Witty Repartee

The other day, while bitching to myself about the dumb luck of The Boy’s Transmission shitting itself I had a thought.

I’ve really enjoyed driving the kids to school again. The drive on Monday was just plain fun. The entire drive was full of laughter that resulted from very quick verbal sparring about this and that. I really enjoy the back-and-forth with them, whether it’s silly stuff or serious discussion. Plus, I figure the quick exchanges are to their little developing brains, what a whetstone is to a knife.

The happiness that driving the kids to school in the mornings has brought me is definitely worth the $2K+ it’s costing me to repair the transmission of The Boy’s car.

It’s been a fun week.

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Memory Du Jour:
1978/1979, Arizona
Getting punched in the face in the bleachers at a high school football game. My friend, Mike, was throwing ice. Some of it hit a dude. The dude threatened Mike in some way or another. My mouth bought me the knuckle sandwich that knocked me out for a minute or two. I didn’t feel anything. I just remember waking up. Nay was there. I remember her comforting me. You were there weren’t you Nay? :-)

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Quote of the Day:
Dissent is the highest form of patriotism --Thomas Jefferson

Cry Me a River of Tears

The transmission on The Boy’s car crapped out on Friday. I took it to our trusty (well as trusty as any mechanic can be) mechanic for a look-see. The estimate?

Mechanic #1:
Local rebuild with 2yr warranty: $2,000
Factory rebuild with 3yr warranty: $2,870
Replace two motor mounts: $400
Parts & labor included
NOT including tax.

Mechanic #2 is going to do it for $2K + tax for the whole thing.

Of course, this is the first car out of four or five we’ve bought from this dealer, that we I decided didn’t need the extended warranty: “It’s too expensive. We can get a cheaper warranty on our own.” I never did. Talk about a big, fat, “I told you so.”

So feel sorry for me and give me a little lovin’.

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This past Saturday’s main course for dinner was Prawns & Mushrooms Chardonnay. Big shrimpies were used in place of the prawns the grocer didn’t have. It was good, though I didn’t reduce the wine as I should’ve.













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While The Girl and The Warden were at a concert in Austin yesterday, The Boy and I went to Subway for din-din. We both got combos. Combos come with chips. The chips I got were Baked Lays. Here’s a series of photos. Tell me what’s wrong here:













Yeah, I thought the same thing. What a sorry ass bag of chips. If I would've known I was gonna get eight fucking chips, in the bag, I wouldn't have bought the bastards at all.

The greed in this country is astounding at times. Lays has just made my list of Companies I don't Like.

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Rain today. Finally!!!!












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Memory Du Jour:
1964 or so, train station, Los Angeles, California
I was VERY young, but confirmed this memory with my mom a few years ago. I was in the train station with a family friend. We had either just come from, or were just headed to Reno. Ellen bought me a toy, which I absolutely loved. I’m not sure if I ever had another one like it. I only remember this one. And I really, really thought it was, as a friend of mine used to say, “the cat’s ass,” whatever the hell that means.

I know Webmiztress won’t remember this; she’s too young. Yeah, I said it, Young! ;-) but…do any of my more seasoned friends recall this?

That's right. It's WHEE-LO! And man was it fucking fun!!! So yesterday a coworker and I talked about old toys and how kids back then (and before) relied on their own imaginations to have fun, as opposed to today where so many kids rely on the imaginations of geek game programmers and television producers to decide where “their” imaginations will take them.

VH1 just finished a series called “I Love Toys.” Perhaps that’s what sparked my memory and got me feeling nostalgic and kinda sorta wishing things were a little simpler today (except for computers and cell phones and my DVR!). By the way, WHEE-LO wasn’t on the program.

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Quote of the Day:
That kid's about as sharp as a pound of wet liver.” – Foghorn Leghorn

No Hablo Ess-pan-yole

Something occurred to me the other day when I was thinking about one of my favorites dishes, a fried bologna sandwich. I’m not sure bologna is made the way it used to be. It doesn’t matter what kind of bologna I get these days, it just doesn’t cook like it used to.

Remember how when you fried it, the middle would rise up and you’d have to either hold it down or poke a little hole in it so it would stay down? And do you remember when you’d flip it over it would transform into a little, meat-product sombrero? Yeah? Me too. And it was greasy; not greasy like bacon, but greasy enough. Bologna just ain’t greasy like it used to be and it stays flat, which takes the fun AND the challenge out of cooking it.

