Monday, May 26, 2003


Time to bid adieu to my old buddies here at Blogger. You can catch the latest thrills and spills at!

Sunday, May 25, 2003


I tell you, shocked, that Lee's resurrection of Buddy Lee hasn't managed to sell more jeans. It seemed like such a surefire bet. OF course, any jeans company that still proudly calls their product dungarees is surely not trolling the upscale demographic for customers.

is Rob Sama's new site. It's great! I'm thinking VodkaMan should have tried this avenue before going off on a "How to Get Laid Through Pot Roast" tangent. For one thing, it doesn't seem like Stephen (the whoredogging, not the cooking. Whoredogging is best left to non-pretty-boys, like me and Acidman). For another, I miss Stephen's blogging.
TobaccoRoadFogie has game, simply because of his blog title. But he's a good blogger, to boot. I likes him. Picked him up via That Underrated Guy, Jay Solo.

that when the new site's up I'm turning over a new leaf (Oh! Miffy! Let's buy that little vineyard we saw and call our product Turning Leaf! Yes! It will be Wonderful, don't you think?)

Sorry. Let me restart. I was going to say the new site will be erudite, cosmopolitan, urbane, witty, and touch on all those topics we hold so dear. One problem: I explained this in a post I later regrettably deleted, but I do this for the release, the catharsis. I certainly don't do it for the respect. I get all the respect I want, need, or deserve from the other aspects of my life. I get my respect from the look in my kids' eyes. They buy into Dad or not. There's the true test. This is just ripping great fun. I love politics, and social issues, but other people blog these things better, and ad nauseum. If I wanted to do this as a vocation I would, I just can't handle the salary hit right now.

Woodward and Bernstein weren't superheroes, they were clowns. Deep Throat was a joke, a fiction, a Jayson Blair smoke with mirror. Invented to invest their hyperbole with authenticity. Nothing more. I do love to watch Redford and Hoffman run around like SAS commandos in that movie, though. It puts the seventies in perspective.

I digress again: 'Pundits' get paid for it. If you're not getting paid for it, don't call yourself one. Bloggers are merely the sodium pentothal of the media, that's it. And just as susceptible to the foibles of the compensated class. Even more so, in a way, because we are self-edited (which apparently makes you more accurate than a Howell Raines edited flack).

Perspective, folks.

Saturday, May 24, 2003


How many wallets did you ruin between the ages of 14 and 16 carrying around that stupid frigging condom? The one you never used, that had turned into what molecular engineers now call Carbon Fiber? Ever pull that wallet out, with the tell-tale rubber ring embossed on it from your skinny ass, around your Mom? I thought so. Explaining to her that it would have shattered into a million crystallized pieces if you had attempted to use it carried no gravitas, or absolution, did it? No sir. It was time for A Talk. Followed by A Talk from your Father.

First conversation (with Mom): "Where have I gone wrong, son? Have you no respect for females?"

Second conversation (with Dad): "You stupid bastard. You let your Mother see that?"

Third conversation (between Mom and Dad): Mom: "He's going to be just like you, isn't he?" Dad: "No, I think he's going to be a slut, like your mother."

However that conversation resolved itself, a beating for you was inevitable.

Seeing Possumblog's picture of Sophia Loren in a peasant top reminded me of the posters I used to have as a youngster. My older brother was in high school, and he got away with nekkid Jane Fonda on the beach (Barbarella era), Bridget Bardot coming out of the water naked (nips erect, naturellement), that sort of thing.

Me? I had Dennis Hopper from Easy Rider giving the rednecks the finger, Loren coming out of the water in a wet shirt from Boy On A Dolphin, Bridget in leather on a Hog, Hendrix.

Sophia was the babe, though.

It seems at some point those posters just disappeared. Apparently my mother (friend of Bishops and Orphans) had had enough, and trashed them. I still miss that Hopper poster.

I've been meaning to wax poetic on this subject for a while, but I never get around to it. The bottom line:

Jacksonville has terrible strip clubs. They wear bikini bottoms. Please. The girls all look like waterheads, too. I'm glad my daughters are growing up in a city that discourages exotic dancing.

