ScreamRant

Days Of Future Flatus

2007-12-03T02:22:00.000-05:00

Interesting...seems Google can't do this much better than the old Blogspot people did. They claim I made a post on Dec. 30th of last year, when the last one I can find is from November 25th.

There's a new year coming! Feeling my age, I think if I make a resolution this year (some years I do, some I don't), it's going to be to get it together and start making the rest of my life count for something. Live, love, laugh, learn.
Maybe other things, for instance, FISHING.

Yes, indeed. I'm going to fish with a frequency and an intensity that no completely sane person would display. I'm going to learn how to catch every bloody thing in the saltwater rivers and the ocean around here. I'm going to photograph a lot of them, as well as take notes on what I did and when I did it to catch the types I want to catch again.

I've got to get past this nickname of Captain Catfish. Granted, I catch dozens of the damn things. But anybody that can't catch catfish in east central Florida is a sad fisherperson. Before I became too environmentally aware to indulge in such atrocities, I once flipped a lit cigarette butt into the Banana River, and a catfish ate it.

Trout Terror, Flounder Pounder, Snapper Slayer, all cool nicknames. But Captain Catfish? Egad. Even Sergeant Stingray would be an improvement over that. I catch a ton of those things, too, but nobody seems to notice.

I suppose it could be worse. The other fish I've completely mastered the techniques to catch is pigfish. I'll outcatch anybody who wants pigfish. However, the potential nicknames...no thanks.

No matter what, I shall endeavor to persevere. I'll haul my lazy butt out of bed before dawn, and have bait in the water before the sky begins to lighten. I'll fish when it's raining. I'll fish when it's so cold I can't wear my beloved flip-flops. I'll fish when all the known predictors say nothing will bite. I'll fish from shore. I'll fish from my boats. I'll fish from other peoples' boats, from docks, bridges, canal banks and piers. I'll use my poles that are so sensitive they twitch when a fish thinks about biting, I'll use big heavy rigs strong enough to haul sharks in, and everything in between. I'll use live bait, cut bait, thawing bait, artificial lures, homemade lures. I'll use lights, bait treatments, sonic attractors.

Sane people will wonder about this single-minded drive to outwit a creature with a brain smaller than the end of ones' pinkie finger.
Fishing folk will understand.

Star Spangled Boneage

2006-11-25T02:16:00.000-05:00

Enzyte. That's the stuff that features those wonderful commercials with the hugely smiling "enhanced" Bob.

Boomer the bulldog is staying with me this week. He's not your stereotypical bulldog. For one thing, he rarely drools. Actually, he ONLY drools when he's being given snacks or food. Even though his new family loves him to death, and will be picking him up as soon as they get back from vacation, he's feeling more than a little insecure. This means that he's about 6 inches behind me most of the time, and "assists" me with whatever I'm doing. This is a bit disconcerting when I'm on the toilet, the rest of the time it's bearable. I drive him around when I don't have to leave him in the truck for extended periods of time. He's an excellent travel companion. He's also not a gassy dog. Anyone who has ever had a gassy dog will understand how wonderful a quality that is.

Thanksgiving 2006 is now history. I spent it with friends, and had an unbelieveable feast, followed by a nearly unbelievable "care" package. Of course, when I got home, the neighbors had a second care package ready for me. I'm hoping to finish the last of it tomorrow and resume my diet. Boomer's helping me with the ham portions of the care packages. I'm not terribly fond of ham, but he seems to like it ok.

AOL has, once again, found a way to stick it to its customers. One morning, I couldn't log on. Tried several times. Finally called the cable company that had a deal with AOL. The operative word here is "had". Seems it was cancelled, and I was left high and dry. Once again, I'm reminded daily about how bad dialup sucks. I'm trying to train everyone I know who calls me to call my cell phone, and trying to retrain myself to always have my cell phone turned on and with me so they can. This doesn't help with telemarketers, of course.

The other problem with my online life is my computer. It's 7 years old. It's tired. It's drastically overloaded with stuff. The one good thing about it is, I'm using Windows Millenium Edition (ME). What's good about that? Practically everyone else is using XP. The hackers are just partying with XP users. ME users are so rare they don't even bother hacking people like me. Also, ME was such an awful, problem-plagued program when it was released that many people skipped it and either went with Windows 2000 or held onto Windows 98. I hung in there, grabbed all the fixes and patches as Microsoft released them, and wound up with a truly stable and excellent platform to work from. I have enjoyed sneering as others face "the blue screen of death" while I've been virused, hacked, attacked and been able to fight them off with relative ease, get my system back up and running quickly. It's kind of a shame to watch Microsoft get something right, then march boldy forward and screw it all up again. I suppose that's progress.

Well, it's getting late. The infomercials are starting. Better try to get some sleep.
Y'all hang in there!

Ereptile And Other Dysfunctions

2006-09-13T05:22:00.000-04:00

Greetings campers!
This here's Debonair Suaveroot, your Manic Insomniac, blogging instead of sensibly hitting the sack.
Now, as far as I know, I was the first one to misname Erectile Dysfunction as Ereptile Dysfunction. I think it's a more pleasant way to describe the problem. Why bring this up? The commercials! I LOVE those commercials. The ways that they cracks me up seem to also effect nearly every other TV-watching male in the U.S. Incidentally, I didn't try to copyright Ereptile Dysfunction. Use it as you will. But if you EVER try to sue ME over the rights to it, I'll hunt you down and urinate on your lawn ornaments. I hate to be harsh, but I feel strongly about this.

"If you have a priapism, an erection lasting more than four hours, call your doctor." What does EVERY guy say?
"Hell, if I have one lasting more than four hours, I'm calling the Guinness Book Of World Records." Ok, we've all said it.
Somebody come up with a new one. I'm fresh out.

Of course, there are other problems. "If you experience a loss of vision..." "AIEEEEE! I'm fuckin' BLIND." Sorry, but someone had to say it, ok? I can't remember the name of the product that features Bob, the guy with the huge grin, but frankly, that's the one stiffy-making commercial worth watching. "Natural Male Enhancement." Yeah. That's the ticket.

What I'm wondering is, why all of a sudden is there a nationwide surge of limp dicks? Is this a new thing, or just suddenly they've finally found products that don't drop you from a coronary in the middle of playing hide the sausage? Hell, they've not even done that. They TELL you to make sure your doc says it's ok for you to have sex.
You think men won't risk that? Gimme a break. Would you rather take the deep plunge from walking or swimming, a good meal, or while you're waxing the wand? (Note to any extreme feminists who stumble across this blog: Yes, I know I am. Yes, I need sensitivity training. No, I'm not going to get it.)

Speaking of feminism, is that partly to blame for this epidemic of flat-lined schlongage? Maybe in part. Guys don't know how to act around women anymore. There are lots of people willing to tell them, for a large amount of money, but the information from "expert" to "expert" is varied and often useless or close to it. Women themselves never have and never will be able to pin down what they want, how in hell are guys supposed to figure it out? It's impossible.
Incidentally, I'm not completely against feminism. I think some of the aims of it are important and necessary to improve society. I think some of the aims are insane and destructive. I think the same thing about our politicians. I also think my opinion isn't going to effect anything.

I guess age, flab and the resulting surge of diabetes is probably more to blame. My Dad was diabetic. I attained obesity and borderline diabetes, and I'm still fighting off the flab. Guys, this is CRITICAL. It's hard to hump when you're fat. You're also really gnarly looking naked. Have you ever seen those blind African frogs? They're pale white. Check 'em out sometime, and remember, you may very well look worse. Non-white readers? You don't look any better. Dump the fat.

I've read that a lot of guys are burned out from bad marriages and don't really get into dating or trying to find another woman. MISTAKE. There are more out there. Good ones. Nice ones. Honorable ones. Some of them aren't all burned out because of buttwipe men, too. Go find one. They're as lonely as you are.

Will someone besides me PLEASE tell Vonage that the "music" on their commercials SUCKS? That "Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo-hoo" crap grates on me every time I hear it. It would probably save me money by getting their service, but not if it encourage them not to fire their ad agency and move on. What moron suggested that insane, torturous sound, and what fool approved it? Get some TASTE, people! Others are using old rock songs. I've heard the Stones' "Wild Horses", Lennon's "Imagine" and others. They're nice! They're music. Get a freakin' CLUE, would ya?

Now, in addition to the 10,000 other famous women I've got the hots for, ya know who I like? The Leptoprin woman. Not Leptopril, with the cute little brunette, LeptoPRIN. That poor woman has been insulted every way you can think of. Her hair, her presentation, everything. I don't care. I want an autographed picture of her. I wanta know her name. I'll send her fan mail. I won't stalk her, though. I'm way too lazy to do that. Plus it's undignifed.

Ok, that's it for commercials for now. What else needs my attention? Ah. Soldiers and "reporters".
Now, I've got YEARS of journalism training behind me. So I'm not just talking out my butt here. Here's the basics:
Who, What, When, Where and How. That's their job. Report those things. They're supposed to do it in a fair and balanced manner. Here's the problem: they don't. They don't even KNOW they're not doing it in some cases. People do NOT realize the power of their teachers back in school. You see your life as a long string of events leading up to what you are now. They see you as someone they have a limited time to have an effect on. Suppose you're basically a Conservative and, in modern times, God help you, a Christian in a public school. It's HARD to stand up for your beliefs when they're unpopular. It's easier to downplay and go along. Peer approval is important, and authority figures' approval often is, as well. Teachers can be some of the most evil manipulators you'll ever encounter. A raised eyebrow, a disapproving look, is often enough to affect a kid. This could be the subject of a very long blog in itself, but I'm going to try to stay focused on journalism here.

I'm not suggesting that we need more conservative journalists to offset the overwhelming majority of ultra-liberal ones currently in the media business. What I'm suggesting is that the parent companies need to encourage something that's not been done since the 60s. UNBIASED reporting. NOT liberally slanted, NOT conservatively slanted, but presenting both sides when possible, and NO side even more frequently. Report the FACTS. "Journalism" is a sad, unfunny joke.

Right now, there are Americans overseas fighting to protect us. The media is putting every kind of slant on this that they can, but don't be fooled. Those young people are there trying to keep this world a safe place for US. If you lose sight of that, you're a dupe and fool, and I'd like to rub my nasty asshole on your nose. They are AMERICANS. They are OUR PEOPLE. Whether you agree with this war or not, don't turn your back on them. There are organizations that send them care packages. You don't have to do a damn thing but write a check, or put a little money on your credit card. If you disagree with this war, tell your "representatives" in government, but do NOT turn your back on people risking their lives so you can preserve your way of life.

Be good. Be good citizens. Don't piss my butt off, ok?

In The Dark, Indeed

2006-09-05T04:50:00.000-04:00

Insomniac.

Earlier, my eyes were so heavy, my thoughts and movements so slowed, I thought perhaps I could sleep through the night. I nestled in, comfortable, tired, drifted off easily, vanished into the world of dreams I have yet to be able to articulate with the written word. It's an amazing world, and I do hope to share it eventually. Colorful. Scary sometimes. Funny. Manic. I can do what my body and mind, at their best wakenings, cannot. This night, like many others though, I don't get to stay.

I'm thirsty. I gotta pee. I forgot to brush my teeth earlier. Then, the strangest urge comes over me. I want to dance. I mean, I don't dance. I have a thick body, short legs, and was never gifted with the coordination and creativity to be a dancer. I learned to square dance and waltz as a kid, tango a little as an adult. I could dance fairly well when I drank by using the grace and coordination of karate movements, sanitized and disguised by making them flow more like kung-fu and what I'd seen Polynesian dancers do on TV with their hands. It worked ok with a lot of Chivas Regal in me. I got compliments from strangers.

Since nearly a third of my hard drive is taken up with music, finding appropriate sounds is easy. I create a playlist on my Winamp. Nobody in the neighborhood is awake, the blinds are closed. The cat already thinks I'm nuts, and doesn't care as long as she's fed daily. I dance! Moving amid the detritus and pending pieces of my home reconstruction, the disorganized mess of my living room furniture, I turn, dip, whirl, step, near-kick, and oddly enough, don't bump anything, knock anything over. I think briefly that it's a shame I'm alone. I'd like to be dancing with somebody. In time, I say, and I'm back in the sound, sometimes eyes closed. Anyone watching would probably think of a two legged rhino on drugs, but no one sees, and I feel graceful enough.

After 3 songs, I'm through with dancing for now. I grab the arms of a chair, do a few pushups, do some calf raises, call up pieces of long-unpracticed kata, sometimes operating strictly on muscle memory, but things come back, and I'm breathing a bit hard and feeling good.

I had been nostalgic earlier, going over bits and pieces of my life, and some of those thoughts return for a while. I remember people complimenting on my strength as I delivered my younger brother's eulogy many years ago. They didn't see the times I broke down, sank into a shifting desert of despair and loss, sobbing so hard I pulled muscles in my back, unable to think or talk. That's done now. I miss him. That will never be done.

I remember a night when my young wife, sandwiched between the demands of her family and my needs, eyes wet with nearly shed tears, said, "You don't like my family, do you?", and her pain was like a weight on my chest.
"No," I told her, "I don't like them. But I do love them." The look in her eyes and the one returned held so much more than the words we said, and suddenly, in our car parked by a river on a blue Florida night, our arms were around each other, our faces nestled in that warm safe place against each other's neck and shoulder, and we held each other like letting go would collapse the ground under us.

I remembered the pained feeling the first time my parents called me to drive 13 miles to their house to change a lightbulb. I didn't mind it, of course, but that was the first strong sign of their mortality, the tiny beginning of them drifting toward an ending, and a loss of much that was good in the world.

I flashed through all the fine dogs I've had in my life, and how much they meant to me. Dogs have always been among my best friends, and my ability to keep secrets often rested on their shoulders, since I always told them what I was sworn to never speak to any human.

I decide to blog all this, which I'm doing, and I find some sweet, happy songs to elevate my mood. I'm playing them now. My eyes are getting tired again, and the energy burst from earlier seems to have abated. Maybe I can sleep again.

I hope you already are.

Sweatin' And A-scratchin'

2006-08-07T02:33:00.000-04:00

Ah, the joys of home repair! It has become an obsession. I passed up a beautiful, hot sunny weekend of fishing, playing in the ocean, hanging with friends, shooting pool in a nice air conditioned building, all to work on that damn WALL.

Insulating wall interiors, measuring and cutting wallboard, repairing sections of exposed ceiling, swearing at the short-lived batteries in my electric screwdriver, swearing at myself when a cut is off and I have to figure out how to compensate, swearing at the cat when I run out of wood screws (The cat, happily, stares at me briefly, yawns and goes back to sleep. She's heard it all before), swearing at my sweat-soaked shirt and back support belt. I actually get tired of swearing. That's rough.

Interspersed with the Never-Ending Wall are the necessities of everyday life. Food, laundry (I keep dish towels around to wipe the sweat running off my arms. Pouring sweat directly from my body into plugged-in power tools seems like a very bad idea. I go through about 2 of those towels a day), making other parts of my house more presentable. I have to feed my online addiction at least a little every day. I have to remind myself NOT to spend too much time sitting, or I'll fall asleep and miss optimum time for parts of my ongoing house cleanup.

I have to keep in mind that it IS hurricane season here, even if our first big one got itself all fired up then crapped out two days later, sending us some rain and cooling wind as it died. That means I could be restricted to two or three days of covering things with tarps, tying things down with ropes, putting things in places where wind won't send them flying out of my yard for points unknown. Of course, that also means making sure I have plenty of bottled water on hand, lots of charcoal and lighter fluid for the grill, plenty of gasoline for the generator, a variety of batteries, plenty of food, just all KINDS of goodies. I discovered, back when I was taking care of my Dad, that you can get those 12-hour light sticks, and when the power is out, save wear and tear on the generator by leaving a trail of them from, say, the bedroom to the bathroom, the hall to wherever I was sleeping in case he needed me for something.

Well, I best get back to it. Wall won't finish itself.

Drivin' Em Flush

2006-07-29T03:52:00.000-04:00

The west wall is done! Done enough for my purposes, at least. I was pondering how to align the east wall, since there's going to be a 3-foot gap for the door. I thought about using the laser sight on my BB pistol. I didn't feel like spending the money on a laser aligning device I may have limited use for in the future.

Then it hit me. BBs! So, I put on my safety glasses, ear plugs (you don't want a BB in your ear canal), lined the barrel up along the edge of the vertical 2 x 4 and POP. Perfect hole in the drywall. Move the gun up, flatten the edge of the barrel against the 2 x 4, POP. I know exactly where to put the board to begin the east wall.

Yes, I know it's a little bit nuts...but it worked.

When I finished drying after my shower the other day, I reached in my drawer to grab a pair of jockeys...and there was a MOUSE staring at me. We were both so shocked we kind of froze, then he hauled ass. Now, in the 25 years I've had this house, I had ONE rat in here. He was a quick rat, my dog couldn't catch him (this was before Basher. Basher would have nailed him), and I didn't have a cat. I finally blasted his ass with some .22 snake shot and chunked his body out in the swamp. When Xena the cat killed and ate a mouse in the living room, I knew it was time for drastic action. Ditto when one went zooming out of the kitchen and headed for Mouse Central, which appears to be the dresser in my room.

This time, I went down to Dollar General and blew a whole buck on 4 traps. I'd smear a little peanut butter on them. Trouble is, these here mousies seem to be very light of foot and tongue. They'd eat the peanut butter, leave the traps unsprung. I thought about temporarily blinding them with the laser sight on the BB gun and blasting them, but that's too time-consuming. I thought of various sadistic but effective ways I could create implements of rodent destruction, but I simply don't have the time, nor do I need eviscerated mice in my underwear drawer. I'm not good with explosives, either, though the concept brought a smile to my face. Tiny mushroom clouds coming out of the drawer, well-done mice removed with oversize tweezers and served to the cat.

Well, while picking up some food to tide me over for the next few days, I saw it. Heavenly choruses seemed to come from nowhere. It gleamed in a plastic kind of way. It's a mouse-box. A simple almost rectangular plastic tube with a hinged lid on one end. The lid is a tight fit. The instructions are simple. Put in cracker piece with a smear of peanut butter. Put in mouse-friendly area. Mouse pushes door open, goes for cracker, door shuts behind him and won't open again. Take mouse outside, turn trap over so door falls against top of trap, drop mouse out. Stomping his little mouse guts out is optional. The trap cost $1.74.

At home, I baited and set my trap, went about doing house things. I checked the trap after about half an hour. VOILA! (PLEASE NOTE HOW TO SPELL VOILA. It's not VIOLA!) There he was! Cracker gone, peanut butter gone, little mouse turds all over the inside of the trap. They're extreme shitters anyway, but I suspect discovering they've been trapped really makes 'em cut loose.

No, I didn't kill him. I took him outside, went to the edge of the swamp, and let him go. I did sort of pop the end of the trap with my hand and he flew a few feet, but he was already running when he hit the ground. I rinsed the trap, emptied it into the toilet, let it dry and rebaited it. I'll check it in a few minutes. I wish there had been more than one trap on the shelf.

Power Trip

2006-07-15T00:52:00.000-04:00

I've been digging out all my tools recently for my home improvement. Lots and lots of electrical devices are involved in the carpentry process. Blades and bits snap, motors burn up, batteries die, screws get stripped...anyone who's ever built anything knows the problems. I think I need Al from the "Home Improvement" show. I have people who offer to help, some who have helped. Part of the problem is me, of course. I'm winging it. Part of the wall is going to have windows. I haven't even designed them yet. I'm using disposable and old materials I have at hand to make one side of the wall, since it's going to be temporary. How do I get somebody to help when the entire plan is in my brain? Nobody wants to do the things I need doing, such as shoveling dirt, raking leaves, hacking swamp grass and nuisane bushes and trees. I don't blame them. It's hot, sweaty, dirty work. As soon as I finish my inside projects, I have to do those. Perhaps alternate back and forth so I'm not so far behind outside.

Living in Florida, however, from time to time your plans get an abrupt change. You can prep all your stuff, get ready to tackle your task, and, seemingly out of nowhere, you'll hear the rumble of thunder, and quite suddenly it's raining like crazy. It could last 10 minutes. It could last 2 hours. You're never sure which it will be. There's also the nuisane phenomenon of a monster rain front coming straight at you, then pausing a few miles away and raining itself out.

So...back to my ugly wall. The worst part is nearly done.
Cheerio!

Farvergnuggets

2006-07-01T02:41:00.000-04:00

Once again, I'd lost my way. I've been so sick for so long, so fat, so fearful of a coronary or stroke, that I've been babying myself. Along with my newfound enjoyment of NOT having a totally disgusting house, has been the rediscovery of what I used to be, and what I need to get back to being. I WAS a hard-charging, merciless ass-kicker once upon a time. I wasn't just that way with others, I was often more brutal to myself. I hammered my body into something resembling indestructibility. When I played, I pushed to my limits, then refused to accept they WERE limits. I broke boards and bricks, even dented thin steel with my fists. I could extend both forearms and have others break two boards at a time on each forearm and not feel a twinge of pain. (Ok, one of the broken boards flew up and smacked me in the face once and that hurt like a bitch, but I don't think that counts). I could do six-inch leg lifts with joy and enthusiasm while a class full of students, some in excellent shape, were screaming for mercy.
Then I got sick. My legs got that horrid infection, I went to the hospital and got two more horrid infections and nearly lost my legs to amputation. They're almost completely healed at last, but I've still been babying them!
What the hell is WRONG with me? Mindset. It's all about the brain. I'm already dealing with the physical changes that being 50 and a lardass bring. My middle back has a vertebrae that LOVES to pop out of line. My lower back is often stiff and sore, as a chiropractor warned me it would be if I didn't keep it stretched and limber. Having a big gut pulling on it from the front makes it worse, of course. I don't like most of the foods that are good for me, though I'm learning to compromise and eat them anyway.
It helps that a pair of young friends are assisting me in prepping my rain forest of a yard to install my pool. Their youth, enthusiasm and boundless, explosive energy are inspiring. It's easy to draw on their energy when they're here, grab some tools and start busting ass. However, I'm finding that when I'm alone, I have to create my own energy. I have to tell my body to shut up and quit whining, it's only another hour or two till sundown. I have to quit looking at the most physically daunting tasks and doing something else till I have people here to help me.
I don't WANT to be one of those bent old men, shuffling around with a mind that holds a storehouse of great knowledge and a body that's failing them. I don't want to be bedridden, cathetered, colostomied (thought I might have some fun with that from time to time if I could get out of bed), wearing adult diapers if I'm not colostomied. I watched my Dad's will to live drain away, all the fight vanish.
I won't go like that.
I can't ever be what I was, not physically; but I sure as hell can be more than I am.
I will be, too.

AdFolk: Satan's Prawns BusinessLeaders: Satan's Offal

2006-06-03T17:56:00.000-04:00

Oh, they suck, they suck, they SUCK. Being in the printing business for a lot of years, I worked with advertising agencies, advertising consultants, people who thought they'd save big bucks by creating their own advertising. There really are excellent, creative, honest people in the business. Mostly they either work for small to medium size agencies or start their own. It's a brutal business in many ways. I don't care. The overall picture involves SUCKING.

Ironically enough, one of the comments on a recent blog was by some fly-by-night organization offering fake college degrees! They made sure to post their phone number twice, so I called it. I got the opportunity to leave a message, and instructions to speak clearly! They must love me.
I left them a message. Probably shouldn't repeat it here. Fellaters were mentioned. Graphically.

Now, there was this computer company. Hired this young stoner-type guy, very friendly face, engaging personality. His trademark saying was, "Dude, you're getting a (computer company name unposted)." GREAT ad campaign. The company made MILLIONS from it. All us ex-stoners and even the non-stoner types recognized that lad for what he was. So it was no big surprise when he got busted while out trying to buy some pot. Now, there could be, as I see it, two responses to this unfortunate incident: either drop his ass like a hot substance on a bare hand, or rally behind him, say the usual platitudes like, "Oh, we had NO idea! That boy needs HELP! We'll sponsor him in drug rehab and education!" One of those is humane and would put the sponsoring company in a good light; the other would show them as greedy, money-sucking heartless bastards. I wonder how they handled that?

Oh, by the way: J.G. Wentworth: your ads still STINK. Geico: PLEASE find some FUNNY people to write ads for your gecko. Every car dealership anywhere: a lot of us still LIKE hot women. Some fast-talkin' plain-lookin' babe in a gray flannel skirt halfway between knees and ankles and a blouse my grandma wouldn't wear ain't gettin' it. Kirstie Alley: What in HELL was wrong with your old hair color? NOTHING. The blonde things SUCKS on you. Wilford Brimley: Make 'em write you some new stuff, ok? We ALL KNOW Liberty will do wonderful things for you.

Since I'm now wandering aimlessly, here goes: Whoever did "Cody Banks II": What happened to Angie Harmon? WHY ISN'T SHE IN YOUR MOVIE? You think Anthony Anderson is any kind of substitute? Heck, keep him, but without Harmon and her funky 60s retro-sexy-spy-maven outfits, that movie STANK. STUNK. Whatever.

You know who's getting creative here? Churches. Billboard advertisers. What's up TV, Radio, Newspapers and Magazines? Did all the really GOOD ad people bail when cigarette companies took it up the poop chute? You'd think there would have been a cleansing, all the very BEST people would land jobs in top agencies, the mediocre would have been forced to go find real jobs.
Guess not.

"Are you tired of feminine itching and odor?" What an ad! You got these 3 cuties telling you the product name after an overdub mentions "after douching" "after sex" and I'm damned if I can remember that 3rd one. The look in the eyes of the "after sex" girl leaves me with leaping boneage that sucks ALL excess blood from my system and slams it into the schlong. I have trouble with my name and identifying the ringing of the telephone right after that ad.

Ok, I've ranted enough. For about the last month, I haven't visited BigHominid's website. Did it today. Chock FULL of good shit. He's got this thing going about suicide, and he's kind of harsh on suiciders if you choose to take it that way. Biggles, you may or may not remember, my brother suicided when he was 19. You are RIGHT on track. Stick to your guns on that issue, and PISS on dissenting opinions. Or send 'em to me and I'll piss on 'em. Somebody in horrid pain, and near the end of their life with no chance of recovery, I can see it. But others? People with the potential for lives ahead of them? No. FUCK no.

There's a link on this blog somewhere to Hominid's place. Give him a visit. You won't be sorry.
If you don't like him, well, he's way over in Korea so I must magnanimously offer my sweaty fetid ass-crack for you to run your tongue through to realign your thought process. I don't charge much for this service. I've been prepping that former piece of rain forest I call a yard for the pool, so it (ass-crack, mentioned above) should be loaded with undefineable aromas by now, and I'm headed back out for a bit to do some machete work.

Remember, good little boys and girls sleep with their hands above the covers. So don't.

Debonair Suaveroot,
Off To Do Vegetation Carnage

Good n Bad n Whatthefugever

2006-05-28T23:08:00.000-04:00

Whee doggies, as Uncle Jed, my personal Yoda, used to say.
Back on the roller coaster.
My friend died on April 29. She drank herself to death, literally. It's awful and it's sad and it's not that unusual, unfortunately. She left a nice man and two great kids behind, one of which was a 17-year old high school junior. They're coping. Sort of.
I'll have more advertising crap to bitch about next time I blog. I can't remember if I bitched about a certain computer company or not. If not, I'll get to 'em.
I've been being a good little citizen. Helping people who need help, giving a bum some food (he asked for money), spending hours scanning pics of my late friend's photo albums and burning CDs for her family. Probably a good thing I'm doing it now, too, because some are fading with age.
I had a burnout day recently, and took the day off for myself. Went surf fishing, which I haven't done in years, then went fishing out in the river, spent a lot of time thinking, which isn't my best trait, and working out some plans for the immediate future, re-sorting priorities. Brain stuff. Had to take a Goody Powder, which often happens when I try to think a lot. Caught a bunch of fish, too. Threw 'em all back. Probably should have kept some and eaten 'em. Some study I read said fish is brain food. Too bad. Next legal size trout I catch, he's lunch.
Did I mention last post that I finally weighed my obese self and have lost forty pounds between October and April? It is to celebrate! Yay! Ok, that's done. Now I need to lose around 60 more. I'm on my way, at least. Still on the infamous Miss Lanie Pretzel Diet, but at least it's working!
Now, the thing I've been wanting for ages is A Swimming Pool. I have been researching on the net and off. I have been talking to friends. I have been agonizing endlessly. My first choice would be a fiberglass pool. Low maintenance, all the qualities of a concrete pool, less drawbacks. The cheapest I could possibly get one, is around 5 grand, and that's with a shell delivered. I'd have to do everything else myself. I could probably swing it, if I was careful. But that's a lot of money, and if anything came up (and things always come up) I'd be too broke to
handle it.
I decided an above-ground pool is the way to go. Compared to getting a "real" pool, the expenditures are minimal. There are a variety of sizes, depths, shapes, peripherals. I found the one I wanted on the internet. $800. Since I'm not interested in diving, but having something to both swim for exercise and chill out and play in, I don't need a deep pool. Also, I'm only 5'6", so I REALLY don't need a deep pool. This pool is four feet deep. It's twelve feet wide, 20 long, has both a ground cover to put it on and a leaf cover to protect it, has a pump, ladder, cleaning tools and startup supplies. Further research had the same pool on other sites, one for $50 more, one for $100 more. None of the prices included shipping.
Wayull....I have a membership with one of those discount warehouse places. Whenever I need something in bulk, or certain items, membership is worth it. I also get gasoline cheaper than street prices, which IS nice, especially now.
While perusing the place recently, amidst heavenly music and confetti flying through my mind, lightbulbs springing on, there it was: My Pool. Actually, three of my pool. Box longer than I am tall, about as wide as me, and even thicker. Everything included in the box. $400. When I announced it among my friends, volunteers sprang forward to offer their help in clearing the jungle I call a yard, dig out the dirt and help rid it of sharp opjects and even it out it for my pool. I have offers to help put in the sidewalk and build the partial deck, as well as the PVC frame I'm putting over it. Not only have they offered, but some have already showed up and done incredible work on my/their behalf. I did a careful check of my finances, and determined that I can buy this thing without major damage to my finances. I put it on a credit card, but I'll have that card back to zero in less than a month.
I used one of their heavy duty carts to get it out to my pickup. I nearly strained my arms getting one end into the bed. A few attempts to get more of it in didn't work well. I decided to push the cart closer, perhaps get it higher into the pickup. Instead, it slipped out the back of the cart, wedged itself under the handle, and left me worse off than I was. As I was dragging it around trying to reposition it so I could muscle it back on, two very large healthy young men came by and took over the project. I thanked them profusely. I could have done it without them, but what took them 3 minutes would have taken me half an hour, with possible physical injury.
So, to the "I have a hot tub, fountain and landscaping" pool crowd, I guess I'm still po' white trash. On the other hand, I'll be swimming and playing for less than a grand. I can't see me caring deeply what they think.

Anal Advertising

2006-04-22T02:55:00.000-04:00

I have a "special" connection to advertising and advertisers. The asshole cult church I was victimized by for years, the Worldwide Church Of God, was founded by an advertising man. Yep, Herbert W. Armstrong, buttwipe extraordinaire, started off in advertising. Maybe it's not such a huge leap, from evil manipulating advertising liar to Evangelistic fraud and liar.

I'd say everyone who watches TV knows what lying scum advertising people are. Back when I was a stoner, we'd snicker about what crap the commercials were. If a bunch of buzzbrains with 12 functioning synaptic cells between them get it, advertisers would be shocked at how many "straight" people know those types are often douchebags with legs.

Right now, the one that annoys me the worst is Geico. Apparently, they have the mistaken belief that their computer generated little gecko is the kind of beloved cultural icon that the Taco Bell chihuahua was. They're mistaken in that. They're showing awesome computer graphics combined with banal scripting. The commercials are boring and stupid. Talk show guest, lecturing fellow lizards, general babble. I've seen toilet paper commercials with more flash and style, and it's hard to add pizzazz to asswipe.

Who else annoys me? That fake organization "Truth". Anti-cigarette smoking commercials funded by money bled off the tobacco companies in that asinine lawsuit several years back, plus loser Congresspigs with nothing better to be against making vicious legislation. Anyone who doesn't know cigarette smoking is bad for you is a moron, and any lawsuit they bring should be thrown out of court as frivolous. This got every pathetic, no-life anti-smoking loser to come sniveling out of the woodwork, whining about how tobacco smoke is killing them. Of course, they drive cars or SUVs, put all kinds of poisons on their yards and in their houses, but by golly, they're having orgasms of pleasure over telling me I can't smoke. Sink that money into cancer research, or improved cancer programs in hospitals nationwide. Then stop those taxes that are bleeding hell out of smokers, back off on the legislation to limit smoking to one's own personal property and, of course, kiss us smokers' collective asses.

Michael Moore is an advertiser. He's no journalist, he doesn't make documentaries; he makes anti-American commercials and dumbasses don't question the crap he produces. I want to puke every time somebody says, "He makes you think." No he doesn't. He twists the truth beyond recognition, tells outright lies, misrepresents. I'd like to have a bare-knuckle fat guy fight with him. I'd pound him till they dragged me off and held my hand up, or I had a coronary and was dragged off to the hospital.

Premium TV companies should be forced to make truth in advertising the way drug companies are having to these days. We'll get back to the drug companies sooner or later, but HBO owns at least one other premium channel, and though I stupidly continue to subscribe to a premium channel, it's a scam. There's a massive running of a few not too old releases, mixed with a smattering of old films, obscure films they probably paid next to nothing for, and quite a bit of recycled movies from a few years before. They now make series, just like regular TV, only they can throw in more sex and swearing than prime time. I read that now prime time TV providers are suing to be allowed to swear more on their shows. Maybe it'll help boost ratings if your favorite prime-time dectective can say "Fuckhead" to a bad guy, your favorite primetime heroine can say, "Hey, sailor, wanna fuck?" Oh yeah, that'll sure enhance my viewing experience. Back to the topic, the Premium providers should have to say something like, "This month! Five relatively new feature films, and a bunch of old shit, plus our award-winning series!"

