Welcome to The Whiskey Rebel's Diary
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since 05/28/01
11/16/09
In our society, the difference between winning and losing is often overstated by one group of people, yet undervalued and even worse considered bad by another. I got to thinking about this when I noticed that many of my Gameknot.com chess opponents are so pathetically far behind in material they haven't a prayer and should throw in the towel. In the game of chess, no matter how far behind you are in material you can occasionally swindle your opponent into splitting the point...what is known as a "draw". It occasionally happens on top master levels even, although for the most part if a Grandmaster is behind to a fellow GM by a couple pawns or a knight or a bishop and there appears to be no compensation they resign rather than force a colleague into hours of work. When I am ahead by a rook or a queen and I notice my opponent playing on as if they're going to wear me out I sometimes begin Queening one pawn after another with a big smile on my face, dragging out their punishment, turning the tables. Hey, it's fun to win! If you want to sit at the table and test me when you're dead lost, feel free. Losing is painful.
Now, I can hear many of the chess coaches of the world groaning. They often demand that their pupils never resign a position, playing on many pieces (let's say the equivalent of 80 football points or 15 baseball runs) behind. This "rule" should be considered flexible in my book. When playing other kids of their own level, kids should play on until the shame and mental pain gets too bad. If a crowd of people is gathering to watch the obvious loser be stubborn, just shake hands and be a good loser.
Some coaches argue, hey..what if you miraculously salvage a draw or even a win by some freak event out of one of let's say a few dozen lost positions? Isn't that worth it?
I argue NO. In the long run, who cares if you draw or lose or win one more game? Rather than spend hours dragging things out, particularly with an accomplished player a better method of profiting from your loss is to resign tactfully and ask your opponent to go over the game with you or tell you where you went wrong.
Of course, if there is money at stake or a title of some sort, play on, but in the ordinary run of things try to learn from your mistakes rather than to simply swindle an opponent who has outplayed you.
When I was young and confused, I was filled with glee when I swindled a better opponent. I'd play the game for people and gloat. Now days I look back at those games as flukes, examples of bad chess on my part accompanied by rare luck. When I swindle a master, I never gloat these days (well, hardly ever) and realize that in some cases I didn't outplay my opponent at all. Yes, you do get credit for lasting long enough at the board for your opponent to make an incredible losing blunder. No, if you played horribly overall you shouldn't brag about it, you should bear down and book up for next time.
A pathetic large percentage of my opponents at Gameknot go for instant gratification: a cheap, quick, unlikely checkmate, leaving their pieces poorly placed, directly leading to their own swift loss all too often. It's like basketball players who shoot 3 pointers too often or football teams who predictably throw low percentage bomb passes so often that they don't have the ball long enough to win. This is a childish approach to any sport and a justification for adult coaches.
WORK, WORK, WORK!!! is the answer. Improve at what you do. Quit looking for the cheap way out.
And for fucks sake, if you're playing chess on-line, know when its time to resign. At a rate of a move every 3 days, why drag out a sure loss when you can lick your wounds and get onto other games you can benefit more from? Is the occasion cheap miracle that important?? HHmm?
11/11/09
What's with this horseshit about the government getting involved in what the hell we eat? I'm not talking of course about standards and measures related shit to protect us. Do you want the local government goofballs in your burg deciding what restaurants will serve? If you do, just fucking leave here and don't come back.
All the arguments I've heard in favor of it are lame, with the exception of one; if you simply love watching the mental meltdown of our nation, I can't really blame you.
"But Whiskey Rebel, the restaurants don't care how healthy the food is that they serve! They're only in it for money"
Of course. If they served healthy shit nobody wanted to eat, they'd go out of business. Restaurants aren't philanthropic organizations, they're in it sheerly for profit. They employ people and invest their profits in the way they see fit. If people didn't want to eat unhealthy stuff the majority of restaurants would've changed their menus long ago.
This is incredibly obvious, I feel silly even explaining this, but people around me have overheard supposedly grown adults with advanced education's arguing this point.
I've eaten my share of sodium and fat loaded stuff over the years, hey it tastes great. I'm 52 now and am all too aware of how many guys my age or younger are dead already or who have had heart attack scares. I've never had a heart attack or chest pains yet, but I'm probably pretty lucky in that sense. I came really, really close to it, but backed off suddenly and started eating low sodium stuff. I had to take up cooking and look for ways to not be completely bored by what I eat. I rarely eat fast food with a few exceptions I read about on the internet, never eat packaged food anymore (it's ALWAYS loaded with too much salt..even much of the stuff marked "lower sodium"). I force myself to eat fruit and vegetables and drink juice and take a damned vitamin for people in the heart risk category.
Whats that? I hear somebody out there saying "look at you..you're a fatass!"
Yes, but I'm a fatass with way, way lower blood pressure than I had before.
I can hear a few hardcore toughguys saying "so what..I'll take my chances"
GOOD. You've made a decision for yourself. You've nobody to blame when you wind up in a coronary ward. I realize I probably will anyway, but at least I can hopefully put it off for another few years.
How many people do you see existing off of the vending machine diet? A couple trips in the morning and afternoon to score soda's and candy and chips, topped by a fastfood lunch. That's fucked up health wise, but everybody does it. I got tired of paying money for overpriced shit and started bringing water to work long ago and something simple to eat. It saved me $12-$15 per day. Now, when I want a goddamned candybar or some chips or something that tastes good or keeps me awake, I indulge..on occasion. I'm a water freak. I love knowing that my bottle will live forever in some landfill, I love leaving that footprint. It costs $3.99 for a case of 24.
Those inexpensive little frozen entrees and ramen with it's sodium asskick powder sauce will send you to the grave 10 years earlier. I know from experience. I ate them constantly for years because they're cheap and it seemed to be healthier than fastfood. That's true, but most of them have that fatal dose of sodium that drove me near to having my own "incident". Make stuff at home, learn if you don't know how. You don't have to give up meat or beer or pasta or rice or potatoes unless you want to look like a swishy model. I eat this stuff everyday, minus the processed food sodium. The ways to season this stuff aren't that hard.
A friend talked to a 22 year old guy at work who eats packaged microwave stuff everyday. Get this: he's attended culinary school and can cook circles around me, but he chooses to eat this salty crud. He's already got high blood pressure and he says it runs in the family. If he didn't know how to cook that'd be one thing, but shit! If he deliberately chooses to follow in the short life expectancy footsteps of his relatives, that's his business though. we don't need laws telling him to live healthy.
I'm giving a bit of advice, but backing away. It's no fun reading this sort of horseshit I'll be the first to admit it. I'm no frigging healthnut and I'm in horrid shape, even though I'm better off than I used to be.
By the way, corporate beer and several liquors are very low in sodium. If a doctor tries to tell you to quit drinking, find a new doctor. Even bodybuilders drink vodka and cranberry juice.
If you have kids and are in a quandary about pop health issues, here's my unwarranted advice. Make sure your kids know how to cook basic stuff. Start 'em out early. My Mother didn't and it took me years to catch up. Fast food crap that they ask for isn't so bad that they shouldn't ever have it. If they load up on it everyday that's another thing. Remember that who or what is "healthy" is a relative thing that society views differently, periodically. Just like the animal nuts and environmental nuts take their causes too far, the health nuts are frequently just as overboard. A case can be made against eating almost anything. You've gotta eat though. Your family will get along better if you all view getting fed on a daily basis as a sort of project; a bit of a game. If you overdo things and force your kids to eat nothing but vile, healthy stuff it can backfire on you.
Again: A CASE CAN BE MADE AGAINST EATING ANYTHING. Make your own decisions and beware the suggestions of pop magazines and hokey housewife TV shows who appeal to lazy stay at home broads too lazy to chop stuff up or find fresh produce at the store or peel potatoes. Eat lots of healthy non processed MEAT and drink plenty of low sodium booze, guilt free. The problems lie elsewhere.
Well, that's my once every 6 months lecture.
11/09/09
Damn. I decided to sign up to an online chess site called gameknot.com in order to keep my opening repertoire fresh in my mind. Since the average response time for moves seems to be about once per day, I figured the games would last several weeks, I'd spend a lot of time working out tiny nuances.
I was inspired to do this by looking at the current games of an old chess pal from Aloha Oregon. He warned me that at first the competition wasn't much, you have to start towards the bottom of the rating chart and work your way up. That sounded ok to me. There's a sight I belong to where I can play fast games, which tend to be error prone. There's little time to think. This was going to give me something to sink my teeth into.
I started up my first batch of games and found myself back in grade school playing against clueless rubes who open the game by pushing the pawns in front of their rooks; the international sign of the amateur.
A couple of these players opened with such crappy moves, for 20 minutes or so I thought it was just some sort of hoax. On poorly run free sites like Yahoo you encounter smartasses who deliberately play bad because their little friends are watching and it's a "Beavis and Butthead play chess" way for them to yukk it up. Hey, it doesn't cost them anything.
Gameknot is a pay site for the most part. You can try it out free for awhile, but you can only play 2 games which might last months. There are leagues and teams and plenty of reasons to play legit and few to pull the crap you see at Yahoo. This is a good thing for serious players.
Anyway, the first several moves went by in these first games and I was still blown away. I've played mostly experts and a few folks above and below their level the last couple years. I had forgotten how bad chessplayers can be. I was under the impression that if 5 moves went by, you couldn't bail out of a game without losing rating points, which I need to earn to play better players. When the games were past that point and they were still stinking up the board I figured they were for real.
I don't make a habit of laughing at rotten novice players who haven't put any time into it. In person in games against these people I've been quiet and respectful as an adult. Of course as a snotty kid I'd flick shit at a bad opponent if they had displayed any atty-tude against me.
I'm gonna have to win 50 games or so against a string of weak opposition like I haven't faced in many, many years to climb the rating ladder and get an invite onto a good team and enter tournaments. So be it.
Let the carnage begin. I've already won a Queen in less than 10 moves in 1 game, a rook in similar time in another and am mowing several foes down like jackboots crushing grandma's flowerbeds.
These games are similar to wrestling squash matches. May as well try to leave 'em really smarting in a way they've never experienced. Let 'em tell their little chess friends that the Whiskeyrebel (my handle if you want to look at the games on-line) told 'em "Book up kid! or take up Sudoku or basket weaving!"
Remember, chess isn't a game for mollycoddles or milquetoasts.
11/07/09
The Yankees won the world series, there are abortion mills operating all over the country killing innocent fetuses, meanwhile species of lizards and ecologically precious slimes endangered in their river scum habitats. The Oakland Raiders have collapsed and no longer resemble a professional team. We MUST do something about that Al Davis. We MUST do something about the Steinbrenner family. We need a salary cap now or baseball will be ruined.
In my burning room, the dean of wrestling announcers Gordon Solie is calling a match between Johhny Walker and the ruthless Buddy Colt from 1972. He is clearly disgusted with Colt; something must be done about him. Tosh Togo and Stan Hansen battle each other. Tosh Togo was "Oddjob" in the James Bond film "Goldfinger". A minute later Gordon reminds us that Tosh Togo was Oddjob" in the film "Goldfinger".....Togo....Goldfinger. Now, Mike Graham and his Father Eddie are taking on the devious Medics.
Nancy Pelosi whipped the healthcare bill through the house on this dire Saturday. She's not only an unrepentant deadhead, she's sneaky for not doing the job during the week. Not half as sneaky as the Mongols. The Great Goliath is neither sneaky or great. Thunderbolt Patterson is slapping him around the ring like Schultz on Stoessal.
Pelosi could have pulled it off weeks ago by distributing bags of sand her party reps could've used at a well chosen moment to blind the Republicans and ramrod a vote through while they were being ferried to a hospital for medical attention.
Atlanta is the gateway to the South. Tosh Togo was Oddjob. Al Franken really is a concerned, thoughtful man. We all prospered under Reagan. The path to getting the Reublican party back in the white house is certainly not by selecting a middle of the road candidate many people can agree on, but rather by selecting an extremist more like Reagan that few will gravitate to. Really...this is true. I heard it on Limbaugh, baby.
I bought a chess book tonight about the life and games of a fellow from England who thrived in the late 19th century named Blackburne. He was an incredible drunk, but loved by the fans. He was interviewed by an alcohol tradepaper and told them his thinking only got clearer after a couple bottles of Scotch. Remarkably, his specialty was blindfold chess.
The fans loved Mil Mascaras more, even though he wore ugly puke green tights. For some reason, I've always thought his mask must smell really bad. I'm not sure why I've singled him out. Why are we so worried about working out a healthcare program since we're doomed anyhow according to Al Gore? Huh?
The Raiders can just flounder, I've got the Houston Texans to follow now.
If Al Gore is right though, we are probably enjoying the last professional football season. Hey, don't all intelligent scientists support him? Stink and Boner from U2 do.
What in the world is Bulldog Brower doing coming to the ring with Ivan Koloff? What in the world is Al Sharpton doing on O'Reilly's show again? Who in the world is that on my TV climbing out from under the table in front of Pelosi's throne...it's..it's..Sarah Palin! What's she doing to poor Nancy with those hair clippers...oh my! Somebody restore some order here; here's Al Franken coming to her rescue...wait..he's ripping his dress shirt off...and underneath it he's wearing a T-shirt with an elephant on it.
There will be no endangered lizards served in public schools from this day forth.
Oh my word, somebody has put Nair in Jeter's jock! The paparazzi are going wild. Somebody needs to restore some order.
The picture on all the TV screens across America go blank for a few seconds, then come back in a blood red hue. It's Hannity, Limbaugh and Nancy Reagan...they are cackling and patting each other on the back; suddenly the camera focuses on a head on a platter....is it Ronnie? Of course. Just like that old Hitler's brain film. They must have frozen his noggin. The democrats better get their legislation pushed through now. They're in for a real tussle. Even a bodyless Reagan vs. Obama will be like Schultz on Stoessal.
Atlanta is the gateway to the South and the Omni one of the major sports facilities in our nation. The excitement is mounting folks, as the healthcare bill now goes to the Senate. And here's a fellow whose seen action all over the pro-wrestling world, Rip Hawk.
Hey..it looks like Argentine Apollo must've shaved his frigging back.
11/04/09
I've got a specific mental problem that has been getting worse for several years now. No, this isn't a joke and if you check your calendar you'll find it isn't April 1st. I haven't been able to talk to hardly anybody about it, partly because I keep expecting to suddenly cure myself and also because I have friends and relatives with severe mental and physical problems that make mine seem silly.
There's no sense my going to a shrink. I wouldn't believe what they had to say any more than an M.D. I can't take it to a "higher power" because I don't recognize any, with the possibility of certain chessmasters.
So, I'm blurting the problem out here in front of the whole frigging world. I remember Howard Stern taking a problem to his audience years ago. Of course, he could've just been after rating points. Oh well, it seems like a good idea to me. What do I have to lose? I think at least a few of the people I've known for years have suspected worse; hopefully some of them will understand what the problem actually is.
Here's the problem: Over the last few years I've developed a major aversion to talking to people on the phone. I used to talk 10-15 hours per week with friends from all over the country long distance when it was very expensive. Nowadays since it is cheap (naturally) there is only a small handful of friends AND family even whom I can pick up the phone and call.
Sounds pretty silly, doesn't it? Well shit. Why don't I just pick up the damned thing with some liquid courage under my belt and solve the problem? Sorry, it's not that simple. If I don't handle the situation right I'm afraid I'll develop an even worse condition.
I can name at least 20 folks who I'm on good terms with I'd like to talk to, whom I can't force myself to call up or get on the line with.
In this case, if you think you're one of the people, you're probably right.
I just can't bring myself to do it and it's getting worse. The people I make exceptions for are growing fewer. The shame and pain comes from knowing several people who have such serious problems this seems ridiculous.
Thrusting a phone into my hands isn't going to help. That happened on our vacation once by accident...I talked to the individual, but can't bring myself to call them again.
I think it has something to do with a fear of the unexpected...what is this person going to say? Will I have an answer?
I've cured myself of other problems involving my mighty brain. I learned to swallow pills only a few years ago as an adult. Several years ago I felt a fear of leaving the house developing, but I quickly mastered that one. If I don't at least I hope I've given a few of you a chuckle at my expense, which is always my goal here.
11/02/09
I try not to dwell upon discussing the Mother who raised me with my long lost blood relatives. She's 87 years old now, has survived a few strokes and should be at peace. Unfortunately, my evil drinking still draws her scorn when we meet, which is of course rarely these days since we live a couple thousand miles apart. When we planned a visit with her and my Sister I grew up with (whom I hadn't seen in 15 years or so) on our recent west coast trip, we suggested an alternate location visit so we wouldn't have to venture into the disgusting bowels of Eugene Oregon. We booked a nice suite with bedrooms in a motel in Depoe Bay "the Surfrider".
I remember it well as a place our family and that of Mother's Sister spent a week when I was 12 or so. It's been heavily remodeled since then and they ripped down the trademark neon sign years ago, but the layout is still roughly the same. It was all familiar to me, the grassy cliff overlooking the ocean, the rocks and the smell. I remember sharing a bedroom with a Cousin. My Sister remembers that we stayed there, but not much beyond that. Mother just shook her head when I asked. She doesn't remember a thing. The adults drank their usual 20 cups of coffee every day, we played a lot of "Rook' and people were allowed to build fires on the beach back then. I remember a dead sea lion washed ashore and decayed slowly during our visit.
Great family memories? Nahhhh. Only for me. 10 years ago they probably would've accused me of making it all up. Of course never mind that I have proof on my side; I live 2,000 miles away yet recalled the name of the place from back home in Texas. We looked the hotels website up and booked it according to my memories. How could I have made that up?
I'm glad that they've finally conceded that I have a decent memory about some things. Of course it didn't hurt that the State park next door was a favorite place for me to go to with friends when I skipped school in my senior year of high school.
My Sister and I got along pretty well this time. Mother was in a jolly mood too for several hours. We had a kitchen and a living room and separate bedrooms so we weren't cramped together. After a nice dinner in the hotel restaurant, I naturally waded into my beer and whiskey supply. I wondered if Mother was going to spoil things by starting a fuss over it; I wasn't going to hold back though. Why would I?
"Oh Philip" she started in, "my final wish is that you don't drink so much!"
Never mind the fact that she had drank wine with dinner that very night, a sin that qualified one for hell according to my upbringing. There are several relatives I'd avoid drinking in front of if they requested it, but not her. It's the same old, old, old battle I got sick of years ago.
Mother is a favorite Aunt of several Nieces and Nephews. They love her to pieces. She's got a nice, sweet side to her. From my vantage point growing up, it was visible most often during the period my old man and I and her would drink together with good meals in nice restaurants. After he died, she never remarried. She merely dedicated herself to pestering the poo out of me at every turn concerning alcohol, my horrible taste in clothes, my hairdo (no matter when I wore it very short or middle of the back like now, she always whined about it). When Elvis was just a baby she whined because we didn't spank him.
I came close to cutting her off one time, but luckily she bounced back from the worst of her crap.
On this occasion, when she started up both Marla and my Sister tried to cajole into not beating the same old drum, since we had one night together.
My response to her was simply this: "Mother, I'm 52 years old, I raised a perfect Son who teaches school. I've earned the right to do as I please, just like you had the right to drink wine with your dinner. I can't remember the last time I did something I regret while drunk. One last thing (I waved my beer in the air for emphasis)..the drunk you're really angry at is your Father. I am not him. I wish you'd forgive him for his faults. That's your business though if you don't want to. Just remember, I am not him".
I only figured out things about her Father around 1990 or so. He was a prosperous businessman who lost his money in the great depression and never managed to bounce back. From the time I was a little kid I was taught how horrible he was. When I became a Father myself I realized that things aren't that simple, about old Grandpa, mother or myself.
During a 2 hour car ride around 1990 my Mother asked if I was angry about certain things she felt bad about from when I was a child. I'm sure this included from her viewpoint some awful beatings I took. By never spanking Elvis we made a point in front of her and her extended family. We probably got lucky on that point. If El had siblings things might not have gone quite so well.
So, on that date during that car ride in 1990 in which we finally opened up about some touchy things, I told her I forgave her for almost everything from childhood; I told her I knew full well that being is parent is tough and that her and my old man weren't "bad" parents in my book, they were really just average.
I then advised her that the only single thing I didn't forgive them for was....(she leaned forward in her carseat at this point..anxious) SENDING ME TO CHURCH CAMP.
I've written about that horrid experience in depth (26 pages in an as yet unpublished book to be precise). She chuckled at first as if I was kidding, but I was not.
I still haven't really.
Anyway, on this Fall night a couple weeks ago a miracle took place. While my Mother was starting in on me she began to bleed from a pinhole in her mouth, probably caused by too vigorous toothpick action. The ladies tried to staunch it with teabags. Finally, they had to stuff clothes in her mouth, which cut short any lectures. Both Sister and Marla later whispered to me how they thought that having cloth stuffed in her mouth was just a bit funny.
She soon seemed to forget her need to lecture me and wound up having a visit that was pleasant enough from her perspective that she was beaming with happiness the next morning. She said she had a great time..a comment which stunned me.
What miraculous force caused her mouth to bleed? Was it simply a coincidence?
I don't get that lucky all that often. I thought that by being at the Oregon coast on back to back sunny days I had used about all I could expect up.
11/01/09
It's about time I clarified my opinions on "B(Oregon)" and "Snoreland" and other locations in the State of Oregon. Undoubtedly, it puzzles my relatives in Oregon to a great extent when I tell them how much I enjoy their homes and communities and my ancestry and then they see me rip into their State on the internet.
On our recent trip we saw a helluva lot of beautiful Oregon scenery that made me make a mental note to avoid in the future lumping all parts of the State together.
First off, the establishments and attitudes I hate within the State are primarily located in Portland and Eugene, the two largest cities by far (State capital Salem is no improvement). It's a prevailing snotty, over confident for its own merit "chic" attitude, a knack for viewing normal, ordinary folks and restaurants and bars and places as rustic bumpkins and their quaint little businesses that are backwards and not progressive or like San Francisco in any way and therefore ripe for being "discovered" by breast beating boosters from Portland, barely urban, sanctimonious hipsters who snicker at the yokels charming and naively un-hip ways behind their backs, yet in turn get pissed off when East coast or L.A. illuminati tease their own burg's hokey attempts at aping fashionable European cities.
A huge percentage of the population of Oregon lives in Portland, Salem and Eugene, but these towns only occupy a small part of the State. You get a little bit of THEE attitude in central Oregon or the coastal area during tourist season, but for the most part these corners of rural ordinariness are similar to other normal, unheralded, un-chic places in the U.S.
This is the sort of country I was born in. A vast share of my blood relatives live in small towns the hipsters haven't gotten their claws into yet. Guess what? They are occasionally openly bitter about the fact that Portland makes all of the decisions politically for the entire State. I haven't taken a poll of my folks, but they mostly seem to view the place as a nasty cesspool that unfortunately young people can't be prevented from visiting until they mature a bit and see it for what it is.
Marla posted on my Facebook page last week a photo of me looking skyward with a beautiful Oregon coast scene behind me. Yes, that is representative of what is good about Oregon. I still enjoy seeing the bridges of Portland and a few corners of it, but mostly I'm disappointed when I visit there at what it has become. It used to be an honest, blue collar city, but it is gagging on its own psuedo-hipness these days. Their stringent practices of micro-managing businesses have run so many employers out of town that the unemployment rate is pitiful. Go look it up if you don't believe me.
Here's the latest example of what I hate about Portlanders. I was told during our recent visit to unhip Southern Oregon that the folks governing the rose city are discussing running out of town the ancient, storied Portland Beavers baseball team in favor of....guess?? SOCCER?! Yeah, stinking Euro-wannabe soccer. NOW DO YOU SEE what I've been saying for so many years?
I'll admit here that I've been inaccurate for too long when I write off the whole State with my "Oregon" bashing. I still respect the pockets of the State where the residents are good folks who sadly have their orders issued from the crumbling, clueless, Portland which due to its obsession with becoming as good and significant as real cities along the left coast is sinking.
10/29/09
During our recent trip, I was constantly worried about our little-itty-bitty-witty-kitty, Nuthead. He makes a high frequency squeek that melts my heart. Dixie can handle himself, but Nutty is still young and tender and innocent. They were fed and looked after once a day and get along very well already, but still I fussed over the soft little thing.
YEAH...SURE. At dinner tonight I rolled up my sweatpant leg and showed Elvis and his wife my latest token of love from the itty-bitty, cuddly thing. A row of 3 inch long claw marks that left me with little-bitty ripped flaps of flesh and accompanying clotted chunks of blood. He was trying to climb into my lap for snuggling and I was wearing shorts which are going into storage. For safety reasons, I've now got to wear nothing but super-heavy, full length sweats until he grows up. Well, that's what I get for baby talking. From now on it's "cumeer ya little bastard".
10/28/09
As I mentioned before, the booze bracelets issued to us at the Sands Regency in Reno at the beginning of our recent trip were a highlight not only of our journey, perhaps of our lives together all these years. With free booze comes promise and hope. The wearers are challenged to concoct a plan utilizing all their creativity; where to drink tonight? The sports book bar alongside slick gamblers? The "main" bar that is noisy and full of jolly locals...or perhaps best of all the quiet bar in the back of the facility near our room tower. On our first night we opted for the quiet bar. We picked up drinks by proudly flashing our wrists at the bartender and proceeded to a bevy of video poker machines.
Settled onto a stool I tried to get my new players club card to work. As I inserted and re-inserted it I brought my cold corporate beer to my mouth for a taste. Although I was preoccupied I could tell something was wrong. The edge of the bottle felt jagged. I looked down and saw a large chunk of the beer bottle lip had broken off. I instantly broke out in a cold sweat; had I drank any of it down in that first hit? Luckily I hadn't, but I quickly realized I had a chunk in my mouth. I gingerly removed it and felt around for any small chards.
I turned to my sweetheart.."Jesus fucking christ..my first goddamned beer and a hunk broke off and got into my mouth!!!"
She didn't seem as shocked as me.
"Well, go get a new one...hey...I hit a full house!"
It's this cheap goddamned glass the green assholes have the breweries using. This sort of thing never used to happen with real stubbies!" I pissed and moaned for a few seconds and made my way to the bar.
I showed the bottle to a young woman who was transferring beers from cases into a huge ice tub. "This bottle broke along the edge!" I whined.
She answered "I'm just here giving out comp beers; the bartender is on his break".
I was amazed. I expected a huge apology and maybe a card signifying a free dinner or something. "Can I just have another beer??"
"Oh sure....sorry!!" she said in a happy voice.
No one seemed to give a damn whether I wound up in an emergency room or not. I briefly pondered whether or not I had swallowed any tiny fragments. Finally I went back to my video poker machine next to Marla with my new beer. I had a quick run of luck and soon forgot the whole incident.
The booze bracelets brought out the best in Marla. One day we spent 5 hours in the sports book bar on an MLB playoff game day and she put away a slew of white Russians and a couple vodka sodas for good measure. We played video poker the whole damned time and were wobbly in the head afterwards.
I had a knawing sort of nervousness in my head on this trip until I eventually met with my blood Father and my adoptive Mother for very different reasons of course. Hence, drinking ensued.
After a couple days in Reno we drove over the mountains into California and later in the day Boregon. Some people have a hard time understanding why I'm anxious about visiting these places. Mostly it's because I don't like what these States have become. I very much remember how magical Cali seemed when I first visited it. There are still great pockets of wonder, but more often scenes of overcrowding and political correctness that are disappointing.
Example: The first rest stop past Donner summit. We pull into it in our lame 2009 great mileage Malibu and I climb out to gaze at the people. The first humanoid I see is a hippie broad with a perma-pout on her face. She is eating dried prunes with a sour look as if they taste horrid, is wearing hippie earth shoes and looks like she's having a sultry day. I turn slightly and see some clown wearing an "Iran" T-shirt. He appears to have a need to be seen being outrageous and would probably sneer at me if he knew I was a Fox news watching Texan. No, he wasn't Iranian. Just a white guy with a "look at me!" fixation. Well, here I am in California I thought. Boregon was likely to only be worse.
10/27/09
NO, I'm not dead yet, although I felt near it a few times on the airplane yesterday. We've been on a 2 week western states trip that combined visiting a dangerous number of relatives with a chess tournament and also some much needed casino lazy drinking down time.
We've had one eye on the progress on the Phillies and I want to first off congratulate 'em for advancing to the World Series for a second year in a row. It wasn't all that long ago when we felt like we'd be content just to see them appear at all in the playoffs. We cashed in a NLCS series win wager in Reno but I'm particularly looking forward to swilling down 4 whole beers in the future that were also on the line with a pal from L.A.
Going out on the road sure freezes this diary up, but gives me more to write about when I get back. Some momentous things happened on this trip: I met my birth Father (and a few other new relatives) in person for the first time. I also suffered some hellacious hours in old stomping grounds that have lost their charm quite a bit over the years. The chess tournament was one of my weaker, being stupidly scheduled at the end of the trip; I can't play with the big boys a rating section above me without studying furiously during the crucial pre-tournament week. My mind had been blown by that time and even if I had been surrounded by my chess computer program and my other study materials I still would've had to deal with the distraction of the white bracelet on my wrist.
Yes, we will always remember this trip as the "booze bracelet" vacation. They were semi-permanently affixed to our wrists. We could waggle them at any bartender in our casino hotel and drink free. Ahhh...there is a heaven after all!
Marla seemed near tears when we had to clip them off yesterday morning before heading to the Reno airport and home. Her bracelet had made her rather poetic. I can see why she wanted to keep it. While considering the contrasting rugged natural beauty of Boregon and California and its residents, she declared they'd both be great places to live....if you could take away the people. I wish I could recall her exact words, they reminded me of the bittersweet gal I married all those years ago. I also felt endeared to her when she blew off a homeless scumbag in a casino we overheard trying to beg from other gamblers by pretending to be friendly and then putting the touch on them:
HB (homeless broad with a big smile): "Are you having fun tonight?"
Marla: "No! Do you work here? If not, Don't talk to me!"
Ahh, she was in good form this trip.
We saw Mother on this trip and I can't wait to relate how she was silenced by the gods miraculously when she began lecturing me as usual on how much I drink, saving our visit with her.
When I'm done dealing with the 118 emails I found waiting for me, I'll go into more detail about most of this stuff and other happenings.
I still haven't completely come to grips with meeting my blood Father at my advanced age. How much would we have been paid to do it on TV? Just kidding of course. My policy is not to go into detail here about discovered relatives. If you're very clever you might spot some lurking about my Facebook page.
If you've communicated with me for awhile and are interested I can answer private questions. I can say this much about him without violating my principles. We were brought together in a group with other relations. After greeting one another we retreated to an outdoor patio table and had that first face to face discussion.
We were served beers, which was a thoughtful touch. I perked up when the guys getting them together for us reminded each other how he doesn't like dark beer. Sound familiar?
What's that? Did he think I was weird? Undoubtedly, aren't I?
After 20 minutes or so I was mostly relaxed. We are cut of the same cloth. I learned where I likely acquired one genetic attribute after another. He was a longtime military officer (as is today a cool Nephew who was present). I never served of course, but all the vocational tests I took in high school said that was what I was suited for.
Instead I went into sales and proved to be a master bullshitter. Imagine my delight to learn that the man across the table was such a great salesman he had to watch his own strength. I wish I had picked up a gene or two that would've granted me to have a mechanical aptitude. He's loaded in that department too and has made his living in a technical vocation for years.
The trait I observed of his that awed me the most was his ability to discuss individuals when he chose to in a detached manner, free of any immediate personal emotions concerning them that might interfere with a logical conclusion. Sometimes he followed his emotions, sometimes he switched to this detached mode most folks seem incapable of. Hey, I've been doing that all of my life.
Anyway, the visit went well. I might go into some more detail at some point, but I am committed to respecting these folks secrecy. I didn't get to know them to work up writing subject matter.
If you've considered looking up "long lost" relations, I'd recommend you do. Yeah, some of them won't be really into it, but even if one does, it's well worth it. Contact me personally for more on this.
Oh yeah....ONE MORE THING. It turns out that after all these years of wondering it's finally now a fact: Elvis and I are frigging Irish to a good extent.
Holy Crap! To learn you're Irish at my age..think of all the St. Patties days we've wasted and gone to bed early. We've pledged to have our "1st" together and make it a wildass one. We only have 5 months to plan it out. yee-haw.
10/12/09
It's book time. Today's subject: "Don't Call Me a Crook! A Scotsman's Tale of World Travel, Whiskey, and Crime" (Dissident books N.Y. www.dissidentbooks.com)
I'm a sucker for memoirs by convicts, scam artists, wise guys, druggies, fallen evangelists, wandering beats, carnies and of course all breed of drinkers, functioning drunks, lazy drunks, raging drunks etc. Who wants to read about how some square banker or principled Captain of industry amassed his fortune? Not me. I get my thrills from society's misfits and troublemakers. It's a real charge for me to read about folks who live their lives their own way, playing by either their own rules or some sort of alternate code. Like I've been saying for a quarter century or so: rulebreakers rule!
"Don't Call Me a Crook.." by Dissident Books is a brand new, modern edition of a forgotten treasure written by a worldclass rulebreaker named Bob Moore and published in the mid 1930's. A helpful introduction from the publisher explains how the work has come to life again all these years later.
Moore was no petty criminal. He put his life on the line, wandering the globe for years in search of what folks many years later would call "kicks". He sometimes slept in the finest hotels, at other times in hovels in extremely dangerous corners of the world. He was the kind of guy who just can't hang onto money. He'd try to work a square job for awhile and even settle into a typical domestic life pattern, but something always happened that would send him out the door, back to a life of crime.
One of Moore's characteristics that made for a chaotic, sometimes painful life for him ( and by extension a great read for us), was his knack for trusting buddies who got him into some awful scrapes. Bob was a fairly daring fellow by nature, but some of his pals we meet in this book are absolutely reckless and out of control by comparison. His loyalty to some of these wild-asses leads to much trouble for him.
"Don't Call Me a Crook.." works for me on 3 levels.
This is the perfect book for a friend to place in your hands climbing aboard a long, overseas flight. The flow of the story line, which follows Moore from one adventure to another, is topnotch. He was a natural storyteller and his life was loaded with anecdotal experiences that he relates in a skillful way. We never know what's gonna happen next.
Secondly, this work makes us consider Moore's ethics and in turn our own. He sometimes puts his life on the line for pals, other times he rips them off if they haven't burned him first. He wasn't part of some underworld group with a distinctly defined code. I couldn't help but raise my eyebrows at several points in this book in which ol' Bob seems to contradict himself on a point of ethics. There are a lot of deaths in this book, guns everywhere, booze and drugs in heavy supply, loose women everywhere. There are also many badly treated "nice" women and brutal, insensitive treatment of most non-white people is the rule.
To normal people the contents of this book would be shocking, which means that it's naturally lots of fun for folks like me and probably you if you're a regular reading this diary.
Finally, this book works as one of those books that you can't help but discuss with others who have read it. If you're part of a circle of acquaintances who yakk about the most over the top books to come along, be advised that if you loan your copy out you'll probably never get it back ( a fact which would probably amuse Moore a great deal ). Some books are simply better suited for discussion than others and this one is a natural. Hey, when you're done reading it, email me and I'll be happy to go back and forth with you on many points, beginning with whether he was actually a crook or not. Moore states on the second page that he is not. Your boss or banker would never understand this, being totally immersed in the law as the final word on ethics (until they decide to quietly defy it to their advantage). You and I can choose to disagree with them and select our own codes. You might say it's a miracle that a book in which a man clearly claims to live by his own code was published in the 30's; I say that this book would incite the mainstream populace to wag fingers just as hard today. If you're lucky this book just might help you grow a pair and begin thinking things out for yourself, converting to the ways of we rulebreakers rather than go on being a p.c. drone, a payday to payday milquetoast.
10/08/09
The new kitten fit in perfectly. Dixie treats him much better than he ever did the deceased Mr. Jinx, possibly because the little bastard is much closer to him genetically (is cat racism alive in our home?) He's so cute and adorable I'm going to have to leave it at that. If you need to feel warm and fuzzy, go to the frigging Hallmark page.
Yeah, see...I can be a tough guy.
I have to toughen up and train for the big chess tournament in Reno. Well, I've been training an hour or two per day most of the summer, but it's time to get way more serious. I've been playing an internet computer at various strength levels and closely analyzing the opening moves of each loss extra carefully with my own Fritz chess computer.
I've also been playing over master games from books and keeping up on recent games worldwide appearing online using my opening systems.
I've come to realize that as much as I want to bang heads as hard as any other chessplayer at the event, I'm at a serious disadvantage to many players and not because I'm "old". I can picture in my minds eye all these young players with no responsibilities and other hobbies training 2 or 3 times as long as me in between their lessons with strong masters.
Even guys my age or older with plenty of responsibilities only have to focus on one hobby. At least, that's my perception. Most adult players perhaps follow sports or politics in addition to a job and dealing with a demanding spouse and kids, but not write songs, diary entries like this, books , etc. They haven't spent their time over the years like I often have hauling mountains of vinyl to collectors shows, each item having been assessed, cleaned and studied. A few of them have Ebay stores selling chess stuff I suppose, but few can match the time I've put into my store.
The young players have meals served to them, several times per week I have to shop, plan out low sodium meals that won't make my Wife heave due to my amateurish abilities, cook and wash all the damned dishes. When my job starts up again in the not so far future, I'll br devoting my self to that too and fitting in all the rest of the stuff.
When I stand back and consider the solid games I've played over the last few years since my comeback, almost always against players out rating me (as opposed to players at my rating level..remember? I always enter a section or two above my own rating so as to improve by playing better players) I have no reason to feel bad at all. If I did nothing but play chess and occasionally watch a football game in my spare time after work over the last 30 years, I'd certainly be a master by down.
Instead, I have a couple published books on the shelves, a few unpublished ones still looking for publisher homes, 100 or so (I lost count years ago) records and cd's I've played on, a song writer account with one of the major song publishers and other stuff.
As much as I want to raise my rating and improve faster, I've got to pat myself on the back when it comes to playing at a higher level than when I was a kid a few trillion braincells ago considering I do all this other stuff. Screw playing folks at my own level. I want to play experts and masters even though I'm expected to lose most of the time. That's where the action is for me. If I hadn't thrown in the towel decades ago and left the game for 23 years I'd be one of their rank long ago. But, the chess worlds loss is the music and literary world's gain I figure.
I'm out to play good chess against good players, not win some amateur prize. I've got plenty of amateur and junior trophies from the 70's, 22 to be exact. My preferred trophies these days are the occasional scalps of experts and masters.
Well, isn't that a confident attitude?
Actually it's not that simple. I still sometimes wonder why I don't take the easy leap to poker like lots of tournament chess players, or at least work up a blackjack system with all the time I'm putting into chess.
MMM mm MM.
I have to wipe those thoughts from my noggin or I'll get blown off the board.
Uurp.
10/04/09
Dixie the cat is my special demon pal. He's black and antisocial and rather stubborn. He sleeps in hiding places and comes out when he feels like it, which is usually when I play PS2 baseball in the wee hours. He allows himself to relax around me and even smiles when accepting ear and chin rubs. He always keeps his razor sharp claws on one hand extended though, like a loaded weapon in case I pull something sneaky on him.
We found a 6 month old kitten to keep Dixie company since Mr. Jinx is gone.
It's clear we had to pick one out who is brave and maybe a bit crazy to survive Dixie the first few days before they buddy up. A little bougar with mostly black hair and patches of white has been on the animal shelter website for a few weeks. The critter has a slightly deranged look like Schmidty, the cat belonging to Elvis and his Wife. Most people select peaceful, passive, loving creatures for their homes. What cute little girl would want to have some crazy looking thing for a pet? This is probably the reason nobody has adopted the poor thing.
They called him "Nutmeg" which I changed to "Nuthead" which is a light derogatory insult my old man used to use. For the purposes of the p.c. animal shelter people he is "Chopper" and he'll come home with us tomorrow. When Marla first saw him at the shelter he was biting the other cats and appeared to be wild and playful. He'll need to be. Dixie is one big hombre of a cat weighing in at well over 15 pounds. He oughta be able to out run him.
The animal shelter people told Marla that she'd have to bring in Dixie to get another rabies shot in order for them to release Nuthead into our tender care.
This didn't seem fair to me, but they insisted they were following State law. I asked her how she planned to get Dixie down to the shelter and just how she'd get him to cooperate on a shot. She insisted that the animal folks knew what they were doing; they had given her a cardboard carrier for him.
I looked at it and laughed. "He'll bust out of that thing in no time!" I predicted.
When the appointed time came, she found him wherever he was sleeping and set him gently in the carrier. He sniffed the thing...until she started closing the frigging lid...
OH FUCK! She couldn't seal it. she called me over to help. It was no use..he's too big and too strong and too demonic and strong willed to submit to being crammed into a box. He used his powerful muscles to rip his way out of the box, partially destroying it.
He ran away and hid in the depths of the house, but not before spraying piss all over Marla!
That's my buddy. I couldn't help but be a bit proud of him, although we were worried how the shelter was going to deal with the fact we couldn't bring him in, it being a dire law. Marla managed to work things out.
It's a good damned thing, how in the hell were they going to give him a son of a bitchin' shot? I guess we can bring somebody over here to try it who does it for a living, but Jesus, they'd better bring one of those suits dog trainers wear. Dixie doesn't fall for any passive hippy crap like other cats.
He'll be senior cat now and it'll be his responsibility to mentor Nuthead like Jinxie did him when he was a kitten. I hope he teaches him some of his own bullheaded ways. Let the sweet little girls have the little sissy lap cats. We'll take a couple of crazy bastards thank you.
10/02/09
OK, as far as the Obama Chicago olympic bid goes, the sappy infomercial that they ran trying to grasp at straws, whatever is left of the Obama "magic" myth was abysmal. The olympics folks were clearly not impressed.
Chi-town is my esteemed pal Rev. Axl's domain. I'll leave the question to him in all his local wisdom as to whether or not staging the olympics there would somehow benefit someone up there not involved in the Chicago political machine, or employed by one of the unions that would construct and revamp facilities for megabucks. I'd say it would all work out as pork for the privileged, but I'll give it the benefit of the doubt.
One thing for sure is this: I don't revel in the "defeat" or disrespecting of Chicago, but if this situation leads to once and for all a caffeine slap in the face to people still expecting magic and miracles out of a human being ahem POLITICIAN, it's a good thing they got an international slapping.
He's just a man, a politician..A POLITICIAN...it's time to stop the kindergarten class hymn singing to him and instead focus your prayers if you pray or your songs if'n you sing towards hoping he now humbled just a bit begins to break away long enough from the accolades and the talk show circuit long enough to deal with the REAL questions facing him.
I hope he can morph from a demi-god to a statesman and start dealing with reality.
I don't mean just covering his ass with the usual blame it on Bush dated horseshit, it's time for him to get to work for all of us...not just the people he owes in Chicago.
If he could work holy miracles he would've dealt with the foreign affairs / military matters at hand along with the olympic bid, but he pulled off neither.
COME ON....get to fucking work!
10/01/09
I used to have a feeble amount of DVD's. After months of work I have hundreds. I've been tossing out bag after bag of outmoded VHS tapes. The few that are collectable will all go up at once into an ebay store, buy it now style. I've learned to love the faint carmel scent of fresh DVD's. It'll be fun sorting them and admiring the results when the project is done, but I've got many hundred left, it's gonna be awhile.