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So we got this sack of peanuts from a local meat market the other day...and over 50% of them are quadruple peanuts. I’ve never seen so many of those fuckers in one place in all of my life. Where I once used to marvel at the rare four-banger, I know find myself yearning for the quintuple now!

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Here’s a pretty groovy little political quiz. Check it out and post the results back. It takes, oh, maybe a minute:

http://www.theadvocates.org/quiz.html

I scored “Libertarian”

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The Boy has my car tonight. His is having a little problem with the transmission. We took it down the road to the shop. The dude thinks it could be with the on board computer. I’m guessing that’ll be cheaper than if it was something with the actual transmission.

I’ll be driving the kids to school on Monday. That’ll be nice. I miss being with them for the drive.

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And the Warden? She went over to a friend’s new house for a house warming beer and to “help” her wait for the cable company to show up.

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Me? I’m listening to the tee-vee and blogging while intoxicated. I’m not ripped or anything; just sipping on a glass of smooth, sexy rum (my 3rd one).

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Memory Du Jour:
I thought about relating a little story about a Dominican prostitute I doinked back in 1984 when I was unmarried, unattached, and a bad, bad boy. But then I thought it would be wholly inappropriate. I didn’t think it would show very good taste if I told everyone in the free world that I had “sexual relations” with a prostitute I met in a bar. Likewise, I thought it would be most improper to relate how I pretended like I didn’t speak Spanish when she invited me back to her room. And finally, I couldn’t imagine how painfully embarrassing it would be to admit that, after having given this nice looking woman all my hot monkey love, I feigned ignorance (i.e. “I didn’t know you were a prostitute”) and bankruptcy .... and paid her for her services with a blanket I’d purchased in town at a market I thank my lucky stars I have the tact, sense and good genes to not admit any of that to any of you, my loyal (four) readers.

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Quote of the Day:
She don't like salami, she don't want pastrami
She don't want a chicken, she don't want a roast
She just wants her double dose of my
Beef, beef, beef, beef balogna
Beef, beef, beef, beef balogna
Beef, beef, beef, beef balogna
--Fear, from the album, nineteen eighty something

Track List:
1. Let's Have a War
2. Beef Bologna
3. Camarillo
4. I Don't Care About You
5. New York's Alright If You Like Saxophones
6. Gimme Some Action
7. Foreign Policy
8. We Destroy the Family
9. I Love Livin' in the City
10. Disconnected
11. We Gotta Get Out of This Place
12. Fresh Flesh
13. Getting the Brush
14. No More Nothing
15. Fuck Christmas

It Ain't Easy Being Cheesy

(7:24pm Updated for links & photos)

Why are those cheese crackers (the ones in the convenient 9-pack) colored orange? Does the color indicate the amount of cheese in the cracker? If not, does the color make the eater think it’s cheesier?

Same with regular Cheetos. As far as I know, they’re not that color because of the .5% of cheese that’s in the product.

And Flaming Cheetos. Are they red because of the spicy ingredients? Are they flaming because of the "Homosexual Agenda" the Christian Right is vigorously fighting? If you buy off on the Homosexual Agenda thing, does the Christian Right think I’m gay or bi or otherwised manlove-inclined because I like Flaming Cheetos?

My point is: Why the hell is food colored like that? Has marketing research proven that people are really so stupid that they can’t read; or that they’re so unbelieving they need artificial colors to affirm the fact that cheese crackers are supposed to taste like cheese (even if they don’t have much in them)?

Here’s an article I Googled just a second ago for the hell of it. Kinda ruins my fun thinking of six-figure-salaried wieners sitting in a secret marketing think tank deciding how stupid we consumers are. Then again....consumers (not me of course) really are suckers and kinda stupid.

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Memory Du Jour:
1983, Port Au Prince, Haiti
Three friends and I took a cab (one we’d hired all day for $10) from Port Au Prince to the Barbancourt Rum Factory in the mountainous rainforest above the city. The driver (Max) and the “muscle” (Jean) were great awesome drivers & guides.

We were talking as the drivers negotiated the windy roads. We rounded one corner and noticed a Haitian military guy standing on the side of the road in uniform, packing an M-1 carbine. We got closer and he leveled the carbine at the car. My friends and I freaked out and hit the deck. Max stepped on the gas.