Now, the Tall & Big Men's Stores? They have good ads.

Brief Post In Briefs

2006-03-31T03:41:00.000-05:00

I'm really getting crazed by TV commercials lately. For one thing, it means I'm spending too much time online with the TV going behind me, for another...I don't know who the bigger idiots are, those who pay others to make commercials for them, or those who make their own.
I have to rant about this in the near future. Have to.
Got replies to my last post from Kevin, the BigHominid, and Vicki, Blogsister. In the 22 days since that post, I have yet to have my house cleaned out. It's better, infinitely better, but it's nowhere near clean.
I have found some unexpected treasures, though, which make it all more than worthwhile. I found my parents' wedding photos. I found my Dad's baby shoes. I found my late brother's photo album. I found the photos from my first wedding. Photos of friends, relatives, various events in my life. Found pictures of me with my first baseball glove, then found the glove!
A newly-married young couple I know just got themselves a trailer, and they have next to nothing as far as furnishings. I told them to consider my house a free shopping zone. Just ask, and if I don't want it, it's theirs. Everyone who has asked me to store things for them is being told to come get it, or I put it out by the road.
Amazingly, I no longer have a tiny path through my bedroom to the 2nd bathroom or the bed. You can walk to either one now unimpeded. You can even get to the closet! Even my dining area, which could not be entered at all, now has a path. My property tax papers are located, and the check is in the mail. I'm ready to dump last year's mess on my accountant.
Perhaps most important, though, is learning and a LONG last understanding the psychological quirks of mine that got me into this mess. Earlier attempts to clean up had me despairing and giving up at the sheer volume. Another stop was, I had plenty of room. I'm one person living in a 3 bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath house with a carport, laundry room and basement. I didn't have to care so much about room, I had plenty. Besides packratting, I have a huge problem with procrastinating when I don't want to do something. It's the same with my big, blubbery ass. Now that I've quit declining, I have some motivation. Desire. Drive. Whatthehellever. Even realizing it's going to take months to get this house right, and equally long to get my body right, is no longer a deterrent.
Who knows? Maybe by this time next year I'll have pics of me flexing things I can't even find right now, and in a clean house!

Bone In

2006-03-08T03:55:00.000-05:00

Where did I find that preposterous pair of words?
A local restaurant's menu.
Used outside the venue of a menu, however, it offers infinite promise.
I have been DULL lately. Baloney with mayo on white bread dull. Fifteen year old 4-door sedan dull. Masturbation from quarter-century old mental images dull. J.G. Wentworth TV commercial dull.
I can't apologize, it has been necessary. Changes are coming, and soon, and preparations must be made. Preparation, unless the impending events are life or death, is dull. Breaking a lifetime habit of packratting is dull, unless you're inside my head. I'm still nerdy as hell about it. Items I think some other ratter may delight in finding in my "take this" pile are wrapped in plastic to keep dew, rain and dust away. Though the items in the pile are replenished daily, the pile itself remains a constant size. One scrapper wants the metal junk I'm tossing. Another grabs boxes of books I don't want. Still another takes a box of old clothes. An old green computer monitor, working perfectly but unwanted and labeled, vanishes, along with a bag of old 5 1/4" floppy drives. I had some harebrained idea once of checking all the mysterious disks I've somehow acquired. Perhaps to seek out knowledge about to be tossed away. Perhaps out of boredom. Perhaps out of Nerdiness. Whatever the reason, they must go. I remember finally that I was going to salvage motors out of some of them. I have plenty more. What madness infected me that I thought I needed 25 tiny electric motors? Did you know you can attach axles and tiny wheels to a 3 1/2 inch floppy drive, rig up a battery, and it will run around your floor? I hope you don't care. If you do, send me the postage and I'll mail you ten drives. You can have your own demolition derby. You might want to hurry. They'll be in someone else's possession by the weekend.
I was going through a dresser in the room I'd given my father when I moved him into my house. Thew out his old, ratty wifebeaters, his faded boxer shorts, socks with holes in them. I opened a bottom drawer. Hard drives that won't even work in a modern computer. MORE 5 1/4 floppy drives, 3 1/2s mingled in with them. A monster box of floppy disks. I used to take old AOL disks, erase them, and store porn on them. One day I erased them all again, and threw them away. One hundred thirty-five floppy disks. I marked out what had been on them with a Sharpie, wrapped them in plastic, and put them in The Pile. They were gone within 3 hours.
The latest batch of disks was rescued from someone else's trash by another packratter and given to me to peruse. Old pirated video games, business software, things like that are on them. I'm not going to explore them. I'm not even going to erase these. They're in The Pile.
When word spread that I sometimes take older computers, salvage the best parts to make a decent computer and give it away to someone too poor to afford one, far too many people began donating their old ones to my cause. A very few are modern enough to restore. The majority are antiquated junk. I have quit disassembling them. Eight are gone, another eight await inspection to see exactly what's in them and how old it is. I think all those will go, too.
My Mother gave me a small pillow filled with buckwheat once. She was into natural things. I don't know if it was supposed to have theraputic qualities or what. It doesn't. It's uncomfortable. I'm going to cut it open, pour the wheat out in my side yard. Maybe it'll grow. Then perhaps I can get the government to pay me a subsidy not to grow more wheat. Otherwise I'm sure it will add nutritional value to the soil. I have been envisioning my house lately with almost nothing in it. It's a pleasing vision.

My legs are at long last healing at an accelerated rate. As I enhance my morning walks with karate stances and movements, I find old pains revisiting me. BigHominid's blog has a most excellent link to a guy who's also resuming his martial arts training after a layoff of over a decade. If you've ever done intense physical activity after a long period of sloth, you'll appreciate his story.

I'm dieting again. I hate it a lot. I hate being fat worse.

Maybe being dull and living dull for a while is helping me regain balance lost. Minimize, minimize, minimize. Simplify. But don't dare mention Feng Shuei to me. I'll take a dump on the hood of your car. Shuei THAT.

Pescador Sin Zapatas

2006-02-23T06:01:00.000-05:00

Heh. Ok, I'm making puns with Hemingway's brilliance.
I liked his granddaughters better anyway.
I'm sorry Margeau is dead.

I've postponed the search for another dog to bring into my life. I may still miss Basher too much.
My first two attempts failed miserably for different reasons.

I'm spending too much time online again, and not enough out living. On the other hand, I'm taking more strides in turning my house back into something besides a monster collection of useless junk. When I'm not doing one of those things, I'm out feeding bait to ungrateful fish.

About the only interesting thing I have to report is, that after two years, my legs are finally getting nearly healed! I had three different infections in them, as long-time readers might remember, and some doctors were ready to amputate them. Well, I've been bandaging them and protecting them for a very long time. It's nice to see them again, especially not resembling something that would make you sick to look at. I feel like I'm in the old BC comics: "Clams got legs". And so do I.

Well, I'm going to end this, see if it manages to make it onto the blog. I'll try to meet some colorful characters or get in some preposterous situations in the near future.

Wankology Handled

2006-01-25T02:31:00.000-05:00

This will be brief. I just want the damn thing to go through.
Many thanks to the infamous and wonderful BigHominid for perspective.
Same to Angel Julie for similar things.(She's Persephone...see bottom of blog)
Also to Vicki, Great Teacher that she is.
Thanks to the Old Carpenter who gave me a box of tangelos and navels this weekend.
Thanks, Dad Dewey, for coming down from Alabama and broadening my world by huge leaps.
Thanks to my Angels Chrystal and Elizabeth for continued friendship and giving me smiles with your lively perspectives.
Thanks to Angel Jennifer for always letting me know I'm loved though time and circumstances keep us from seeing each other.
Much love to Angels MaryAnn and Tracy for too many things to list.

Now. Enough nice stuff. AOL is handing over our information to the government. Technically, they HAVE BEEN for ages. I hope it pisses you off, at least if you're an AOLer. Microsoft is doing it too, by the way. Google is trying to fight. Let Google know you support them. Let AOL and Microsoft know they suck. It's important!

People are so bored they're actually going to see "Brokeback Mountain". This is sad and pathetic.

I have always wanted to write commercials for feminine hygiene products. It's looking very unlikely I'll ever succeed.

My friend Brian, Angel JenJen's father, is a gifted artist. A while back, a man dying of cancer whom he'd befriended gave him a new, hot computer he knew he wouldn't need for long. Today, Brian decided it was interfering with him doing his art, so he gave it to me. Talk about timing! My computer is ailing.

Happy 85th Birthday, Mrs. Hallet!

Let's see if this makes it onto my blog. If so, I'll try to write something pithy or pissy, depending on my mood. Stay tuned.

Vanishing Poot

2006-01-03T02:58:00.000-05:00

ANOTHER damn post vanished. This is getting massively annoying!
I go to all the trouble to think up something allegedly worth posting, and when it does manage to survive lockups by my puter, power outages and a host of other evils, Blogger manages to lose it altogether.
What's a mother to do?
Why, press on, of course!
Like Chief Dan George said in "Outlaw Josie Wales", "Endeavor to persevere."
Yeah.
Cousin Anita drove all the way down from Oklahoma and is staying here a week or so. She's pretty cool. When she finishes college, she'll probably move to Florida.
Took her fishing today. Brian, good friend and Mad Fisherman, had caught his first Flounder before we arrived. With six of his poles baited and cast out and two of mine, we didn't catch a damn thing for four and a half hours, when I hung it up. I suspect the annoying little turd on the jet ski at the mouth of the harbor had a hand in that, plus several pods of bottlenose dolphins passed through, which always scares hell out of the fish. I may go back to fishing in the salt water rivers. You catch a lot, even if most of it's junk fish or too small to keep and has to be released.
Now, I've got a light sunburn, that chilled/feverish sick feeling you get from that, and no damn fish. Some days, I tell ya.
Back on track here. Brian pulled the lens out of something he found, I don't remember what, and uses it to light his cigarettes. I like this. I think I'll start doing it too.
Fishing, I'm discovering, is a wonderful way to meet people of other cultures. I see more Asians at the port fishing area than anywhere in the county. A muslim family of obvious middle-eastern ancestry stopped to admire Brian's flounder and comment on it having both eyes on one side of its head, and one side fishbelly white, the other dark brown. A Canadian couple stopped by, asked dozens of questions about salt-water fishing in warm waters, and helped us keep an eye on all our poles. A black guy with massive knowledge of Florida fish stopped by and we talked about what kinds we like to fish for, what a pain in the butt Flounder are to catch, etc. He hates rap and rock both, loves classical. Weirdo. A Mexican family also stopped by. They'd never seen a Flounder except in restaurants. Side note: I've noted the local rapidly growing Mexican population LOVES Chinese food. Me too. I usually see mostly rich gringos at the best Mexican restaurant in the area. Go figger.
Anita commented that it must be nice to live in a visual paradise. Perfect sky, perfect water, trees and all kinds of plants, postcard-like beauty everywhere. We told her we tend to take it for granted, plus developers are trying hard to screw it up. Paradise tends to be like that. Paradise also tends to get a lot of hurricanes.
Well, let's see if this dog flies. Or hunts. Whatthehellever.

Thalidomide On The Inside

2005-12-24T04:24:00.000-05:00

Ok, whining's over for this year. I've buried and honored my Dead. Another I was afraid I would lose is rallying, against all odds. The living, the loving that have been part of my life have stepped up, and refuse to let me crawl back down into my little cave where my main companion is me.

PLUS. Oh, BAYBEE. What a plus. As my last marriage was collapsing in front of my unseeing eyes, I allowed a couple I knew only online to come stay at my house. It wasn't a bad experience, other than having the ex rip my heart to bite-size pieces and feed them to the local wildlife. The people were good people, and I'm still in touch with them.

That was my first experience with previously un-met internetters. Later, I met Miz Julie, Nurse, Confidante and ImpQueen. Again, the bond was there before, and if anything, grew with a physical meeting. We can picture now the nuances of expression, know when there's a smile behind the words. Her entire nuclear family treats me as a distant relative. Her son knows I'm very impressed with his study of martial arts, her daughter and I maintain a wordless friendship connected through her mother, and the ImpConsort...he and I have found we're drastically different men, but many of our values and perceptions are identical. I think her father even reads this blog sometimes.

Yet another step forward in blending my worlds has been accomplished. If you don't know who BigHominid is, you're missing out on an important life experience. I have a link to his blog, which predates mine and is far more intense and interesting. He wrote a book, which he advertises on his site, titled "Scary Spasms In Hairy Chasms". I keep my copy of this book in my bathroom, on a shelf within easy reach of anyone seated. I never get tired of that book.

Well...I met him. Not only did I meet him, on his first trip home from Korea in two years, he took the time out to fly down to Florida and hang out with me for a while! It's hard to describe the impact that had on me. Online, I've known him for years. We had legendary exchanges on a message board, pushing so far beyond "good taste" and proper decorum that they were merely distant and insignificant words. Our vocabularies were advanced enough to engage in the very filthiest and most twisted dialogue without using words that would get us "TOSsed", the AOL term for censored by self-aggrandizing, pathetic losers with bad-cop mentalities. Our mothers would have been horrified at us. Intelligent but abnormal readers thought we were the best thing since shredded blended cheese in a bag.

The thing is, even though he's younger than me and I occasionally advise him on a few subjects, to me he's someone extraordinary; it's like having a rock star or famous person for a friend. That he would take the time out of a vacation schedule, where family presses for his attention, to fly here, hang with me and fly home the same day, was an unbelievable act of friendship. I didn't hug him, coming or going, but I wanted to. Since he's so much taller than me, I'd be right next to his manly teats, and that would feel too...something.

He is not the same young man I met a few years back online. He has grown emotionally and in confidence. He's in better shape, too. He moves with the shambling grace of a big man who is finding his center. His smiles are small, quick flashes. We didn't haul out the big vocabularies, we spoke simply, whether the topic was simple things or complex. Lastly, a briefly-mentioned awareness came to both of us. There was no moment of discomfort between us. I had a brief moment of sadness that he couldn't meet Basher the Wonder Dog, but I had a grand awareness that he is, indeed, my brother, my close friend, and will ever be so.

Right on the tail of that grand experience, I had an early Christmas with members of my extended family. We're not related by blood, but by many years of interaction. John, my former boss and Patriarch of the tribe, died a few years back, leaving Fran, his widow, as the center of the family. We all met at her exquisite but tiny house, feasted on deceased beast and other fine things, and had a grand time with Fran's idea of Christmas. She had purchased huge bags for everyone there, and stocked them with such things as Pez containers, Hot Wheels cars, notepads, pens (including light-up pens which had adults reverting to joyous childhood), inspirational books, lovely calendars. Her three daughters and both granddaughters were there. One daughter has a husband, the other two have long-term boyfriends, and one of those brought HIS mother, who laughs at my attempts at humor. I adore her. I only purchased for the granddaughters, as they are two of my Angels. It was a warm, wonderful evening and, like Kevin's visit, an event to treasure.

Back to my hardass self for a moment here. After a year of worry, pain and loss, this has been a truly magical Christmas for me. If wishing anyone a Merry Christmas offends your in some PC manner...nah. Forget it. I feel REALLY good for once, and you're not gonna screw it up. Not now. Not this year. Bug me next year, ok?

Fistful of Fritos

2005-12-15T14:23:00.000-05:00

I had nothing in the house to eat for breakfast this morning. Had some phone calls to make, some online research, and my ever-present email to weed through. So, I decided in the interest of keeping my heart pumping and not totally destroying my diet, I'd eat 15 Fritos and that would be it till I hit the grocery store.
Of course, getting involved in email, I lost track of how many I'd eaten.
I picked one up, and in my raspiest whisper said, "In all this excitement, I've forgotten if I ate 14 of you or 15. Do you feel LUCKY, PUNK? Well DO YA?"
The Frito had no comment, so I ate it.
The cat was staring at me.
"Man's got to know his limitations," I told her as I rolled up the bag.
She said something like "Mrowrf" and wandered into the kitchen.
Now, while I'm fluent in Dog, I've not mastered Cat. Either she was saying, "Your Clint Eastwood sucks" or "you're kind of pathetic." Cats are very ironic.
I followed her into the kitchen, replenished her food bowl and said, "Maybe it's time I sped up that "Get A Life" program, huh?"
"Mrurf" she said and dove into the food bowl.
I'm pretty sure that meant "Just so you feed me on time."
One day I'll get another puppy. That'll fix her smartass attitude.

Outer Baffles For Inner Battles

2005-12-13T04:25:00.000-05:00

Again, my last post is gone. I have noted my fellow bloggers on this particular blogworld take it in stride. I want to scream and rant (gee, where did I get that concept?), but there's no point; the price is right, FREE, the overall service is good, and it's good for my undernourished sense of humility to have my timeless prose vanish on me once in a while.

Wise people have told me I have unresolved issues. I've had an awful lot of death and abandonment, I suppose. I sometimes find that there's some residual anger, but I have no clue what to do with it. I don't feel like hurting anyone else; I think I've had enough of pain for a while, I don't care to hurt myself. I might be maturing a little. Hitting the half-century of life mark can do that.

I was talking to a friend the other day who nearly died with a liver problem. During our conversation she said, "Of course, I haven't had nearly the kind of suffering you've been through." Smacked me right in the "passing through life with blinders" area. That would be the outer edges of my frontal lobes, I think. "What pain?", I'm musing, because SHE has had one hell of a bad year herself. It's a running joke between us that she calls me up and says "Let's go jump off the pier" and I tell her hell NO, first, that water's cold, second, there's usually sharks, and third, I do not jump off anything into any substance anymore.

I tend to avoid thinking too much about what hurts. I try to find a perspective that minimizes it and move on. There's soldiers coming home with parts missing and I'm feeling sorry for myself? Seems kind of stupid and selfish. Then I get a letter from my first ex-wife. What's her closing sentence? "Why don't you take care of yourself instead of everyone else for a change?"
So I head outside and sit in the gorgeous blue night for a while, smoking and thinking, or what passes for thinking at 3 AM.

I love the soldiers. They're doing what I can't. So I'll sign up for some of those "goodies" packages that get sent with things they need, or I'll pick up some phone cards and find out how to get those sent over. Maybe I'll do both.

My buddy Harley called me tonight with a Blues song he and his band are committing to CD. Over a cheap little phone with a cheap little headset, it sounded excellent! The entire band is excited about that song. I can't wait to put a CD in my player, and fire up the tower speakers and hear it like it was recorded!

Oh good. I can't quite let the rant go. I thought about it; been trying to hold it back. But it's a two-parter, and, like I said, I got issues. So here goes.

This ass-licking PC crap needs to STOP. As much as the conservatives get accused of conspiracies, there is a total agenda being worked out by unholy alliances of the NEA, who want to teach kids a whole lot of concepts most people would strongly disagree with. I'll save details for a future rant. But in case nobody notices, all the whining about poor underpaid teachers has now resulted in there being a glut of poor overpaid teachers. Equity is there. So get off that bandwagon.

Now the godless dorks want to quit saying "Merry Christmas" because it might offend some tree-worshipper, Muslims (like they don't offend the freakin' planet), atheist, or other tiny minority. Much like "Under God" in the Pledge Of Allegiance, all they have to do is NOT say it.
EIGHTY-FIVE PERCENT of Americans say they believe in God, that they're Christians. That's a MAJORITY. So why are we afraid to speak out against PC crap? Because they have certain truths? SO WHAT? So do WE. They speak out against racial prejudice. Well hey. I'm against that. Aren't you? I don't need some lamebrain to tell me that's wrong. For one thing, prejudice comes in a variety of flavors and forms. If you don't know any black people, Native Americans, Mexicans, Asians or some other minorities well enough to ask them about this, well, maybe it's time you quit letting your hidden prejudices stop you from learning, and get to know somebody of another race well. The truth of the matter is, an awful lot of the people preaching against it are practicing it in some modified form. And us white people (I'm not racially mixed enough for the Native American in me to show except perhaps to a forensic anthropologist, and a girl named Jill who used to sleep with a lot of 'em) don't SEE it. We often can't without a little help. I have to warn you, though. Sometimes blunt honesty from minority friends on this issue hurts. Try to remember they're trying to help you grow into a better person.

I watched an episode of "Judging Amy" the other day (while doing 3 other things). This white girl was driving home a point that she had been raped because "I don't sleep with black guys." Now I mentioned this in the Rant That Vanished. The people on the show acted like she was the biggest bigot on the planet, and that's just STUPID. That's a choice a lot of modern young people face, from ALL RACES, and it does NOT have to be about racism. I know black parents that are appalled when their kids date white. I know black kids that won't date white, too. I'm focusing on black/white here, but don't think I'm excluding other races. I wouldn't dare.

If you truly treat those of other races as your EQUAL, like you're charged to do by the U.S. Declaration Of Independence to start with, you're just being a good American. Speak up when you see job discrimination. Speak up if you see people of a different race being treated badly. Let a store manager know you're not shopping there anymore because of what you saw. Then back it up with action. Maybe polite behavior is the key to it. Maybe my being a long-hair shows me some things others of white persuasion don't get to experience. I certainly get my share of prejudice, usually from white people. People of minority races seem to understand that I'm a voluntary outcast. Maybe they accept me more because of that, I'm not sure.

Much as I generally think of Warren Beatty as a liberal wiener, watch that movie "Bullard" sometime. LISTEN TO HIM. He's making some valid points about how corporate America would LOVE to see us become one race. Blending of the races isn't a bad thing, but erasing any of them would be a mistake! Turning us into a single race would be, too. We'd just be that much easier to manipulate.

So...get over hating. Work your way past Closet Racism, but learn exactly what racism is. Remember that people of other races are often racist, too. I once had a grandfather yank his granddaughter out of my Karate class because she admired me. She'd been coming home from class talking excitedly about how her teacher was encouraging her, showing off her technique (she was one of those exceptional students who hear every word, retain every move...she could have earned her black belt much quicker than most students). He finally came to class one night, and kept saying, "You white" to me like it was a crime. I tried to laugh it off. I tried to joke it away. He wasn't buying it. I showed him that my teachers were black. I pointed out that I was the ONLY Karate instructor of any color willing to teach in that part of town. I pointed out that my fees were the lowest of anyone, and that I kept none of the money for myself. I put it all back into equipment for the class. None of that mattered. The girl looked up to a white man, and he wasn't having any of that for any reason.

I will always be saddened by that experience. I guess I needed it, though.

Ok, I jumped from "Merry Christmas" being banned into racism. Let's get back to "Merry Christmas". Corporate America is jumping on the bandwagon in a big way. Make them stop. If you can't find any cards, wrapping, etc. that says "Merry Christmas", tell the manager you'll be back when they feature such items, and not until. It's a fine thing to wish.

It just occurred to me that some might disagree with my entire sentiment and WANT "Merry Christmas" greetings to go away.
Well, KISS MY ASS.
Then have yourself a Merry Christmas, ok?

Honest Indian And Other Meanderings

2005-12-04T23:40:00.000-05:00

I was at my favorite convenience store the other night getting a loaf of bread and some other goodies. My "in my head" calculations came up with about $18 for everything. When the clerk rang it up, it was $43. I ended up handing over my credit card, but when I got in the truck, it crossed my mind that I couldn't be THAT far off, so I walked back in.

Hamman, the owner, asked what I needed, and I asked him, without anger, to check the cost of everything in my bags. He compled, and discovered I'd been overcharged about $16. He refunded the money, apologized, and all was well again.

I think I posted a while back about leaving my tote bag (call it a Male Purse and I'll hit you with the damn thing), complete with $300 camera and a wallet stuffed with cash, plus my checkbook in a grocery cart. I drove home, remembered it, came back. My cart was long gone, of course. I was pretty upset, but I went in and asked anyway. Someone had turned it in, wallet, camera, checkbook and all. Not a dollar missing.

It's nice, in a world of cynics, where divisiveness and anger seem to be the norm, to know that there are still people around with intact moral codes and a basic sense of decency.

Addendum to last post: I can't reveal too much about my friend's immediate family. Father is a contract truck driver. They had a nice home in the north part of Florida, but he moved them down here expecting to break into the real estate development business. He was frozen out by some of the bigger players. I think the daughter keeps this boyfriend to punish her parents for various perceived slights.

Further addendum: while traveling to help Brian pick up an old trailer given to him by a neighbor (I have a towing ball on my pickup, he has none on his car), I saw a moving sale and a situp bench for sale. The bench sells for $88 minimum. I NEED one of these. I pulled in, asked how much, the man said $25, I said "You take $20", he said yes, I handed over the cash and he loaded it into the truck for me. I painted some chipped spots on it today, and started making room for it in the house. Expect me to be sniveling in the near future. I hate exercise.

Zen Bastardry: Circles Of Fire And Ice

2005-12-01T03:39:00.000-05:00

The strangest thing has happened to me. A friend's daughter's boyfriend has taken a disliking to me. He's a most arrogant little tickturd, though listening to his raging rants makes me laugh. He's 21, grandson of a retired NASA Upper Echelon Dweeb, and so obnoxious his parents kicked him out years ago. I think he's a bagboy at a grocery store.
I was speaking with my friend the other night, when Dingus McDork actually pulled the phone from her hand and began berating me, accusing me of boffing my friend, etc. I told him he was an obnoxious twit and to grow up. After laughing at the ensuing tirade, I tired of it and hung up on him.
My friend called me a few minutes later to tell me that young laddybuck was headed my way to give me a sound thrashing. I asked her if he'd be able to find me, and she said, "I drew him a map to your house." I suspect my friend wishes me to, as my late Mother often described it, "Show him the error of his ways."
I strongly doubted he'd show; his bluster and temper seem to show up when he's around women, and vanish in the presence of men. I decided to do some self-analysis while I waited, mostly for something to do. Was I afraid? No. Was I angry? No. I felt almost nothing with a possible fight with a young healthy man impending. Perhaps it's the knowledge/confidence of being a trained fighter, both in Karate and by an ex-Recon Marine, but I'd already decided what to do to him, how to do it, and the fight would be finished in a few seconds. I was determined not to hurt him badly, just put him on the ground, render him helpless, then let him go. If he tried to retaliate while being released, I had a plan B in place. Plan B would hurt more, just to emphasize the futility of attacking me further, but still cause no visible damage.

My prediction was correct. He didn't show up. He will NEVER show up. I don't mind that at all, as long as he also never speaks to me again. If he runs me through the whole thing again, I'm going to change the rules. I'll put in a non-emergency call to the cops. I might even let him hit me a couple of times, put on the old "oh, I'm fat, middle aged, got a bad back" thing (especially since it's all true!), and let him visit a county facility, enjoy the ambience and the cuisine, not to mention the invitation to stay for an extended visit. He'll get to meet some of the county's most upstanding citizens, including a Judge or two, Prosecuting Attorney, Public Defender, Bailiffs, and watch several gifted attorneys in action. I could widen his social circle and his education. What could be better?

I went fishing with Brian of house-cleaning fame again. He caught one, I caught none. Also went pool-shooting with Karate dojo brother Rick. He beat me 7 games, I beat him 4. I stripped two more old computers of useful parts and silicon parts and got rid of the guts. I gotta find the guy who recycles silicon. I've got a monster box full already.

Did Thanksgiving with part of my extended family. My former supervisor at the printing plant I started out in died, but his wife is still alive. I was best man at their older daughter's two weddings, I work for their former son-in-law, and their granddaughters are two of my Angels. I had dinner at his widow's place with their two oldest daughters, their boyfriends, and one of the boyfriends' mother. Had ALL the traditional food, including a cornbread stuffing that I had thirds of, came home laden with leftover goodies which I munched on for days. Now it's December.

Next blog, possibly: How I got ripped off by the Rehab Center, any conclusion to the Obnoxious Twit story, and hopefully some more and better reports of my "Get A Life" program.

Like the man said, "Good little boys and girls sleep with their hands ABOVE the covers."

Nowhere To Run

2005-11-22T02:27:00.000-05:00

People who read my blog also often read Julie's, so regular readers are probably caught up pretty well.

Aunt Ruth died. Dad died. Mama Marion, a beloved friend and wife of another beloved Friend, died.

Then, just to finish trashing my existence, the asshole garbagemen came barreling down the street in reverse and tore Basher up. He was stuck under the truck, the back half of him torn, bloody, bones shattered, and still he tried to crawl out. He couldn't, and I couldn't fit under there to get him out. I wanted him to just close his eyes and die, but he was just too strong for that. He was deep in shock, and probably not in much pain after the inital agony of getting run over.
Animal control came out, and between his efforts and theirs, they got him out on a blanket, loaded him into my pickup, and I hauled ass for the vet. They came out with a stretcher, we got him in, but the vet said he was too messed up to live.

He got the shot, which I've seen stop a dog's heart in about a second. It took him at least 10 seconds. He was just too damn strong for his own good.

I cried then, had BEEN crying, if I tried to talk right now I couldn't. My throat would feel thick, and my heart hurts every time I focus on who all I've lost.

The response from those I know, both people I'm close to and people I'm not, has been huge, and warm, and has helped more than I can say. Offers of perspective and puppies have flowed in.

I'm not going through anything others aren't, or haven't before, though happily, it's rare to hear from someone who's had 4 hits in less than two weeks. One would have been more than enough.

Annoying and trite as the saying is, life does indeed go on. A friend who was near death from liver problems is not only better, but her liver seems to be healing itself, which I didn't think was possible. I have found that some people I truly did not know well are, like my close friends, very fine, good people, and perhaps my circle of friends is growing.

I'm getting some exercise, taking a lot of herbal stuff, and overall I'm feeling better. It's very strange, feeling physically pumped up and good when you're mourning and hurting. What an odd contrast!

I went fishing with Brian, the same friend who cleaned up my house and cared for Basher while I was gone, and caught a Spanish Mackeral! I've fished salt water for 40 years and never caught one before! Brian's wife Patty cooked up our catch (Brian caught two Bluefish), and we had yet another fine meal due to her efforts.

For once, I'm not in the mood to rant about politics, war, liberals or much of anything else. I hope you'll forgive me and stay tuned. I'll try to be near-psychotic again soon.

Well...there's a fag cowboy movie coming out with that Aussie lifeguard, Heath Ledger, and Jake Gyllenhaal. Give it a miss, ok? You don't want to encourage this kind of crap. Julie has threatened in the past to submit my name and faults to "Queer Eye For The Straight Guy". I told her in a week I'd have them munching potato chips on the couch and watching football.
That's if I didn't beat hell out of them and throw them out of the house, of course.

Oddly enough, I have gay friends. Go figger.

Walp, little pards, I reckon I need to be a'moseyin'.
Sorry. Watched a REAL western with manly men recently.

Be good, in some sense of the word.

The Business Of Death

2005-10-29T20:54:00.000-04:00

Before Dad had even died, I called the funeral home in Oklahoma where my grandparents, great-grandparents, various relatives and my brother are buried, warned them there would be a call, and requested they take care of everything for me.
Since they've been burying my family for nearly a century, they agreed, and Dad was containerized and flown back to Oklahoma as hurricane Wilma was bearing down on us.
It came to me that, through a series of mishaps, Dad had no clothing. In a way, this was fortuitous. I had a grieving aunt who was going nuts by degrees, and obtaining Dad's measurements and getting him a suit kept her busy and on a mission she dared not fail.
I also burdened her husband, my uncle, with several tasks I should have handled myself, but he was on-scene, and I knew he'd pass some of them to her to keep her even busier. They did well, considering I'd lost track of who I'd notified, and they were the last to find out Dad was dead.
I have a headphone on my regular phone and my cellular, and was often wearing both headphones and alternating conversations on both phones at once, while emailing and Instant Messaging at the same time. I was flooded with condolences, offers to help, and a terribly large amount of people letting me know they could identify because they'd lost one or both parents recently. I tried the bargain places for a round-trip flight from Orlando to Tulsa and back, and the cheapest I found was $1500. I called Delta directly, and got one for $512. The next morning, I was standing in line when my flight took off, so I rescheduled for the following day and drove home through the north end of Wilma. Seems my flight was the last one out. I got home, and Dad wasn't at the funeral home. A few desperate calls, and he was hung up in Oklahoma City. The funeral home would go fetch him Tuesday morning. My aunt could go shopping. All was as well as it could be. I got up at 3:00 to catch my 5:30 flight and would have missed it if not for a helpful Delta guy, who got me into the security system and onto my plane two minutes before departure.
Once in Tulsa, I rented a car and got lost. I also discovered I'd left my cell phone in Florida with all my critical numbers in it. After several sets of bad directions, I found a cop, who got me to my aunt and uncle's store. It's a Piggly Wiggly. Don't ask.
I also didn't have a suit, and Dad's viewing was that night. The Men's Wearhouse solved all my problems for only $500 and change. I've never owned a $400 suit before. I'm going to be buried in this one, even if I get too skinny for it. I want my money's worth out of that sucker. I rediscovered that I have a huge and loving family back there. I also discovered I don't want to live back there. Looks like traveling is in my future.
I'd written Dad's Obituary, emailed it to my uncle, who forwarded it to the funeral home. It was printed in several area newspapers verbatim, which amazed the uncle. "I AM a writer," I reminded him. Maybe he'd always thought that was a family joke, I don't know.
I was furious at the funeral people for demanding money up front until I saw the bill and noticed they'd knocked over a thousand dollars off the bill. Uncle paid it with a credit card and I wrote him a check.
At the viewing everyone was a little disappointed. Dad didn't look like Dad. Dad looked like an old, worn-out version of himself. They hadn't seen him deteriorate to this. I saw it.
The funeral was held on a bright, crisp Wednesday afternoon. I did the eulogy without preparation or notes. There had been some concern over whether I'd be upset with my cousin Chuck delivering the closing prayer, since he's Catholic. I assured everyone that I despised all organized religions equally, and I'd be happy to have Chuck handle that. I believe in God, just not churches.
We got through it, saw Dad placed in his vault and sealed in, then we all went away. I flew out the next morning. Delta got me home ok, and even found and delivered my luggage six hours after I got home.
As I pulled into my driveway, there were six huge bags of trash out by the road. Once in the house, I had a Twilight Zone moment till the dog came up to greet me, then let me know what he thought of people who disappeared for days. The floors were mopped. Things were organized. Junk was missing. Weeds in my side yard were hacked down. My buddy Brian, tasked with caring for Basher the Wonder Dog before and after work, had taken it upon himself to do my first 24 hours of housework for me. THAT is a friend! His wife also made me a great and healthy dinner the night after I got home.
I've been cleaning off and on ever since.
I know it's not over, the grieving process, the adjustments. But I'm going to be ok. I'm sure of it.

