and fly American flags from their front porch. They are the salt of the earth.

Oops! Salt is toxic, isn't it? No wonder environmentalists don't like these people.

September 08, 2008

What the hell?

Originally published January 2, 2002

The crystal-blue skies that hurt my eyes yesterday were kidnapped last night by a bunch of glowering, gray clouds that hung low, like bull testicles, spitting rain and sleet throughout the night and making my night-vision-impaired self drive to work at 5:30 this morning relying on the white lines at the side of the road to guide my way. My thermometer on the back porch read 36 degrees this morning. After a day of working through rain and sleet, freezing my cracker ass off and becoming entirely disgusted by the weather, it read 34 degrees when I arrived home this evening. The forecasters predict an 80% chance of sleet and snow tonight.

THIS IS SOUTH GEORGIA FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!!! If I wanted this kind of weather, I would move to Chicago or Buffalo or Green Bay, one of those frozen tundra places where they play OK football but no Southern boy ever needs to be. Every bone and connective-tissue injury I ever inflicted upon myself in my life has come back to haunt me today, and it's supposed to be COLDER TOMORROW! That in itself is enough to piss me off so that I wax philisophical. I've turned up the thermostat and it's Bloggin' time.....

The missed opportunity

Originally published May 28, 2004

On my last night in Costa Rica, I was back in San Jose, so I went out for a nice dinner and strolled the streets for a while. I heard Led Zeppelin playing from a jukebox in a place called "The Nashville Bar," so I stopped in for a cervesa.

I didn't take a good sip of my beer before I had TWO Costa Rican wimmen draped all over me. They were more than friendly, and their wandering hands discovered my ever semi-erect bionic Roscoe right away. I had a few colones in my pocket that I needed to get rid of before I left the country, so I bought both chicas bonitas a drink. I received a glimpse of their titas in return.

I don't know what's wrong with me anymore.

In the old days, every brain cell I had would have run straight to my dick and I would have wandered off into the night with those wimmen. Hell, the thought of being robbed or having my throat cut in some dark alley never would have occurred to me. If they were hookers, I had plenty of money to pay them. If they were just looking for sport, I could accomodate both.

But I really wasn't interested.

I bought them a drink, gave them both a cigarette, thanked them for their company and walked out of that bar. I went to a nearby park and sat on a bench next to a big fountain. I wondered what the hell has become of me.

I never thought I would EVER say this, but sex just isn't that important to me anymore. I've cut a large swath in my life. I've had lots of wimmen in my bed. I've had cheap sex, one-night stands, expensive sex, group-gropes and just about everything else you can imagine. I cannot recall the names or the faces of half the wimmen I've had sex with.

Once, I considered myself to be quite a swordsman. Now, looking at where that kind of behavior landed me, I'm not very proud of myself. I don't want to do that shit anymore. I should have either gotten laid or robbed that night, but I ended up sitting on a park bench and thinking about life. After I was finished with my deep thoughts, I walked back to my hotel and went to bed.

I had a plane to catch the next day.

Be careful what you wish for

Originally published January 3, 2002

If you don't believe that you can have too much of a good thing, let me tell you a story.

After being completely impotent for 11 weeks following prostate surgery, I was delighted that the miracles of modern medicine included a "Fix a Flat" kit that would solve all my problems, as long as I was willing to stick myself in the dick with a hypodermic needle to get there. That may sound awfully desperate to some people, but when you want something badly enough, you'll be surprised at what you are willing to do. I was a desperate man.

I had a chance to try it in action for the first time a few nights ago, and I used the reduced dosage the doctor recommended after my first experience in his office resulted in an excruciatingly painful erection that made me think of the first "Alien" movie, when that creature tore out of the guy's chest and then ran around the ship terrorizing the crew. I thought that was going to happen to me, right there in the doctor's office, with the creature tearing out from somewhere else. And it seemed fully capable of running around a spaceship and terrorizing a crew.

So, I didn't use nearly as much of the magic potion and I didn't achieve nearly the same results when I did it myself the first time. Everything went okay, but I was somewhat disappointed. That's why I decided to increase the dosage just slightly last night, then throw in a Viaga pill to see if that would enhance the effects. And it worked! And worked! And continued to work, long after she had rolled off me and gone to sleep, making contented little kitten noises.

I found myself sitting on my sofa with an ice pack on the damned thing at 12:00 midnight, praying for it to go away. At around 1:00, it became fairly horizontal instead of damned near vertical, as it had been for about four hours. I finally was able to stagger off to bed and go to sleep, thankful that I wouldn't have to call in sick to work today with a terminal hard-on. When I woke up this morning, it was gone, thank God.

Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

FOLLOWUP

Originally published January 4, 2002
OOOOOOOH! SHE CAME BACK TONIGHT!!!

I don't know if I can stand another experience like last night..... but....

September 07, 2008

10 American heros

Originally PUBLISHED June 06, 2005

These are people I have admired all of my life. I don't buy a lot of "conventional wisdom" today, and I believe that young'uns are being spoon-fed a lot of bullshit in schools instead of learning history. I appreciate backbone and character a lot more than I fall faint when hearing a Bill Clinton speak. Words are one thing. Deeds are another.

#1-- Ronald Reagan. He dragged this country out of the "malaise" that Jimmy Carter put it into, and he faced down the Soviet Union like a western gunslinger. He ran the bad guys out of town without firing a shot, too. Was Reagan perfect? No, he wasn't. Beruit was a mistake. But all in all, he was the best President I've seen in MY lifetime.

#2-- Benjamin Franklin. I wish I could have met that guy in person. He was an inventor, a writer, a patriot and a horny old bastard who cut a wide swath through the wimmen. He also took "air baths," where he stood buck-nekkid in front of his window and let the wind blow over him. What's NOT to like about that guy?

#3--- Thomas Jefferson. I wish we had a politician alive today fit to polish his boots. But we don't.

#4-- Audie Murphy. UNBELIEVABLE courage under fire in war. The greatest American war hero who ever lived. You know what really bothers me about the life of Audie Murphy? How could that guy survive all the certain death he cheated in WWII and then die in a fucking civilian plane-crash? Something about that just ain't right.

#5--- Robert E. Lee. Probably one of the most honorable men who ever lived. He ended up on the wrong side of the War Between the States and he lost everything as a result. But he chose his side believing what he learned from his father. And he came close to beating an overwhelming opponent. I revere him.

#6--- Alvin York. THERE'S a story everybody should read. He went from conscienience objector to war hero. If nothing else, remember one thing about him.... don't fuck with a hillbilly with a rifle.

#7--- Thomas Edison. That man did more to drag the entire world into the 20th Century than anybody else I can think of. His inventions led to damn near everything we take for granted today. His creativity was incredible.

#8--- Henry Ford. His company builds shit cars and trucks now (just check their stock prices), but he made the automobile a staple of American life. Did anybody but Edison do anything to change the landscape as much as FORD did? I don't think so.

#9---George Washington. Forget about him being a general and fighting the British. Look around at the United States today. You still have George Washington to thank for the fact that we don't have a king and a royalty in this country (although Congress, lawyers and celebrities seem to have difficulty recognizing that fact). When we took our first baby-steps as a country, he steered us the right way. One hell of a man.

#10--- My father. His name was Robert Smith (no middle name) and no history book will ever record his glorious exploits. All he did was marry my mama, work hard all of his life and produce two sons. I am one of those sons. I read a lot of history and I worship heroes from the past, but I don't believe that a one of them can hold a candle to my daddy. He's been dead for almost 15 years now, but he remains the yardstick I measure myself by. And I often find myself lacking. But it's hard for anybody to walk as tall as he did.

There's my top 10. Got any better ideas?

ice and desire

Originally PUBLISHED July 21, 2005

Wimmen are like a Rubik's Cube, or one of those logic puzzles I'm so good at solving, but the truth is... I STILL haven't figured wimmen out. That may be one puzzle I'm simply not meant to solve.

With my Southern upbringing, I was taught to put wimmen on a pedestal and worship them like goddesses. They were SPECIAL and PURE and something to be fought for and won, like a prize in a jousting contest. Yes, the idea of being a Knight in Shining Armor still lives in the South today.

I believed that shit until I came to know wimmen a little better. I'm going to give some of you guys a little advice about how wimmen REALLY are.

1) They are the most devious creatures in the world. GOT-DAM!!! They plan, scheme and manipulate all the time. That's their nature. They don't think in straight lines. But they see angles better than any man ever did.

2) Pussy is NOT a precious commodity, and if you, as a man, ever TREAT it that way, you are doomed. A woman's total goal in life is to use pussy-power to get her way. Once she has you convinced that giving you a lick at it makes you OBLIGATED to her, you're stuck like a bug in a spider's web.

3) Yeah, yeah. All men think with their dicks. I'm not going to argue that point, because it's true. But if you don't believe that wimmen think with their pussies, you're outta your mind.

4) If you think wimmen don't get together and talk about dicks and how good you are in bed, you're outta your mind again. They are just as horny as any man I've ever known, and they COMPARE NOTES when they get laid. I got laid a LOT by doing a good job on a woman who told her friends about it.

5) Don't take anything a woman does as personal. She'll cut ANYBODY's throat as fast as she cut yours. That's just the way most of 'em are built.