When we were done trembling like bitches, we popped back up and bitched at Max for not stopping. He said something like, “Oh they won’t shoot, but if we stop, they’ll rob us of everything we have; money, jewelry and clothes.”

And so we continued to the rum factory where we got shitfaced while sampling the 21 varieties of Barbancourt rum.

I bought a few gifts when we were assaulted by vendors on the way out of the rum factory. Among the gifts was a hat for Nay. I’m surprised it survived the long journey back to Arizona, but it did. Ignore the stupid glasses I bought from one of the Haitian vendors. I’m on the right The guy on the left was a friend nicknamed Mango because of the shape of his head.

Quote of the Day:
"After the bombing, most Iraqis saw what the perpetuators of this attack were trying to do." —George W. Bush, on the bombing of the Golden Mosque of Samarra in Iraq, March 13, 2006, Washington, D.C.

Thug Strife

”3,6,9 damn she fine hopin she can sock it to me one mo time
Get low, Get low 2x
To the window, to the wall, (to dat wall)
To the sweat drop down my balls (MY BALLS)
To all these bitches crawl (crawl)
To all skeet skeet motherfucker (motherfucker!) all skeet skeet god dam (God dam)
To all skeet skeet motherfucker (motherfucker!) all skeet skeet god dam (God dam)”

Etc.

Now THOSE are some creative and inspiring lyrics. Something a grandmother would be proud to brag about.

Yesterday, after hearing this suck-ass song for the nine zillionth time on my daughter’s stereo, I decided to check the lyrics. Not because I particularly liked the song, or the sorry excuse for a melody, but because I couldn’t understand most of what was being said (I’m changing my major to Ebonics, by the way).

So I read the lyrics. Nice, I thought. I went to The Girl’s room and broke the news to her: “I don’t want to hear that song in this house again.” I then asked her if she understood what they were saying and what they meant. She did. I asked her what she thought about the song and about singing along with specific parts of the song. She got teary eyed, appropriately. We ended the conversation on a good note. I told her I wasn’t mad at her; that I just didn’t think it was appropriate for a fourteen-year-old to be listening to those kinds of lyrics.

So there she was, singing along with some shitbags bellowing about their sweaty balls and the like. And of course, no song would be complete without a good ol’ reference to “skeeting.”

skeet

1. To ejaculate. "This hoe she sucked my dick behind the store and I
   skeeted off in her throat" -- Ying Yang Twins (Georgia Dome), "She got freaky in yo' six-fo', I
   skeeted in her throat" -- Dr. Dre featuring Hittman, Kurupt, Nate Dogg & Six-Two (Xxplosive) [1].

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m far from a prude; I mean way far from being a prude...but this kind of shit has absolutely no artistic, musical or meaningful social value at all. Plain and simple, it’s shit – Pure, 100% worthless fucking shit. I know our folks weren’t particularly fond of the music we listened to back in the day, but I don’t recall anyone ever singing about skeeting on someone. The subtlety of sexual references in music just ain’t there any more.

I’m ashamed of myself for not catching this sooner.

Thank you. That is all.

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For those of you who didn’t know, All-American, Austin-based Dell Computers is fixin’ to double the number of its employees in India to 20,000. Dell has four call centers, testing centers, and a software development center.

I used to recommend Dell to the non-computer savvy, but no more. Gateway, at least, outsources its call centers to Canada.

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Memory Du Jour:
1977, Arizona
My knucklehead neighbor friend and I made a time bomb. It was an empty, aluminum, 16oz Coors can filled with various gunpowder, shot, and nails. The timer was a twisted up paper towel.

My buddy and I set it on a 5-foot high brick wall, lit the “fuse” and trotted off. We lay prone behind a berm and watched the paper towel burn into the can. Nothing happened. I don’t recall how long we laid there waiting for our bomb to blow up, but it wasn’t long enough.

We both stood up and walked tentatively toward the wall and the can, which was just barely smoldering. Guess what happened when we were about 6 feet from the can. Yep:

BOOM!

My neighbor friend was hysterical. I was panicky, but I wasn’t crying like a bitch (no offense ladies. It’s all the rap talk makin’ me talk like that).

Fortunately for the both of us, neither of us was smart enough to know that a wimpy aluminum can wasn’t strong enough to allow enough blast pressure to build up to do any real damage.