Having hour after hour of wrestling action burning in the other room for week after week I've come to a conclusion about professional wrestling. Virtually every promotion I managed to catch over the years had more compelling programming than the WWF during its Hogan era which eventually squashed out most of the territorial promotions. Vince McMahon conquered the sport by presenting a catch phrase oriented, kiddie mentality oriented, hokey pageant. This is not some great discovery of course. My wrestling fans pals who read this have known this since back in the day. I'm mentioning this again because frankly it's not a bad idea to see how the "products" or "brands" stand up after many years, when emotions have cooled. I hardly know anybody who plans their week around wrestling programs anymore. It used to be that Saturdays and eventually Mondays were given over to it by a huge swath of people I know, now I'm shocked when I learn somebody still watches what is trowled out.
Vince doesn't program wrestlers, they are now of course "superstars"; his female "wrestlers" all look like the sort of model you used to hire to walk around in a short skirt and low cut top pointing sexually at recliners and sports cars on game shows...now they are called "divas" and rarely wrestling, it's more like a tumbling exhibition.
There are a lot of traditionally trained wrestlers in the WWE stable of superstars. I feel good about the skilled ones who want to be there in order to put food on the table for their family, getting paid to play out little moronic scripts written by TV writers who know nothing of the traditions of the squared circle, for way the hell more money than most real wrestlers were paid for decads.
Anyway, as I go back over all the tapes from long gone promotions from around the country that still have the power to make me stay and watch when I should be doing other chores or sleeping or what have you, I'm reminded of how the man who made wrestling "main stream" also destroyed it.
I have several friends who still will go on anti-Vince rants until spit is flying and they're swinging their fists and arms around if you push their buttons. I have often taken the position in attempts to calm them that since Vince destroyed things in the 80s, but brought back decent programming for awhile in the late 90's and early 2000's, perhaps he still might before bowing out of his general managerial position restore wrestling to something like it used to be, CAN BE, SHOULD BE and WOULD BE if he hired certain traditional wrestling minds and turned over the whole "brand" to them.
It's very naive to think that Vince McMahon before leaving this planet might have a change of heart and GIVE US BACK the real wrestling he destroyed; is it worth the effort for somebody to put together a petition with millions of signatures from every hick town and modern metropolis that used to enjoy it? If somebody or perhaps a group of true fans went to the trouble, they would probably attract decent media attention, unless Vince ordered their crusade covered up and stamped out..he may have the connections to do that. But, there's always the chance he might want to try to capitolize on a grassroots "real wrestling" movement just to show that even though he took it away, he can still bring it back...if he wants to bad enough.
AND HE COULD.
These thoughts have been running through my head for a few days...would he? Or we he laugh at the thought of people trying to tell him how to run his company and order some childish skits for his shows making fun of a "Bring Back Traditional Wrestling" peoples brigade.
It hit me while I was sleeping. I hopped up out of a deep sleep to write this entry.
Vince McMahon Jr. is the sort of guy who would sit for an hour in the only mens room stall on an airplane or ferry and not only feel no guilt about whether some other guys had to go, hell he'd be LAUGHING at their anguished, fierce pounding on the door.
This is a guy on a real power trip. This is a guy who not only would enjoy dominating the only stool, he'd REALLY DIG destroying the goddamned thing before finally surrendering it. Don't you wonder what goes through the mind of people who trash and destroy toilets at clubs? What sort of mental melody inspires guys who go out of their way to clog airport toilets, then shit even higher on a the pile of turds already backed up and finish the job by pissing all over the logjam and floor?
Vincent K. McMahon! That's the kind of guy who would do this. He not only wants to hog the stool for himself, he wants to ensure that NOBODY will ever shit on that commode again for at least a day or two. It relates perfectly to what he has done to wrestling. He destroyed the sport for his own gain, fair and square and made his fortune. That's not enough though, he'll probably ensure that his heirs never give real wrestling back to the people who miss it as much as real country music, REAL rock 'n roll and soda served in glass bottles that keep the contents cold.
I hope I'm wrong, maybe in his final years he'll go through some sort of nostalgic kick. I hope that somebody organizes a group to at least ASK HIM kindly to give us true wrestling back when he's done doing all he can to destroy it. Who will step up to the plate? You who do will be beloved by a million old fans overnight. You'll probably even get layed. Do it!! Now!
09/27/09
We haven't gone anywhere major since our trip to Chicago and points there and back in May. We planned early in the year to take another trip in the Fall, so here we almost are. I have a feeling that next year will be full of band bookings around the country, so may as well try to cover all of our bases now by seeing a lot of relatives, gambling and including a chess tournament on this trip.
The chess tournament is etched in stone date wise, so we're working around it. It's the sort of event I'd advise, the time permitted for your moves is as generous as you'll find in the U.S. this year. My games can run up to almost 7 hours and there are two rounds per day. Hey, I like it slow like that. If I face a kid who seems in a hurry I'll slow down and irk them. There's a low kid factor at this event though, because it's the school year and it's being held in beautiful Reno. The kids that will be there are either home schooled, local or strong enough to have their schools at home behind them.
We've gotten pretty good at finding travel specials and I'm here today to relate the absolute best one we've ever come across. Get this: the "chess rate" at the hotel casino is $34..pretty good, huh? Ordinarily. Due to all the tough times the casinos are bending over backwards to attract business. Well, some are. A few haven't adjusted their rates a bit. Wonder if we'll see them next trip out.
We'll be staying at the Sands Regency where the tournament is being held, but we aint paying no $34...Marla talked to somebody from the hotel and we're getting our room for $29 per night PLUS booze bracelets, allowing us all we can hold down for our stay.
Damn, is that the best deal ever or what?
This is the hotel we spent our 30th anniversary at. We know where it is and where to park and eat and all that shit. It's a fine place...and $29 per night plus all you can drink??
Good gawd.
Maybe I'll request 1/2 point byes for a few of my rounds or hells bells just withdraw from the damned chess tournament all together,
What a frigging deal. It pays to shop around. There's never been a better time to travel. I love this recession! I hope the stimulus trillions don't kick in before next year, we'll really clock some miles.
09/25/09
MM MMM mm
Whiskey Hussein Rebel
He had his own internet diary
And gloated drunkenly for all to see
MM mmm MM
Man, what got into me last night? What a pleasant load of braggadocio.
I had that Obama kindergarten anthem running through my head along with a few Thursday night beers and you can see what happened. Every windmill in my path looked like a chess piece. I'm completely sober at the moment as I am mostly when I write here, much more as the years pass. I don't need it to write, but sometimes it's fun just to let 'er rip.
To prove my boasting wasn't without teeth though, I just delivered two fantastic bitch slappings to the Internet Chess Club computer, the 1600 and 1800 levels which I'm supposed to beat, but it plays tougher sometimes than you'd expect and is a good sparring partner.
MMM MM mmm
Whiskey Hussein Rebel
He says no one should be free
All their money should be delivered to me
Please don't mind what he just said
His Mother dropped him on his head
Uhh, let's see if I can come up with something a bit less selfish...
Whiskey Hussein Rebel
MM mmm MMM
He says give beer to all the nations in need
And you will put an end to hunger and greed
Those who hate us will no longer want to fight
When they dance and sing drunkenly all night
MMM mmm MM
Whiskey Hussein Rebel
The thought of requiring kids to sing that creepy Obama hymn has obviously been compared by many media people and bloggers with Nazi indoctrination. It reminded me of that, but also the Davy Crockett song that kids were singing in the 50's in which not one frigging word was even truthful. I really don't think it's the time to be singing songs this early in his term. If you wanna make a folk hero out of him, at least wait until he's served his full time in office. Is that too much to ask?
What's that? A few of you disagree..
What if your kid was being forced to sing stuff like this...
MMM mm MMM
Adolfus Hitler
He was a war hero
And the children loved him so
He had a doggy named Blondi
And ate chocolate candy
He never ate meat
So the vegans thought he was neat
His flatulence really stank
It could topple a Soviet tank
Adolfus Hitler
MMM mm MM
09/24/09
As much as I enjoy hearing a wrestler or boxer brag on my TV set, I can guarantee you, I'm not emulating one of them when I say that if you should happen to face me across the chessboard, an intellectual playing field predating games for half-baked wannabe intellectuals like scrabble or Monopoly or Candyland or what have you, you not only will go down, you stand a worse chance than a fart in a frigging whirlwind of making a real game out of it.
I exempt from this declaration of course the tournament chess players who occasionally read this. In fact, I write this with them in mind.
I'm not a professional, or an international titled player, or a master or an expert. I'm simply a guy who is next in line behind all those guys; a strong amateur. A class "A" player who out rates most other amateurs. Most of them would have a chance against me; if you've never competed, you stand NO fucking chance. Period.
I have never in my adult life, not once, even in a drunken stupor in a bar where chess is played, been even threatened across the board by a player without tournament experience. Only once....ONCE in my life did I realize that a USCF player rated higher than me had wound up in my home by coincidence, to watch a wrestling pay per view. He had attended some of our bands shows before that. I was in the last stage of a 23 year retirement from the game. When I realized he was a strong chess player I shook his hand and tried double hard to make him feel at home and respected. He was an expert rated about 2100. I wouldn't be afraid at all to play him now, but after being inactive from real, hardcore over the board play for 20 years I knew I had no chance in hell.
I sometimes wonder if I'll face this guy over the board at some national tournament sometime. He'll remember who I am, from seeing our bands. I hope it happens.
Other than him, there hasn't been a single stranger to enter my home or to work under the same roof as me who ever stood a chance of beating me.
My late buddy Emilio stood a chance, because he played hard at a couple chess websites. Mark would love to beat me, but we rarely play. He's played in a few tournaments; if we played blitz every couple weeks he would have beaten me a few times by now. Same goes for Elvis. During the short period of time he took the game seriously, I won a couple games by the thinnest of margins, a single pawn advantage. A guy who was training with us for a tournament beat me when I was drunk as Cooter Brown, but hell, he had benefited from my tutoring like the guys in high school team.
But, the rest of you of course stand no chance.
Chess on the job is a dangerous game for this reason. When you play the boss or a supervisor or a co-worker you really don't want to piss off, you have to deal not with whether you will win the game, but HOW you should behave doing so.
The best setup I ever had in terms of benefitting from my chess skill was when I worked for the J.C. Penny credit collections office in the early 80's. The big, big boss loved to play chess, but of course sucked like the rest of you. He'd send a minion to fetch me to his spacious office for a few games now and then. I remained on the clock thankfully. I'd be earning my normal pay while trouncing the fellow. I had to ask myself, how bad should I beat him? No way was I going to let him win, but should I beat him as fast as possible, or maybe exchange pieces after gaining a material advantage and whip him in an endgame letting him think it was close this time.
Another boss played even worse, but thought he was really clever. He'd be an incredible load of pieces down and still fancy he had winning possibilities. The fact is, at my level I should be able to convert an advantage of a couple pawns against most experts or masters. Most duffers like this guy had no idea. They'd be a couple rooks and a few pawns down and still gaze at the board as if they stood some sort of chance...when actually it was just a big fucking waste of time.
I had to hold my tongue though. You can never tell bosses who outrank you where it really counts that they are completely delusional about their chess games. You just have to keep humping away, flexing like a hooker, NEVER commenting on their deficiencies.
09/20/09
Some things to plug. Since writing some columns for mags, I must've been asked a jillion frigging times over the years for some advice or info on REAL country music..which is still alive and well thanks to guys like Dale Watson, Hank III and Wayne Hancock to name just 3 of my favorites. Hey, I just busted my ass over the last few weeks posting an entire store on Ebay peddling vinyl LP's from the 60's80's, all priced at $5.99 (plus shipping) and available at the rate of 4 for $20 (plus shipping).
I loaded it with spare copies of stuff by some of my favorite artists such as Moe Bandy, Paycheck, Waylon and Del Reeves. Go take a look at it and load up if you aren't too squeezed by all this stimulus prosperity.
I've been asked by the San Marcos public library to appear as a bona fide Texas author for their November 22nd Texas author day. I'm happy to do it, the invitations for "parts unknown author day" are few and far between. If you live in the area and have been wanting to pick up one of my books "Jobjumper" or "Hostile City or Bust" now is your chance. It isn't about readings so far as I know, just authors sitting there at tables looking either scholarly or like common rubes if that's their schtick. I've done some book stuff in many states, but never so close to home and never in Texas.
I've read a few authors from this part of Texas and I gotta say I might be acting humble for once if some of them are there.
We've all adjusted to the death of Mr. Jinx. Thanks to those who sent in condolences. I've been mostly worried about my demon cat Dixie. We'll be getting a new cat in the near future for him to hang out with. Rather than a tiny kitty we're gonna go for a 5-7 month old critter that can scrap with Dixie, or goddamn run away from him.
Dixie used to hang out in remote corners of the house, only occasionally coming out like the Addams family and Munsters pets. He's changed his ways and stays in our main rooms we are most often in. He never goes into the small room Jinxie died in, although it used to be one of his favorite hangouts. He meows like hell at times, out of what I consider to be despair. So, we'll be getting him a buddy and he can be senior cat.
OK...I know all this cat baby talk is juvenile. Enough.
OK, one more plug. Alcoholics Unanimous is playing Halloween here in San Marcos. To those of you in State and elsewhere who sometimes plan trips to this neck of the woods, make sure and include us in your plans. Both of our bands are in practice mode and have some major plans afoot that I'm not going to go into quite yet as I don't want to jinx things. I'm getting a new microphone setup to go with an idea recording setup for new material. One of my quirks is I don't try to remember new songs..I have to be able to record a thumbnail sketch or to hell with it. I mean business. We have unrecorded songs by both bands ready to nail in the studio and will be working up more to pop into the oven shortly.
Plug plug plug plug......
09/18/09
Last night I heard a replay of an online interview/discussion between 2 of my favorite chess writers. They discussed the greatest chess films for several minutes and I was quite embarrassed to realize I haven't seen a damned one of them.
As dirty Harry says, a wise man realizes his shortcomings (well, he said something like that..I'm not sure of the word for word).
With that thought in mind, here are some recommendations of films I goddamned do know about.
The holy trilogy of moonshine movies:
"Thunder road" (easy to get)
"This stuff'll kill ya"
"Moonshine mountain"
The last 2 of the 3 are fairly hard to find, but very much worth the search.They are low in budget, but high in quality none the less.
A damned good handful of basic and easy to find black exploitation films:
"Black Ceasar", "Willie Dynamite", "Foxy Brown" "Dolemite" & "The Human Tornado".
Some biker movies you need to track down:
"Satans Sadists" (perhaps the best?) "Outlaw Riders", "J.C." , "The Pink angels" "Angels hard as they come", "Angels wild women" and the mainstream but topnotch "Wild one" and "Wild Angels".
Screw your damned recent by the numbers gross out crime scene and autopsy based TV cop shows; here are the classics.
"M-Squad"...it starred one of the greatest actors ever, Lee Marvin. Almost unknown but it sets the standard.
"Adam 12" & "Dragnet" (both 50's and 60's versions). Both funny and heartrending. Classic, epic, topnotch. Both of course are Jack Webb productions. A cool man with vision. Hippies love to laugh at him, so what? I love to laugh at them.
"Car 54 where are you?" the funniest cop show ever. A strong candidate for the best TV show ever. Fred Gwynn, Al Lewis and the mighty Joe E. Ross. An adult themed show in an era of malt-o-meal drippiness.
"Harry O" a topnotch detective show featuring a great hard drinking under rated actor David Jansen.
"Michael Shayne private eye" I've read and re-read the 90or so full length books on the character. The TV show was frigging great too.
Lawyer and legal oriented TV shows:
"Rumpole of the Bailey" from the U.K., An eccentric defense attorney and a big wine drinker to boot. I'd bet my billfold roll Duke from the Tunnelrats knows all about Rumpole given his brain size.
"Perry Mason" the standard for legal shows. Solid and engrossing. Many box sets of these late 50's early 60's shows are available, for good reason.
More later....
09/16/09
Man, people in this country are incredibly pissed off right now politically speaking. I'm not referring to just conservatives or liberals,everybody is fucking upset. I've tried to hold back and write about something else for a couple days now, but feel myself being sucked into it.
If I have to say something about the current situation, so be it I guess. My take might be a little different than your favorite columnists.
First off, for a couple of years it's been fashionable to blame everything that goes wrong on Bush. Yunno what? It's time for me to point the finger of blame at him for doing such a bad job that our electorate was swayed by the anti-Bush; a smooth talker with little substance and a big city political machine behind him.
Obama's policies are so knee jerk and slapped together, it's obvious he can't guarantee whether our economy will be resusitated or not. He might gamble and get a few things right, but he's not spewing magic solutions, just the same ideas people from his end of the spectrum have been advocating for years, whether or not the time is right for them.
He seems extremely arrogant, thin skinned and still on the campaign circuit.
Just like natural disasters were Bush's fault, so is it his fault that we have Obama ruling the roost.
So, the way things have played out, a whole lot of people don't like his policies one frigging bit; a whole lot of people from the other direction seem offended that his ideas are challenged and even are making accusations at racism being the root cause of his critics bellyaching.
How could this be? Pelosi and Reid are even less popular??
OOhhhhh...if Jimmy Carter says it is true, it must be so...(BBrraaappPPPP).
So, if Obama is to be voted out next time around (provided he hasn't managed to elect himself President for life) whom are we to support to oppose him?
Limbaugh is already preaching against any third party action; oh great, so we who are caught in the middle between the two recognized parties are being held hostage, expected to become Republicans, in the face of their bad track record of fielding greedy, partisan corporate scumbags as bad as Reid and Pelosi on their worst days. Either that, we are told, or we are supporting the next Obama run by voting for 3rd party candidates with "no chance" of election.
Man, we are fucked, really fucked.
Not only are we fucked because we have to choose between a turd and a douchebag once again (thanks South Park), we're triple fucked BECAUSE IT'S ONLY 7 months into the Presidents term and ALREADY it seems as crazy and partisan and headache inducing as election year.
Maybe I need to go find a tall pillar to sit on like the desperate did 1,000 years ago and completely tune all of you assholes out for 10-15 years. If I do, please visit the foot of my pillar and bring me Rolaids and alcohol.
09/13/09
I was clearing a small mound of clutter off the top of my bass amp the other night for practice and saw a copy of it..my "jackass" photo taken back in 1986. It was part of a 2 page collage that we sent out to relatives a few years ago.
Do you have a "jackass" photo?
Yunno, one that makes you cringe when you see it, a poor, probably goody goody representation of your self? In my case it was designed to represent me as a very innocuous, normal person who is well groomed and good natured.
Well, I got the job that I was shooting for when I had the picture taken. It shows me wearing a nice sweater and tie, clean shaven, nice haircut, nothing threatening or out of order about my appearance. I even mustered up a frigging smile.
The fact is, I KNEW when we were snapping the thing off that I was not normal and clean cut by nature. I had to really work to pull the right look off..and due to that fact, it's not really a "jackass" photo at all. It's really only a "jackass" or "jackass-ette" photo if you're not aware that you're whoring yourself out.
I've referred to it here so far as a jackass photo, but really its a "snake in the goddamned grass" photo, since it was calculated and issued to achieve a goal...a specific management job that paid well. I needed this position since young Elvis was about 1 year old and there's no room for fooling around about providing when they're that age.
I'm not ashamed of that picture, it simply shows that I was capable of obtaining a certain look in order to pull down some good dough. I realized while planning this diary entry out that it's the one photo ever of me that my Mother would approve of, but guess what? I believe I neglected to ever send her one.
Aww.
Incidentally, the management job lasted 18 months before I voluntarily stepped down at a point in time in which my inventory crews were kicking ass. I was a success in that world. The company paid for our move to Southern California which was where I really figured out so many things about life.
So, who gives a goddamn about whether you look like a geek in some picture you manufacture for a purpose? Just suck it up and start learning how to work people occasionally to get what you want when you really need it. Emphasis on "occasionally" here..too much brown nosing and you'll turn into a prisspants or destroy your soul. Find a nice balance...uurpppppp.
09/11/09
If you had told me 15-20 years ago that one day I'd be standing in the rain, shoes slick with mud hacking away with a hoe to dig a burial hole for a cat, I would've said you're full of it pal. What sort of stuff are you drinking??
But, that's what we did today for our 14 year old cat Mr. Jinx.
He's been declining enough over the last few months that we knew he wasn't going to last much longer. About a month ago I suggested to Marla and Elvis (who was his best friend) that we work out a plan for the inevitable sad day ahead. Marla picked up a plastic coffin, actually it was a storage tote. Both of them wanted him buried rather than tossed in the trash dumpster.
The problem is, the ground is rock 2 or 3 inches under the surface here in the hill country. I pointed out during our meeting, that since we live next door to the cemetary, that there must be a reason for folks burying their dead right here over the centuries.
When the time came today, Marla found a soft spot that we were able to dig deep enough and old Jinx was layed to rest in his plastic storage tote and a bit of bedding.
It's odd that he went on 9-11. Since we were stranded travelers in Austin on 9-11-01, we've always thought about our strange 3 day drive back to Philly on this day. Now I guess we'll think about Mr. Jinx, by far the longest living pet we've ever had.
He liked watching birds and eating tuna fish.
I'll say this, I wasn't as close to old Jinx as I am to Dixie, but we wouldn't even have Dixie if I hadn't learned to like cats through Mr. Jinx. It took me a long time; I was scratched by a calico when I was 3 years old and it took me many years to get over it. Hells bells, I still have a tough time getting along with certain extra dumb, paranoid cats.
The greatest thing Mr. Jinx ever did: a tiny bird was trapped in our house in Philly, in our basement to be exact. It was dying and making a racket. We couldn't catch it. On Marla's over the telephone recommendation, Elvis and I left the house to let our cat deal with it.
We thought he'd maybe, maybe catch it. Well, when we got home imagine our shock when we found the bird dead, in a plastic bag by our trash area one floor up from where we had left it. Mr. Jinx was the only one in the house.
How did he do it? I'll be goddamned if I know. But, I raise my glass to his memory and his sometimes mysterious ways.
We're gonna plant some cactuses to protect his grave.
Yeah, we're gonna find a kitten to keep 7 year old black demon cat Dixie company. Cats seem to work better in pairs as far as I'm concerned.
09/06/09
People are full of shit. It's a bad bad bad bad species that we are part of.
Not a day goes by that I'm not reminded of this basic fact. To those of you who are aware of this truth, if you think I'm getting soft because I don't mention it here daily, fear not. There are other things to blather about.
I've seen "blogs" where the writer seems to be trying to take the people suck stance so hard that it seems like schtick.
First off, this isn't a blog..it's a diary and has been for many years now.
Secondly, I don't need to remind myself of the shitty side of life every day. People are as they are and they will not change. If I can focus on some positive side of humanity now and then it doesn't mean I'm weakening or am turning into a "nice old guy".
When I meet people through our bands or due to Elvis, when I'd meet people at university classes as a student, when I meet people at work or chess tournaments or what have you, they are usually in their mid to late 20's- to early 30's. Once people hit 38 or so they tend to stay home and be very attached to their yardwork.
Now hey! I have nothing against yard work or puttering around the house making little repairs. The fact is, I can't repair a frigging thing. I can lock horns with chess experts and masters, write songs and books, but I can barely change a toilet paper roll. My old man killed any chance I'd enjoy a yard or garden by making yardwork a humiliation. I envy people who can have fun that way, but it's not for me.
Anyway, I wind up talking in public to other sorts, usually younger.
Starting about 10 years ago, everybody seems to want to make some sort of comparison to me with their Uncles or maybe their old man.
At work I'll let them think that I'm just a nice ol' Dad, ready for grand kids. A cooperative guy and good citizen in spite of my outward scruffy appearance. Yeah, that's the way to keep it at work.
If you meet me in person and think I'm a sweet old guy, I'm not gonna correct you. The fact is though, you will bust a tooth on this sweet old guy if you aren't careful.
I'm a very sincere nice old guy when it comes to my horde of relatives, 95% of whom I've met only in the last 7-8 years or so. I'd take a beating for most of them. I play no games with 'em and try to help them understand me.
I am very fond of Elvis's in-laws. Go figure? Who could have predicted that? Hey, they're just good Texans.
I like meeting people who know a bit about me, like through writing or our music. They know up front where I'm coming from. The masses though, terrify me as much as they ever did. I'm very wary. I've learned to be living in places like Hollywood and Philly where you have to be careful about letting people into your life.
People are really full of shit. Don't think I've lost sight of this fact just because I'm a nice guy now and then. Have I made myself clear? Probably not to some of you. The sad thing is, those of you who I'm not worried about sometimes think I'm wary of you, while the real losers shrug it all off.
09/03/09
I don't get dewey eyed about motor vehicles all that often. I must say, I do really love my Dodge Charger, from the black paint job to the dark tinted windows to the sleek lines and the drivers seat which I can easily fit myself into.
I really loved my old Buick Regal. It was a mid 70's model, power EVERYTHING, what a thrill to drive it. That was a long time ago, but I still haven't forgotten how great that car was.
Our Dodge van was fairly ordinary. We bought it new on superbowl Sunday of 1980 or 81. I had to haggle with the crooked sales manager for that one. Man, we stormed out of that joint a few times in order to get a decent deal. We really got our moneys worth out of that one when you considered we could sleep in it in a tight spot.
What I'm really nostalgic tonight about, is the truck camper combo we owned back in Boregon. There are many reasons I'd really like to have another set up like that to drive around. It was fucking great to have a place to stay, legally and comfortably if we got too drunk or simply needed a place to stay in an emergency.
One time I turned to it after finding less than pleasant accommodations at the home of a longtime ex-bandmembers Aunt's house. She owned something like 8 dogs and 6 cats, all of them "in door" pets. Their shedded hair filled the air of the room, which was constantly lit by powerful and bare light bulbs. There was no a.c. and the windows where locked shut so the neighbors didn't have to hear the animals. The couch I was supposed to sleep on was so bad it wouldn't have been accepted by Goodwill. It was hard as a rock and chewed to pieces.
Luckily, I carried my home "on my back" like a frigging turtle.
I got good and drunk with my bandmember pal and staggered out to the camper and got a great nights sleep rather than tossing and turning and bitching about the light bulbs and heat.
Another time when we played in goddamned Berkeley (yeah, of all places!) our cheapass motel didn't pan out, so we parked the damned thing in an area inhabited by lots of homeless scumbags. We slept well.
The next day we drove the thing to 1st class backup accommodations, having been rescued for the night by our camper.
I loved crawling up into the sleeper compartment. It was like going back into the womb. I felt very secure. Goddamn I wish we owned one today.
What's that? Gas mileage? You've got to be kidding me, right?
I'd love to be burning more gas per mile. I'm the guy who always double or triple flushes to make up for YOU or some other asshole who buys into all that climate trauma horseshit.
08/31/09
There are a few obstacles you must hurdle in order to become a true Texan. You must be able to laugh at the heat, ignore the high winds, survive the floods, stampedes and hurricanes, stand up verbally and physically for Texas when you travel elsewhere in the world and perhaps toughest of all, tolerate cricket season.
Actually, I'm not exactly sure how far across the State the little bastards spread. I just know for a fact that they've paid us a visit here on the edge of the hill country every late
Summer since we moved here. There's not enough of them so as to be on the level with a biblical plague, but enough so that by the time they all die out the sidewalks and even floors of some businesses are spotted with their little caracasses.
They arrived in town for their annual cricket-fest (did Buddy Holly from all the way up in Lubbock name his band after these varmints?) over the weekend.
On Sunday night we realized that some how one of 'em got into our guest bathroom, scene of many bowel movements by visiting bands. It made it's cricket soud, very loudly for several hours...
UR UR UR UR UR....
Marla went to bed about 1:00 am.
UR UR UR UR UR UR ...
By about 3:00 am it was starting to drive me wacky. The problem was, no matter how hard we all looked, neither Marla or the cats or I could spot its hiding place.
UR UR UR UR UR UR UR UR...
About 4:00 am I settled down with Dixie as my hellish feline mascot and was playing PS2 baseball with our character Cha Cha Cepeda.
UR UR UR UR UR UR UR UR UR UR UR
Cha Cha couldn't concentrate to fucking bat; he struck out 3 times in a row once, forcing me to restart the damned game!
UR UR UR UR UR UR UR UR..
I stomped into the bathroom growling out loud, a few beers along.
There had to be a way to find the little fucker, I swore that when I found it, the pest would suffer a slow death.
UR UR UR UR UR UR...
AHH HAH! It seemed to be coming from near the sink..on impulse I turned the faucet on...
UR UR U.....then blessed SILENCE. I had found the goddamned thing.
Man I tell you, I hate bugs more than I even hate doctors appointments and resume updating. Until 5:00 am I kept drowning it for 10 minutes at a time...at the end of which I'd once again hear..UR UR UR UR UR UR UR. The water wasn't finishing it off.
I poured a little soap down the drain once, but it didn't seem to do much good.
I was tiring of fooling around.
I considered finishing the fucker off with Draino, but that seemed too easy. Cleaning agents as implements of death have no class, no flair.
I turned to our small home bar for a refill...and by god there was the answer!
It's a mystery bottle from Europe left with us as a present several years ago. At one time it was a decent sort of almond flavored liquor, it's aged so poorly that once when we broke it out at a band practice in desperation, we had to dare each other to take blasts of it. Frankly, most moonshine I've tasted is much smoother.
I figured it'd make for a nice sendoff for the Texas double tough cricket, which had been tormenting our family for about 10 hours.
UR UR UR UR UR UR
I poured it down the sink and within seconds...there was silence.
And then...about 5 minutes later, a feeble, drunken
ub ub ub...ub
Man, it was obviously plastered!
After a few more brief, half hearted, muffled stints of ub ub ub,.,.,,.,.,ub ub,., it was dead as Crockett. It had moseyed on to the last roundup.
I felt actually happy, for a few minutes or so.
The postscript: Marla called Mark and told him about the cricket battle. He remarked to her how happy he was that he lived on the 2nd floor, where crickets can't reach.
5 minutes after they were done yakking, she got a text message from him...somehow one of the little shits had hopped into his pad! It was already driving him loco. We've still got some of that "smoove" liquor left if he can't kill it any other way.
08/28/09
Many of us piss and moan about what might have been with our lives.
This is healthy to a certain extent. We can learn from our mistakes, it's a good idea to try to in fact in many instances. You can't let the pissing and moaning prevent you from moving forward, or you're just compounding your difficulties.
Job related decisions, romantic escapades and "substance" uses and abuses are three major areas in which you can get trapped into screwing up your life even worse or learn from your experience.
I worked for about 25 years straight in the employ of others. I bowed out to be a stay home Father utilizing self employed means of making money. I wrote a few books, two were published, including one concerned with the 25 solid years of employment. I also spent an unbelievable number of hours attempting to succeed in an on-line business. I threw in the towel on the internet business and went back to school following a few steps behind the son whom I had been stay at home Father to. I graduated, surprisingly cum laude and found a seasonal long term job which usually expands to a near full time position in 3-4 seasons. I can work this job until I'm 80 if I want to and will make more money every year, even if they have to wheel me in on a "Jazzy Runabout", due to the nature of the work.
Looking back, after I graduated from college with a B.A. I realized that even though I took my degree in History and could pursue that academic path further, I was very much suited to be a Philosophy Professor. If I was younger I would have enrolled to take my Masters program and be a teaching assistant (paid) in the meantime. Why in the hell didn't I see this path when I was in my 20's?
For that matter, why didn't I learn to drive a truck or wrestle?
The problem is (and you can read in detail about it in "Jobjumper" plug plug) I allowed other people, my parents and in-laws..., to effect my judgment of what direction to steer the frigging ship.
I wasted so many years trying to be a businessman to suit these folks, that it screwed up my whole work life. I now realize that I can only hold jobs where my bosses and co-workers accept me...without any lies. I'm a weird guy...and they LOVE weird guys in all the professions I should've chased after but didn't.
My current employer seems to hire loads of oddballs. I'm fairly normal by their standards. Great.
If you're young enough, DON'T allow yourself to be bullied into some career you're going to hate. You are not your Father or Mother or Grandparent. Whatever they did was maybe right for them, but will stomp on your soul.
If you've made a few steps down some path that sucks in your opinion, TURN the fuck around while you can.
AAhhhhh...romance. This is one pursuit in which it's easy to see who the fools are; they're the crybaby's who once dumped can't put it behind them. There is nothing more pathetic than seeing somebody, usually a guy, chasing after some women who no longer has any interest in him. Unfortunately, modern movies seem to encourage mindless stalking on the part of the dumped. This is really stupid. You are nothing without your basic shell of human dignity..and that's what you shed when you go sobbing and wringing your hands over some former lover. Wake up and smell the fucking coffee!! It's over.
If you want to think back and try to learn how to be a better partner next time, fine and dandy...but let the hell go of the past...right now..or you're being a stupid, childish movie emulating jackass with no clue.
Substances. In this area, in the long run, you must push peer pressure out of your life and replace it with common sense. In the short run you can be a boob, a rum rookie and eventually just "grow up" like so many others.
In the long run, ask yourself: 1) Can I afford this substance long term..
2) do I even enjoy this substance...really...REALLY...be honest.
3) Here's thee Whiskey Rebel's litmus test for substances...Would I keep using this substance on a desert island with nobody around to do it with or impress???
Enough of being practicle...UUUuuurrrRRRppppPPPP
08/24/09
My Son Elvis was born in 1984. By that point in time a huge percentage of cartoon programming for kids was just total wussified bullshit. There was still some good stuff being shown though. When he was a toddler, I was constantly in fear that he'd wind up hooked to some total "Get along gang" horseshit. He wound up preferring a long Flintstones vhs tape that we made up for him. Now, I've soured somewhat on the Flintstones, but I was jubilant that he chose to watch it over and over and over instead of the frigging Smurfs or the Turner channel religious cartoons of the era.
Another of his primary video favorites that really made me feel like he had potential I burned to DVDR tonight...2 copies..one for each of us. It was a 1/2 long "Kids Klassics" series episode. It wasn't a load of goody goody crap with Sunday school loving kids traveling back in history or cute little creatures all getting along..HELL NO; My kid from the time of his first birthday forward loved the frigging Legion of Doom..the ROAD WARRIORS.
Can you imagine, this tape which features a couple of the LOD's most infamous brutal matches was packaged for kids? In one match Kurt Hennig gets caught by the neck between ropes, the fans charge the ring for real and the Warriors have to fight their way back to the locker room with chairs bouncing off them. HOW COOL.
In an interview at the beginning of the tape Hawk, the Animal and Precious Paul boast about their greatness and make threats to all potential foes..turning the tables on all the peace creep horseshit being trawled out to gullible kids elsewhere.
I'd like to thank here and now whomever was responsible for this tape behind made and marketed as a "Kids Klassic"...because it obviously was. It became a family favorite.
I not only liked it because it was top notch wrestling footage and something I enjoyed almost as much as my Son, I thought that the Road Warriors were great role models for Elvis because they were unique individuals and proud of it, not cookie cutter fad following squares, conformist sheep.
To this day Elvis, is known amongst his circle of acquaintances for having "different" parents. Hell, we are weird...there's no debate there. I think growing up respecting individuals who blaze their own trail like the Road Warriors and Pee Wee Herman and many others helped him adapt to our strange ways.
Hell, he's even got some weird traits of his own.
If you're interested in seeking out this great tape it's titled: "The Road Warriors road to the championship" and was packaged with AWA logos on it. To those of you with young impressionable kids, would you rather they watch something wholesome like the LOD bloodying up the goose stepping Baron and tossing the Hennigs around like rag dolls, or the vile "Wiggles"?? HHmmMM??
08/21/09
Last time I wrote about Les Paul, an under appreciated icon. Even though his passing should have really been considered more significant by the spudhead humanoids, I've met many fans of his over the years. He is missed and 100 years from now he'll be receiving his due long after many fleeting pop imbeciles have been forgotten.
This time I'm writing about a pop singer from the hippie era who has us scratching our heads around here. This person has earned a Biography channel 1 hour long episode...for what?!? I've never, ever, ever met a dedicated fan of this individual yet she gets the hour long treatment. Why?
I was flipping through the frigging channels trying to find something tolerable to show while Marla and I ate a meal. I was having a hard time finding anything worth watching, when there it was; a biography of Mama Cass from the 60's group the Mama's and the Papa's. I pointed out the fact to Marla that this "serious" channel was covering her and she was shocked too. WHY HER? we asked out loud.
I've been exposed to people of all sorts of musical tastes for many years, sold records at collector shows on both coasts and in this time zone as well; met plenty of crazy assholes who are fixated on musical figures you wouldn't imagine anybody would bother worshipping. In all that time I've never met ONE Mama Cass fan. Yeah, yeah, I've met fans of the group she sang with, but not devoted fans of hers.
Not one..NOT 1...not I. Knot wun. Never, ever.
I'm not here to merely put this woman down. She's not significant enough for me to lose sleep over. If she does have a scene of fans dedicated to her, more power to her. I wanna know who the fuck they are though. Is that asking too much?
Somebody out there, if you're a big fan of Mama Cass and would watch an hour long biography of her with gusto and enthusiasm, lemme know!
I remember a Lily Tomlin fan who seemed wired and out of sorts, combing the record show for Lily stuff. But, never, ever, ever, ever, ever a Mama Cass fan. So WHY an hour long biography episode???
I don't get it...somebody clue me in.
Damn, I can't wait until the hippies have all died off or are too old to exert influence on cable TV channels. What a glorious age will be ushered in. The thought of finally after following in their wretched wake all of my life being rid of them is exhilarating.
08/18/09
I am a believer in great people and that our humanoid race advances thanks to the efforts of often unsung geniuses as opposed to "team" efforts by committees or the sweat of masses of disposable fools being directed by central leaders.
We lost a really great individual a few days ago, a frigging genius of the first order whose creations not only helped shape our culture in major ways that impacted many, he also had a clear direct impact on my own life.
Of course I'm referring to Les Paul. He gave us the solid body guitar, plenty of great sound effects, some top notch music and most importantly to me, his creation of studio overdubbing made it possible for hacks like me to record music. Hells bells, it's hard enough to record with multiple tracks. I shudder when I think of what it must have been like to have to record a song over and over and over again without the ability to layer tracks. Bands having to nail everything perfectly all together. YUCK. I'm glad I wasn't around in those dark days.
Yes, multi-track recording certainly has been responsible for a mountain of pretentious garbage, but what the hell..we've got to sort the bad from the good anyway when it comes to all forms of art.
Ironically, the boneheads who owe him the greatest debt, "artists" who sample every note and beat mostly aren't even aware that there was a guy who we can thank for making it possible for them to record albums without exhibiting a shred of talent musically.
Just a few months ago I found a super rare 7" single box set from the 50's of Les Paul and Mary Ford tunes at our local half price book store. The price I paid? .50 cents. They didn't know who he was, or they would've jacked the price up to at least the level of their over priced and disposable pop albums.
Les Paul, the great individual, left the world with obits in most newspapers and internet sites. His death created little media noise in comparison to certain favorite "Artists" of the masses who have done little in comparison but are able to pull ONE LAST HUSTLE on their gullible fans, sending them into fits of hysteria lasting several days.
If there was a guy who deserved hysteria, sack cloth and ashes even...it was Mr. Paul.
Oh well. The nonexistent gods rewarded him by allowing him the energy and wits and technique to play weekly at a club in NYC right up to the end at the age of 94. Shit, there are few pop idols who manage to pull that one off.
I hereby honor one of the truly great individuals of the last century with a Texas sized shot of Beam..let's hope we see his likes again in this century.
08/14/09
I haven't written about beer in a long time here. Realizing this, I set out to conduct a bit of research on a beer topic totally unrelated to what I'm going to write about here and now.
Why am I changing topics? Because I found such a wealth of on-line beer fansites, snotty "craft" beer reviews, both high and low brow beer blogs and other collections of alleged wisdom concerning beer drinking I forgot what I planned to write about.
Man, there's a humongous scene out there of people chasing after wide varieties of beers, sampling beers at big fests, going to new brew pubs to try the huge variety of beers there, each one being scrutinized as if the beer itself is the goal.
Jesus fucking christ! What a load of shit!
The beer doesn't matter, it's what you do with it that counts.
All these enthusiasts work so hard to locate and judge all these different brews, scrutinizing them for taste like the snob judges on Iron chef America judging sushi or sea bass or somebody's "take" on rustic blue collar food that injects it with sufficient snob appeal to make it topical enough for their discriminating palates.
These pompous assholes have all forgotten, in the rush to out top each other with their clever powers of refined sensibility, that beer was designed to GET DRUNK with.
Just because you've "discovered" some frigging craft beer joint or "sampled" (interpretation.."sipped" like a Sitzpinkler) its wares doesn't make you clever or fastidious or superior in any way to some dude who buys a 12 pack of Keystone light and takes it home and has a good night with it.
Why are all these prigs gloating about their finds as if somehow the quality of the product rubs off on them? If you are a brewer, more power to you; it's reasonable to brag about your product. If you're just some consumer shelling out dough for somebody's creation, you don't have bragging rights about its quality.
It seems to me like theres all too many prigs out there trying to live out some sort of artificial "lifestyle" that makes them feel superior or proper or discriminating rather than just simply buying beer, drinking it and getting drunk.
Again; 1) Buy beer 2) drink it 3) get drunk; it's just that simple. That's what beers all about.
The beer that YOU buy doesn't make you a better person.
If I can judge by all the boring "blogs" by people out there discovering beer rather than drinking it to get high, I'd say that these dopes have lost their ability to simply have a good time. You don't need dozens of beers, even though the brew pub may stock that many. You need ONE. That'll do the job pal.
You'll find that when you settle on drinking a simple beer all night long the conversation will in all likelihood get past all the "we're so clever" mutual admiration society black slapping and move on to other topics concerning the human mind and senses.
One more thing, the next time I read some whiny blog penned by an obvious pencil neck geek posing as a craft beer highbrow snot, waxing eloquent on how horrible it was to have to drink an entire 16 ounce can of corporate beer during a night of slumming it, I'm gonna go a rampage. To insinuate that a beer brand that sells millions of cans or bottles per year and pleases millions of people is too crude for only your delicate senses is ludicrous. We all have brands we don't favor, but none of us are superior for preferring one over another anymore than some suburban housewife is better than her neighbor because she uses a certain brand of laundry detergent.
08/10/09
I'm hooked and I damned well know it. The caramel like scent of fresh, unsoiled Dvd'rs is as familiar to me as any smells I've ever associated with my son when he was newborn, my Wife of almost 30 years, my mother and father from ny childhood. Even my sacred Granny to whom I know my life can't compete when it comes to familiarity scent-wise vs. the standard Wal-mart brands I've wallowed in for a couple months now.
If Chef Ramsey waggled a Dvdr under my nose I would identify it with confidence and clarity. It's a happy, intoxicating smell that renders most other scents obsolete.
I've managed to burn sturdy, inviolable, sensual copies of at least 1/3rd of the humongous collection of VHS tapes we amassed over a quarter century.
Have I gone off of my frigging rocker? Just perhaps.
Never the less, the task is well upon the road to completion.
I get angry when I'm faced with ignorant taping habits from the 1980's that have survived in our tape racks. Get this; a frigging 6 hour tape of purported "Batman" episodes turned out to be utterly worthless. We must have been so inebriated or under the influence of other substances that we were unable to completely tape even ONE (!?) goddamned double episode in its pristine entirety.
What losers we were; I'll never stand for such imbecility again. Our Dvd collection will be unsullied, as opposed to being the product of some asinine Cheech & Chong idiocy.
The collected product I have converted is prepared to stand inspection at a moments notice. There will be no sloppy mis-spellings on title pages. None. Period. There will be no false representations such as footnotes indicating "10 episodes" when there actually is 9 or 11.
DVD'rs should bear the same accuracy and seriousness as a prenatal exam or a MRI from the neck up. If you can't handle that, please don't filth up the format. Stick to your good ol' boy 8 track or Beta or VHS. Leave the decent formats to those of us who aren't nostril mining morons.