6) They are ALL crazy--- it's just a matter of degree. No man can ever win an argument by pointing out crazy behavior on the woman's part, because SHE doesn't think it's crazy. She just gets pissed off at YOU and gets crazier to prove her point, whatever the hell that was. Oh, yeah. That was to prove that she ISN'T crazy-- YOU are.

7) No woman I've ever know is happy with the way she looks. That insecurity breeds a very sensitive bunch of tentacles that spread out and detect insults, even when none are there. Don't EVER tell one that her ass looks fat in that dress. And you WILL be asked.

8) Forget teaching Ebonics in school. If some educator could set up a legitimate course in "Wimmentalk," I'd sign up and take it tomorrow. Wimmen speak in code. They expect a man to UNDERSTAND IT, too, even though they never bother to translate.

9) If pussy were so fricking precious, it wouldn't be available on the open market. You can buy it just like fresh watermelons off the back of a farmer's truck. And if you negotiate a good deal, you can buy it almost as cheaply. It ain't gold-plated, guys--- never forget that fact. And don't let a woman ever convince you otherwise, either.

10) DON'T EVER GET MARRIED!!!! I once worked with a guy who said, right before I married my first wife, "If you find the right one, there's nothing like it. Of course if you marry the WRONG one, there's nothing like THAT, either." He was correct, and in my dotage now, I say the risk isn't worth the cost.

Now. THAT post should piss some people off.

that's what you get

Originally PUBLISHED June 06, 2005

It's an old Gordon Lightfoot song, but I still like it a lot. I sometimes think of the words to "For Lovin' Me" when I read angry comments on my blog. The song is about an unrepentent sinner and lover of many wimmen, a heartbreaker and a rogue. And he doesn't intend to change his ways over one woman's tears.

I lived a good part of my young manhood that way, and I have very few regrets about it. I had a damn fine time, and experienced more hootin' good craziness than most men do in their entire lives. I played guitar, I drank, I fucked, I drugged and I didn't give a shit if the sun came up in the morning. RIGHT NOW was all that mattered to me.

I simmered down later in life and actually became a responsible person. I put my nose to the grindstone and kept it there for a long time. Then... I got divorced and started blogging.

Lo and Behold! That same crazy bastard I thought I left in the rear-view mirror years ago resurfaced again. The don't-give-a-damn attutude. The sharp tongue and the angst. The willingness to fight at the drop of a hat. The charm and the spleen. It all came back to me and it felt as comfortable as putting on a well-worn shirt.

I AM what you see on this blog. I don't invent the stories I tell here. I don't have to, because I've lived one hell of a life. I like writing about it. I believe that I tell the stories well, too, even though I manage to piss a lot of people off with the way I do it. I don't care. As Popeye said, "I yam what I yam and that's all what I yam."

That's what you get when you come here.

September 06, 2008

the weather channel

Originally PUBLISHED June 13, 2006

I have the weather channel playing on my television now, mainly so I can see the local radar and learn what's going on with Alberto's bad self. Rain has been falling in a steady drizzle for almost two hours now, and there's a lot more where that came from, at least according to the Weather Channel.

We NEED the rain here.

And I NEED my weather channel. We never had that glitzy crap when I was a boy, so we had to do forecasting the old fashioned way, just as Recondo 32 says today when he's feeling philosophical.

"We had a Weather Channel. It was called The Fuckin' Window! (pronounced "winder" by true red-necks) You looked outside, and if you saw rain, you wore a raincoat. If it was bright and sunny, you didn't want to go outside at all. Too got-dam HOT!"

Technology ain't got a damn thing on old red-necks.

same old same old

Originally PUBLISHED June 14, 2006

Illegal immigrant tropical storm Badass Alberto is gone now. I enjoyed all the rain he dumped around here, but when I checked the gauge in my yard this morning, it held a fraction more than 1", which is about 5" less than what we needed to wet the ground decently. Shit. The sun is blazing as mercilessly as usual now and the ground will be as dry as a popcorn fart again by tomorrow.

Still, it was better than nothing.

I picked a lot of tomatoes (no more of the sexually-deviant kind), two bell peppers and some more banana peppers this morning, and I experienced a mockingbird attack while I was out there performing stoop labor. I think those are the same birds who have nested in my back yard scrub-woods for the past four years--- I recognize that big, honking, hostile male--- but they've moved their nest to the other side of my woods from where they've homesteaded in the past.

I was first alerted to their presence by a lot of screeching and shaking of small tree limbs nearby. I tried to ignore them while I picked vegetables. But those birds didn't WANT "peace." They wanted a "PIECE" of ME, dammit, and they set forth to get it, too.