But, we both had some great powder burns that made for great conversation at school. I think I might’ve even got a sympathy lay out of it. Then again, I might’ve just imagined that. But all 15-year-olds “imagine” getting laid don’t they? ;-)

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Quote of the Day:
"I believe that a prosperous, democratic Pakistan will be a steadfast
partner for America, a peaceful neighbor for India, and a force for freedom and moderation in the Arab world." —George W. Bush, mistakenly identifying Pakistan as an Arab country, Islamabad, Pakistan, March 3, 2006

Red White and Blow Me (Did I say that out loud?)

Watching ABC news this morning. They were discussing the "plight" of a woman whose husband is in Iraq. She apparently has a “Support our Troops” sign in her front yard, which violates the rules of the homeowners association to which she belongs. Here’s a local Tampa story on it.

Anyway....Andrea Canning (ABC News) said that we should “support our troops no matter what” with a tone of disapproval for the homeowners association that was enforcing the rule against the sign.

No matter what? Using that mentality, I should be allowed to put star-spangled, “support our troops” tattoos on each of my ass cheeks and mow my lawn with just a t-shirt on. Or maybe they’d prefer I drive around the neighborhood once a day (late at night) playing a super-loud support our troops rap on my ghettolicious, thumping car stereo. Or maybe I’ll build a house in the shape and color of one of those way-overused ribbons.

Personally, I don’t have a problem with the sign, nor do I have a problem with the homeowner association rule. What I do have a problem with is someone that wants to be exempt from the rule because her husband is serving in the military.

If she wants the rule changed, she should be made to go through the same red tape as anyone would have to go through to get a bylaw changed.

Besides, a red, white and blue sign in a yard (or on your car) does not support anyone but the people making and selling the fucking things.

Instead of buying one of those lame-ass magnets or signs (Made in China), spend your $ on a donation to a rehabilitation center for vets, or some other non-profit veterans support group. Or start an organization on your own and do something that really supports our troops.

Here’s a link with a long list of organizations.

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Memory Du Jour:
1979 (17yrs old)
Threatening to beat an off-duty DPS trooper (and neighbor) to death (in writing and in person) with a baseball bat for cussing out my Mom and making her cry.

Our property had filled with irrigation water faster than normal, and it flooded the dirt roads. Apparently this tweaked his simple little brain.

Note: A couple of years later, his wife committed suicide with his service revolver (.357) at the dinner table in front of him and their two daughters. Tells ya what kinda guy this was.

Quote of the Day:
"Life is hard. It’s even harder if you’re stupid." -- Anonymous

Doggie Do, Doggie Don't

Yesterday I started reclaiming the back yard from the doggies. I cleaned up the remnants of a stuffed animal the neighbor kids had thrown to them. I raked and picked up anything they didn’t need or play with. There was a lot of shit…literally and figuratively. I also put down some grass fertilizer/feed, and watered the hell out of the yard. I hope to have thick grass back there this year to keep the mutts from digging.

I went to the store to get some stuff, including fixin’s for some of my world-famous (yeah right) carne guisada verde (green meat stew). I also made white rice and refritos (refried beans for you non-beaners). Served with freshly chopped onion & cilantro, and fresh corn tortillas.

Later that evening The Boy and I fetched videos. We watched “Hustle and Flow”, and a sick, sick video called "The Aristocrats." If you don’t mind foul (and I mean foul) jokes rent it. The Boy and I were dying through parts of it.


A picture of part of our modest kitchen for Y:









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Memory Du Jour:
1983 or so, Key West, Florida
I was on a boat with some friends near Sand Key for some snorkeling and spear fishing. I lowered myself into the water and, after clearing my mask, I spied a huge barracuda. He spied me and I, in turn, spied his big, pointy teeth. He was about five feet from me. I reached for my 8” Dacor dive knife, which was strapped to my calf, but then realized that was stupid in two ways: 1) Knife shiny. Mr. Barracuda likes shiny things. 2) Mr. Barracuda is much faster than I am. I slowly backed away, watching him watching me.

He swam slowly away after a minute or so and we speared fish and nabbed lobster for a big party later that evening.

Quote of the Day:

"Hawaii is a unique state. It is a small state. It is a state that is by itself. It is a --it is different from the other 49 states. Well, all states are different, but it's got a particularly unique situation. – Dan Quayle

It's a Clam Bake!

The Warden finally showed up yesterday evening. We got there just before 6:30pm, right after my boss & his wife showed up. The gig was nothing to write home about. Dinner was decent though. So was the company & the cocktails. My boss, his wife, The Warden and I were at a table with a couple of kids (20s).