08/07/09
Yesterday was our 32nd anniversary. Yeah, we got married right out of high school. Hurrah for us. It was going to be a quiet one, eating at home together, no real hoopla, but an anniversary no less. they can't all be exciting.
Unfortunately, it did turn out to be exciting, but in a really fucked up way.
About 4:00 p.m. I dragged the trash and recycling bins in from the sidewalk so Marla could park. It was about 105 degrees out, which it's been for months. No break in sight. That's ok..this is Texas. I went back indoors and flopped on our love seat which has a chessboard in front of it. Damn, it felt warm to the touch. What was going on? I checked the air conditioner vent and felt some air coming out of it. Seemed like a pathetic stream...I broke out in a cold sweat fearing the worst. The indoor thermostat was at 88 degrees, much too high. The a.c. was clearly struggling. I waited calmly until Marla got home. She's a former repair technician of everything from lawnmowers to sewing machines. I have brains to spare, but zero mechanical aptitude. She'd have to use her expertise on this one.
She got home and declared upon setting her feet inside the door that it was unusually hot. She hustled outside to where our outdoor a.c. unit is and determined that it was dead. Our indoor unit was replaced a couple years ago in February when it caused no threat to our well being. Unfortunately if your a.c. kicks out in the middle of august around here, you're screwed. Opening the windows won't help, fans can only keep you breathing. EVEN PUBLIC HOUSING units have a.c. these days.
I've declared many times out loud that I'd last about an hour in our house in summer weather without a.c. and the air in our home was already starting to suffocate me I thought. We had to arrange for the a.c. people to come by and deal with the situation, make a small repair if possible or prepare to install a new one PRAWN TOE.
Meanwhile we had to arrange for somewhere to stay.
We have almost zero support system here unfortunately. Elvis and his wife could be intruded upon, but they were planning to move into a bigger apartment the next morning and were likely not prepared for visitors. Their cat Schmidty was even staying with us. Well, we could go sit at a bar with Mark for a few hours perhaps, but he lives in a small apartment. All of the folks we know with big, luxurious homes, or just average homes with a.c. live in other cities no closer than San Antonio.
The a.c. repair guy came by and declared our outdoor unit was indeed dead. He set things in motion so we could possibly get a new one installed the next day. These guys know that lots of people can't survive a night here in the summer without a.c. and don't want to get sued for dragging their feet and allowing some fat guy like me to die due to their slothfulness. It only gets down to 80 or so by 3:00 a.m. and touches down at about 75 at 5:00 a.m. before sunrise causes a drastic upswing.
We wound up at the local Howard Johnsons where we were told there was a pool.
Hah! Pool my fanny. I remember being inspired for a diary entry by seeing this pool by the side of the road. It's so small it's pathetic. The waters were cloudy, indicating too many chemicals or body wastes had been dumped into it.
Like I mentioned in that diary entry, what do the managers care? Why should they give a fuck? They technically have a pool. They know that you might bitch when you show up and see it, but by that time you're already committed thanks to some internet savings website. YOU are SCREWED.
(Now that I think of it, there's a few good pages on this subject in my book "Hostile city or bust". Why not order a copy and read all about our much worse motel pool experience off of the Ohio turnpike..you'll be helping to pay for our new a.c.unit).
We ate some takeout sonic food and tried to plan the next days strategy.
The non-existent gods rubbed our noses in the fact that our a.c. was dead meat by giving us a motel unit that couldn't be set to keep the room cool without being too cold or insufferably hot. We tossed and turned all night pretty much.
I love motels usually, but this dump has a nail sticking out of the love seat that has probably carved up many a leg, wretched 3rd world bedding and a TV set that had the color setting adjusted so that everything appeared in hues of blue and orange (Hojo's colors!).
When I tried to soothe myself with the golf channel the courses were all pale orange. Yuck.
The final insult to my motel stay, which I usually crave, was having the back piece of a flea market purchased (probably) wooden chair snap out of position while I was quietly reading a newspaper. I stuck the piece back in and vowed to prank these bastards some day.
We wound up back at home before noon the next day (yeah, today) feeling shitty and facing having to wait out the installation armed with 2 ceiling fans and a portable one. They declared they'd get it installed and have done good work before, so we hoped we wouldn't wind up having to look for another room that night.
I hunkered down flat on our bed under a ceiling fan, like a dying whale on the beach, or tommy turtle flipped over on his stinking back; I wished I could think pleasant thoughts, but I could only focus on it as being a preview of the angel of death calling for me in a nursing home some day like that, helpless and humiliated.
"Because I could not stop for death-
He kindly stopped for me-"
Shit! you know I've been through a bad experience when I'm quoting Emily Dickinson. Sweating it out in that 95+ degree room for 5-6 hours made me a bit wackier than that even. I felt that the entire bed was in motion, passing through the desert like the Joad's Okie mobile from Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath", the family wondering which ones were strong enough to survive.
Marla can stand the heat better than me of course, I'm the guy who never wears a coat..she reaches for one when its just 60-65 degrees. Sheeit. As I lay there hoping to survive the trip she'd occasionally bring in a cat to ogle me, wondering what the fuck was wrong with me. She'd bring in a cold water bottle now and then, but it was so hot in that bedroom they'd grow hot to touch within an hour.
See what I mean? It was hot.
When this happened in Philly to us we hid in our basement; there's no basements within 40 miles of here. Our area is built on near impenetrable rock.
8 hours ago Marla came into the bedroom and said that it was all over.
"All over"? I asked in wonder.."do you mean this is hell"?
I'm glad I retained my sense of humor just a bit during the ordeal.
We managed to avoid the expense of another night in a better motel this time. I had been baking for so long that it took me several hours and about 3 tries to get off of the bed for good and stay awake elsewhere in the house.
Since I can't get any old-timer Texans to discuss with me how they got by before a.c. was common, I once researched the subject. For one thing, they had some sort of arrangement where they'd stick blocks of ice in the window and place fans just so.
Shit, why didn't we think of calling the ice man?
To those of you from lame rain States laughing at me, go ahead for now, but remember; I laugh at your wimpy heat waves. If we're ever together and it's in the upper 80's or low 90's and you're getting upset, I'll be sure to chortle at you in return. We don't even consider that to be summer weather here.
I'll also get the last life when you're wading through snow banks this December after Christmas and we're a couple hundred miles from here on South Padre Island walking around lonely off season beaches for discount prices, enjoying temperatures of about 80 degrees each day.
Getting back to normal, I now realize that my suffering has just been the price you have to pay once in awhile to be a Texan. I tell you what, I'm gonna get that frigging hojo back good, reeaallll good.
08/06/09
Here's the difference between Facebook and reality. I'm about to go post a blatantly bragging "32 years of marriage" post at FB, but I know damned well that's just an easily digested jolly spin on a statistic. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not going to lie, it is remarkable that we've been married for so damned long, but honestly I've seen couples break up that I would've bet money on staying together just as long.
I can't name names when it comes to shit like this. I'll just say to some of my friends out there who never got past year 5 or 10, HEY...I thought you had something going there but it didn't work out. You're sure as hell no worse a person than me and I'm not gloating all that hard when I sweep the LUCK factor under the rug deliberately.
Yeah, I won't bring it up on FB, but you've gotta be really lucky for a marriage to last so long these days. Why? Because it seems so odd. There simply aren't enough positive examples to follow. It used to be a typical thing for marriages to last a long time.
I still truly believe you improve your chances by developing seperate identities; becoming a known "couple" is easy. Becoming a couple that can spend time apart from one another and survive one anothers sucesses is another matter. The 24/7 togetherness shit just will not hold for 32 years. I get joy from all the things my Wife has done without me that are worthy accomplishments. I'm pretty sure she feels the same way. When your partner can stay back and let you do things that don't involve him or her, you've got something special. As I said though, there is a good deal of luck involved in the equation. He or she may find someone else in the process. Maybe not, but if you're ever going to trust one another and be married as long as your Grandparents were, you've got to take some of these chances.
In most cases (from what I've seen) I believe that a marriage is strengthened by enthusiastic trust.
Well, what do I know? I've only been married 32 frigging years?!?
There are signs you can look for. Self centered, vain people cheat more often than folks who are slightly less confident in their role in thee game of love.
Well shit. I'm off to FB to express the equivalent of a simplistic fist waved in the air. I've tried to be a bit more realistic here, good luck.
08/03/09
I watched an episode of Raw. Damn, it was so bad I'm glad nobody saw me watch it. It featured a couple of asshole who the hell are they actors as Gm's. Pathetic. Nothing good at all for the whole 2 hours. Cena is as bad as ever, HHH as irritating and lame as ever. Kofi Kingston is a boring throwback to the Chump Hogan era. YUCK! Orton and his entourage are meant to look weak.
What were they thinking? Is it always this bad? I must assume so.
What sort of drugs is Vince on, having some lame calculated stubble idiot host the show? His Asian sidekick blurted out a line Andy Kaufman delivered 100X better: "I'm from Hollywood!" It came from nowhere and lead to nothing.
BULLSHIT.
08/02/09
The daily political bickering covered by the vast majority of the media concerns squabbles between politicians and each other or perhaps with groups of citizens. Complaining about Obama, loving Obama, hating the house and senate, loving what they're doing, programs being conducted by government employees, sound bites, more sound bites, bloopers by public figures, it's all actually petty stuff compared to the big picture.
Hardly anybody from the media stands back and looks at the big picture. What are the parameters concerning where we are headed. In what ways could my life possibly be made different in the near future, a few years down the line and maybe 15-20 years from now.
This is one of the reasons why chess players should be running things (well, along with poker players too I guess). Good, even intermediate players like myself think constantly about the big picture.
Daily bitching back and forth between parties is almost always about current stuff that won't seem that important even a year from now. The people who wrap themselves in these partisan feuds are like nostril mining "sudoku" players who spend about 15 minutes dicking around with some useless exercise they'll gain nothing from.
You may wonder what my "big picture" concerns are since I occasionally can't help but throw a ball of poop at some party hacks or a cause oriented group.
Well, here you go.
Where in the hell is this administration leading us? I was always concerned about the right wing Bush administration getting too carried away when it came to personal liberties, moral questions and crusades against people who don't constitute a danger in my eyes. Legislation of morals scares the piss out of me.
Once you look past the feel good smoke screen of the Obama administration it certainly seems like they're out to implement another set of morals, ranging from environmental concerns and wealth redistribution to workplace ethics (concerning unions). Tell me, HOW MUCH wealth distribution is too much? Where does it end? How far down the environmental extremist road are we rolling? Will equal rights be granted to our cats? How about endangered fungus crap in potential construction areas?
How far do they wanna go when it comes to gun control?
Lets look at the big picture, not some bill being discussed at the committee level.
If they take over the health care of our nation, will the next step on the agenda be to declare that gun owners will have 60 days to stack their weapons and ammo or immediately lose their health care status?
As a wimpy sudoku player your mind may only be trained to look at what they're pulling off TODAY...we chess players can look at the bigger scenario and demand to know what will happen tomorrow.
Unfortunately, we chess players and our non-chess playing equivalents who are capable of seeing several moves ahead are heavily outnumbered by spudheads who have a token handout tossed their way and are made content.
Just how much apologizing for past administrations is on tap?
Will it lead to us being forced to cough up money to feed half the frigging world permanently? What's that? You say "of course not.."...well, WHY NOT?? I don't know how far this bunch is going to try to push things.
The thing is, all we have to judge by is their sound bites and if we accept the word of these people without questioning it we are blindly loyal to frigging POLITICIANS....
That's what these folk are...how many of you have forgotten that? I bet a national poll would declare 80% of politicos are full of hot air, some blatant liars and truth stretchers at the very least.
Where is the ship being steered?
That's what I wanna know. How much do I have to shell out, how many aspects of my life are going to be effected by these people? What I eat, what I drive, what I shit into is already on the table...WHATS FRIGGING NEXT???
I'm damned worried.
07/31/09
I was sitting at a local headlight behind a beat old car that dated back to 1990 or so, gagging from the exhaust fumes. "What the fuck..?" I cursed shaking my fist in the cars direction. I was starting to cuss the fucker out under my breath as the fumes started to get to me, but then my anger turned to laughter as I read the bumper sticker on the vehicle: "GO GREEN". I announced out loud to no one "well, there's a diary entry!"
So, here we are.
The old classic "do as I say, not as I politically espouse". The press occasionally exposes earth "friendly" politicians pulling that sort of non-green stuff, but the contradictions certainly aren't limited to them.
Just like most members of religious groups sin all the time, there are a few enviro diehards who really back up what they talk. Most politicians, normal citizens and corporations using a "green" theme to boost sales will make token changes to their lives at times like this when causes catch fire, but they move on to the next slogan and cause when it becomes in turn popular.
Most people drank like fish during prohibition. The "war on drugs" used to be incredibly popular.
Was the old broad who owned the car a true green nut? Or was she pulling a very cynical stunt by having a green bumpersticker on such a heap? Either way, she made my day.
07/29/09
Of all the government control programs that are being proposed on the horizon, the one that terrifies me the most is mandatory "government service" for young people.
For any young lefties out there who think it's a great idea, remember; when the righties take power again, they can shift kids working at innocent, peace loving chores to war mongering military service. So you want to open that can of worms?
I think that our army should be volunteer. I've always felt that way, even before I had a kid and was out of the likely draft age range. I have some friends who feel that a mandatory draft would "pound some sense" into some little spoiled, jackass 18 year olds from States like California. Well, that sounds good in theory until you consider a mandatory liberal operated government service that will "pound some sense" into all the nonpolitically correct kids from Republican States.
Drafted armies and conscripted "peaceful" government corp workers are little better than slaves in my book. They are certainly being denied their right to pursuit of happiness. If you want a really great army, get applicants to compete for high paid positions. If you want some sort of glorified peace corp, get people in it who WANT to fucking be there. Don't send anybody off to wage war or peace at the point of a gun or under threat of prison.
We have an incredibly swollen government at this point in time. Surely there are enough government employees to perform other functions. What's that you say? Create a "green corp" that goes around performing tasks pertaining to the globe warming hoax? Oh my fucking god. Are people collectively getting so stupid in our country they'd go for that sort of extremist program? Well, if they do, don't come whining to me when the other side takes over and conscripts the same youths for a new oil drilling project or a program to build nukes and refineries.
I'm alienated big time from both parties and only look to keep the government out of my life and that of my family and friends as much as possible. I pay my taxes, wave at my local cops, pay my student loans, wheel the trash and recycling out on the appropriate days, occasionally vote and pay an exorbitant amount of SIN taxes daily. If I ever learn to ride a motorcycle i'll be sure to wear a helmet, OK? Isn't that enough? Do I really have to have my toilet examined by an inspector for the government? Can't I simply finish what is left of my life without having mandatory food consumption laws crammed down my throat? I don't want to buy a mandatory uncomfortable putt putt Obama car?!? Why won't they just leave us the fuck alone?!?!?!
What next...WHAT the fuck is NEXT on the government power trip list????
Mandatory health care coverage purchases by pet owners? An "earth friendly" pledge of allegiance for kids..hhhmmm? Bend over baby....we ran out of "green" government lubricant......aahhhHHHHGGGGhhhhh!!!!
07/26/09
Just back from the 2009 Houston Open chess tournament. Like many other U.S. tournaments these days, they are treated like gambling events in a way. In the old days when I was a kid a tournament was broken up into a couple groups usually, an open event in which all the experts and masters were required to play in and a section for the lowly majority with smaller prizes so they could actually win a little money without being forced to play stiff competition.
Back then I always played with the big boys, thanks to the advice of some good mentors. Hey, you get better by playing against good players, not mopping the floor up with beginners and novices for most of your games.
For several years this notion of weaklings only facing each other, never coming into contact with accomplished players has been taken to the extreme. The Houston event was broken up into 5 sections so that really piss poor players, slightly better players, slightly better than them and so forth..played only each other and competed for money almost as big as what the top players were fighting for. My strength group was just below the "open" section and I could have played opponents my rating "level" for money, but how in the hell am I going to improve that way? I played with the masters and experts like I usually do, knowing I'd lose more than I win, still trying to achieve my full potential.
Even low level beginners can not only win thousands of $$$ at many tournaments simply by beating other beginners, if they lose they can pay a fee and re-enter the tournament on a schedule with more rounds booked in a day playing very fast. At the massive Chicago open tournament I played in a few months ago, there were 4 day, 3 day and 2 day schedules that allowed jokers who started out horribly in the 4 day to pay a fee, get walloped in the 3 day and pay yet another fee to enter the 2 day event which eventually merges with the other schedules they withdrew from. If that isn't clear, the way it works is that by gambling more money in terms of re-entry fees these gamblers can walk away with some of the thousands of $$$ in prizes if they do well finally after a couple bad starts.
What this means to me is how can I compete on an uneven playing field with players of my level who get to start over (by shelling out hundreds of more $$$) if their tournament starts poorly? I can afford about one entry fee and that's it.
The other thing about the huge prizes paid to low rated players is the fact that lots of schemers sandbag, lose some games deliberately at their home chess club a couple months before a big event that they can earn $5,000-$8,000 in a lower rated section.
Shit, it's no wonder I bypass all the hoopla over prizes that money oriented players are shooting for and simply dive head first into a buzz saw and play in the section with the masters and experts.
My first round on Friday I was dispatched very quickly by a nice young guy who happens to be a strong expert. I drew a game I want to discuss further with another expert in the next round, lost to another lower rated expert in the third, took a requested 1/2 point "bye" so I could sleep in sunday morning after all the drinking done in our room and in my last game I finally got a win over a guy rated just under me thanks to a beautifully played endgame on my part. I'm happy with my result.
The draw was the most significant game for me, since I finally proved I no longer fear playing all the upcoming kids who terrorize many adults into playing in senior only events. I boasted to Marla beforehand that even though I knew the event was teaming with Texas kids who are already experts and masters who have beaten me in the past (and lost in same cases too) I couldn't detect a sign of fear in my body. The kid I faced in this round defeated me in Houston a couple years ago when he was lower rated than me. I was playing for "the money" in that event against my principles and was knocked out of contention by the loss. The kid now outrates me significantly and at the rate he is improving he'll be unable for me to play a competitive game with in a couple years, he'll probably be a very strong senior master or even higher ranked.
We fought back and forth until we were both short on time and agreed to a draw in a position in which he insisted after the game that I had the better position and had let him off the hook by agreeing to a draw. I wasn't so sure of that. I fed the moves to my Fritz chess computer and it declares the position even as hell. Perhaps I rattled the kid by drawing him enough that he had to save face by believing he had pulled off a minor swindle by halving the point with a worse position.
The beer and whiskey always taste better after a game like that, although I don't recall needing much coaxing to rip into it in our room.
I want to thank my lovely spouse for driving, running a few errands making my tournament easier and putting up with my post game chatter. She had some fun of her own though, spending many hours at the really nice hotel pool.
07/23/09
I get tired of writing about Obama here even though I rarely do. It's hard not to when so many people around me are terrified by his Presidency. It might be different where you live and with those you hang out with, but I rarely talk to anybody who trusts him. Marla pegs him as being arrogant and holier than thou. Others are worried, very much so in fact that he has a hidden agenda that is even worse than we ever expected.
I don't want to get carried away, but perhaps the reason he's so defensive when it comes to being questioned by critics is due to a concern that if his past is probed just a bit too closely in some area not yet brought to light, great hidden secrets will be exposed that could really get even him into hot water.
Since I don't believe in conspiracies without reason and since I laugh at the theories of certain blowhards who think he's in cahoots with the Bushes and the "Jews" and the horde of alleged power brokers only identified as "they", I'll wait until some secret is brought to light and then consider what it all could mean.
This situation up in Cambridge doesn't make me feel any better about him, particularly the sidebar to the main issue concerning his history of unpaid parking tickets up there. It's been common knowledge that he quietly settled up on 15 frigging tickets in Cambridge soon before officially declaring his candidacy.
Being reminded of that today has left me shaking my head at what an elitist, imperious, lordly dude he is and apparently has been for some time. Yes, I know quite a few scofflaws who don't pay their tickets, but most of them skulk around trying to keep the government out of their lives, not run for high public office!
You talk about a double standard. SHIT. We've sweated blood over the years in more than one city trying to find legal parking places and then trying to pay the occasional and unavoidable damned fines before they pile up penalties. Thee great, mighty Obama, Lord of the Chicago machine, where his tickets could just get fixed by an alderman, simply blows it all off. Parking regulations and fines are beneath his notice.
We've all known Teddy Kennedy was this sort of self centered jackass, but surely not the pure of heart, righteous, deeply pious bequeather of hope and change.
Here's where a talk show host would start bellowing "WAKE UP AMERICA!" and I can't really blame 'em for getting emotional, but I think that a significant portion of folks who got caught up in the campaign pageantry and used to believe in our sanctified Pope-Bama are developing doubts that they're keeping under wraps since hey, nobody likes to admit that they've been duped. Of course others will never wise up...and no amount of facts can change their minds. May I suggest that you not be too hard on the ones who are wising up, since we'll need their votes in the future for somebody, anybody, and don't want them to go back to defending the vague lunacy of "hope" and "change" they got suckered by.
07/21/09
I'm in training for the mighty Houston Open chess tournament this weekend. Marla is coming along and will serve as my 2nd. She's making such progress in her own chess studies I don't say that lightly. Damn, but she's a natural attacker. Tired of the 1200 rated kid, she whipped 2 games out of 3 a 1400 rated computer programmed personality that has beat me before. She'll be ready to play Mark in a couple months I guess. I wish our old pal Emilio was still around to take her on. I really miss him, especially at times like this. Anywho, Mark has tournament experience and plays constantly on yahoo. It'll be interesting to see what happens. There's nothing more dangerous than facing a berserk aggressive foe. That holds true for poker too and "real" wrestling as I recall.
Dvdr's smell very much like caramels when they are pure and unsullied.
I love taking a whiff before I pop one in for burning.
I figure I've burned about 130-140 dvdr's from crusty old vhs tapes by now. I rarely stop to watch what's being burned, but tonight I had to. I saw one of the most overlooked moments of great TV in our humble collection.
Remember the Iron chef NYC challenge with that food network guy I don't like Bobby Flay battling the heroic Morimoto? The battle was just so-so. I think it was totally rigged and worked out ahead of time.
A preliminary event on the 2 hour show was much, much better.
Chef/host Gordon Elliott had a show called "Door knock dinners" in which he'd go door to door with a film crew to find a household that would allow them to send in a real chef to cook dinner with only the contents of the family larder or freezer or frig.
In the first hour of the Iron chef NYC battle, chef Morimoto and the regal, retired Iron chef Michiba who preceded him find themselves in a suburb, either long Island or Jersey...somewhere..cooking for spoiled upper middle-class people.
Man, those two guys are really heroic in my book for having laid it on the line for years in kitchen stadium. To go cook in some frigging asshole family house is remarkable.
They seem incredibly out of place, but manage to deal with the sort of slop you find in all American freezers and refrigerators and survive and thrive. I mean, THRIVE.
The best dish was chicken thawed and cooked in a beer bath and served with a bell pepper sauce over ramen noodles.
It's always admirable to me when I see somebody operate outside ot their comfort zone. If you can't, you better hang on to your day job. Iron chef's Michiba and Morimoto are not only culinary gods when it comes to fancy, expensive ingredients, they can craft silk purses and diamond dildo's out of sows ears, or the crap you find in lazy American housewife kitchens.
The twat who they cooked for looked like a solid candidate for the Peg Bundy kitchen-Queen award. YUCK! UuuurrrrrrpppPPPPP.
07/18/09
One of the benefits you probably wouldn't expect came from my associating with adult chess players when I was a still promising talent. It brought me into contact with a few of the vices that my overly strict parents forbade, which included alcohol, tobacco, movie theaters, dancing, playing cards and other dangerous temptations.
I eventually came into contact with chess players who were lead to ruin by these tools of the devil and others, but for the most part at first I dealt with rather normal people who took a few beers in stride.
I'd like to point out that buying beer or smokes for a minor wasn't that big a deal back then. It was easy if you looked 16 or so to find somebody to buy supplies for you outside of a grocery store. Nowadays, in many states you could wind up in jail or prison for buying a keg for your son or daughter and his or her friends. My early chess mentors never really gave me all that much stuff, just enough to help me survive a few more years until I could get it by other means.
I've written elsewhere about a neighbor when I was 12 named Luvaas who discovered me as a kid who had just won a couple scholastic tournament trophies and began playing with me and going over our games (it took me several months to win) until I eventually beat him nearly every game and was 16 or so and fairly accomplished for my age.
Early on it was Luvaas who did all the giving. He saw a good young player and devoted time to helping him (er, me) out. Looking back as an adult, I can read between the lines and figure that he felt sorry for me having met my religion wise nutty, but otherwise fairly kind parents. It did me a world of good to walk across the street to the split level Luvaas home. Pete and his wife were really hospitable, but more importantly not religious fanatics. I needed to get away sometimes to a place where people drank a glass of wine with dinner or maybe knocked back a few blasts of booze on a Friday or Saturday night.
I've been thinking about Pete all day and am delighted that a new important detail of our relationship just occurred to me. It happened in 1972. I was 15 and on the verge of going on a school band trip to Europe in which I would begin a lifelong, love affair with the bottle that has continued to this day. I hadn't been to Europe yet though and was a rum rookie, still capable of getting drunk off of a six pack.
Luvaas invited me over to play a buddy of his from work. Remember, there were small clippings in the local paper about me (a few of which I'm planning to post eventually in Facebook). He explained to me that he was asking me to do something special. He had bragged to the fella about how I could play and win a game blindfolded and the guy said he was full of crap; he didn't believe it.
To defend the honor of my mentor, I agreed to play the guy that night at the Luvaas home. Hell, I was a cocky smartass. I didn't need much convincing.
Although Pete didn't mention it, looking back I now realize that they had some sort of wager riding on the outcome of the game...isn't it obvious? I was still fairly naive and didn't know chocolate from shit.
I strolled across the street and rang the bell as usual. On this night, Pete's wife answered the door with a drink in her hand. She lead me into the kitchen where Pete sat with a drink at the table we always played on across from a guy about 45 or so who I had never met.
With Mrs. Luvaas and this other guy there it was going to be a very different night. Pete had boasted quite a bit about me and I can't blame him. even though players of my skill at my age were common in NYC and L.A. and a dime a dozen in any European country, I was pretty good for the pacific Northwest. He had helped me get to where I was, which seems not so much to me today. I look at my sloppy games from when I was a kid and feel squeamish that I thought I was hot shit.
But hell, I was good enough to pull off the blindfold chess parlor trick. I had been summoned to the homes of other friends and asked to silence the braggadocio of their beloved relatives who were good enough to terrorize their family across the board but actually piss poor duffers who played about as well as I could ice skate.
The routine for me was to get a cloth napkin, preferably dark and cover my head with it, like Sabu or Abdullah the Butcher being lead to the ring. I would call out the moves and my opponent would call his back. The chessboard has a numbered and lettered grid for this purpose that you could figure out in 5 monutes even if you never played the game.
Mrs. Luvaas provided me with a black napkin and joined Pete in the audience as this fellow and me began our game. Pete recorded the moves, which I still have in his handwriting from the scoresheet he kept that day. The game was pretty easy. The guy turned out to be a blowhard. He threw away material quickly and allowed me to mate his cramped King in about 25 moves. He kept using an amateurish trick of trying to sneak attack my Queen figuring I couldn't "see" what he was doing. This really lead to him only losing that much faster.
When the game was over, Pete and his wife just beamed with pride. I'm glad in retrospect that I could give something back to these folks who invited me into their home, a kid with wacky parents.
I only remembered today this important factoid: Pete at this moment poured me a nice big glass of red wine, the first time we had ever had a drink together. I get almost misty thinking about it. Man, did I ever need that wine. My opponent shook my hand and began to boast about knowing me and having played me. We all yakked for awhile and then I waved goodbye and went back across the street with the recorded game on a piece of tablet paper in my hand. should I post it too on facebook? Well, I guess not.
The adults were ready to really whoop it up..that I could tell. I had noticed a bottle of Johnnie Walker Scotch had been cranked open. It was time for me to let them have their adult fun. I walked into my parents sober, christian home. I explained what had happened with the blindfold chess game to my folks who were parked in front of the TV. They grunted, unimpressed. They had seen me administer whuppings to a few of my Cousins blindfolded at family gatherings, yunno...so what's new? Compared to the Luvaas's, they didn't seem to be having much fun.
At least they weren't in the mood to argue about anything, which pleased me. I sealed myself off back in my bedroom, with no doubt in my mind of what sort of home I'd rather be in. My sentence was going to be over in only 2 1/2 years. I laid back on my bed and thought about ways of springing myself a bit earlier than that.
07/15/09
I knew it was going to be a fowl, disgusting chore, so I turned up the volume of the 50's country music Dvd I was burning in the next room. Every now and then its got to be done. I thought about wearing gloves, but decided to do it bare handed this time. I reminded myself of the need to be efficient and brisk and not to dawdle.
Yes, it was time once again to shuck rotten, useless cd's for their jewel cases. I had two full boxes of 25 to dispose of. I got an empty 12 pack box to huck the trashy discs and booklets and tray cards into and dove in.
These aren't cd's that cost me money or are given to me by musician friends. These are the remnants of thrift store and flea market "4 for $1" sales from which I found a couple good cd's and just grabbed a couple other possibles without knowing anything about them. Several I worked with onight were leftover from when I worked at Tower records. We were allowed to go through a box of promo's every Friday and I'd grab stuff generously.
The first few were compilations with nice clean jewel cases. I only recognized one or two bands on these. I gazed a few seconds at the booklets to make sure I wasn't missing something worth saving...and then cracked 'em open and ripped out the booklet somebody many years ago was paid to layout, palmed the tray card and snapped the disc loose. I turned and tossed these into the beer box. I came across some nauseatingly pretentious alternative discs. All I can say about 90's alternative was, WHAT were they thinking? Band names that told you nothing about the music or band, art that was vague and useless. Lyrics, probably about some dumbass wannabe-Jim Morrison singer's relationship from back then...WHO CARES? There lives and loves were meaningful to them, but not to the masses. The music audience didn't have any use for them, the label publicity and sales people couldn't stir up any interest, even by giving some away to people like me..a record store employee.
I wondered as I cracked into another one, how many of the damned people who played on these things even play music anymore? Most of them probably signed some sort of contract, got a little bonus cash and thought the money would never end. The smart few, set the dough aside or bought something permanent like a house. Most pissed it away and after they failed to click on MTV and wound up back home sleeping in mom's basement, drained, mentally raped.
How strange it must have been to this crop of failures to be still regarded for a few weeks or months (until the truth got around) as local scenester heroes, when they knew they were rejects by music industry standards.
Every last one of these discs I casually shucked and peeled like raw shrimp or ears of corn had a story behind it, people worked hard to compose the songs, perform them from town to town during grueling tours to perfect them, and then one magic week finally buffed them to perfection in a high tech recording facility with high paid help alongside them, guaranteeing their musical "vision" would be presented professionally and hit the charts with a bullet.
Many of these bandmembers left behind jobs and family members and sweethearts and educations to chase that dream. Sadly, they don't tell you ahead of time how few who are signed and marketed by the biz ever last very long. No, that would be "negative". The label rep's remain positive and upbeat, even though they know it's a longshot for most acts. Who can blame them? It's common sense to shoot for the stars.
But, here lays the remnants of the dreams of a few dozen bands, five minutes from our stinking out door trash can, crowned by a few cherry pits I spit on top.
I'd say something about how I hope these people have found peace in their lives after their aborted music careers, but yunno, I don't really care. This years crop of aspiring superstars is polluting the night clubs of our fair land as I write this. 10 years from now, I'll be shucking their worthless recordings for jewel boxes unless they change the format by then.
07/12/09
We chessplayers have a good word that has evidently been adopted by people with other hobbies and pursuits: "woodpusher".
I blurted out the word tonight while commenting to Marla about a victory she chalked up against an internet chess computer. She developed an aggressive attack that lead to victory, while her cyber opponent merely sat with his fictitious thumb up his non-existant ass. He just went through the motions, with no plan. I told her that this mediocre programmed player was a WOODPUSHER. She laughed and wondered where I got that expression from.
It goes way back, certainly to the 1950's or so. I remember when I was a kid tournaments organized for new or lowly rated players were called woodpusher events. Even though it sounds a bit sad that people engaged in a hobbie compete in an event in which the participants are labeled as duffers, people who played in these events didn't seem to mind. Competitive chess players seem to have a certain self awareness of where they stack up against other players. On the other hand, the significantly larger number of nostril mining players who battle it out in coffee houses, bars, playgrounds and parks usually don't know that they are woodpushers.
Over the years, I've talked to hundreds of people who when they learn that I play chess point out that they have a brother or Uncle or some acquantance who is pretty good. Upon further discussion it almost without exception turns out that the good player is terrible, but a notch or two less pathetic than family members or co-workers who they whip.
I personally think it's a good idea to know where you stand when you play games or attempt to weigh your abilities in a particular area against others.
I don't judge people by their chess strength, golf handicap, batting average, pie baking skills or other silly measures of worth. I DO judge people who try to pass themselves or somebody they know off as a real talent when they actually suck. I'm not talking about folks who just are trying to be loyal to their granny when they say she is an excellant cook. I'm referring to those who deep down know they stink at bowling or their loved one or pal sucks at the poker table or dancing or guitar playing, but they just can't face up to it.
I've hucked darts in taverns a few times. I can never remember the scoring system from one night to the next and frankly I'm no goddamned good at it.
No shame in that, I know how bad I am and am not suffering under any mind distorting allusions.
I can't bake, not a pie or a cake or even cookies. I am clueless. I can't operate an outdoor grill; can you believe that? Even incredibly stupid morons can do that...but not me. I could whine and point out that I've never had the opportunity to learn snce I've been surrounded by so many avid bar-b-q hounds, but that's chickenshit. I don't know how to do it. It feels good to be clear in my own head about what I can do.
On the other hand, I believe after reading hundreds of awful recipes put on-line by lazy housewives who seem to be competing for the Peg Bundy award, that I can out cook probably a majority of them when it comes to dishes I understand. I can whip up REAL versions with good ingrediants of lots of lazy, over salted hamburger helper type meals. I'm a woodpusher when it comes to many cooking skills, but can hold my own and then some when it comes to certain stuff.
I have no mechanical skills. 12 year olds in junior high shop classes would laugh at my ineptness if I tried to work with them. I'm aware of this. So what? I can do other stuff they can't.
I love to gloat about all the records and cd's I've played on, but the fact is if I were asked to sit in a room alone with a group and entertain them with a guitar like some sort of troubador, it'd be attrocious. They'd run to fetch clothes pins for their noses on my best day.
That's ok, I push wood when it comes to that sort of thing. I can face up to it.
What are you good at? In what humanoid pursuits are you a mere woodpusher? Do you even know? Shouldn't you? UUurrRRppp.
07/10/09
Nobody's given me a hard time about my hobby of playing music at my old age in a long time, but hey..if they did, I'd remind 'em I've been playing some sort of music most of my life.
It's a fact that I've played many genres of music since I was a school kid.
I spent somewhere close to 20 years playing guitar, longer than any other instrument, but it might be the weakest axe I wield. Watching the A.U. videos from over the years I realized that even though I only played my Clavinet (THINK..70's Stevie Wonder..a funky keyboard) on stage for 3-4 years (alternating with guitar and sometimes tenor sax) I hit notes within the scale being mangled more often than with guitar. The piano keyboard came more naturally to me than the guitar along with the sax family, the clarinets, the bassoon, bass, drums, etc.
So, why stick with my weakest instrument for so long? Because I wanted to play rock and roll and the bassoon and clarinets and flutes don't fit any better than 99% of the poetry reading assholes who fuck up rock and roll with their intellectual pretensions.
If I shrugged off rock and roll tomorrow though I could still join a community band and play my choice of several traditional instruments.
What's my strongest instrument? Currently I guess electric bass, but with a month of work I'd play the tenor sax at my old level which was probably more accomplished than anything else I've played. Incidentally, my bassoon playing in high school was even better, but I've forgotten how to operate the damned thing completely. Oh well. So it goes.
By the way, I never played music to satiate some sort of ego trip until I began learning to play rock and roll drums in about 1979.
The closest I came was in what was called a "Stage band" when I was in high school. I blew a school owned tenor then although I owned an alto which is wimpy in comparison. I handled a baritone sax pretty well, too when they needed somebody. I played in exactly 2 pit orchestras for musicals in which I needed to play several instruments, which suited me well. I played a couple saxes, a clarinet or two, a flute just a bit. The musicals were "Funny girl" and "No no Nanette" which spawned the lovely tune "tea for two".
Anyway, the stage band was a cross between the "Tonight Show" (Carson era) orchestra and combo's like Miles Davis and more abstract, out there guys lead. We aped music performed by literally the best musicians in the world. I whipped out before sitting down here my "Buddy Rich's greatest hits" LP. A couple tunes on that album I remember note for note; we played them off of purchased charts (sheet music) albeit nowhere near as great as the guys Rich hired.
Didn't Buddy Rich get in a fistfight with Sinatra once? I know they played together in one of the big bands.
Anyway, Buddy Rich is the best drummer I've ever heard in my life, bar none. I sat in on a clinic he gave when I was in high school. He was so much beyond anybody else, it's spooky. But, his chosen genre just didn't move me like rock and roll and R&B jump music and rockabilly and garage and punk, funk, etc. Gimme the MC5 or NY Dolls or thee Sonics over jazzbo stuff anyday. Please.
Still it has it's place.
So does classical music of course, which I played for years, but won't even drag into this entry of my lovely diary.
The jazz guys had their day, but were easily surpassed by sax honkers my hero Big Jay McNeely (whom I met and saw play live a few times in the 80's) in the late 40's, early 50's with their hypnotic simplicity. The jazz guys called the honkers cretins and slimeballs just trying to make a commercial buck, but of course many of them play R&R under assumed names whilst keeping up the level of derision.
I think that's horseshit. If you're going to play a form of music for $$$, keep your mouth shut. It's like technical wrestlers bitching about "professionals"...Eat shit! Fuck off.
All's I know, I fucking hate jazz snobs even though I could function in their world for a few years. We had one in Rancid Vat and wouldn't you know it, he blew his head off due to his "angst". Hey, let your hair down, or take it off as Big Jay once declared. It's just music. Don't gimme your pretentious crap about how some prog-rock wanking is superior to that "no-talent" Stooges, Ramones stuff. As Bob Wills summed it up (and I'm paraphrasing, getting a bit in my cups now), you've got two types of music; that which people can simply move their asses to, or the other intellectual stuff....uuUUUUrrrRRpppPPPP.
Intellectuals have their place and should be respected but should also keep their yaps shut and realize they're just another sound.
07/08/09
ALRIGHT! Enough. STOP IT!
If you must refer to MJ as the "King of pop" realize how small minded and tied to a particular period of music you are. Go ahead.
It hasn't stopped there however. No, I have to hear on a news show that he was the "greatest performer of all time" and then from a PHD no less, that he was "the greatest performer since Mozart". These people clearly can't think outside of their generational box. Also, how many performances of Mozart and those before him and after have they actually checked out? Man, what a buttload of nonsense.
I didn't hate MJ at the time of his death, but the childish exaggerations that are picking up steam amongst the sheep pop fans are forcing me to hate him and rejoice in his demise.
Get this one; "He brought US together". Oh my fucking god. What are they going to say one day about the other MJ. Michael Jordan? Or other African Americans of substance who crossed the color divide without acting like childlike imbeciles? Michael Jackson was a performer of silly pop music. Tiger Woods as a multi-racial figure has flattened plenty of walls that separated "us". I didn't vote for Obama, but you've got to give him credit too. He's a man of substance, not some frigging pop singer.
One last point. I've written about selfish rock and roll stars participating in feel good "save the world" cause oriented projects. Is, er..WAS..there a more selfish bastard than Michael Jackson out there when it comes to pissing away millions while "the world" starves? How many people could he had saved from starvation if he hadn't thrown his fortune away at exotic animals? I wouldn't call him on it, but he's being revered as some great humanitarian. He obviously was not. We know what his values were and they were totally selfish, which I personally approve of, but the "concerned" people should chastise him for it.
ENOUGH!
07/05/09
Elvis and his wife are flying to Philly for a few days. His first year of teaching school is over and they need a break. I don't think they're going to look up anybody or look at his old schools or any of that stuff. I think they're going to eat 4 meals per day, beginning with cheesesteaks at Tony Lukes the night of their arrival. Good for them. The grub is great there.
They left their dog at her parents place and at my suggestion left their not yet a year old cat Schmidt (named after the 3rd baseman) at our place; it's a kitty sleepover. The question on everybody's mind is whether or not he would fight with our guys, Mr. jinx, old and red and a bit of a swish, the cat visitors see...and my younger black satan cat Dixie who is a bad seed and very picky about who he hangs out with. The two of them fought when Dixie was new here, but Jinxy is getting old and can't hang with him any more. Dixie tolerates Jinx and shows him respect by letting him eat first, but it's strictly his choice to do so.
Schmidtty was simply dropped in the middle of the room and we waited to see what would happen. Jinx fussed a bit and tried to act menacing, but he's an old swish. After an hour or so, the cats were just sitting in different parts of the room quietly. Then, an odd thing happened. Dixie actually came out of his lair, even though it was early evening a time he always sleeps. He strolled slowly nearby Schmidt and gave him a sort of wild-eyed Abdullah the butcher stare. No noise, no fighting. He seemed to be waiting for the kitten to make the first move even though it was his turf. He ignored all of us humans. Schmidt held his ground. he's used to sparring with a small dog at home and knows how to defend himself.
It's hours later and the cats are all hanging out in the same room doing nothing but holding their own ground. I'm not going to meddle and try to play Philip the peacemaker. Let them sort it out. I'm amazed at how patient they all are sitting doing nothing for so long.
I'm impressed at how they all decided not to fight. We humanoids are commonly faced with the same choice of fight or run many times in our lives. The way it works is, if you're simply willing to tangle you'll often find that your potential foe wants no part of it. On the other hand, if you act timid and nervous you're more likely to go fist city or get shamed and branded a coward who is ripe for picking on and exploiting.
The cats understand this even though many people don't.
When I was a little kid in grade school I was terrified of walking down the street. This was due to many bad experiences with bullies who were often 10 years older than me. To my credit, I had no fear of kids my age. It was older predatory kids who scared the shit out of me. Is it socially acceptable these days for 15-16 year olds to pick on kids who are 5 or 6? I doubt it in these days of litigation at the drop of a hat, but when I was coming up it seemed to be a regular occurrence.
By the time I entered junior high, I was one of the tallest kids in the school. A guy who was an inch or two taller and fleshed out like a man (I was really thin) taunted me trying to pick a fight. I wanted no part of it but it was a mistake Schmidt the cat wouldn't make to not at least go nose to nose with him. If I had tangled with this guy and taken an ass kicking, my life would've probably been very different. It would have ended the taunting, the constant diet of bullshit I had to take not so much from him but from other kids who would've had their asses kicked easily by him too, but were inclined to verbally gang up on a guy who hasn't stood his ground. Anyway, in one of the most humiliating moments of my life, the guy attempted to stuff me into a locker with a couple dozen kids watching.
I became a tormented loner. Eventually, in a couple years, I developed physically and figured some things out. I realized I had no friends and could do little about a dozen people taunting me at once; I could however deal with my fellow 7th graders one on one. I remember the shocked look on the face of a guy named Larry just after I punched him in the gut. He had started giving me some line of bullshit and had made the mistake of being alone. I remember putting another guy in a full nelson and shaking his little body like a rag doll. I held my own in our very competitive p.e. wrestling class and gained a helluva lot of confidence by pinning many guys asses ruthlessly with double leg takedowns.