I was swooped upon. I got pecked on my tender noggin. I had some of my thinning gray silver hair snatched out by the roots. In typical attack strategy, one bird occupied my attention in front, while the other one snuck up from behind and attempted to drill a hole in my skull. I thought that maybe if I stood perfectly still, they would give up and ignore me.

Bad plan. All I accomplished with that tactic was to make those birds more pissed off than they already were and provide a stationary target for their bombing raids. I could hear little baby birds chirping (or maybe cheering) from their nest in a nearby tree, as mama and daddy made me do a non-happy-dance all over my garden. They were tearing into me worse than my own mama ever did with a willow switch.

I finally ran for my life, spilling freshly-picked tomatoes in my wake. Those mean-ass birds chased me all the way to my back door, then roosted on my barbecue grill to laugh at me once I was inside with the door locked. Mean little bastids.

Still, I gotta admit one thing. I kinda ADMIRE those birds. They are fiercely protective of their nest, they ain't afraid of ANYTHING and they work together like a well-trained sniper unit when they attack. Plus, they are marvelous songbirds to listen to in the morning.

They don't eat seed from my bird feeders--- mockers prefer LIVE food--- but they'll perch up there on the T-bar, sing, scold and run off any other critter who dares invade THEIR territory. That includes dogs, cats, other birds and ME. I admire GALL, and they've got plenty of that.

I intend to go out and pick some more goodies from my garden today. But I really need a football helmet, elbow-length gauntlet gloves and a Kevlar vest to armor myself with first. Those hostile little bastids will come after me again, just as sure as Jawja has pine trees, when they spot me on "their" turf.

I ain't gonna shoot 'em. I kinda like their attitudes.

But they don't like ME.

Hurricane opal

Originally PUBLISHED September 17, 2004

I've been reading some posts from bloggers in north Georgia about the effects of Hurricane Ivan on them. These people are 400 miles from the Florida coast and they STILL got a scary dose of the storm. I feel their pain. I was staying at BLOOD MOUNTAIN CABINS in October of 1995 when OPAL roared through there.

Jennifer and I went into Helen the morning before the storm hit. She wanted to shop for souvenirs and I wanted to drink beer. A place called "The Wurst Haus" has a nice, covered biergarten, so that's where I stayed with Quinton while my wife went shopping. A drizzling rain had been falling all day and I liked the biergarten because they had nice, dark beer and a covered place for Quinton to burn up some energy running around without getting wet.

I hadn't paid any attention to the news for days. (That's back before George put satellite TV in the cabins.) Some people in the biergarten told me about Opal and I listened to the news on the radio while we were driving back to the cabin. The storm was headed our way after it made landfall. "We should stop and buy some candles and a couple of flashlights," I suggested. "We probably won't need them, but it's better to be safe than sorry."

Man, those were famous last words. We stopped and bought our hurricane supplies with me telling Jennifer all along, "By the time it gets up here, it won't be anything other than a minor windstorm. We can handle that." I forgot about the fact that the cabins are at 3,000 feet in the mountains.

Some people who read this blog have SEEN Blood Mountain cabins. Imagine waking up at 4:00 in the morning with the entire cabin rocking on its stilted legs. Imagine hearing the wind howl in the trees like a banshee with its ass on fire. Imagine hearing what you first thought were gunshots in the woods until you realized that it was the sound of trees snapping off at the trunk.

Jennifer and I were sleeping in the cabin loft. I went downstairs and checked on Quinton. He was out like a light, which was fitting because all the electricity was off in the cabin. I then went to the sliding glass door that led to the deck and put my hand against it. I could feel that sucker BREATHING!

I am NOT making this up. Every time another howling wind rocked the cabin, I could feel the glass BEND with the force. I opened the door and stepped out onto the deck. I shined my flashlight straight up into the air and saw tree limbs the size of my LEG sailing horizontally through the air over the cabin and occassionally banging on the roof like thunder.

That shit lasted for six hours. Trees fell all over the place and hit three of the cabins, all unoccupied at the time. We survived, but it was a frightening experience because there is no "off" switch for that stuff. It goes on as long as it wants to.

George didn't get power back to the cabins for nine days after that. No power means no water in the cabins. Quinton wasn't two years old at the time, so we couldn't stay there and rough it with HIM on board. We also couldn't LEAVE until late that afternoon because all the roads were blocked with fallen trees.

Opal was a tropical storm when it raped and pillaged at Blood Mountain. Ask me NOW why I fear hurricanes.

September 04, 2008

they should know better

Originally PUBLISHED March 06, 2005

I'm SORRY (ed. note: link no longer active-story related to rescue attempt for stranded dolphins). I like "flipper" as well as the next guy and I've had dolphins swim close enough to me in the water that I was able to grab a handfull of dorsal fin and take a nice ride. I've also watched them hunt fish in teams.