Memphis has great adult entertainment establishments. Lap dancing is a full body contact sport there. The ladies make up in enthusiasm what they lack in looks. An enthusiastic work ethic is very important. They wear G-strings, though.

Nashville has fantastic gentlemens' clubs, for two reasons: One, the girls are totally buck-assed naked, and they are fine. Two, Nashville ordinance prohibits the sale of alcohol where girls are buck-assed naked. But you can bring your own. That's what I'm talking about. Walk in with a liter of Absolut, buy a bottle of tonic water for 2 bucks, and save those other 98 Washingtons for disceet displays of gratitude. Music City has some extraordinary talent outside the recording studios.

Tampa is where exploded Musselmen go to collect their 72 virgins. I suspect, however, that these girls have been, shall we say, around the block. Hell, they've been all the way around Ground Zero. Sentimental extra: they get insulted when you don't spackle your trou. And they have lots of black lights to confirm the evidence.

New Jersey: Hah! Cankled trailer trash. Stay in your hotel room and diddle yourself to Skinemax. You'll respect yourself more in the morning.

Atlanta. What can you say? Here's an anecdote: About four years ago, about a year before the Feds unleashed holy hell on the Gold Club, I was at an industry function, and I was squiring around 4 customers. These pernicious heathens, true to form, insisted on going to the GC. As soon as we walked in, three huge black bouncers in microphone headsets and satin bowties whisked us into a private room. They were making a sales pitch faster than a Koufax fastball, but I did pick out the words "$1200 an hour for the room" and "$1000 an hour each for the girls". There were four girls, and it was tacitly explained that the bouncers would take you out back and beat you into a bloody fucking pulp if you even touched these girls. I demurred, and led the boys to the main bar, where I got a bottled beer and they ordered those test tubes of heliotrope hi-test.

Sensing a VERY bad vibe, I feigned shellfish poisoning from dinner, got a cab, and went back to the hotel. The next morning these fellows had managed to piece together 19 thousand dollars worth of credit card receipts between them. They'd been roofied. Date raped, so to speak. These were not yahoos. They were experienced, seasoned party animals. Sucked into the Gold Club vortex (thank me for not using the Black Hole metaphor). Drugged like damned lab rats and fleeced like Himalayan goats. The Gold Club. The most beautiful women in the world, the most dangerous game.


I saw in St. Augustine today:

1. Outside the Stumble Inn: Come in a Neighbor, Leave A Friend.

2. On a billboard for Southern Crematory: When People Ask for a Simple Cremation, We Understand.

As to the first sign, you don't want to be these folks' Friend. Trust me.

As to the second sign, I assume they mean as opposed to a Noble, Georgia cremation, where your body is tossed into the woods behind the furnace. Nice of them to understand, though.

is such a pretentious shit I can't stand it, but by God, the hammerhead can sing. Not a Lennon voice, or a McCartney voice, but he can take the jagged edges of his voice and make them work. I have to respect that. All the more reason to say Fuck You, Bono. I want to recoup Third World Debt, too, I just want to take it from the bastards who stole it in the first place. If Bono could at least name one name who should recompense the United States or the United Nations for the millions they've ripped us off for, I'd feel a lot better about him. Until then he's just another nipple with a great voice and an issue.

Friday, May 23, 2003


and explain to Venomous that her skew on Huffington is wrong, but I should dig deep before I completely exonerate myself. My simple point was that Arianna just needs a good bullwhipping to beat the stupid out of her, and yet... I do have a hang-up of sorts (if you scroll the archives) that tends to the corporal punishment motif. Witness my infatuation with acquiring that episode of The Big Valley where Victoria Barkley gets the tawse, as they say, or my compulsion vis-a-vis the branding of Olive Oyl. I'm a victim, I say, and yet a connoisseur.

now, Euthanasia tomorrow, Euthanasia forever! At least when it comes to Susan Estrich. She's a grim piece of work, for sure, and I'm tired of listening to her.

but I have to break to say I'm watching Sid Blumenthal on FOX and he's not only the ultimate shameless Clinton apologist and the ultimate party whore, I still can't believe he sued Drudge over the wife-beating allegation. Beat his boyfriend, maybe.