By 9th grade, the kids had matured quite a bit and were willing to accept me.
UH UH. I wasn't in a forgiving frame of mind by that time. I had learned to enjoy certain aspects of being a loner. A slowly had developed a very small ring of friends at school and that was enough. I had quite a few older friends in chess circles who admired me for my promising ability. I didn't need to win the admiration of guys like the joker who stuffed me halfway into the goddamned locker.
I was gradually getting over my fear of walking down the street and encountering bullies. I began walking all over downtown Portland usually alone and learned with the help of an older friend to watch people approaching you and to be READY.
There was a healthy number of street trash in Snoreland at that time who came home from the war bitter and ready to do drugs and drink and take stuff from people they saw to be able to afford it. They often looked just like hippies, but they didn't have peaceful intentions. They'd stick a gnarled paw out in your face and "ask" for change in a threatening manner. These guys scared me for awhile, but I eventually got over it and never gave them a frigging cent.
Flash forward about 20 years. We're living in Philly. By that time I had been a Father watching my own son get involved in tiny scraps. I noticed one day out of the blue that the old fear of walking the streets had been gone for a long, long time. So long in fact, that I had completely forgotten about that sour feeling in my gut watching some older guys approach, glaring at me and chuckling.
I walked home from bars alone late at night sometimes in hostile city USA. My mentality at the time was, there was no reason for me to assume the role of the hunted. Better to let some guy crossing your path in a dark street at 3:00 am THINK you're the hunter...perhaps. If it crosses his mind he'll probably look for easier game to take out. So, I'd look as full of anger as if I'd been working the ticketmaster booth at Tower records for an hour or so. Man, that'd usually have me ready to pop somebody's skull with my bare hands.
If you want to avoid trouble on the streets and formal fights in general, be prepared, eager even to explode on some would be tough guy. Yunno, I'm not as fast as I once was by a long shot. I'm fat and have minor aging injuries now and then. It may seem like I'm getting soft, but the fact is even though I clearly don't find many occasions to start trouble in public these days, I have a lifetime full of bottled up rage I can summon up like a goddamned genie in a lamp.
So, as part of my recent internet research on old enemies I managed to find a current picture of the guy who half stuffed me in the locker, turning all of the kids against me and causing me to follow the path of an alienated loner. He looks like he's in pretty good shape. He went on to play pro sports for a few years. The look on his face reflects the results of a lifetime of self proclaimed superiority and arrogance. He's got a trophy wife on one arm and a "try me" expression.
So, would I "try him" these days?
I probably should thank him. As Antiseen noted in a sensitive lyric from a few years ago: "I'm glad I am the way I am".
I wouldn't back down though, let's put it that way. I know who I am and who I am not. I even know who he is, now.
And, coming full circle, our kitty sleepover trio all seem to know who they are and what they're capable of. I'm glad, because I'm not eager to vacuum up fur off of the floor. If they can simply sit there like tough guys and make faces and then walk away for a nap with their self esteem intact, it's a good thing.
07/02/09
I'm really getting into viewing VHS tapes from old Alcoholics Unanimous shows for the purpose of working up a must have anthology DVD. Oddly enough, I find my notes to be identical at the end of the session to be just like the critiques I wrote in my Fine arts class from a couple years back with a helluva professor who had the thankless task of trying to give the students what was in many cases their one and only look at quality, timeless music, paintings, films, sculpture, etc. It's a simple approach: #1 Pay attention. #2 Write down what you see. #3 Try to be systematic about your notes, even if what you see doesn't inspire you. If you have an opinion, lay it down..you can't be wrong. There is no right or wrong when it comes to the arts, only opinions backed by reasons which may be vague.
The last tape I looked at I viewed very impersonally as opposed to looking for the songs I might remember in which I stood out. I tried to view all of us as strangers. A pattern reasserted itself that I've discussed with Marla. We've had a hard time over the years getting drunk just enough to be entertaining and put over the 100% booze songs we've always performed, without falling into periods of drunken chaos.
The tape I watched last night had 4 good opening songs, coherent, pleasant. Next came a 5-6 minute excruciating tune up that actually was a DE-tuneup. Christ! I fucking could barely watch the next couple songs. We bounced back from it well enough for our current purposes by playing a string of "ok" songs we can set aside followed by some real keepers that ended the set. One tune brought me to my feet pumping my fist as I watched little old me from 17 years ago discover a tricycle that was laying around the stage (it was an artsy all ages place) whereupon I proceeded to do what you're supposed to do with things like tricycles. I used it as a slide on my guitar, tried to ride the tiny thing around the stage while playing, eventually smashed it and picked it up and smashed it some more.
We followed up with 2 surprisingly tight cover songs we hardly ever performed, which is the sort of thing we look for in this sort of situation. Give potential customers some fresh songs along with old favorites and you'll be pleasing them and more importantly yourself.
Now, most places we've lived people would love watching a fat drunk on stage destroy a tricycle. The Portland audience in this club seemed attentive, but they really didn't get it in the same way they hardly ever understood over the years what the hell we were doing, when we were serious or using schtick. Our methods have always been a bit different than the PROP BANDS (remember and use this new term) who bring their own familiar gimmicks to destroy, show after show after show. You've seen this sort of band I'm sure. At a certain point in the set they all put wigs on and play ukuleles or kids guitars that they neatly, safely smash after playing back to back; or perhaps they bring the familiar club fool who can be coaxed into doing anything on stage to sing a 70's song badly and all too seriously while the guitar player does an all too beaten to death split legged leap into the air leaving the local yocals crying for "freebird!" because they've heard that's what yer supposed to do.
We'd bring the occasional prop over the years and even repeated a couple more than once, but really our forte was and is working with stuff and people we found. I FOUND that tricycle.
The "me" watching it today 17 years later can't completely relate to the younger guy I used to be, but I can enough to be proud of me on the TV screen doing something right.
After the set the camera rolled as I sold merchandise. Some local coward carefully near the door tried to shout me down by yelling "you're a fat fuck!" to which I answered in almost the same words I would today "I may be a fat fuck, but I'm a fat fuck that's been on 21 RECORDS! How many've YOU played on??"
Of course the number is past 90 these days if you count vinyl, cd's, cassette exclusives, magazine inserts and compilations. Still, I had the right idea then and am glad to see that I at least tried to educate Snoreland audiences, but they weren't ready.
Marla's cool line comes in the pre-show basement drinking session that was also taped. She was sitting alone tuning her guitar. Somebody tried to goad her into acting happy like most of the people in the room. "Hey...Smile!!" somebody begs (was it me trying to set her up?) Everybody waits. She coldly responds "I'll smile when I FEEL like it".
Hey, that's the girl I married. She hasn't changed a bit. I'm glad.
06/30/09
I just have one more thing to say about Michael Jackson. I'll try to keep it brief since you're gonna be getting bombarded for the next half decade by the media about every tiny detail of his final days and years that turns up. I'll leave it up to others to figure out whether it's due to his being black (as was suggested by individuals on the BET network) that the media won't simply assume a collective silence about his possible drug use, bizarre behavior, possible dirty deeds with kids, etc.
The public seems to be fairly sympathetic towards him. Poor Fatty Arbuckle was cleared of his alleged crime many years ago, but the folks back then were not in a forgiving mood at all. His career was through (read "I, Fatty" like Alan King and I for further study). He had been tops in Hollywood alongside Chaplin. Was he driven to an early, miserable grave because he was an obese white guy?
On the other hand, LOOK at those Kennedy's!! They get cut so much slack it's sick. Book after book after book has been written about a slew of them, but none of it's tarnished their fair image that I can see. I'm not talking about scandal sheets. I've heard more than one PHD at the university lecture about the Kennedy roots and association with crime. The people tainted with collective Kennedy blindness don't give a rats ass. There'll be Kennedy's in the Senate when my Grandchildren are old.
How about poor King Elvis, MJ's cold, dead would have been Father-in-law?
Shit, drug allegations surfaced immediately after his death and were not squelched. I've heard jillions of "fat Elvis" and trailer trash Elvis fan references over the years. It seems like the ones who flap their mouths about Elvis the most are the same smarmy Beatles hippie generation assholes who get offended if you insult their drug using icon, the svelte Jerry Garcia.
I think that it's just very difficult to predict how the public will react to not only the scandals of a freshly dead famous persons life, but also how big a slice of our populace will react strongly to their death.
Were you equally respectful when notified of the deaths of Jerry Falwell, Kurt Cobain, Biggie Smalls, Chris Benoit, Selena, Ronald Reagan, Bruiser Brody, Sinatra, Diana and Jim Varney?
Of course not. I can hear you smirking about half of them, or some of them at least. Some people would get pissed off reading this and seeing that I lumped these individuals together. Often the reason people don't respect each others icons is the fact that they have no idea who the hell they are. I barely knew who a couple of these particular folks were. It's only natural to not give a fuck about somebody's hero either you've never heard of, or you are against for one reason or another.
It's natural to be high and mighty and say "Hey! show some respect for MJ. He was the greatest entertainer in history" even though you made white trash, redneck jokes when Waylon Jennings died. AND vice versa of course.
Is it possible to be aware of and even fundamentally respectful of both Jim Varney and Biggie Smalls? Selena and G.G. Allin? Hhmm?
I waited a few days before I wrote about MJ here. I didn't hate him, but if you were a really big fan of his, felt he was the greatest entertainer in history you'd likely half read my piece and shrug me off as a hater. Fine, I'm not going to lose any sleep over it. I'm concentrating my own true bitter hatred for those frigging Kennedy's whose lily white asses are always getting cut the most slack by the masses. Can we find common ground and agree to hate the blind Kennedy fans? Isn't that something we can agree on?
Or are you one of "them" ? In that case, leave this diary and never come back. I have withdrawn your permission to read this. Uurrppp.
06/27/09
Ok, the grace period is over. MJ isn't in the ground yet probably until early next week, but it's time for me to speak about how I feel about his career, his demise and most of all about the adulation from over the last few days.
If you don't like what I have to say, fine; at least be reminded that I'm not trying to simply rile anybody up here for the hell of it as I have before in this diary; not today. You're gonna read the truth, because it's gonna make me feel better to lay it down and this is my diary and opportunity to do so.
As I commented to somebody on Facebook the other day, the last few days have been very strange for me, because at hand is an issue that drives home just how alienated I am from society. The last time I felt this way that comes to mind is when Diana died. The world came unglued around me and I could not honestly understand why. I got no special thrill over her death, I just didn't think it was that big a deal. I didn't hate her, I just never thought about her and when the media and the people around me, including many I thought I had known well, came unglued for several days I was a bit freaked out.
I've grown used to having an unpopular view about religion.
I know enough to not bring up how high school and college football aren't important to me, down here in Texas, unless I'm in the mood for a spat.
I don't buy into the Kennedy myth either. I don't hate JFK, he wasn't that great or that terrible, but I'm an LBJ guy. I don't agree with all of his politics, but I admire the man and consider him to have been sneered at by the snobbish Kennedy insiders and mistreated by RFK with the clear consent of his Brother the President. The Kennedy's wear the blinding good guy badge of fan favorite wrestlers that prevents the masses from seeing through their public image. Americans lost their senses when it came to that clan long ago.
Over the years, when famous people die I've often been saddened. You can go back in the archives of this diary to check out many, many instances in which I've written some words about the passing of well known (and of course "average" people) I've respected.
When I heard that MJ had died, I had no frigging idea it was going to wind up with candle light vigils, 24/7 media coverage with tease lines to keep you tuned such as "he was MORE than just the King of Pop" and slack jawed masses shown in the streets across the country, singing along to his amplified songs, milling around STUNNED.
I expected a generous wheelbarrow of maudlin media coverage, but not the show stopping total focus on this guy who sold some records, a helluva lot of 'em, but piddled around altering his face and morphing into tinkerbell and very possibly doing naughty things with children that his fortune allowed him to hush up.
His music never pissed me off like many rock stars I criticize; he was a pop musician not trying to preach all of the time, performing pop music for the main stream. His songs didn't interest me though in the least. Before you start whipping out the race card, I enjoyed lots of songs by his competitor Prince from his early days. Princes songs were often naughty like R&B was meant to be, he had a clearly better voice and was more creative. He also came across to many like a heel, but even though he's a bit of a hermit walled up some where, he's shown no signs of self destructive wackiness.
Yes, MJ could dance, very well. I'll certainly grant you that.
His vocals seemed to be as plastic as the guy from Journey who gets so wrought up in an artificial way, or the diva's who run up and down scales doing voice exercises in the middle of songs. To me, his singing and that of the majority of pop artists has been polished free of personality or sincerity. A similar process has converted country's top 40 into something that is about as empty and safe and vacant as mall store apparel.
James Brown sizzled; Michael Jackson warbled.
Otis Redding delivered the GOODS; MJ delivered the pabulum.
Curtis Mayfield was funky, gritty and sang about the streets that MJ probably rarely took a stroll down. His famous videos showing dancing gang members seemed about as far removed from the real world as the Scooby Doo gang performing "West Side story".
I never thought his videos were nearly as bad as many other artists from his "Thriller" period. Like I said, he danced worldclass. It was always just innocuous stuff for kids, no big deal. Hey, that's ok. My kid handled stuff like Venom and Jayne County and the Cramps, but mainstream kids need tamer stuff. I have no problem with that.
I had heard he was staging a comeback. I imagine it would've been about as sanitized as Hannah Montana meets the Wiggles. That's ok too. pre-adolescents need music.
With all of the controversy around his chosen life, I don't think he would have exactly burned up the charts.
I have heard from more than one source that he greatly influenced the course of popular music. He probably did, but to me it wasn't in a good way. There's way too much pretentious hysteria, not from the heart, but P-L-A-S-T-I-C bought and paid for by professional coaches and label P.R. department demographics experts who know how to sell it convincingly to unsophisticated audiences, much like all those overwrought light metal power ballads that stink things up worse than MJ's worst clinkers.
I've simply heard way the hell too much about his significance over the last few days. He wasn't worth it in my opinion and I'm surprised, almost shocked. If artists are to be judged by units sold, what'll happen when Peter Frampton goes?
If the greatest musical artists are the ones who sell the most, are the greatest burgers sold by fastfood joints? Respond honestly. Did McDonalds make the best hamburgers of the last 40 years? To me, the bottom line is: Michael Jackson was the "Big Mac" of popular music. The biggest seller, but not the best by any stretch.
06/24/09
I'm as upset at todays tragic loss as most of you reading this must be. What an influential pioneer. He was one of the true greats and deserves immediate Texas sized shots by those of you who imbibe. He pointed the way for more artists than we can fathom, really. I suggest you play his music tomight and in the following days and share it with your acquantances who have been living under rocks and haven't had the chance to hear him.
His outrageous fashion statements (I read somewhere he walked around Hollywood in a cape as part of his daily duds) were the stuff of legend.
Yes, we'll miss you Sky Saxon.
His band The Seeds was raw and intense. Their music blew away all the Liverpudlian dreck of their time. They are obviously best known for their chart hit "Pushin' too hard" but my personal favorite song by the Seeds was the hypnotic, organ driven 15 minute long blast "Up in her Room".
Our pal Fred Cole of Dead Moon fame used to talk about washing dishes at the same Sambo's restaurant in Hollywood with Mr. Saxon before they both got their great bands going. They were buddies.
It's just a shame that Sky's death will be overshadowed by that of TV's amiable 2nd banana Ed McMahon just like the death of Robert Mitchum was given second billing to the passing of Jimmy Stewart.
06/23/09
What the hell is all that screaming...oh yeah; I'm burning "Death Wish I" in the next room.
We have competed the masters for our first 2 marketable DVD's: "Self Service Slaughterhouse" and "Portland Bloodbath 5-9-98" both are Rancid Vat titles.
It's going to be more complicated producing an Alcoholics Unanimous DVD, but I'm tackling the project head on tomorrow.
I thought it might be interesting for folks in bands not as long in the tooth as we are to take note of how I'm going to ethically approach it. Yes, I'm not on great terms with all of the ex band members. Neither is Marla. I have 14 vhs tapes to work with and I'm going to make a personal vow not to screw over some of these people some of whom may hate my guts.
Nobody is forcing me to be reasonable. It's just in the best interests of the project to drop grudges at the door. The idea is to come up with something people want to enjoy.
I appointed myself dictator of A.U. in the early 90's when we lived in Portland. I've written before about the importance of having some sort of commanding vision in the band, rather than everybody attending mixing sessions to make sure their own part is prominent enough. I declared myself dictator and pointed out a direction, sacking some poor original songs along the way.
Currently, there is no dictator in our Texas A.U. lineup. We all contribute, a situation that is very, very dangerous for most bands to declare, but it works since we've all played music for a long time. I do have first say over older material that Mark and Elvis had no part in. I suppose if Marla wanted to challenge that she'd have a good argument, but she's given me her blessings.
So, I have the dream job of putting together a 20 year retrospective starting with a pile of in some cases beat up old tapes.
I recognized right off that the problem with A.U. is the fact that most of our shows are so drunken and sloppy that we need to select highlights without killing off the bands exciting material, a bit sloppy or not.
Our last show with Antiseen was really tight, one of the most flawless shows we've done, but it's not as exciting as A.U. shows in which you see a 250 pound drunk turn cartwheels with a beer pitcher in his mouth or other wild shows. We were the opening band that night and conducted the set accordingly. It's my job to try to mix the wild with the in tune and "musical".
I'm putting my balls on the chopping block like a reality TV show discussing this here rather than just doing it. If it doesn't come out like I am declaring it will, fingers will wag at me from many directions. So be it. tough shit for me.
Do you know how many A.U. singers we've had? Uhh, Big Dirty, Playboy Buddy Jack the Bouncer, J.T.Bird (Jerry A's Bro), Sgt.Van Vlack of the Green death battalion (Kurt), Warren, Mad Dog Clayton, myself, Jimmy Satan, Mark, Elvis and a couple members who sang a song here or there and some guests of note.
Try balancing all of that fairly, succeed and you'll be like me. I'm gonna kick ass on this project. I know all of the technical potholes to look for. If neccessary we'll take it to our favorite studio to clean up. Uurrppp....here goes.
06/22/09
As part of my detective work last week looking up old people I used to know, I found one guy quickly and cleanly on Facebook. I glanced at his page and found it to be down to earth and not as ridiculously over the top as some of the my space pages I've seen. Simple contact is what I'm into, not day to day accounts of bullshit people are going through and self hype oriented band profiles that are all pretty much alike.
So, Marla created at my request a Phil Irwin Facebook page for me.
I felt ok about it for most of the day, but even though I was glad to see some good friends there, eventually I felt dirty and swishy like a truckstop putz reaching out to "friends" who keep popping up on the page for me to contact whom I don't even remember in may cases having crossed paths with. I looked at about 10% of the profiles and figured there must be a mistake. I have nothing in common with so many of them.
On the other hand, I don't mind linking up in a low key way with people who share common interests with me, such as music, books and chess.
We'll see how it goes I guess. I'm sure many of the folks who were electronically recommended to me as "friends" are going to be scratching their heads trying to figure out who the hell I am, particularly the chessplayers. Oh well, good luck figuring it all out.
We've moved around so much over the years that I want to have a way for certain people to get in touch if they feel like it and the first place they'd obviously check these days is these social networking sites. The internet at large is very difficult to negotiate with all the pure junk floating around out there. I don't like the idea of search engines narrowing things down for me either leaving out stuff that I might find pertinent. Facebook has at least a decent system for sorting out people with the same name from one another. There are plenty of Phil Irwin's and other Whiskey Rebel's too for that matter. Hell, even the usually accurate chess data bases (which are loaded with millions of games worldwide from tournaments) mysteriously attribute a game to me, Philip R. Irwin in Las Vegas in 1973 against a grandmaster. Not me pal! I got as close as Idaho, but never to Vegas in '73.
There's another Phil Irwin who is a writer. It seems to be Sunday school sort of fair. More power to him. I bet he hates it when he gets the occasional email from one of my vile readers.
As for music, there's the guy Phil Irwin who recorded the tune "Pizza Pie" in the 1950's for an obscure label. I have a compilation of obscurities that it's on..it's a good number. Not me though, it was well before my time.
Hopefully there'll be a wave of people I have crossed paths with me who'll now get in touch. It seems a much purer, pest free world after the apparent demise of certain enemies I wrote about last week. Maybe a couple of folks will buy a book or a frigging cd or something now and then or just send me the money they owe me. I'll give it a try, what the hell.
06/21/09
I haven't had any auctions going on at Ebay for a couple years or so, just my store which needs very little upkeep. This seems like a pretty good time to list some rare archival label stuff we only offer once a year or two. I ran around the house for a couple days gathering stuff up from all the odd places we store records and cd's. There was a good deal of swearing when I sat down to scan items for the first time in a long time; I had forgotten how the damned thing works. Marla remembers every minor detail of every electronic or computer oriented gizmo, I deliberately fill my memory with things such as chess opening theory and Deutsche language. I'll say this, as those of you who have read the bonus portions of "Jobjumper" might have noticed, I've got a lot of bad feelings when it comes to ebay. You may be surprised to hear of me listing albums again, but I never once said I'd never use their services, but that rather I wouldn't ever COUNT on them.
Our new computer works swiftly and promptly with ebay. If it had always gone as easily as the listing of my first couple dozen items back, one of the bonus chapters in the book would be pretty thin.
I may be back here screaming again though if they terminate my auctions because there's a swear word on a record I didn't warn somebody about or I cross paths with another loon.
I realized in the middle of my listing albums that I was working hard, harder than most of the people at my job, even though there is nobody watching me or telling me to work hard. Sweat poured down my face. I was disciplined and sat up straight typing furiously, no need for radio or cd's to listen to or even alcohol.
It's because I've got that work ethic, no matter how shitty jobs I worked over the years with lying bosses and catty co-workers. It's been pounded into me. Plus, I consciously realized years ago that a workday goes by really fast if you bust your ass and drags along when you loaf. So, when I work, I work hard and fast. I'm a self starter who needs no direction. I load the frigging dishwasher fast, for that matter.
I'd like to share a story with you about a guy a friend of mine works with who somehow managed to come up without the work ethic.
The poor fellows boss walked into the employee break room as this guy was in the middle of cooking a tuna casserole for his lunch. They exchanged pleasantries. The guy wore an apron and was using many ingredients as he built his ambitious work meal. The boss gave him his space and focused on other things until suddenly it occurred to the boss that it was pretty early for anybody from this fellows work unit to take lunch. The boss didn't want to "grill" (bad pun!) a worker in the break room and decided to look at his timecard later to see what was going on. After cooking the casserole for about 15 minutes in the employee microwave oven, the guy pulled it out and ate much of it at a leisurely pace giving it time to cool off of course. Finally after a long lunch break was over, the employee nodded at the boss and went back to where he allegedly worked. The boss checked the time clock; the fellow hadn't even bothered to punch out for lunch and didn't have a lunch hour coming to him. after checking with the fellows immediate supervisor, the boss began preparing a long, paper work write up which is standard these days at many places of employment.
While working at that, the boss couldn't help but notice that the same employee was being paged repeatedly and insistently. Walking towards his work area to investigate the boss saw the guy standing and talking casually with a woman who appeared to be a friend of his. Even though the requests for him to report to his place of work were clearly heard, the guy just stood there gabbing with this gal like he was Johnny Cool from a movie or something, ignoring his co-workers and job.
The boss had to complete (just like some movie bosses I guess) another complete write up for this offense. When Johnny Cool was handed both write-ups at once, a rare disciplinary double header, he seemed to not understand that he did anything wrong. He seemed to be unaware that his actions were in anyway wrong. The boss tried to get this guy to snap out of his coma by informing him off the record, as a friendly gesture, that he was widely talked about behind his back, that the gossip stream was buzzing with similar stories about him being lazy.
He evidently seemed upset and in the next couple days made at least an initial attempt to work harder and get feedback from the people around him that his performance was being noted in a positive way. I dunno, was this guy really so clueless or is his turnaround just part of his ruse. Did he learn consciously or sub-consciously to act like that, oblivious of a salaried boss watching him pull shit?
I've worked with guys sorta like him, although not so brazen or foolish as the case may be. He's part of the Beavis and Butthead generation. As I've said before, it was a great show, but man didn't a load of knuckleheads take it too seriously? It's just a cartoon, dude; if you prepare lunch on company time in the breakroom at work, elaborately, like a food network chef, you'd better come up with a good alibi if a boss comes along and sees you. If you get shitcanned, you may not find a new job as fast as Beavis + Butthead in our crappy economy.
I'd like to think that the guy was very clever and working his bosses for whatever he could get away with, but my guess is this fellow is simply STUPID and OBLIVIOUS.
Whadda you think?
If you're reading this on company time, answer me later...they're probably monitoring what personal stuff you're logging into.
06/19/09
A thought popped into my head earlier today as I was contemplating Father's day plans with my Son and Daughter in law, wouldn't it be something if somehow by some sort of magic I can't fathom, the long gone dead fathers all woke up on our couches one lovely Fathers day?
I don't bring this up in a nostalgic Hallmark greeting card inspired frame of mind. I do believe that if all the Fathers came back there would be a lot of bickering and a massive number of live people and returned spirits going fist city over old grudges. Not only would old wounds be opened, if the departed guys could see what has become of their brood they might be disgusted and start up new trouble.
What would you do, if you knew the old man would be showing up at daylight this Sunday on your sofa? Would you plan a bar-b-q and gather all of the relatives, or perhaps get tickets to the ball game? Would you get drunk the night before, brood over old belt whippings or insults or squarehead rules he administered and wait up to knock him on his ass?
Perhaps you'd cry for joy at the chance of telling him one more time you loved him? A lot of people would do just that, even though it sounds maudlin.
You see, personally I wouldn't blame you either way for getting sentimental or pissed off. The respect he would deserve is contingent upon the sort of Father he was.
I guess another common reaction to the Father's making a comeback this Fathers day sounds pretty dull. A lot of people would simply be unable to open up to the man, because they were never able to get on the same wavelength with him. Believe it or not, a larger number of humanoids than you might expect would go tie shopping on the eve of Dad coming back from the grave. When the great hour came and he showed up they'd be constantly sneaking peeks at their watches hoping to hell the whole day wasn't going to be a waste.
As for me, I think I'd start out simple by shaking his hand, slapping him on the back and introducing him to his Grandson he never lived to see along with his Wife. They'd hit it off good, Elvis with his theater degree and my old man Bob who had a book shelf loaded down with books of plays from Shakespeare (whom he could quote extensively) to post war "modern" playwrights. I figure we could go to a buffet for old times sake, although on Father's day they are pretty jammed full.
I'd try to keep the talk light and jolly and sport a drink in my hand most of the time. Even though he was a prude about alcohol when I was really young, he came out of it when I began to bring beer home when I was 15 or so. We even got my mother to drink along with us at nice restaurants. It was no longer a sore subject after I was grown up, although Mother dear has nagged me to not drink for more years than I expected.
Speaking of Mother, he'd probably ask if we were taking good care of her. I'd look him in the eye and say simply "no". Although she considers that we've moved away from her, it was her in fact who moved away from our long time home in Portland to live near her army (at that time) of close relatives in Eugene Oregon.
I told her at the time that there was no more chance of me ever living in that hippie hole than me being elected governor or wearing skirts.
Hells bells, I have a tough enough time even visiting Eugene Oregon. Phew!
I'd put the question to him...didn't her relatives drive him sick much of the time with their catty, judgmental bullshit? He would have to agree; I clearly remember it taking him hours to wind down from a trip to see 'em at holiday time.
Later in the day, if we were all still friends, I'd whip out my Texas State "cum laude" diploma. He'd probably keel over, figuring I'd never have finished the thing off. I'd point out the fact that I got decent grades in "statistics" and the touchy feely, group hug course of our time "communications". Going for his Masters, he almost failed both statistics and "sensitivity training". I'd reveal to him if the mood was upbeat that I had written some books and the first one featured him as a character, a heel in fact, a bully Father who sees the error of his way before checking out a 1/3rd of the way through the work. As a voracious reader in his lifetime, I think he'd understand that I've mixed horror stories about him with positive stuff, including attributing a lot of my better habits and chess playing to his good example. I've always summed him up as being not a BAD Father, but rather an average one and also as being much more interesting than most of my friends Pa-pa's in their opinions. He could not only quote the bard, he was equally well versed in fart jokes. He was a square banker for 15 years, but could swear elegantly and let his sparse hair down very easily with people who weren't his kids. He was certainly the preferred Uncle amongst my cousins.
If he wanted to play a game of chess for old times sake, I'd shake my head and have him play Elvis in fear of his getting too pissed off when I whipped him. No sense having him cuss and throw the board and pieces around the room on such a magical day. Then again, it'd probably be fun to see one of his post chess game temper tantrums as an adult.
I'd have more fun showing him some Dvd's of extreme wrestling. He'd laugh his ass off over it, but possibly be confused that there was no clean cut, rule abiding guy to cheer along.
06/17/09
I've been sucked into the DVDR vortex. I burn day and night. Whatever "life" I lived is now over.
I burned a few biker films today. The most notable, bizarre casting in the genre that I'm aware of is Russ Tamblyn as "Anchor" in the masterpiece Satan's Sadists. He did a really great job, saving the film whilst working with a gaggle of stiffs. His charachter segues from a cool biker wearing a hat and shades covering his face to a bloodthirsty guy running around in service of Satan, his features totally exposed. He delivers a really classic demonic laugh while pointing out to the clod playing an ex-serviceman that "you can't run from Satan!"
A double thumbs up to Russ Who who earlier in his career famously starred as Riff, leader of the Jets in the film version of "West Side Story". He had to eat a fatal knife blade in that one, just like his charachter in Satan's Sadists. I'm a big fan of "West side story". Do you remember which Alice Cooper band album features a takeoff on it?
On the surface, if you aren't very familiar with the career of the now late, great David Carradine, you might wish he had played a role in a biker film. He certainly could have done justice to a role like that, but let's not forget that he appeared in a 19th century Western that was as close to a biker movie as you could get; "The Longriders" which featured Carradine and his real life Brothers and several other bands of Hollywood Bro's such as the Quaids and the Keeches. I first saw this film in a theater and was quite impressed by his portrayal of Cole Younger who in reality was the brains of his family who lived well into the 20th century along with Frank James. Many of the other brothers died very young of course. The Longriders is one of the better depiction's of the James/Younger gang.
I was very impressed as a kid by the strong theme of vengeance in the Kung Fu series although it was a bit spacey for me at times. My pet favorite role of Mr. Carradine's was in a film that is rarely mentioned these days "God Told me to".
Just a few weeks ago we watched an Alfred Hitchcock TV episode in which he played a young psychopath to the hilt. He was quite talented and one of the good ones in my book. Here's a shot of Rebel Yell in his honor.
06/16/09
Well, I'll be goddamned, what a week it's been. It started off with my learning of the death of a pathological liar from our past who torched our home long ago.
We hadn't even recovered yet from the champagne hangover and I dug up 2 other deaths that have tickled my fancy. Both were members of the same worthless band, which I won't name here so as to suggest they were worth hearing. Suffice it to say it isn't a band you've likely heard of and I don't believe they even managed to be preserved for the ages on vinyl. One of these guys was on my enemy list to this day. We were friends briefly until his love for the needle changed his personality. He brooded too much, bullied some of the people around him and was vocal about his yen for young boys which I had to deal with from the viewpoint of being a Father of a preschool boy. At a club we were playing at he once (this will confirm to some of you in the know who he was) spit on Marla and ran like a pussy out the door. He was a frustrated jock whose career was nipped in the bud by an injury. Whereas most guys eventually find something else productive to do, he turned to king heroin. I understand he eventually became reduced to being a local bar pest and sneak thief. I heard of another time he chased a girlfriend from his house down the street with a hatchet. His o.d. came in 2001.
The other guy, his bandmate, we didn't really hate. He was a dorky fellow who sought friends and approval like a little puppy dog. A mutual acquaintance once remarked how this fellow would go to a record store, see what somebody else was buying and snatch a copy up hoping to be cool or in the know. He'd usually wind up selling it back to the store after it failed to impress anyone. A smattering of amateur psychology can explain why he probably turned to dope. 1) people around him were doing it and 2) he could never live up to his 2 very successful Brothers and possibly envisioned that being a junkie would make people think he was Daddy Cool from Donald Goines fine book. This guy o.d.'d in 2002.
I'll admit I'm going to be really obsessed for the next few days at least towards finding out who else is dead. I've checked on a few of my other enemies without success. One guy, another ex-jock, seems to be doing really well for himself; SHIT. I still haven't run the names of any of my old bosses whom I hated. At least a couple of them have to be dead. Yee haw, off I go...
06/14/09
I suppose Marla and I always knew we shared a certain common weakness, but we didn't really ever discuss it until Elvis was grown up enough to speak freely and criticize us without our feelings being overly hurt. He calls it "Irwin procrastination" syndrome and shows signs of it himself at times. What's weird about it is the fact that we get a lot of stuff done around here. We probably spend much less time just being lazy in front of the TV than most people. Over the years the huge load of music and writing and artistic stuff that goes with it that we've churned out is pretty considerable. We put a great deal of time into our hobbies but are blind and disorganized in some areas much of the time.
It's sort of strange how a book or pile of magazines or a CD can get set down somewhere and not be moved for frigging years. Meanwhile, we play lots of CD's, read plenty of books and both walk right past some other ones until some strange day one of us suddenly sees an article that has a half inch of dust on it, brushes it off and puts it to use.
Sometimes we get an idea and act on it instantly; other times we have real problems getting started at all. It's hard to predict what's gonna get done and what we wind up kicking ourselves eventually for not working on.
I vowed in this diary a few weeks ago that we would enter the DVD generation finally, 10 years or so later than we should have and modernize electronically in other ways. I'm here to say that both of us have followed up on this Herculean task pretty well. I've actually sorted 99% of the VHS tapes in this house for duplication. Some of them are almost 25 years old and the oldest have labels that can't be read anymore due to the ink labels fading. Yeah, some of it's expendable stuff, but plenty of it is rare wrestling and band footage that can't be replaced.
I'm happy to report that even though we've just gotten started, I feel a strange sickness enveloping me that borders on hysteria and reminds me of instances of over the top collectors fetishism I have witnessed in others.
We're producing 3 music DVD's to pedal to folks. Of course we have to be really careful we're gonna crank out a decent DIY product. Later, when the technically picky stuff has been put away, it's my time to begin working my way through the massive mountain of hundreds of tapes I've accumulated that are stored in several rooms in our home.
I plan to keep plowing through it until guests begin to ask "where the fuck are your tapes Whiskey Rebel?" I'll cackle with glee and show them a tight, compact cabinet of DVDs. If they remind of the newer forms of visual entertainment on the market I should be switching to instead, they'll receive an upraised middle finger salute.
For example, I don't want 160,000 fucking songs stored on some sterile computer microchip. I want a few racks of real vinyl records packaged in their sleeves to chaw on. The junky old VHS tapes have to go though and DVD is affordable to work with and hopefully won't be obsolete too damned fast.
The first DVD I burned from a stinky old tape was "Night of the Hunter" selected due to the recent death of a pathological liar we hated whom I recently wrote about here. The next night we dealt with the fragile old beer commercials tape that we actually used sound from for our "Dr. Kegger MD" CD back in the 90's. My chest swelled gazing at the new, safe, pristine and shiny DVD. I felt a vague stirring in my loins as a fringe benefit. The next selection was an XLNT film made about Hank Williams Sr. "the concert he never gave" that has been known to bring serious Hank fans to tears in our humble home.
I'm working on the easy stuff first. I HAVE NOT procrastinated.
Marla and I WILL have 3 DVD's of historic band footage in order very soon for the people who make up our mighty cult following to order, DIY style. It's not quite as ambitious as the days in which we had 1,000's of records fresh from the pressing plant to collate, but its something.
06/12/09
HURRAH! It's a glorius, sunshiny day!
You would have thought somebody back in the pacific northwest we know would have passed the great news along to us in the 8 years since it happened. We're still on decent terms with enough people. We haven't burned all of our bridges out there just yet.
As it was, I found out almost by accident. The discovery process began when I routinely posted a message to a chess website concerning pathological liars. This reminded me that I've gotten very bad about checking up on people on my enemy list, which includes a few phony baloney sons of bitches who lied about stuff ranging from what they did last weekend to their badass (and false) military record.
I ran a few searches on our new computer and WHAM! There it was. Champagne TONIGHT! The lying, manipulating bastard who burnt our house down and set at least 2 more fires that we know of is DEAD, DEAD, DEAD. He died in some sort of freeway accident.
Those of you who know me personally will know who I'm talking about. If you're not sure WHICH pathological liar has left the planet (since we've had to deal with a few) inquire via email and join in the celebration.
Uh, what's that you say? How can I celebrate the death of another human being?
Isn't life holy, couldn't this guy have underwent some sort of transformation? Isn't it possible that if we had just been adult enough to cut him some slack we would have found that he had felt bad for years about his actions, had turned over a new leaf and was prepared to make restitution?
Oh sure, when Charley Manson starts teaching prison Sunday school, when pedophile priests are clearly a thing of the past, when the wrestling territory system is restored to full flower with regularly, topnotch old school programming, when all the jackasses drinking light beer or swill that tastes like pumpernickel bread switch back to drinking REAL beer, that day we will contact the cuntface liars who have wasted so much of our time and try to mend fences.
Meanwhile, I'm heading out for some bubbly here in a bit.
I will party like an M.B.C. on crank and Jagermeister for a few nights at least.
Of course, I've written columns warning people about pathological liars as a community service, but unfortunately it falls on deaf ears most of the time. In spite of all the great exposes of their ways by true crime writers like the great Ann Rule most folks just can't believe that some guy talking about his military service with a little tear welling up in the corner of his eye could possibly be fabricating a story designed to win the people around him over. It matters not I guess how many women (and some guys too of course) in the past have fallen for shiftless adulterers, incestuous creeps and sometimes serial murderers with a good line of sweet talk about how cruel their past Wife/Wives were to them in spite of their own goodness and how many movies are made about these shitheels, in many cases they STILL defend these bastards blindly even in the face of an impartial criminal justice system that is trying to get them to wake up and smell the coffee.
Ann Rule understands these lying twats and so do we after years of being fooled by the handful we've been dealt.
Pathological liars all have their own personal methods. The guy whose death we rejoice was a big, ugly asskicker. He wasn't very smart though. Others we've known have been very clever but not dangerous from a physical standpoint. It took us several years to realize that he wasn't just an obnoxious manipulator who had totally conned one of Marla's best friends, destroying her life in a sense. Eventually he became an arsonist and it became clear only after several years of being away from this guy and comparing notes with other victims that we realized he had lit our house on fire with us inside. Had he killed people too by the time of his death? Who knows. I wouldn't be surprised at all.
A few years ago, I made a deliberate decision to not look for any more grudges to hold in this lifetime if I can possibly help it. There are likely some individuals who think I have it in for them who would be surprised to find that I just don't have time to even think of them very often.
I can't just sweep the past under the rug entirely though. So, I ordinarily try to keep aware, silently of course, of where my main enemies are, what they're up to.
I sort of dropped the ball on this one. Who knows how many years I've wasted in which I could've used this guys death to buoy my spirits at times of personal despair?
Get out the corkscrew honey, it's time to drink and smile and laugh. As Marla aptly put it, the world just feels a bit better today. Wouldn't you know it, the birds outdoors seem to be singing just a tad bit sweeter and the sun is shining just a bit brighter in the sky with a smile on its mug like in a kids coloring book.
06/11/09
My buddy Lee Hurst read the big coincidence that Marla experienced on our vacation which I discussed last entry and emailed me a few of his own. One of them was so good it needs to be posted here. Here it is in his own words (I hope he doesn't mind me sharing it, thanks man).
"A co-worker told me this one about a redneck buddy of his who had a highfalutin girlfriend who hated all things "country." Somehow the guy convinced her to spend the weekend with him out of town at a nearby hunting lodge. She dreaded it for the first few hours but eventually admitted that it wasn't so bad after all.
"I might actually like to live in a place like this," she said.
"Yeah, it'd be like 'Green Acres,'" he said, noting the similarities between their relationship and Oliver and Lisa's.
The girl was clueless. She had no idea what the fuck "Green Acres," was so he explained it to her.
"You know the show where the rich guy brought his wife to the country to live and the wife hated it." Still nothing.
"Come on! The show with the pig named Arnold? And there was a guy named Eb...."
At that point there was a knock on the door. Since they didn't know a soul out in the middle of nowhere, they wondered who it could be. The guy opened the door to see it was Tom FUCKING Lester, "Eb" from "Green Acres"!
It turned out that "Eb" had a camp nearby and was just curious who was staying in the guy's lodge that weekend, since it was almost always vacant. Granted, "Eb" lives in the area and that's common knowledge around these parts, but that's still pretty wild."
All I can say is holy shit! The only thing that would top that would be if Arnold the pig came through the doggie door.
Thanks again, Lee.
06/09/09
Marla read my diary entries about our vacation. I asked her if she had anything to add. She told me about something very creepy that happened to her that had slipped her mind. While we were staying in our motel in Memphis she drove out the local bar-b-q joint "Three little Pigs" to pick up some take out for us. As I mentioned, I prefer eating in the room, she prefers dining in; we had done things her way for most of the trip, so we were going to eat take out in our room on this night.
There were several other people waiting to take out food at the Pigs place. As she was waiting for our order to be ready a guy who looked to be in his 70's came up to her and declared that he knew her from somewhere. He was with a couple of women who were about 50 or so. Marla figured these ladies were his daughters, so she wasn't afraid of the guy. "What's your name" he inquired?
Usually, she'd tell some stranger to take a hike if he asked her name, but the old guy with his daughters and all seemed innocent enough. In the south it's more possible to make conversation with strangers than many other places we've lived and visited. She told him her name was Marla. He asked if she was ever in Oregon and she told him yes. Finally it was determined that he was from Woodburn, Oregon and she from Portland. They both ran through there memory banks and finally figured out what the connection was.
In the late 80's we moved from Hollywood back to Portland with the intentions of not necessarily living there forever, but for sure buying a house. The real estate market in L.A. was ridiculously expensive for folks like us even though we were making good money by our standards. In Portland, wages were a bit lower, but housing was incredibly lower. You could find numerous houses in south east Portland for $30,000-$35,000. We eventually bought one for $42,000 that we more than doubled our money on, but that's another story.
Months before we actually found a deal on a house Marla had contacted a real estate company asking about any deals available for only $1,500 down. Remember now, you could rent houses and apartments for $200-$300 in the sort of blue collar neighborhoods we always lived in. An agent picked her up and drove her around for 4 frigging days showing her houses that were all completely too expensive for us, way over the $1,500 down level.
She kept telling the guy over and over and over we couldn't afford more, but he just couldn't get it into his thick head.
To this day in her work situation she uses this guy as a verbal training model to be a lesson how "NOT TO SELL". He was a total dumb ass with beans in his ears.
And here the fuck he was, recognizing her after all these years 2,000 miles away.
I'm blown away by this. I actually had to sit and reflect for a moment how this could even be possible.
There are just some people with incredible memories for names and faces. My old pal Mike McNally has turned out to be one of them. I know he isn't bullshitting me when he describes this talent.
I bet this clueless salesman didn't see very many customers twice, rendering his talent not that significant. Then again, maybe he did.
I thought this was a very strange scenario. Oregonians rarely have the interest, intellect or guts to travel that far from home.
The only coincidence that comes to mind at the moment that seems more odd is the one about the girl I used to know who met her blood Brother who had been adopted off to a different family than the one that raised her at a frigging kegger.