Have you ever watched them do that in a salt water creek? Four or five of them will get together in a school of mullet or shiners and then swim together to make a wave that washes all the little fishies up on the bank. After that, they idle there and eat the little fishies when they flop back toward the water. It's a damned effective fishing operation.

Those fuckers have scared the shit out of me before. I was trying to don a pair of water skis in the Wilmington River one day, when somebody on the boat shouted "SHARK!!!" I looked around and saw this HUGE creature swimming right next to me and showing that dorsal fin above the water. I almost put on my Jesus shoes and ran across the water back to the boat, leaving a trail of bodily fluids behind me.

But it wasn't a shark. It was a dolphin, along with about four friends, just curious about what I was doing in their domain. Those critters do everything but sniff you like a dog when you're in the water with them. I got bumped and thumped and blow-hole drenched until I managed to get the skis on my feet. I yelled "GO!" and made that round-and-round motion with my hand that told the boat driver to hit the throttle.

I took off and watched those crazy bastards chase me all the way down the river. No... "chase" is the wrong word, because they could swim a lot faster than I was going. They were PLAYING with me, and they almost dumped me more than once. I was probably doing about 30 to 40 MPH at the time, and those beautiful creatures didn't even have to try hard to keep up.

They liked to hem me in on both sides, then have one of their buddies surface right in front of me. If I dodged HIM, they set up another plan of attack and came after me again. I really believe that they knew what water skis were and they were trying to give me a nice spill. Kinda like playing a video game for them.

I managed to stay on the skis and they got bored with the game after about 15 minutes. They swam off to amuse themselves doing something else. But that was a hoot of an experience. I've never "Danced With Wolves."

But I HAVE swum with dolphins.

Moonshine

Originally PUBLISHED August 18, 2005

Do YOU know why illegally distilled whiskey is called "moonshine?" I do.

If you ran an outdoor still in the hollows of eastern Kentucky, federal agents rode around looking for smoke coming out of the woods. That's how they found and destroyed a lot of stills.

But if you did it AT NIGHT, by the light of the moon, you were less likely to be caught. Can't see smoke in the sky at night, at least not as well as the Feds did in the daytime. Plus, the Feds went to sleep at night.

Moonshiners didn't.

I'm just making this shit up. I have NO IDEA what I'm talking about. My grandfather NEVER made moonshine, and I don't, either.

But you're better off doing it at night if you're in that line of business.

UPDATE:
You can see that smoke rising up so high
Like a silver thread in the moonlit sky
Lordy, ain't that such a handsome sight?
Yonder up the hollow on the side of the hill
That's my kinfolk workin' that moonshine still
Makin' Blockade whiskey tonight.

Words and music for the entire song written by Rob Smith. That's one I intend to record.

the "zero hero"

Originally PUBLISHED July 27, 2005

I had a lot of entertainment talking to Quinton tonight. He's a troop in some paint-ball league that goes out and fights in the woods about twice every week. His nickname is "The Zero Hero" because he slays his enemies without mercy, ravishes their wimmen and sacks their villages, driving everything into complete panic before him as he cackles in glee and drinks mead from a ram-horn. My son is a barbarian.

I am proud of him.

Well... I'm kinda exaggerating here. Quinton is called the "Zero Hero" because he seldom gets "killed" on the battlefield, and he's the one who usually captures the enemy flag. As he told me tonight,

"Daddy, if I stay low and move fast, they never hit me. Well, sometimes they do. You oughta see the knot on the backa my head right now. I never saw that guy. He was dug in and he jumped up and shot me when I ran by.

Oh! I've got this big bruise on my back, too. But that guy cheated. He was dead already and shot me anyway. Know what I did? I turned around and unloaded my whole gun into him. I bet he has more bruises than I do now."

I am certain that some "psychologists" will see all sorts of warning signs in what I just wrote. Quinton is a gun-loving maniac, just like his father!!! BEJUS!!! KILL THEM BOTH!!! THE ACORN NEVER FALLS FAR FROM THE TREE!!!

I just wish we'd had paintball games when I was Quinton's age. Damn! That's got to be a lot of fun.

You know what I thought about tonight when I talked to him? I thought about that single-shot, bolt-action .22 rifle that I bought I almost bought to teach Quinton and Jack to shoot. That's an exact replica of the first "real" gun I ever shot in my life and I think it is the ideal rifle to teach young boys to shoot.

One round at a time. You have to learn to operate the gun. You have to think before every shot. I can't conceive of a better way to do it.