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Not much planned for today. Well, not much that I know of anyway. I may head to the store for a pile of habanero peppers and a couple of heads of garlic to make a potent anti-doggy potion that I’ll spray along the fence line to keep the mongrels from digging.

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This video is pretty clever (Sorry Y, it may suck on dial-up).

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Memory Du Jour:
1970, Manhattan Beach, California

I was 8 years old and spent the day digging clams at Pismo Beach with a school friend and his parents. I returned home with a fair number of Pismo clams, much to the joy of my mom, who promptly cooked them up. They were the most delicious clams I have ever had in my life.

A few years ago I told her about this memory and asked her if she remembered how she’d cooked the clams. She didn’t. All I remember is that she did them in a cast iron pan and that they tasted buttery. One day I’ll try to recreate them. When I do, I’ll share the recipe.

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Quote of the Day:
15,000 atheists in London rioted after a blank sheet of paper was found on a cartoonist’s desk. — Found on bash.org

Party Time?

It’s 4:48pm. I’m showered, dressed, and waiting on The Warden.

I got off work a little after three and headed home. I called The Warden to make sure that she’d received my email confirming the time of tonight’s retirement party/dinner I told her about three weeks ago. She had. This was at 3:20pm.

She went on to tell me she had a 4:00pm appointment to get her nails done, then had to buy a new pair of shoes for the occasion (another one of those things taught to females in the super-secrecy of Woman School). I acknowledged her and headed for the store myself to buy some unrelated clothes. I was in and out with a shirt, a t-shirt, and some underwear in less than 15 minutes (would’ve been 10 if it weren’t for the couple bickering with a cashier and the manager).

So anyway…It’s 4:51pm and The Warden has yet to arrive. She still has to shower, dry her hair, get dressed, and primp. Think we’ll make the beginning of the 6:00pm social? I think not. At least we’ll make the dinner…I hope.

I appeal to the dean of Woman School to heed my advice for curriculum change:
”The Woman, with sufficient advance notice, should be party-ready well enough in advance to afford timely arrivals at The Man’s social/business functions. This will preclude The Man’s having to give an explanation of the delayed arrival without actually dropping dime on The Woman, who was the real cause of the tardiness.”

It’s 4:57 as I post and still – No Warden.

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Memory Du Jour:
Sometime between 1978/1980
Sitting in dry (sometimes running) irrigation ditch by my house in AZ having long talks with Nancy about girl/guy problems and how "tough" we had it.

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Quote of the Day:
"Man. If that bitch don't get her pretty soon......I'm gonna have to wait some more. -- Cheech Marin, Up in Smoke

Beautiful Day

(I'm toying with Blog templates. I'm kind of attached to the dark one, but let me know what you think about this one)

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I'm off today. The morning was a relaxation-fest. I've been a little more productive this afternoon. I fertilized and watered the front lawn, washed my car, deposited some $ in my bank, and went to the grocery store to get fixins for stew.

There was a slow-moving, gray-haired, little old lady in the produce section with me. When we passed, she smiled at me like my mom used to. I smiled back and said hello. I felt sad and my heart hurt a little. Strike that. My heart hurt a lot.

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Nothing else of note to write. Here are some of the stew fixins:
















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Memory Du Jour:
Circa 1976
Salmon fishing with my mom in Puget Sound. We were visiting friends on Vashon Island and went to the mainland for the day to rent a little outboard to fish. Mom loved fishing. We fished and tooled around all day. Didn't catch shit, but it was fun. It was adventurous when we got caught in an eddy that the little boat strained to get through.

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Quote of the Day:
I believe we are called to do the hard work to make our communities and quality of life a better place." —George W. Bush, Collinsville, Ill., Jan. 5, 2005

Have a Little Vagina

The seafood extravaganza on Saturday was freakin' awesome if I do say so myself:
---5lbs of crab
---5.5 lbs of shrimp
---1lb of mussels
---Baby red potatoes
---Corn on the cob
---Smoked sausage

I boiled it all up, made some dipping sauce for the potatoes, some garlic butter butter fer the crab & mussels, and was loved by all. I ate way too much, but I suppose eating way too much seafood is better than eating way too much pie, or cake, or deep fried Twinkies.