06/07/09
DAY 11 vacation. Texarkana and back home. (scroll down for days1-10)
You know what I really hate? Being woken by the irritating buzz setting on an alarm clock, particularly in a motel in Memphis after a night of whisky, beer and too many hours spent peering out the motel window spying on the other guests.
Marla had gotten up early so she could be in one of the first tour groups through Graceland. She planned to be back at the motel by noon. I had requested and been granted the usual 1 hour extension on our checkout (did you know about this? It works 99% of the time). I was up at the crack of dawn, 10:30 am and was on my own as far as making coffee and getting ready to roll.
The coffee maker sort of worked and after a couple small cups banged back like whiskey shots I was ready for the shower. Unfortunately, as discussed in an earlier entry if you can't latch the door of your motel room and decide to meander about naked or in an otherwise compromising situation, you're just asking for a maid to walk in on you. On the other hand, if I latched the door, what if Marla came back to the room and couldn't get it?
When in doubt, always use the latch. A guy from our chessclub told me once about a time he checked into his hotel room for a tournament, stripped to his shorts and began relaxing. Gradually he began to notice that the maid hadn't done much of a job. Some towels were askew and some papers left in a sloppy pile. Next thing you know, the door pops open and some dude walks into the room, takes one look at our friend sitting there in his shorts and runs back out the door and out of sight screaming. Needless to say, that sort of situation can have a negative impact on your chess game.
So, I made it a very quick shower and used the latch.
This trip inspired me to make a decision in my life. I've decided based on my experiences spanning many, many years of traveling that motel/hotel maids are my natural enemy and deserve to die in large numbers. Next year I'll begin pulling pranks on them, I swear. I'll plan some sort of way of sabotaging rolling maidcarts that are left unattended. I'm sorry it's come to this, but if they want war a dirty war they'll get.
Marla returned from Graceland and we packed up and checked out. As according to plan we took one last drive to the legendary walls of the house that fans daily write messages on. An area has been added since I was there last where you can park for 10 minutes. I climbed out and told Marla I'd be just a few minutes, that I wanted to communicate with our King by staring at the wall of his mansion and reading some of the messages.
I was playing it by ear, really. Hell, I've taken the tour but never simply stood there and tried to soak up the vibes. Presley was a very spiritual man very much into vibes and spirits and gestures. I believe he would have approved of me paying my respects that way.
I walked down the sidewalk a ways gazing at messages written by fans from Greece, Germany the U.k. and even my adopted homestate of Texas. I looked over the wall at the front of the yard where "the big boy" as I once heard Dale Watson refer to him used to roam, careening around the property in golf carts having fireworks fights with his pals. Then, I had a realization. I walked back down to where our car was parked and found Marla looking at a map to figure out our way out of town. "Hey, I declared, why in the hell didn't we get Elvis (ours) some of those Presley sunglasses back at Sun studios"?
She agreed we had pulled a boner and would have to do it next time. Yes, there'll be a next time, but for now we got on the freeway and drove over the same bridge into Arkansas the king traveled in the middle of the night in his R.V. on one of his drives out to the west coast. I told Marla about a story I read in which he took the first leg at the wheel himself cheerful to be on the road, stopping at the same sort of lovable shithole truckstops we trade at.
About 100 miles later we pulled into one of those roadside blue collar bistros and I had another nervous experience in a bathroom I hope he never had to endure. I was trying to squeeze out a log in a noisy mens room with several stalls. I didn't want to have to stop again before Texarkana. Suddenly it got really quiet and I happily felt my poop slide into the stool. Just at that moment I heard a voice in an adjacent stall babble in an odd southern accent for a few seconds and finally ask a question that might have been meant for me.."hey, y'all got any needles?" I ignored the question, wiped up and got the hell out of there.
The final room of the trip had a nice eating and drinking table. We got to pull our car up and park right in front of the door. We discussed how convenient it was and how irksome it is to have to most often deal with indoor hallways in cookie cutter, bland motels that nervous travelers seem to prefer. We look for the good that we can find in those bland, baize colored wall rooms when there's no other accommodation to be had and hope for a mini frig and maybe the golf channel and an ice machine that actually works that is nearby so we don't have to ask for help from morons. This night however, the last of our vacation we'd enjoy motel living the way it was meant to be in a room with character that looked nothing like the last few back down that endless gray ribbon.
06/06/09
DAYS 9-10 vacation, Tunica and Memphis (scroll down for days 1-8)
Inside the confines of the lovely Horseshoe casino and hotel in Tunica, we walked briskly like snakes being bedazzled by a swami with a flute towards a familiar sounding male voice belting out that unforgettable bit of rock and roll poetry (suitable for both bandstand and lecture hall): "Open uppa honey it's yer lover boy me that's a knockin''''
BOMP BOMP BOMP
"You better listen to me sugar all the cats are at the high school rockin''''
BOMP BOMP BOMP
"Time to get yer boppin' shoes, while the jukebox blows a fuse..."
You got it, we found ourselves totally by accident in front of the one and only Rob Haynes & the Rage, performing the Jerry Lee Lewis classic.
Ok, for about 12 seconds as we were waiting for our eyes and legs to catch up with our ears we thought briefly that it JUST MIGHT BE the killer himself, but Mr. Rob Haynes and his backing band performed "High School Confidential" and a couple more sets of great songs damned well. The tunes covered were heavy on the Memphis side, which was great considering Tunica is only 45 minutes down highway 61 from that great music city.
Whaddya think they're gonna warble, "Motown"?
Mr. Haynes announced during the first set of two we watched that one of the greatest guitar players in the world, James Burton, who picked for both the Elvis's and even Ricky Nelson (he appears in a jillion episodes during music segments) was in the house and would hopefully get up on stage and join the band for a number.
Holy shit! Hey, all you doofs living in burgs like Pocatella and Fester, this is the way it works in music cities. At Marla's insistence we bellied up to the bar which abutted the stage during the break and began hurling credits into video poker machines and sucking down alcohol like mad. My feeling of having walked into something really, really great was heightened when the bartender plunked down on the bar a Bud served in my pet favorite 16 ounce tin bottle they serve by pools and in towns with rivers like San Marcos.
I was a bit concerned the bar machines were gonna be programmed tighter than Rev. Billy Graham's notoriously tight bunghole, but that was not the case. Marla began bagging full houses and four of a kind's for the first time in Tunica. I held my own and was having a blast. The casino cacophony was soothing. I drained a few Bud's and waited out the band break.
Well, Mr. Burton never took the stage that night, but the band was really damned good so what the hell. Haynes had lots of Jerry Lee's standard moves down, like playing the keyboard with his foot, plopping on the keyboard with his ass, climbing it and working the crowd appropriately.
Some research on my part turned up the fact that Haynes and another band member do indeed have some dates booked in Europe supporting Burton, so it wasn't just schmoozing and name dropping. We plan on going back to Tunica and when we do I'll for sure see if Rob & the Rage are tearing up a local casino and weigh anchor accordingly.
Do I need to remind any of you by the way that we've seen Jerry Lee himself in person many times in both concert and intimate honkytonk settings and would not be impressed by a less than stellar act.
The next band of the night was a soul act consisting of only one black guy out of four, with one of the white guys looking like Playboy Buddy Rose might've with a beard, so we headed back to the Gold Strike. We played more video poker in a nice upstairs alcove near a poker room and sucked more booze down. For our entire stay we about broke even, not counting all the drinks we drank in exchange for tips.
We couldn't stay up too damned late, since we had to check into a motel in Memphis the next day and get Marla over to Graceland.
I decided not to go this time around since the admission is $35 bucks and I didn't want to ruin her time by asking how she liked it every five minutes. Instead I planned to take my admiration for our king to a higher level by paying tribute in a way I never have; I vowed to park by the much scrawled upon gate and meditate.
The next morning we got to our Holiday Inn express in Memphis at 1:00 pm sharp. It was a nice place, but had received some bad reviews at one of those bitchy websites for having a thick security gate. Well, shit. I guess the management knows if the place needs a gate or not. Better a gate than homeless crackheads or gangs prowling on the premises.
Marla called Gracelands hotline and learned that everything closes up there at 5:00 pm. We developed a new plan, to hit Sun studios right then and there and have Marla tour Graceland early in the morning while I slept and then have her pick me up and take me to visit the wall before heading out of town.
We headed directly towards old Union avenue. I was stunned when we got to the studio. The building next door had been leveled, including the old cafe I had suggested we dine at. There was a tourist bus parked so closely in front of the famous sign there was no way anybody could take a picture. When Elvis and I visited several years ago, we got nice photo's ate a good meal and had a fun time. Unfortunately, the place has gone down hill as an attraction I want to keep coming back to. Why?
1) Well, lets start with the big U2 display on the wall, bigger than anything from the old days.
2) Then there's the product all over the place by current artists I've never heard of, probably from the Americana circuit.
3) The help looked like busybody, name dropping jerkoffs who work at clubs.
4) 2/3rd's of the merchandise has a "new Sun" logo look to it, which is ok, but not special to a couple of purists like ourselves.
5) We've been playing the music represented by that old logo in our home for almost 30 years, the very obscure Sun artists along with the better known. If the new look merch sells to tourists from Holland, just maybe they don't know what the real thing is.
The gift shop was over crowded and poorly organized. Luckily, I managed to get a REAL Sun logo t-shirt in my size. We grabbed a pack of sun logo coasters and made our way to the door.
We wound up eating at a Wafflehouse very close to our motel. On the door was a sign with rules for local gangmembers to observe while dining there. Nice touch! The place was immaculate and the food damned good.
Our next meal of the day was a takeout affair, real live Memphis bar-b-q from a place called "Three little Pigs".
We both had pork with sauce sort of draped on top as opposed to mixed in or left out altogether. I thought it was fine, but Marla eventually admitted she thought it was disappointing. Ironically, a food network show with that guy named Guy traveling through Memphis bar-b-q- joints appeared on the tube about an hour after we ate.
We wished we had seen it before our meal.
I had a great drinking chair and table in our room though, so I got good and tanked while Marla turned in early so she could visit King Elvis's castle first thing in the morning.
06/04/09
DAYS 8-9 Tunica, Ms. vacation (scroll below for days 1-7)
After having a nice, solitary drinking session without being rushed, I woke to a big cup of St. Louis hotel coffee comfortably late the next morning courtesy of Marla. We hadn't unpacked much stuff for the single night we were there. It was still a pain in the ass to haul it down to the parking lot a couple blocks away. Why are we too cheap to pay for valet parking? I know why. It just seems too extravagant for people like us. Just like blowing money on the expensive in room stocked bar. I don't eat sushi or seek out the sort of bistro action that self professed "foodies" enjoy. I don't "save' towels and in doing so the earth; I inspect the towel racks of a room before we leave and make sure I've at least wiped my armpits with each one to balance things out for the green creeps. Any other questions? Urrp.
We navigated our way 10 miles south to the U.S. Grant museum which I was really looking forward to. I really admire Grant. I never tire of reading about his life. He was a complete failure at every civilian occupation he toiled at. He was one of the greatest generals in military history, his innovations on the field of battle were studied the world over, you wanna credit Lincoln for freeing the slaves? Grant had to win the war first for that to happen.
After leaving the army in disgrace a few years after the Mexican war and a few years before the civil war salvaged his life, he failed as a farmer, a real estate agent, a clerk. Shit, what a JOBJUMPER. He had to resort to chopping wood and dragging it on a sled into town to sell to make ends meet. after 8 years of being a mediocre President, he lost all of his money late in life due to getting sucked into a bad investment scheme.
Sam Clemens urged him to write and publish his memoirs in his final days so that he could leave some money behind for his wife and kids. It was a damned good piece of history and sold very well. I wonder why he didn't think of writing before he was mortally ill?
Grant had some amusing quirks. He hated music, loved cigars and horses, felt silly about his wife's slaves and often worked along side them in the fields to compensate, hated the sight of blood (he had been forced by his evil Father to work in a tannery) and had a terrible capacity for liquor. All of his biographers have been left the task of trying to figure out which occasions he was drunk and out of his mind and which events his jealous enemies in the press and the army officer chain of command assumed he had been boozing it up due to some malicious rumor. Once when some crybaby prisspants went whining to Lincoln to tattle on Grant, claiming that he was "up to his old bad habits", Lincoln responded by asking what brand Grant drank; that he'd like to buy a case for all of his other Generals.
The museum was next to a house that his Wife grew up in that they eventually moved into during one of the periods he was having trouble finding a productive livelihood away from the military.
We spent about an hour and a half slowly taking in all of the exhibits. To be honest, I've read so many books about him there wasn't much that was new, but I still enjoyed it. when we got to the gift shop I eagerly looked for a shot glass, but realized that would be considered in bad taste in his case. Oh well, I can always get my Grant t-shirt out of the closet I've had for years and drink wearing it.
The mens room was as well executed as his Vicksburg campaign. Usually museum bathrooms are filthy due to all of the tourist kids that piss all over the damned place, but not so at this well run place. I'm sure it would pass his inspection.
Driving down towards Tunica we really got to see some crappy little towns. My favorite burg was "Festus Missouri". We stopped in Rush Limbaugh's home town: Cape Girardeau. After tanking up I took a gander in the accompanying convenience store and was impressed to see a fine selection of pints and half pints for people on the go to snag. There was a brand of beer "Stagg" that I've never tried. I kept kicking myself the rest of the trip I didn't buy any. Marla ate at a clean and palatable Whitecastle in Cape Girardeau. The final capper making it a town rush would be proud of was a windowsticker I saw "P.E.T.A. people eating tasty animals". Hah!
We crossed through a tiny corner of Arkansas before reaching Memphis en route to Tunica. Man, you want to talk about flyover country. It's a sushi chic Californians nightmare. The hicks and rubes were southerners though, and henceforth had familiar manners and ways to we Texans. Arkansas is really busting its ass these days to try to attract tourists with a hokey "the natural State" add campaign. There was a big ass, brand spanking new welcome center. How better to judge the State than to have a squat on their howdy-doo-neighbor throne? The mens room was frigging spotless, but it was designed to be so clean that it backfired on 'em. The porcelain potty was clean, had a large seat and ample non-stick buttwipe. Unfortunately every time I shifted position it went into an autoflush mode that hosed by bum off with a backsplash a half dozen times before I made it outta there. Marla went to talk to the welcome center host, but noticed that he had a really disturbed, unsettled look on his face. Hmm. Not exactly the sort of ambassador for "the natural State" that I'd pick.
100 miles out of Tunica I was itching to sink onto a nice stool in front of a video poker machine with a cold bottle in my hand. As I've related here before over the years, I'm not a chronic gambler; I'm a pussyass cheapskate that plays low stakes slots and video poker. I don't go to casinos purely to gamble. As you should know by now I'm an aesthete, blue collar and cheap at times, but an aficionado when it comes to enjoying the atmosphere in a big room full of excitement. One of the only times I feel really comfortable about being around a large group of people is in a casino.
We had never been to Tunica, but had gotten another hot deal on the "Gold Strike" hotel and casino. I wanted to somehow squeeze in some gambling on this trip. We were a bit worried about whether Tunica was going to be pleasant like Vegas and Reno or suck asshole like the putrid Atlantic city, where due to some scumbag loser filing a lawsuit you don't get comp drinks. The help in A.C. all have "attytude" and are just looking for a chance to be snotty. If employees in A.C. behaved like that in Vegas they'd be blackballed.
Luckily, Tunica is in the great South. The rules and atmosphere are very Nevada like but dished up with an extra bit of honey. Employees wished us good luck everywhere we turned, but weren't angling for tips. They seemed to mean it. We had a room on the 18th floor that had a fine view of the Mississippi river and some swampy, empty land surrounding the property and that of two neighboring casinos.
We ate and drank well for 24 hours. The only negative things we experienced were screaming kids in the pool (which happens everywhere) and the lack of a source to re-up my whiskey supply in the hotel. Marla had to drive into the town of Tunica and buy booze at a "Piggly Wiggly" grocery store.
Our fun was routine, until the 2nd night...when we walked into the Horseshoe casino next door, heard some familiar sounding rock and roll, waltzed over to the bandstand and were thrilled to see...
(to be continued)
06/03/09
DAY 7 St. Louis, Mo. (scroll below for days 1-6 of my vacation)
I'm not sure if it's anything to brag about, but when I'm not at work or playing chess or writing or doing other things that require discipline (like being an amateur musician) I'm lazy as hell. It's my way to give either 110% or as little as possible.
I state this here, because you'd be wrong to think that just because I graduated cum laude and have been praised by the boss and defied the normal passage of years by being able to play better chess than when I was young doesn't mean that I couldn't whip your laggard ass in a laziness contest. When the chess ended on our vacation I began to switch into my favored mode of allowing Marla to drive the car, check into the rooms and even fetch me food so I didn't have to leave the motel room and go through the arduous task of dealing with humanoids in restaurants.
Marla and I are opposites when it comes to travel. She gets up early, eats breakfast, seeks out things to do and around 10:30 pm or so poops out from the days activities.
I get up as late as possible, drink coffee, no breakfast, limit my activities and begin to pick up steam about 9:00 pm or so. I drink until as late as possible gazing quietly out the motel window or at the golf channel.
We've learned in over 30 years of marriage in which we've sometimes argued this shit out how to cooperate and submit to each others wishes to a great extent. I would rather prefer to eat in the room which she hates; I ate most meals in restaurants on this trip though recognizing that she submitted herself to a long chess weekend.
Another one of my travel quirks is the fact that once she gets my slug like ass out of the motel or car door I often really get into what we go and do or see. She likes it when I get enthusiastic about a museum or sight.
Leaving Chicago on Tuesday after labor day we had plans to stop in the rube haven of Springfield Il. to visit Lincoln's grave. We both recently read a book about the nutty, now vanished from the face of the earth Lincoln blood line brood. It seemed very desirable to meditate a moment with ol' Abe.
I know I upset many of my Southern friends by being so doggone respectful towards yankees from the civil war era. Well, the other side of the coin is the fact that I also went out of my way to honor fallen Rebels whenever we visited Gettysburg. As the holder of a history degree I must insist on being allowed to call 'em as I see 'em without sectional loyalties. I admire Forrest, Lee, Sherman, Lincoln and of course Grant who is my overall favorite General or leader of the period.
Of all of the civil war icons there was only one man who had to contend with the troublesome, cantankerous Mary Lincoln. He was perhaps able to bear the weight of our nations fate on his shoulders due to his being used to dealing with her.
We ran into some trouble though. When we arrived at the exit near his tomb it was raining like hell and it's obviously placed outdoors.
Luckily I suggested a compromise solution to feeling disappointed. We had spotted signs for U.S. Grant museum on the south side of St. Louis while driving towards Chi-town. Marla whipped out her cellphone and confirmed that it would be open the next day and we gave up on Abe for this time around.
We stopped at a convenience store to gas up and found a nice little shotglass with his mugg on it along with the State bird. I've had several "great moments with Mr. Lincoln" thanks to that glass.
Two strange things happened during that stop. I tried to squeeze out a turd, but froze up due to a guy who came into the mens room and changed clothes, breathing mightily through his nose all the while, hanging his duds on the rim of my stall and rattling me. While I was in there, some guy who was not wearing gas station apparel or anything indicating he was an employee came up to Marla and offered to help her. How often does somebody offer to help you in a convenience store?
I will say this about rural Illinois, their liquor is just as cheap as their gas is expensive. I still haven't had a chance to ask Mark about all the screwballs we encountered in his native State. I can't wait to hear what he has to offer as an explanation.
When I was a kid we were forced to vacation in Missouri several times due to the fact my old mans family hailed from there. I remember the cities being really dirty, scuzzy places with winos laying in the gutter everywhere you looked and racial slurs from my Pa's relatives (particularly my Grannie) like you can only hear at a klan rally these days.
Much to the likely chagrin of those folks I was in love with baseball's ST. Louis Cardinals who were a very mixed race crew. I've talked to quite a few mature, even jaded baseball fans who still hold dear to their increasingly fat clogged hearts that first team that made them love the game. I'm still such a fan of Orlando Cepeda and Bob Gibson and the rest of those guys that we've created them as a team a few times in video games. I've been playing PS2 for a year now with a character meant to be Cepeda's young relation. His name is "Cha Cha Cepeda". Can anybody out there tell me why we chose that name? Hmm?
We found the lodging deal of the goddamned century in St. Louis, just like you see on the commercials through frigging Hotline.com. We got a 4 star hotel overlooking the ballpark, a Hilton hotel for $59.00
Humping jumping Jesus, that's $5 less than we paid to stay in a dump out right of "Green Acres" in Stroud, Oklahoma. The only fucked up part about it was we had to schlepp our bags 2 blocks through the heat from a parking lot. I bitched and pissed and moaned a bit, but shut the fuck right up when we got into the hotel. It was covered, tastefully of course, with classy, expensively framed St. Louis cardinals photos from the old days and up into the 80's or so. There were displays everywhere; team photos from the early 1900's, portraits of stars, memorable crotchety coaches, Musial, Dean, Ozzie and of course Brock, Gibson, flood and Cepeda.
While Marla checked in I saw a couple of healthy looking old guys who I thought might be retired ballplayers stroll through the lobby into the bar which was fronted by a neon, rather psychedelic brace of images of Stan the man Musial.
Our room was on the 24th floor and was certainly the best view of the trip. In fact, the only better hotel window views I've enjoyed were from a suite in Myrtle beach, a room near Niagra falls Canadian side and a couple city views in Las Vegas.
The photos in our room were very impressive. We had a big framed b&w pic of Dizzy Dean by the TV and 4 small pics by Marla's side of the bed, including one of the great Lou Brock sliding into 3rd base right near where she'd be resting her gentle head. There was an ancient color print over the damned stool in the bathroom, an aerial shot of a world series game. I ripped open the shower door half expecting to see ol' Rogers Hornsby on the ceiling but shit, they had to draw the line somewhere.
We walked over to the stadium which was only a couple short blocks away. It's a great looking ballpark. You can see much of it from the street. Hidden speakers were booming classic rock and funk from the massive gift shop even though it was closed for the night. It looked loaded with every sort of Card's clothing item from bathrobes to socks. I posed for a picture by a statue of Bob Gibson, but I fear Marla accidentally lost it in the bowells of her phone.
We attempted to dine and drink at "Al Hrabosky's saloon" on the far side of the park from us, bit we could tell it was closed from a couple blocks away. Hey, did I mention yet that there was no ballgame that night? Hence the great bargain rate.
Al Hrabosky was a fireman known to locals as "the mad Hungarian". It would've been fun to eat at his bar, but what the hell. We walked a few blocks through the spic and span streets of downtown St. Louis to another place.
Yunno, it was sooooo clean, it was spooky, almost unbelievable. Had the Mormons taken over the city? We ate at a non-chain dinner house (the only one apparently in the area) that served booze until 3:00 am and a huge variety of food. I drank Bud (in St. Louis), ate great ribs and watched Marla tear through a gourmet chicken dish.
Afterwards we retired to our room and I began a very long session of drinking and admiring the view. I tried for an hour to spot somebody running around naked in the twin tower of our Hilton. Facing hundreds of rooms you would fgure I'd have gotten lucky. Then, I saw all these orange city vehicles chugging around some 6 blocks away, some across the road, a few few in another direction. Looking closer I saw guys working in hoists. They seemed to be spraying or painting the outside of parking lot buildings.
Huh. I looked at the TV for a minute and by coincidence (it was tuned to "baseball tonight") saw a blurb about the upcoming allstar game in St. Louis. OH FUCK!!!
So, THAT'S why the city was so suspiciously clean. I ran back to the window and pieced together the full story that all the workers scurrying around like ants were painting local parking lots red, white and blue by night.
I watched the streets and windows from that hotel tower for hours and got good and tanked, without having to think about chess at all for the first time in weeks. It would've been fun to stay a few days, but we were headed for an even more promising time in a casino tower hotel in Tunica Mississippi.
06/02/09
DAYS FIVE & SIX: Chicago. (scroll down to read days 1-4)
I've pondered the matter for hours and have come to the conclusion that it's neither an accident or a whim that I drink shots at home and bourbon and waters on the road. Hey, the tools for the drink are right there at hand in your frigging motel room. In the Westin hotel we stayed at in Chicago we had a chrome ice bucket and matching tongs for shit sake. You've just gotta fill the thing for one reason or another. You can't exist without ice in a hotel or motel room. You can do without a lot of things in a hostelry up to and including bed spreads, TV's and most furniture, but not ice my friend.
Well, once you have the ice and of course the booze you're gonna already have bottled water with you since you can't drink tap water in a strange city, can you? We're more relaxed on the road which tends to lead to sitting back with a cold drink as opposed to knocking back a quick shot back at your tedious home environment.
The fifth day of our vacation was day three of the chess tournament. Going into the 12:00 pm Sunday round due to the "bye" I received, my record for the first three rounds was 2-1. That's a good start considering I was playing a section up over my rating, like a double AA baseball players mixing it up with guys in triple AAA.
My opponent was a young guy again rated about 150 points over me. He was SUPPOSED to win, like all the others. The game followed known theoretical opening paths which found us about 12 moves into the game with a rather boring, blockaded position. I would have been content with a draw and that's where the game seemed headed, but I decided to get risky and blow the position wide open with a move that lead to an attack on his King but allowed him to get closer towards mine as well. Usually I don't take risks like that, but for some reason perhaps owing to my new found stamina for this tournament stemming from my job I dove right into the complications.
Much like my game in the round before, I whipped up an attack bearing down on his King. This time my board vision didn't lead to any errors on my part. The guy began to look rather pale and sick. He defended well however and I couldn't find a way to crack in. Finally, I decided to force a three-time repetition of moves by chasing his King back and forth aimlessly. He couldn't deviate from repeating the moves without losing the game and I couldn't without taking additional risks. I was pleased with the 1/2 point but he looked like he was going to get sick. He was not happy and I shook his limp hand quickly and let him be.
Ideally, you want to go over the game with your opponent in a large analysis room always provided for this purpose (and for the purpose of hustlers fleecing people for money in blitz games) where you can talk and figure out things you possibly missed in the position. Instead I went back to the room and prepared to visit our pal Rocco and his lovely Daughter in Chicago. I drained a couple beers and showered and put on a nice clean t-shirt with sleeves since we were going to get city vittles. Marla had the directions to their pad (Mrs. Rocco was out of town) and drove us there while I took a combat nap in the car.
They live fairly close in to the central portion of the city and it was really hard parking, which is something we rarely deal with anymore in sleepy San Marcos. When we lived in Hollywood long ago we just got used to parking 2-6 blocks away from home or places we were visiting. Philly wasn't as bad but it had it's moments of parking chaos. Marla has gotten so out of practice she actually had forgotten how to parallel park (she claims it was due to my sexy new Charger being bigger than her Taurus). We finally found a spot and were met by Rocco and Daughter and lead back to their abode. What a great girl. She's just three years old but very with it. She let me read her a story and charmed the pooh out of me.
It's been a few years since we've seen Rocco, but he's as sharp and erudite as ever. Go back and sift through your old issues of "Carbon 14" and you'll get a glimpse at why it was well worth it to take a 1/2 point requested bye from the tournament to have a chance to get together. He's not just a "good guy", he's a fellow who has educated himself in the finer things in life through reading, developing a knack for coming into contact with worthy, interesting people and exploring avenues of thought rejected by most "good guy's".
We read many of the same books and are entertained by many of the same oddball things ranging from wrestling to strange music, but find them individually without consulting one another.
The four of us walked to our Charge to make a drive to Chicago's small Chinatown. When we got there I gasped in horror...it looked like we had a flat tire on my new, sexy Charger. It looked really weird...but not quite flat. We all stared at it wondering what to make of the situation. Marla started the vehicle and rolled forward slowly. OH SHIT! The tire wasn't flat, it had sunken into a huge sinkhole in the pavement. Hell, it was so big a large dog could've squeezed into it. We made a mental note not to park there again.
We dined at a great Vietnamese place with lots of color pictures of the food decorating the walls. Rocco ate Catfish served in a sort of stew pot (his Daughter was offered some but cleverly demanded "dogfish") and Marla and I ate some dishes loaded with meat and all the vegetables we hadn't been getting on the road eating at tourist filled joints where they serve limp green beans and lame cole slaw. If you want to eat to prepare for chess or poker or what have you, make it Asian, that's my philosophy.
It took 20 minutes at least to park back at Rocco's. I felt myself getting steamed, but managed to hold back from bellowing. We yakked some more and I checked out the throne room, which was tastefully provisioned with a full dozen rolls of my favorite Scott tissue!!
What a sage, that Rocco. I thanked him and had a followup sit down before leaving to express my joy and satisfaction.
DAY SIX. Still Chicago.
So, after my fourth round draw my score was 2 1/2 - 1 1/2. Then, since as mentioned I took a requested (before the tournament) 1/2 point "bye" in the fifth round, my scored after five rounds and leading into the last days two rounds was 3-2.
Monday morning, memorial day I sat down to round six against a young looking guy from Texas of all places, another expert who outrated me by 170 points in this case, the big cahuna of players I faced. I had the black pieces and managed to equalize the game after 15 moves. This is a good thing; White has an advantage from the get-go having the first move. Imagine the guy on top in the initial position in a collegiate wrestling match. If the guy underneath manages to squirm free and equalize he has done well. So it goes with chess.
We battled for about 30 moves and traded off a lot of material. I offered a draw, but the fellow wasn't having any of it quite so soon, even though it can be risky to not face up to a draw. It's like trying to win with a mediocre hand too often in poker.
He made a couple of second or third best moves and suddenly I was threatening his King. For about 10 moves I had him by the scrotum, but couldn't find a way to put him away. Finally, he offered me a draw when the position had no more life than Grandpa's pecker. He was friendly about the draw and pointed out the fact that I had missed an opportunity to win a pawn at one point. I can't tolerate errors that lose material, but I can sure as hell deal with the fact that there are strategic opportunities I'm going to miss in every game I play. Even professional Grandmasters miss that sort of thing in games.
So, going into the last round I had a record of 3 1/2 - 2 1/2 which wasn't bad, in fact it was surprisingly good. It was like a guy recently called up from triple AAA batting.290 or so in the bigs. I fit in at this level whilst playing the underdog every round.
My last opponent was a serious looking guy with hair that stood up on its own just a bit. After shaking my hand he sank into his "zone" and stayed there as opposed to kids who sometimes run around between moves. He was clearly a warrior of the old school.
I played my most ambitious opening as white, one that a former world champion has eeked out many victories from. It is a subtle, but aggressive choice. We got out of the opening and began to both take rather long periods of time to make our moves. He wound up with an initiative that had me by the balls just a bit. I decided to sacrifice a bit of material to get an attack of my own going; a very gutsy move, particularly against a stronger opponent since it could backfire on me. About move 30 with time getting short I broke through his defenses and won back the material I had sacrificed and wound up in an endgame that was very dead. We agreed to a draw. We went to the analysis room and went over the game. He complimented me and told me he thought I seemed very under rated. The guy went into real depth discussing the position and I sucked it all up always ready for a free chance to learn.
I wound up with a final score of 4-3 and earned back 27 rating points I've lost during the time I was at the University. My new rating is 1893.
I was ready to whoop it up, swim, do all sorts of things with the chess monkey finally off of my back. The problem was that I had strangely twisted my left foot somehow during my last game and the post mortem discussion. I wanted so badly to leave the room and do things but could barely walk. I drank a few down, but still howled in pain. We couldn't even leave the room to eat. Marla picked up a pizza and a calzone and I rested my foot and drank and bellowed when I had to limp to the pisser.
I found out later that the bigboy grandmaster section of the tournament where much of the big money was had wound up in a tie. To settle the matter there was a bloody and notoriously entertaining "armageddon" blitz match that scores of people clambered around the board to watch. And I had to fucking mis it all with a lame foot. Fuck.
Oh well, the chess portion of the tournament was over with and I could get back to undisciplined drinking and eating. I suffered that night, but had a great tournament. The next day we were going to leisurely drive to St. Louis and visit with Abe Linoln at his tomb back in hicksville Springfield along the way. UUrrpp.
06/01/09 pt. II
DAY FOUR: Chicago (scroll down for days 1-3)
So, you think chessplayers are a bunch of squares? You say you'd prefer a little excitement on your vacation as opposed to some frigging ballroom that's completely silent where 736 people are hunched over chessboards?
Perhaps you'd prefer to have attended the event that Rocco and Marla ventured to deep in the Chicago loop at another, similar swanky hotel as I waged war across the 64 squares in the burbs; the "International Mr. Leather" extravaganza.
Now, I don't think Rocco has a major leather or related fetish and I'm fairly confident that Marla doesn't. They planned to people watch. I've been to a couple of events that have been even more "bizarre" by the standards of typical squares. If I hadn't been busy I probably would have gone with them.
Don't you SEE? You don't have to be deeply into some hobby or pursuit to enjoy it necessarily. I've been around pool and poker tournaments, attended a demolition derby, watched square dancers, been to many gun shows, State and county Fair agricultural exhibitions, gay bars, a couple auto swap meets and even a perverted Sunday school pancake feed or two.
I've attended many different places of worship ranging from Catholic to Buddhist,
toy shows, a frigging poetry slam and even an Elks lodge once. It wouldn't kill you to check out any of these places and events and it likewise might turn out to be fun watching Thee whiskey Rebel play chess in public with the big boys.
Mark, Elvis and I from Alcoholics Unanimous all have competed in chess tournaments and Marla is working on a lengthy training book that will prepare her to make her debut eventually when she's good and ready.
Anyway, Marla and Rocco had a good time watching a hotel full of masters and slaves, leather boys, rubber freaks, etc. etc. etc. Another friend was a vender there shall we say, so they hung around his table.
As it turns out, I could've attended. In chess tournaments and other competitive events if there is an odd number of players or teams somebody has to get a free point, a "bye". That's what happened to me during the 2nd round of play, since I was one of the lowest rated players I drew the bye. I wound up walking around watching Grandmasters from all over the world whose names and games I'm familiar with at work. There were Armenians, Brit's, Dutch, Russians and many, many immigrants from Europe and Asia who live here now. The top 6 games were projected onto big screens.
I also took the opportunity to spy on the players from my section trying to commit to memory preferred opening moves and perhaps personal weaknesses that could be exploited psychologically.
The 3rd round began at 7:00 pm that night. I had napped and cleaned and coffee'd up and prepared for battle. Marla got back to our room just as I was getting ready to go downstairs. I had a good chuckle at some of the more wacky things they saw at the leather-fest. It's good to laugh a bit and not over-focus on a game before it even starts. Often I can be very nervous before a chess game, but I wasn't at all this weekend. The sometimes tense overtime work I did this winter and early spring prepared me to be able to relax at will and built up my stamina.
My opponent this round was another veteran player who had briefly been a master long ago. He outrated me by 150 points. The fella was as friendly before the game as my first opponent had been cold and reserved. It turned out he used to live in Texas and had played many of the guys from my chess club 30 years or so ago.
All the pleasant talk ceased when the tournament director told us to start our clocks and begin. We both switched our battle face expressions on. I've studied in depth over the last months how to use my time at the board, being prone to using too much at the start of the game, winding up having to blitz out a bunch of moves on the verge of losing on time (if you don't make your 40th move by the time you've used up 2 hours you forfeit). I also played a lot of blitz chess on-line and with a computer to simulate a tense time trouble situation. Luckily, the training paid off. We were both short of time after about 30 moves. I was attacking his King and he was doggedly defending. Finally, I made an error and forgot that I had left a pawn unprotected. The flowers and smiles were long forgotten, he reached out and snapped my pawn off the board and with an audible grunt slammed his Queen down on the square. I didn't lose my cool though and realized I still had a deadly attack bearing down on him. A couple moves later he blundered leaving a whole Rook hanging which I snatched off the board. He extended his hand, resigning.
Marla got to witness my moment of victory, which made it extra satisfying.
We went back to our room and I tossed back a drink to help calm me down. She had picked up some food for me, a damned good club sandwich from a place down the street. I popped a couple beers and drained them down and began to settle down a bit from the complete wide open throttle my mind had been set at for the last half hour of the game.
I walked back down to the tournament hall and yakked for awhile with a guy who came up a few years before me in Oregon chess circles. I played him a couple times when I was in my early teens and had been annihilated by him. The cool thing about him is the fact that we had the same mentor, a man who also handed me my first couple beers. We were playing in the same section again and could have faced each other. He gave me a country whipping at a tournament in Vegas a few years ago after I first came back to the game, but if I face him again I'll be out for blood and revenge no matter who we both new. That's the way our old teacher and adviser would've wanted it.
Finally calmed down, I went back to our room and drank to the light of the TV set, satisfied as a wolf with a gut full of raw meat.
DAY FIVE: next time.
06/01/09 pt.I
DAY THREE: Springfield, Il. to Chicago, Il. (scroll down to day one if you haven't read it)
Room maids at motels and hotels are my sworn enemy. I tip restaurant waitresses and waiters faithfully, cocktail waitresses and bartenders eagerly and other deserving employees in turn; I never have and WILL NEVER tip the gaggle of cleanup broads coast to coast who do so much to spoil my goodtime. I resent the way that motel operators try to solicite tips for these broads by leaving envelopes on dressers for that purpose, naming your personal room maid.
FUCK THAT. They never do anything but pester me and bang on the door even though there's a "do not disturb" sign on it, like clockwork, every bloody time. If I need a mini-fridge I call the front desk, who usually sends a dude toting one whom I give $3-$5 bucks. If I need an extra roll of asswipe I get it at the frontdesk. If I need to stay an extra hour (99% of the time this is the case) I call the front desk. See a pattern? If anybody deserves a tip it's the people operating the joint, not the maids.
Maids only annoy me. I can't count the number of times they've barged in with their frigging house key in spite of the sign telling them I'm still in the room. It's really embarassing when I'm half naked or still in bed. Usually your rooms deadbolt can keep them out, but when I stay with Marla she's always getting up earlier than me going out for stuff. I can't lock her out. I'm dependant on that little sign. Of course if they barge in they claim that it's a mistake, but I don't buy that hogwash for a second. They're merely waking up the stragglers who might delay them from cleaning the rooms quickly, keeping them at work a little longer.
By the way girls, that "I don't speak english " crap is getting really tired.
My day in Springfield began with me trying to shower without the deadbolt on, scurrying around in a paranoid manner trying to get my clothes on fast. What bullshit. I should be able to stroll naked for hours without fear of some stormtrooper maid squad kicking the door open. It's my room and it's MY MONEY and I'm never going to give a cent of it to the frigging cunts no matter how guilty they try to get me to feel.
Don't even get me started on those little cards with the "green" message, suggesting you reuse towels and sheets to save the earth; fuck the earth.
Marla eventually brought me coffee from the lobby (which is always better than the swill they leave for you in your room) and we got the hell out of there. One hour into our three hour drive to our hotel we stopped off at the thriving burg of Dwight Illinois. Marla had a great gyro at a local Italian takeout place that surprisingly kicked ass amongst all the hayseed and dullard operated joints. I got a great hoagie that I ate in our room later. The chef was an Italian guy from Chicago who came to the table not fishing for compliments or tips, but to make sure the food Marla was eating was topnotch.
Our specific destination was the suburb of Wheeling Illinois which is 20 miles north of the city. The tournament was being held at a Westin hotel, much nicer than we usually stay at for sure. Hell, why do you think Marla came along?
It was a tall, huge building you could see from miles around of course.The neighborhood looked more than a bit snooty. I chuckled when I saw this knowing how the locals were gonna hate 4 days of mostly cheapskate chess players.
For a four night stay in a hotel that charges $6-$7 per beer at its bars, which close early I might add, we needed to bring in a load of brews right off the bat. Luckily we had a nice mini-frig. I had brought along a special plaid carrying bag for the purpose of transporting beer and bottled waters through the lobbies of hotels. Believe it or not, I'm self conscious about toting big coolers in 4 star joints like that. Silly, aren't I?
Actually, they have sneaky bullshit rules against carrying beers or other forms of alcohol into hotels in some cities. Houston and South Padre come to mind. Hey, they want you to buy their overpriced swill. I can't blame them, but we'd need to take out a second mortgage on our home to afford their prices.
Our room at the Westin was fucking fantastic. The 15 foot entry way alone into our corner room on the 22nd floor was bigger than our room in lovely Stroud. We had windows with excellant views in two directions, desks, easy chairs, a bar, huge closets, a stunning shower, all the things that so many of you spoiled bastards take for granted but we consider luxuries.
We finished unpacking our bags about 4:00 and I began segueing into total chess mode for the next few days. By total, I don't mean we didn't do other stuff, it was just that it was my priority. If you drive 1400 miles to compete in an event like that, it'd better be your focus. I had chosen to play in a competitive section in which the rating level is well above mine. I would be the underdog in every game which I prefer because I still think I'm capable of improving and you don't get better by playing people at your own level, whether the game be billiards, poker or chess.
Chess ratings are valued by chessplayers as being just as significant as penis size.
If a master (rated 2200+) walks into a restaurant with a couple of class "b" players (1400-1600) they will ALWAYS let him enter first and kowtow to his every word.
The world of music and bands isn't much different; the person from the most popular or legendary band is usually treated with similar respect.
If that same master is entering an elevator with a couple of Grandmasters (rated over 2500) he will stoop and bow and urge them to enter first. I'm a class "A" player rated 1865 before the tournament. I'm not quite at the "expert" level which all of my opponents in this tournament were at (rated between 2000-2200) but I'm still rated higher than 90% of the 736 players who competed at the Chicago Open and most other events for that matter.
We wandered down to main floor to find the tournament hall. It was a fucking huge ballroom of course. I wandered back to the room and began using cue cards I've drawn up to help me learn my openings (all of which I've studied for scores of hours) better. I went downstairs sporting a clean bandana and Antiseen t-shirt for my first game at 7:00 pm. We use timers that limit you and your opponent each to 2 hours for your first 40 moves and an hour of sudden death time for the rest of the game. If the game goes 6 hours, you will be very, very fucking tired. It's as exhausting calculating at the board as taking a final exam at a university. The main difference is that after you make a move you've been sweating blood over for 15 minutes you get up and walk around to clear your head.
My first opponent was an old Russian guy who sported a plain white dress shirt and older suit. I had researched him and many of my other opponents at the U.S. chess federation website which keeps records of ratings and tournaments and I knew this guy was an old hand whom had been rated near master level for years, only falling a notch to the expert level now that he was older.
He outrated me by 150 or so rating points, which meant that the pressure was on him to win. I played my favorite opening as black and chose to break open the game with aggressive complications on the 8th move. The game was a real slobber-knocker. He had me by the balls around move 20, but I sacrificed a pawn and got a good attack going. At move 40 it was in an endgame and he was beginning to improve his position. At about move 50 I resigned the game. Sometimes the first game you play in an event like the Chicago open is a little sloppy and this was no exception. I felt bad about losing to an extent, but knew that I had my chances to win. I wasn't just steamrolled off the board.
It turned out to be the weakest game of the tournament that I played, but of course I had no way of knowing that. If I could've I would have been happy. The old guy wound up having a great event, winning money and finishing in the top 10. He had been a bit cold to me and didn't seem like a very friendly guy, but SO WHAT? It's not a game for mollycoddles. If you need your self esteem built up you'd best enter a hippie sport like that frigging Frisbee-disc golf crap.
We ate at a local sports bar that stayed open late and I was in a good mood.
Marla was enjoying the surroundings. She had exciting plans for the next day to meet our old pal Rev. Axl Future aka Rocco to take in the "International Mr. Leather" exposition at a hotel down in the loop.
I hunkered down over my last few beers and bourbon and waters in our room just staring out the window, enjoying the great view, letting my mind go blank, recharging my mental battery for the next days bouts.