I taught 'em to shoot BB guns, and Quinton has fired my pellet rifle a few times, but he's old enough now to get GOOD at that stuff. And
Originally PUBLISHED

I don't care what some of you GFWs have to say about teaching a boy to shoot. That is one of the closest bonding experiences I ever had with my father and my grandfather.

They both wore Old Spice after-shave. TO THIS DAY, if I smell gunpowder and Old Spice at the same time, I get all misted up, and I remember plunking with that .22 rifle on the banks of the Cumberland river.

I want my son to have memories like that.

September 03, 2008

party? We'll see

Originally PUBLISHED June 25, 2005

I'm supposed to go down to the CATFISH MANOR today for some fishing, some shooting and a nice low-country boil. I packed a bunch of guns and ammo yesterday, and I'm taking some of my moonshine home-made wine to give away.

There's only one small problem. I got out of bed at 7:30 this morning to the sound of pouring rain, and it hasn't stopped yet. A malignant tropical low-pressure system appeared off the coast during the night and it's tossing bands of rain inland now.

The rain may fall all day.

I'm going down to see Cat anyway, but the weather may put a damper on some of the planned activities. I ain't gonna fish in the rain, but I WILL shoot up some ammo between rainstorms if I get the chance. Besides, Cat has a nice covered and sceened back porch, and we can party just fine there if we have to.

Goddam weather. We need the rain, but Mother Nature COULD have waited until tomorrow to deliver it.

a bead

Originally PUBLISHED June 28, 2005

I was sorely insulted by a phone call I received from Catfish last night. His cousin, Luther, came over and examined a jar of my moonshine. Luther, who has been known to run off a few batches of his own, pronounced my stuff "no good," because it wouldn't hold a bead.

Fuck Luther. I told Cat when we were making the stuff that I wasn't going to take the time to adjust my concoction to achieve a perfect bead. What came out of the worm went straight into a jar and that's what you got. The beginning and ending of the run produced weaker liquor than the middle of the run did, but it all turned out pretty good.

It's clear as branch-water, and you can't make it freeze. I'll admit that when you shake a jar, you get a lot of tiny bubbles instead of a glowing, perfect bead. It's OVER-PROOF, which isn't really bad for home-made brandy. So, when some red-necked asshole such as Luther declares MY moonshine "no good" because it doesn't hold a bead, I call bullshit.

Drink half a jar, motherfucker. See if you can still find your ass with both hands.

If I wanted a bead, I could have watered and adjusted the stuff to get one. But I decided NOT to worry about that process. Every jar I made is unique. You won't go blind or fall into a coma from drinking it, either. (Well... you probably COULD work up a good coma if you drank enough of it.) It's genuine, home-made, once-rectified elixer, fit to fill to goblets of the Gods.

Luther can kiss my Cracker ass.

September 02, 2008

the scenic route

Originally PUBLISHED December 12, 2004

My friend Catfish and I rode up to Athens together. He drove and I navigated. I took us via the backroads, where we didn't have to deal with traffic or those pesky policemen with radar guns who infest the main highways. It's a pretty ride the way I like to go and we made the trip in about four hours.

Catfish bitched all weekend about my choice of routes. "We drove all the way around our assholes to get to our elbows," was his favorite saying. "When we go back, we're taking MY way," he promised. Today, we did.

I have to admit one thing about Cat's choice of roads: he set the all-time speed record for a trip from Athens to Savannah. NEVER BEFORE has that trip taken SEVEN FUCKING HOURS!!!

I knew something was wrong when Cat took a left off highway 78 just outside Washington, Georgia. "Where're you goin,' man?" I asked. "This is 77 NORTH. We don't want to be going north. Savannah is SOUTH."

"We take a right in Elberton, the Granite Capitol of the World" he replied. "I know these roads like the back of my hand. I once sold insurance up here. I've been all over this place. I know exactly where we are."

I shut up and let him drive. And drive. And drive.

The only right turn out of Elberton was another road going north. We took it and before long, we were in South Carolina, 52 miles NORTH of got-dam Augusta, Georgia. If this was a short-cut, it was the damnedest one I ever saw. "Bejus! We're on the other side of Clark Hill Lake!" I exclaimed.

"Hmmm..." Catfish replied. "I think I fucked up. But I SWEAR that I remember coming home from Athens by going through Elberton." That kind of memory may be the reason he got out of the insurance business.

We finally arrived at my house seven hours after we left Athens. What the hell. I had nothing better to do today than ride around lost for hours in northeast Georgia and bumfuck South Carolina. As usual, Catfish was unrepentent over his fuckwittery.

"Ya gotta admit one thing," he said. "We saw some great scenery. And those were damn good roads." Yes, I agreed, those were great roads. All 160 extra miles of them.