Requiems and Saddened Dreams

2005-10-29T19:20:00.000-04:00

Dad has been dead a week as of 5:40 this morning. In one sense, it's just one more death among the millions on earth; to me, it's an event of unbelievable importance. It changes everything. I hate it. I also have this drastic sense of relief, because I've worried about him 24/7 for the last 4 years. Wherever I went, whatever I did, I worried about him. I worked my schedule around his meals, shots and bathroom habits. I worried that he'd fall while I was gone.
When the nurse called to tell me he was gone, she also told me that all the nurses up there adored him. I marvelled a little at that. Sick as he was, Dad had still turned on that overabundant charm of his yet again. I told them about his life, and the nurse I was talking to said, "So he's lived about three lifetimes."
I had to agree. Forced to go to work at 13 because his father lost a leg, Dad landed a job as a gas station attendant at 13. He had to check the oil, water and air pressure on each customer's car, then clean their windshield while pumping their gas. That same year, his boss asked him if he knew anything about engines. Dad admitted he didn't. "There's a manual back there. I want the engine in that car in the garage rebuilt."
So, at 13, between customers, following the manual step-by-step, Dad rebuilt a car engine. It started the first time he tried it when he'd finished. He later joined the Air Force and trained as a propeller engine mechanic, jet engine mechanic, and later, back in the private sector, a rocket engine mechanic. He's been all those, a carpenter, hot tub builder, farmer, bronc buster, dump truck driver, town cop, and, like me, hauled bodies for a coroner. He's also been a spacecraft mechanic, worked in Tile World on the Space Shuttles, managed an apartment building and, God bless him, raised me without strangling me.
He had also been an ardent student of human behavior his entire life. His insights into my friends were always coldly accurate, though he often said nothing about them till I'd discovered the truth about them myself. My mother, too, had this gift. They were also both living examples of how to love someone no matter what. My smallest triumphs were noted and praised. My punishments were quick and fair.
I'm going to miss him. I'm even going to miss caring for him, burden though it was. But I know what he'd want for me is to get off my butt and get a life. I've decided to work at that.

Fusillades of Futility

2005-10-21T23:26:00.000-04:00

This is my 4th attempt at a new post. If this one vanishes, I'll be pissed.

It's strange right now. My Dad is dying, slowly, and I had to give permission to stop using extraordinary steps to keep him alive. Nobody told me this was part of middle age. No heart attack, no accident, just a tired, sick old man hanging on and not really wanting to, and having to tell them yeah, let him die.

But, as many of my friends in the know have told me, keeping him alive right now would be cruel. He's got two kinds of pneumonia, a blood disease, he's catheterized, colostomized, got a shunt, a feeding tube in his stomach...he's a mess. He's 73 and diabetic, just to make things extra great.

That's my sadness. The bad part of current existence.

A friend suggested I begin blogging the saga of Basher the Wonder Dog ala "Fight Club". "I am Basher's messed up ear". I suggested "I am Basher's Triangular Asshole". That should be fun. Expect episodes in the near future.

You've been warned.

It's 10-10-05, and Things are Weird

2005-10-10T17:46:00.000-04:00

Time for another of my wandering, multi-topic "stream of babble" posts.
Let's start with Politics. Louis Freeh, the ex-head of the FBI, is writing a "tell all" book, including all about how he wasn't Bill Clinton's stooge. Now, that would be a real cookie-popper except he was HILLARY's stooge! Where in hell are Vince Foster's files? They were removed the night after he was murdered, allegedly removed by FBI agents. Did he give her a pet team to play with, were they fake FBI guys? Whose stooge is Ken Starr? Since it was physically impossible for all the spy equipment at Waco to fail simultaneously, do any of the recordings and video still exist? Since they were supplied by the FBI, they need to explain, and now, I bet they never will.

Speaking of the FBI, they're thinking of lowering their hiring standards for former pot-smokers!
I NEVER thought I'd see that day. Can't wait to see my first suspicious character and call my area FBI HQ. "Dude, what's the deal? It's a beautiful day. Don't fuck it up with no badness, cool?"

I quite literally stumbled onto a website today that claims the murders at Columbine were not the work of one crazed teen. I have NOT followed up on this, or tried to duplicate the research. Anyone who reads this and wants to, here's you a link:

http://beyond-the-illusion.com/files/Current-Events/Littleton-Massacre/theLittletonMassacreMysteryDeepens.txt

My first ex-wife recently became a Guardian Ad Litem. That's a person appointed by the court to watch out for a child's interests in court cases. She's not on the government's side, the parent's side, only the child. Here's her take on the job:

"I love helping kids. I have nine kids now that I monitor. Some of it is good and other stuff - not so good. You know how that is. My favorite part is going to court. My least favorite part is the attorneys. I have never seen a more arrogant, colorful, prideful, talkative, opinionated group of people than these idiots who get up there in front of everyone and strut around like the big cheeses - and say the same things over and over again (just using different words) and being aggressive and loud and generally obnoxious! It would be comical if it weren't so sickening. Remind me to never get into trouble where I have to rely on one of these egotistical maniacs to defend me! "

I wouldn't care to be one of those attorneys if he pisses her off. If he lies on a kid or puts one in greater danger, he'll feel like he dangled his bare ass in the tiger cage at feeding time.

I also found out a friend is dead. He was one of those guys who'd meet a woman, put her up on an impossible pedestal, then divorce her in anger and disgust a year or so later. I THINK he got married 8 or 9 times. This last one, he cracked. He blew her away, then himself with a gun. I tried talking to him about his problems. He told me I had problems of my own needed minding. He was right.

Paris Hilton is being slammed everywhere for dumping her beau of the same name. Maybe it was a selfish act; but for once, she doesn't deserve to have her butt kicked for it. The kindest thing she could have done was break up with that young man pre-wedding, and give him a chance to think through what he was about to do to himself.

Stormed, But Not Caned

2005-09-14T04:02:00.000-04:00

Katarina didn't touch my area of Florida. A few rain bands, a little wind. Ophelia sat off the coast, soaked us thoroughly, and moved out. After last year's pounding, it's been nice, getting multiple breaks this year.

Thing is, it's been painful watching Louisiana get spanked so hard. Before we start handing out blame and excuses, there is not only the loss of human life, but the loss of everything else for the survivors.

Almost immediately, though, thoughts turn to outrage. There's plenty to go around. PETA is angry because their people were blocked from jumping in and starting animal rescue sooner. They estimate thousands of animals died who could have been saved if the government hadn't got high-handed about allowing them in.

Seems like everybody's jumping on the FEMA/Bush Bashing Bandwagon, as usual. Some of that is deserved. In my opinion, though, the heavy blame lies right at the feet of the Louisiana government infrastructure, from Parish leaders right up to the Governor. Those people should be prosecuted over this mess.

You don't have to believe in global warming to realize that hurricanes, as they always have, generate different amounts of strength, and some of them are going to be monsters. It's long established historical fact. You also don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that one reason we survive as well as we do in Florida is that we're at or above sea level. Those considered living at "flood plain" level pay extra for insurance.

Well, in Louisiana, they're BELOW sea level. There was no excuse to continue putting off the creating of a sensible Emergency Management Plan for just such an occurrence as this. They cry poormouth, claim there wasn't enough money. Any time any government entity doesn't have enough money for something this simple and basic, they're lying. What they mean is, after all the bills got passed, and after all the "pork" was tacked onto the bills, after the corruption, greed and waste were taken care of, there was no money.

Over the past 5 years, the Army Corps of Engineers got a little over 25 million bucks to work on those dikes that broke. What was done with that money?

The one huge flaw that happens in Florida every year is, we run out of sandbags. While they probably wouldn't have saved much, handing out sandbags ahead of time might just have been a grand idea. It would be good down here, too. I think I'll call my EM people and see if I can have some.

Next, why didn't they consult with other states about preparedness plans, especially timing? As I've posted on the message boards, having their government tell all those people "If you're not out in two hours, you're going to drown" is NOT Emergency Management at its finest. The alleged "plans" included piling people in school buses and evacuating them. It might have been a good plan. I've seen a picture of dozens of school buses, all neatly parked, all flooded up to their roofs. Makes me suspect there was a flaw somewhere.

It's a shame the President has decided to take much of the heat on this. He earned some of it. Once again, he should have called on Jeb. Jeb has some pretty solid experience dealing with hurricanes, and taking care of a flood of problems quickly and efficiently. Looting is almost non-existent in Florida. The power companies are usually working their tails off before the hurricane is completely gone. People bringing down generators and selling them for a decent profit make a lot of money. People bringing down generators and gouging storm victims for them get prosecuted. My humble little city had trucks of bagged ice come in, and they handed out 30 or 5o pounds bags, whichever you wanted. There's a state law on traffic at intersections when the light doens't work. The guy on the right goes first, and then one car goes through in counterclockwise fashion. Cops will cover all the intersections they can, but that basic rule keeps traffic from stopping altogether.

Florida isn't the only ones with some pretty intense Emergency Management experience, either.
Georgia has taken a few hits. The Carolinas are becoming almost as experienced in hurricanes as Florida. Those plans aren't top secret. They share information willingly.

There's a Brit publication that claims some terminal patients were killed by doctors because they couldn't be saved. There was no power in the hospitals. Why not? Did they not have generators? If they did, were they stupid enough to put them on the ground instead of elevating them where they might do some good in a flood?

It goes on and on and on. This isn't even the first time that areas's been slammed. Let's hope this time some lessons will be learned some big steps taken to lessen the destruction if it happens again.

It's a shame the scoundrels responsible for so much needless death and destruction won't be brought to justice.

BloggenSchlackenMuzzleFarker

2005-08-20T23:30:00.000-04:00

Hot smokin' puppies I haven't blogged in nearly a MONTH! A human estrus cycle. A moonhowl to a moonhowl. So much and so little has transpired. I think my father is retreated into some kind of hypnogogy world where he's ok, can probably fly at will simply by opening his arms. Sometimes he growls angrily and incoherently, others he comes to this reality reluctantly and only long enough to tell me he's sleepy, he's dreaming, and wants to get back to it. Dream on, Dad. It's got to be sweeter where you're hanging out than it is being awake. I'll be up there soon, despite your instructions. I want to see what's in your eyes.

Basher the Wonder Dog is doing well after surgery on his ear. They actually used some of that loose skin on the side of his neck to patch some bad spots on his ear.

The rest of life...I've lost about 40 pounds, but am still obese, just LESS obese. I'm going to lose more. My goal is to be near "right" by November, my birthday. It's interesting, being obese. People do treat you differently. Women see you as harmless, as long as you don't act insane or stay angry. Men see you as non-threatening. Fat people need to be jolly. There again lies the beauty of the internet. I don't have to be jolly, cheerful, reasonable. I can argue, rant, rave and be obnoxious in chatrooms, message boards, everywhere! Then I can do the jolly thing in real life. Balance is good.

Of course, I'm still a political animal, if not entirely a sane or practical one. I came up with this idea, you see...no, actually, I STOLE half this idea. First, we need to find every bill unpaid by hospitals, clinics, etc. about illegal Mexican aliens. Then we need to send them to president Vincente Fox of Mexico, with 180 days to pay up. While he's reeling from this, gather up all the illegal Mexicans in prisons and insane asylums, slip them in with the regular population of illegals, and ship them all back to Mexico at once.

Now since it would not only be politically incorrect but just plain WRONG to single out the Mexicans, who are mostly pretty great people, we can follow up with all the other illegal aliens from wherever, and bill THEIR governments, too.

While Fox is trying to figure out what to do, which isn't his strong point other than "dump 'em on the U.S." we need to invade Canada, try to defeat them without a shot, and declare them our 51st state. The French can move to the biggest Island and become an independent nation if they want to.

Then, when Fox does a DeGaulle and says "Forget it, I'm not paying," we invade Mexico, conquer it as bloodlessly as possible, and declare it our 52nd state. This might be harder. Mexicans make great fighters. They were in olden times, they are now.

Ok, there. I've solved some serious economic problems for the US. Think I'll sleep for a few hours.

Forward, Mr. Sulu, Warp Factor Blase

2005-07-28T15:21:00.000-04:00

I have been, for the most part, enjoying a slacker life for a while. My job allows me to work any hours I want, combine tasks easily, and when I score, it's pretty lucrative. My father has been in hospitals and rehab clinics so much lately that taking care of him involves cutting time out of my day to visit him, and calling him.
The rest of my time is spent emailing, blogging, message boarding, and whatever small necessities life throws at me. Now we get to education. Basher the blunder dog was overdue his shots, his heartworm medication had expired, and he was whining and scratching his ear. I cleaned the ear up a bit, decided if it was worse he was going to the vet the next day. Well, I get up and his ear is FAT. Full of liquid. Turns out if a dog flaps its ears too much, it can burst a blood vessel in one and the ear delaminates and fills with blood. They said he was too old to knock out and cut it, so try to keep him from shaking his head and aggravating it. If I can do that, the body will absorb the blood and go back to normal.
Very strange. He's better today, a little weak and dizzy from getting all his overdue shots, BUT! That Advantage stuff WORKS! My boy is 12 now, and has NO SIGN of heartworms! Well, the advantage is actually for the fleas and stuff. Heart Guard is for the heartworms. I use both. He rarely has fleas since I started using it, unlike years past where I'd have to set off 4 Raid Fumigators in my house, then vacuum twice and wipe down everything so we weren't killed by residual poison.
The dog had lost a total of 26 pounds now that Dad wasn't slipping him all his leftovers, too. Old Depression-era farm people like Dad think that scraps are GOOD for the dog. Well, if that's his major food source, then yes they are. Beats starving.
Added to the good news, my diet has now burned 50 pounds off me. That's almost half my goal. Ionamin. Ask your doctor about it.
Gee, I'm just a blogging advertisement today.
Let's end it with some TV ad critiques:
J.G. Wentworth, until you get over that ego, your commercials will suck. I enjoy clipping my toenails more than watching your commercials.
Orlando Japanese car dealerships: That chick Laura used to wear some HOT dresses, has a very unique, sexy voice, and I know the name of your dealership just from checking her out. But she's gettin' FRUMPY. Stop that. Dress her better. Give her a budget. You think those look-alike metallic insectoid pieces of crap sell themselves? Think again.
Now for your competitors: Either get that chick longer skirts or shorter, preferably the latter. Her knees look like battlefields the day after. That long, lanky fast-talking dork that's always with her, and probably pokin' her off-camera? You're a loser, dude. I wouldn't buy triple-sealed toothbrushes from you. I could swear you leave an ooze trail behind you. The dog's ok. Just get him to do something.
There. I feel better now.

Basher Joins The Drug War

2005-07-17T19:54:00.000-04:00

I just got the mutt to quit crapping in the neighbors' yard; they were complaining because he'd leave a stack bigger than a Hollywood Chihuahua. He behaves only by constant reinforcement, negative and positive. He'd still do it if left on his own, but I watch him.
There's a "no man's land" between houses in the next neighborhood where people pass through into my neighbor's yard on their way to the local drug dealer's place on down the street. Robert, the neighbor, suggested that the "trail" across his lawn would be an ideal place for Basher to do his business. When Robert leaves tools out, or much of anything else of value, they disappear. So, every once in a while, usually at Basher the dog's 2 a.m. constitutional, I walk him over to the trail. He likes the trail. He hates tall grass around his rear end when he's unloading. Actually, the trail was "mined" by him in three places since friday.
Apparently the cops are tired of our drug dealer, too. He's been in business a LONG time, but lately the word is out that he's paying bribes to be warned of impending raids, and that has some badge-toters angry. I found out they've been parking at each end of our street and checking IDs of people coming in and going out late at night. Fine by me.
Mr. Dealer, realizing his goose is cooked if he stays here, is packing up to move. He won't say where. I told him the Sheriff's Department is sure going to miss him. Some of the neighbors are, too. He's polite, well-spoken. One old wag on the street tells people that I'm the drug dealer, even though I've been clean and sober for 25 years. But I have long hair, and Mr. Dealer doesn't.
Robert's wife, who is a tough, hard-talking mother of three genuine Florida Cracker Redneck boys and one girl, told me that she was out early this morning when a young fellow came out of the trail walking a very expensive bicycle and complaining that her dog shouldn't be using the pathway for a bathroom.
She told him that HE had no business on the trail, it was private property, and she didn't have a dog. They had a chat about who DID have a dog, and all she'd tell him is that the neighborhood dogs liked her, and passed through her yard occasionally. He asked to use a water hose to clean off his bicycle, and she said sorry, my water's cut off. As he was walking the bike on down the street, she saw what had set him off: there was some items on his back that had been thrown off the rear tire. The day before, they'd been Pedigree dog food.
I had to promise Basher the dog would re-mine the trail today and tonight.

Lizard Gizzards

2005-07-14T11:56:00.000-04:00

Wow. Been way too long since I got out the hand lotion and blogged! How y'all been? Things are lookin' good here, overall.
My Dad unexpectedly (as in, them hospital weenies didn't tell us ahead of time) got shipped 150 miles away to a hospital near St. Augustine, FL. Why? Their hyperbaric chamber, of course. Now, do they have one down here? Why, yes they do. However, the doctor who purchased it for his private practice let himself be "bought" by the same hospital my Dad was in. For some asinine reason, that hospital cannot bill Medicare directly for treatment, therefore, they can't treat older patients like Dad. So instead there's enormous fees for him to be driven 150 miles, getting a whole new crew of medical personnel familiar with him, plenty of expensive phone calls back and forth. Policies are costing thousands of unnecessary dollars in this case.
I had to go back to the doctor, too. They wanted to evaluate me, do bloodwork, etc. Well, we all were happy with my 25 pound weight loss, actually 26 (28, but there was the Sonic Mini Banana Split Episode).
We got to the bloodletting. Therein lies the problem. It seems I inherited, mostly from Dad, very thick skin. The veins are very round, so they "roll" under the skin, and you can't see them. I'd make an awful needle junkie.

Two doctors drove 5 needles into me today and couldn't hit a vein. Out of a sense of guilt, compassion, whatever, they decided to renew my diet pill prescription one more month, hoping that when I'm thinner they can find a vein easier.

The little Indian Doctor said, "You are losing this weight to chase women, yes?" I said "Mostly."

He said, "If you need Viagra, you tell me." I started laughing. "If I need it I'll ask, Doctor. Thank you."

Wonder if I can dump 30 pounds this month?

Happy 4th

2005-07-05T04:20:00.000-04:00

No lecture today on patriotism. The amount of fireworks I saw tonight was heartening. Americans are back to being Americans. It's the 4th. We munch out and blow stuff up.
Hope it was good for all of you.
And I STILL can't get a stupid picture on this blog.

Military & Politics & Stuff

2005-07-03T00:31:00.000-04:00

Saw some former relatives today from my first marriage. One had been a Green Beret, had left the army after around 12 years of service, enlisted in the Reserves, and was living a jolly civilian life. After 9/11, he decided that his skills (try getting a Green Beret to fill you in on his skills...easier pulling teeth from an unanesthetized crocodile) might be of use to the Army again.
At first they didn't want him. Too old. But as enlistments get stretched beyond reason, and they HAVE to send some troops home, this age policy is being reviewed and eased. They decided they WERE interested after all. I know he'd been a crew chief on a Huey, and had knowledge of Blackhawks. I know he spent some time in South America. Where he spent that time, and what they did, I don't know. I'll never know. But on visits to him when he was active duty (our wives were sisters...his died in a car wreck, mine divorced me), I got to spend some time with his "boys", and those boys taught me some fascinating things. I'd already learned a few fascinating things from a Green Beret 'Nam vet, but they taught me some other fascinating things. And I don't want to talk about those, ok?

Onward...the ex-brother-in-law, we'll call him Pete, says he thinks the biggest mistake we made in Iraq was to neglect the Norman Schwarzkopf method of war preparation. Norman brings in his logistics and supply people. He gets his infrastructure set up, brings in his combat people, coordinates with all the other services, then unleashes the most awesome military machine in history, and crushes his enemy with a minimum of loss of his own personnel, and the most careful strategic attacks on the enemy.

He thinks we went in without enough troops, without a coherent, decisive disengagement plan, and now we're stuck playing catch-up.

He's not anti-Bush, not in the sense some screaming wimp commie liberal is, but his take on both this George Bush and President Clinton before him is that, because they have no combat time, they don't have the working knowledge that they need to act correctly as Commander-In-Chief.
Pete feels that having hostiles shoot at you, and you shooting back while in the service of your country causes a change in you that nothing else can; gives you a perspective you can't get being a pilot or grunt behind the lines and immune from combat, as Bush and Clinton were.
Pres. Clinton, of course, worked around this by making verbal threats and taking very little action, especially after that mess in Mogadishu. President Bush, we agreed, should have listened to Colin Powell's opinions on how to do it. The first president Bush should have been less sensitive to the other middle eastern countries and allowed the military to crush Iraq once and for all. He should have got a clue when he ordered the American troops to pull off their uniform flags, and the Saudis stepped in and said, "That's not necessary."

Pete's son is going, as soon as he finishes his training, and Pete is deeply disappointed. He was in an industrial accident and received an injury that's going to disqualify him from going active duty, and most especially going to fight.

I've always liked Pete; he's half-madman, half U.S. soldier. In other words, a perfect Green Beret. He's neither hawk nor dove politically; he was always as happy not to be deployed somewhere because a political solution had been reached as he was to deploy when he got the word.

Maybe I'm a little jealous, too; I spent a lot of nights in a warm bed with my wife while he was out in the middle of nowhere doing God knows what, and his wife was sleeping alone. He's never lost sight of why he was doing it. When he says he did it for his country, he doesn't mean for the President and Congress; he means for his family, his friends, for all of us going about our normal lives.

On the other hand, maybe it's a relief, having a friend who isn't hung up on stupid ivory-tower discussions of what's good and bad, how much gray there really is between black and white.

Maybe it's just nice having a good man for a friend.

Guest Blog - Anita

2005-06-30T23:19:00.000-04:00

This one's important, people.

I was talking with my Arizona Deputy Sheriff son a little earlier. He had just arrived home from work and had had a busy day. I didn't like the tale he told me. It seems that the drug runners from the Mexican border are now being accompanied by what I call The Men In Black. They are dressed all in black and they have a military demeanor. They stay off to the sides and "cover" the operations. If there are any problems they just open up with assault weapons, as they did today, injuring two Border Patrol agents and giving the drug runners time to get back across the line. 190 Border Patrol men have been injured so far this year, according to the news.

I half jokingly said, "It sounds like you could use some Green Berets and Navy Seals out there" and he quickly agreed with me. I said, "it's too bad they are tied up in a foreign country and can't come to protect our own men."

I wonder how many people realize the war that is taking place 24 hours a day right on our own borders? I've been hearing stories for years from my son, stories about the border crossers shooting first with assault type weapons, if they even see a cop car they don't bother to do anything other then just "open up". He chases them on a daily basis, catching some, but not all. He "captured" 190 pounds of drugs yesterday. But what if they stuck a gun out the window instead of pulling over? I know that we all have contributed to buying the best equipment we can for him because the county just can't afford the best, but the heaviness of their artillary is beginning to worry me. These new Men In Black are real scary dudes, I don't like the sound of them.

You know, it just shouldn't be this way.

Anita

Sniffing Phlogiston Again

2005-06-22T02:08:00.000-04:00

SURE sign I need to get out and be around people: I start singing "Who's My Little Whosit?" to my dog to piss him off and send him into a barking frenzy.

I'm getting at least a call a day for my ex-wife. All of them are companies wanting to give her a student loan. She's been gone a LOT of years now. I've been demanding to be taken off various phone lists, but I'm thinking it's time to have some fun.
"I'm sorry, she's waxing her pubes right now, and I don't dare interrupt her."
"She was a very bad girl and is tied up right now."
"You think I'm gonna interrupt a blowjob for YOU? Forget it."
"Got a camera phone? Since the skydiving accident, she blinks once for yes, twice for no."
"She's mopping the floors like a proper little wifey."
"She's getting all the skills she'll ever need at the Stepford Academy."
"She got an infection from her tongue piercing and they had to amputate."

The rest are a tad crude for public blogging.

I couldn't help but notice these new feminine pad commercials: "Have you ever had your pad get wet and sticky?"
"O0h, yes."
Darn. The secret's out. I was thinking of marketing those as Girl Flavored Gummy Chews. Yet another brilliant idea, shot to hell.

Dad was better today, there in the Rehab center. Maybe that's why I'm in a good mood and my twisted sense of humor has come crawling out. He was doing a creditable job of feeding himself, so I helped him a bit. He was nicely awake, managed to ask a few complete questions I understood, I filled him in on the latest family news, said hi from a couple of his friends. I don't think he was clear on everything and everybody, but he got part of it, at least. I didn't have to remind him that Mom is dead, either. That upsets hell out of both of us.

I was letting the dog do his doggie thing outside while talking to my across-the-street neighbor. I yelled at the dog not to dump in their yard, so he started pouting his way back. The neighbor mentioned that he wouldn't mind if the dog went on "the trail". See, there's this yard in the next neighborhood that some middle-school kids traverse. It leads into MY neighbor's yard. He doesn't mind the kids much, but Vince The Drug Dealer, who lives further down the street, has a flock of "regulars" who also walk the trail, often in the wee early hours when nobody's awake but me. Over time, various tools have vanished from the neighbor's place. Actually, some of my stuff did, too, before Basher the dog came into my life. Basher, on his own, walked over to the trail entrance and dropped his load. "Good boy", said the neighbor. Basher wagged his tail and came over for a pat on the head. I've got a feeling the local druggies are going to exhibit a common aroma from now on. Knowing my dog, there's LOTS more where that came from.

And, on that fecally happy note, I must be movin' on.
Have a good one, people.

Moments of Less Than Grand Import

2005-06-19T22:40:00.000-04:00

Little things in my life are coming together. Memories and realizations from the past, pieces of the present which have been a problem...it's nice.

I believe I inherited a "pass-down" from my Great Depression-WWII era parents. Besides being from a financially challenged time, they were both farm kids. They have had, their whole lives, a strong sense of waste about things. My mother nearly eliminated Dad's and my stomach lining by reheating the same pot of coffee till we'd drank it all, or it began to become a solid. I'm not kidding. I used to pour it out as soon as I got out of sight of the house. For years afterward, there were dark splash spots on the asphalt. I once asked Dad how he could stand it. He said, "Oh, after 12 years or so, you become immune."

Happily, the U.S. Navy came to our rescue. They did a study which proved reheated, even hours old coffee was bad for you, and switched over to a fresh-brewed all the time system. Mom followed suit.

The bad part of my inheritance of a sense of waste was the extreme packrat syndrome. I asked my Dad to identify this strange tool he had, and he said it was a steering wheel puller for 1950 era cars. It looks like a cast-iron jellyfish.

Since my job involves traveling around the county searching for unervalued, abandoned or neglected properties, I run across a LOT of stuff. Junk. Odds and ends. It's taken me years to quit bringing EVERYTHING home. Lately, a lot of small businesses have closed down, and the owners of the buildings just toss out their office furniture if they leave it behind. I've been collecting it, storing it on an already-overloaded carport and too-full house.

I'd reached critical mass, where I not only had NO more room for anything, but I had to do something with what I have. Well, the roofing crew foreman came to talk to me one day, turned over a wood-and-vinyl padded chair on the porch, and sat in it. Ten minutes later, he announced, "Man! This chair is COMFORTABLE." "Fine," I told him, "Take it home. Watch TV in it. Get online. Whatever. Just take it." One decent chair I didn't need, gone. More importantly, used, not wasted.

About two months ago, Tracy, one of my Arnie's Angels, was complaining about how small her computer desk was. "Would you like a nice, wide corner desk with 4 drawers?," I asked her.
"Yeah, but we can't afford one."
"I have one you can have free. Too bad you're in North Carolina."
"Have you got a computer chair, too? I need one BAD."
I laughed.
"Any color preference?"
"Blue?"
"I'm sitting in it. It's yours."
"I'm coming down to spend a month with my parents next month. Will you hold them for me?"
Tracy, husband James and son Jamie show up this morning with a nice pickup, load up their stuff, and head out. Again, something put back to use, not wasted. This, unfortunately, is a packratter's dream. Tracy is completely excited. Not only is there room for computer, monitor and printer, there's extra room so she can do homework (she's in college) on the corner piece while hubby is online. James is happy because the chair I gave her has a thickened lumbar area, so maybe she'll use it instead of his. After sitting in it, she agrees.

Standing in my doorway, looking around, I begin a mental list of Things That Could Go Away, get a couple of big garbage bags. They're enormous. They fill up quickly, and get placed beside the already-overstuffed can by the road. Taking a break, a friend's online, so Packrat Deprogramming is suspended for the day. Later, it's time to get Dad one of his favorite meals, since it's Father's Day, and head for the rehab center. Dad is deep asleep. I keep trying to wake him up, and he just can't do it.

I sit with him a while, talk at him to see if he can gradually bring him awake. After a while, I get my stuff, tell him goodnight, and head out. I stop by the nurses' station.

"He's WAY deep asleep," I observe.
"We had to put his air mattress back under him, change his colostomy bag and rebandage his back," she said, "and he was in a lot of pain. I gave him a pain pill."
Aha. A-ha. Means I have to go see him early tomorrow, he'll be wide awake and rowdy.

My doctor has me on some kind of heavy-duty metabolism-booster-fat burner diet pill; a 30-pill prescription is $95. He thinks it might knock 25 pounds off me in the next month. Since I have no insurance, it better, or I might give him pill #30 as a suppository. I'm banking on him being right, though. He did save my legs from being amputated, after all.

Heck, I might like being in decent shape again. Instead of all this mindless babble blogging, I could put things like "woke up on living room floor. No idea how I got home. No idea where the pickup is parked now. No idea who owns the pink thong panties I'm wearing. You'd really think I'd remember having a dung beetle tattoed on my penis, too."

Yoda Ling And Obfustacatory Ravelations

2005-06-14T04:09:00.000-04:00

Wow. Did a pet Blog a while back, and while the blog is ok, the comment by Kevin is pretty incredible reading, as well.

Today was busy day. I terminated my uncle's use of my farmland, and rented it to one of my cousins. I don't think the uncle cares anymore. He's in his late eighties, and mostly stays at home; his step-son-in-law is the one responsible for burning down my grandparents' home, selling off part of the family land, tearing down my family's storage building and getting rid of its contents. He later tore down my hay-barn, complete with outdoor toilet on one end.
My cousin reports that my watering pond is pretty much a muck-puddle, all mud, no drinking water, so he's going to have to clear it out for the moo-cows to use.

Dad and I went into our separate depressions after Mom died. He quit checking mail altogether, which was a VERY bad mistake, because between them handling all their bills by mail and mom's love of catalogs and newsletters, three days of mail would strain the seams of their double-size mailbox. I'd sometimes go grab it out of the box for him, throw it all in a laundry basket, and he'd assure me he'd go through it later. He seldom did. I learned to keep an eye out for "Final Notice" letters and fill out his checks for him, have him sign them, and send them in. Later, I discovered he wasn't even depositing his retirement checks.

I was almost as bad. I'd save things to check out later; pretty soon, I had plastic grocery bags full of mail scattered everywhere. Neither of us even THOUGHT about income taxes; we simply didn't file any from 2001 on. It occurred to me some time in early 2004 that I'd better start rectifying that, or we were going to be in big trouble. I went on a massive seek-and-destroy at Dad's, weeded out all the catalogs, emailed them when possible asking them to STOP sending more, wrote, called, whatever. Then I started in with what had been Dad's favored junk mail, since he no longer bothered to read it. Then I started on collecting what he'd need for his accountant. I took a monster cardboard box full of papers to the accountant, and requested that he do mine conjoined with Dad's. I followed up 3 weeks later with an enormous box of my stuff.
Today, after a three-day sweep of every piece of mail I could find in my house, I think I finally got the last of 2001-2004 turned in. 2005 has been stuffed in its own box since day one, most of it marked. I dumped two 33 gallon bags of nothing but extraneous mail out for the garbage guys.
With the various trips I've made to the accountant, there's one corner of his conference room totally stacked with our stuff, and various piles on the table itself. The bill is going to be ugly.

I then went and photographed an old girlfriend's sister's house. My boss is going to work up an estimate on it, since it's falling apart and she doesn't have the money to fix it. It may be worth enough to put her in a smaller, better-maintained house or a small condo.

Then I headed for the rehab center. The day nurses grabbed me outside and asked if I'd seen the bedsore on Dad's back. I told them I'd seen a Polaroid of it, and it's ugly and it's BIG. They told me it hadn't been that large before he went to the hospital. I told them that now that his regular doctor was back on the case, I had some hopes he would start healing. They said his vitals stayed strong all the time, his appetite was good, but they were still worried about him.
He was deep asleep when I came in. I got him to semi-wakefulness, poured him full of water, but then he said he needed more sleep, so I told him "I love you, Old Man", and took off. He was drifting off as I left. The nurses caught me at the desk and said there's some kind of discount available to cases like Dad's, and they were going to make sure it was being applied to us. It's ALWAYS wise to be nice to the staff.