Which reminds me. Why is the Democratic Party attacking Mark Foley in Florida (he's a GOP after Graham's seat) as a homo? I thought the Dems were the party of inclusion. I thought they grooved on a man putting his penis in another man's mouth or ass. It's in their national platform, for crying out loud. But if a Senate seat is at stake they'll play the fag card, apparently, to work up what they believe is the silent majority of homophobes. Foley denies the allegations, by the way.

I'm just asking, ya know?


on the new site, so be patient. Hopefully my next post here will be a redirect with a Kiss My Ass to my host buddies. I might even get a Nostalgia up on the new site.

Thursday, May 22, 2003


I don't feel so bad about being Mr. Nine Hundred and Fifty Fucking Loser on the Ecosystem when this is number 35. I'm obviously moving in the wrong crowd. Darn! It's The Jews! Why didn't I see that before?

don't do another damned thing in your life, please read this. All will be revealed.

I entered The Grouchy Man's latest with an Aqualung, because coming up for air was not in the entrails.

is parsing my memory cells, admittedly suspect. The liquor store was Newton's Corner. I recall the owner as Ralph Newton, because my old man would send me to "Ralph's" to get him a taste. At which point I would add on my desired beverage. Now, A-Man remembers a "Ralph Noglin" or a "Frank Noglin", whatever. Ralph Newton to me! The important thing was, my dad figured out pretty early on that he could open his own liquor store in Montgomery (basically a T in the road) a couple of hundred yards from the house and not only save himself or me the drive, the magic of WHOLESALE! kicked in. As for me, the magic of BREAKAGE! kicked in. Hey, every ex-State Senator should have his own liquor store, right? Looks good on the resume if a Supreme Court vacancy opens up.

UPDATE: Acidman is so much older than me of course he'll remember the minutae of the old days. He wins. He can call that liquor store whatever he wants to. And cut me some slack: when I was 16 and driving through the drive-thru window with a 14 year old girl in the car I confess I didn't demand to see the fine print on the liquor license. Common usage called it Newton's Corner. And that was the name of the intersection as well, but how many singular locales can you have in a greasy spot in the road called Sandfly? Eh? As for the girl: ach. Debbie S. Little sister of my best friend at the time, Mark S. They're both KIA. Neither one made 25 years old. Don't be sad, though. Darwin ordained it.

listening to Weasels Ripped My Flesh, which I'd burned a couple of years ago and never listened to all the way through. The best I can say is, Zappa cannot be described as a "consistently accessible" artist.

Wednesday, May 21, 2003


Rob Sama watches Mighty Mouse. Damned fine cartoon. Even the Bakshi pyschedelic version. Ages 3 to 5 were the formative years for me: Mighty Mouse, Popeye, and Moe Howard smacking the shit out of his buddies. Of utmost importance: my kids understand this, and respect me accordingly.

At least Jay Solo finds me quotable. Of course, The Bride finds me extremely quotable after a night of spree drinking. Seems I confess to an awful lot. Thank God I don't DO an awful lot.

Phillip Coons has a link to a story about Clarence Thomas, and his rise from poverty to the Supreme Court. The story's been told, I know, but I like it. When I was in high school I lived in Beaulieu, a hamlet about two 3-woods from Pinpoint, where Thomas grew up. We bought our Boone's Farm wine from Ralph Newton's liquor store in Sandfly. Great names, eh? Pinpoint is STILL like it was when Clarence left: a fenced in enclave of shanties with dirt yards and little tin sheds with goats standing on them. Why do goats stand on top of whatever they can? Must be the mountain goat genes coming out. But I digress.

Anyone who's ever seen Pinpoint and doesn't marvel at what Clarence Thomas achieved is a willful fool or an ass. Thomas isn't the most cerebral jurist to ever grace the bench, and yeah, he got some affirmative action assistance along the way. But why do his detractors, who normally praise AA to the high heavens, allude to it as a reason to castigate this man because he left the Democratic plantation after he left the Pinpoint one? The blacks in Savannah won't even let him speak at the Beach Institute, and refuse to acknowledge him as the greatest black man to ever come out of the city. I swear I think they'd rather see him boiled in water like Kenny Norton in Mandingo than adjudicate as a conservative. Sheesh.