"Aww, look at 'em. They look like little vaginas." I almost choked on whatever was in my gullet at the time. The Warden enjoyed the laughter that resulted from her observation and took great pleasure in encouraging me, Rachel, her husband, and Rachel's father to "Have another little vagina. They're delicious." So I just had to snap a picture of one of the little buggers. (that's my hand, ain't it purty?)

This is the beginning of a little creation that's a cross between pico de gallo and ceviche: Tomatoes, onions, cilantro, jalapeños, diced avocado, chopped/boiled shrimp, flat Tecate beer, and garlic. Mucho delicious-o.

This is what was left after our gallant attempt to eat every last freakin' bit of the food.






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The Warden went to vote in our local primaries yesterday. What she found there bothered both of us.

Instead of the usual ONE table where voters are ID’d and/or checked against the registered voters list before being allowed to vote, there were TWO tables: Republican and Democrat. Neither of us had ever seen this before. When she asked a worker about it, they gave her some lame-ass excuse about how the order of the candidates on those “trusty” electronicalistic voting machines was mixed.

To top things off, the candidates listed on those electronicalistic voting machines did not indicate their party affiliation, which I also found plain suspicious.

Any comments? Anyone else experience this?

Oh, and I didn’t vote yesterday because of some odd Texas law that says if I vote in the primaries, I can’t vote for my Independent candidate. This, even though he’s not even on the freakin’ ballot yet (petitioning started at midnight).

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Memory Du Jour:
Circa 1987The Warden & I went to see a boxing match (Buddy McGirt vs. Meldrick Taylor) at one of the casinos and got, oh, just a little pie-eyed. We gambled after the fight, then decided to go somewhere else. We drove off in search of a suitable local bar to continue our imbibing. During our meandering, we saw a street that looked familiar, then another. After the second street, we realized they were streets from the game Monopoly! Baltic, Atlantic, Pacific, Mediterranean, etc! It was too cool, and much fun.

I don’t know if it was because we were just shitfaced, or we were really that stupid, but until then, we didn’t know that the streets on the Monopoly board were from Atlantic City. I’d seen a couple of the railroads in the general area, but never the streets. Anyway…so we drove around for the rest of our evening trying to find every street from the game. I don’t remember if we actually did, but we had a hell of a fun time…from what I remember.

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Quote of the Day:
"People don't need to worry about security. This deal wouldn't go forward if we were concerned about the security for the United States of America." —George W. Bush, on the deal to hand over U.S. port security, Washington, D.C., Feb. 23, 2006

I love Manhattan!

I have a headache this morning.

I met The Warden for happy hour at around 5:30pm. A couple we know was there too. We drank and yapped and laughed for about five hours. It was fun, and the Manhattans were mahvelous! I had about six of them, which explains the headache.

Today we’re going over to their place where I shall display my culinary prowess by throwing down a Cajun seafood boil: Crab legs, crawfish, little red potatoes, corn on the cob, shrimp, smoked sausage, and whatever else I feel like grabbing while we’re at the store this afternoon. I may whip up a quick pot of gumbo too. I got the recipe from a friend who’s from Cut Off, Louisiana.

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I bought myself a prize yesterday – A 5.1 megapixel Sony DSC-H1 Cybershot digital camera. I’ll finally have to retire my old Olympus digital camera. Maybe I’ll give it to The Girl.

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Memory Du Jour:
1975 -- Eighth Grade Angie, my girlfriend of about two weeks, and possessor of the first lovely pair of big ol’ breastesses I ever really noticed. They really were lovely ... and they really were big! Thanks Angie wherever you are!

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Special Feature In Lieu of Quote of the Day:
A Republican Assemblyman from New Jersey, Peter Peter
Biondi recently introduced a bill to the New Jersey State Legislature that I hope will be squashed flat before it gets anywhere.

In a nutshell, the bill will require Internet Service Providers (ISPs) to positively identify every ”Information Content Provider” (idiotspeak for person) who posts anything in a public forum, i.e. discussion boards, etc. Identification by name, address, etc., would be maintained by the ISP.

The lame reason for this bill is to help stop false and defamatory statements from being posted in public forums.

This is another attempt by a D.I.G. (Dumbass In Government) to incrementally infringe on our rights, and another example of a power-hungry politician’s attempt to gain more control over citizens. Visit this D.I.G. and send him a note. I did.

TGIFF

It’s March 3rd. Our Fearless Leader is traveling and impressing the world with his giant brain again.