DAY FOUR: next time..
05/31/09
Well, we're finally back from our trip to Chicago and other mid western destinations. I'm just now sucking down the last of the "Old Style" cans picked up along the way. The answering machine blinketh indicating we've had 5 phone calls in 10 days. There's a pile of mail to go through and of course my chess games from the tournament need to be fed to my chess computer "Fritz" for analysis. The cats are crying for attention after being left in a boring house together without humans for so long. It's all gonna have to wait. I want to lay some observations down here. It was a vacation of contrasts. We saw some weird, weird shit in some bizarre places, slept in a dump that cost more than a 4 star Hilton we found ourselves in. We dined in fancy bistro's with fat cat wealthy folk in an exclusive Chi-town suburb but also chowed down later in the trip in a WaffleHouse in a ghetto that had to post a sheet of rules on the door for local gangsta's to abide by.
Of course anybody who has read my blather for very long knows that I love traveling and sleeping in motels. I actually PREFER being on the road to being at home. I feel glad to be back in Texas amongst people with familiar flaws, yet I easily could've stayed on the road going from motel to hotel from town to town for many weeks more. I see each new room as a sort of new start, a clean slate and a unique adventure. Before you gag on such a positive outlook, let me point out that when I am traveling, out amongst the humanoids of our fair land I don't really want to get too close to many of them for too long. I like watching them from a SAFE DISTANCE crawl or buzz about like bugs in a jar or monkeys at the frigging zoo scratching their asses or cute little bear cubs playing with their peckers.
I have one overall theme to offer before detailing our trip. I traveled about playing chess in tournaments in the pacific northwest and even up into Canada from the time I was about 13 up to the age of 23 or so. Back in the day the majority of chess players were pretty frigging weird. Marla witnessed the tale end of that period and remembers chess tournament halls as reeking of collective body odor. "Normal" people seemed healthier, hipper and less harsh on the nose. Over the years things have changed. Chess players are for the most part cleaner, healthier, better adjusted and more pleasant to be around than the masses of rubes we experienced in the States of Illinois and Missouri for sure and perhaps other places. This is an abstract theory based on only several days of observation. Amateur chess prizes are much bigger than 30 years ago, drawing a better breed to the game. $100,000 was given to prize winners at the "Chicago Open 2009". The average nostril mining midwest folks we saw through our darkly tinted car windows on this trip seemed to be a couple notches uglier and dumber than I remember them being during our last trek through the region. The chess players (736 strong) had amongst their number a few rubes, but the streets and restaurants and convenience stores were stuffed with 'em!
DAY ONE: San Marcos, Texas to Stroud, Oklahoma.
Yes, this was to be my first trip to Oklahoma. It's one of the few states I've missed. I had been lead to expect a flat, desert like wasteland with desolate, ugly towns full of clodhoppers. A few musician friends have clued me in to the fact that they've had a damned good time and felt appreciated in Oklahoma city and Tulsa, but they seem to be the only people with anything good to say about the place.
The media snots just lump it all in with all the other useless thousands of miles of "fly over country" they hate so much and THAT should tell you something, since those arrogant snots are almost never right about anything. Oklahoma was in fact green and lush and full of charming hills and valleys. Where was the dust and the mud and the flat terrain you see in films like "The Grapes of Wrath"? Did Steinbeck lie? Probably not. He probably just looked at some dustbowl coverage pictures in LIFE magazine and assumed it all looked like the worst hit parts. I'm aware of the fact that the green grass and shrubs we saw can be brown in a month or so, but the hills sure as hell aren't going to flatten out. You want to see flat, wasteland...mile after mile after mile? Make the drive between San Francisco and L.A.
The strip malls of Norman and Oklahoma City were no different so far as I could tell from than those of California. But yes, the people were more plain looking as a whole I suppose not trying to telegraph with their clothing and hairdo's what sort of "type" they are emulating from the world of pop culture like they do in California.
Knowing that we would be staying in a swank hotel in Chicago (thanks to a chess tournament rate on the room) we elected to stay at an old route 66 motel that has an epic, celebrated neon sign: the "Skyliner Motel". We exited from the efficient turnpike at Stroud about 45 miles east of Oklahoma City. It's a small town, no hipsters to be seen..with the exception of the occasional vacationing middle-aged clowns driving P.T. Cruisers sporting safari hats and dockers thinking they're stylish.
The motel had no apparent frills, no pool, just a kickass sign in all of its glory. We pulled in hours before sunset..I couldn't wait. We were charged $65 for the privilege of bunking in this relic. We had room #3 of 10. It was small but clean. Our memorable experience began while loading in our baggage and cooler and drinking supplies. Marla bent over underneath a TV that was hanging from a ceiling mount to drop something in the waste basket and while straightening up cracked her nose on a very sharp edge of the mount apparatice the set was resting on. Her sunglasses were knocked clean off her face and one of the nose pieces broke off. Quickly assessing the situation I bent over like a gentleman to check the floor for the nose piece...didn't find it and upon straightening up to full height cracked my head so hard it drew blood. Two minutes in the room, two injuries. Great.
The room had some other really strange features for no extra charge including a bathroom faucet that was mounted so far back over the sink that you couldn't get your hands under it and a toilet bowl (!?) crammed into such a narrow spot that the buttwipe roll jammed into ones ribs whilst mounted on the tiny seat. The air conditioning unit worked, but you had to climb onto one of the beds to adjust the settings. There was no room to walk under it and it was to high for you to reach when seated on the bed.
What the fuck. The sign sure looked cool when it was dark and I had about 10 beers and a couple tall bourbon and waters in my gullet. There were Spanish speaking construction workers in #5 & #6 drinking beer all night in front of their rooms. They seemed like nice guys, but I bet they 1) were laughing at us and 2) paid maybe $25 per night.
We ate next door at a Mexican restaurant that was really good and inexpensive. I had an enchilada plate and was served something that looked like it wouldn't have been out of place on a food network travel show.
I tell you what, things are inexpensive in Oklahoma. We found .59 cent coffees (20 ounce) at a gas station and when the tollroad attendant learned we paid .20 cents too much he began to explain to us how we could get it back. We smiled and told him to consider it a donation to the State.
DAY TWO: Stroud, Ok. to Springfield, Il. through Missouri.
Tulsa seemed to have more frigging cheap Mom and Pop motels than any place I've ever been to in my life. The turnpikes to and from it were excellent. We made great time. BY early afternoon we were buzzing along through rural Missouri. The weather was nice, I found a nice clean welcome center to crap at. When I was a kid we traveled through this State a few times and I thought it was a stinking, decaying mess. We stopped at a Hardee's to get Marla some lunch and I managed to see two local kooks with hand written signs espousing some sort of personal grudges. One was driving a car and one was hitchhiking. Later in the trip when we were back in the "show me" State I saw a frowning guy marching around with a sandwich board bearing a scrawled message "No More Bars" on each side. What is it about Missouri and signs and grudges?
We took a route around St. Louis into southern Illinois and managed to miss rush hour traffic. Marla drove and I kept popping in cd's with R&B and country songs about St. Louis. An hour out of our destination of Springfield (Abe Lincoln's adopted home town) Il. my loins rose up in protest against some sort of remnant from the Mexican chow from the night before. I had to hotfoot it into a rest area stall which was shockingly clean as a whistle. Yeah, go figure? It was good we stopped when we did, or I might have filled my pants. In a construction zone that narrowed from 3 lanes to 2 some dipshit rube kid in a sportscar took it upon himself to block a lane a mile before it was neccessary to. I layed on my horn, but he clearly thought he was being a good citizen. I wondered how long he would last trying to play traffic cop in a real, urban area. What can you do in a situation like that with other dunderheads, fucking clodpates around?
In Springfield we checked into a large "Signature Inn" that was chock full of more bumpkins. This puzzled me a bit. Mark is from rural Illinois and I've met many of his visitng friends and even a couple family members. They didn't seem like chuckleheads, but we encountered plenty of them at every turn in Abe's old stomping grounds.
The one who took the cake was a guy working at our motel front desk. Marla went to ask where the ice machine was. She dealt with a dope with an overbite and case of cash register jaw right out of a cartoon. He said "well...the ice machine on the first floor is broke"..a fact we were aware of. "What about the second floor" Marla asked...he hemmed and hawed and concentrated staring at the ceiling but couldn't tell her what room it was located by. She glanced at a woman working next to him at the front desk and judging her to be (and I quote) "the kind of woman you'd see handing out milk at a school cafeteria" she gave up and walked around looking for it.
We had a nice, big room with a mini fridge and the best recliner of the trip so we holed up away from the rubes after dining at a "Bob Evans" restaurant next door. I was all too aware of the fact that I'd be playing my first tournament game at 7:00 pm the following night. I still had to complete some finishing touches on my opening repertoire, so I dug out the chessboard and books for awhile.
DAY THREE: Springfield, Il. to Chicago, Il. (coming up....)
05/17/09
Man, it smells so goddamned bad in here, there's nothing to do but write about it.
The old worn out cliche "smells like shit" doesn't even come close. You can light a match and wipeout bad shithouse smells. The next most popular barometer I can think of is "smells as bad as a hippie"...but even that doesn't do this justice..even if you track down a gaggle of 'em who have given up buttwipe and shower in a tiny stream of cold water to show how hardcore green they are. Brother, that's not a scent I fancy, but it doesn't do this lip curling odor justice.
I've seen my share of corpses and sniffed reluctantly the remains. I've mopped up all sorts of excrement and discharges from the floors of Tower records on South Street in Philly. It doesn't begin to compare.
Just for "fun" I've let a good rack of farts out of my ass in bed and then pulled my head under the covers to gross myself out (I can't fucking BELIEVE I'm admitting to stuff like this; my head is obviously reeling..) and it smelled like lilacs, gentle grandma's sweet springtime perfume compared to this.
We can't go on around here without some changes being made...
What's the source of all of this? A new brand of canned catfood. Most catfood reeks, but the odor disipates eventually. This stuff can clear the room at 3:00 pm and again 5 hours later after the cats have poked around in it again. It drove me from the livingroom area into this adjacent room where I'm seated in front of one of our computers. UUUuurrrppPPPP. I CAN STILL SMELL IT.
The worst bathrooms I've ever witness on earth were 1) the mens room at the now demolished CBGB'S club in NYC, 2) the mensroom at the Venice beach pier in L.A. (somehow I managed to take a shit there...on a stool with no rim if I recall...I know I wrote a diary entry about it...look it up) a mensroom in communist era East Germany in 1972 whilst touring with my high school band.
All of the above smelled worse than houses I've been into in which mushrooms began growing spontaneously from the cheesy carpets.
What are we gonna do about it? This batch of food has got to go...but Marla just loaded up on 36 cans..........maybe I should shove my nose to the hilt in a pair of my soiled shorts and strap it to my noggin to cover up the scent...any ideas??
05/15/09
I'm glad to say that my pick to win it all, Danny, on the superb Gordon Ramsey show "Hell's Kitchen" did indeed take home the job and the $250,000 that comes with it. Bravo buddy. I hope you dig working in Atlantic City. It's a toilet once you step away from the casinos, but then you can always drive into Philly for some fun on ole South Street. The 6th season starts in July, which isn't that far off.
"Mad Men" and "Son's of Anarchy" oughta be starting up soon again too. I refuse to turn the TV on and just let it be a companion, but when there are good shows, why the fuck not take advantage?
I'm also taking advantage of our local library with some fine reading material. I'm set to tackle "Feast of Snakes" by Harry Crews at the suggestion of both Mark and Alan King. I'm polishing off a historical fiction work "Devil's Garden" by Ace Atkins just now. It covers the Fatty Arbuckle debacle (he was accused of shoving a Coke bottle up a woman's snatch and raping her..the jury found him innocent, but sent his career into a tailspin) and the related service of the legendary writer Dashiell Hammett as an investigator for the Pinkerton's.
I'm suspicious by nature of historical fiction, but this book really delivers. I've been fascinated by Fatty for many years. He was without any doubt the biggest star you never heard of in American film history. He also paved the way for guys who shopped the fatman stores like Curley Howard, Belushi, Candy, etc. I'm very proud that we put Fatty on the cover of our "Alcotopia" e.p.
Even though it's hard to find his work to this day due to lying prudes and prohibition loving wacko cunts, it's out there. He did a lot of dangerous stunts bolstered by booze and drugs. He was a good hand at cross dressing too.
If you don't know about Hammett and his proto-typical hardboiled detective "Sam Spade", you're just an ignoramous who doesn't deserve to read this diary until you rectify matters. He changed the way that action fiction was written, taking it out of the frigging drawing room and putting it in the hands of real, two fisted men who could lay you out if you cracked wise. Woody Allen invoked Humphrey Bogart (who played Hammett's Spade to perfection in The Maltese Falcon") in his early 70's play and film "Play it again Sam". My favorite line fron the film is: "Dames are simple. I never met one that didn't understand a slap in the mouth or a slug from a forty-five".
Just a hunch; Crews probably dug Hammett. Arbuckle would have fit in with the both of them. Urrppp.
05/12/09
One of the benefits of being known by members of the public is the nice way you get free magazines on occasion thanks to pranksters. Most of the time, these mags are tossed without any discussion or thought really. That's what Marla intended to do with the cool copy of "Teenvogue" we received thanks to somebody who likely hates us for some reason or other.
"What are you doing!" I shrieked. " I wanna read that!"
She eyeballed me closely to see if I was kidding or not.
"Hey, this is a diary entry..right here! Consider it research material."
She quickly realized I was serious. She's been around me long enough to know that there's no way in hell I'd stand in line at one of the 3 grocery stores within 10 miles and read some airhead teenage girl rag. I'm not overly concerned with how I'm perceived in this town, but there's not alot of people living here. I've had clerks I've dealt with in stores show up at our rare local music shows and wound up in classes with several. Since I donated a "Jobjumper" to the local public library and it's been read by a growing number of people I'm even more visable.
I've felt for a long time that there's a wealth of knowledge contained in absolutely putrid, mainstream publications just as there are in websites and tv shows. I've written about all of these topics for mags over the years and here too.
I can't say (until now) that I've ever actually sat down and gone through a copy of "Teenvogue" though. I don't mean to insult those of you with teenage Daughters, but I've gotta say this: if you want to know more about where her head is at and she reads this stuff, go out and get a goddamned copy yerself. This is fairly easy for a Mother to do, but not so easy for Fathers. who equate buying periodicals like this with being seen purchasing goddamned tampons.
Hey guys, ever get pissed off because your little girl is dressing up in whore apparel? Ever physically escort some teenage guy off of your property because you thought they were getting too "serious"? HHmm? Worried about why your little pumpkin has posters of scantilly girls on her bedroom wall? Afraid she's gonna swing the wrong way..or that she might already?
If you could flip through a few of these mag's you'd probably feel a lot more relaxed about your daughter(s). If you don't get 'em free in the mail like we do and you can't grow a pair and buy some at a newstand, get an adult woman in your life to bring you a few. Come to think of it, have her stick around in case she needs to pour you a tall one, or explain some of the truths that lay within the pages; articles such as "Rock Your Prom!", "28 must try beauty products" and "Cool Dresses Heavy Metal Gems and Glam Shoes" and the urgent "Love Lockdown..The Upsides of Surviving a Breakup".
Hey, a huge majority of teenage girls are fashion conscious..even ones who hate the sort of styles you see in "Teenvogue". A large number of 'em want to duplicate what they see in these pages, but they can't afford to for the same reason you can't afford to buy everything for sale in the mag's you read whether it be dedicated to smut or bowling or music or guns or what have you. Girls should learn how to be women gradually, over the years preceeding you finally being forced to unlock their cage.
If you've kept her away from specific things that you forbid, those are very likely going to be the first things she's drawn to. Remember THAT! There's nothing so terrible about that, she wants to be a woman, she NEEDS to be a women; she can't grow up in your cage of influence forever. You will cringe and piss and moan and throw things and deliver ultimatums that go completely ignored and get shitfaced and finally even cry, but eventually your little girl NEEDS to grow up to be a woman.
Now that I've looked through it, I can say with knowledge that Mag's like "Teenvogue" are oriented towards bridging that gap. The "breakup" article I read is written by somebody who knows that girls who read this mag tend to over dramatize their early and silly ( to YOU that is) teenage relationships. Some of the models in pictures within the pages do look a bit like prostitues, but plenty others are modeling cute crap that wouldn't bother you a bit.
Frankly, Marla and I both thought that in particular lots of the retro oriented fashion in this issue looked pretty dorky. We're used to seeing 18 (we hope!) and just older girlfriends of some of our unsavory bandmembers and audience members look about as slutty as you can get away with in public. Hey, some of them are nice girls, really. I've heard more than one drunkenly bitch about their over protective, usually hypocritical Father for extended periods. I always get an earful because I remind quite a few girls of their more "lenient" Uncle.
Anyway, "Teenvogue" is clearly just a step in the ladder towards womanhood. There's gotta be mags for girls 2 and 4 years younger and of course there is Cosmo and other rags for the "legal" girls. If I had a Daughter I'd want her reading stuff like this or even Miley Cyrus/ Disney style hokum as opposed to a load of hip-hop or wigger crap. Of course, if you've learned anything here today, you'd know that if I had a Daughter I'd NEVER tell her that; if you want her to pick door "B" you tell her to pick door "A" or "C".
UUrrppp...........
05/08/09
It seems almost impossible at first hearing; how could a woman who has a Son named Elvis never have traveled to Memphis nor toured the holy Graceland mansion?
That is the case when it comes to we Irwins, although the situation will be remedied in a few short weeks. Marla and I will be traveling home the long, scenic route from my chess tournament in Chicago. We will tour the King's palace and even visit the hallowed grounds of Sun studios for her special benefit.
We might even make a side trip to Tupelo. Hell, over the years we've often referred to her as "Gladys" and me as "Vernon". What the shit. Lots of families have much sillier nicknames for one another. I told her today to watch out for the moment in which we will be ushered along with the gaggle of fellow tourists into the Presley family burial area. I reminded her, they're ALL there, including little Jesse Garon. It's a really soul stirring scene. I reminded her that I might seek my open private space to take it all in, probably resulting in hot tears scalding my cheeks. There's just something about the "little family" as it has been referred to.
Can I tote a flask onto the grounds? I found myself sober and sorry last time. I've drank at Hank's tomb and at the site of the launch of Picketts charge at Gettysburg, why not King Elvis's? hhmmmm?
05/05/09
Our savior, thee Obama commited a significant verbal error that as the jobjumper I must point out. Lest I be accused of being a shill for the repub's let me point out that what he said was exactly what Bush would have said....and been raked over the coals in some circles for saying.
How could our messiah, our "community organizer" be so insensitive?
It was a statement in response to the swine flu (which Bush would have been blamed for creating..in many circles). He said that if you are sick DON'T go to work.
Stay home.
Let them eat cake in other words.
We lowly downtrodden workers know what a line of bull that is. Why didn't the Obama? If you take a day off 1) it will likely be held against you unless you die of the swine flu or are hospitalized. This sort of judgement is made by bosses of all political persuasions. 2) "In these times" as the current cliche goes, many working folks can't fucking afford to take a day off from work and have no sick pay bnefits. A number of folks with tummy aches who believe in the Obama certainly took the day off at his command. Not only did this probably effect their work status (employers assume you aren't sick when you phone in, simply because you usually aren't really). In a nutshell, few employers are going to let you off the hook for your absence just because the President (whomever it is) makes a statement in a press conference.
A line like this by him is supposed to be playing it safe, but it impacts poor bastards just as much as when weather dumbasses make a statement like "if you don't have to go out, DON'T!" in the case of an ice or snow storm.
I remember all too well reporting for work in Philly after a 3 1/2 foot snowfall; not only did our bosses expect us to be there, they expected everybody to be on time! I think of how considerate those bastards would have been over an employee staying home due to a "possible" case of the swine flu. HAH!
05/03/09
Due to the expected seasonal furlough at my job I won't be reporting to work for awhile. I'll be looking eventually for seasonal work elsewhere to compliment it. I worked my butt off, lost 50 pounds at least according to Marla and my heartrate is slower than at any time in recent years. Even though it's a low stress job I wound up on the last night being put in charge of our depleted in numbers work unit. They love me there.
We're going to spend some of the money I made (including some overtime $$$) on a long, long overdue computer.
Yeah...we know only too well how many people crack jokes at our outdated equipment. Our p.c. is 10 years old and was the source of much laughter from classmates at the university who heard about it. Our Mac is even older!? You can't load social-bullshit network pages on either, can't get sound, can't load one by one page after page of stuff I've read and looked at for years.
People wonder why I don't check out their band at their request; when I say it won't load on our ancient computers, I'm not being slick or evasive. It's the truth, even though their bands probably suck anyway.
Tomorrow we're getting a new computer from Sam's Club. It's about goddamned time. Right off I'm going to add shit to our Ebay store and give the photos and descriptions an 8 year touchup. As I mentioned a few weeks back, it's time for us to copy our VHS tapes onto DVD's and at the same time I'm going to finally, finally after many years of snoring in technology's cave get together some DVD footage of our bands to meet numerous fan requests. Start saving up your dough.
We have a vacation coming up too. I'm going to skip the chess tournament in Las Vegas this year in favor of the Chicago Open which is held over the memorial day weekend. The top prize in my section, which consists of people my strength or a bit weaker is $6,000. Hey, I usually play up a section or two not wanting to dirty my hands on hacks at my own rating level, but fuck. I gotta try for the money. If you win a tournament section like this it's due to a combination of solid technique, patience, will to win and a good deal of luck managing to not get paired with too many young players who are up and coming and under rated.
Marla has never been to Chicago, so she'll be in for a good time. It's a good city for me..at least it served me more than well the one time I've been there.
We'll be traveling home the scenic route with stops planned in Memphis, Tunica (a gambling meccas that kicks ass I hear) and a dirt cheap stay in a Hilton hotel in the outfield overlooking Busch stadium in St. Louis..home of my childhood favorite ballclub. Hey, we rolled the dice on one of those travel gamble websites and lucked out. Will the Card's hall of fame museum be stocking an Orlando Cepeda or Bob Gibson T-shirt? Hhmmnnhhhh
I'm really looking forward to guzzling buckets of cheap but soulful Old Style brand beer in Chi-town.
05/01/09
I've read quite a few nice, brief sendoffs to Playboy Buddy Rose over the last few days. I believe that to really understand his genius, his creativity and what made him different from other heel wrestlers with long "nature boy" hair you had to witness up close the unfolding of his career from the best vantage point, the old pacific northwest territory. Watching him week after week on TV's "Portland Wrestling" it was easy to see how different he was from guys like the great Ric Flair. He boasted in his interviews about leading a "playboy lifestyle" and living it up all the time with women; I don't doubt that he got his share of tail and kept his playboy van rockin', but he had a round face reminiscent of Fatty Arbuckle and lost his svelte figure early on much like Babe Ruth. His voice bore no similarity to that of the Southern bleached blonde wrestlers who often broke out into street black dialect. It was scratchy and a bit high-pitched.
Now, pay attention! Don't skim over these words. This is all very important to understanding his unique character. Buddy would wear outlandish robes and colorful trunks in the ring and change to foppish hats and pimp duds that would've fit Oscar Wilde for his late in the show interviews. He'd crow about the guys that he had injured and laugh with no sign of remorse.
He made it quite clear that he was turned on by crippling opponents up..and that he was able to get the job done by rising to the occasion with a devious plan. He presented himself as a cerebral assassin decades before Triple H (who is a major fan of the Playboy's I've read). Buddy's long-term running buddy Easy Ed Wiskowski was a tall, strong looking guy who looked capable of kicking Rose's ass, but they never got pissed off at each other. They seemed to share a sadistic pleasure in breaking bones and shaving the heads of opponents at the end of "playboy" matches. Ed let Rose take care of thinking up dirty tricks and provided his muscle.
I witnessed first hand what Portland Wrestling viewers felt about Rose; he was the most hated wrestler in the territory. They thought he was just a fat hag who was the last guy who should appeal to girls. The Portland Sports Arena was regularly filled with a chant of "WHALE ON THE BEACH! WHALE ON THE BEACH!" in an attempt to embarrass him. I witnessed it many times in person. It seems like every time I attended a card some drunk clown would grab a foreign object and try to sucker punch Rose.
My own parents (to whom I owe eternal respect for being constant wrestling fans) hated the Playboy. They thought he was a whiny crybaby who deserved a taste of his own medicine. Over the years they had jeered villains like Mad Dog Vachon and Lonnie Mayne who seemed like wild animals, that in comparison those guys seemed understandable.
It irked my old man that Rose and Wiskowski billed themselves as the "younger generation" and constantly put down veterans like Stan Stasiak and Dutch Savage.
The rise of Rose and Wiskowski coincided with a changing of the guard musically that occured in the late 70's and early 80's. The "Playboy and the Prince" didn't really stress music as part of their act, but in Portland many musicians I knew followed them weekly and TV and loved them. Greg Sage had been a huge fan and hired ring photographer (as well as a pal of beautiful Beauregarde's of course) for many years; he really dug Rose and Wiskowski. So did Pig Champion, the key members of my bands and most importantly I guess the guys who recorded the infamous song about the playboy..the CLEAVERS.
I've seen many questions in message boards over the years concerning who made this record. This is a good time to clarify things for the record. I knew all of the guys from the Cleavers. They influenced us quite a bit musically and were one of the few bands that didn't look down their noses at us as people (at least to our faces?!?). One of the guys named Chris wound up as an artist working for Darkhorse comics. He sometimes sang and played the most hated and unhip guitar of the era..an Explorer. The guitar player Larry and bassplayer Jay I knew a bit better. They often wore cool wrestling masks on stage. Their drummer Bud was a drummer for us (Rancid Vat) for about 6 months or so. I spoke to them several times about the photo session with Buddy for the 7". They made it clear that he was a really nice guy, sort of shy in fact. One of the bandwives is one of the girls pictured on the cover. Rose evidently cleared the way for the band to play at one of the Saturday night shows at the sports arena ( a charming old converted bowling alley).
Rose packed the house for many years. It may have been a humble arena by the standards of MSG, but it was packed and the folks there foamed at the mouth with hatred for the playboy. You can look at old footage of matches that survives and see old ladies cussing him from the front row.
He was the first man I ever saw use a dangerous plastic bag to attempt to suffocate an opponent (Roddy Piper), the first man I ever saw heave in the ring (in a dog collar match against Killer Tim Brooks). He brought the Dynamite Kid into the territory and ran out everybody from Jesse Ventura to Piper and Snuka. Do you want blood? One of the bloodiest interviews I've ever witnessed (and remember, I lived less than a mile from the ECW arena) featured Rose and Wiskowski after a bout with Piper and Moondog Mayne with the four of them in the crows nest ready to resume the battle. Buddy and Lonnie were both drenched and spewing it so hard it looked like a frigging horror movie. If you look close and replay it at slow speed, Buddy seems to be doing his best to stifle laughter. I'm sure that this subtle touch was intentional and part of his master plan to keep packing the house.
Rose worked many best 2 out of 3 falls matches in the NW. He'd have to be in the ring for often an hour per show. The fans may have screamed "Whale" but he was in great condition up until his last few years. He'd often taunt the crowd by dropping and doing several one handed pushups often pointing at some rube who was screaming at how fat he was. Tales of his athletic background circulated. He was known to have been a hockey and baseball player in his youth and lead a suburban softball team locally that he was very proud of. There were many stories about trained athletes losing bets to him at public events. He'd challenge them to a hundred yard dash for dough, shut them up good and take their money.
Rose rarely received his comeuppance. The one time that we loyal local fans of his remember is when he lost his hair in a playboy match against Roddy Piper. It was big news at the time earning a big piece in the local newspaper. As Rose bragged about in his commentary on his excellant website (which you need to visit unless you're a dumbass) he made a lot of money in the process. It was planned out over a period of a year or so with many a wrestler being shorn over the months. He bounced back from this defeat sporting a mask and showing no signs of humility. He worked as a face for only one very brief stint and kept pissing the squareheads off for many years. He was a wrestler that you could depend on to deliver an entertaining hour or so even after he ballooned up a hundred pounds or so.
I never got the chance to meet Mr. Rose. I wish I had. He clearly had to keep a distance between himself and the public for obvious reasons. He lived across the Columbia river from Portland in rural Southwest Washington. Unlike Philly in the 90's you didn't see him about town like the ECW crew.
I was stunned to read of his death. Having been a longterm visitor to his website I felt good to know that he and Ed were now running a wrestling school and that he had a good time attending califlower alley events. I haven't mentioned any of his accomplishments in the WWF here. I'm aware of them, but feel that even though a mass of people watched him work for Vince, his best work was in the northwest where he had the reputation as a sinister, crybaby, plump, pimp hat sporting heel. The TOP heel for many years and a man who carved out a wrestling personna with depth beyond most of the other cliche bleached blond dudes. This was in part due to his training by Vern Gagne (a year apart from Flair) but mostly due to his own great mind for the biz. I'll never forget all those Saturday nights that I spent watching the Playboy on the tube and in person.
I read that he went setting in his favorite chair in front of his own TV. I wonder how he managed that? A final act of utter class.
04/25/09
I'm absolutely fucking poleaxed. I read the news that Playboy Buddy Rose was found dead sort of by accident on the Wrestling Observer website. The death of a hero is always upsetting, but this is just a slap to me. I don't feel very good right now myself. I've already drank a shot to him, but it'll take a helluva lot more to get me to sleep tonight and I'm just gonna get started. Good thing I'm well armed with old Portland Wrestling dvd's thanks to drunk Ted. I can't write anymore until I come to grips with this.....
Well, I'll say this; if the only work you've seen of the man is from the WWF you're missing out as much as if you've only seen King Lawler hosting Raw instead of ruling Memphis for years. Rose was thee headliner in Portland for a long time and a fine champion. Go to youtube and check out some of his great moments.
04/25/09
"Jobjumper" readers take note. A character in the book..one of my best bosses..will be here tomorrow for a visit along with his wife. Jerry and Lynn actually became friends beyond the job which was the newspaper "boycrew" biz. Jerry hired guys like me to go out and recruit crews of boys to sell newspaper subscriptions. I claim to have made a few innovations along the way including breaking the gender barrier in a significant way by hiring some girls to the crew. Other crew leaders soon followed my example in this and other areas you can read about in the frigging book.
I made good money during this phase of my life and have no regrets. Jerry and his wife Lynn retired to Mexico several years ago (like Jesse Ventura) and will undoubtedly have some good tales to tell. Elvis and "the other" Mrs. Irwin will be coming by (she's baking up a buttermilk pie..a Texas treat). Jerry earned a Masters degree in theater and taught for awhile making him a relevant role model to E. Both Jerry and Lynn had little use for traditional ways of grinding away at jobs and set about planning early retirement while younger than most people.
It's rare for us to meet somebody from Portland who knew us way back when. Hells bells, our old pal Mike McNally even worked for Jerry for a shaky period. He's the guy who directed me to the job if I recall. We remember their kids when they were pre-schoolers running around in p.j's. Now they're the same age as most people reading this. SHIT!
Jerry and Lynn both were present at my "Jobjumper" book read at Powell books in Portland when the first edition came out. That blew my mind. They put me on a cellphone with a now very adult "kid" who used to work for me. Should be fun.
04/23/09
I'm dealing with people at work more effectively than I ever have.
I wound up briefly chatting in a break area with yet another coworker the other night. The guy was in his early 20's, sporting long dyed hair and an Abe Lincoln beard. He was wearing a t-shirt that had a dumb message on it, although in the rush of all the O.T. I've forgotten what it was.
He asked me if I was going to the "Marley-fest" this weekend.
I thought for a moment and pointed out that I would be right there working, earning time and a half.
He seemed very excited.."The cops just ignore it!" he said with a big grin. He added..
"I love 80's metal, man; I was born to late. It must have been a great time to be alive...the 80's". He paused as if waiting for a reply.
What I wanted to say was something like "what the hell do you consider "80's metal"? Just what the fuck is it about metal that requires so many sub genre names? I hate reggae. It's one of the only genres in which I only like a couple songs. I guess if you smoke enough weed anything will sound good. I'd never subject myself to being around a mob of latter day psuedo-hippie burnouts. There enough of them living across the street. I'll agree with you on one point. I was born to late. I've felt that way since the first time I heard Gene Vincent in a guy named Evan's (a friend of Mike McNally) basement".
Instead I cleverly replied: "I quit going to shows with huge audiences long ago. I don't like crowds. Have fun at the Marley-fest". We exchanged names and shook hands.
One more thing. It seems that the tea party "movement" is using the "line in the sand" as drawn in the ground during the Alamo siege as some sort of slogan. Bad idea folks. I learned while writing my Crockett research paper that there isn't a scrap of evidence proving that the anecdote which has been told and re-told for 170 years is based on truth. Travis might have drawn a line in the sand, but he might not have. My Professor, who was the State Historian agreed with this assessment. The radical revisionists have been denying it as fiction for approximately as many years as the conservative John Wayne "Alamo" movie fans have been demanding it really happened. It seems like a dangerous thing to base a movement on an unproved folk legend, but then we've been celebrating easter for many years, haven't we? Somebody tell Glen Beck and the Nuge before they wind up with egg on their faces.
04/20/09
I work in a huge building with many, many hundreds of people. A lady approached me during my break time in an enclosed outdoor area. "Hey" she asked, "where have I seen you"? My thoughts immediately turned to my bands, record shows and chess tournaments. After a few moments of reflection I realized that her question is one of the stupidest a person can ask of somebody, especially at work. If I was a smart-ass on the job I could have answered "I've seen you dance out by the airport lots of times!" if it weren't for the fact that she weighed about 100 pounds more than even obese strippers I've encountered as a sideshow to one of our gigs in S.F..
I answered "Uh...I dunno" cleverly.
"Do you go to the street ministry downtown"? she speculated..
It occured to me that she was so dazzled by my looks that she had me pegged as a homeless bum from down at the mission.
"NO! I live in San Marocs...I must have a look-alike around town. He must be a handsome fella..!" I walked away quickly, vowing to shave arounnd my goatee and sideburns. I've neglected to for a couple weeks due to all the overtime I'm putting in.
I told Marla the story. She declared that I DON'T look like a homeless street dude. I asked her why. She pointed out that my skin isn't weather beaten enugh and I look too well fed. Shit. I really do have to get out the razor tomorrow.
04/18/09
Penn Jillette just raised goose flesh on my frigging arms. He pointed out on a TV show that Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged" is currently #7 on Amazon.com
Humping jumping Jesus.
Recently here at home we've discussed how much the Obama's election and supposed mandate to execute a collectivist revamp of our country resembles the plot line of Ms. Rand's novel.
Marla and I both read "Atlas Shrugged" and most of Rand's other popular works in the early 90's. It didn't really change our perspectives; it reinforced our beliefs. If your supposed understanding of her writing comes from moronic, knee-jerk, p.c. agenda oriented sources (such as an episode of "The Simpsons" portraying her as a nazi-like individual I remember) you really don't have a clue about her philosophy.
Rand had a hedonist streak that she never really considered hiding. After escaping from commie Russia, she settled in the USA and worked her way up from working horrid jobs to leading an entire school of thought stemming from the brilliance of her books.
For the record, I don't completely agree with all that she had to say, neither does Marla; but it's a fact flatout that reading "Atlas Shrugged" shook everything up for both of us intellectually.
It's a huge book that requires a lot from the reader. In exchange it delivers a message that has won over so many people to her opposition of collectivism that Ayn Rand societies are surprisingly active all over the world to this day.
Obviously Penn (a "dyed in the wool Libertarian" according to Glen Beck) had a memorable experience at some point in his life with the book too.
I'd like to encourage those of you who read to tackle at least a few hundred pages of the book. It's easily available in used book stores. Even if you're a collectivist at heart yourself (YUCK!) you'll be impressed by how the future world she foresaw has come about. The jist of it concerns the world being taken over by socialist principles that removes the incentive for great minds, great individuals to continue to work for the benfit of the unappreciative masses. The great ones go on strike in a manner that leaves the folks who have profited from their talents and ideas bewildered and dumbfounded.
Hey, when you have god fearing types like Nugent and Beck waving the flag for a book by a non-believer, you KNOW you've got something special. Penn Jillette is a wise man for clearly loving the book. You don't need to completely go along with Rand to benefit from it.
I've convinced many friends over the years to read "Atlas Shrugged" and most have thanked me. Do you wanna be the next? UurrppppPPPPPPPPPP
04/14/09
Well, OT starts today at work. My god, I'm pretty damned sore but ready to haul in extra cash. As I mentioned here before, my job is seasonal and has a couple weeks or so more to go until a break.
I owe many people emails and calls which bothers me, but what can I do? work first. I'll be updating this here diary more often when the work dies down also.
We played with Antiseen on Saturday night. A good time was had by all. The guys stayed here for 2 nights in all. We were glad to have them. Monday was there day off. 4 out of the 6 in the entourage went to see Dale Watson at his usual night at the Continental Club. Man, that's a great place to send guests, to one of Dale's shows that is. A couple of the boys stayed here and had the chance to enjoy the charms of a local Asian buffet and a long gander at my wrestling dvd's. Some bands like to live it up in their spare time, but many others like Antiseen (this visit at least) like to rest up and eat and plot against mutual enemies.
Oh yeah, one more thing, they stopped off at the Alamo at about 2:00 a.m. after their San Antonio show and had a photo session and paid their respects. A couple Alamo guards came along and talked with 'em real friendly like after determining they weren't terrorists or kooks.
Jeff discovered that he had forgotten to pack his barbed-wire baseball bat in his suitcase. We were able to provide him with a good strand of potent wire which he wrapped around an axe-handle from a local feed store. I suggest that promoters for the rest of their gigs this tour meet their commitments or perhaps they'll get to see this new Clayton accessory.
It struck us all as funny that most guests might ask for some shampoo or a towel or fresh socks; it says something about both we hosts and our visitors when they ask casually for the makings for a deadly club. If they were visiting you and yours would you let them down if they needed such goodies?
04/10/09
If you're not going to be at our Alcoholics Unanimous show with Antiseen tomorrow night, here's what you're gonna miss you fool.......
1. "Six Pack To Go" (Hank Thompson)
2. "Sorrow on the Rocks" (Porter Wagoner)
3. "The Wino Boogie" (Bill Nettles)
4. "Drunk/ Wine" medley (Jimmy Liggins and Porter again respectively)
5. "Don't come home a drinkin' with Lovin' on Your Mind (Loretta Lynn)
6. "Wasn't That a Party" (The Rovers)
7. "Booze is the Answer" (an old A.U. original)
8. "Chug-A-Lug" (Roger Miller, note it's the first time we've performed it)
9. "Bloodshot Eyes" (Hank Penny)
10. "White Lightnin" (J.P. Richardson aka the Big Bopper)
11. "Drinkin' Wine" ( Jumpin' Gene Simmons)
12. "The Ballad of Thunder Road" (Robert Mitchum)
Numbers 10 & 11 will feature guest vocalist Jeff Clayton, reprising his performance on our ancient and classic "Dixie Fried" E.p. released in Germany 18 or so years ago.
Hey, you may still have time if you get in your goddamned beater and drive like mad to get to Emo's...Buzzcrusher, Joe Buck and Antiseen will be rounding out the bill.
04/09/09
HOORAY for me. Another birthday slides past. There aren't really anymore good ones to look forward to, with the exception of perhaps 80. If you're in decent shape that is. Then you can enjoy it..if you're in an institution barely hanging on, your ass being wiped by strangers there's not much to crow about.
From here on out I live for my many hobbies and I can produce easier and better in all areas. Music, chess, travel, writing, video games, drinking, etc.
I drive a new car I love to a new job that is easy and that will provide me with a lot of time off the first couple years for sure. My thinking hasn't changed as I've aged. My morals and ethics are still intact. Many people in their 20's seem like stuck in a rut clods to me, older than me in attitude for sure.
So, hooray for fucking me...uurrppppPPPPPPPPPPPP.
04/05/09
The guys from Antiseen are staying here next weekend whilst playing shows here in Texas. Alcoholics Unanimous will be playing with 'em at Emo's on Sat. the 11th. It should be a really big shoe, as they say.
I'm sure over the years many folks have cooked for the "Boys From Brutalsville" and presented them with gifts and even superb beds. We're rather short in the guest bed department, but are showing our hospitality in another way. Marla spent almost two entire days working to install a newer, bigger toilet in our guest bath. It's not quite as big as our cushy master bedroom stool, but it'll still do quite well. There's new flooring as well.
Food and beds and other crap like that are fine in their own way, but nothing says "Howdy Neighbor, Howdy!" like a nice, up to date porcelain throne.
My birthday is coming up this week on the 9th. Due to the fact that my new job's hours mean that Marla and I usually don't see each other between Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, we celebrated it somewhat today (I say somewhat, because if YOUR package doesn't show up for another week it'll still be accepted).
Elvis's Wife was away in Houston on bridal shower business, so he came by with his Wii for some fun and games and brats and beer and bourbon and ice cream cake and other stuff before our practice later. We also saw the first part of the first game of the MLB season, featuring the world championship banner being hoisted in the Phil's stadium. We played some Wii golf and bowling for the most part. It's a minor miracle how that damned thing actually makes you get off of your fat ass and work a bit. It's not as taxing as really being outside or in a gym getting fit, but stout enough that you could get injured conceivably. Elvis reported that after a day of boxing the damned thing he was sore as hell.
Though it was only about the third time Marla has ever played a video game in her life, my honey kicked both of our asses at bowling.
After a practice and a nap I got up and happened to catch a really, really bad Alamo film made in the 80's that sucks ass so bad that I had to watch. If you recall, I wrote my Senior History seminar termpaper on Crockett and researched the seige in depth. I covered some awful films made over the years, including a silent movie that looks like it was directed by Jethro Bodine and the hokey, disappointing John Wayne effort from the early 60's.
This 80's attempt was just incredibly poorly cast. The three best known big "heroes" of the Alamo seige of course were Travis, Bowie nd Crockett. Can you imagine an old, old Brian Keith as Crockett? How about James Arness in his 60's playing Bowie (who was in his late 20's at the time of his death) on his deathbed sporting a red Beatle wig. Get out the barfbags. The only sensible casting seemed to be Raul Julia (sp?) who once played Gomez Addams cast here as General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. Not a bad choice...but imagine the guy who played good old Dean Wormer in "Animal House" as one of Santa Anna's heel subordinate officers (perhaps General Cos?) He sported super cheesey glued on sideburns.
The Mexican army for once wasn't portrayed as vile, moronic, inhuman monkeys. but it hardly salvaged this mess that had so many inaccuracies I could write a term paper simply correcting the most obvious ones.
04/03/09
An old guy at work learned I once lived in "beautiful" Oregon. He asked me how it compares to Texas. I told him I once loved the place, but now I hate Boregonians due to their "Boregon reasoning". "What the heck is that?" he asked.
Let's say we have a Boregonian here with us in this room. I drive a new Dodge Charger, you drive a nice Ford truck and the Boregonian drives an old Volvo. Whose got the nicest car? The Boregonian would insist his car is the best; because it's "cool" and "correct".
The guy looked puzzled, so I continued." I'm traveling to Chicago this year and probably South Padre Island too. Mary over there is taking a cruise to Australia with her husband and also flying to gamble in Nevada. My son and his Wife are going to drive to Philly, NYC and Baltimore. Half the people in this room earn money here with the idea of traveling somewhere (none of them are going to Boregon). The Boregonian isn't venturing outside of the northwest...again. He once went to California and hated it. He has no interest in going elsewhere, because of some form of extreme climate he imagines. "Texas is too hot...and full of oil millionaires. Chicago is too cold. How can those people survive? NYC is just fucked up. Australia? Why go there? In Oregon we have the mountains, the ocean and the trees. We live in the best place already".