I'm never letting him navigate again.

severe storm warnings

Originally PUBLISHED June 13, 2006

We interrupt this program to advise... a line of severe thunderstorms, with high winds and marble-sized hail... is detected on Doppler Radar (and I'll give you a bag of freshly boiled green peanuts if you can tell me what a "Doppler Effect" is), moving north by northeast, possibly affecting the areas of Chatham, Effingham, Bryan and Liberty Counties in southeast Georgia. Please remain indoors if severe weather strikes your area and stay tuned to this Emergency Broadcast Channel."

Bring it on.

I'm a chitlin. Makes sense for Gut rumbles

Originally PUBLISHED February 6, 2004

What's Your "Southern" Sign? Some of us (especially Southerners) are pretty skeptical of horoscopes, and it has become obvious that what we need are "Southern" symbols:

OKRA (Dec 22 - Jan 20) Although you appear crude, you are actually very slick on the inside. Okras have tremendous influence. An older Okra can look back over his life and see the seeds of his influence everywhere. Stay away from Moon Pies.

CHITLIN (Jan 21 - Feb 19) Chitlins come from humble backgrounds. A chitlin, however, can make something of himself if he's motivated and has lots of seasoning. In dealing with Chitlins, be careful. They can erupt like Vesuvius. Chitlins are best with Catfish and Okra.

BOLL WEEVIL (Feb 20 - Mar 20) You have an overwhelming curiosity. You're unsatisfied with the surface of things, and you feel the need to bore deep into the interior of everything. Needless to say, you are very intense and driven as if you had some inner hunger. Nobody in their right mind is going to marry you, so don't worry about it.

MOON PIE (Mar 21 - Apr 20) You're the type that spends a lot of time on the front porch. It's a cinch to recognize the physical appearance of Moon Pies. Big and round are the key words here. This might be the year to think about aerobics. Or - maybe not.

POSSUM (Apr 21 - May 21) When confronted with life's difficulties, possums have a marked tendency to withdraw and develop a don't-bother-me-about-it attitude. Sometimes you become so withdrawn, people actually think you're dead. This strategy is probably not really healthy, but seems to work for you. One day, however, it won't work and you may find your problems actually running you over.

CRAWFISH (May 22 - June 21) Crawfish is a water sign. If you work in an office, you're always hanging around the water cooler. Crawfish prefer the beach to the mountains, the pool to the golf course, the bathtub to the living room. You tend to be not particularly attractive physically, but you have a very, very good head.

COLLARDS (June 22 - July 23) Collards have a genius for communication. They love to get in the "melting pot" of life and share their essence with the essence of those around them.. Collards make good social workers, psychologists, and baseball managers. As far as your personal life goes, if you are Collards, stay away from Moon Pies. It just won't work. Save yourself a lot of heartache.

CATFISH (July 24 - Aug 23) Catfish are traditionalists in matters of the heart, although one's whiskers may cause problems for loved ones. You catfish are never easy people to understand. You prefer the muddy bottoms to the clear surface of life. Above all else, Catfish should stay away from Moon Pies.

GRITS (Aug 24 - Sept 23) Your highest aim is to be with others like yourself. You like to huddle together with a big crowd of other Grits. You love to travel though, so maybe you should think about joining a club. Where do you like to go? Anywhere they have cheese or gravy or bacon or butter or eggs. If you can go somewhere where they have all these things, that serves you well.

BOILED PEANUTS (Sept 24 - Oct 23) You have a passionate desire to help your fellow man. Unfortunately, those who know you best - your friends and loved ones - may find that your personality is much too salty, and their criticism will probably affect you deeply because you are really much softer than you appear. You should go right ahead and marry anybody you want to because in a certain way, yours is a charmed life. On the road of life, you can be sure that people will always pull over and stop for you.

BUTTER BEAN (Oct 24 - Nov 22) Always invite a Butter Bean because Butter Beans get along well with everybody. You, as a Butter Bean, should be proud. You've grown on the vine of life and you feel at home no matter what the setting. You can sit next to anybody. However, you, too, shouldn't have anything to do with Moon Pies.

ARMADILLO (Nov 23 - Dec 21) You have a tendency to develop a tough exterior, but you are actually quite gentle. A good evening for you? Old friends, a fire, some roots, fruit, worms and insects. You are a throwback. You're not concerned with today's fashions and trends. You're not concerned with anything about today. You're really almost prehistoric in your interests and behavior patterns. You probably want to marry another Armadillo, but Possum is another possibility.

September 01, 2008

good news

Originally PUBLISHED August 31, 2004

, yeah... I KNOW that the LATEST FORECASTS put hurricane Frances right up my ass this weekend. I still say that's good news. Forecasters keep adjusting the track farther north. I like that.