Tropical Depression Blues

2005-06-11T08:28:00.000-04:00

Damn storms. I can't sleep that well through 'em, and this one didn't even hit us directly. Too much rain, a little bit of wind, and I've been up and down all night. Probably when this blog is done, I'll head back and sleep more, then get up, go see Dad, who's out of the hospital and back in rehab again, then....I dunno. Clean house. Go teach Brian to function online. Maybe take Basher.
Maybe sleep another hour or two.

(Side note to Julie: Would you like 'em original recipe or extra crispy when you eat my shorts?)

I mention my dog Basher quite a bit in blogging, online conversations, etc. I occasionally mention Xena, Warrior Kitty (I used to have stepdaughters, you understand). Xena doesn't actually DO much of anything. Flop around. Annoy Basher by cleaning his ears and bumping her butt in his face. Yowl if her food bowl isn't properly topped off. Sleep on neatly folded stacks of clean clothes, necessitating rewashing.

She used to kill birds, but the last time I caught her with a young cardinal in her mouth, I kicked her ass well enough she got the point; no more birds.

A couple nights ago, I'm cleaning out email, talking on the phone (I use a headset phone), sort of listening to the TV program behind me. I'd left the side door open since the storm breeze was strong and cool. It has no screen door at present. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement, looked over, and a RAT was tentatively sniffing and looking around, gradually moving deeper into the house. I'd been showing a friend my BB pistol the day before, so it was behind my printer. I silently picked it up, checked to make sure the safety was off, sighted it, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. The CO2 cartridge was totally discharged. Something warned the rat, though, and he ran into the kitchen. I ended my phone conversation and got up, moved toward the kitchen as well.

I am completely bummed I don't have a video of the next few minutes. Xena comes dropping off her sleeping spot on top of the refrigerator like a cougar off a cliff. The rat manages to evade her, and while she's regaining her balance, the rodent runs to that traditional haven of safety, behind the stove/oven. However, I had pulled it away from the wall to figure out why the burners warm up so slowly, and there's LOTS of room for Xena behind there. She knows this, apparently, because she's behind it like a shot, running in an interesting crouch. They clear that area, and the rat makes a desperate, successful leap onto the cabinet top, where Xena cannot follow. I have a small table holding the microwave, and it's too tight a fit for her make the leap.

She's not done, however. Often, when cabinets meet at a corner, there's a hollow area between them going up. Xena used to go up there to escape punishment or baths. Years ago I made a cardboard template, cut a piece of wood to fit, and closed that space off by gluing the wood in. Xena knows this. The rat discovers it immediately. Now he's in a corner, Xena's in the middle of the kitchen floor, and there's a break in the action while he studies alternatives. If he tries to run along the counter, there are open areas where she can easily leap up and nail him. If he tries going back where he came, she can cut him off.

For her part, she's focused like I've never seen her before. There's a soft growling sound coming from her, the tip of her tail is twitching, and her eyes react to every slight movement of the rat as he studies his options. She is crouched, maintaining a state of readiness for anything. The rat makes up his mind and makes an incredible leap, intending to go past her and back out the side door. It's a good strategy in theory. However, she jumps for him like an NFL receiver after a pass, and catches him with both front paws. She lands on her side but doesn't let go. She pulls him in, clamps onto his neck, and maintains bite pressure till he quits moving. Once he's dead, she stands over him looking at him.

I'm pretty amazed. Every cat I ever owned loved catching rats alive, and torturing them. Not Xena. This thing was doomed from the second she saw it. Apparently she remembered her butt-kicking over the birds, because when she looked up and saw me, she ran out the back door, leaving me to clean the cabinet top and dispose of the rat. I did those tasks. The next morning, she was sniffing the spot where she'd killed it. I petted her, praised her, petted her some more till I hope she got the idea that she's welcome to waste any rodent she catches in here. The only other time I had a rat in the house, I was younger, recently divorced and insane, so I shot him with a .22. Yes, the bullet's still embedded in the floor somewhere. No, I don't care. I didn't have a homicidal pet at the time, so I did what was expedient.

I just got a new screen door. Guess it's time to mount it, before water conditions drive everything in here, huh?

Mixed Bag Of Spoodies

2005-06-09T02:58:00.000-04:00

Let's start with Faithful hound doggies this evening. Over the years, I've had a succession of great dogs, not always with the same grand qualities, but excellent ones. I had several named "Tippy" because somehow I kept winding up with hound mixes with white tips on their tails. About 11 of our neighborhood (and non-neighborhood) dogs gathered in our yard one day and a spontaneous dogfight broke out. I was maybe 8. I had the bright idea if I kicked my way into the center of the fight, I could subdue all the doggies and they'd quit. It didn't occur to me that some of the doggies, including the boxer and doberman, could rear up and be my height, or that they could bite while in that position. Fortunately, my winter coat was taking the worst of the abuse, and with loose jeans, my legs were mostly unbitten. However, the fight was growing in intensity rather than lessening, and blood was beginning to spray from some of the dogs. I don't know where Tippy had been; but he came roaring onto the porch to get some height in his jump, and he slammed the doberman down as his way of entering the fray. He then placed himself between my legs, rotating me around with shoulder pushes, and kept the dogs off me till the madness settled and they all took off. I'd seen two dogs fight before; I'd never seen a cluster like that. It was bloody and scary, and many of the dogs were limping or had chunks of fur gone and were bleeding quite a bit. I didn't realize how bad Tippy had it till I got off him. A big smear of blood was on my pants leg from several cuts in his hip; a piece of his right ear was gone. I couldn't even find it. His muzzle was bitten all over the place, his lips were bleeding. He didn't seem to care. He smeared a bloody lick up the side of my face.
Mom had been trying to sleep off a bad headache, and hadn't heard a thing. When I woke her up, she refused to take my word for it I wasn't hurt; she peeled me down to my underwear, and discovered except for some bruised areas, I hadn't been hurt at all. She cleaned me up, put fresh clothes on me, and attended to Tippy. He needed considerably more time and care, but in the end, other than scars, he was ok, too. Now, the strange part; we moved to a bigger, nicer house a few blocks down. Tippy stayed most of one night in the new house, then vanished. We hunted him down, found him at the old house. Took him home again, and again he left. When new people rented the house, he ingratiated himself with them till they took him in as their dog. Tippy wasn't on my routes to various places, so I seldom saw him. If I did, I'd stop my bike, he'd come over to be petted, seemed happy to see me. But when I left, he'd go back to "his" porch and lay down. About every 3 months, he'd come walking down the sidewalk to our house, hang out with us for a while, accept a bit of food, then he'd give doggie kisses and head home around dark.
Normally, I understand just about everything about dog behavior; but I've never seen or heard of a dog who was attached to a place like that. The day we left Oklahoma for Florida, with our own recently-acquired corgi/terrier mix, Sweetie (long story for another time), I saw him in his yard, guarding the resident's kids.
Now Sweetie was 25 pounds of fearless animal. Like I said, another time. After her came Stardust, wonder dog in her own right, Dorado, my insane golden retriever, and for the last 13 years, Sebastian, or Basher as everyone knows him. Basher's exploits will be blogged about by me for a long time, but yet again, this ain't it, not entirely. But over the years, Basher has LOVED to bark angrily at the door, letting me know evil's afoot outside, and he wants to go put a stop to it. His method of stopping evil takes many forms; he once whipped two rottweilers and chased them home. Alligators LIKE to eat dogs, but when a 3-footer let its appetite rule over its good sense, he killed it. Somehow, he knew instinctively that raccoons are dangerous to fight. He'd get them running, jump into the air, and land mouth first on the nape of their necks where he could hoist a full-grown 'coon off the ground and shake it like a rat. He's killed poisonous and non-poisonous snakes with a determined joy that's awesome to watch. Unfortunately, he's discovered how to bite a possum so that he leaves it paralyzed in the rear, then kills them at his leisure. I discourage this, but he does it anyway. He will ignore two men arguing; but a man and woman or two women, he'll wedge himself between them and bark non-stop till they stop. He won't take a backhand to the chops as a sign to stop; if anything, that makes him bark louder and more frequently.
But tonight, he was using that wonderful nose to sniff along the bottom of the door, and bark loudly at whatever was bothering him. I pulled on some short pants and we crossed paths as he headed for the side door, where the yard is fenced in; I knew, irrevocably, that Basher was feeling his age; he didn't want a face-to-face with whatever was outside, he wanted to be in the safe confines of his fence so he could bark ferociously and let whatever it was know that it was lucky he was fenced in or he'd really be kicking ass. It was all moot for now, anyway; whatever had been bothering him was long gone by the time we got outside.
He barked a few times just to be sure, peed on the mailbox post, and strutted back into the air conditioning, mission accomplished.

Back To Nature? What a CROCK!

2005-06-04T02:23:00.000-04:00

Back in high school, I wove this wondrous vision of moving out to the farm and becoming self-sufficient to a bunch of my friends. Far too many of them took it seriously, and I've actually heard it mentioned some 30 years after we got out of high school.
To start off, a bunch of long-hairs and hippie girls showing up at the old homestead in Oklahoma would probably get some of us shot, most of us pounded by redneck locals back in them days. At the very least we'd have been ostracized if we didn't show up at one of the local churches every Sunday and toss a few bucks in the collection plate.
The hardest thing to get them to understand is, especially on a small farm (40 acres in my case), you have to WORK to make that land support you. If people aren't going to get outside jobs and bring in some money, it's worse. First, you have to set part of the land out for pasture so you can raise some cattle. Then you have to make a deal with the local butcher to slaughter it, cut it up for you, package it so you can put it in your freezer and have meat for a year. The vegetarians of the group don't have this problem, of course.
Next, you don't make a little "truck garden" and grow a few veggies. Oh, no. You've got to lay out a few ACRES. Then it's got to be plowed. Then you pick the foods everyone wants and plant it in VERY long rows. There's corn. Then there's popcorn. Incidentally, I've seen it so hot some of the popcorn pops right there on the cob. Soy will grow there, cabbage, lettuce, carrots, peas, green beans, potatoes, radishes, squash, artichokes, okra, even watermelons and strawberries IF you have enough water to keep them happy. You can grow several kinds of beans. Wheat grows nicely, even winter wheat. Collard greens, kale and rhubarb grow wild. Sometimes you can stop by the road and gather some outside a farmer's fence.
Ya GOTTA have chiggens. Fuggin Chiggins I call 'em. In general, the domesticated chicken is one of the stupidest creatures in nature. Everything kills them, happily and easily. If you put the wrong kind of floor in their "roost", rats will chew off their feet while they sleep. Certain snakes like to crawl into their nests, swallow some eggs, go climb a small tree, drop out and break the eggs inside them, and go snooze after a big meal. I once saw my normally elegant and too-refined-for-the-farm aunt get so mad she grabbed an axe and a six-foot snake, stretched him out on the ground, chopped his head off, then cut him into sections so she could get her eggs back. You also have to watch your rooster. His job is to protect the hens, and a smart, strong one is a surprisingly formidable beastie, but he knows one of those eggs contains his successor as Stud and Ruler of the Roost, so he'll break eggs if you don't watch him. Old hens are often too tough to fry. You gotta make soup out of them.
Even with a nice field full of bugs and seeds, chickens can't eat enough to sustain them. You have to buy feed to supplement their diet. Same with cows. They eat hundreds of pounds of grass, but you still have to have a nice stash of hay to get them through the winter, and extra food to keep them from getting skinny and less valuable on the meat market.
Now you have to decide how you're going to get around the farm. You don't want to waste the miles on the tractor driving it everywhere. You either need a horse, a dirt bike, or an ATV. The horse is, of course, the least polluting and the most fun. But again, he's gotta be fed, curried (brushed), washed, his stall kept clean and dry, and he needs a ton of shots and medicines to fend off the myriad diseases he can get. I forgot, you gotta do that to the cattle, too. ALL the cattle. We also didn't get into milking. They want to be milked, some twice a day. They have to be milked. They prefer the first milking somewhere around sunup. Hard to do after a night of partying. I'd love to tell you about "cow-kickers", which are essentially leg cuffs for cows that have a bad habit of kicking you and your milk bucket across the room just for the hell of it. Ah, yes, Moo-Cows in bondage. Gotta do it, though. They kick hard enough to break your ribs.
Now, you either have to have a HUGE wheat grinder to grind your own, or take it to a center and have it done. I don't know exactly how that works, but I DO know you don't make bread out of wheat seeds. Same with your corn if you want cornmeal, and believe me, you do. After a great deal of experimenting, I discovered my grandmother's secret recipe for pancakes involving mostly wheat flour, but a small amount of corn flour mixed in, and dumped in a HOT griddle. Add homemade butter, and you may never leave the breakfast table. Syrup is nearly superflous.
You also have to drill for water, and you cannot do it yourself. You HAVE to hire a well driller. Water is VERY deep in the ground, and even when you get a well, you can't count on it being around forever. Some idiot neighbor may decide to dynamite some rocks or a big batch of stumps, and the underground caverns holding your well break open, and drain the water even deeper. Now, the back-to-nature types may want a hand-pump on the well; me, I want something electric and powerful pulling my water up from 200 feet. Takes a LOT of pumping to do that. I also need that pump to water the crops.
Now, in prepping for winter, you gotta kill a piggie. I don't care how cute they are. Watch "Southern Comfort" some time with Powers Boothe and Keith Carradine. You'll see how the Cajuns do it. Well, everybody else does it the same way.
Same problem if anybody wants mutton. Somebody's gotta be tough enough to slaughter little lambchop when he's about to hit puberty.
Another huge farm problem: Assholes in the city dispose of their pets by taking them out in the country and dumping them out, telling their tearful offspring that Fido will find a nice home with a friendly farmer. First, Fido is freaked and disoriented, and probably won't go near people till he's desperate. If he hooks up with other previously dumped Fidos, they often form packs, and kill the farm animals, since they're easier to kill than wild ones. He's going to get huge ticks all over his body, giving him lots of diseases, his hair is going to get matted and full of burrs and other plant seeds, he's going to get fleas, and if he lives long enough for his last shot to wear off, he's a prime candidate for rabies. The friendly farmer sometimes will re-domesticate one or two dogs that show promise of being good farm dogs. Know what he does with the rest? Shoots them in the head. He HAS to. IF there is a local humane society, it's already jammed to the walls with stray pets, and they don't have enough medicine to euthanize them before more flow in. Same with cats. My uncles used to allow about 7 around the farm. They'd fix the females, and the cats earned their keep by killing mice in the hay barn and dairy barn, in addition to keeping them away from the house. It's also a blast to shoot milk out of a cow's tit all over a cat's face. Cats love it. Cats get run over, just vanish (probably eaten by coyotes), but there's always some dumbass dumping Fluffy off somewhere, so if your other cats like Fluffy, and you're down a cat or two, you keep her. Otherwise you take the shotgun and blow her head off.
There's also the problem of cottonmouth snakes, four or five species of rattlesnake, copperheads, coral snakes, scorpions, lyme-disease carrying ticks. That shotgun gets a LOT of use. You also have to learn all the various snakes, because you don't want to kill off the non-poisonous mousers and ratters or you'll get a vermin infestation you won't believe.
If you've opted for a horse, or even just raise a lot of cattle, those adorable little prairie dogs leave holes all over your land that your animals can step in and break a leg. Yep. Gotta shoot 'em. Forget the shotgun. You either need a .22 that's super accurate, or something a bit bigger that guarantees to kill them.
I've just scratched the surface, too. I could easily come up with another 100 or better things you have to do to make it on a farm. But on the other hand, if we ever have a global or even continental economic crash, people will be eating each other in the cities within a few months.
If you have a farm you own, a fish pond and enough guns to keep the cannibals and two-legged predators away, you can survive indefinitely, and eat pretty well while you do it. If you love electricity, I'd suggest a lot of windmills, a battery system, and maybe some solar panels for the spring and summer.

Living In Zen Compost

2005-05-30T21:53:00.000-04:00

I've posted before I have been a karate teacher. I've done this for years, under other teachers, and, finally, with a very fine partner on my own. The story of the forming of that partnership, which has grown into a brotherhood, is worth a blog of its own, and perhaps sometime, I will.
He and I both came to Karate from other Martial Arts. His father was, for a time, self-defense instructor at West Point. My father was an ex-cop, ex-streetfighter. Much like the grand tradition of ancient Wu Shu (the fighting part of Kung Fu), each of our fathers imparted their personal fighting techniques and styles on us, and we still use them today. But the basis of what we became lies in an obscure offshoot of Chubu Shorin-Ryu Okinawan karate called "Karenzukai".
My instructor was a lithe, painfully thin tournament fighter named Jackie Mole. Rick, my partner, was taught by Robert Jackson, who took over as Chief Instructor when Mr. Mole stepped down to pursue other things.
Rick and I came up through the ranks loving much about our chosen way, and hating some things. Secrecy was one of the things we hated a lot. I personally hated the level of pain I was put through to attain my abilities, but looking back...there was no other way. But like I said, that's for another blogging session.
There was a woman Rick had befriended and tried to help through various problems she gave herself over the years. I met her through him, dated her briefly, and by mutual consent, we got the hell away from each other. She met and married a very nice man who worshipped the ground she walked on. I was Security Dude at her wedding, since her husband was friends with a massive batch of practical jokers. After identifying potential troublemakers and assuring them I was prepared to go as far as needed to make this a beautiful, unpranked wedding, it went off without a hitch.
Let's call this woman "R". Well, conversationally, R approached me one day and asked, "Do you and Rick practice magic?" Well, this one came out of left field.
"No. No way. Why?"
"Well, where do you get your power?"
"My....power? It comes from using my hips instead of my upper body to drive my techniques. That's no secret."
She was getting exasperated.
"No, not that. I've seen a lot of karate teachers. I've dated a lot of karate guys. My husband's teacher is higher rank than you and you could kick his butt without trying."
"He's slowing down. He eats too well. He's older than me. I hear he was pretty dynamic when he was young."
"It's more than that, damn it! You're faster than everybody. You know more tricky moves, have more surprise techniques that nobody's seen before than any other teacher. And you guys are super-powerful all the time. You can do more of the exercises longer than any of the students. That takes a lot of power."
"And have you ever asked Rick this question?"
"He started off by telling me you both have Purple Haze belts in Fing Fang Fu, the secret style that clouds peoples' minds," she answered, and I started laughing. She even giggled, though she was too serious about this to stay amused.
"Then he asked me why I was worried about that? He said if I wanted to be good, it took a lot of sweat, dedication and hard work, and I'd be good."
"Sounds right to me."
"Bullshit! You two don't train every night. I've seen you! You sit around, watch movies, practice on your guitars. Some nights you don't exercise at all! You smoke cigarettes! Rick had asthma as a kid. So what's the secret?"
I gave a dramatic sigh.
"You know, sometimes you suck at keeping secrets."
"I can keep a secret! I keep LOTS of secrets."
This of course, was a bareface lie. She's one of the biggest gossips I ever met.
"There is a technique passed down from Sensei to Sensei, from back in Okinawa, where karate was really invented."
She was hooked. I could see it in her eyes. She sat down in a chair without realizing it.
"First, we have to have cut down palm logs with hatchets. No chainsaws, no axes, only hatchets. We could probably get even more power if we did this monthly, but we only do it once or twice a year. We stash the logs in the woods by the river."
"Why?"
"Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, can see this ritual. If we think we're being seen, we have to dive off, swim far enough away to get ashore without being spotted, and the ritual is blown for the month."
Next we have to collect a few hundred feet of vines. We're not allowed to used rope, even natural nope. The entire palm raft has to be tied together with vines."
"Why?"
"Something to do with communing with nature. I'm not sure."
"Okay."
"Now this is the hard part. You know those stupid little flowers that only bloom at dusk? The blue ones?"
"I've seen those!"
"Well, we have to gather several hundred of them. We have to boil them, get the dye out of them. This takes HOURS. Rendering the moisture out of it till it's a thick blue paint."
"You paint the raft?"
"No. At exactly five minutes before midnight, we hand-paddle the raft out into the river. We have an anchor made from a vine tied around a rock. Our clothes are back onshore. We have about two minutes to totally paint ourselves with this damn blue dye. The raft has to float high and dry, because the water will wash the dye right off."
She sits bolt upright, grinning now.
"Okay, now you're telling me bullshit."
"Fine. It's bullshit. Forget it."
And I start to stand up.
"Wait...."
"Yeah."
"You're serious, arent' you?"
"I can say so, but whether I am or not is for you to choose. "
She sits back down.
"All right. I'm sorry. Please. Tell me the rest."
"We start on opposite ends of the raft. We have to do the same thing at the same time or it tips and we lose our shot. We do a ritual form, part kata, part some kind of native dance. After that we chug down a drink from Coconut Milk and Pineapple juice. It's fermented, and kind of nasty, but by the next day, we could knock a bull down with a straight punch. It works, but we're not sure why. But now you know. And if you run that mouth and blabber it, I'll know it's you. Nobody else knows it."
"I'll never tell anybody! I SWEAR TO GOD."
Ironically she DID keep it a secret for almost a year!
The she asked my new wife...

Foole For Time

2005-05-25T03:42:00.000-04:00

I have thought, for years and quite erroneously, that Time Is My Friend. I listened to wise words during high school, agreed there would never be another time like that in my life, and embarked on a non-stop search for adventure, experience, intensity as the central parts of my daily life.
No regrets there. It was a wise choice. By age 25, I was married, settling into what seemed a steady if uneventful career, and had done more than many do their entire lives. I'd driven cars over 150 miles an hour on the street, once had a motorcycle up to 140. Ridden dirt bikes, put in thousands of hours honing my skills as a surfer. I'd used some powerful psychedelics, gained some strange insights from same. Held a few jobs, done road trips...it had been a fun life so far. I had gained a small following as a gifted writer, had friends and admirers dropping by to debate philosophy, find an answer to some problem, or just to down a few beers and shoot the shit.
Instead of pushing myself to do something truly worthwhile as a writer, I thought "there's time", and kicked back to enjoy life with my new wife, her younger brother who we'd taken in, and a batch of pets including 4 dogs, 2 cats, an aquarium full of fish, and a skunk.
When too much easy living had turned me into a walking dumpling, I started collecting and restoring old iron weightlifting plates, the family bought me a multi-station exercise bench for Christmas, and I started turning into a very short Hulk.
Somewhere during this idyllic life period, I had first broached the subject of my father writing his autobiography. He's not a greatly literate man, certainly not a great speller, and he declined the idea. Even though he's led an eventful, fascinating life, I'd heard the stories forever, and could probably remember and record many of them anyway. There was plenty of time.
A few years later, after surviving the insanities of a divorce I didn't want, and learning to quit being in love with someone I'd never be with again, I managed to stop focusing on myself for a bit. I REALLY wanted to get started on that autobiography.
"Maybe next time you're here," Dad said, "right now I need you to help mow the orange grove. The swamp grass is getting taller than the trees."
Leap ahead a couple of decades. Mom has died of cancer, Dad is living with me, and at last agrees, possibly out of boredom, that maybe he should tell his story. I set up the program for him, make it incredibly simple to start it, write a bit, and close down. He never touches it.
Now, he's just had what may be his second stroke. He's about to turn 73. He may never be able to talk normally again, even to speak complete sentences.
I'm out of time.

Beliefs

2005-05-17T10:45:00.000-04:00

They were re-roofing next door. I went over to remove my dog from keeping them company, struck up a conversation with the owner of the roofing company. We got on the subject of God.
Seems he believes. I believe. We discovered some differences in the WAY we believe, but not the basics.
My roof has some minor hurricane damage, which was going to get very much worse over time. My still-weak legs allow me a very limited time up there repairing.
Well, he sent his crew up and used leftover parts to complete my roof for FREE. I slipped the workers some envelopes with some cash in them for the effort. And what an effort! They patched some bare areas. They mostly matched the shingles. Then they built me a ridge cap, the doubled-up shingle part that keeps the roof from rotting and leaking!
Just to make things even better, one of the guys wants a project car, a clunker he can rebuild into a monster. I have a battered up 1984 Pontiac Firebird (think "Knight Rider"). I made him a price he can't beat anywhere, and he knows it. I have a feeling that the Firebird is gone by the weekend. I'll miss it, but I lack the time and money to rebuild it. This guy has both. He even pointed out that two of the parts off it are worth what I'm asking for the whole car. I told him I know, and I could get a lot more by waiting and biding my time, but if he wants it, he gets it at the quoted price. I'd rather sell it to somebody who's going to love it and turn it back into the rumbling beast it was.
God is good, even if he usually whacks me upside the head with a spiritual 2 x 4 when he wants my attention.

Wee Hours Ramble

2005-05-16T06:05:00.000-04:00

Went to the river this weekend. A buddy was shrimping, so I took faithful houndpup with me, and we sat with him a while. Since there's a limit on one person using shrimp traps, he can attach metal tags to his extras with my name on them and catch more. Or give me the catch, which he usually does.
We once had one of the great all-time feasts from his activities. Beheaded, peeled & deveined nearly 50 pounds of shrimp, soaked them in a coconut milk/pineapple juice mix, skewered them and cooked them on a hibachi. Some we slathered with barbecue sauce, others we just let the soak mix do the flavoring. Either way, it was a most memorable munch. Wish I'd known about this when I was a stoner.
It was good for me, as my buddy has been reminding me. Sitting by the river, the timelessness of the sounds and smells, the sheer beauty of it. The relaxing, peaceful setting is good for the soul. Plus there's nobody out preaching the evils of fishing.
I read where PETA is trying to get the Brit Royal Guardsmen to quit wearing bearskin hats and switch to plastic. For once, this is a really stupid and environmentally unfriendly idea. A bearskin hat lasts 20 t0 40 years; they're made from black bears culled by the Canadian Government to keep the species healthy and the numbers supportable by their environment. No plastic hat is going to last that long, and it's not biodegradable when it's too ragged out to wear. So BACK OFF, PETA. They won't, of course. I hope Queen Elizabeth tells them to piss off.
On the flip side, if you've ever read "Never Cry Wolf", you have to wonder just what the Canadian Government knows about species preservation. It's another modern horror story. After learning all about wolves, he discovers the government intends to nearly eradicate them on the excuse that they decimate the elk population. Mowat proves that the elk are mostly being killed by bullets, and that the wolves, not having opposable thumbs and articulated index fingers, are most unlikely to be the ones shooting them.
Without sheep farmers around, the wolves mostly live on mice. That's right; mice. Oh hell. Read the book. It's worth your time.
I'm learning the perils of middle age; I woke up the other morning wanting to tell my mother something, and she's dead. I've done that off and on for years with my brother. Now it happens with her and far too many friends. I guess that's why I'm so excited to hear from people I knew way back in high school. My senior class had several deaths, I think 12 or more, before we graduated. Since then, we've lost about 20 more. We graduated in 1974. Makes me wonder how many will make it to the 50th.
I think maybe we should have followed Heinlein's idea about studying old age and how to circumvent it. I could sure use an oil change and tune-up about now.

Timing and Drumsticks and Wet Stuff

2005-05-11T01:32:00.000-04:00

Ah, the things that musing does to me!
There was a time when an AOL Writer's area actually featured a blurb about showing up to see what was newly crawling out of my festering brain, or something like that. Most flattering.
I was driving along today, and remembered a lady friend discussing giving birth. This brought up an even earlier memory of a brother-in-law describing how his wife's anus came poking out as she was giving birth. I mean, what was that? Hemorrhoids? Just part of what happens? Fascinating, Captain. It's life, in process.
Anyway, the later revelation that totally changed me was speaking of the first thing to exit her body being a mucus plug which, apparently, is a permanent resident of the uterus until time to give birth, at which point it comes out. Does it shoot out like a wiggly bullet? Travel along kegeling waves until gently ejected? Has anyone ever been hit in the eye with one?
It crossed my mind that from that point on, for the rest of my life, whether with one woman or legions of them, I'll be wondering if I'm smacking into a mucus plug or not.
This, quite naturally, led me to the thought of those women who, when orgasmic, "gush". That's right, guys. It's not even as uncommon as I thought. The right woman, in the right circumstances, can coat your lower abdomen (or....you get the picture) with a release that makes your piddling spoo blast look like nothing.
It's best I never had to experience such things as a young lad. I'd have been desperately searching through the sticky stuff for a plug to seal her up before she flattened out like a deflated toy.

The other day, I indulged a wish I'd had since childhood. I have ALWAYS wanted a set of drumsticks. I don't care about the drum. I can always turn a plastic bucket upside down, or tap on the stainless cooking pots. Part of the fun of them, I always thought, was finding various sounds from various surfaces I drum on.
Well, while buying a new amplifier cord for my guitar and a fistful of picks, I saw a whole shelf section devoted to various sizes, types and qualities of drumsticks. It took me 45 minutes to decide.

I keep them at home to spare others. I drum on the toilet when I'm not reading "Scary Spasms In Hairy Chasms" by BigHominid, aka Kevin Kim. (I think you can get it on Amazon.com. Or order it from his website. Amazing book. This is my second reading). Sometimes I read computer magazines. Sometimes I drum on them.

I'll never be a great drummer, probably not even a good one. But I grab them up sometimes when a favorite song is on, learn some of the drumming in it, sometimes pick up on a particular sound I like a lot. Helps my timing immensely. But know what's coolest of all? I always thought it would be FUN having drumsticks around. Pencils, etc. are no substitute for the real thing. I was right. They're GREAT!

Communication Undefined

2005-05-09T20:09:00.000-04:00

Went to see Dad at the rehab center tonight. He's slipping again, and it worries me. He asked me to help him get up and get dressed after telling me he can't get out of bed, which I knew. They put this mesh seat under him, hook it to a lifting device, and transfer him to his wheelchair with it. I felt bad, explaining to him he had to stay a while longer. He wants to come home. I want that drive in him to get strong enough to push himself so he CAN come home, but he's always been so strong, he still thinks his body should perform on demand.

On the way home, a restored old Chevy pulled up beside me, blaring their rap. A black kid was driving, a Mexican kid was sitting shotgun. Surprisingly, they turned down the sound when they pulled up. I grinned at them, turned mine down, shook my head, made a spinning motion with a finger, and gave them a thumbs up. I assume it's rare some old codger wants to hear it, so they smiled back and complied. Other than my brain bouncing off my skull, it was interesting! A heavy drum-beat, of course, plenty of bass guitar, and the following lyrics, as best I remember them:
"I'm gonna fuck you fine, bitch,
Stop that fuckin' cryin' bitch
I'm gonna make you mine, bitch."
Now I asked for it, had no complaint against the young men. But I was thinking that if I had a daughter, well, that's SURE the mentality I'd want her dates operating on. Uh huh.
Got home, did the dog/cat effusive greeting thing, did some odd chores I'd left undone earlier,
and here I am.
Before I could begin blogging, though, I got some Indian guy (from India) on the phone asking for my ex-wife. Thick, THICK accent, and not a great command of English. Now, I don't care WHAT country he's from; I care that his employer is butt-humping some American out of a half-ass job that might at least cover the rent. I don't blame the Indian guy, but since the odds of getting his boss on the line are, well, NONE, then he's gonna take the heat.
"Divorced", I said, "Six fuggin' years."
"Do you have a phone number she can be reached?"
"I don't have to talk to her anymore. You need to learn two words: DIVORCED and DORK."
And I hung up the phone, smiling. See, I get like 15 of these calls a week. Whatever list she got on, by now, between patient explanations and shouted ones, she should be OFF that damn list. At least at this number. The hostility goes up from here.
It's sort of an offshoot from Dec. 20, 1979, two days after my brother died. I'm at my parents' house, we're trying to muster the energy and control the breakdowns enough to pack so we can fly back to Oklahoma and bury him.
I get a cheery call from one of the local Cemetaries, offering "Free Plots" if I sign up for their plan.
I was REALLY glad I got it instead of my folks.
"Listen," I told the hapless young female who called. "My brother's obituary is in the paper today. If those fucking GHOULS you worked for had a grain of sensitivity, they'd check that before turning you loose on the public. Now, you write this down, ok?"
"Yessir!"
"If your company EVER calls this number again, I am PERSONALLY going to come to your office, bypass all you workers, find your boss, and shove an entire TELEPHONE up his ass. Now you WILL relay that message, won't you? Because if you don't, he's going to be in a LOT of pain the next time someone calls me from there."
"I'm really terribly...."
"Forget it," I said, "this isn't your doing. But right now, it would be worth 5 years in prison just to hear what he went through getting that telephone back out. You go give him the note, ok?"
"Yessir. And I'm sorry sir." She hung up.
It was 5 years before they called back again. I was there then, too. I explained the story, and that 5 years hadn't calmed me a bit. That time was the last time they called.
I'm much calmer and more mature now, of course. I'd probably just cram the handset up his ass.

Space-time Ejaculate

2005-05-08T22:35:00.000-04:00

This is getting just WEIRD. I'm trying to make this blog better as I go on; trying to "keep it real", to say things from the heart, or the tickle-spot. It's not that I'm so freakin' arrogant I think what I write is timeless prose for the ages; but some of it's pretty damn good, and it's making me crazy when I write it, post it, the Blogger stuff says it's posted, but when I go to check...it's GONE!
Once in a while, the Great BigHominid himself refers to my blog, even links to it. Ditto Persephone, fast-rising blogger in the field. I have a couple of VERY loyal readers, Vicki being the best of the best. If I have the talent, perhaps eventually this blog will become very well known. If not, I want it to be because I didn't cut it, not because some of the very best stuff I've written has been spewed out the tip of the internet, mental ejaculate lost in an infertile universe.
On the other hand, I'm not paying for this. I suppose if I want to hold them to an ultimately high standard, I should be paying something. After all, I'm still on AOL, and what THEY do to your life, your writing, your opinions just ain't pretty. And I pay them for online access!