"That, is Boregon reasoning" I explained.
The fella seemed to be catching on. He nodded and a smile began to curl his outer lip.
"There are 48 states in which you can pump your gas and 2 in which you need to wait for a minimum wage clod to do it for you. One is Oregon. The Boregonian is proud of the fact that this makes his state special. He declares that it would cost too many jobs to change the law and cry about how some people can't pump their own gas".
"I live in a $150,000 house that my wife and I can afford. The boregonian owns a much smaller house in Portland that he is struggling to pay a $350,000 mortgage on. His wife and him even have to rent out bedrooms. Why is the house in Portland worth more? Becuase of the "coolness factor" (Note...this is a Mike McNally term!) There are lots of bands in Portland and brewpubs".
The guy replied "but there are bands and "brewpubs" everywhere, isn't there?
Wow, how did that pace get so messed up?"
A woman in her 60's who travels a lot with her husband answered for me: "Portland and Seattle are all run by the hippies now! We hated it there!"
I nodded in satisfaction as a look of understanding passed over the guy's mug. We all chuckled a bit and got back to work.
04/02/09
As I mentioned, I was recently looking for a backup copy of one of our earliest recordings in our lovely home. The whole experience made me realize how ass backwards our thinking has been over the last several years when it comes to format.
We have tons of cassettes and odd looking DAT's, a closet and a half stuffed full of reel to reel tapes of several sizes from floor to ceiling and a thousand VHS tapes scattered about in more than a half dozen places within our home many of which contain priceless (?!) footage of our own recordings. Of course we also have several thousands of records and cds including commercial stuff and our own recordings. We've never been prone to buy into every new format that is churned out to cash in on folks like us who then need to replace their audio and video collection with a new system that is often simply a smaller format loaded down with a few extra bells and whistles.
We fell asleep somewhere along the way when the DVD era was ushered in several years ago. I finally came to the belated realization that we have closet after closet, room after room filled with crap that needs to be replaced format wise. Our cassettes and VHS tapes in particular have to be duplicated now since they are beginning to frequently fail on the occasions we've put them to use.
For some people this is a project that takes a week or two, it's more difficult when you have 25-30 years of the stuff crammed into every nook and cranny of your home.
At least the new formats we will need to impliment are much smaller, giving us more room to cram more shit into for the remainder of our productive lives.
Oh...NNNNNNOOOOO.....we won't be "replacing" the old vinyl or cd's.
I am addicted to music or other forms of entertainment that comes with packaging. Crap that you coldly download is fun for you I'm sure, but about as cheesey and impersonal and just icky and lame to me as an inflatable doll, or those singles phonelines you patronize. I don't completely understand all of the post-DVD formats, but Elvis and his Wife have taken a stab at explaining them to me. No thanks. DVD's will certainly become as lame as your GreatGrandpa's old bigband 78's but they'll hopefully last me during my lifetime, at least until they cart me away and pack me off to a home.
03/30/09
The musical master tape archive in our house is fairly good for projects since about 1990 or so. The stuff for the previous 10 years is disorganized and mostly stored on poorly marked cassettes stuffed into nooks and closets around the house.
One of the tapes we've been unable to find for years happened to appear Saturday while I was looking for something else. It was the only supposed recorded tape of "The Redheads" the all female rockabilly band Marla played in around 1981. After our A.U. practice a fairly groggled Mark and I and a tipsy Marla sat down to listen to it.
We haven't heard it in 15 years or so. Marla and I were really wondering just how good the band was in retrospect.
Somebody had written across the tape in ink years ago "Tape over this and DIE!". Hey we've been guilty of re-using tapes. Not this one! It'd be hard to not see the warning.
The tape started with a brief live local radio station interview and a version of "Let's Have a Party" the old Wanda Jackson number. Hey, sounded pretty good.
Next came an instrumental that just kicked ass. I remember helping Marla to figure out the notes for Link Wray's "Run Chicken Run" but didn't remember this tune I was hearing...and Brother it was good. I was proud of my spouse. I gazed over at Mark whose jaw had dropped about as far as mine. Man, what a good track...Marla was blazing away like Link Wray, or Travis Wammack or one of the other legends of that period.
The song ended and we all waited for more.
I took a pull off of my Coors and said "Good job Marla, that kicked ass!"
Seconds later, "Bustout" by the Busters started up.
OOHHH SHIT! It all became plain; somebody HAD taped over the only existing Redheads tape save for the first song. We had been listening to Link Wray..not Marla aping him. No wonder it sounded so good.
For about a minute there I was dreaming up plans about a nice CD release for the gals tape...and then..."poof". OOPS
03/24/09
I'm sorry to read about the death of Steve Doll, a fine professional wrestler. I watched him work for years back in Snoreland, Boregon for Don Owens and his family. Doll and his partners Scott Peterson (who died a few years back I believe) and Rex King were absolutely perfect hero's for the area's fan favorite loving, workingclass folk. They were billed as "The Southern Rockers" and they fueded for many years with Playboy Buddy Rose, Rip Oliver and other fine heels.
When I told Marla I was paying tribute here to Doll, she asked me..."didn't you hate him?" Well, Of course I always liked to see the mudflap (translation: "mullet" ) hairdo sporting guys get pounded and injured by rulebreakers, but let's face it; it'd be a different style of show if everybody was a heel. Doll and his partners surely helped fill Rose's wallet well over the years. The local St. John's neighborhood fans frequently sported mudflaps too, which blew nicely in the wind created by the open window in their El Caminos. Doll had a perfect, gung ho, "Dukes Of Hazard" sort of scrappiness. The local little girls dressed their sluttiest and vied for attention near the door of the babyface locker room.
No, Portland is nowhere near the South, but plenty of folks spoke with accents you'd hear in Dixie. Many of them in the 80's were spawn of people from the South who flocked to Portland in the 40's (like Hank Williams Sr. did) to work in the Swan Island shipyards.
The fans in the area suffice it to say were completely enamored with Doll. He was a perfect foil for guys like the Playboy and the Prince.
Later in the 90's I saw him working TV tapings for Lawler's USWA. He seemed to be in an inopportune situation there. Amongst a roster of Southerners he didn't standout as well. I always wondered why Vince didn't make use of him; I learned last night that he did during a period in which I didn't follow WWF at all. The gimmick was "Well Dunn"...in retrospect, not very memorable, but hey..it's work.
The Southern Rockers weren't quite as talented or versatile perhaps move wise as the RNR Express or The Midnight Rockers, but they were skilled and theres no denying they sure as hell put butts in the seats in the Northwest. I salute the man and hold forth that he could've been a much bigger, major star if used better by WWF.
03/21/09
A fantastic idea popped into my head while listening to George Noory's latest conspiracy nut guest on his radio show.
Times are so tough for quite a few people in the U.S. financially that they are applying in large numbers for jobs as strippers and janitors. Hey, I've got a better idea for you.
START YOUR OWN CONSPIRACY! Just like there is a music scene and a sports scene there is a conspiracy lovin' scene that will suck up your fantasized conspiracy and any books, bumper stickers, DVD's or other products you produce.
What's really timely about this money making idea is that you can do most of the work right in your own home, there's no need for office rental or employee expense until you get really big.
First off, you'll need to come up with a conspiracy hoax. That should be easy. 1) pick a mainstream or conservative icon or celebrated institution. 2) Next, think up a horrendous form of crime..the more ghastly and ugly the better. 3) Add a warped twist...if you need help, borrow a crime encyxlopedia from your local library or take a gander at one of the existing cash cow conspiracy websites.
Here we go, let's give it a try.
Uh, 1) Billy Graham 2) arson 3) His own church. HHmmm...that took about 5 seconds. You could flesh out that conspiracy hoax in an hour. Let's try another one.
1) General Motors 2) implanted listening devices in automobiles 3) during the Nixon administration.
NOTE! If you really need surefire spare cash and are stumped as far as coming up with a new, untried conspiracy hoax, the conspiracy scene can't get enough of anything to do with Nixon, UFO's and of course Dick Cheney
Let's try one of these. 1) UFO's 2) infiltrating our society 3) using Morman polygamy cults as point of invasion bases. That was easy, wasn't it?
1) Adolf Hitler 2) didn't die 3) He was discovered by shipwrecked boaters as a very old man living on the same island owned by Aristotle Onassis that the braindamaged JFK was sent to in a wheelchair. Got that one? Note the crossover appeal connections? Hells bells, you can switch Elvis or Bruce Lee or the "real" Dick Cheney to the mix if you feel like it.
The next step is to come up with some sort of homemade product you can crank out cheaply with little expense to market to loons from the conspiracy scene.
What's that you say? Do you need to come up with some "evidence" or "facts"? Why, hell no. You need to learn how to shout down ignorant naysayers. No matter what your hoax is, you can fall back on citing some bullshit study. Simply ask the braindead sheep who are challenging you whether they've read a particular book or viewed some cheesy underground film (ideally it's something that you've produced yourself; this is a way of boosting sales!)
A few more tips: 1) Associate yourself with other conspiracy hoax creators. 2) When in doubt, always blame any confusion on the behind the scenes wickedness and scheming of "THEY" (without ever revealing any names of course). 3) Always remember when cornered to effectively backpeddle a bit with a distration claim beginning with the words "isn't it just a bit funny that...". 4) Always remember to subtly remind folks you reach on websites or radio shows or DVD's that you are sacrificing your life and endangering yourself to reveal the truth to the ignorant, gullible,braindead, beans in their ears dumb masses. The conspiracy marks really suck up to your cause when you mention you might get mysteriously whacked by "they" who are really in charge. 5) When you go on radio shows, remember to have your own planted callers phone in offering both blind support AND weak contrary arguments.
If all goes well you should eventually get fantastic exposure that'll crank up your sales numbers overnight by going onto Noory's "coast to coast" show. Don't worry, although claiming to be nuetral, he won't challenge you or ask you tough questions. He's largely responsible for the scene you're joining. Be polite to him and hope to plant seeds that will grow in concert with other theorists wacky notions.
03/17/09
We enjoyed a "party" at work that left me sort of scratching my head in wonder. We all kicked in a few bucks for the affair. It was held during our normally scheduled lunch half hour. We ate some food that was brought in, quietly. Then, back to work. We'll be having another "party" in a few weeks.
I'm not turning heel on my new job over something as trivial as this. I'm not against a committee of employees bringing in some food, but I have a few questions...first of which is WHY DO THEY CALL IT A PARTY?
You can't have a party without booze; even when Elvis was a kid and we hauled him and a few of his friends to frigging Chucky Cheese's I drank, in the background maybe, but I drank and would like to think that some of the kids figured out a way to spike their soda's.
Yes, in the old days the company "party" would often be held at a restaurant or bar that was well stocked with booze..not colored cupcakes or other deserts. Some places I worked the event was held right in the company facilities with the makings of a bar brought in. I say this well aware of the fact that this sort of FUN event is outdated, due to the pussy lawsuit factor that has taken hold of so many humanoids. I could write an entire column or week of diary entries about the lawsuit craze,...hell I probably have. The fact that we can 't have real party's at work is just one backlash from the current mentality.
Company parties used to be fun. It was a blast getting shitfaced and seeing your co-workers and bosses in a new light. Sometimes it wasn't until I attended a company party that I even liked any of them. Drunken employees and their spouses all running amok, speaking honestly for once, some of them even copulating in siderooms...now THAT is a party; soberly eating a 6 foot sub brought in from the Walmart deli is NOT. Baked goods and candy and chips are fine...but do NOT A PARTY MAKE.
Why do they mis-use the word? Why don't they say they're gonna have lunch brought in and leave it at that? Why do they have to pretend it's a "party".
While I'm bitching, I might also add that I don't appreciate the way that the word "party" itself has been distorted, transformed into a verb. A "party" used to be an event..a happening back in the days of stout, jolly, rumpus rooms. Now the word party has been stripped of its meaning sad to say. To "party" as in the case of the word as a verb is to merely get together with other people to imbibe some sort of substance. A party as an event used to last all night and be worth talking about sometimes years later. A night of "partying" using the word in the contemporary sense is almost always meaningless, routine and except for perhaps a few screechy M.B.C's (mouthy bar cunts) it's not much more thrilling than eating a deli tray at work with your co-workers.
I wish a different word was used in reference to the food sessions at work. I wouldn't mind if they used the word potluck (which is probably totally out of vogue) or simply call it an employee "lunch" or come up with a new swishy, non-dangerous word...but PLEASE quit bastardizing the word "PARTY" any further. As my old man used to say CEASE AND DESIST!
03/13/09
I've written many times here over the years about cellphone addicts bad driving, hideous expressions, rudeness, etc. etc. etc. The sickest cellphone abuse specimen I have ever witnessed in person works in the same room as me and a bunch of other people. There are company policy rules concerning where you can and can't yak on one of the goddamned things. There is a line you cross on the floor..where it's ok; I've observed at least 10 times the woman hold the thing in her mitt and triumphantly snap it into action like the silly, juvenile shits I attended college with whose frantic dialing a couple steps outside of a classroom often resembled group water ballet. Same fisheyed expressions, same lack of anything even borderline meaningful to converse about. Just taking up space and time with idle "watcha doin'"? horseshit. Or stream of consciousness nonsense such as "I'm on the bus...we're pulling out...we're at a light...blah blahblah blah.."
The lady sits in the same place outdoors every coffee and lunch break, hunched over her phone qietly murmuring. She looks cold, lonely, forlorn and oblivious. She walks back to the work area slowly...and disconnects her call exactly as she hits the line of demarcation..
Well, most of the time that is. I've spotted her across the room huddled over her precious phone engaging in some rush dialogue when the bosses are out of the area.
A question: does this lady yell at her kids for playing video games for too long? She looks like that type of blind hypocite.
If anybody out there knows of an attempt by a writer or comedian to get inside the head of one of these boobs (we all know this type..sadly it might be YOU or you or you..) I wish you'd share it with me.
03/10/09
I was sitting quietly working at my job yesterday when a really strange, unusual thought popped into my head. Hey, I realized all of a sudden; I'm having a pretty good time here..and I'm getting paid even. I had to admit it; I looked forward to being there that day even.
I guess I like my job. There was no denying it.
This all seemed pleasant enough, but it took only about 30 seconds for that little voice in the back of my brain to pipe up and remind me..hey, don't worry. The other shoe will drop. You'll be hating it before long.
Oh well, I'll enjoy it while I can. At least when it starts going downhill I'll be back on familiar ground.
03/05/09
No, I'm not dead or tired of this diary. I've had a minor injury that's kept me from the keyboard for extended periods of time, also I've been in serious, serious training learning an aggressive opening line for my chess repertoire. It's taken me three years or so to settle on this opening variation which will be used as a surprise weapon.
I'm planning on competing in a tournament that pays off a 1st place $6,000 prize to the winner of players in my rating bracket. Usually, I play in sections of these tournaments against much stronger players and stand no chance of a prize, but this time I'm competing against players at my level for the dough. The problem is, there are plenty of ways for players from other countries and even in the U.S. to cheat and enter a section way below their level to scam prize money. Even though I know I can be facing ringers like that, I'm giving it a try this time.
When you really know how to bowl, you don't just roll the damned ball down the alley. When you even partially know how to golf you develope a swing. When you play poker like you see on TV you train much like we chess players do. Yes, it's true; there's a lot of crossover between the two games. I've read a couple poker books (one was a huge text by Doyle Brunson). There are lots of similarities.
You don't just start thinking about what early moves you're gonna make when you play even amateur level chess like I do. Of course if you're just playing your relatives or clods at work on your lunch hour, you don't need to learn opening theory. If you play even "friendly" neighborhood poker you can bet somebody in a regular game is taking it seriously behind the scenes whether they admit it or not.
What? You never realized this? How does that saying go...if you don't know who the "mark" is it must be you?!?!
Everybody in professional baseball is fully aware of what the pitchers on the other teams are throwing. A hurler doesn't just come up with a changeup or slider out of nowhere. Pitches need to be cultivated.
It doesn't really matter whether you're into guns, cars, super-deluxe kinky sex or canning pickles for the state fair ribbon competition, you're gonna have a lot better time by boning up. I don't wanna be a fucking loser forever at my chosen hobbies, do you?? UUrrr.....p.
02/27/09
The "band" across the street is back at it again. These are the same yopes who worked at it for a week or so when they first moved in many months ago. They played boring drek back then with all their girl friends and a few friends in attendance. Soon the spectators weren't to be seen...and the band had seemed to run its course.
Second wind, baby!
This time around, nobody watches their practices and they just plug away. Well, that's how it should be at least. When you're a newborn band you shouldn't get used to people who are trying to be nice telling you how good you are when you aren't.
I can only hear one guitar, a bass and drums. I don't know if they don't have a vocalist or have poor p.a. equipment. I don't hear vocals. What I do hear is a lot of slow chugging along. It doesn't ROCK in any way shape or form, neither is it jazz or proper reggae or blues or really much of anything other than guys each yammering away within the lines. Nothing daring or inspiring or energetic.
The trademark of their band seems to be that after about 10 minutes of going nowhere the drummer seems to start bashing away at his ride cymbols drowning out everything else. The guy is in love with the sound of his instrument, but it's nothing you'd want to dance to or sway to or rock to or even get close to.
This outfit is prefect background racket that in the setting of a club you can avoid with comfort, knowing that while you're outside slugging down a few rounds or drugging yourself in preparation for a REAL band you won't be missing anything.
The lone guitar player needs help trying to keep it interesting, ideally in the form of a talented guitar player he can play behind. He has a decent amp and instrument..but a guy with a piece of crap and a little imagination or spirit or sense of wanting to do something would blow him away. He diddled around with a wah pedal this evening to very poor effect. If was trying to be "funky" he missed the mark.
After an hour or so of aimless noodling, they packed up their equipment in a manner that made me believe they were going to play somewhere...likely a 7:00 p.m. warmup for the warmup band spot somewhere.
A bit after they had left a guy who may or may not live in the house came out and sat down in the mostly empty garage. Why wasn't he going to their gig? A girlfriend of somebody in the band soon came out of the house to join him. She wore an almost dirty white psuedo-hippie dress and no shoes. They battered a soccer ball back and forth. They seemed to be waiting for the boys to get back from their triumphant gig.
I had to end my vigil to tcb elsewhere. I don't know what happened after that. If they indeed played somewhere, I DO know they would've emptied the area in front of the stage if the drummer started pounding away on his rides as loud as he did in practice. The thing is, they clearly weren't trying to clear a room; there's no positive side to it at all. They were just very, very green..and without a clue how to formulate songs or rock or swing or groove or lope along in a stoned haze. In a nutshell: total bush league.
I've seen many, many people over the years bash away in basements with little experience and poor equipment who made these guys with their suburban level gear look sick and pathetic. How did they do it? With a bit of creative vision. This is what these dudes really lack. No vision, no class, no beat. Note, I haven't mentioned my pet peeve (originality) yet; that's because they're several knotches away from even dreaming of that...YYYAAAWWNNNNNNNNNN.
02/21/09
Even though I've only occasionally seen and/or heard Howard Stern's show for several years now, I still consider myself a major fan. He has been a real pioneer, no doubt. I respect the hell out of him and won't tolerate listening for 5 minutes to radio jerkoffs who attempt to cash in with some sort of lame copycat crap.
From a critical standpoint, while I certainly enjoy some of his shows more than others, I have never laughed harder at any other show on radio or TV than I have at my favorite episodes.
My fave Phil Hendrie bits are right up, but Howard Stern has delivered the funniest moments I've heard broadcasted.
So, Howard has been playing for a few years on the ICC (internet chess club) which I've belonged to for several years. He's reportedly rated around 1700 level now...I'm up at 1880 or so as of a victory I enjoyed a few mights ago.
When I read about Stern at first taking lessons and discussing the game on his show I shrugged it off for the most part. Now that he's stuck to it for a while and gotten his rating up to where it is I'm pretty impressed.
Of course his handle is a mystery; you've got to wonder if you're playing him. My opponent from a few days ago was indeed rated 1712. Was it the King of all media? I read a NYT interview in which he admitted to preferring longer games as opposed to 1 to 5 minute blitz chess...that's me all the way.
I looked over a couple of wins he allowed the NYT to publish and was impressed at his selection of openings. He doesn't play plain Jane, conformist crud. He played the "Budapest counter gambit" in one game...an opening I enjoyed as a kid that most people think is too weird to play. He played the "English" opening as white, opening with the moves I often do. It's a strong opening that's been used by world champions over the years, but a bit bizarre looking for many amateur players of all levels (don't ask me why..except for the fact that chess players are human too and therefore are sheep).
Stern isn't the first celebrity to play a good game of chess. Humphrey Bogart was better than I am and Ray Charles wasn't far behind. I wrote here about Heath Ledger a couple months ago I believe, revealing stuff I picked up on a chess website the tabloid's ignore. He played every day, just like Stern.
In the interview Stern mentioned that people ask him why he isn't off boffing his model wife instead of playing chess, to which he answered (accurately) you can DO BOTH.
I really do admire the hell out of people who try lots of hobbies. Yes, I'm a big enough man to admit that it's a form of self flattery to an extent.
Well, why the fuck not? I don't care if your primary hobby is buffalo chip hurling, bondage sessions, running, tiddly winks, tarot cards, playing music, restoring automobiles or stamp collecting, you'd probably benefit from trying something else on for size be it chess or golf or martial arts, or hunting or macramé or yo-yoing.
The one absolutely WORTHLESS waste of time I can't abide by is that pathetic sudoku crap. If you are a man who wastes time on that shit your pecker will fall off; if you're a gal your boobies with wither and you'll develop unsightly moles. STAY AWAY from sudoku...find a REAL hobby. Quit whining about politics or about what a terrible bank and financial crisis we're experiencing and do something that'll take your mind off of it.
If you wanna try chess, you could be playing Howard and me on ICC in a couple few years.
Incidentally, if I do spot him there or ever find out his handle, I'll NEVER TELL. There is honor amongst many (not all ) chess players. Remember, I lost my wallet in the bathroom near a tournament room in a Vegas casino and it was returned by a fellow player..full...anonymously.
UUuurrrpppPP.
02/17/09
Through the first major portion of my life, unless there was something important happening elsewhere, Saturday was for wrestling. Vince killed the territories and eventually Monday night became the big night.
Over the years for the scores of wrestling fans I know, Monday has become less and less important. We watch it now in some cases due to stubborness or boredom. It's not that big a deal. There's very little that happens that you're gonna kick yourself for missing.
I tuned into RAW the other night by accident. I saw Shane McMahon early in the show challenging Randy Orton to a non-sanctioned match to settle up for the ass whuppin' he took at a PPV the night before. He was wearing streetclothes..not the usual slacks and dress shirt.
FLASHBACK: To Portland wrestling back in the heyday of Don Owens promotions (or most other good promotions from back then). Rip Oliver (as a pro-working class babyface) has fucking HAD IT with Billy Jack Haynes who is now an inspiring heel. He challenges him to a lights out, non-sanctioned match. He even tells the audience that he'll be bringing his "cheater bar" to the ring and is out to maim BJH.
In Portland like in promoltions all over the country, this was the sort of match you dreamed about seeing. Guys would wear protective street duds and dangerous boots and carry deadly objects to the ring. From there, they'd fight all over the arena. The great thing for the promoter was that nobody got pinned on camera, there was just a good deal of bloodletting that could lead to an even more jammed house when these guys officially finished their fued in the squared circle. It was like a bar fight.
Back to the present. The whole thing came off ok, but like shit compared to the days when great minds were at work behind the scenes as opposed to silly sitcom writers who don't know beans about wrestlings traditions.
Orton should have come to the ring sporting boots, street clothes and a vicious foreign object or two. Nope. He wore his usual trunks. Oh well. The action spilled out of the ring, but the fans weren't allowed to leave their seats...making it secondary to almost every ECW (the REAL ECW back in Philly) run of the mill match.
The combatants got back in the ring and finished it there. Orton had his stablemates standback as he administered some nice kicks to Shane-O, but still I wondered how it came to be that the bosses millionaire son had lasted that long against a top stud? It's just not right. In the golden days of the NWA there's no way a Crockett would last more than a minute against a wrestler.
So, Stephy comes out to tend to her Bro. Randy leaves her laying in the middle of the squared circle to the shock of his guys Rhodes and Dibiase the younger respectively. Orton is standing there with a nice psychotic look on his mug...and then, what happens? HHH runs into the ring and steels his thunder by doing a pissed off lip wiggle that sends "Legacy" running in terror.
OH....is WWE finally willing to acknowledge HHH married into the family? Big fucking deal. Everybody knows it. It's too late for this angle to get off the ground.
Incidentally, I predicted that this would happen to Marla an hour before the match. I called it perfectly.
Man, what lackluster product. I hope Vince is attracting lots of new fans, because the ones whose memories stretch back to the territorial days are yawning in unison saying the same thing I am: WHAT A PISS POOR LET DOWN, YEARS TOO LATE.
02/14/09
People are wackier and more prone to believe ridiculous horseshit than any other period I can remember in my lifetime, including the heyday of LSD. Night after night kooks are welcomed onto the George Noory show to relate to the audience what "they" are up to..of course without identifying "they". if they knew for sure and life as we know it depend on it, why won't they tell us? If they aren't sure, why keep jabbering like drunken magpies about it night after night after night ruining what used to be a decent show hosted by the more cautious Art Bell.
Other nutjobs are so under the influence of the new administration it's scary.
Hey, think I'm kidding? There are rubes undoubtedly mailing their bills to the whitehouse so the messiah can pay them. There are certainly a few million dimwits who think that Pelosi and Reid are not mere politicians, but really cool people who sincerely care. Some of them actually think that Nancy is "HOT"! OOoohhhhh.....my god.
There are many, many easily duped, illogical dunderheads out there who are increasingly falling for a theory that our world will come to some sort of catastrophic end in 2012..in spite of the fact that in many cases these are the same fools who were made to look silly over Y2K.
Yunno, I read a story the other day about a beverage made of cow urine that is going to be marketed in India to compete with Coke.
I'm not kidding; it isn't April 1st...check the net and you'll find it.
Without a doubt it'll wind up over here and the kooks in droves..all the usual lemming like suspects..will drink it because somebody on some healthnut radio show or middle of the night infomercial says it's good for them.
Hells bells, half of them are already sucking down their own urine...because they've been told to.
This is the direction of the world as I see it, people in large droves have lost their common sense. They can't tell the difference between a scholar or group of scholars with credentials warning us about a health concern and some blowhard on the radio on the net telling us to "grind up and snort lines of your Grandma's ear wax for longevity".
I made up that last bit...could you tell? Did I fool you for a few seconds?
Or maybe you suspect that "they've" gotten to me....urrRRPPP.......
02/10/09
I was minding my own business, making my way through the first store of an Austin thriftstore run. I was as usual eager with anticipation. The thrill of the hunt was in my nostrils.
But then, as I began flipping through a rack of lp's, I caught wind of something foul. It was a really, really, strong odor. A very, extremely bad odor. It was the same smell you enjoy when rolling a soiled diaper off of a baby.
There were no babies around, only an adult hispanic male who was dressed in workmans garb sifting through the cassette tapes which were adjacent to the lp's.
The reason I used the word "enjoy" in reference to a loaded diaper is due to the fact that when you're dealing with a little baby you're either getting paid to deal with it or else the little thing is probably related to you by blood.
When babies fill their diaper it can either be of a creamy, sticky consistancy in a fairly small quantitiy, or else a more positive and actually pretty easy and neat to deal with round ball like turd. Even simpletons know how to deal with the situation. When fully grown men fill their jeans the damage is much more dire.One thing is for sure, it's no time for said fellow to be shopping for cassette tapes.
Jesus christ, I thought..how can this guy be so calm?
Then it occured to me that he had maybe just let a big fart. I waited a few seconds and took another whiff...nope..it hadn't disipated like farts do. This man was walking around with a load. I walked several steps away and began perusing the cd's mulling the situation over.
The fellow walked nearby to look at some other goods and still filled the air with his mess.
Instead of vacating the premises immediately, I decided to be a wiseass. I slowly lifted one shoe up as if examining it for dog poop..and then the other. I made an obvious sniffing sound. I hoped to shame the guy into blitzing out of the store, but he took his time and ignored my non-verbal signals.
That guy had more guts than a packing house as my old man used to say. He casually took his purchases to the checkout counter as I stood there in awe.
02/09/09
People are really starting to piss me off, more than they have in a long time. They seem to be getting dumber and dumber. Common sense seems to be increasingly rare and there doesn't seem to be much that we can do about it.
They seem to ape the most ridiculous behavior and fall for the most transparent bullshit. This has always been the case really, but it seems to be worse than ever.
I heard on a radio talk show a woman make perhaps the most ridiculous statement concerning a President of the United States in my lifetime. The silly cunt is unemployed..OK. No disgrace there. She stated that employers don't even want to talk to applicants, that it seems impossible to get a job.
A sad story. I would sympathize with her if she hadn't continued her spiel. She declared that the messiah, Obama, would be visiting her city soon and this gave her hope. She asked that listeners pray for him so she can get a job.
As if he can wave a godly magic wand and suddenly the employers will be itching to hire her. As a former manager who hired people, may I add that I'd NEVER hire such an obvious flake. The Obama campaign is responsible in part for this womans poor take on reality, the job market and the limitations of an elected official.
As the next couple years go by we'll hear of more and more accounts of folks who expect Obama to make everything right magically. Slowly the truth will sink in...to some of them at least.
My least favorite cliche currently? The beaten to death reference to throwing somebody "under the bus". This one is about as worn out as it gets, isn't it?
I don't expect to see it used significantly less for probably at least another year though.
My new least favorite gesture: Hold out your hand in front of your mouth as if to check your breath; Skew out your thumb and little finger. Now, look at yourself in the mirror. Don't you look stupid? Don't you look as if you're about to vomit?
So, why do so many women in the act of behaving "chic" do this? I see it in commercials, in reality TV shows and in pictures on the net.
Is there some sort of "street" meaning to this badbreath-check bit that escapes me because I'm so out of touch..Hhhmmm? Please..somebody fill me in on it.
If you don't know what I'm talking about, start watching for it. You'll see it within a day if you're looking for it and perusing broadcast venues of popular culture. I don't recall seeing a man do it. It seems to be a female thing. Do MBC's (mouthy bar cunts) do it?
I wanna know.
02/08/09
Damn, how do you give a proper sendoff to Lux Interior...one of the great front men and minds of rock and roll? We had an Alcoholics Unanimous practice last night and did what we could.
Lux had a good life. We imbibed and saluted him repeatedly remaining fairly upbeat.
I broke in the boot from Germany Mark gave me. I bellowed out a toast to him as I gargled my first glass from this mighty Stiefel. The beer shot down into my gut in seconds..like magic. It's like shotgunning beer due to the gravity forces at work in the heel, but more elegant.
After practice we polished off a load of liqour and played many Cramps songs.
I guess this seems all pretty routine, but it's OUR WAY of saluting departed heroes.
Poison Ivy had been with Lux since 1972. It's pretty rare when I hear of people involved in music who have been together longer than Marla and I. They whipped us by 5 full years. I feel bad for her and wish there was something I could do. Suggestions?
02/06/09
I'm stunned..Lux Interior of the Cramps...dead?
Marla and Elvis learned about it before I did and tried to delay telling me the bad news until my work shift was over. I found out anyway. Shit.
For several years I've felt that The Cramps were the best band on the face of the earth. Whereas lots of old, old bands still exist many if not most are simply coasting. The Cramps NEVER went through the motions to my knowledge and I believe I must have heard 100% of their studio recordings over the years and many boots.
Whatever you do, however you feel about Lux and his main squeeze Poison Ivy and their band they started way over 30 years ago..please don't lump the Cramps together with all of the often lame "psycho-billy" bands that claim them as influences.
I've been aware for 25+ years of the fact that these folks lived for the same ancient, often tacky and raw and glitzy and scratchy and crude and sick obscure music and movies and other cultural artifacts that I've often pointed out as being the center of my aesthetic lifestyle.
Yes, I've considered myself a kindred spirit to Lux for a long, long time. I've met so many of the musicians I want to meet, but failed to have a satisfying meet with the fun couple. Yes..I took Elvis to get their autographs at an instore appearance at the Tower Records store in Philly I worked at. A picture was taken. They were nice people as is often the case with individuals that squares consider freaks.
Elvis has ranked the Cramps near the very top in his personal ranking of bands for many years. When he lived with us he'd play their releases over and over and over and over again; a very pleasant din from his bedroom sometimes or when we were all socializing or playing video games at 7:30 a.m.
Do you remember what song Lux crooned that the "big cats walk at the break of dawn"??
I've often had that phrase run through my mind when I see the sun rise...again. It'll undoubtedly be running through my mind as I greet another dawn in an hour or two.
The idea of the Cramps being tagged as merely a "rockabilly" or "punk" or "psychobilly" or what have you band is inaccurate. Sometimes they wailed away with amps feeding back and fuzz pedals swirling around and Lux yelping all to a "whomp whomp whomp whomp" caveman like beat. Other times they'd EDUCATE you and me and the rest of the listening audience by digging up non-rock and roll chestnuts like the creepy "Green door", "Fever", "Shortin' Bread" and even Jimmie Rodger's "Muleskinner Blues" . They also pulled our coats to great songs that had been overlooked from the 50's and 60's time and time again: They resurrected tunes like "Green Fuzz" , " Strychnine" "The way I walk" and even the Nova's "The Crusher".
It's obvious that they seemed to move from phase to phase with their recordings from year to year. Few bands have done this as well, mainstream or obscure.
I'm not done praising Lux to high heaven...we've only started here.
Aside from the intelligent comments above I have a real emotional attachment to many of his songs. I don't feel like going on this moment...time to listen to Psychedelic Jungle" and drain a couple more shots to the man....a true BIG CAT.
We have an A.U. practice here tommorow..and I might get Elvis to lay down some words here. One thing is for sure..we'll be sucking down brews like the business end of a bevy of vacuum cleaners from the fine boot Mark brought me from his month in krautland.
02/05/09
Two weeks on my job now. No, I'm not going to reveal where I'm working.
It doesn't really matter. I can still give a report of sorts.
To understand my perspective you need to remember that I worked for over a quarter century almost non-stop. I spent 5 years writing about my experiences in "Jobjumper" and then have taken a break from the work force to be a stayhome Father, fulltime student, I wrote, etc.
I really, really am on top of happenings in workplaces. Remember, FIVE YEARS of focusing on the slightest nuances concerning most of the places I worked at.
I was so busy struggling along like many workers, I never really had a chance along the way to sit back and think things out. Now, here I am back at work...a frigging Einstein when it comes to what is happening around me. I KNOW workplaces.
I KNOW who the office busybodies are, who takes an extra 10 minutes on 15 minute breaks, who doesn't do a lick of work, who kicks ass at the job, I'm already beginning to figure out which of my colleagues has grudges against certain other workers.
BUT..I have a firm resolve to keep my observations to myself and watch the happenings around me with pleasure. I don't have the "need to tell" or any desire to meddle in other peoples business. Most of the various "types" around me resemble folks I've written about in great detail. They aren't those people though. I enjoy savoring the various similarities and differences.
Hey, if you wrote a book about a species of birds or a historical happening or on a bit of pop culture you'd be a great observer whenever the topic came up in the future.
I wasn't able to sit back and enjoy the ride during the "Jobjumper" quarter century, but I am now. I'm always in a good mood, never get upset at the small stuff that seems to bother many others. On the rare occasions I start getting pissed off, I say to myself...HEY..I'M GETTING PAID FOR THIS. Who gives a fuck.
People mollycoddle each other in the workplace compared to the 70's. There's no comparison. people whine and piss and moan MORE though...go figure...???
01/31/09
Hhmmm. What to write about?
I could go on and on for about 15 pages about the first week at my new job, but I've vowed not to. It's just not a good idea.
There are interesting new aspects to my family soap opera, but I've got to respect those folks privacy too. I've promised to never again lay down a story involving the cats, even though Dixie is fascinating and bizarre and worthy of his own diary.
I'm preparing to make chess plans for the year at this time, but I don't want to make this a chess diary even though several readers would prefer that.
I used to comment here on bands fairly often, but since many people in the bands are friends, I don't want to upset poor widdle neglected bandmember pal "b" by raving about bandmember buddy "a's" cd or live set. NOTE! I didn't consciously stop writing about bands for this reason, but this is the way things have worked out.
How many book plugs have I left this month? Should I paste in another excerpt here?
I guess I'll try to come up with something else.
One things for sure, I can't comment on Monday night wrestling; I haven't watched it in months. "Madmen" and "Sons of Anarchy" and "Kitchen Nightmares" are between seasons. "Hell's Kitchen" hasn't begun its next season yet.
I'm still slugging away at the same 1,000 page Solzhenitsyn book I wrote about a week or two ago, so no book commentary tonight.
Politics? Hey, what can I say? The American people are naive and we're likely screwed. It'll take a while for it to become apparent that there is no such thing as a political "messiah" People had politics crammed down their throats for so fucking long during the last election, only a sadist or somebody getting paid would lay down more commentary.
Marla has suggested that without discussing where I work I can comment on the differences in the work place since I left it several years ago. OK. That has some potential, even though it's pathetic when a writer has to get a topic from a spouse.
The greatest change I've noticed so far is the emphasis on the "green" horseshit I hate so much. I noticed right off that the urinals are really weird looking. Where there used to be a disc floating around to cover up the urine stench there now is a sealed drain. I read a sticker glued to the damned thing and was informed that by pissing in a now incredibly bad smelling urinal that doesn't "waste" water I was helping to save 40,000 gallons a year. I have 2 comments on this:
1) WHO CARES? not me.
2) I doubt the sticker is telling the truth; I'd bet the damned things save a few bucks on the water bill at the expense of our noses.
The worst evidence of green "concern" (or what I believe is a shallow expression of concern that will fade away when a new hysteria takes over) is the mind boggling array of receptacles for trash and recycling. Where I sit there is within 15 feet a tall cardboard box, two upright plastic waste baskets (or what I used to consider waste baskets) , two short plastic ones, a small metal round one and a huge bin.
What the fuck?? They all have different purposes I am told, but I'll be goddamned after a week if I can tell what they are.
A department meeting (brief) was held to lecture folks on the fact that soda cans had been found in the wrong container and vile gumwrappers in another. When I have something to toss I'm baffled as to what to do with it.
Some of the other employees seem to really be into it though. I heard one gal talk about how she was going to return her drink containers back to a recycle area several hundred yards away in the cafeteria.
Humping jumping Jesus. Humanoids have been really conned into this. They take it damned seriously. I would expect it in Europe, but Texas?
One thing is for sure; very few are all THAT concerned about the planet or future generations. They see this plethora of bins as a means of persuading those around them that they are concerned and aware. I can PROVE THIS. Wait a few years and you'll see a new set of concerns. When my parents were young there was a popular war on and it was rationing (which was seriously exploited by black marketers); a generation before that it was prohibition. In the 60's folks had peace, love and dope crammed down their maws. No nukes, save the whales, watt watchers, don't use deodorant or you'll destroy the ozone, the war against drugs and of course the boycotting of grapes which was advocated by howling protesters in front of grocery stores ("there's BLOOD on those grapes!")
OOps..I almost forgot a water conserving measure from my boyhood that many people followed so as to be considered concerned, putting a frigging brick in your toilet.
Some of you green creeps may get a good laugh over the fact that I'm going to have to be "green conscious" 8 1/2 hours M-F now. I'm gonna get the last laugh on you though. To compensate for what I do on the job, I'm gonna make a point of it to always use the wrong basket or bin during my off time. I'll begin to make a point of leaving water faucets on in public places when I'm done using them and soiling every towel and tissue issued to me in motel rooms. I vow to do my part and quit reusing plastic water bottles occasionally. I'll always buy a new one and make sure I buy the thickest one available.
They've already managed to take away real, comfortable cars and soda from satisfying bottles and have forced bottlers to use wafer thin beer cans that often leak before use and in some places smelly plastic vessels. Lets fight back before our sanitized urinals are gone and we're forced to smell like stinking hippies due to the fact that we are expected to use a tiny square of asswipe per visit.
01/26/09
Well, I had my first shift at my new job tonight. I hope it works out well, I really liked the feel of the place. I learned during the orientation session that it's actually illegal to reveal information picked up there even verbally, so I'm going to not refer to the institution by name here and I'm not going to use it as a subject in general either when there's so much else in our wonderful world to chirp about. I'll give just a couple clues for the curious and change the subject for good:
1) I swore an oath of allegiance to accept the job which I'll honour..
2) I get to wear sweat pants and a T-shirt to work
3) It's a seasonal job, so I'll wind up busting my ass for a while and then having lots of time off.
In other news, Marla found a balls out fly killing system at a local farm supply store and the fat bastards are beginning to rain from the skys DEAD. Ha hhhhhaaaaaHa Ha!!!
I'm gonna go do the frigging watusi in my underpants over their corpses now.....
01/23/09
Pests...goddamned time wasting, ignorant, born to annoy PESTS waste everyone's time, but being a special, sensitive sort they especially waste mine.
The pests that had me looking forward to tapping out this entry as a sort of therapy are supposed to be all dead this time of year. For some as yet undetermined reason though, our home has hosted for the past several days between 2 and 7 big, fat black flies at any time. Flies in the middle of January? It's warm enough here in Texas, but they die off by December. Why these now?
They are angry and buzz right at you not fearing collision. The cats seem to not see them even though they are veteran bug killers. Dixie has been known to make 4 foot vertical leaps to snatch flies over the years, but he is oblivious to this gang of them. They seemed to be coming from an opening at the top of a bathroom medicine cabinet. Marla plugged the hole and we figured that would end the plague; NOPE. By the time of my next bowel movement there were a couple more. They love to attack me as I try to read a 30 pound Solzhenitsyn book on the throne.
We have no open windows and the doors have stayed shut as usual this time of year. What the fuck?
I sat down to study a chessbook featuring the games of Emanuel Lasker, a friend of Einstein and a longtime world champion. A minute after I turned my bright chesstable light on a huge BLACK FLY steered for it and landed with a loud buzz and a smacking sound. I couldn't paddle him with a rolled up magazine without breaking the delicate bulb. Finally I grabbed an old towel and wrapped it around the head of the lamp hoping to crush him. I applied pressure...squeezed..relaxed...and he buzzed off, only to returna couple minutes after I had settled back into study.
I remember a cartoon in which Popeye needed sleep badly; he was pushed by an annoying fly into actually destroying his house so as to kill the pest. Of course as he lay there in the rubble expecting to drift off into a happy slumber the fly buzzed right back up and landed on him again.
The entry doesn't end here. I encountered an even more irritating pest..a humanoid at the grocery store. I was there to pick up beer and nuts for the evening. If I had been in a particular hurry I would've started up an altercation over this broad, but instead I waited for somebody else to start up and enjoyed leaning back hoping the situation would stretch into a long, irksome mess.
It's a pretty small store and there was only one "less than 10 items" lane open.
There was a guy in front of me who looked like a dirty, seedy version of that 70's hokey, short singer Paul Williams. His suit was filthy. I'm not very finicky about passing bottles, but I wouldn't with this dude. He was waiting to buy of all things a book (?!) he had somehow found in the store. He had a cellphone pressed to his ear the entire time of this story, into which he jabbered like a no class fool.
In front of him being checked out was a woman who looked like a dirty, much heavier, unkempt Peggy Hill complete with glasses and hair bun. I waited for a couple minutes and then glanced forward to see what the hold up was. She had a stack...a FUCKING STACK of coupons to match about 25 items (violating the 10 item rule clearly) that the clerk was having troubles scanning.