Hugo was supposed to hit Savannah, but it turned north at the last minute and waylaid Charleston. Floyd was supposed to hit Savannah, but it was drawn to the National Hurricane Magnet of North Carolina. Wait and see. Frances will miss, too. I stick with my original prediction for landfall: Wilmington, NC.

I'd rather be lucky than good and I'm trusting my luck again this time.

(UPDATE: if THIS TRACK asst. ed. note: this link is still operative , but takes the reader to real time as of this repost (September, 01, 2008, ironically showing the path of Hurricane Hanna, which is taking an almost identical path to the one that Francis followed in 2004) holds, we're going to take a whippin' even if we don't see the eye of the storm. Savannah will be on the northeast side of the hurricane and that's the worst place to be. I need to buy some more beer and cigarettes.)

good point

Originally PUBLISHED September 23, 2005

I've called North Carolina a "hurricane magnet" for years. I've watched too many hurricanes predicted to hit Savannah that just kept drifting north to slam NC to believe any differently.

The past couple of years has turned Florida and the Gulf Coast into target areas. I feel sorry for those people, but I resort to my virtue of selfishness: better THEM than ME.

I believe that Savannah is positioned in a fortunate place. We have the "Georgia Bite" to protect us. Just look carefully at a map of the southeast United States. It looks a lot like a sandwich that somebody took one bite off of. Savannah is right in the middle of that bite-mark.

The Gulf Steam is 50 miles offshore here. The Gulf Stream is a strong current of warm water that affects the paths of hurricanes. It tends to steer storms north of where I live.

The Georgia Bite also makes a clear line in the water, and you'd know that fact if you ever rode a boat from here to Key West (I did). Somewhere off the coast of Florida, about 20 miles out, you can see the line in the water where the sea changes from green and skanky to clear, blueberry-popsicle beauty.

I am NOT making this shit up.

The Georgia Bite protects Savannah from hurricanes. I've lived here for more than 40 years and I've seen seen TWO hurricanes in that period of time, and both were CAT 1 when they hit. We dodged Hugo and Floyd. The Georgia Bite did that.

Read THIS THEORY about hurricanes. It throws some more meat into the stew.

Sam is correct about what he says. We have NOT experienced the usual hurricanes blowing off of Cape Verde this year. Ours have been home-grown, right near where we live.

Any rhyme or reason to that? Damn if I know. Mother Nature works in mysterious ways. But she's not always cruel.

She gave me the Georgia Bite.

hurricane floyd

Originally PUBLISHED September 1, 2004

I'm getting a few comments from tough-assed BROADS who think I'm full of shit for saying that wimmen hyperventilate and get the vapors when a big storm comes. Well, I didn't make my opinions from ether.

When hurricane Floyd was supposed to hit Savannah a few years ago, I invited my mama, my grandmother, all my in-laws and everybody else I could think of to come stay at my house, the mini-farm. They got there a lot quicker than I got home from work. I was one of the last people out of the plant (that was my job) and I spent almost two hours on the road trying to get home.

I had a generator, propane, plenty of food and water, flashlights, batteries and lots of room. To ME, my house seemed like a good place to hunker down.

But the wimmen started watching the Weather Channel. Hyperventilation occurred. Like chickens, one started to squawk and the rest took up the cry: WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!! Got-dam!!! What is it about you wimmen that make you so assholey sometimes?

The next thing I knew, I had a rebellion on my hands. Every woman in the house wanted to flee. I had just come in from the roads and I knew that nobody was going to flee ANYWHERE, not with that traffic-jam on the highways. But try to explain facts to a hysterical, hormone-driven bitch. You may as well go piss up a rope. They don't listen. They begin to "feel," and you'd better watch your codsack when wimmen start that "feeling" shit.

You believe that men think with their dicks? Watch a woman when she starts to "feel" things. Tell me what SHE'S thinking with. It damn sure ain't her brain.

I managed to quell that rebellion only after the wimmen called every motel chain in the phone book and learned that there wasn't a vacant room within 500 miles. (As if you could have GOTTEN THERE in the traffic.) Then, they all settled down and prepared to die, giving me hairy eyeballs for getting them all killed.

I liked my grandmother's attitude. "I ain't going nowhere. If Robbie says I'm safe here, I'm gonna trust him. I am too old for the kind of car ride you people are suggesting. I gotta pee a lot."

Floyd missed and went up the coast to pummell North Carolina. The wimmen never forgave me for being right when they were wrong. Wimmen are like that.

But NOBODY better tell me that they don't hyperventilate and get the vapors. I've SEEN that happen.