Double freight train crash in Arizona today. Two trains passing in opposite directions, one car derailed and hit the passing train, and kablooie. Remember what I was saying about derailments the other day? They happen all the time, what matters is when and where. Oh, and whose. In this case, the other guys.

politely explains how victims of occupation eventually turn the tables on their aggressors: with style, class, and noblesse oblige, that's how. And lynchings. He forgot that part.

Of course, I believe Indiana led all states in lynchings in the 20th century. Should call 'em Noosiers, not Hoosiers.

Tuesday, May 20, 2003


to continuously bitch about allowing the Iranians to foment terror without remonstration by allowing the gamut of terrorist organs to operate within their borders with impunity, but it chaps my ass. The Persians should pay a very dear price for this. Ayatollahs and imams, I hasten to say. The Iranian peoples themselves will hail us even more quickly than the Iraqis (and the Iraqis do love us, it's just the Persian ayatollahs' provacateurs that stir the shit in Iraq). I still believe our State Department favors an environment of frisson over order. It allows them to be the good guys while casting asperions at the D of D for usurping what they feel is the mandate they should have been handed after the cessation of any hostilities. Georgetown pussies, I aver. I want my Occupied Territory slavemasters to have USMA, USNA, USAFA, or even USCGA credentials. Unless it's the Gardner guy, of course.

to mewl about this earlier, but they closed the dog track next to my house. Well, they didn't close it. They turned it into a huge betting parlor with 32 large screens running horse and dog races from around the country with insta-betting. Pretty cool, actually. Any race going down you want to see or bet on. Booze, food, ubiquitous Florida tramp girls, action, by God I do like it. But fuck me, I'm not betting on a race in California that the BETTING PARLOR is feeding me "live". I sold my turnip truck. Plus, I can go across the river to Orange Park in 15 minutes to see real dogs run. They have tramp girls, too.

a bullwhip, Arianna Huffington, and enough time, I believe the truth would out.

that Snow's done to the dollar what he did to my stock I feel a little, well, levelled out.

does Amber Frey need Gloria Allred as her attorney? Why does she need an attorney, period? Nobody's after her; they have their mutt locked up. Unless, of course, it was a team job. But hey, they'll never convict him without better evidence. She's a walkaway.

I gots citrus problems. My satsuma mandarin orange tree (they're like a big tangerine) is small, but the little bastid put out 50 sweet softball sized oranges last year. I have about 4 on there this year. I shouldn't complain. I basically just took a year off, too. My bigger problem is my valencia. It put out one huge O as a baby, then it got weird. I pruned it wrong. Citrus trees are all grafted onto wild lemon rootballs. I pruned the withered good stalk and let the wild lemon grow. Hell, I didn't know. Now it's 13 feet tall and full of hypodermic thorns, but no fruit. It's not an orange tree anymore. It's a frigging wild lemon. Assassin of pool floats. I have to cut it down and dig it up. I've been living in a fool's paradise for 3 years, waiting for this bitch to bear fruit.

My key lime's doing good after last year's frost, though. I'll have enough limes for about 2 key lime pies and 85 Cuba Libres. My little lemon's berserk as well, I tell ya. I'll have enough for 360 vodka tonics or 992 MacCallan's with a twist. Microsoft Project tells me I should pre-register by July for the liver transplant should this crop come to, uh, fruition.

in the blogspot servers so I'll try to re-engage tonight. Actually I think the Tim Blair link knocked me into an elliptical orbit. The good news is, while I was sulking I remembered I guy I knew who blew his face off and lived, and a man with no legs I stepped on in Lisbon. I felt better then.

Blogger's like a woman. When they start acting up if you ignore 'em for a few days they'll start acting right.

CAVEAT 1: They'll backslide. They always do.

CAVEAT 2: Unlike a woman, I have no intention of rogering Blogger.