One of the clips I heard this morning was of bush telling his Indian audience that the “Cold War is behind us” and that it’s time for the US and India to “become strategic partners.” Cold War? India? I had no idea India was a part of that. Stupid me. Here I thought it was the USSR and other Eastern Bloc countries.

And how is it that all of a sudden he’s talking about how we’re going to catch Bin Laden? Now there’s a novel idea. Hey, I have a better idea. How ‘bout we all hop in the time machine for a do-over. Committing money, resources and troops to find Bin Laden and cripple Al Qaeda sounds like something we might want to do first next time around. They're the ones who attacked us after all.

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Memory Du Jour:
Ocho Rios, Jamaica. The Girl had just been born. Our ship had pulled in for a much-deserved, two-day break. I bought cheap cigars for my buddies. I had a big, fat Havana cigar that my mom had brought back for me from her last teaching gig in Beijing.

We spent the day at the foot of Dunns River Falls drinking Appleton Rum straight out of the bottle, smoking cee-gars, and watching the neverending line of fabulous (and I mean fabulous!), skimpily clad hardbodies start their ascent of the falls.


This is where we drank & smoked
at the picnic tables we dragged over


I smoked half of my Havana. I still have the other half, which I’m saving for The Girl’s wedding. It may not be as good as the first half, but I’m a sentimental kinda guy and I like the idea of a toast and a ceremonial lighting of the thing to recognize the milestone. Hopefully that won't happen for a while.

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Quote of the Day:
"And I want those who are questioning it to step up and explain why all of a sudden a Middle Eastern company is held to a different standard than a Great British company." —George W. Bush, defending a plan to allow a company controlled by the United Arab Emirates to manage ports in the United States, aboard Air Force One, Feb. 21, 2006

It's a Twister, It's a Twister

One day back in the mid-90s, I was driving an old ’84 Honda Accord up to San Antonio from Corpus Christi. I was heading north on I-37, just coming up to the ramp that merges Texas 358 into the fast lane of I-37 northbound lanes. It was drizzling. I was in the middle of three lanes doing 70-75MPH.

Next thing ya know, a big, duely, flatbed Chevy with a welding machine on it (against the back of the cab) is sliding off the 358-to-I37N ramp sorta sideways. Not much I could do at that point.

The truck hit the rear left quarterpanel of my car and sent me into a 70MPH spin. Reminded me, in retrospect, of the “It’s a twister, it’s a twister” scene from Airplane. when I finally came to a halt, I was on the center median, in a shallow ravine between the northbound and southbound lanes.

I pounded the steering wheel a couple of times, furious that I’d just been whacked. I got out and walked, way-too-calmly, to the dude who hit me. He had his wife and two kids in the cab.

“What happened man?”
“I don’t know. I just started sliding.” [No shit dumbass. It’s raining]
“You guys okay?”
“Yeah, we’re okay, but I lost the welding machine off my truck.”
[He pointed across the highway at the overpass I’d just spun over]
“You better go make sure it didn’t crush someone.”
[It had flown off his truck and over the overpass]

I went back to my car, and reached in for my smokes. When I pulled them out my hands were shaking. Ditto when I lit the smoke, one of the best smokes I’d ever had. We waited for cops. I spoke to witnesses.

Amazingly, the little Honda survived (but ended up “totaled” in the end). The truck did not. It was loaded on a flatbed and hauled away. I got some strange satisfaction out of knowing that my little, reliable Honda survived to make an attempt at the150 mile ride home.

When it was all over, I hit the road. I drove in a surreal haze, very aware that I could have died in that accident had I left work a few short seconds earlier (I would’ve been hit dead center and most likely pushed into the concrete retaining wall and perhaps off the overpass).

When I called to inform The Warden, she reminded me that we had a bowling league that night, and said we could cancel if I didn’t feel up to it. I told her I’d be fine.
And so we bowled...and drank beer, and had fun with our friends. I was still in the haze, and strangely very calm; like everything I did, said and thought was in slow motion. I drank a LOT of beer, but didn’t get drunk. I bowled my ass off that night: two-fifty-something, the best game I’ve ever had.

Memory Du Jour:
See Above

Quote of the Day:
"I think it's really important for this great state of baseball to reach out to people of all walks of life to make sure that the sport is inclusive. The best way to do it is to convince little kids how to—the beauty of playing baseball." —George W. Bush, Washington, D.C., Feb. 13, 2006