Cheek-flap Frappingtons, Revisited

2005-05-03T05:32:00.000-04:00

I'm still fat. Really fat. Not quite as obesely fat as I was, but....extra chunky PLUS. I was sleeping naked tonight, fan blasting me to cool comfort, sound asleep.
Then it hit.
Frapppp...Frappp..
Indeed.
Fat guy farts, just quivering those buttcheeks.
I actually woke myself up.
Ba to bed now.
Round two, coming up.

Hatred, Anger & Stupidity

2005-05-02T02:12:00.000-04:00

My Mom, devout fundamentalist Christian that she was, taught me I was never to hate anyone. She said, "You hate the sin, you love the sinner." Mom had been a "seeker" all her life. Her belief in God from childhood was unshakeable; her view of how to properly serve him had its problems. She attended a variety of churches, seeking what she believed was "The Way".
Well, sadly, her youngest (of 11) brother and fellow Seeker Of The Way, found a church he believe filled ALL their criteria. He worked on the entire family (Bible discussions were not uncommon during weekends at Grandma's. Neither was blackberry cobbler and homemade ice cream.)
What he had found was a huckster named Herbert W. Armstrong, founder and Apostle of the Worldwide Church of God. At the time, it was a rapidly-growing group. Herbert was a character; smooth talking, powerful speaker, and his message was designed to promote paranoia and fear in its listeners, at least the ones he'd already hooked.
Later, his son Garner Ted Armstrong, took over most of the radio sermons, and later the TV show. Garner Ted had tattoos of topless Hula dancers on his forearms. That's why he always wore long-sleeved shirts. He's had a rebellious time as a young lad, enlisted in the Navy, and gone adventuring.
Well, Unkie kept at the family, and converted about half of them, including Mom. One thing Herbert (or Herbie as I'll refer to him henceforth) banned was the celebration of anyone's birthday. Something about it detracting from worshipping Jesus. Actually, it cut into the tithes he demanded. So, as of age 6, I got NO birthday cake, and only a couple of presents my paternal grandparents kept at their house for me.
The Church's teachings were much like a cancer; they spread slowly until they had taken over every aspect of your life. The "Hook" that Herbie and Garnie used was classic; there's a section in the Bible about Armageddon, where a few of God's best will be smuggled and hidden in Petra, which is a nasty spot somewhere in the middle east. Well, WE were God's One True Church. Everybody else was wrong. We held sabbath services on Saturday. We observed the Jewish Holidays, the ancient ones. Feast Of Tabernacles, Passover, Days Of Unleavened Bread, some fast day I don't remember the name of.
ALL the faithful paid 10% of their Gross income to the Church as Tithe. The Church, in turn, built Colleges in Pasadena, California, Big Sandy, Texas and in England. Once they were established, it pretty much was the only way to become a minister in the church. The ministers received a salary, car, and assistance purchasing a home in their area.
We unwashed faithful also were required to save a SECOND tithe of 10% of our gross incomes, to be spent on travel, food and lodging when we traveled to the feast. Of course, there were "love offerings" required, and a clever one called "Empty Your Pockets Of Change".
Every 3 years on a 7-year cycle, you had to cough up yet a THIRD tithe for "The Widows And Orphans". Somehow, my parents got special permission to give that to my widowed grandmothers, so every 3 years they made out like bandits. I don't begrudge my grandmothers that money; but the ONLY college education my parents could afford for me was due to the generosity of a dying great-uncle, who left a small stipend to my mother. I had to pile on the heaviest courseload I could handle and take CLEP in order to graduate in a year from the local community college. Why? So there would be enough left for my brother to go, too.
There were other requirements. Males were to have SHORT hair, near-military standards. Sideburn length was restricted, mustaches were corner-cut, and beards were discouraged. Males were NOT to have bangs; our hair was to be combed UP in front. I gotta tell you, in the 1960s, that made you stand out rather drastically. The girls had it no easier. NO makeup, NO short hair, NO thin blouses, ALL dresses/skirts below the knee. Women and girls were NOT to wear pantsuits, the trend at the time. God help them if they came to church in such a getup. Corporal punishment to a severe degree was encouraged; the minsters seldom intervened unless a child was being genuinely beaten.
We were not to smoke, drinking to excess was verboten, the usual religious stuff. Herbert taught that the scattered 12 tribes of Israel were actually the white European races. France was one, England another, the United States another. Surprisingly, we were to treat other races as our equals under God, but there was to be no mixed marriage.
Dating was banned until 16, and then it had to be social situations with a lot of people and chaperones. There was no allowance for disobedience; you were simply a rebellious child, and it was your parents' duty to pound your ass back into line. My sexual instructions at puberty was to keep my hands off girls, no kissing, no touching, no nothing. I'd understand later on. By age 12, I'd decided this batch of loonies did NOT belong to God, and if they did, God had some serious flaws. As my father was gradually sucked into the influence of this cult, the fights around our house grew in proportion and intensity. My surfing took on a spiritual significance for me. Every time I splashed out into the ocean, it felt like a layer of dirt was washing off me, and I felt pure and clean. My problems stopped and started at the water's edge. Learning to understand the ocean, to read its moods and patterns, to fit myself into the waves at the exact right spot became my religion.
Yet another requirement was old-testament eating requirements. I was an adult before I ever tasted lobster or shrimp.
Well, Herbie and Garnie are dead now. Not soon enough, and their poison isn't ended. There are like 109 or more splinter groups from the original church. There are websites out there dedicated to helping escapees from the church heal, others to badmouthing the church and harassing current members. There is a site for former members who hate God and have become Satanists. I will probably blog about this again, so you've been warned.
When I got to Community College, my English teacher was expounding on The Church one day, and I interrupted him and corrected some misinformation he had. He began asking questions, and I told him I'd been a member until I was kicked out at 16. He was fascinated. Part of the church's teaching was to stay low-key to avoid persecution. He had never met a person who would admit belonging to the church, even though there were over 100,000 members, mostly in the U.S.
Admittedly, I suffered FAR less than many of the other kids; my parents had a conscience, and an unwavering love for my rebellious butt. They couldn't kick me out or turn their backs on me.
And, though I'm required to forgive, and "Love the sinner", I hate those two assholes. Digging them up and pissing on them would be an occasion for joy. They ruined a big part of my life, and they were preaching false gospel and knew it.
To this day, I'll occasionally dip a shrimp in sauce, and just before devouring it say, "Fuck you, Herbert."
Even Mom, before she died, had mostly walked away from the church's doctrines. She decided, in the end, "It's all about love. Love is all that matters."
So, love to you all.

Cheek-Flap Frappingtons

2005-04-28T14:21:00.000-04:00

I love TV. I'm more addicted than I like to admit. Years ago, Harlan Ellison, the brilliantly twisted Science Fiction writer, wrote a series of articles for a newspaper that became a book "The Glass Teat". It was all about the TV fare at the time. Great book. He followed it up with "The Other Glass Teat". They're still worth a read. You'll see just how far TV hasn't come.Oddly, there's one show I watch that I hate. It's "Judging Amy", which hopefully has been cancelled and is only on TNT or USA or one of those networks. It's an excellent show with tight, intense scripts, incredible family interaction, realistic life situations. Tyne Daly is nothing short of brilliant as an actress, as is Amy Brennerman. The entire supporting cast are superbly talented actors.Of course, the entire show is an ultra-liberal propaganda piece, praising and attempting to show the Politically Correct lifestyle is the only proper lifestyle. In an episode I recently saw, a kid comments to another kid off school grounds that he's "made my Columbine list". The school principal investigates, finds swastikas drawn in his notebook, goes to his home and manages to open a closet door and see a shotgun. The kid's lawyer argues the gun is his father's, who's a hunter, the swastikas are part of a report he's done on the Holocaust.Judge Amy, after questioning him and hearing from some half-ass school shrink that he's got anger issues, decides he's dangerous, even though he's exhibited excellent self-control, and turns him over to adult criminal court. Now those of us from the hippie era: Didn't WE have some extreme anger issues? Freaks and Blue Collars facing off all over the country? Riots?Protests? Confrontations everywhere? At the time, WE were the outlaws. Suppose this kind of Thought Police action were instituted then? I saw the inherent evil of that situation immediately; it scares me to think how many bleating sheep morons watched it and said, "Uh huh. She did right. Trash that kid's life in case he's dangerous." Yeah. I like "The Pretender" much better. Actually, I like Andrea Parker better. She's got anger issues. She smokes. She carries a gun. She kicks butt. And she's a hottie.I LOVE Law And Order, too. Well, not the court episodes. Except for Jill Hennessey and Angie Harmon. I still occasionally like Walker, Texas Ranger. It drastically improved after Nia Peeples joined. But Chuck's an inspiration. He's 65 and still doing karate at a level most people will never achieve.I've caught a few of the reality shows, Fear Factor, I've studiously avoided Donald Trump's show, The Bachelor and The Bachelorette.You want a GOOD show? I've said it before. Sunday nights. Extreme Home Makeover. Drama, reality, and the most positive vibe I've ever seen on TV. Ty Pennington is both the leader, star, and comic relief. They got a gay guy. They got a Brit. They got a couple of hotties who are truly talented and totally dedicated to the cause. And you'll see Sears in a whole new light. You'll also see individuals, neighbors and entire companies pitch in with time, money, scholarships. Essentially, they find a poor but deserving family living in a hovel. They sent the entire family on vacation for about a week, and rip their house down. In its place, in one week, they build a new house. This is a finished, furnished house. One company that helped build a house for a family also paid off their mortgage. Another time, a company that wanted to be involved gave a college scholarship to a kid that had been taking care of his blind younger brother and deaf parents. A doctor treated the father and fixed him so he had partial hearing. A man with seizures who was skipping his meds to make them last got a lifetime free prescription, a new pickup, and his antique pickup restored besides an awesome house for him and his family. It's all about making a tremendous effort to focus in on one deserving group of people and totally changing their lives for the better.Watch it. Email the network and let them know you watch it. If any show ever deserved to be on for a LONG time, it's this one.

Wearin' My Goulashes

2005-04-24T02:35:00.000-04:00

Back when I was a body-fetcher for our County Coroner, I often said that all 16-year olds should have to ride with me for a month before getting their drivers licenses. I still feel that way. For one thing, they just don't have the balls, even in the WORST of those gross films they show, to give you the REAL picture of what a nasty accident scene is like. You don't get the sharp scent of blood everywhere, of ripped open guts, drained brains, people pissing and crapping on themselves as their sphincters turn loose when they die. You also miss out on the feeling of having to load them onto gurneys, sometimes adding bodyparts in plastic bags, getting an unexpected spray of blood out the nose, urine from the bladder, or something nearly severed tearing loose when you lift it.You don't get to enjoy the open-eyed stares, sometimes a look of horror when they know what's about to happen and die before they can blank it out.

So many tiny variables...a pair of drunks pulling onto a highway, no seat belts, getting t-boned..she and he met, mid-car, skulls first, and both died of the resulting collision...but her head laid on his shoulder and tears ruined her mascara as she lay there, unable to move and dying, before I was called in. In small cars, for some reason, your feet often get shoved backward under the front seat, breaking both your ankles. Enthusiastic young firemen have a special saw to take care of that. I never let them use it. If you're careful and patient, you can pull the broken ankles and feet back out, keep the body intact. It's an eerie feeling, in the cold, early morning air, to reach your arms around a victim, lift them out of the seat, and hear them give one last moan as the pressure forces the air out of their lungs. Scares hell out of everybody, too. It's always sad to lift a few dead teens out of their car right after prom, too. They're dressed so nice. They're usually SO bloody, too, but their faces are often unharmed. They usually look very sad, or just asleep.

It's the one place you hear questions like, "Anybody seen the passenger's head?"The bodies are searched for valuables and identification in the presence of the police. After all these are removed, inventoried and bagged, they're turned over to the cops for return to the families.

Did you know you puke like crazy if something stabs or crushes your guts and you don't die right away? You do.

Now if you ever wondered why that highway patrolman/woman who pulled you seems to have all the mercy/compassion of a Nazi, maybe you get it. They DO care. They really do. But your butt is alive and in one piece, and it annoys hell out of them that you do stupid things to risk that. Sometimes that pretty little girl that I just have to cover up and haul back was alive when they got there, and they tried CPR to save her, and it didn't work. Sometimes the only person who lives through a bloody horror of a crash is the drunk asshole that caused it all, and they're trained to stay in control and not beat the living hell out of him. But that takes some anger suppression, and it's hard to shake off. I've seen young city cops sent home for the day to calm down. I've never seen a highway patrol person get that consideration. Come to think of it, I've never seen a Deputy sent home, either.

No, I'm not excusing cops for misbehavior. They took the job, they have the training, and they learn quickly what's coming. If they can't handle it, they need to find other work. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Saw the news reports and films of that little girl getting cuffed by the cops. Hey, at least they didn't TASER her like they do everybody else!

Ok, maybe it wasn't that funny.

I tried.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Well, we got a new Pope. I have this feeling he's going to be controversial, hardcore, and a royal pain in the ass worldwide.Good. We need someone for everybody to be pissed at besides the U.S.If you think that's a snipe at Bush, you're wrong. I keep running into people who are of a socialist state of mind or worse, communist. You need to QUIT calling yourselves "Americans". You ain't, even if you were born here. You have become a sub-human sheep. If you run a vacuum cleaner hose from your tailpipe into your car, handcuff yourself to the steering wheel and snap off the key after you've started the engine, you'll make the world a better place.

Now if you don't like the president, fine. Insult him. Bitch about him.

But PLEASE don't make any asinine statements wishing bad things to happen to our troops. While such statements make you of equal value to used douchewater and therefore, not worth urinating on, well...some people cannot crawl far enough of out their slime to reach my level, so in my mangnanimous frame of mind, I WILL jump down into yours. And I'll probably pee on you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was at the rehab center yesterday (like every day), visiting Dad, and while they changed out his colostomy bag and were doing a few other odds and ends, I went outside to smoke. There was a woman sitting there in her wheelchair. I'd seen her before. Black, slender waist, truly pretty face, hair always brushed and neat, nice clothes. It was one of those glorious sunsets after a rain, and she was sitting quietly, watching the birds play just before they hit the trees to roost. "Nice day", I said.

"It is."

I looked into her eyes, then down at her gnarled hands, and the empty leggings on her pants.

"Rheumatoid arthritis, huh?"

"Yes."

I showed her the scars and mess on my legs, told her how I'd almost lost them fighting off 3 infections. I saw here look longingly at my cigarette.

"You smoke?"

"When I can get by with it."

"Would you like a cigarette?" She seemed like one of those people who are just too proud to ask. She had incredible dignity for a woman life was kicking the hell out of.

"I would, please."I handed her one, lit it for her. Had to be patient. Her fingers didn't work right, it took her a minute to get it in position where she could smoke and drop ashes without getting them on her.

"You have family here?"She blew out a cloud of smoke, and looked at me sadly.

"A sister and an ex-husband."

"Rough," I commented. "Right now my Dad has me. Mom died a few years back."

"I understand."We finished our smokes, I asked if I could help her get back inside. There's a code you have to punch into a keypad, then open the door, get through and close it in a few seconds or the alarm starts ringing. Leave it open too long, and the alarm won't quit.I lined her wheelchair up with the door, buzzed it open, and she started through. Very slow going, with those twisted hands. I gave her a gentle push, and the alarm started just as I made it in. I had to punch the exit code to shut it off. I didn't know this, she told me how to do it. She continued driving herself.

I said, "I go left at the next corner. I'll get you there in a hurry, then we can go our separate ways."

"All right." I got her to the corner, walked in front of her to block the nurses' view, and handed her four more cigarettes. She looked at me, startled.I winked at her.

"There will be more nice sunsets."She stashed them in a pocket of her tote.

"You have a lighter?"

"Oh yes, I do, thanks."

"Well then. I'll say goodnight."

"And goodnight to you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is the deal. I had a grandfather with one leg. Sometimes he wore an artificial one, and walked with a cane. Sometimes he did without and used crutches. He seldom used a wheelchair, but even still, people would talk to whoever was with him, and ignore him like he was deaf or afflicted mentally.Don't do that. Look the crippled one in the eye. Smile. Let them know YOU know there's a fully functional brain stuck in a messed-up body. They need the human contact because it's so often denied them. It also means, even if you're an asshole the rest of the day, for at least a few seconds, you were a Good Guy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fellatious Phallusies

2005-04-21T22:43:00.000-04:00

The topic probably won't match the heading, but is that not the COOLEST way to start a blog article?
I got a plumber to my house today! My main bathroom tub faucet was beginning to pour water at a frightening rate. He came over, installed new stuff, stopped all leakage, got paid, shook my hand, patted my mutt, and said call when I was ready for the next repair job. Great guy. Great job. I tipped him $30. Cash.
I spent some time with Dad tonight, and he's healing nicely, hates being stuck in bed, and has discovered I'm right: he can't walk. So he went to Physical Therapy twice today, made it 4 steps the first session, six the second. Way to go, Dad!
But the crowning good thing of the day was a phone call from Sue. Now, there are two Sues. I went to high school with them. Both are physically stunning, always have been. Beautiful blue-eyed blondes. Both their maiden names began with H, so I can't call 'em Sue H and Sue H. Won't work. So, I'll call this one Sue F and the other one (in California) Sue Z.
Sue F found my name on some high school reunion website I'd subscribed to. Since they wouldn't forward email as part of their free service, she paid $9 just to get me an email. Then, of course, it turns out she's an AOLer, she lives just across the river from me, and she could have looked me up in the phone book. But she didn't know any of that.
We talked for 2 1/2 hours tonight. It was incredible. She had so much insight into me it just spooked me. We went over our timelines, got some things coordinated. About a week after we'd last gone out together, she met the man she later married, and has been with for 20+ years. But as much as we were then, the emotional connection between us as friends is still strong. I was very pleasantly surprised. I think about her often, I had no idea if she ever thought of me at all. Turns out the OTHER Sue has pushed her to find me, talk to me as well.
She told me that way back in Junior High school, she had first noticed me from reading the school paper, reading my articles. She is prepared to damage me if I don't get a book published soon. If this damn blog publishes instead of vanishes, I'll be 4 for 4 for the day. I'm going to cut it short. I have a new plan. I'll write the blog ahead of time, cutnpaste it in here, and perhaps avoid lockup and erasure of my less-than-timeless prose.
Y'all hang in there!

It was a wonderful conversation, we've agreed to meet for a long lazy lunch one day, and that we WILL stay in contact.

Prose For The Ages Or Aged Or Somedamnbody

2005-04-05T03:17:00.000-04:00

My last two entries never made it to blogdom. AOL locked up once, I lost it all, and BlogSpot locked itself up on the last one, which REALLY ticked me off. It was a pretty good post.
My Dad is doing much better. I'm happy about that.
Now that Dad's stuck in the hospital and headed for a rehab clinic, the dog has been losing weight like crazy from not getting fed leftovers. His old crippled up hips are stronger, his chest is again bigger than his belly, and he looks less like a barrel on legs than he does a dog.
Since Dad moved in, I've not had to worry about him doing one of his "adventures", where he takes off up the street, annoys every dog and many of the people on our street, then crosses over to the next one to disrupt life as they know it.
I did a foot search first, and he had indeed been up the street. This nice lady that's restoring an old house she bought said when she got her new plants out of her trailer, he peed on them, but other than that, he was very sweet and friendly.
I had to go see Dad, and was losing time, so I got in the pickup and headed over to the next street. On my first pass, I didn't see him. Then, it suddenly hit me. ONLY Basher loves sprinklers enough to lay on his back and roll while one soaks him thoroughly. I backed up and, in this exemplary yard with tall sprinklers, a dog was lying on its back twisting to and fro. I waited. The dog finally sat up.
Of COURSE it was mine. I yelled for him and he gave me his smartass grin that means, "Yeah, I did it again. Too bad."
He shook off some of the water, and I made him climb in and sit on newspapers on the way home.
Trouble is, he's too old to punish. I'm afraid to smack his butt, it could hurt him. So I yelled at him. He ignored me, went over to his bed, and flopped down for a nice nap.
Besides, the ex planted some lilies out front that only bloom once a year and this is the week. I gotta get pics of those, see if I can post them alongside of a pic of my freshly-washed dog. He looks about two shades lighter!

Dancing With The Pain

2005-03-25T01:16:00.000-05:00

I can't believe they kept my blog open for me. I've not said anything in a while.

Terry Schiavo. Her husband should be prosecuted, and it would be nice if a camera was kept on her, let these dorks see what starving to death is all about. It's not fun, it's not painless, and I believe the United States Supreme Court should have their food cut off, too. We need some new judges who don't think it's their job to legislate. John Stewart made more sense on this issue than anyone else. Scary how often he's doing that.

My own Dad is probably going to live. He really is the toughest human I've ever seen. He's fighting now to get his brain back from that last stroke. Lucidity and comprehension are items for him to capture and retain for brief periods. He doesn't understand that he keeps aspirating food when he tries to eat. He tore the feeding tube out of his nose, and confiscated the one the nurses tried to replace it with, threw it on the floor. Now he's trying to get me to smuggle in Sonic Double Cheeseburgers with Mayo and Onions only. He's still really sick, but considering he was almost expected to die last week, he's in great shape. He even lied to a nurse about my name, and grinned at me to let me know he was playing.

You know those people who say pets are an important source of healing? Believe it. Dad alternates between remembering I'm his son and thinking I'm either a doctor or some weird little dude that comes in his room, falls asleep for an hour, then wakes up and talks to him for another hour. He has yet to forget Basher, my dog. I can't be jealous of the dog. As I was typing this, he came wandering in from sitting out under the nearly full moon, bumped my elbow to demand he be petted and his chest scratched, then rested his head on my thigh briefly, and headed for his bed.

The rest of life is just...being what it is. A little business here and there, time online doing mail and updating people on Dad. I finally found a plumber. After the hurricanes, roofers and plumbers were in such hot demand, your wait time ranged from one to three months. Know what this means? I get to take a BATH, not a shower! Yeah, yeah, showers are better for you, and I'll usually do that...but to just SOAK in HOT FREAKIN' WATER for an hour or so, reach down with a brush and scrub my little toesies...ah, BLISS! I may float some rose-scented candles around, maybe some relaxing music.

Leaving the hospital the other day, I got approached by that which we all fear: the NUTCASE. Guy with Alice Cooper length black hair, extremely greasy, wearing a brightly colored tie over his bare belly, a massive Hawaiian shirt he's unable to button over his gut, and a pair of cargo shorts whose construction is truly amazing, some odd-looking sandals. First he bummed two cigarettes. Then he began telling me how fat I am, and which doctor can help me get thinned down like he is. She must be a hypnotherapist, because this boy was my height and outweighed me by a good 70 pounds. He told me how to be declared insane, but not far enough gone to put away, and how I could collect disability for that, and get by with some criminal activity. I finally excused myself and walked into the rain just to get away from him.

Not much here, sadly, but I'll try to do better.
Love y'all.

Silver Linings, Darkling Clouds

2005-03-12T23:36:00.000-05:00

I actually dragged myself out at an early hour and went to see my ailing father in the hospital. He wasn't in his room in ICU. Zack, Nurse Extraordinaire, tracked him to another floor. Dad looked the best he has yet; the feeding tube is out of his nose, they don't have quite as many wires and sensors all over him, and he was resting peacefully when I got there.
He was conscious, wanted his TV on, knew who I was.
I was so relieved I leaned on the rail of his bed and we both fell asleep for about an hour. I still had time to do some banking and things I needed to get done, so I said my goodbyes and took off.
All went well until I got home. The next door neighbor and his son came over. The neighbor needed help with his computer, the son broke the news to me that a friend of ours had died of a drug overdose, and it was quite possibly deliberately done by her boyfriend.
There are people who, if I find out they died, I can shrug it off; I don't care. Sometimes I'm a bit relieved or glad. I'm mean that way. But this woman...she and I have been friends and enemies over the years. We knew each other very well. And, in spite of things I didn't like about her, I felt a kind of love for her in my heart. She was a drunk and an occasionally clean junkie, and had some very bad behavior. She was always a disruption when she'd show up at my house. But underneath that, she was a woman with a heart and a conscience. Her childhood had been a non-stop horror, as had much of her early adult life.
But when my last wife left me, this woman was there for me, calling me at night to make sure I was ok, demanding I come pick her up and go do something with her, even if it was go see a movie or go sit under a bridge and talk. She also often forced me to get out and exercise, and helped me stay on a diet she invented. I once lost 35 pounds in three months following her diet.
In the end, I guess all I can say is, I've lost a friend, and I will miss her.
Melanie Ann Ryder, may you find a peace in death and whatever comes next that was denied you in life. I'll think of you often, and I'll never forget you.

I sat for a while and thought about her, flashes of memory running through my head. Thousands of them. Years. Then I went over and checked out the neighbor's computer. I love when it's easy. In ten minutes, I'd figured out his problem, loaded up the new software he couldn't get the computer to accept, and told him he had too many running processes, and they were sucking all the RAM out of his computer. I told him to go buy more RAM, and I'd find him a program that grabs the RAM back that's not being actively used. Later I'll teach him how to deactivate more of them so he only calls them up when needed. Baby steps.

But DAMN. Lanie shouldn't be dead. Not at 34. With a few more years, she might have made it.

Planes Of Limbo

2005-03-06T21:41:00.000-05:00

Greetings and salutations and stuff. I'm riding the emotional roller-coaster still. Though most tell-tales indicate he's doing ok, my father is either lost in a Demerol haze or still a tad disconnected from his strokes. This afternoon he was insisting every LED in the room was a camera filming him, for what reason he wouldn't say.
He might or might not make it, as they keep reminding me.
Oddly, I don't feel deeply sorry for myself. I'm worried, I don't want to lose him, but I've had so many friends and relatives lose parents while they're much younger than I am. This is one of those life inevitabilities you have to face and deal with. I also have the added knowledge that Dad is a massively stubborn man; if he decides he's going to live, he's going to live.
I'm puttering around every day, living my normal life, then going to the hospital, then my job, then home, the hospital, my job. My friends are trying to reach out, get me to go places and do things, but for now, I gotta be with Dad. If this is his ending time, I want him to know he's not alone. Of course, if it's not, I gotta have all my packrat junk out of here so the nurses can visit and help take care of him when he comes home. I don't think he'll ever have as much strength as he did, and I'm not sure how muc lucidity he'll have either. He's been pretty good a few times so...again, I wait and see.
I seem to have this unfortunate problem: my toilet urges coincide with several peoples' urges to call me. My answering machine went to its reward, and I've not replaced it. So, it's been...awkward. Well, while picking up a few needed supplies today, what did I see? A 50-foot telephone cord! So now, friends and relatives can enjoy every splash, grunt, ejection noise along with me! I'll decide on an individual basis who gets a chunk-by-chunk report. It will be colorful, or at least descriptive.
Tracy, one of my Angels, was the latest caller. I decided 12:30 at night was PROBABLY a safe time to go. However, it was a sad and serious situation. Her baby, just over a year old, choked on something, and after they cleared his air passage, he went into seizure. They'd called paramedics, who tried to stabilize him and rushed him to the hospital. After being examined there, he was sent home. As Tracy was putting him to bed, he had yet another seizure. The paramedics took him to a more distant, but in their opinion, a better hospital, and he spent last night in ICU with no further seizures after he got there, was examined and received medication. I've not heard today, I figure she's too busy to call.

Y'all stay healthy out there, ok? No more illness, sadness. Good things only. Bless you and then some.

Hijacked by the Imp Queen

2005-02-23T07:44:00.000-05:00

Yep, I've hijacked this blog. Just for a minute though. Shuttup, Arn, I'll give it back when I'm finished, so just chill.

If you've read my post, you probably already have an idea what's going on, but if not, I'll just tell you - Arnie's father Daymon has had a stroke and is in ICU. To make matters worse, his testicles sort of exploded, causing a surgical repair for the abscessed, er, unit, which has now been left open to air to heal. This is a very dangerous, scary time for Daymon. And Arnie.

A stroke means you can't always communicate pain or annoyance or whatever. A giant open testicular wound means you have lots of pain or annoyance or whatever to communicate. You see the problem here.

Daymon needs prayer for his very survival, because he is a very sick man and his prognosis is shaky right now. Arnie needs prayer for his sanity, and his father, and his health and financial well being and just for general support purposes, because it hurts to be the one surviving child of your only surviving parent, with the rest of the family far away and no idea what tomorrow holds.

Arn - I am praying for you. I care. I am here when you need me, and when you don't. Philip sends his love and prayers, too - we'll be around, day or night. Hang in there, and for gosh sakes don't try to do this by yourself, please?

Lecture over. That is all. Now you people comment or I will kick you in the nuts.

Variation on a (lonely) theme

2005-02-14T15:20:00.001-05:00

I made a post about being lonely in the wee morning hours when nobody's up, nobody's online, there's nobody to talk to. I'm fortunate to have a job where my time isn't so regulated; most of my friends aren't so fortunate. I'm not sunk in some deep, steep-walled depression, so it would be rude to haul them out of bed just to babble with me.
I received a couple of nice replies, including one from someone who hates spending dinner alone and wordlessly. I hear ya!
Dinner isn't so bad for me, I have Dad here, at least. Even before Dad, I had the dog and cat, hanging on my every bite, if not my every word. If you know somebody you think is really lonely, go out of your way to smile at them, at least say hi. Buddy up a bit. Find some casual dinner partners when YOU don't feel like being alone.
I know, I know, some people think it's risky. Be honest. If you're not interested in a close relationship, communicate that. You still may find some loyal and excellent friends. You know the signs to watch for. If they're sacrificing cats or rodents at midnight of the full moon while screaming in Latin...give that one a miss.

Variation on a (lonely) theme

2005-02-14T15:20:00.000-05:00

EarlyMorninFugginBlues

2005-02-07T04:48:00.000-05:00

Slept for a while earlier; woke up just in time for a very close friend I can only see online now to pop on and ask if I was awake.
I was.
We had an interesting conversation for a while, but the sleepies took her away.
I wished, OH how I wished, my broken guitar was at the luthier's, and my new one was tuned and ready to go. It's that kind of night. Maybe run some scales, then just let it go...
Since neither guitar was good to go, I slipped on my headphones, and went digging in my music files. There it was:
"Mother earth is pregnant for the third time...." YEAH! "Maggot Brain" by Funkadelic. The original version, not the later ones with George Benson's slick guitar work. That first version is raw. You hurt for the guitarist the way you hurt for Janis Joplin's throat while she sang her guts out. I read up on this. He was told to think of the saddest thing he could, then just let it go and play. He thought of his mother dying, and the raw, screaming pain of it comes out of that instrument with an agonizing, aching beauty. Just right for EarlyMorninFugginBlues.
I like being alone. I like having time to think with nobody else impinging on my consciousness. Usually, that's ok. This morning, it isn't ok. It sucks. Dad is deeply asleep, and I won't interrupt that. He'll be up in a few hours, and it'll be non-stop busywork, cooking his breakfast, getting him ready for a visit to the doctor, then off for lunch somewhere. In the middle of wishing I had somebody to talk to, I thought of my blog. Y'all don't have to be with me. I'll be off doing something by the time you read this, and over them blues. But it's nice, these chilly early morning hours, to have somebody to talk to.
Thanks.

The Dark Side Of Time

2005-02-05T01:33:00.002-05:00

The Dark Side Of Time

2005-02-05T01:33:00.001-05:00

The Dark Side Of Time

2005-02-05T01:33:00.000-05:00

"Armaggedon is coming!" I heard that all my life. The "cult" fundamentalist religion I was forcibly attending used the impending end of the world to keep the faithful in terror both for their physical souls and immortal ones. They taught that we had horrible times ahead, where we'd be persecuted for publicly obeying God's word, some would be killed, but in the end, God would get us smuggled aboard a ship, and we'd end up in Petra, which is a rocky piece of nowhere in the middle east. Yeah, that's a GREAT place to stash a bunch of Americans. Granted, God can take care of such things. I'm still reading my bible trying to understand prophecy. I still don't.
When I first became aware of this teaching, I was terrified. My first thought: "God's coming back and I haven't LIVED yet! I want my time!"
End-time paranoia is an easy thing to induce. Some upheaval in the middle east, a few natural disasters, and those are SURE signs that it's impending! Jesus will be here probably day after tomorrow, and he's gonna be PISSED!
The "Armstrongites", yeah, that's right, I was a slave of the Herbert W. Armstrong propaganda machine, used incidents like these to stir up the "imminent return" frenzy, and exhorted the faithful that, in the impending world economic collapse, their money would be useless anyway, so give it ALL to God NOW. We were discouraged from pissing our money away on doctors and medicine; instead, if you weren't bleeding or enduring broken bones, you were to request a "Prayer Cloth", a cloth prayed over by some of the Holy Elite, and therefore embued with healing powers from God. Some people allowed this stupidity to continue treatable conditions until they weren't treatable. Some died. I think you DO pray, and even doctors are acknowledging it makes a difference they can't explain. It's a good idea to question your medications. But don't ignore medical treatment and diagnosis. You could be praying for God to heal your mysterious liver ailment while your appendix explodes. My Dad's DID explode inside him. (Side note: Dad would have had no problem going to the doctor; he just has this annoying habit of diagnosing himself. He's usually wrong, but that hasn't stopped him from doing it.) It spreads all kinds of nastiness throughout your body, makes you sick as hell, infectious crap is poisoning you, and it CAN kill you. It's also totally unnecessary. Get your ass to the doctor, and he can prevent that mess with a simple, common surgical procedure. That's not a lack of faith on my part; that's a piece of common sense.
I'll continue my Anti-Herbie rap at another time, ok?
I was in downtown the other day, paying a bill, and I heard this commotion out in the street. I was on a second-floor balcony, so I stopped to look. OH I wish I'd had my camera handy! This cluck was driving what had been a nice black pickup. The entire front end was smashed, the hook buckled and a piece standing up like a mountain about 10 inches high, the right fender pushed back into the wheel well so far that every time the guy steered to the right, it started chewing off part of his tire.
He dived across 3 lanes of traffic; I wondered what was motivating him to drive that destroyed piece of junk in the first place, especially the insane way he was; then I heard the siren, and here came a nice, efficient city cop, gliding through traffic like a greased eel, till he was right on our mad escapee's tail end. There are times I don't like cops; there are times I don't trust them. There are also times you've got a cop working for the public good, and you're 110% behind him. This was one of those latter times. This nutcase had NO good excuse to run in that pickup; its usefulness as a motor vehicle was almost nil. When it was in excellent shape it didn't have the power to outrun that cop. Now it was nothing but a constant danger to everyone in its path, and as they rounded a corner out of my sight, the cop was making a move to get ahead of him, risk himself to FORCE this idiot to stop. Now, I know a convicted car thief who's smarter than that fool in the pickup! When he gets hopelessly trapped by the cops, he pulls over, takes out his keys, sticks his hands WITH the keys out the window, and awaits further instructions.
My Dad being an ex-cop, maybe I was taught better, and in case I was, here's how I was told to handle being questioned or arrested by cops:
First, you have NO idea what kind of day he's had. Sometimes a cop has a whole WEEK of bad stuff pile up on him, and he may be needing an outlet to vent. Don't give him one. Be polite, be relaxed, don't make ANY sudden movements. It's best not to move at all unless instructed to, and if you want to scratch something, change positions, whatever, TELL the cop you're going to before you do it.
Be very careful in what you say to the cop. Don't swear at him, but don't tell him you life history either. That's why we have lawyers. Let a lawyer decide if your life history needs to be shared or not. But no matter what, be polite. It inclines him to believe you, or at the least, to treat you better. He gets a dozen people a day telling him what a huge asshole he is. A polite suspect will get whatever breaks he has to offer. If he's going to arrest you and take you to jail, keep your mouth shut and go to jail. You're not going to make anything better by trying to run or fight getting handcuffed. You're just going to pile up more charges against you. You get to present your case to a judge later on. That's your best chance, not trying to wheedle, bribe, threaten or harass the cop.
Well, I'm not low on material, but I AM sleepy. Take care, and Debonair Suaveroot wil be back soon to Blog at you some more.

Undersize Visigoth

2005-01-29T00:54:00.000-05:00

I have been breaking heads lately. It' s been wonderful. AOL likes to open these message boards to discuss current news, and I always find people to beat up on those boards. The number of mindlessly vituperative semi-literate cretins who actually think they can find something worthwhile to say is heartwarming; I feel like I'm playing "Whackamole".
I love slapping the stoners around as well; they're a hoot! "Dude, war is bad. No fighting for oil. Peace is good." DUHHHHHHHH...I love 'em. Really. I WAS one for years.
I've also been fighting in some of the Vagabond Wandering Chats on AOL. These are people who have been dispossessed from their home message board, usually through AOL's arbitrary and unfairly enforced TOS program. Small, tight-knit groups of them stay in contact via email. I call my home group the SPAMGroup. I didn't invent it, someone else in the group did. But it works. We've got about 8-10 members, and 30-40 "drop-ins", plus overlap from other groups one or more of us has met.
I was establishing a home for my group by purchasing a .com, and putting a message board on it. Unfortunately, it was sabotaged, and totally destroyed. I'm having it rebuilt and firewalled. Then, we'll be so insular and inbred, we'll be the "Rocky Horror Picture Show" after a while.
It'll be great.

Behave, We Have Guests

2005-01-24T00:38:00.000-05:00

I recently posted a piece by Mr. Herzog. I offered a gentleman we'll call Mr. TEE an editorial spot, but he didn't feel up to it. Instead, he asked that everyone read Kitty Kelly's expose book on the Bush clan. Others have also spoken of it as a must-read. I'm too far behind in my reading to put it next, but it's on my top 5 now.
BUT! I have this friend, John. John is not only a conservative, he's a successful businessman, a vet, and a tireless champion of fair play. When he sees cops speeding with no lights or siren, he tails them, gets their car number and tag #, notes the time, and sends a letter to the head of their department. He's an incredible researcher, and loves to confront the far left champions head to head. He writes frequent editorials for his local paper, and has been published in the NY Times Editorial section.
I could rant on about this guy; when I've been jammed up during an argument, he's come through with the info I needed to win. But he'd get annoyed if I listed all his accomplishments, not to mention his charity work.
In this instance, he's taking a swipe at a liberal lawyer:

Sylvia, it's attorneys such as you and Bill and Hillary who give the other 5% a bad reputation.

Last Sunday, the Los Angeles Times carried your online "debate" of abortion with Douglas Kmiec of Pepperdine Law School.

You said, "Absolutely, Roe is settled law. If it isn't, then neither are..."

Well which is it, counselor? "Absolutely settled" or not? IF it IS, then why should you "feminists" (a one word oxymoron)
be concerned about its being overturned? How can something "settled" be overturned? I know. It's deeply intellectual.
"Settled" is a scholarly, relative term which SOUNDS absolute but is not.

You wrote: "Only someone who has never been pregnant and carried a pregnancy to term could think that the awesome decision whether or not to bring a child into the world is less essential to human liberty than parental choice about how children should be educated."

If deep thoughts and opinions require specialized experience, then I certainly do NOT want to hear from any of you thick-ankled, hairy-legged feminists on issues of military service and combat, IN PARTICULAR as they pertain to women and homosexuals. I am a Vietnam Veteran.

You wrote further: "Bodily integrity is deeply embedded in our Common Law tradition."
The vast majority of thoughtful Americans believe that the "bodily integrity" of children six, seven, eight, or even nine months in the womb is inhumanely and painfully violated when they have been delivered except for their heads, which are speared with scissors.
Without a hint of anesthesia to this living, viable child, these scissors are then spread wide apart, opening a larger hole into the baby's brain into which a steel canula is inserted and its brains sucked into a clear glass jar.

"Bodily integrity" violated most brutally and painfully, with no "choice" whatsoever by the baby's father or the baby itself.

You wrote: "Science does not tell us when a fetus becomes a person, only religion does."
Your ignorance is showing, professor. Medical doctors and ethicists have clearly stated, "Life begins at conception."
Just as clearly, it is written in Jeremiah, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you and before you were born I consecrated you."

You wrote: "Control of reproduction is essential to women's equal citizenship and ability to contribute to every human enterprise."

Oh please, stop with the silliness ! What you are saying is that the fathers have absolutely NO say in this "control of reproduction." Either they will have their beloved child butchered, even in the ninth month of its formation, or else they may be forced to support this life for the next 18 years without a WHISPER of "CHOICE" ! Can a father request that he be given his own flesh and blood, to have and to hold and to love, all by himself, should the baby's mother want it out of her sight? Why NO!
Human enterprise would be reduced thereby.

You wrote: "Denying access to abortion is discrimination on the basis of pregnancy and gender, and is also a denial of fundamental human liberty."

Denying a father his own child is likewise discrimination on the basis of gender, and is ALSO a denial of fundamental human liberty, not to mention the violation of the baby's "bodily integrity," which as you already stated is an urgent matter long established in Common Law.

Finally, you wrote: "Law ... never mandates the physical intrusion and denial of liberty that results when a woman is forced to bear a child."

Garrison Keillor said, "If you didn't want to go to Chicago, why did you get on the bus?"

The father may be forced to pay child support for 18 years. That's just fine by you, isn't it, Sylvia?
Alternatively, he may be forced to live a lonely life without the child that was also his. Sorry, pal.
Don't be so "sexist." YOU have no "choice." Your baby has no "choice" either. "Absolutely."

Since a picture is worth a thousand words, ponder these, in particular those at the bottom:

http://abortionno.org/Resources/pictures_2.html (Blogger's note: It's gruesome.

I would like to end on a humorous note. God knows you male-hating feminists could use some humor.
Why do sumo wrestlers shave their legs and armpits?
Give up?

So they won't be mistaken for feminists.

Not funny, is it. No. It's "sexist." But those redneck jokes - they're the best, huh.

Balance of NYU faculty to be copied as well.

John Jaeger
Irvine, California

Smattered Splatterings

2005-01-21T21:42:00.000-05:00

So MUCH to blog about, so little time...my cousin Danny is getting married tomorrow. I found out late this afternoon.
I'm happy for Danny, actually. His last wife was one of the most poisonous women I ever met. He came to Florida because he'd pretty much exhausted the possibilities in Oklahoma and needed a fresh start. Of course, he didn't realize he'd brought his biggest problem with him, but once they split up and she went home, things immediately started getting better.
He started his own company, doing new construction and house repair. He was already busy when the hurricanes hit. Now it's just unreal. If he left his phone on during the wedding, he'd land 5 more jobs.
Danny met a nurse; a very decent young divorcee with a daughter. Danny has a son by his last marriage. They bonded into a family immediately. This is his third marriage. Makes me reconsider my commitment to stay marriage free. Two demons then an angel. Only I married the angel first, she just lost her way for a while. So...we'll see.
I know what else is wrong with my blog! No pictures! BigHominid, besides his blazing and amazing sense of perversion, is very graphics-oriented on his site. A lot of other blogs I've seen have at least snapshots of what the writer's talking about. So, i gotta add some color, images, strange but cool things to make this site more dynamic! Just don't know how. The supposed "friendly" program that'll add graphics for me any old time is some of the most useless software I ever encountered. I don't know why blogspot.com endorses that crap. They should pitch it out and find a real graphics transfer program.
Cuz I got PICTURES! I have a shot of the beach in Indonesia with about 100 bodies floating in a giant mass of debris. I have pics of my pets, of people I discuss in the blog. I don't have nekkid pics, like I said before, I tossed 'em, but I have good sexy pics left over. Besides, there's titties and clitties and bare butts all over the internet. I don't need to add to it, it's already overwhelming.
Great. Now I have another task I don't have time for. Maybe I'll cheat, consult some other bloggers.
Debonair Suaveroot, looking for better material.

Wing and a Prayer

2005-01-17T22:26:00.000-05:00

Got this in email. Thought it was worth passing on.

Sent: Monday, January 17, 2005 9:41 AM
Subject: Prayer Request

As a transportation battalion, my unit will be delivering the voting
machines and the ballots to villages and cities throughout Iraq during
the upcoming elections. (January 30/31) Our convoys are prime targets
for the insurgents because they do not want the equipment to arrive at
the polling stations nor do they want the local Iraqi citizens to have
the chance to vote; timely delivery must occur so that the elections
occur. Encourage your friends and family members and those within our
churches to pray specifically for the electoral process. Historically,
the previous totalitarian regime would not allow individual citizens to
vote. Democracy will not be realized in Iraq if intelligent and
competent officials are not elected to those strategic leadership
positions within the emerging government; freedom will not have an
opportunity to ring throughout this country if the voting process fails.
Announce this prayer request to your contacts throughout your churches,
neighborhoods, and places of business.
Those with leadership roles within the local church post this message in
as many newsletters and bulletins as possible. There is unlimited
potential for God's presence in this process but if we do not pray then
our enemy will prevail (See Ephesians 6:10-17) A prayer vigil prior to
the end of the month may be an innovative opportunity for those within
your sphere of influence to pray. This is a political battle that needs
spiritual intervention. A powerful story about God's intervention in the
lives of David's mighty men is recorded in 2 Samuel 23:8-33. David and
his warriors were victorious because of God's intervention. We want to
overcome those who would stand in the way of freedom. David's mighty men
triumphed over incredible odds and stood their ground and were
victorious over the enemies of Israel. (Iraqi insurgents' vs. God's
praying people). They don't stand a chance.
I will pray with my soldiers before they leave on their convoys and
move outside our installation gates here at Tallil. My soldiers are at
the nerve center of the logistic operation to deliver the voting
machines and election ballots. They will be driving to and entering the
arena of the enemy. This is not a game for them it is a historical
mission that is extremely dangerous. No voting machines or ballots. No
elections. Your prayer support and God's intervention are needed to give
democracy a chance in this war torn country. Thank you for reading this
e-mail. Please give this e-mail a wide dissemination.

Thank you for your prayer support for me and my family. Stand firm in
your battles.

Blessings,
Lyle
CH (CPT) Lyle Shackelford
Battalion Chaplain
HHD, 57th Transportation Battalion
Providing With Mobility
"Keep Em Moving"
vernon.shackelford@adder.arfor.army.mil
vernon.lyle.shackelford@us.army.mil
833-1264
"Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged,
for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go."
-Joshua 1:9

If you don't pray, put out a good thought, at least. These are our brothers and sisters, and this is a horribly dangerous task they're doing. Every savage lowlife scumbag over there with a weapon and twisted mind is going to be out to kill them.
I mentioned reading in a book by an Iranian woman about how life was for her. Ladies, can you imagine being "inspected" on a public street by government thugs, and if they decide, even though you're wearing your burkha and veil, that you've got too much mascara on, therefore they pound you with their police batons? Are you capable of conceiving an existence that restricted?
While I agree with those who don't believe that our form of Democracy can work in the middle east, it doesn't mean ANY form won't. They're all Muslims. If they truly want peace, if they're sick of the Saddams and the Udays and a ruling party, maybe they'll loosen up just a bit. If their government spreads that oil money far and wide, where they again have an infrastructure and comfortable lives, maybe they'll put their hatred of us infidels aside and focus on KEEPING those comfortable lives. Maybe.
At LEAST, do something nice for our soldiers.
If you got a problem with that, next time you're in your garage, roll down them windows, close that door, and leave that engine running. Turn on some nice commie pinko music and DIE. You're wasting good air.

Political Perspective

2005-01-16T22:54:00.000-05:00

I have a guest Blogger this evening. I don't even know his real name. He belongs to a small email group I occasionally interact with, and he wrote a piece the other night as part of an ongoing political discussion among the group. I was dazzled by the clarity and insight he offered about the results of the last election, and I think you will be, too.
Interestingly, several members of that group are highly intelligent people, and I've already invited another of them to have his own space on here for HIS views to be aired over a wider area as well. If this works, and readers are interested, whether they agree or disagree, I'll probably continue to have these two on as long as they're interested, and probably others as well.
Without further comment, here is Herzog Von, astute political observer:

************************************************************************************

"THE PEOPLE" ( Studs Turkelian emphasis ), did NOT vote to "cut their own throats" as stated. This elitist view is typical of a bitter left, who thought they could ram their agenda down America's throats by placing a spineless, pitiful John Kerry against the Oilman. That they failed is their own fault, in as much as they tied their agendas - including "Gay right's"; every bit the same sort oxymoron as "animal rights" - to the legitimate beefs against the muddled Bush policy. No, some zealots - far more than I am comfortably willing to acknowledge - were taken in by the God, country, George and Jesus bullshit. But -- and this cannot be emphasised enough - the Dem's lost when they resorted to their old 1960s radical tricks. They insisted upon tying their pet social peeves - canonzation of the homosexual lifestyle and the whole Holywood / Showtime enchilada - to an honest message about Big Oil, the environment, and greed. In other words; accept the whole doctrinaire package and march with us, or you are an uncaring boor. A decisive number of the public rejected this "inclusive" coercion. Good for them!

Had the Dems had the guts and foresight to choose a clearly anti-war candidate who was willing to take a stand against Neo-Con Zionist inspired "kill the Arabs for Israel" insanity - as Howard Dean at least appeared ready to do, they would, in all likelyhood, have won. Instead, they gave us the weasel. Thanks, but no thanks.

So, don't blame the American public for rejecting the patrician - Tee's word - John Kerry. They smelled a rat, and they chose not to vote for it. Rather, blame the Michael Moore / Holywood idealogues for attempting to shove their boy with all of THEIR baggage down our throats. "I can kill the terrorists better than he can", indeed! The anti-war people never had a candidate other than Ralph Nader. That they rejected Kerry's patronizing elitism at a time when Bush was SO beatable is to their credit, as well to the Left's everlasting shame.
********************************************************************
Kinda kicks you in the ol' Gonads, huh?

Moving on. It's COLD in Florida! Not like what most of you are putting up with, but DAMN! I'm back in jogging togs pretty much 24/7, and I may start wearing sock with my flip-flops! EVEN a HAT to keep my head warm. I'm keeping my hair extra-long till late spring, too.
Making great strides in the cleaning process at my house. I should have taken pics, but I probably could have been arrested for the condition it was in!
I'm noticing the Tsunami press is letting up now, though there was a huge telethon on TV, which I was happy to see, and though I'm a mad conservative, George Clooney did a brilliant job of telling Bill O'Reilly to put up or shut up on the subject. From what I've read, that package of clothes I donated isn't really needed that much, but the blankets and sheets I included were.
A local church, bless them, organized a drive to gather stuff up and get it to a larger group in Orlando, who would forward it to either Bangladesh or Thailand.
I can't give blood right now till the doc certifies I'm disease-free, but that should happen later this month. I just hope with the clout of some of the people involved, like our two ex-presidents, that there's still enough publicity to keep the UN honest, Khofi Annan's greedy bastard of a son's hands out of the till, and as many others as possible along the line to stay honest and get the stuff to where it's needed. I'm sure SOME stealing at least won't be wasted. Poor soldiers grabbing a little for their own poor families, I can see it. It's the fat-cats above them I worry about. But you can go back to my archives and get plenty of places to keep donating to, including groups not affiliated with the UN.
Over 150,000 dead. That's staggering in itself. It's almost ironic, people with money were affected, people who HAD something suddenly have nothing. No jobs, no tourist dollars flowing in, no industry functioning, nothing to do but scrounge to survive. The ones who've always had nothing are almost a step ahead. They know how to dig up pieces of scrap and junk to make a hovel to keep out the worst of the weather; they know where the limited natural food sources are. But even those people relied on SOME trickle-down to buy things they couldn't grow. It's a bitch to process wheat, for instance. Where do you get milk if the cows and goats are all drowned or living in the wild somewhere inland? It's hard to picture that without living it. You do NOT want to experience it, though. Believe me. And the water consumption! Everybody's gotta have it, and when the only water source is polluted and gross? You'll drink it anyway.
I had a friend who was stationed in Thailand during the VietNam war. He kept coming down with these massive kidney infections, and was driving the doctors crazy trying to find the source. They SCOURED his life, and the answer was most interesting; there was a small stream flowing behind his favorite bar; he always ordered ice with his drinks. The bartender got water from that stream to make ice. The stream was also used by private individuals and other local businesses as a restroom. Solution? Give up iced drinks. Stop drinking the local urine, and the kidneys just healed right up. Imagine your only water source being the same water where several dead things are busily decaying. Yeah. Send water. Send that guy with the monster water filters that do 3,000 gallons a day. This isn't an overnight fix, a month-long fix. This is a YEARS fix.
Debonair Suaveroot, Babbling Blogger,
Signing off.

Lovin' Angels Instead

2005-01-10T23:04:00.000-05:00

If you've never seen Jessica Simpson sing, this is the song to catch, especially on video. For a time, they tried to fit Jessica into a mold to compete with Britney Spears, but it didn't play. No criticism of either artist; everybody wanted Ms. Spears (Mrs. Federline, excuse me) to fit into a certain mold, but since she was a huge fan of Madonna...well, she's doing what she wants. Jessica IS what everybody wanted Britney to be. The wholesome, girl-next-door sweetheart.

However, I was also referring to my Angels. Yep. I got 'em. They're human, of course, but they're all young women I've befriended since they were teens. I've been there for them time after time, and now that I'm struggling back from depression, obesity and serious diseases (ever hear of MRSA? That's ONE of three infections that slammed me in the legs), they're emailing me, calling me, making sure I watch what I eat, that I exercise the best I can, they're all being there for ME. Persephone, sister Blogger, is one. We met on the net, but she's been a staunch friend and advisor all along. She takes time out of an insanely busy life to check up on me, make sure I'm ok. Of course, it's sheer coincidence that ALL my Angels are beautiful women. Just happened that way. These things are a mystery! I do believe I'm going to be fine, though, and I owe them a lot. Love ya, Angels!

Side note: How come everybody forgot Madonna and Christina Aguilera kissed first?
Wish note: Christina shoulda planted a long wet one on Britney. Or is that going too far?

For all three of my regular readers, I'm afraid the housecleaning has reached a setback. The slacker impulse has smacked me yet again. I'm nearly over it.

Little Wing

2005-01-08T05:10:00.000-05:00

I saw the damndest thing yesterday.
Over the years, I have seen a sparrow blasted by a shotgun, killed with .22s, pellets, BBs, cats, a dog once, a hawk once, a snake twice, and, of course, have seen a few become part of the grillwork of a car.
This time: I saw one FLAT. I mean, 1/2 the thickness of a thin pancake. Wings spread, aligned like he was flying, I probably could have peeled him off the asphalt and tossed him like a toy plane.
My concern was, how did he wind up in a Drugstore parking lot, all flight-prepped, and be so very flat? Crushed. Squished, even.
I did the forensic thing. Beak pointed due north, with hedges behind him marking the edge of the lot. Did he eat something poisonous, gasp, spread his wings and flop down , vulnerable to the first tire coming his way? Was he diving for a morsel when a quick kid came screeching in, and our hapless little fritter was lost to the forces of physics? How about demonstrating the "Swoop and grab" for a fledling, and knocked himself out on the bottom of a car? We may never know.
Stopped by Sears the other day for a fresh pair of flip-flops. Left without (but with $10 worth of "Oh I gotta have those) tools. The one brand they offered was "Skechers" at $24 a pair. PASS.
Guess I'll wear m'boots for now.
Well, little Pardners, reckon I'll be amoseyin'. Carry on.

Death Drops By...again

2005-01-06T00:29:00.000-05:00

This time, Death dropped by Dallas (like he wasn't busy enough in south Asia?), and took my Uncle Bill. Wilson Claggett, 1931-2005. He was renting a room from a Mexican/American family. There was an autopsy (he died Tuesday, was found Wednesday), the coroner ruled "Natural Causes", and there is no reason to dispute it. Bill was in ill health most of his life. How he managed to get in the Army is a mystery to me, but he did his tour of duty.
Strange, strange man, my Uncle Bill. He taught me how to blow a snot-glob 15 feet by pushing a finger over one nostril and really firing the other one. He mostly ignored indoor plumbing and used the outdoor toilet in one of the barns at my grandmother's, where he lived for years. He stayed with us for a while, but decided my parents weren't raising my brother and me properly, so Dad threw him out. Well, he gave him a month to find somewhere else to live.
We had talked about, when we built our house in Oklahoma, building a small apartment on the back and offering to let Bill live out his last years there. Guess that idea has passed its usefulness.
Bill never married. He was in a lifelong search to find the One True Religion, and he screwed that up. Unfortunately, he converted about half his family to it, including my mother. But I'm not holding that against the old Guy. He was doing the best he could to become a proper Servant Of God. He used to walk through the fields holding religious/philosophical discussions with himself. His brothers took turns keeping him, as he was either unemployed or menially employed most of the time. He was handy on a farm, of course, so in a sense he still paid his way.
He drove a beat-up old Chevy pickup like the one Seagall drives in "Fire Down Below". He'd always turn it off as soon as he crested a hill and coast down to save gas. The youngest of 11 brothers, older only than my Mother, I think Bill was mostly ignored and neglected till he got old enough to participate in the farm work. He WAS a participant in the great Big Cabin Fly Slaughter one summer. Seems my grandpa had built an addition on the back of the house with asphalt paper walls and tin roof, lined it with military surplus bunk beds, and that's where the boys lived. Well, one summer they spent an afternoon shooting flies with .22 pistols and rifles, putting a huge amount of holes in the walls. Grandpa discovered this, and was furious. The room was heated with an old pot-bellied stove, and he wouldn't let them patch the holes when winter came. They patched some anyway, to keep some of the cold and snow from streaming in, but had to leave quite a few so Grandpa wouldn't get suspicious. By the time I was old enough to hear the story, there were only about 30 holes left. Even after Grandpa died, the boys couldn't bring themselves to patch all the holes.
He was a tall, gaunt man with baby-blue eyes, a hawk nose, thin lips...sort of an emaciated Gregory Peck.
His passion for wanting to discuss various points in the Bible made him a less-than-popular Uncle with us kids, and I believe with the adults as well. Nobody minded the first hour or so, but it was generally believed Bill could carry on for days with no sleep, and nobody was up for that.
He was not a great babysitter. He never had a childhood, and did not understand the concept of play. That was a pity, because he could be funny sometimes. He was also an adept herbalist and naturist. When I got slammed by a bee, he grabbed me, got the tail out before it could finish shooting its poison into me, sucked some of it out, took a fingerfull of mud and put over the sting. It quit hurting in a very few minutes, and never did swell or get infected. By the time the mud dried and fell off, it was a tiny hole with some red around it. By the next day, it was gone.
He often stopped by the side of the road and picked Kale, Rhubard or other natural greens and took home for Grandma to add to supper, and made herbal remedies himself. I'd like to have spent more time with him, adult to adult, finding out more about him.
Guess I missed out again.
Vaya Con Dios, Uncle Wilson.

Phlelobotomize

2005-01-03T01:42:00.000-05:00

No, I don't know what it means either. Hey, I told you to check out Shery And The Psychodelics' "Love Is A Mystery", but didn't link you properly. Try this page at Daybreak Records' website, the original band name was Vertigo!
http://www.daybreakrecords.com/Page%203/3.htm

This may make it easier to find.

The Tsunami relief effort is ongoing, the news media is still managing to pay attention, money and more importantly, supplies are starting to flow in.

I HOPE we never have waves like that here on Florida's east coast. My house would probably be ok, I live on the mainland well back from the river, and I live on a hill. However, besides losing the City of Cocoa Beach, the town of Cape Canaveral, Patrick Air Force Base would get slammed, Cape Kennedy as well. For all practical purposes, we would have no space program. The only other shuttle launch facility is in California, at Vandenberg AFB, and I think that's been mothballed. Also, we launch from down here because it's a shorter trip and cheaper to get most satellites and things in orbit from here. Lastly, I'd seriously worry about toxic chemicals getting released. That could get really ugly. I don't need a third testicle OR eye, nor do I want the ones I have glowing in the dark.

Relief Aid Alternatives/Back To Bloggin

2005-01-01T00:49:00.000-05:00

Honestly, it had slipped my mind, but Khofi Annan, Head Cheese over at the United Nations, has some problems. Seems his son has been stealing millions of bucks, and there are investigations. They won't get anywhere, of course. Also, genocide is still being conducted in Africa, and Annan is ignoring it. Lastly, he's a damn socialist. I HOPE if you're contributing to Unicef or one of the UN organizations, there's some watchdog making sure they move their butts and use your money wisely. It SHOULD help, having the world watching.
Here is a link to an organization widely respected and guaranteed to use your money wisely. You can read up on them at their website, but the conservative newsletter I subscribe to swears by them. Now, don't consider this an alternative to the Red Cross, or other private organizations. Just a way to avoid the corruption at the U.N., and prevent you accidentally lining some slimeball's pocket while people die.

http://www.adnamis.org/specialGiving.cfm?project_id=70001SUM

Now. I was perusing my music file. Noticed nearly every song either had love in the title or was about love. That's what we're doing here. Showing the love, sharing the love.

Barry White - Love Serenade
Carlos Santana & Michelle Branch - The Game Of Love
Def Leppard - Love Bites
Delaney Bonnie & Friends - Neverending Song Of Love
Firefall - Just Remember I Love You
Foreigner - I Want To Know What Love Is
Guns N Roses - I Used To Love Her (I knew a girl who called them Buns and Hoses)
Heart - What About Love
Jefferson Airplane - Somebody To Love
Pat Benatar - Love Is A Battlefield
Now, I'm unashamedly throwing in a plug for a friends of mine. They were known as "Vertigo!", but recently changed their name to Shery And The Psychodelics. They have a website, and I believe you can burn this song from the site.
"Love Is A Mystery". Fine band, great song. Check it out.

For those who read the blog and not the comments, commenter Rose made a valid point: Don't forget this in 3 weeks. The need will be just as great then. And I apologize, but I'm behind again. I saw on the news tonight that the Mormons are collecting clothing to send over there. I gotta look into that. I want in. Got stuff to give. LOTS of good clothes. I saw on the news where a village in India lost over a thousand people. ALL the children in the village died. We can't take that pain away, but we can ease their burden.

Lastly, I've already heard criticism of George Bush sending little brother Jeb over there to look things over, assess, and report back. That is one of the STUPIDEST complaints I've heard. Jeb's state and mine, FLORIDA, just went through being pounded by 4 hurricanes in a row. Our devastation isn't nearly as drastic, but Jeb, of all the politicians out there, has some experience in the field. He had a few thousand homeless to take care of, get emergency food and supplies to, medical treatment for, and he had to get ice spread far and wide so those trying to hang on to some of their food could do so. The opportunists who came down here with $500 generators and tried to sell 'em for $1000 + got nailed by the cops. Those who sold at a fair price with a smaller profit were welcomed. Jeb's no dummy. If there's nefarious activity, he'll sniff it out.
The relief effort IS working, but it's still not enough. Badly needed helicopters are on the way, but there are people who have gone days with no food, contaminated water, in remote, impossible to get to areas. The choppers are their only hope. I hope either Russia can spare some of their big Hind choppers or we can send some Cobras. That way, if anybody decides to make this political, well, a Cobra helicopter can un-politicize an area in a hell of a hurry.

Makin' it Easy

2004-12-31T04:25:00.000-05:00

Ok, I told everybody to check CNN, get the info on what and who for disaster relief. It's not enough. There are people who MIGHT do it if their personal energy expenditure is minimal. Well, ya lazy bums, even the 3 or 4 bucks you might cough up is needed, and for you more generous types, I swiped this from AOL:

Emergency Response
American Jewish World Service
Sending humanitarian aid to the people affected by the Tsunami.
American Red Cross
International Response Fund
AmeriCares
Immediate relief for the emergency in Southeast Asia.
BAPS Care International
Provides food kitchens to distribute hot food in affected towns in India.
CARE USA
Providing food, clean water, clothing, bedding and medicines to tsunami disaster victims.
Catholic Relief Services
Emergency response support.
Church World Service
Humanity First, USA
International Orthodox Christian Charities
Responding to earthquake disaster in South Asia.
Islamic Relief
NetAid
Meeting the emergency needs of thousands in areas devastated by earthquake and tsunamis.
Salvation Army
Providing immediate help in the form of water, food, clothing, medical supplies and temporary shelter, and counseling bereaved people.
Tamil Rehabilitation Organization
Food & Medicine
Action Against Hunger USA
Providing immediate material needs to displace families
Direct Relief International
Sending medical material aid to earthquake victims.
Food for Life Global
International Medical Corps
Assess public health needs and coordinate an emergency response.
MAP International
Preparing shipments of medicines and medical supplies.
Oxfam America
Sending food and water to aid victims.
Project Concern International
RescueCorps
Funds will be used to purchase urgently needed supplies.
United Nations World Food Programme
Children & Families
MercyCorps
Assisting families affected by the earthquake.
Samaritan's Purse
Save the Children
Assisting children and families impacted by one of the world’s most devastating earthquakes.
UNICEF
Delivering survival supplies to coastal areas.
World Vision
Food and Family Survival Kits to affected Asians.
Rebuild & Recover
ADRA International
Responding to and assessing the damage in Thailand, Sri Lanka, Indonesia, and India.
American Friends Service Committee
Providing support for earthquake and tsunami survivors in Asia.
Architecture for Humanity
Helping to rebuild in the earthquake's aftermath.
Asha for Education
Lutheran World Relief
Providing relief aid with partners in India.

How's that? A plethora, a veritable smorgasbord of actively involved organizations that will put your donations to good use. I'm not gonna crib off the other bloggers, though I think it's a good idea. I'm gonna try to find my own sources and resources, in case I find some they miss.
Know what? Bill Gates and his wife gave 3 MILLION out of their foundation. Amazon.com has raised 3 1/2 million from customer donations. NO, that ain't enough to solve the problem. It's a great start, but a million of us ordinary folks kickin' in $3 each can match old Bill's donation, and that's TWICE the help for people in need. Floridians especially should understand what they're going through. Mother Ocean just gave us a little taste of what kind of butt-kickin' she can hand out a few months ago.
I've referenced that UN Douchebag who degraded the United States' level of giving, but it bears re-mention. See, you Hog at the Great Global Trough, we don't expect our government to do it all for us. You probably didn't even take into account the BILLIONS of private donations Americans give around the world every year. Well, you need to. Doesn't matter if it was a special offering from some tiny church with 20 members, or some big-time charity, it's from AMERICA. And you think you're such a hot-shit because your government coughs up some big bucks? Well, I'll bet private donations from America eclipses anything else out there, so quit your whining and start finding ways to get stuff to the ones who need it faster. It's an EMERGENCY, you Pustule. Become useful.

Remember...

2004-12-31T00:01:00.000-05:00

Remember the World Trade Center? It has become a way you can measure a movie's age. Pre-WTC destruction and Post-WTC destruction.
There have been a lot of comments made about "we deserved it", "we asked for it", etc. For the people who think like this, the guilt-ridden pathetic allegedly American apologists, how about blowing out all the pilot lights, turn the gas WAY up, stuff your head in the oven when the kitchen's full of gas, flick your lighter and in your last second, you'll understand what the WTC people were feeling in theirs. PLUS you can still have an open-casket funeral since your ass isn't burned, and that's what you talk out of anyway. Radical? Extreme? ME? I'm not the asshole who thinks cooking a few thousand of my fellow citizens PLUS a batch of foreigners is justified.

One of the HUGE mistakes made during the Viet Nam war was taking out public outrage on the soldiers. A lot of 'em are STILL pissed about it, by the way. It's a tribute to their training that some of you are alive. If you weren't around, and your parents were spitting on returning soldiers and calling them "babykillers", etc., you're REALLY lucky I was too young to go. I'd have pulled your dear ones' tongue out and stuffed it up their butt. Even if you're against us being in Afghanistan/Iraq, it doesn't mean you should snub the troops or even ignore them. They're your neighbors and friends, too, unless you're a socialist/commie scumbag or something even lower on the food chain, like a liberal college professor. Contact the USO. Contact some of these organizations that send them "Care" packages. For those groups who have you making up your own package, I hear phone cards are all the rage. Soldiers NEED those. Simplifies the calling home thing.

Even though the exciting part of the tsunamis (tidal waves) is probably over in Thailand/Indonesia/India, etc., and the newsdogs will be packing up and leaving, the problem will exist for months, even years to come. After all, homeless hungry people aren't news anymore. You can find those all over the world, and there's nothing exciting to report unless they turn to cannibalism or something. Once you've found a charitable organization to contribute to, keep up the good work! I started sorting clothes today, digging out clean sheets for beds I don't even have anymore, etc.

What the hell ever happened to all those Vietnamese "Boat People"? The ones who were so desperate they piled in anything, much like Cubans only on a larger scale, to get the hell out? I know for a time various nations had them in "camps", and occasionally somebody in the states would put in a good word for one or two, and they'd get brought stateside, but what about the rest? Where are they today? Anybody know?

On that puzzling note, I'm outta here.

They ain't heavy...

2004-12-29T21:38:00.000-05:00

First, a fond farewell to Jerry Orbach, "Lennie" on "Law And Order". Passed too soon. I believe he was a good man, and had a good life. It just ended sooner than it should. Rest in Peace, JO.

Now...BigHominid, aka Kevin, Masterblogger, mentions that clothing might be welcomed in some of the distressed areas. I think he's right. I KNOW blankets and sheets would. Those are for both the living AND the dead. I understand CNN.com has a complete list of participating charities you can contribute to. I know the Red Cross could use blood. They could ALWAYS use blood, but right now, it's quite probably a screaming emergency. This one affects all of us. There are Americans hurt, missing and dead, not that that's ever mattered to Americans. We give anyway.
Some peckerhead Secretary of Masturbation at the United Nations gave us a veiled criticism that we don't give enough. Supposedly, measured against our Gross National Product, the amount America gives as a nation is a small percentage. Other countries give more when measured on that basis. But, screw 'em. What we give is always the biggest pile of all.
The immediate needs, of course, are food, shelter, water cleaning systems, medicines, blood, blankets. But, go see CNN. Maybe you just want to give money. They'll tell you who to trust with your cash.
Now, this is a global emergency, a big one, a real one. Many of these people are Muslim. Let's be nice. Do NOT send bags and bags of fried pork rinds, ok?

Lameduckin'

2004-12-26T20:20:00.000-05:00

Wrappin' up the year...oh yeah. I was ready for 04 to go away, even though it means I'm approaching a big age milestone. I'm going to be 50. I absolutely cannot believe I'm that old. I don't FEEL that old, I'm certainly not emotionally mature enough to be 50. But here it comes. How in HELL did I live this long? I've not had a quiet, gentle life. Didn't want one. I've loved pushing the edge as far as I can remember. BB gun fights as a kid with motorcycle helmets and visors (except I had a plastic army helmet and Dad's safety goggles), bicycle runs down steep Oklahoma hills, moving to Florida and learning to surf, then going out in the wildest, craziest storm surf because I had the really BIG waves all to myself. Getting a car, then another car, then buying my brother an even faster car. Driving motocross bikes at night with no lights, wide open. Running from cops in cars so fast I never got caught. Dated girls faster than our cars. Dated girls with insane ex-boyfriends who could whip gorillas in open combat. Chased by alligators, near-misses with rattlesnakes, coral snakes, cottonmouths, copperheads. Treed by a bobcat once. I once climbed a 50 foot pine tree to a platform 35 feet up over a lake (I'm afraid of heights), chickened out on jumping off into the lake, turned to climb down and fell off. Dove off a surfboard and grabbed a baby hammerhead shark, kept him for a pet all afternoon, then let him go. Stayed stoned on pot pretty much every day from age 11 to 24, and never got caught, either by parents or law enforcement. Dad figured us out, found our "farm", and even saw us smoking once, but by then he'd given up trying to stop us. Did the usual drug experimenting, downers, speed, cocaine, LSD (LSCrazy, we used to call it). These were the days before crack, thank GOD.
I drew the line at needles. Dated a nurse, she walked me through the horrors of hepatitis, since we were pre-AIDS back then. Decided I could get plenty high without jamming things under my skin.
No matter what, I have great memories. And sad ones. Mainly, I didn't want to be bored. I didn't want to just piss away my time, I wanted something to happen, to be DOING something.
now, of course, I'm a computer sloth with a blog, but as I'm healing up from my leg infections, even that's not taking up so much time. I'm actually setting Dad up so he doesn't need me for a few hours, and visiting friends. I came up with the words to pull a depressed, suicidal friend out of his downward slide and get him back on track. He says he owes me. I say he doesn't. Lost six pounds last month. Hoping for 7 this month. Life moves on.
Unsolicited testimonial: I bought, at a HUGE savings, a Mustek MDC6500Z digital camera on EBay. It was a GREAT camera, all kinds of special features and adjustments, far superior even to my Argus 5-megapixel camera. Then things started to go wrong. My Mustek wouldn't perform certian functions, the hold-down on the battery broke. I discovered it was still under warranty, contacted them, mailed it off with proof of purchase. I got it back 3 weeks later. Well, sort of. They decided not to fix the old one, and sent me a brand new one that works like a jewel. I've had it back a week, taken over 100 pictures in all kinds of weather and lighting conditions, and it's flawless. I love a company that backs their products. WTG, Mustek!
Know what I got for Christmas this year? Nothing. Know what I wanted and asked for this year? Nothing. All I wanted from anybody was either cards or E-cards, and I got plenty of both. Everything I need, I have. Most of what I want, I have. There's just no room in this little house for more. For some reason, I like that a lot. The not needing anything part, you understand. The clutter part...STILL working on that. Probably always will be.
I gotta find somebody that's holding a clothes drive for overseas. I used to know this nice Catholic woman that collected literally thousands of clothing items, washed each one, matched them when possible by size and gender, and some organization she was affiliated with flew them to some impoverished area and held a public giveaway. One year I donated a Johnny Carson suit that I'd worn once to a wedding, complete with vest, belt, shirt and tie. She managed to get on this flight, to some little area in Peru. She told me this old man came up, about my height (5'6"), and, after a few moments, spotted that suit. He asked for it, and she told him first come, first served, so it was his. He walked behind some bushes in tattered shorts with sandals and very faded, ripped Hawaiian shirt, and emerged in my suit, stylin' and smilin'. She laughed, telling me the kick they got out of him sashaying down the street in his new duds, walking like he owned everything in sight. I've got some other nice things that, even when I'm thinned down enough for them, probably won't wear them anymore. I know we have domestic charities that will take them, but if you notice, they have RACKS of clothing already. I'd rather send them some place where, to the recipient, it's the COOLEST piece of clothing he's ever seen, and it's all his. I'll let you know if I find somebody that handles donations like that.
Heard Crosby Stills & Nash's "Almost Cut My Hair" today. Reminded me of why I don't cut mine.

Passed Future

2004-12-19T22:18:00.000-05:00

I don't know why I try to avoid thinking about it; buys me about one day of peace, and there it is, back in my face.
On December 18, 1977, my 19-year old brother Mark was sitting in a chair at the house he was renting with some friends. It was 6:38 A.M. As the last song on the cassette "I Robot" by Alan Parsons ended, he said goodbye to the drunken roomie who was trying desperately to talk him out of it, put the barrel of a 20-gauge shotgun against his forehead, and, using a miniatue baseball bat he'd named "Sting" in honor of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins' elven sword, he pushed the trigger. There would be no open casket funeral. The top of his head from just behind his eyes was mostly gone, small bits slammed against the wall behind him in an enormous spray.
His body relaxed, the shotgun fell to the floor, and he slumped back in the chair, the last beats of his heart spraying more blood against the wall.
The other roomie, passed out in his room, came out, saw the carnage, said, "Oh Jesus help me" and went to the bathroom to vomit.
The one who was there simple sat, lost in shock. He couldn't talk. He couldn't move. Roomie #2, upon discovering this, called the police and began working on #1, trying to get him coherent and functional. There was no helping Mark. He was gone.
Mark and I had long ago learned to code any written messages between us so no one else could understand them. The cops came by my folks', woke them up, told them Mark was dead, how he died, and said they suspected drugs were involved since the suicide notes seemed incoherent.
Dad called me. Mark was living on Cocoa Beach, the oceanfront island, my folks were in Merritt Island, surrounded by saltwater rivers on both sides, and I lived in Cocoa, Florida, on the mainland. He wouldn't tell me what was the matter, just get over there as fast as I could. Had there been any cops around, I'd not have got there at all. I spent much of the drive going 140 miles an hour in my big 1969 Dodge Charger. Also fortunate was, it was too early for most church services, so the road was nearly empty. I knew it was Mark, and I knew it was bad.
Dad couldn't even stop himself. He immediately blurted "Mark's dead. He killed himself with a shotgun this morning." Well, no sense batting it around, I suppose. Both parents said I turned white, and dropped on the couch. I didn't black out, I was just...stunned. I think I stayed in a kind of shock for the next six years. Dad made the cops come back with the notes Mark had left. They had blood and brain spatters on them. The second I saw them I got angry at the cops. "These aren't incoherent. They're written to me in code so you won't understand them." I translated them into what he said, which was a demand that I personally deliver the Eulogy at his funeral, and that no minister from the church we'd attended and hated was allowed to be there. I flexed the rules. I let my folks' minister sit with them, I just wouldn't let him speak. I had to DO something with myself, so I called my roommate to come get me, drive me around to notify some people, including his sister, whom my brother had been having a stormy relationship with that led to his killing himself.
There was a lot of pain and a lot of questions to ask and answer. I'm not going to rehash the whole thing. I had to perform the funeral services twice, once here and once in Yale, Oklahoma, where Mark was buried at his beloved Grandfather's feet. I did my crying in private.
My parents were in the middle of fulfilling a lifelong dream. They'd bought some land, got financing, and were building a house further north on the island. They nearly cancelled it all. They had to go into debt to fly my brother's body back west, pay for all the arrangements, casket, burial, etc. They, too, were in a sort of shock that would stick with them the rest of their lives.
I became an expert on suicide after that. Studied everything I could get my hands on, talked to people who'd tried and failed, to the families of some who hadn't failed.
Suicide is bad news. Not to the one killing themselves. They're solving all their problems in this life. Christians and non-Christians alike believe they're gaining a whole NEW set for later, but we don't know all the details of what happens next. I assume we'll find out when we die. No, the people who get trashed are the ones who love you. You may not always feel appreciated enough, loved enough, get enough attention. But this ain't the way. You ARE going to hurt someone, and hurt them deeply. Maybe a lot of people. Mark had graduated high school the year before. A LOT of girls and a few boys showed up for the funeral. There was a lot of crying going on. I'd not seen my father cry since his father died. This nearly broke him. Some dipwad pseudo-Christian asked Dad after the services how he handled knowing Mark was going to hell. Dad said he didn't know that Mark was going, since he wasn't a born-again Christian.
His beliefs were slightly different.
It's best I heard about that conversation later. I'd have killed the guy. Crush his larynx, throw him in the nearest unoccupied grave, and pissed on him. I was a little extreme back then.
Twenty-seven years later, I'm watching Titus, the comedian, doing his stand-up routine, and he is discussing his mother's suicide, then giving advice to others. "Take a minute," he advises,"put the gun down, just for a minute. Take a deep breath. Then put the gun away, climb down off that cross you put yourself on, and use the wood to make a bridge. Then get over it."
Fine, fine advice, Mr. Titus. I salute you.

Watched "Extreme Home Makeover" tonight on TV. Best show on TV right now, far superior to these asinine reality shows. So is the makeover show for people with deformities or just worn-down bodies. Plastic surgery, exercise regimen, small new wardrobe and they're different, happy people. Really nice, and they're really doing something, the crews of both shows. Otherwise, I watch Law and Order reruns and X-Files.
Debonair Suaveroot, signing off.

Fuzzy thoughts and Laser Perceptions

2004-12-18T23:10:00.000-05:00

From high school through everything I could afford at community college level, every psych teacher I ever had says the same thing about me: Unique. I take it as high praise.
It's quite possible, though, that the synaptic connections I make are just so freakin' weird nobody else operates their brain like I do.
That was preamble, you understand. I was thinking today about a vicious post I made a while back on a message board about Arabs. I mainly said that a people who can allow their children to martyr themselves with bombs cannot truly love those children. I still feel that way. But I was allowing myself to fall into a classic error; not all Arabs would DO that, would allow it.
I started thinking through that entire line of reasoning. I realized, especially with Arab women, what in HELL do I know about what they think? Whether it's their fault or not, and that debate goes back 5,000 years or so, there has been massive strife in their part of the world. You do, in spite all odds, fall in love and marry in combat zones, just like anywhere else. You make children, and the odds of those children surviving to adulthood aren't always good. So how WOULD I feel in a world like that? Where my kid could catch a bullet for no reason other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Do you cut off part of your feelings for them, knowing how much it's going to hurt if they get killed?
How can you teach them gentleness when their world involves explosives and bullets?
I think of how I grew up. Small Oklahoma town, where my Dad was a town cop, among other things, respected for his fairness, feared for his overwhelming physical power. Hulk Hogan, the 6'7" wrestler, has 22 inch biceps. My dad, at 5'10" tall, had 24 inch biceps. His gun was usually an afterthought. The very LAST thing you wanted was him getting a grip on you. It was an ideal world for a boy growing up. It was peaceful, it was quiet, and it was safe, because the town council wished it so, and they hired guys like Dad to ensure it stayed that way. I had no worries, no fear. The small gang of elementary school bullies who briefly threatened my friends and me never had to deal with Dad; the day our conflict came to a head, I hid at a friend's house and called my mother. Mother walked up the hill to get us, with her Jane Russell figure and hair, softball bat over her shoulder, walked into the middle of the gang and snarled, "Go HOME". They vanished. Years later, a neighbor's giant boar hog got loose and was destroying our stuff on the carport and trying to kill our dog. Mom walked out, picked up the very same bat, and hit him once in the head so hard she knocked him out, fractured his skull and crossed his eyes. The neighbor had to harness him to his tractor, take him home dangling from the forks, then slaughter him. You see? Safe.
I hope they DO achieve peace in their lands, those Arabs. I hope the young men find something to focus on besides Jihad. Education would be nice, maybe farming, desert reclamation, something USEFUL, you know? The few Arabic women who have found a way to voice their feelings, I discovered, are intelligent, sensible folks who want to raise children and live their lives without insane men being able to kill them practically at will, who want to better the plight of their people. So maybe I'll back off about them and read some more. I might learn something.

My mother, during one of her lucid periods when she declined her morphine to ease her pain, took my hand and said, "It's all about love. All that matters is love." Cancer finally took her out a couple of days later.

I was leaning against my fence the other night, enjoying a bright moon and slightly chilly evening alongside Basher, faithful mutt. No online, no phone, no talking. Just the beauty and quiet of the night. Suddenly I hear Dad inside, voice almost panicked, "Where are you?" I didn't feel like talking, I didn't feel like dealing with him, but I did anyway. Walked in the house, said, "I'm outside getting some air." I was a little annoyed with him about the whole thing.

I sat down at my keyboard, began logging on. He was silent in his easy chair for a minute, then he said, "You have to realize, son, you're all I have. If something happens to you, nobody's going to take care of me. They'll just take my money and put me in a home."
I could feel tears welling, pushed them away, but the feeling stayed. So, okay. I'll get impatient with him, annoyed at him, but he put all he had into raising me and my brother, and taking care of Mom. Mom's dead, my brother's dead, and I really am all he has. And he's not going in any damn home, even a nice one.
Besides, sometimes he's fun. He just now commented, "Why do that have to have all that cussing in movies now? They say every damn filthy thing you can think of."
Uh, yeah Dad. Them bastards cuss like crazy.
Back when he was dating Mom, they were sitting in a diner one night, and a guy in the next booth was swearing like crazy. Mom really hated swearing. Even Dad curbed his tongue around her, and us boys just didn't cuss in her presence. We didn't dare.
Anyway, after seeing Mom wince for about the 30th time, Dad gets up, walks over to the booth, lifts this guy out of the booth and is holding him by his lapels up in the air. Dad says, "We're trying to have a nice dinner over there. Watch your FUCKIN' language in front of my wife." He then gently puts the man back on his feet, guides him down into his seat, and can't understand why Mom is cracking up laughing.
Till next time, remember: good boys and girls sleep with their hands above the covers. Don't be good.

Destination, Captain?

2004-12-16T00:15:00.000-05:00

Shatner says, "Out there", leans back, flicks and hand and says, "Thataway."
I am struggling with this blogging business. Kevin, old friend BigHominid, seems to have clear directions and interesting topics. Try the "Scary Spasms" link at the bottom of my blog.
Julie, Imp Queen and World Monarch, with her Persephone blog, is already being nominated for online awards. Wait till she starts posting about sex. The colors will bleed and run on your monitor. Or spurt, as it were.
Maybe that's my problem. Maybe I should get onto the sex thing. Trouble is, I'm just not inspired lately. Also, I'm not getting laid. I'm still dieting and being all obese and stuff. My memories are intact, of course, and for some reason seem to be streaming through my dreams lately.
My life consists of doing my job, taking care of my father, the pets, and fighting a losing battle to break my packrat impulses and keep my house in decent working order. That's not much of a life. There are friends who drift in and out, there is ALWAYS my computer, which has become a huge part of my online life.
There was a time, after I discovered how to get porn on the net for free, when I had over 100 floppies full of nekkid pics, divided into categories as diverse as "great face" to "fisting". Then I got a CD burner and installed it, and whoooooo BAYBEE, it was open season! I burned copies of it for guys at work.
Know what I did with all that porn? Dumped it. That's right. Everything off the hard drive, erased most of the floppies, tossed the CDs. Ran most of it through a software shredder so there's no getting it back. I'm never gonna meet those girls. I'm never gonna do those girls. Time to give up the online obsession. If I want nekkid girls from now on, I'll have to go meet them and persuade them toward nekkidness. I think I'm being mentally healthy for once. It scares me a tad.
Yet another discovery of mine is, if you can't find potential lovers online, you're just not trying.
I don't care if you're the biggest geek and loser in history, you'll find someone interested in talking to you and eventually meeting you. Some of them will burn their own frequent flyer miles to come meet you. It's amazing. Lot of lonely people out there.
I supposed it's nothing to brag about, but I was one of the early victims who lost a spouse to an online relationship. The spouse was pretty much worthless, fortunately, but the guy she hooked up with is a DORK. That's a little embarrassing. I guess it proves my earlier point, anyway. He's a successful, nearly wealthy dork, and that made all the difference.
Damn. I can't even blog well about sex. Oh well. I'll find my niche, or I won't.
In real life, what I usually am is an advisor. All kinds of people come to me with all kinds of problems. I listen without judging. I advise with no personal agenda. I'd have been a great shrink, I think. Dr. Feelbetter. I'd also make a dandy gas station attendant, but they don't have those anymore. My Dad was one, long ago. They issued uniforms, even HATS. Very cool.
If I knew how to import pictures into this blog, I'd show you. There's this cute little program I downloaded that supposedly makes it simple. It's useless, far as I can tell.
Well, guess we'll try again later. One sex blog, down the tubes. Woe is me.

Nigerian Scambag Goes Too Far

2004-12-11T21:59:00.000-05:00

This arrives in my Email:

Subj:
ESTATE OF LATE MARK XXXXX
Date:
12/11/2004 1:42:19 PM Eastern Standard Time
From:
princebrown@latinmail.com
To:
princebrown@latinmail.comprincebrown@latinmail.com
Sent from the Internet (Details)DILIGENT BANK NIG PLCStallion BuildingMarina Lagos REPLY ME THROUGH MY ALTERNATIVE PRIVATE EMAIL ADDRESS:ATTN:XXXXXI am Mr Prince Brown ,the account officer to Late Mark XXXXX,a nationalof your country,who used to work with shell Development Company in Nigeria.Here in after shall be referred to as my client. On the 21st of April 1999,my client, his wife and their three Children were involved in a car accidentalong Sagbama express-road. All occupants of the vehicle unfortunately losttheir lives.Since then I have made several enquiries to your embassy to locate any ofmy clients extended relatives this has also proved unsuccessful.After these several unsuccessful attempts, I decided to track his last nameover the Internet, to locate any member of his family hence I contactedyou. I have contacted you to assist in repatriating the money and propertyleft behind by my client before they get confiscated or declared unserviceableby the bank here these huge deposits were lodged.Particularly, the DILIGENT BANK PLC where the deceased had an account valuedat about $5million dollars has issued me a notice to provide the next ofkin or have the account confiscated within the next ten official workingdays.Since I have been unsuccessful in locating the relatives for over 2 yearsnow I seek your consent to present you as the next of kin of the deceasedsince you have the same last name so that the proceeds of this account valuedat $5million dollars can be paid to you and then you and me can share themoney. 60% to me and 40% to you I have all necessary legal documents thatcan be used to back up any claim we may make.All I require is your honest cooperation to enable us seeing this deal through.I guarantee that this will be executed under a legitimate arrangement thatwill protect you from any breach of the law.Best Regards,Mr.Prince Brown REPLY ME THROUGH MY ALTERNATIVE PRIVATE EMAIL ADDRESS:<¡Sé listo! Contrata el antivirus http://www.pandasoftware.es/tienda/?idpers=109&track=13920

You'd be amazed at my reaction to receiving such an unexpected and wonderful opportunity.You see, Mark XXXXX was my younger brother, and he died at age 19 in the United States.I recognized this immediately as yet another example of the infamous "Nigerian Scam", wherein you offer a false fortune, and bleed as much money as possible out of gullible people, sometimes getting them to travel to your country, hopefully with cash you can have a helper steal from them, leaving them destitute in a foreign country. Before, I was angrily amused at you. Now, invading my family, you have angered me.I place the family curse upon you. May your muscles wither and shrink so that you cannot walk or stand, only crawl on your belly like a crippled lizard.May the gift of sight go from you, so that you glide through the dust, and all you pass know of your disgrace and evil, and either spit in your begging cup or kick it from your hand so that you have to crawl to find it. May the spirits of your ancestors rise up and haunt you day and night, shaming you further for your sins and crimes. May you die in thirsting, starving agony, and Satan claim you and place you as a foot-wiper at the entrance to Hell.But you have a real nice day today, y'hear?

Toes On The Nose (Hangin' Five)

2004-12-06T21:32:00.000-05:00

Yes, we start out with an old surfer term, back when boards were nine feet long or better, when you could hang 5, sometimes 10 toes over the nose of the board as you rode along. Fun to watch, fun to do.
I'm seeing the "Sane" Democrats/Liberals coming out of the bomb shelters now, sniff the air, look around. I've deliberately avoided some of them because I didn't feel like losing their friendships in a hail of vituperative commentary, outgoing or incoming. Campaign time for me is the time to cut loose, bust heads, accumulate evidence to refute accusations against my boyz running for office, yell and scream with the other out-of-control types, be unreasonable at all times, piratical when an opportunity shows.
Know what I'm hearing from the Dems?
"Why did we run that jackass?"
"When is our leadership going to wake the hell up?"
"Is all this a ploy to make Hillary look like a breath of fresh air in 08?"
"What if Jeb Bush decides to run and gets a good Veep candidate?"
I think, if they take back their party from Hollywood, Beijing and the Kremlin, they could, indeed, regain a lot of the power they lost. If they drop this politically correct SHIT and quit telling us that every little Muslim, Buddhist and Rastafarian can practice their religion unpersecuted, but Christians can't, they might win back some voters. If they find some candidates that actually DO believe in God, especially if they're NOT fundamentalists, they're going to regain a swath of middle America.
The tricky part? Radical feminism now is pointed toward destroying the nuclear family in its longest running form. They feel like the Father/Breadwinner/Final Ruler of hearth and home is a slavery concept. They strongly advocate lesbianism, and are therefore tightly allied with gay causes, even though they don't always want to be.
The gay community? Oh, man. They want it ALL, total equality and acceptance into the community. They're not gonna stop, but they're not gonna get it, either. I dunno what to do about them politically. Personally, let 'em live their lives the way they choose. Encourage the use of curtains. Thick ones. I believe that ingestion of seminal fluids somehow unbalances the male mind. Not having a degree in Biochemistry, and not knowing of any studies on the subject, that's just my theory. But I'm stickin' to it.
People are forgetting that one of our other minorities has decided to quit being 3rd Man Out. The Latinos are now a Force in American politics. In Florida, we're used to that. The Cuban community, for all practical purposes, owns Miami and environs. I've been there. If you speak relatively fluent Spanish, which I do, you find that they open up to you a lot sooner, correct your Spanish for you, help you any way they can. Of course, some of the streets are better than others, and since I had a Concealed Weapons Permit, I carried a Colt .45 on me. I also carried it around Orlando, Tallahassee, Tampa. It's a little hard to expect the Latino community to receive much discrimination when your Governor is married to a Mexican woman and speaks fluent Spanish. It's a little harder to gain credibility when your Democrat attorney general sends in federal agents that point MP-5s at little tiny boys named Elian and his family, takes him away, and ships his ass off to Cuba. Ask Billy-Bob and Janet Reno.
I am SO anxious for that goofball Fidel Castro to fall over dead. Hopefully, the people of Cuba haven't been so cowed and Communisted that they won't throw a revolution and toss out the rest of the pinkos there, and start up a democratic government. For one thing, all the Mafia types would head back down there, hoping to restore it to a Caribbean Las Vegas. They should be put on a palm log raft, tied with vines and inner tubes, and sent out to sea. Give 'em a compass rigged so that when they go east it says north. Once Fidel finally begins his long toasting in hell, it's going to be fascinating watching Cuba rebuild itself. People wanting to go back, reclaim what he stole, people NOT wanting to go back, people not even born there, but having to go out of curiosity. If you don't know a bunch of Cubans, you've really missed out. They're an amazing people. They make terrific Communists and Insurrectionists. Castro has been sending Cubans all over the world for special training and to stir up trouble, and they always do a good job. BUT, if you know some Cuban-Americans...they also make great Capitalists. 40 years ago your Cuban maid was going to night school. So was your Cuban gardener. Before anyone noticed, you had Cuban professors, Cuban engineers, Cuban teachers (teaching English!), Cuban just about anything you could name. Many stayed in the Miami area, but as their business grew, they had to transfer people, including upper management, around the country and they blended right into their communities. They don't change their names, they don't lose their knowledge of where they came from, but they take their citizenship damn seriously in THIS country, too.
Out west, there's a growing group of Latinos who want to take back California, Texas, etc., saying we stole that land from them. Doesn't seem to bother them much that THEIR Spanish ancestors stole it from their Indian ancestors. Check on La Raza in your search engine sometime.
They're gonna be really disappointed in the overall American reaction, though. We have this collective honkie guilt over what we did to the Indians. Most of the land we got from Mexico, we either bought it or offered to buy it, and if they took the cash, great. If not, we kicked their asses out and TOOK it, and we don't feel a bit bad about it. So sorry, no sorry.

Almost 30 years ago, I began formal Karate training as a college course under Sensei Sam Palmer of the Shorin-Ryu Matsubayashi-Ryu school. Generally, I didn't get it, and they didn't seem to care. That's the old traditional way. What I DID have going for me is a "Character" face, blonde hair almost to my waist, and a working knowledge of Judo techniques. Sensei Sam liked to go visit what later became Fox television's affiliate, on a show dubiously named, "Uncle Hubie's Penthouse Barnyard". It was a kid's comedy show, sort of a poor man's Captain Kangaroo, and extremely popular with kids. It was also popular with after-school stoners. Uncle Hubie told me that he found out from their manager that The Who always tuned in his show when they were in this area for concerts.
Sensei Sam would have the class do various Kata in unison, some of the more advanced students demonstrate unarmed or weapons techniques, then he'd drag me up to demonstrate how he could toss somebody around like a rag doll if the spirit moved him. He liked showing his technique off so much that I got some serious TV time in. Some of it I was flying without wires!
It was very cool, being stopped on the street or back at school. "Hey, man, I've seen you somewhere before. On TV maybe?" "Dude, I've seen you on that Uncle Hubie show! Man, that old guys kicks your ass. Don't you ever get hurt?" It was a great attention getter, especially with somebody inquisitive like that, because sometimes I'd wind up with a group of people all talking and asking me questions, and I'd pick out the hottest girls, show them how to toss my ass around, and pop back up uninjured and smiling. It didn't do my ego any harm to have 3 or 4 of them offer to go to lunch with me either. I don't think we ALL want to be actors. I DO think we all want to be on TV.
For years now, I wanted to get my hands on tapes of the shows I was on. I tried various search engines, with no luck. Finally, now that AOL had the good sense to hook up with Google, I typed in "Uncle Hubie's Penthouse Barnyard", and Uncle Hubie has a website! It included his home phone, so I gave him a call. His wife screened my message, then picked up and connected me to The MAN, Uncle Hubie himself! We had a great hour-long conversation! He's a lot older now, but his mind is sharp and totally clear, as is his voice. He has a Magic show now. He's a wonderful, friendly guy, easily as nice in person as he is on TV. He filled me in on a lot of the history of the show, and how things progressed later, as he moved from station to station. I got to finally ask him if there were any tapes of the show.
"No", he said, "I'm sorry to say, we couldn't afford tapes. Everything was live, including our goof-ups. Those 3/4 inch tapes were just too expensive." I should have known. That would explain why there were never any repeats, and I never got to rush home and catch the show.
So, no videos of me as a healthy young lad flying around and making violent contact with the ground. I'm bummed about that. Sensei Palmer is dead. Even though I had to go to another school to learn my karate, he was my first Karate Sensei, and I'm bummed he's dead. But, by golly, Uncle Hubie, aka Hugh Turley, is alive, well and having a great life. Enjoy, Mr. and Mrs. Turley. It was a pleasure meeting you.

Yo! Elitist Scum! Listen up, y'all.

2004-12-01T22:09:00.000-05:00

A very nice woman sent this to me tonight. She's a northerner, so I didn't expect her to feel the annoyance I did. Maybe I'm just tired; maybe I've heard it once too often. But, here we go. Ready?

YOU MIGHT BE A REDNECK IF
. . . . . . it never occurred to you to be offended by the phrase, "One nation, under God ."
. . . you've never protested about seeing the Ten Commandments posted in public places.
. . . you still say "Christmas" instead of "Winter Festival."
. . . you bow your head when someone prays, you are not ashamed for everyone to know you go to church on Sunday.
. . . you stand and place your hand over your heart when they play the National Anthem.
. . . you treat Viet Nam vets with great respect, and always have
. . . . you've never burned an American flag.
. . . you know what you believe and you aren't afraid to say so, no matter who is listening.
. . . you respect your elders and expect your kids to do the same.
. . . you'd give your last dollar to a friend.
We have enjoyed the redneck jokes for years. It's time to take a reflective look at the core beliefs of a culture that values home, family, country and God. If I had to stand before a dozen terrorists who threaten my life, I'd choose a half dozen or so rednecks to back me up. Tire irons, squirrel guns and grit -- that's what rednecks are made of. I hope I am one of those. If you feel the same, pass this on to your redneck friends.

For some reason, this just annoyed me. Something isn't clicking. The sentiment is ok, but there at the end...NO. Hell no. I'd pick any half-dozen American soldiers and not give a rancid rat's ass WHERE they came from to back me up. And that's not knocking rednecks. I wouldn't dream of it, for one simple reason: I AM A REDNECK. My great-great grandparents moved over here from Alsace-Lorraine. They were Germans, I hasten to add. No French in this blood.
I spent my early years in Oklahoma, my later ones in Florida. So I've been Cowboy, Redneck and Cracker all three. I know the rules, the standards, the codes of conduct.
I think what I'm offended about is all the people out there who AREN'T rednecks. They should read this and feel the urge to chastise someone in the way they deem appropriate.

I've had the pleasure of meeting a LOT of "conservatives" and "sorta conservatives" during this last run for the presidency. They come from everywhere, Maine, Massachusetts, Cali-freakin'-fornia, Washington State, New York, Delaware...you get the idea. And my black belt fist fightin' redneck ass is NOT the only kind that will stand up for decency, who takes pride in being an American, who will do what SHOULD be done no matter who's watching.
As Americans, we acknowledge that our ancestors did some really shitty things to the natives. Some of that has been redressed by the courts. I remember a woman a few years ago who got a nice little cash settlement when some people from her tribe with law degress discovered a treaty the U. S. Government had violated and sued hell out of them.
The Indians turned us on to tobacco. Talk about REVENGE.
They're bleeding the gamblers dry in their casinos. Good for them. My point here is, they have the reservation if they want it. They have TONS of bleeding hearts offering them any kind of help they want. Basically, they're people. Some are making it big in Hollywood, in business, wherever. If they care to, they can move off the Res and buy some land back. Last time I visited the big Cherokee store in Oklahoma, I asked one of the guys if most of the junk they were selling was really made by Indian women. "Hell no," he said, "old white women do it cheaper and faster."
Black Americans make more money than any group of black folk anywhere in the world. They fought tooth and nail for what they have, and continue to fight to make sure it's not taken away.
I'm not mad at them. I see a black man, I see an EQUAL UNDER THE LAW AND BEFORE GOD. He's not better than me; I'm not better than him. If several hundred thousand honkie dumbasses had figgered that out about a hundred freakin' years back, things would be even smoother between black and white. Frankly, I get more out of holding a door open for an old black woman than I do a young white one. The black women usually look startled, then meet my eye and say a sincere "Thank you." (Actually, about every minority of any race is the same way). The while girls look at me like "so what? It's all you're good for."
I know, sounds like I'm wandering off the point, but I'm not. They're AMERICANS, each and every one. I treat people with politeness and respect, as fellow Americans, and I get nothing back but POSITIVES. It doesn't have ONE DAMN THING to do with me being redneck. My cousin D, fresh down here from Oklahoma, wearing 12-pound Rodeo Rider belt buckles, pointy-toed boots and straw cowboy hat, behaves exactly as I do. He holds doors for ANYBODY. He meets eyes and nods in mutual respect. He talks bad about no man till that man has personally burned him.
So, to meander like an old river to a conclusion, you Ivory-tower elitists in the colleges, you ranting radical leftists who passed up the original Democratic ideals and hooked up with the very nastiest of bedfellows, yes, you butt-sauce socialists, communists and Islamic radical dung, I'm talking about you, just keep on thinking it was Rednecks that re-elected Bush. Maybe we can keep some stupidity OUT of the white house a few more years. Or, listen to the PULSE of this country, to the people who are simply tired of being told what's "correct" and what's not, and you'll find out for yourselves, if you manage to open your minds. I was about to ask you to drop the whole "redneck" perception you've built up but...stick with it. It looks good on ya.

PitNickins

2004-11-29T09:57:00.000-05:00

J. G. Wentworth...advertises cash now for annuity settlements. J. G., you're probably a nice man, you may be an excellent businessman, but you SUCK as a spokesman. Hire somebody attractive and female. Soon.

Hollywood casting error: Know who would have made the Ultimate Galadriel, Elf-Queen, in "Lord Of The Rings"? Charlotte Rampling. Yeah, I know, she's not one of Hollywood's young hotties, but I think Galadriel was about 1,000 years old or so anyway, and Charlotte's still a hottie, maybe always will be.

I'm avoiding anything rectal or scatalogical this time. Kevin has plumbed his depths with the usual thoroughness, and said all that needs to be said. If I ever rediscover that medical surplus group that was selling used black and white colon cameras, I may purchase two and send him one. We could be on the verge of a new art-form, or some "Indiana Jones" action as he races the camera ahead of a nasty growler on its way out.

I had an incredible Creative Writing teacher in high school. Fresh out of college herself, so young looking that girls laughed at her when she tried to bust them, she was totally unprepared for the hotbed of creative madness she'd stumbled into. When I had nothing to write, I'd often write up my weekend and turn it in. I got "A's" every time.
Later, when she'd moved to Alaska, we reconnected after a few years. She asked me in a letter, "Just before we moved, I heard that you didn't dream up all those partying papers you turned in, that you really lived like that. I should have FLUNKED you! Was that true?" I had to assure her that yes, indeed, though there were some embellishments here and there, that's how I lived.
My 49th birthday was Nov. 10, and perhaps the best gift I received that day was this email from her:
Yo, Surfer Dude,
You do realize, I am sure, that today actually marks the first day of your5th decade on the planet, or in street language, "over the hill." The good news is that it's pretty sunny here on the other side! We built a home onOverhill Drive! So how are you celebrating your special day? Dad whipping you up a chocolate cake? Girls hanging on each arm? Hanging ten for old time's sake? You have been to the abyss and back, dear boy, and I call you a true survivor. This should be a wild day for you ("wild" in the sense of the wind in your hair and the trees growing up around you). Today I celebrate you! You are one of a kind. Don't ever change.
BJ

Don't forget the soldiers today. Think good thoughts, or pray for their protection.

Pickin' On The Boy Scouts

2004-11-23T01:03:00.000-05:00

Just heard it on one of my conservative newsletters. The ACLU has brokered a deal where the Boy Scouts will no longer be able to organize troops or get any military support on American military bases.
Levi Strauss cut off all support of the Boy Scouts a couple of years ago, according to my information. I emailed them on the subject, telling them that unless I heard that my reports were false, I would no longer wear, give as gifts, accept as gifts, or have anything further to do with their products. I also included a brief rant about how THEY might feel that influencing young boys that taking a penis up their butts was acceptable, I did not. If they CHOOSE that lifestyle as consenting adults...fine. So be it. Know who else, on the quiet side, is gradually phasing out Scouting support around the country? The United Way. Look into this, ok? Raise hell. Contact your congressdogs.
Unlike most rabid ranting conservatives, I'm not totally down on the ACLU or Liberals in general until they start wandering down a pro-socialist or communist path. I've experienced the horrors of a fundamentalist church and its built-in evils first-hand. We do NOT need that crap in this country. Look at how much fun the average Muslim has.
BUT! Oh yeah, double but! Keep your damn noses AWAY from scouting! Just from being a Cub Scout, I learned to love and respect the woods, and the basics of survival. My alternative teachers were a pair of cousins who liked to take their .22 rifles into the woods and kill everything that moved.
Now, I'm no great naturist. I think PETA is essentially a lunatic organization, other than their efforts to stop unnecessary cruelty to animals. My idea of roughing it would be to have a satellite link on a Winnebago so I could admire the scenery and be online at the same time, and sleep in a bed that isn't vulnerable to a grizzly ripping it apart and munching on my head, or a snake deciding my crotch is a NICE warm place to crash for the night. But now THEY want to BAN fishing! Why? Even with catch and release, in which I see most fisherman faithfully partipating, we're hurting their delicate little lips. Oh, goodness me! They HEAL, PETA, and the fish gets smarter and harder to catch. Of course, they're after the deer hunters, too. Ever seen a whole herd of deer that have starved to death over winter? Pretty nasty. There are GOOD wildlife protection laws in place, and they won't eradicate the deer, they'll carefully allow enough culling so they don't all starve in winter, they retain a healthy herd year after year. Wildlife officers are some of the bravest, most responsible cops in the country. There's a whole system there that WORKS, unlike most government programs. Leave it the hell alone.
Who takes care of the cute little ducks and geese, makes sure they have enough wetland, fights developers who want to destroy those wetlands? Ducks Unlimited. Yeah. The hunters. They don't ever want to run out of ducks. They buy land when they can, and fight like hell to protect government-owned or privately owned wetlands all over the country. And yeah, they go out and shoot ducks AFTER they've paid dues to their organization, obtained proper licensing, have a GOOD dog with them so none of their kills are wasted. The result? There's plenty of ducks. There's not enough duck hunters to kill them all. They're healthy, they have places to go all year for their natural migrating urges.
But boy scouts? They have nowhere to migrate to! The great annual jamborees, where troops from around the country can come together, make new friends, compare natural building abilities in the wild, learn how NOT to cut yourself with a pocket knife and other useful skills, they're having to take it. From who? A bunch of fat, rich lawyers with screwed-up social "conscience". Because they acknowledge God and disallow such skills as blowing another guy and buggering, suddenly they're bad guys? I PUKE on you, ACLU. Stick with something like preventing national IDs.
Oh, I've seen "statistics" about how homosexual pedophilia is a tiny minority. They're crap. I know gay dudes. I acknowledge a very few as friends. I've sat in on conversations. They have consciences. They have standards. But most of them, I really believe sticking them out in the woods with a batch of pubescent boys is pushing it. Hell, they can always go PC and start up the Fey Scouts, which essentially will be pop-up tents, and learning to perform disgusting acts in the deep woods while owls hoot and woodland life goes on as normal as possible.
I hope I'm wrong about Levi's. I have a nice jean jacket, but man do I miss that old one.

HammerBlog

2004-11-16T14:58:00.000-05:00

Well, those tickturds did it. They murdered that CARE woman. I've been preaching it for a LONG time, and now I'm yet again vindicated. It doesn't MATTER if you support Bush, the Republicans, or hate them with the screaming passion I see in some AOL message boards. If you are SO bloody stupid that you're going to extend the hand of peace to these Arab fanatics, you're going to get a bloody stump back. I said it before, here it is again: NOT ALL ARABS are like this. Not even all Muslim Arabs. But, to the Muslim mind, the Crusades were World War I, and they're ready for THEIR WWII. At least in spirit they are. The ONLY difference between an old crank like me and many of you is that you'll make a fun sex toy before they hack off your head.
Or, if you're male, you'll just lose your head. Maybe. I've heard some stories, but have no substantiation for them. Incidentally, the black Muslims in the U.S., while not always toting the line taught in the middle east, are no friends of yours either. Maybe you didn't hear it from me first, but believe it. I once stumbled across some Black Muslim literature that was never intended to be seen by a white boy. It's scarier than John Birch Society or Ku Klux Klan propaganda; it's also far superior to those organizations in spelling and presentation.

I posted this on an AOL message board today:
There are active blogs going on from troops over there, from troops freshly back. Look around the net. It didn't work super-well in VietNam, either, but it DID work once in a while, offering a cash price to the Vietnamese civilians to turn in their VC neighbors. Bush is having to rebuild an intelligence apparatus that Clinton nearly flushed down the toilet. They're working their butts off to get agents in place, better intel to the troops. Some American troops trained with Spetsnatz troops, the Russian Special Forces, after Afghanistan, so we didn't just walk in blind and igorant. And, right there making it happen, are some absolutely amazing American troops. They've got good technology and know how to use it, they're intelligent and unbelievably brave. That's why, if you need a GOOD understanding of what's up over there, their blogs are the best. This won't be another VietNam. Our troops are better trained, better armed (and SHOULD have better body armor, if congress will quit stickin' it to them), and if people will be honest, the body counts don't begin to compare to that war. We need to forget who we might offend; if it's the Sunnis that are stirring up the trouble, then pound hell out of them till they say "enough". If it's insurgents, round up every non-citizen, ID them the best you can, and throw 'em out if you can't prove they're combatants. Maybe inject them with that pellet like we do our pets, make them easier to track if they come back in. After all these idiotic beheadings they do, I'm tempted to say let's retaliate by hanging them up like chickens, and running them down a production line to a chainsaw. But, we're Americans. We don't do that. Sure would make a statement though, huh? Maybe put a sow's ear in every mouth when we put 'em out for somebody to claim and bury?

The major news services have been popping their cookies for a while showing flaws in the security systems at our airports and harbors. We need to remember that, even if they're screwing up, those people are in there WORKING to make you have an ok day. And, hard as it seems for the newsdogs, politicians, and the American people to do, we need to widen our focus and deal with a great many issues at once here. I'm afraid, if you didn't notice the fragility of our electrical infrastructure last winter, you're going to get a bitter, nasty taste of how old and outdated much of it is this year. Besides the push for alternative power sources, we could probably enhance the efficiency of what we have with new technology applied to it.
In-country, decent paying jobs are essential. While Kerry was promising to put a stop to that, I wondered just when he was going to bring the subject up to his wife, see if she'd lead the charge in bringing some work back here.

I put $20 worth of gasoline in my Dad's pickup the other day. Didn't even bring it up to half full.
He is not driving one of those giant, house-towing monsters with dual rear wheels, etc. Just a little V-6 engine. His mileage sucks. I get better on my 1984 Firebird Formula, because I have a standard shift, and that thing was geared to FLY. I can put it in 5th gear at 70 miles an hour and the engine is barely working. It WANTS to be doing 120, and I want to as well, but we have to be adults sometimes. Since most Americans are nearly as nuts behind the wheel as me, we don't NEED some alternative fuel that enables us to blaze through the neighborhood at 30 mph, get to the grocery store and back before we dig out the electrical plug, solar cells and whatever oddball converters we need to replenish. We need touch-and-go fuel systems. So let's TRULY improve the fossil-fuel burning monsters of now while we work on their future replacements. Surely, in all the patents bought up, stolen, whatever by the major car manufacturers, there are alternatives to making a car go 190 miles per gallon. We'll never see those. The oil industry would freak. I'd settle for 85mpg, 150 mph top end. Wouldn't you?

Fahrvergbloggin

2004-11-12T21:16:00.000-05:00

Little things. Everyday things.
Brian, old friend and screwup came by, tired, a bit bemused and bedraggled. He'd managed to find two companies possibly interested in hiring him as a driver. He's fresh out of Semi School, but has been driving flatbeds, dumptrucks, etc. for many moons. I grabbed his resume and had 4 online apps filled out in less than two hours. I told him drop by tomorrow, we'll do six more.
Candy calls. She owns a small carnival. I have to break it to her that not only is the county fair next week, two different Catholic churches in two towns will be offering their carnivals before Christmas, and yet another independent like hers usually comes in for 5 days in my town, then moves on. We are carnied out for this year. I remind her if she got a laptop with a satellite link, she could keep track of all this online.
Email. Many of those selling ink cartridges have this annoying habit of using your own screen name on some obscure ISP to email you. I like to write them back and tell them what an asshole habit that is, how annoying, and how it keeps me from even considering a purchase with them. Yet another small strike back. Sadly, there's no Nigerian Scammer this time.
It's Friday night. There was a time my brain would be a toasty green by now, full of the mellowing effects of good ol' marijuana, long-time smoking buddies with a series of safe places to blitz our brains, and various games and experiments to add to our evenings. One big one was to score as many different kinds of Devil Weed as we could. Thai Stick, Maui Gold, Michoacan, Jamaican Blue Mountain, Kentucky Bluegrass, Vietnamese, any of the infinite variety and power of the great Colombian weeds. My brother and I would keep as many seeds as we could find for our little garden, we'd each sprinkle some of the day's find into an enormous pipe, saving whoever brought the cheap Mexican or domestic to light the good stuff with, and proceed to have a multi-national Brain Fry.
We might surf the next day, go dirt-biking, water skiing, any of a dozen things, but the nights were for attaining advanced states of wasted. This awareness began to demand attention. What was missing here? Ah. Got it. FEMALES. The few who ever dropped by were there for the buzz, some of us had probably engaged in carnality with them in the past, but now it was all about the dope.
We'd all been together so long, we listened to the same music and talked about stereos, hot vehicles, and girls all the time. But nobody DID anything about it. I announced that I was gonna take a weekend off, find me a GIRL. This was met with jocular derision for the most part, arguments otherwise. We had a good thing going, why ruin it with girls? Well, uh...we moved on to the chances of a wild beast like me even getting a girl to go out with him, the even greater odds of her parents agreeing.
Fools. This was HIGH SCHOOL. There were ALWAYS girls sitting at home, hoping something english-speaking and semi-sentient would get them out of the house for the night. I was getting "yes" from girls I'd had ONE class with, hardly spoken to. Beautiful girls. Girls whose parents were sending them to Wellesley, Yale, UCLA, Stetson, Harvard. Even I was amazed.
Some girls I kept away from the Stoner crew. Others would express a desire to have an out-of-brain-for-a-while evening, and we'd head over to Stoner Central. I sometimes wondered why the one other member of our group who was often missing seldom showed up with a girl. Seems these guys were too lazy to go get their own, but if I excused myself to go pee, or go talk to somebody about something private, the rest of the crew immediately started hitting on my date.
Solution: ancient saying, "A hand on the bush is worth more than two on the stones." That's probably not from the I-Ching.
I think I'll go shower. One of those online survey companies sent me free shampoo to test out before they send it on to the test markets. Yippeee!

All Fuzzy On The Western Front

2004-11-11T23:48:00.000-05:00

Excerpt from an email to My Friend John:
There was no real "Kerry state" per se. I've been reading the last couple days how the Hollyweirdians are just in "Shock". Seems even parts of California itself are hotbeds of Conservative thought! Who knew? Well, outside your town, anyway, LOL.They seem to think that, because they go on location every once in a while, they've got the "pulse" of the American people. I guess because Jennifer Anniston gets "courageous" and plays a small-town K-Mart girl, that she "gets it". Nah. I mean, she goes home and Brad Pitt fucks her. Puh-leeze. Bill Murray turned down a chance to return with Charlie's Angels as "Bosley" and passed it down for a serious role in a critically acclaimed movie. Did he get any recognition? No. What was the movie? I dunno? What was the "Charlie's Angels" movie? "Full Throttle." Had Demi Moore in it in a bunch of sexy outfits and customized gold-plated Colt .45s. Had the girls in tons of cute outfits and situations barely escaping Demi's evil ploys. Why did I see that? HBO picked it up.
They don't seem to see it, there on the Pacific. The heroes are GONE. Bogie was a real man. He's dead. John Wayne: real man. DEAD. When you find out J. Edgar Hoover was a cross-dresser, you start facing reality a little more. Rock Hudson, Mr. Studley from all those 50s movies? Colon Commander. Robert Reed, wisest and most caring TV father: GAY. DEAD.
How tough is this to grasp? We don't WANT Hollywood role models. We've had about 100 years to learn that's one big sleaze orgy, interrupted by brief periods of acting brilliance/schlock, then on with your lives. The money, the fame? You've got that because you did some stuff we enjoyed watching you do. It was partly you, because we vicariously wanna do nasty stuff like you are on film (with you), and partly that cool role you landed somehow.
Have you ever noticed that the teen actresses can move on to the bigtime by a) showing their 18-year old boobs in a film, and b) follow that up with a sex scene. The boys can find a nice movie where they've not only enjoyed a) and b) from the girl, but they've been hounded and pounded by bad guys to the point where in real life, they'd need 3 weeks in the hospital recuperating from exhaustion, but in the film, they're walking off, arm around the heroine, for a hot shower, couple of tokes of weed, and more boffing.
Roll credits.
I have to wonder. Is there a group of bestialists out there named PUTA?
PATA? I dunno.
Yesterday, I turned 49. This is a very awkward age, I think. I don't wanta be 50, but it's coming like a freight train. I don't wanta be dead, either, so my options are limited. I wish, I truly wish, they'd started studies like in "Time Enough For Love", by Robert Heinlein, for the prolonging and enhancement of the human race. Get your body cloned, move into it when you're too old and funky to go on in your present one. Get a "rejuve" when you're about my age, new blood, new parts if needed, to restore you to a condition where, physically, you're about 30 again. Gee. Guess I'll quit bitching and start hitting the weights again.
Dad's still hot for the 50-year old Bowflex Woman.
I got to thinking about that movie Pam Anderson was in, Naked Souls, and those interesting statues she was creating. I guess I gotta see it again, find out what kind of materials she was using. I could make some of the most incredible lawn furniture ever!
BTW, don't see that film if you can help yourself. Even the sex scenes were dull. That's hard to do. Star Pamela Anderson and make those dull.
That may be a cinematic accomplishment, after all.
Trauma! I bought, on EBay at an unbelievable price, a 6.1 Megapixel digital camera with a ton of special effects and capabilities built in. Due to shipping complications, the seller offered me an incredible secondary deal on a plug-in memory card with huge capacity. Something broke inside the camera, and I have to send it back for repair. Still under warranty, happily. I'm going to miss it while it's gone. I have others, of lesser capability to use in my work and play, but they don't do as much with minimum switching.
I'll try to be interesting next time, ok?

Hickinstix

2004-11-10T02:58:00.000-05:00

I was born in Oklahoma. There's some kind of stigma attached to that, which I find interesting. The more charitable, or those seeking common ground, begin with "Great football teams. Great." Yeah. They are. And time after time, sportsdogs across the country predict their fall from college dominance. They're always wrong, much like weatherdogs.
I lived Opie Taylor's onscreen life, not Ron Howard's real one. I lived in a town with a population less than 1,000, yet some of my farm-boy cousins considered me a "city slicker".
I see a lot of message board posts lately, and receive the same lame-ass e-mail jokes as everyone else about redneck this, backwoods that, marrying your first cousin, etc. I still laugh at the best ones, but I'm coming to an understanding I find bothersome: There are people, especially northern Americans, who believe this tripe. It's one of the huge venting areas at present; supposedly the most intelligent elite voted for Kerry, the ignorant hicks voted for Bush. Them there elite must be feelin' mighty lonely and outnumbered at present.
I can't blame the northerners for promoting this mess; they don't generally run around with Civil War uniforms on, or Old Glory adorning their back windshield, unless they're re-enactors or making a movie.
There never was a TV series where two Brooklyn boys painted a hot Camaro orange, named it the General Grant, and went tear-assing around NYC proper, let alone Hoboken.
What was originally southern has become more widespread than people like to admit. Western thought and behavior permeate a lot of "southern" behavior. The cowboy made a comeback, thanks to (damn him) John Travolta. A Jersey boy would reactivate a part of American culture, while twisting hell out of it. Who knew?
The vituperative criticism, however, is real, and heartfelt. The problems of inept and inadequate education are spread all over this nation, but seem to be perceived as southern in nature. Some of those ranting folk can't spell that well. I may be a hick, but I was a proofreader/editor for a commercial printer for 13 years.
Bear with me, I may actually be stumbling toward a point here. Ah! Got one back.
During the Great Depression, when many farms went belly-up, there was a mass migration of Oklahomans (Okies) out west. Driving beat-up pickups, model Ts, mattresses and belongings roped to the top, they migrated. They'd just LEFT a dusty nowhere; you think they stopped in Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada? NOT. They moved to CALIFORNIA. Yep. That state where the ultimate cool folk live, the elite, the creme de la ejaculate. They should probably start checking some of those attitudes toward a realignment. Y'hear me, cousins?

FluentFlatus

2004-11-07T19:51:00.000-05:00

I missed posting after the election; decided greater bloggers than me can say the words, allay the fears, hold out the olive branches. Too much going on. I DID post one night, but was so sleepy and stupid I hit the X box, and well. Blog post gone. All gone.
Almost closed this puppy down, too. I realized I'll never be one of the great bloggers, and whenever I tackle something new, I want to be good, with excellent a real possiblity.
This time, however, we're dealing with the entire PLANET. That's not quite the same thing as having the fastest pitching arm in your state or region, or being the best surfer on your block, in your part of town. We're talking college-educated world travelers among the Americans, and people who, much like me and the Florida voting scandal of 2000, know the REAL story better because I'm THERE, see it for myself, etc., only they're natives of whatever country is being focused on. I'm humbled a little at the amount I learn by reading blogs.
I'll accept the role of occasional ribald observer and commentator on the human condition, unabashed hardcore, old-fashioned "America, Love It or Get Your Skanky Ass OUT" Conservative, Madman Sans Portfolio.
I shall also endeavor, with time and experience, to attain the status of "Upper Lower Class".

Gnomead

2004-10-31T14:23:00.000-05:00

Well, Mz. Julie, aka ImpQueen, has done a fine job changing this Blog from 60's Beachside Bungalow format to something modern and dynamic. I shall endeavor to make the writing as excellent as the appearance.
I'm doing a most dangerous thing right now: Blogging fresh from a nap. I'll keep it short so as not to wander too far afield, or briefly fall asleep aian and leave a set o ujuu dsl;'kds which translates to nothing at all. So thank you Ms. J, and I'll see you when I'm lucid again.

Prattlin & Rattlin

2004-10-30T22:52:00.000-04:00

Soon, this here blog will be getting a tummy tuck, eyebrow lift, chin implants, enema, and general overhaul. Ms. Julie, of ImpletQueen Blogger infamy, has agreed to take some of the vanilla off the look of this place, and make it habitable.
I was having an internal debate over whether to just close this blog down; I've only got about 5 regular readers at present. My friends, however, are insistent I keep it: there could be a corner turned, sooner or later, and I could emerge as a Force in the blogger universe.
It occurred to me tonight that I'd passed up a golden opportunity recently. A medical surplus company was selling old Colon Cameras, the black and white kind, extremely cheaply! Talk about sharing! we could look up my ass, check on things, since there were 5 cameras available, I could find lovely attractive friends come by and we'd look up THEIR asses. Since I could hook these babies into my digital video camera, we could have an "Indiana Jones" type adventure! Wouldn't it be cool to see a streaming video of the camera desperately racing down my bowel, trying to find blue sky while a rumbling, thundering turd-beastie greatly resembling those things in "Tremors" comes blasting down the chute? Imagine the tension, the excitement of the chase, the laughing relief as the camera pops out my anus and dives to the side as a porcelain-cracking butt-bomb comes splashing past.
Unfortunately, my bookmarked Favorite Places file got corrupted, and I lost the link. So, we'll see if I can find it again.
I'm off.

Nigerian Scam Scum

2004-10-29T10:45:00.000-04:00

I hate 'em. At first I ignored them, but lately...I've had it.

They NEVER learn, apparently. I get this in my email. My answer will follow.

Subj: ASSISTAT NEEDED URGENTLY
Date: 10/28/2004 4:30:03 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: barr_khalid@tatanova.com
Reply-to: salaam_issa@yahoo.com
To: barr_khalid@tatanova.com
Sent from the Internet (Details)

FROM THE DESK OF DR.SALAAM ISSA
AUDITING AND ACCOUNTING SECTION
BANK OF AFRICA.
OUAGADOUGOU BURKINA-FASO.

Dear Friend,

I am Dr.SALAAM ISSA the director in charge of auditing and accounting
section of Bank Of Africa(BOA) Ouagadougou Burkina-faso West Africa with
due respect and regard. I have decided to contact you on a business
transaction that will be very beneficial to both of us at the end of the
transaction . During our investigation and auditing in this bank, my
department came across a very huge sum of money belonging to a deceased
person who died on October 31st 1999 in a plane crash and the fund has
been dormant in his account with this Bank without any claim of the fund
in our custody either from his family or relation before our discovery
to this development. The said amount was Fifteen million three hundred
thousand dollars (US$15.300.000.00)Meanwhile all the whole arrangement
to put claim over this fund as the bonafide next of kin to the deceased,
get the required approval and transfer this money to a foreign account
has been put in place and directives and needed information will be
relayed to you as soon as you indicate your interest and willingness to
assist us and also benefit your self to this great business opportunity. In
fact I could have done this deal alone but because of my position in this
country as a civil servant(A Banker),we are not allowed to operate a foreign
account and would eventually raise an eye brow on my side during the time of
transfer because I work in this bank. This is the actual reason why it will
require a second party or fellow who will forward claims as the next of kin
with affidavit of trust of oath to the Bank and also present a foreign
account where he will need the money to be re-transferred into on his request
as it may be after due verification and clarification by the correspondent
branch of the bank where the whole money will be remitted from to your own
designation bank account. I will not fail to inform you that this transaction is
100% risk free. On smooth conclusion of this transaction, you will be
entitled to 30% of the total sum as gratification, while 5%will be set aside to
take care of expenses that may arise during the time of transfer and also
telephone bills, while 65% will be for me. Please, you have been adviced to keep
it "confidential" as I am still in service and intend to retire from service after we conclude this deal with you. I
will be monitoring the whole situation here in this bank until you confirm
the money in your account and ask me to come down to your country for
subsequent sharing of the fund according to percentages previously indicated and
further investment, either in your country or any country you advice us to
invest in. All other necessary vital information will be sent to you when I
hear from you. I look forward to receive your email or call as the urgency
implies.Yours faithfully,
SALAAM ISSA.

Now, like I said, old Salaami there just TICKED ME OFF, so I let him have it:

Salaam, you old Ass-licker! Long time no hear from. Who've you been lying to and stealing from all this time? I would call you a used bag of douche-water, but I doubt that douche is a real familiar item in your neck of the slime pit.
Still up to the same old variation on the "Nigerian Scam", I see. Is that still working? You bleed a few thousand off of them, finally get them to travel to Nigeria to finalize things, and that big, hulking, mystery African man beats them up and steals their money, leaving them hurt, broke and terrified in a foreign country? How about you and your lard-ass lackey come by the states? I'll help YOU get it shape. It's called a "Louisville Slugger Tune-up". Make you feel like a new man.
I hope people around the world are getting wise to you dung-beetles the way we are in the states. Or does dung-beetle insult you? Is Shiteater good for you? How about pigfucker? That shouldn't bother you. Your mother was one of those, or you'd have never been littered.
So, my wish for you is great, oozing pustules all over your groin, so that everyone is so repulsed by you, you die diseased and alone.
Even though you're too stupid to get it, I got a joke for ya, too. Well, not really a JOKE, since it's true...but I bet my SALAAM ISSA bigger than yours!

Xena, Warrior Kitty

2004-10-23T20:57:00.000-04:00

What cracks me up is her relationship to paper bags. Dad saw her one day on her side, scratching, biting, ripping at this bag, occasionally pulling it on top of her then fighting it off, then suddenly leaping to her feet and racing off to the kitchen to attack yet another bag.
"What," asked Dad, "the hell is that cat doing?"
"My theory is," I replied, "that somehow paper bags, when left lying about, fill up with evil only cats can see. Xena might ignore that bag for 2 or 3 days, then suddenly notice it's all full of evil again, so she attacks it and drives off all the evil."
He laughed, but then she gave a mighty yowl, came racing back in the living room, again savaged the bag, paused, laid down and went to sleep on it.
"You know, son, it could just be that she's crazy as hell."
"Could be," I conceded, "most cats are."

The Fowl Whisperer

2004-10-21T21:03:00.000-04:00

Another "farm fact" I learned from my folks' having chickens: the chickens make a specific sound that, once you learn it, identifies the threat they perceive. "Snake" is one, "cat", whether bobcat or feral domestic, another, "rat" is unique, "fox, coyote and dog" are all one, and "hawk" is a very specific noise, followed by dropping to the ground, head down, I assume to make a harder target. I know the females with chicks also spread their wings and the chicks race under them.
We had a gigantic Rhode Island Red rooster, "Big Red" naturally, who we loaned out to the local college and thespians when they needed a scene involving fowl. He was locally famous for pulling out of a kid's hands onstage at the community college, and walking the perimeter of the stage staring at the audience, followed by an incredible chase scene which he'd have won if my brother hadn't had a cast net in his car. The other thing Red featured was 2" spurs on his legs. He had killed a feral cat with them; I had to pull the spurs out of its skull when they stuck. A neighbor's White Leghorn rooster had come over to expand his mating base, and Red almost beheaded him. Since he bled out well, Mom made fried chicken. I made Foghorn Leghorn voices all through dinner.
Anyway, the first time I heard the "hawk" warning, I had NO idea. Suddenly the hens were down, and Red was six feet in the air, upside down, his spurs making clicking noises as he tried to impale the hawk as it came into view. The hawk, for his part, spread his wings, which made an audible popping sound, and flapped hard for height to get away from the spurs. He made it by inches. He made another sound I'd never heard, and the hens got up and began foraging again. A few minutes later, Red made the "hawk" call himself, the females dropped, and again, he met the hawk upside down in midair. It was even closer this time, which seemed to inspire both birds to continue. I went in the house, got the .22, and told Mom there was a hawk after her chickens.
"See if you can scare it off instead of kill it," she suggested. Mom liked hawks.
Happily, he set himself up. He was sitting on a dried branch high up in a yellow pine tree.
When the bullet smacked the branch, it blew into powder, the bullet slammed into the tree so I didn't have to worry about hitting anyone far away, and the hawk make a most chicken-like squawk as he went tumbling down through the pine needles. When he ran out of branches, he had a good 15 feet left to fall, so he got his wings going and got the hell out of dodge.
Mission accomplished, all birds alive and well. And now I spoke fluent Chicken.

Weird Flashings

2004-10-21T08:20:00.001-04:00

This thing just posted a blank blog. VERY weird. Every time I'd type a letter, it would flash the screen black, and when I went to check on what weird program may have been active and interfering, I get returned to a "Message Posted" screen. WHAT MESSAGE? I'm almost afraid to look.
Ah well.
I think I menitoned before, I passed fatness up recently and joined the ranks of the obese. I moo when I have to get out of a chair. I grunt and oink when I open the fridge door.
I have put myself on the little-known Lanie diet. Lanie's real name is Melanie. She's in her mid-30s and thinks she's fat when her waist gets over 22".
The diet is this: eat anything you want for breakfast. Once in a while really indulge and stuff, otherwise just have a few healthy sensible things with all your fatty stuff. Do not eat from 8 am till noon. You get an hour. That's it.
The rest of the day, you may eat all the fat-free, low-salt pretzels you want. You may drink unsweetened iced tea. When you are SO sick of pretzels just looking at them gives you the dry heaves, you can dip them in dressings, sauces, whatever you wish (except cream cheese), just enough for a bit of flavor as you munch them.
Skip the scales every few days, but when you've lost 10 pounds, reward yourself either with a restaurant dinner or junk food dinner, then back on the diet. Last time I was a hog, I lost 35 pounds in 3 months doing this. I hope I don't need to donate skin from this, but I damn sure will. Burn centers everywhere need skin anyway.
Worst part of being this fat is going to the beach. Some damned old sailing ship keeps showing up, and this one-legged one-eyed goofball keeps screaming "Thar he blows! The white whale!" and pitching harpoons at me.
I'll probably keep you posted whether you want to be or not.

2004-10-21T08:20:00.000-04:00

2004-10-21T08:19:00.001-04:00

Blowout

2004-10-18T20:29:00.000-04:00

This will probably be easier for smokers to get. You ever been sittin' on the toilet dropping a nasty-growler and suddenly cough? It's like you're issued Turdo-Boost!Wow! Say you're flowing along at a steady two inches a minutes, you hack out a quick lunger and zzzzzz00000m! Two inches in half a second!
I may experiment, see if faked or induced coughing can speed up the overall process. i'll let you know how it works out.

I FUNCTIONED today! So proud of my fat butt for once! Trash dragged out, some of the dishes washed, multiple loads of laundry done, more tree branches dragged out of my yard and stacked by the roadside, meals cooked, medications given to father and self, plus I went to a former neighbors' and shoveled about 500 pounds of dirt and Chattahoochie gravel onto a tarp in the back of my Dad's pickup. Driveway fill, you understand. Then I'm trying to find who exactly will dump a free load of ground-up road asphalt for me. Run over it enough times, it flattens out just like it was originally. Hard to beat free home improvements. Wonder if they'd cover my entire YARD? Off to contemplate...imagine mowing with a bottle of Roundup!

Great Moments In TV Law Enforcement

2004-10-15T06:18:00.000-04:00

Carroll O'Conner as Chief Gillespie: "Tell 'im his rights, Bubba. I keep losing that little card I read 'em off of."
Alan Autry as Bubba, whom every rookie southern cop aspires to be: "You got the right to keep your mouth shut. You open it, I'll hang you out the window."