The clerk was about 22 or so. He clearly is holding this job just long enough to collect his degree from the University up the hill and get the fuck out, onward to greener pastures. He's no career man, not trying to impress anybody. He didn't have the balls to call the cunt on the 25 items like he should have and now here he was with a jammed up "convenience" checkstand and people forming an ever growing line glaring daggers at him.
The rude bitch kept turning her head trying to deliberately match stares with those of us in line as if to challenge us to complain about her being a turd in the punchbowl. I hated the fucking old whore. I've got a history in this town of exploding at checkout stands at times like this. I decided to try to salve my anger by seeing just how far this lady would push things.
In Philly or L.A. and probably any other "city" I've lived in, somebody would've verbally ripped into the bitch.
Especially when after the clerk was done scanning all the stinky little coupons, she whipped out more. After those were processed and she was presented with a total...FINALLY..what'd she do?
(Marla guessed this one in about 2 seconds flat!).
She slowly, deliberately, with the tease of an old-time burlesque house stripper dug around in her purse for her checkbook. Having retrieved it, she glared a challenge down the line at all of us...and there were many behind me now. I heard lots of sigh heaving, and noticed people bolting in impatience from the line but nobody called her out.
It seems like if I don't do it nobody does.
It took her forever to write the check.
The clerk stuffed her bags into her cart and said a more cold than usual thankyou and turned to help the guy in the stinky suit;
BUT....Peggy wasn't done with us yet. She whipped out an item accompanied by another coupon that she wanted to pay for separately.
There was a mass exodus of the people behind me to other check stands. At this point I could've snagged my beer and nuts and made my way to one, but I decided to see this hellish process through.
After the second purchase was complete, the clerk again turned toward the clown still yammering b.s. into his phone...BUT!! Peggy didn't like the way he had put her three bags into the cart. The clerk was clearly annoyed now and I think she might've been goading him, trying to get him to snap so she could perhaps use some scheme to convert his outburst into something free.
He rotated the bags until se was satisfied...looked at her with a weak smile and said one final time..."Thanks!"
BUT!! Just like with the fat black flies and the nose breather sitting next to you on a six hour flight it was NOT OVER!
She demanded to see a manager!!
The clerk looked whipped, but meekly called over a super. A tall, efficient supervisor arrived and they talked for a bit. He began entering codes into the cash register. It took about 4 minutes for me to realize what was happening. They were laboriously trying to refund her .50 cents for some fucking reason.
Finally, they figured out how to do it.
I guess 15-20 minutes had gone by with me and the grubby fuck waiting behind this broad.
Finally, the lady had her 50 cents, she seemed out of tricks, it appeared that we were going to be able to see her ass cheeks plop to the door..
BUT!! She turned her cart at the end of the checkstand blocking us and began to organize her checkbook, wallet and other stuff in her purse. Where she stood was also partially blocking the main entrance to the store. People coming in couldn't get past her any better than we could....
Until she finally, mercifully chose to go elsewhere and grate on someone else's nerves for a while.
There should be camps for people like her.
When I was in the retail racket I had ways of dealing with annoying pests, pipe smokers who couldn't make up their frigging minds, people with annoying kids running around tripping people and even puking and of course the all time loon who argued with me that he should be able to pay for an item in "Scottish Pounds".
When there was a recurring problem I figured out the solution.
But here, nobody either cares enough or has the balls to do anything. At our local post office, you can hand a clerk stuff for 4 or 5 different packages and ask him or her to pack them all for you while the line stretches to the door, 40 people long. They just put their heads down and do it.
In Hollywood or Philly you're pressing your luck if you ask a clerk for a piece of tape. Asking them to pack your stuff is as insulting as asking them to blow your stick.
Uurrpppp..........
01/20/09
Even though unlike many of you we haven't been snowed in down here in holy Texas, I've been reading as if we have been. I don't report to my new job until the 26th, so I've been taking advantage of the spare time to read like a son of a bitch.
The "light" book I've been working on is by a guy I've meant to read for a long time: Harry Crews. He's writes like a sicker, more modern Erskine Caldwell. The book I'm reading is "Celebration" and it's good. I don't think you'll want to recommend it to your Mother to read, but that's up to you.
The heavier work I've been toiling at is a perfect read for any of you snowed in due to its length and the demands it puts on a reader. It's "November 1916" by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. Late last year I read "August 1914" which is the first book in a series in which the 1916 book is 2nd.
If the idea of reading 800-1,000 page books is daunting, you can always order a "Jobjumper" 2nd edition from me which is a meager 390+ pager.
If you have an acceptable excuse for not ordering one just now, OK. Solzhenitsyn from your public library will suffice. I decided to tackle his long books after reading for a class "A day in the life of Ivan Denisovich", which is brilliant fiction based on Mr. S's personal experiences. "August 1914" and "November 1916" are absorbing historical fiction works injected with triple shots of Russian politics that will cause you to draw comparisons to the contemporary Chicago political machine that has just sold you on a President.
I look forward to reading all of Mr. Solzhenitsyn's books eventually. He was a writer's writer. I'm not sure what has taken me so long to get around to him. I remember my old man reading "The Gulag Archipelago" and "Cancer Ward". His notes in the margins when reading were always abundant. I might be able to dig up his copies and see what it was about Mr. S that yanked his crank.
A history book that I also recently polished off is "The Last Lincolns". Marla is reading it now and is enjoying it as much as I did. Man, you talk about a family that collapsed in a pitiful manner in just a few generations. You wanna dig up Lincoln-Obama comparisions? Will Mrs. O be the next Mrs. Lincoln? If you love our new messiah you're gonna hope not.
I can't remember actually if I already wrote about this book, so I'm gonna leave it at that and make a cowardly exit.
01/16/09
I'm proud to have a very nice gift. Mark brought me back a drinking "boot" from Germany. In spite of the fact that "Das Boot" is a good naval movie a boot is actually referred to as "Stiefel" in Deutsche, unless there is some sort of pop culture exception I wasn't taught.
Either way, the goddamned thing is to drink mightily from.
I reported here several months ago watching and enjoying the cheesy film "Beerfest". Elvis and his Wife in particular were surprised I liked it given the fact that much of what passes for humor these days from Hollywood leaves me scratching my noggin.
"Beerfest" kindled my desire to drink from a glass boot designed for that purpose and drink I will from this lovely vessel which features color art of a very old church in Freiburg.
Yeah, that's the lager slurping Krauts for ya; churches and biere.
I'm waiting to gargle from it at an A.U. practice.
Yes, both of our bands are practicing and have shows booked. Rancid Vat is playing soon on 1/24 at the 710 club in Austin and A.U. with our old pals from Antiseen on 4/11/09 at Emo's.
Practices are proper occasions for drinking from boots for the first time in my opinion. I know one thing; I'll drink either standing over a towell or outdoors. There could be some spillage whilst I'm getting the hang of it. The idea as seen in the film is to wait until there are air bubbles forming whereupon you FLIP the damned thing over and the remainder of the contents is shotgunned into your gut.
Cable TV is oozing with good programming with a new "Hells Kitchen" starting up in a couple weeks and a new "MLB" channel that covers baseball 24/7 old and new.
I've watched several good films lately also due to the fact that we subscribed to a "western" channel and got several bonus channels as a result.
Tonight I watched a Beethoven film that somehow has escaped my notice "Immortal Beloved" starring a guy who once played Sid Vicious in another movie.
I've been a Beethoven fan since I was very young and I wound up playing the 3rd symphony to death while studying chess and listening to my parents limited record collection.
We tried years ago to come up with a Beethoven drinking song for A.U. and have some home recordings, but the truth is ol' Ludwig wasn't much of a drinker at all. His Father on the other hand would come home roaring drunk, roust L.V.B. from his sleep and force him to play for his drunken cronies.
The film shows Beethoven guzzling from a huge boot sized stein in a beer hall at a time of tension and stress. Otherwise, he isn't shown drinking except wine with dinner (which is more than you might drink with YOUR supper I might mention).
Since he didn't drink much, no wonder he was a sourpuss and a grouch who bugged people.
The film explores his loss of hearing in a way that raised gooseflesh on my mighty forearms having lost my hearing for a while as many of you know. The soundtrack occasional was phased back to a dull groan showing us what Beethoven heard. YOW. How could a movie made in 1994 about one of my favorite composers escape my notice? UUrroopppppp....
01/13/09
I got really excited by a news story I spotted today concerning the inauguration coming up. To be honest, I don't even know what day it's going to happen. I can't recall an election in my lifetime in which I was excited about the President taking office. This particular President being sworn in means about as much to me as watching the ball fall off the Dow Chemical building on New Years Eve for the umpteenth time, or the N.Y. Yankees celebrating another glorious purchased championship.
Even if you bought me a plane ticket and hotel room, I wouldn't want to attend any of those events. I hate crowds, especially ones screaming in unison for their team or messiah or the prospects of another "great" new year.
So why did I perk up at the story I saw about the inauguration?
The talk has been that a couple million people or more could be cramming D.C. facilities chock full. Faced with this sort of crowd, somebody responsible for sanitation blundered and has arranged for only 5,000 porta-potties.
No, I'm not making this story up.
I don't know who in the hell is responsible for this event. I'd like to think that some burnout from Nancy Pelosi's staff was chosen for this task. As a loyal deadhead and Woodstock generation hippie, she'd probably see nothing wrong with subjecting a massive crowd to a quagmire of both earth and butt mud and general squalor.
Hey, the V.I.P.'s will have their own secure and sanitized green rooms, undoubtedly stocked with sprouts, Brita water and cous cous. No matter how inadequate the restroom facilities are, the Obama devoted press will likely skim over the peoples misery.
If only 1,000,000 people show up there will be one porta-pottie for each 200 people. Considering how a crowd like that will be showing up very early, if 10% ( a low estimation by any standard) of the people who use the potties piss or shit all over the damned thing, many of them could be knocked out by noon or even earlier.
If a really big crowd does indeed show up...say 2,000,000...that would mean 400 people per porta pottie. MY GOD!!
If only 1 out of 4 people take dumps, even very neatly, you're gonna have over flowing stools stinking up the capital grounds. Panic will ensue when people who have been holding it due to the long lines break in large numbers for trees and shrubs.
One website commenting on the story calculated that 2,000,000 people using 5,000 toilets would conservatively produce 28 gallons of waste per unit.
28 gallons.....28 fucking gallons.
What a goddamned mess.
Let's hope that there is a low attendance factor of "Beavis and Butthead" types, bused in from schools. Hundreds of pots could get knocked out of commission early or even tipped over spreading their vile contents in an area that will undoubtedly be very, very congested by all estimates.
I hope Obama does a good job. I'd say he'd be off to a great start if he anticipates the mess that's going to occur on his inauguration day and demands at least 10,000 more crappers be rushed to the scene.
01/11/09
I purchased a T-shirt for my new job (I was hired) at the local Goodwill earlier tonight. It was closing time and a long line had formed at the check stand area.
Now, it's pretty obvious that when you shop at a thriftstore owned by Goodwill or Salvation army or other charitable organizations, you shouldn't expect rapid fire, topnotch service. Often the help is right out of rehab for some affliction or other.
My philosophy is that since you're paying very little for items purchased at a thrift store, why not just fucking cool your jets and be patient. Slowness and inefficiency is just part of the deal.
Tonight I didn't expect to get through the check stand quickly. I just relaxed and watched the boss shut down two registers leaving one open to handle all the customers even though the store was technically open for another 10-15 minutes.
Workers are obsessed in this town with closing stores and restaurants early. I've lived on both coasts and seen individuals who closed up early, but they were often frowned upon by bosses and co-workers alike. There is nothing that PISSES OFF customers more than showing up at ten minutes before a stores scheduled close time and seeing the place dark and locked. In real cities, if you get caught locking up early without a damned good reason you're going to be warned at least and possibly terminated.
Not so here; the snot nosed rubes and students from hick towns staffing these businesses act annoyed at somebody with the audacity of wanting to eat or buy something at 8:50 pm.
What gets me is the fact that of all the places I've ever lived, there's no place with less reasons to need to get out a few minutes earlier. What the fuck do they have to do that is so important? In a real city there are concerts or films or bars or cultural events to get to. You won't find much in the way of those things here. Former University students who wash out or graduate and stay here don't accomplish much; the achievers go elsewhere.
I understand all this and like I've written before have tried to lower my expectations.
No book stores in a college town? Fine. Why bother yourself trying to figure out why? I found the only Thai restaurant in town closed early the first three times I tried to eat there. Solution? I'll learn to cook Thai.
The boss at thrift store had the lights shut out at ten 'til. It was the employees BIRTHRIGHT to get out early to pursue their lame evening plans. She turned to one dude with a bad case of cash register jaw and said "you can either go home NOW or clean the store up and go at 7:00...it's your choice". He blinked as she walked away to the back of the building. He chose a third option; he noticed a friend waiting in line and yakked on the clock with the guy.
The last clerk standing was left foolishly with no help even though he appeared to be very new. He had very greasy hair and hands and horrid skin. I waited for several minutes as he filled out a written receipt for a couple guys in front of me buying a clock radio.
Finally it was my turn. He held the shirt up and checked it out.
"Hey! This is cool!"
(I instantly considered turning on my heel and leaving without it).
The shirt read "Kentucky Horseracing".
The rube went on and on like Gomer Pyle....
"I went to the horseraces once; it was in Kentucky...
or was it in Virginia" He had stopped ringing my item up by now and was gazing at the ceiling trying to refresh his memory. "I think it was in North Carolina!" he finally decided.
I pocketed my change, nodded and flashed a grin at him and made haste for the door.
"Hey..wait! Mister!"
I turned back..he was waving a receipt at me for my $1.99 T-shirt.
"No thanks..." I muttered..
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Thanks".
You just have to lower your expectations or it will drive you over the edge.
01/0609
Well, tomorrow's the day that I'll be offered employment by my new prospective employer. This is a very large outfit and they'll be processing me along with many others. I'm ready for it..ready to start training. Ready to start making some dough to pay for my student loans and new car.
Without revealing what institution I'm going to work for (presuming I don't have any car trouble, over the top clothing emergencies or other calamaties preventing me from showing up and accepting the job) I can say this; I'll be treating my right hand like a pitcher treats his arm. 10 key input is a vital part of this job. As depicted in "Jobjumper" (plug plug ) I discovered almost by accident my incredible apptitude for 10 key. I was frigging world class for a full decade. Oddly enough, the only person I ever met who could keep up with and sometimes surpass me was a long term guitar player Eric from our band. To be honest, it was by following his example that I got really good. I caught up with him and we worked many jobs together over the years for better or for worse.
Eric and I worked with quite a few musicians over the years, some of whom played their instruments extremely well. We were both hack $30 guitar players with little speed and precision, playing for fun. I wonder why all those great piano and string players couldn't keep up with us when it came to 10 key? And why, I have wondered many times, did the 2 fastest 10 key M.F.'s on earth play in the same band?
I remember going into a mental zone keying in long lists crammed full of numerals. Time would fly by. People would rarely interrupt me due to the insane noise of the keys. Why can't I play guitar like that? I guess it's just not meant to be.
What the fuck. If all goes well I should be looking for a snazzy glove to coat my magic hand between shifts. .
01/01/09
I'm continuing my remarks started last entry about the post Xmas trip Marla and I made to chic South Padre Island. When I left off, we had just come to realize that the Radisson hotel we booked 4 nights at had for some reason and for better or worse been stripped of its corporate brand name.
I felt that the place just didn't feel right. Our room and the grounds were very nice, but it seemed like a half completed Sims sort of creation. After waiting for an hour we finally got into our room and soon after headed to look at the ocean.
The next day we found ourselves battling again with hotel staff. Look, I've seen my share of rock and roll destruction being rained down upon hotels and motels. I've seen rooms trashed, 4:00 a.m. nude swimming in the pool and hotel fraud committed by sales crews that managed to cram 8-10 people into rooms. I've looked on as people brandished guns in rooms, fought and consumed every drug under the sun. Marla and I weren't to do anything wild this stay, yet we managed to wind up at odds with the employees.
My great hairy sin was wanting to keep late hours that deviated with the hotel's planned housekeeping service hours. I don't fucking need to have some maid enter our room whilst I'm drinking my morning (2:37 p.m.) coffee clad only in my white underwear.
At "professionally" operated nice hotels and cheapo's alike you merely need to put in a call to the front desk and strap the "do not disturb" sign up on your doorknob and you're ignored. Remember...there were no such signs to be found. Somehow, I was suspicious after witnessing the poor communication between management and maid staff the previous afternoon as to whether a phone call would work. I wouldn't put it past the dummies to just barge right in when I'm drying my balls after a frigging shower or perhaps when we're checking the sex number action on the "sleep number" beds?
Marla poo poo'd my pessimism. She personally told one of the maids we didn't need housekeeping and traded out towels with her, but still as I walked back into the room a couple hours later I found a maid 1/3rd of the way done with our room. I ordered her the hell out of the room, nicely of course, no temper displayed as of yet.
My lovely spouse then spent 2 hours..TWO HOURS by phone and in person trying to get a "do not disturb" sign from the front desk. At one point, they said they'd have a guy named Pedro bring one by immediately; she happened to be sitting within view of a guy who turned out to be Pedro. She was so close she heard him being ordered to bring a sign to room 121. Pedro kept walking and simply ignored the instructions from the desk. We never saw him again that day, but we finally got a sign delivered by the housekeeping supervisor.
From this point on we were at war with the staff.
Of course the joint was super efficient when it came to having guards all over the property at night to check us every half hour as we sat on a bench watching the midnight sky over the ocean, trying to catch us with a glass container.
The rest of the guests seemed to be having a great time. It was a weird crew. We saw one lady wearing the little strip of bed top fabric as a shawl heading out for a night. Then there was the lady who looked like a librarian from Minnesota waltzing about with a huge hunk of pale butt blubber dangling from each bathing suit ass cheek. Did she know? Was she blind, ignorant or crude?
My worst time on the trip was spent in line waiting to eat some world class seafood at a joint we discovered last time. They close at 8:00 sharp, and always have a line of change jingling, grinning doofs jabbering away as if the long wait was fun. While I ate I had to suffer an idiot leaning over a railing actually hanging into my space obliviously and a mouthy bar cunt of the first degree talking 4 times too loud into her phone. The food sort of made it all worth it, once I was served a big frosty pitcher of Miller's.
I drank and reflected fairly late each night sucking down bourbon and waters and guzzling beers in bed watching "Tiger week" on the Golf channel and listening to my spouses gentle rum induced snores.
The staff managed to get one more lick in on us. We had requested and received a one hour late checkout time. We had loaded half of our shit to our Charger and discovered that our room keys had quit working. We had another hassle getting into our room; an actual uniformed guard opened the door for us.
On the ride home we talked for two hours about the letter we're gonna write to try to get some sort of satisfaction out of the Radisson people. Who knows, maybe we'll actually go through with our plans rather than procrastinate.
It's all a confirmation of what I've been saying for years about Mom and Pop businesses NOT being necessarily any better than corporate chains.
12/31/08
Even though it's a major spring break destination, nobody wants to fucking go to South Padre Island during the winter. Not only do Marla and I like to take advantage of low hotel prices, since we were raised in the pacific northwest where you get used to frigid days at the ocean. It never gets very hot on those scenic, driftwood and walrus corpse strewn sands. It rains part of most days and the water is very, very cold.
Viewed by us at first as an antidote to post Xmas empty nest syndrome (yeah, even bitter people like us are susceptible) , we've booked a room for several days this week of the year at the same Radisson hotel for a few years now. It's always attracted mostly squares from the northern states trying to warm up who mind their own business. The property includes a huge beach front area you can easily walk to all times of day and night. There's no MTV party action whatsoever, just old saggy broads and pale white guys who probably eat prunes to stay regular. If you want to get shitfaced with or simply be around other non-squarehead people you need to go to one of the locals oriented bars we've found over the years. These folks are fairly jaded; they're the poor bastards who have to deal with all that spring break amateur drunk idiocy.
They don't bother us too much.
This years trip started off pleasant enough. We had to get a more reliable car for me to drive to my likely new job which is up in Austin. It's a great time for people to take advantage of the auto companies business slump. Marla spent a day bickering with a salespest and his manager and wound up almost surprising me with a 2009 Dodge Charger...black with tinted windows.
Hey, I DESERVE a nice car after graduating "cum laude"....don't I? Hell yes.
The day we drove out was gorgeous. Sunny, clear and in the high 70's. The first sign of trouble was clear when we pulled up in front of the hotel; there was no longer any Radisson sign on the high roof, or even on the doors.
Now, I am more used to saving money by staying at common, modernized shitholes over the years, but I've bunked at a few decent, costly places where we threw our money around foolishly such as a great rooftop suite in Myrtle Beach, the Eisenhower suite in the Gettysburg Hotel and a few other places. I simply want my money's worth. I'll stay in a ratty $26 a night dive if its got vintage decor and is located near Route 66. Whether you charge me $45-$90 per night, I want some value for my dollars. A Super 8 or Motel 6 room is NEVER worth $89, even if its the last room in town during the tourist season. As Wayne Hancock spaketh "Brother, drive on...". I don't demand frills, unless you charge me for them and I have complied by agreeing to the deal. If I've paid for the average $69 per night boxy, beige, dull, soulless room you reach through a "safe" inner hallway, I'll expect EXACTLY the sort of service you get with that sort of pad.
I guess what this is all leading to as it pertains to our recent trip is this: No matter whether it's the off season or June, don't charge me Radisson rates and promise me those sort of accouterments and deliver to me something you'd expect at "Knights Inn".
It's possible that if this was now a Mom and Pop hotel it'd be great. Unfortunately, if Mom and Pop are shitheads you can't go over their heads in case of lousy service or amenities. That makes me nervous.
Our room was to be ready at 3:00 pm, but we were told we'd have to wait for 15 minutes. 15, 20, 30 minutes passed with us sitting in front of our locked and apparently cleaned room with no sign of the keys that were to be delivered. Meanwhile daylight was running short. We wanted to at least ogle the ocean up close for a couple of hours. Marla walked to the front desk. "Ohh...sorry" she was told. The keys would be right there. The clerk paged housekeeping and demanded it with Marla listening. We waited another 20 minutes. Meanwhile I overheard maids rolling carts to and fro who later would claim to not understand English speaking it amongst themselves. Marla demanded to talk to the manager. A guy ("Pop") came out of an office wearing a dirty T-shirt and made more empty promises.
Finally, we got into our room. It was nice enough, but it had a weird vibe. There was no printed matter about local eateries or pizza delivery. There were no "do not disturb" signs even. The fluffy bedspreads had been replaced by strips of fabric I accurately guessed were supposed to be shawls.
We had booked our room months ahead of time and paid Radisson directly and hadn't been told there were any changes in ownership. This clearly though, was no Radisson frigging hotel.
I'll continue this a bit later...UuurrrPPP.
12/25/08
I found out belatedly that I graduated "cum laude". I'm told that if I had bothered to get my ass down to the graduation ceremony I would have gotten to wear some sort of fancy cord around my neck. I hope I can buy one of them to wear around the house.
I'm not sure how much to value graduating with "honors". I bet a lot of people would wet their frigging pants over such a distinction. On the other hand, there are others probably within a mile or two of where I sit tonight who earned "cum laude" and are crying their eyes out because they didn't get "magna cum laude" or "suma cum laude".
Many if not most students who graduate from universities have to face up to scrutiny by their parents as to their grades or achievements. I only had that sort of pressure through the earliest years of my 33 year 4 year degree. There are parents who expect nothing less than "magna cum laude" from their spawn. They raise hell during frosty car rides back home to the family gated compound in some swank suburb.
Other parents are thrilled if their college age kids pass and earn a degree of any distinction..even in "Communications" or "Sociology". Many of them keep the new shiny cars coming even if their little shitheads pile 'em up every few months during drunken, drugged out sprees and their grades are failing.
I met and yakked with many, many students who were heading for utter academic disaster, often to be followed by expulsion and being cut off by their families, for various reasons, most of which could have been avoided with some self discipline.
Well, shit. I understand. It took me 33 goddamned years. The last couple years were distinguished by an incredible self discipline that I may as well crow about.
I wonder if I can use my "cum laude" cord for a soap on a rope?
12/20/08
Well, all the goddamned horseshit about "to walk or no to walk" to pick up a phony replica of my diploma in public is over. It came right down to the final hours though. I was ready just before my 5:00 a.m. bedtime, facing a 10:30 a.m. wakeup call, to post a brief entry here stating that I was positive I'd be attending and trudging that final bloody quarter mile around the arena..a victory lap for 33 years spent to earn a 4 year degree.
I woke up on my own and in a foul mood. I went out to our living room where Marla was and poured a cup of coffee. She was puttering around doing something or other to prepare for my post grad get together. I felt at that moment I'd rather streak a local church or go shoe shopping with my Mother and Aunt Selma than attend some rah rah rally.
I decided to dunk a cup of coffee down before giving her my pitch to skip the damned thing and prepare to have FUN instead of jumping through hoops and wasting the day with a horde of assholes.
Several graduates have argued to me that if they hadn't gone through with the ceremony it wouldn't have sunken into their brains that they had graduated. Well, humping jumping Jesus..I knew I wasn't gonna have THAT problem.
Marla was disappointed but didn't put up too much of an argument. She sadly emailed Elvis and his Wife whom I knew were both going to be disgusted.
Oh well; I told Marla I hoped everyone got over it in time for my get together.
Not a big crowd. Seven of us. Mark is still in Germany. We drank a round to his ass.
The picture you see at the top of this page is a shot of me sitting at our outdoor table after several rounds had been polished off. I personally started off with a couple glasses of champaign and then graduated to beers with frequent shots, first from a communal fifth of Jack that vanished in about 30 minutes and then from a half gallon of Beam.
The music sounded good, the weather was great. The temperature worked its way up to about 70 degrees although it's already dropped off seriously tonight.
After banging down a final handful of shots with the Texas Stud, a man with a powerful thirst that is rarely quenched, I waved goodbye to our last guests. Having consumed a pleasant amount, I wound up sleeping for about 13 hours only interrupted midway by an urgent bowel movement.
I finally awoke refreshed. I suppose I should have had a hangover, but that wasn't the case. Oh, I should point out that through our entire night of gargling booze I wore my robe and hat with tassel. I expect to wear it on stage more than a few times, so c'mon out and see us play live and have a look at it.
12/16/08
I can't stand it when other people are indecisive. I'm not referring to a healthy and vigorous examination of all sides of an issue that calls for some sort of action. What pisses me off is when people who should know better, who have a decent brain to start with can't make up their mind when it's time to move forward.
Like most humanoids, I've had friends over the years consult me for my opinion concerning important shit many times. I've often been woken in the wee hours of the morning (back when I kept a normal schedule) to hear various friends problems and offer my point of view. I'm flattered for the most part when people confide in me. I don't mind losing some sleep for a pal. What does really piss me off is when some friend, after spending hours churning over possible courses of action and selecting the one that makes the most sense, calls the next day wanting to hash over everything discussed earlier.
I can tolerate a bit of flip flopping, but when I perceive that this person isn't getting anywhere, isn't benefitting from the dialogue and is just wasting time chewing the same fat over and over and over again, I quietly back out of the discussion.
Yeah, I'm a really decisive guy; but only when it comes to other peoples business. Lately, right here in this diary I've gone back and forth and back and forth over a matter that has consumed many, many hours of my time and that of some loved ones who are sick of hearing about it.
I refer to my deliberation over whether to "walk" at my college graduation ceremony now only a few days away. Without even scrolling down and checking I know for a fact that I've sworn NOT to walk at least once and also that I absolutely, positivly would a couple other times. Last Friday I vowed again to my lovely wife NOT to walk, but Elvis and her double teamed me Monday night when I was in a weak mood putting the kettle back on the front burner. Elvis's wife took a day off of work to see me "walk". Elvis will be rushing from administering finals to one of his classes to see his old man lurch up to shake mitts with the college Dean. The both of them along with Marla have no idea why I'm not looking forward to it. My aging Mother in Eugene, Boregon insists that I walk.
"OH PHILIP!" she cried, disgusted with me once again.
I promised her, swore to her I'd walk and send a picture to her.
Of course, it'd be fun to do just the opposite of what she demanded.
I complained I had no cap and gown. Marla picked me up a set at a local college bookstore. The cap was TOO SMALL I insisted. She crammed it down over my noggin and made it fit.
Tonight I tried on the gown. It's a "one size fits all" that should be labeled a "one size fits many". It's too snug in the gut, the zipper is cheesey, I wish it was longer, it has no pockets, there are no slit holes to get into my pants pockets but WAIT..........I'm gonna be wearing sweat pants with flimsy pockets. Where'll I put my wallet?
What do I do if my zipper snags or busts at the seams?
What if I soak the gown through with sweat?
What if my cap comes off..it's quite possible.
"You'll only be sitting there for an hour" Marla said shaking her head, minimizing my upcoming time on the cross.
BULLSHIT! I attended Elvis's ceremony last June and I'm certain we'll be subjected to the same stale marches and college anthems, the same propaganda speeches by administraters for the alumni present, the same valedictorian speeches with obligatory lines concerning why our class is the best ever and our need to leave the world better than when we entered it (a mandatory but vague reference to the "green" fad).
After all that and a couple prayers there'll be 3,000 or so fellow students slowly trudging around the hall on ramps to have their 1 1/2 seconds of glory as their name is barked out auctioneer style..somewhere in the arena a few people who know each scholar will go "WHOO!" like a weak, Ric Flair imitation.
The Dean's grasp will be well practised and brisk as a ten minute handjob from a whore. There will be absolutely no human warmth behind it; that's not to blame her...how could there be? They have only 2 hours and 3,000 diplomas to hand out.
It's not a matter of "stage fright" for christs sake. Obviously I'm used to being in front of people. I just don't see what all the hoopla is about.
Am I gonna walk or not?? HHMMMMM? I still don't fucking know.
I don't want to hurt loved ones, but I don't see what the big deal is..having your little "WHOO" moment in front of 10,000 strangers.
I wish I was enough of a michief maker to get tanked up ahead of time and fake a heart attack 5 steps before getting my sheepskin...now THAT would be worth "WHOO!"-ing.
12/11/08
I'm still not ready to divulge the identity of the employer I'd like to get hired by.
I'll say this: I've decided there's no fucking use trying to play games with bosses in my case. They're gonna hire ME for who I am, for better or for worse. I've weazled my way into jobs posing as someone I'm not in the past ("JOBJUMPER" plug! order now) but not this time around. My newly earned degree should open some doors for me.
In fact, my degree qualifies me on the spot for a position with the afore-mentioned employer. It's a very big institution; they need to hire a shitload of people. It's a data entry oriented job. For those of you possessing the class to have read "Jobjumper", you will recall hopefully that for many years I was clearly one of the fastest 10 key operators on the planet. At my peak I chunked in about 15,000-20,000 key strokes per hour. My achilles heel back in those days was the alpha or typing oriented keys. Many jobs required speed on both. I only tested about 30-40 words per minute away from the 10 key numeric pad. If a job was mostly numeric I kicked ass overall, but if the emphasis was on straight typing I was mediocre.
Since then my typing speed has really picked up due to all the all night writing sessions I've put in. I'm not sure what my official speed is. If you're writing creatively at a breakneck pace you're probably churning out shit. Working on a column or book or paper is completely different from what you do on the job. Folks at work frown on you reading a phrase over and over to perfect it or cracking open a beer to loosen your fingers.
I went to a big cattle call for data entry people a couple nights ago. My application had already been scrutinized. A guy at the chess club who got hired into the same position a couple years back told me Since I have no legal or selective service or citizenship problems, I had little to worry about except for a computer test at this session. He said it was really easy. He told me that the job site is very casual and the attitude of the bosses is that they want to play ball with good employees.
That all sounded great. I wanted to make a good impression. I arrived 45 minutes early expecting to be the first one there. Believe it or not, there were about 20 people ahead of me.
All in all about 100 - 120 people were ushered into an area with computer set ups.
A trainer lady began to give out details about the job that gradually drove about 20% of the people voluntarily away. We filled out lots of paperwork and were advised that following a keyboard test, those who passed would be finger printed. She said that the standard was 5,000 key strokes per hour. The computers in front of us were prepared to walk us through a 38 line test.
I almost fucked it up. There was a short practice test that confused me because unlike a normal computer you use at home or at the university the letters were one size, no cap's. I kept trying to use my shift key and use proper grammer, but eventually was instructed by a helper not too.
A glance showed that the test was about 90% numeric. I didn't expect to work at my old rate, but figured I could handle 5,000 KPH. I started banging away at the official test. As I got into the flow, I began really making the keys click like fuck in a rhythmic pattern, just like the old days although not as fast. My style (probably based on my years as a musician) is to hit a pace and run with it for as long as I can. I don't hit little, stubby fast and slow bursts, its like a metronome when I get going. I could tell once I got going that the nearby trainers who probably thought I was a boneheaded dildo for having problems during the practice were standing within a couple feet watching my progress. The lady to the right of me stopped in midtest to watch me. To my left was an old guy of about 63 or so. He had bad, chalky skin that looked like the head of a bongo drum, bad hair, feet stuffed into football shaped corrective shoes (I think?!?) and the overall air of a loser. Whereas the lady on my right got back to work after watching me for 5 seconds, the loser dude just kept staring at my fingers spanking the 10 key with the clock running on his own ignored test.
When I was done I raised my hand indicating they could have someone check my handywork. The lady kindly told me that I had exceeded the 5,000 KPH standard by cranking out 7600 KPH; what's more I had done so at a rate of 97% accuracy and they required only a meager 70%.
Now 7,600 KPH is nothing to get worked up over unless it gets you hired to a job. If I get this job I'm sure I can get most of my old speed back, then we'll see what the company trainers and bosses think.
I was briefly interviewed for about 3 minutes. I showed the lady my birth certificate and other I.D. She nodded positively at everything and ushered me to an area where I was fingerprinted.
Running down a checklist, I can't see why they wouldn't call me back and offer me a position, since they're desperate for qualified help and there's nothing "wrong" with me and I passed their test. We'll see though. I'm not gonna count my chickens before they hatch.
I hope I get the job; their chairs were super large and comfy and the computer gear is really nice as well....uuuRRRrrrPPPPPPPP.
12/08/08
It is my duty to report that a momentus, but inevitable day is upon us, or rather was upon us..if we knew about it. Perhaps our family god Bacchus silently hoisted his goblet towards Texas when IT finally happened.
My Son Elvis never set out to be some sort of ironman of alcohol. He doesn't drink every night, he doesn't drink in massive quantities. He drinks to have fun, which is one of the best reasons to do so. It's a great hobby.
My parents treated alcohol like it was poison; a concoction the devil provided man to send him on a direct road to hell. They forbade it in their home, which made it a magical substance to me. I've been drinking daily since I was old enough to get somebody to buy it for me. After some wild years, I've learned to drink most nights at a pleasant pace that isn't destructive. I've lucked out. That little switch in many drinkers heads that gets flicked after a while that tells them to GO GO GO...tells me to MAINTAIN MAINTAIN MAINTAIN. I get to the happy level and just coast for hours while some drinkers I know start drinking everything in sight..faster than ever.
When Elvis was growing up we had an "open bar" approach. As a result, he sampled many kinds of booze in the comfort of his home, listening to music and having fun without feeling like he had to sneak around drinking crappy malt liquor and hardcore wine with other guys his age.
The bar in our home and my refrigerator full of beer was just another source of fun like the TV or our many musical instruments. When visitors came around he'd often play bartender while nursing a few over the course of many hours.
He certainly got to see his share of crazy mofo's sucking down drink in massive, oceanic quantities over the years. He'd notice when one of them drank themself into a bad corner or blew their wig combining it with an uncomplimentary regimen of drugs.
Elvis saw both folks who had a good time with the bottle and others who destroyed their lives. He observed the habits of all these folks.
As he got older he'd try new stuff in small doses to see what it was all about. We had everything from all sorts of liquor to wines both sleazy and gourmet and beers from around the world and even moonshine from music fans.
I'll admit that I got nervous a few times when he got into his later teenage years and he was capable of swilling large quantities down. If it looked like he was really starting to have fun, I'd sometimes back off a bit for awhile and watch him "discreetly".
I was surprised many, many times at the fact that no matter how much fun he had, he NEVER frigging puked. EVER. NOT ONCE, be it moonshine, Bacardi 151, pitcher after pitcher of beer, fortified wine or what have you.
When high school ended and he went on to working at various jobs we wered pleased to see that he got a certificate for tending bar. We'd drink more often and heavier yet with him the older he got. There must've been 3 dozen times he'd be laughing, crawling on the rug to his bedroom after a night of fun in which I was SURE he was gonna blow chips: BUT NO. It never happened.
I counseled him since day one to not be afraid of vomiting from alcohol. It's simply natures way of making you feel more comfortable in the long run. There's nothing to fear. It will lesson your hangover the next day...just submit and let it flow..NATURALLY. Your body knows best. Puking is a form of maintenance much like your skin forcing a splinter to the surface.
But, he never puked. His 21st birthday passed and he still hadn't.
In the family we acknowledged that he was running up numbers that were Cal Ripken like. We all new that he had cracked every record in the book..we just didn't know how long he'd go before nature finally took its course.
A couple weeks or so ago, when he had aged 24 years, 2 months, 23 days and 2 hours it finally happened. Riding in the back seat of a car next to his Wife he finally TAPPED OUT, zapped the window down and let er' rip.
I don't want to make him sound like some sort of jackass who ran around bragging of this. As one of his parents I feel like I've earned the right to boast my buttons off. I've raised a fine drinking machine. He drinks for pleasure, not by habit. Many folks predicted I'd raise some sort of problem drinker head-case, but that never happened. Once again, I was right and they were WRONG.
24 years, 2 months, 23 days and 2 hours.
It's in the record books.
12/05/08
I was notified the other day that my application to the outfit I want to work for scored a 93.75, which is just great if that's on a scale of 100. They didn't specify.
I'm going to a 3-4 hour test session of sorts in a few days. I'm supposed to bring all sorts of I.D. and be fingerprinted. None of that bothers me. We've spent a hellish 24 hours trying to find my birth certificate. Finally, Marla ordered a certified copy from Boregon.
It's nice at times like this to have a totally clean record. I'm amazed I haven't at least been tossed into a drunk tank once over the years, but no. My selective service record is a non-issue. I'm one of the few who were too young to be called in for Viet Nam and too old to have to register like you are supposed to these days. They just did away with registration for a period all together whilst we suffered through a national Viet Nam hangover.
I'm not looking forward to answering questions about tattoo's on this or any other job. At least I never got work done on my hands or neck or face. It seemed like a great idea now and then to get "love" and "hate" tattooed (like Bob Mitchum's charachter in "Night of the Hunter" I believe) on the knuckles of my hands at one point, but now I'm glad I resisted the urge and won't have to answer questions from busybodys about it.
I'll be processed in a large group, which could lead to some amusement.
Remember all the times I've written about pathological liars? The ones who'll lie about what they ate for breakfast for no apparent reason? The ones who invent backgrounds both in the workplace and in social situations to try to gain respect or manipulate people?
Yeah, THOSE time wasting sons of bitches.
From comparing notes with people I've been chatting with lately it seems as though one of the latest trends amongst pathological liars is to claim to have served in Iraq or Afghanistan and in some cases in a mysterious capacity with homeland security.
This is an easy lie to pull off. I'm not sure how many people in the work scene have the common sense to doubt a cleancut person who smiles and frowns at all the right times and talks about military service, even if their stories seem exaggerated or full of holes. In my experience, when pathological liars are exposed, when somebody finally checks on them and they are "outed", quite a few people keep defending them. Pick up any true crime book and you'll see what I mean...these are the gullible ones. The old cliche "look me in the eye and say that" seems to suffice for these folks; they aren't capable of realizing how easy it is for these scheming sons of bitches to look them in the eye and shed a tiny tear or two and keep them in their camp despite evidence presented.
Anyway, it'll be interesting to witness the lines of bull being used these days.
UurrrrrPppPPPPPP...
12/01/08
"I'm going to town honey
What you want me to bring you back?
A pint of booze
And a John B. Stetson hat"
Jimmie Rodgers (Mule Skinner Blues)
So, the Thanksgiving ritual is over. The turkey leftover recipe cooking shows have broadcasted on TV, the janitorial staffs of airports across the country have cleared most of the stench from the wave of travelers using their facilities and post mortem analysis of family gatheings both bland and horrific are being conducted today around office water coolers from sea to shining sea.
I suggest that 90% at least of holiday get-togethers would have been much better for everyone involved if a certain guest/couple or family had been not invited. Why does it alwasy seem like the sappiest, most naive relatives are the ones who make out the guest lists?
I wager that in the case of 90% of the events that defied the odds and went well, close to 100% of the heartfelt pledges to stay in touch have already been forgotten. Some clans are really, really good at being phony. They love saying warm things they'll never have to live up to.
Are you one of those people who brags about believing in talking straight? Telling it like it is? If so, be aware that if you lived up to your principles you probably were one of the heels at your family gathering. Honest people at these shindigs are talked about behind their backs right up through Christmas day. Honesty = raising hell.
They want to hear "Oh I love the sweater you bought me last Christmas"
and "it's ok if the turkey is a little red close to the bone" and "what an exciting football game" and "we need to get together more often" and "it's too bad so and so is not here" (this line inevitably leads into a fine toothed examination of so and so's life and behavior by the assembled perfect people).
If you had a suckass time last Thursday and are ready to admit it at least to yourself, you still have plenty of time to alter your Xmas plans. If you look back over the family holidays of your lifetime, even if you're only 20 or so it will be abundantly clear that the same old cranks and control freaks ruin the day for the rest of the people there. They do this by imposing their morals, their viewpoints socially ( and even politically ) and their idea of how the event should be conducted on everyone else. This means prayers at their whim, seperate sleeping accomodations for unmarried family members, career advice administered publicly around the table, dress codes, special rules dictated to homosexual, race mixing couple and vegetarian family members, etc, etc. etc.
The asshole relative who lays down the law for these holidays is issued a license to fuck up everyones day over and over and over and over due to the fact that memories are short; if another holiday were held in January the mental scars would be fresh enough that more folks would put their foot down. Despite a very common tendancy for wussy relatives to claim so, these dominaters NEVER mellow with age. They are allowed to fuck things up year after year after year.
Thee Whiskey Rebel has declared that the best solution for dealing with a bossy, depressing asshole relative at holiday time is simply this: THEY ARE UNINVITED. If the holiday gala is usually held in their home, pretend they died a few months ago...hold it somewhere else! The important thing is, DON'T BACK DOWN! GIve them a year or two to think about how it feels to be the one bossed around and treated like shit and eventually give them a chance to attend a gathering on their sworn honor to all in attendance not to be fucking judgemental, busybody dickheads.
Do you have the balls to try this in your family? I wanna know.
Or are you gonna keep bending over for these pricks, submitting to their insanity and power trip, setting a poor example to your own kids I might add.
Xmas is 4 weeks away...WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO??????
11/28/08
Damn, we had a great time seeing Wayne the train Hancock play on Thanksgiving night. Wayne seems like an emotional performer. He is really plugged into the audience; he has to be, he calls the songs out one by one as opposed to a setlist and nods at guys to take solos. The band was less experienced overall in terns of playing with him and together than some of the overwhelming, crackerjack lineups he's brought to the Continental club stage. There was even a song that had to be restarted a couple times. He made up for any momentary inaccuracies by playing a combination of a slew of songs from a new lp he just recorded and old favorites.
Compared to other times we've seen him he seemed irreverant and a tad bit in a wacky mood. He and the band worked their fannies off. At 2:00 a.m. (the drinking authority witching hour) instead of waving goodnight, he kept playing for another 20 minutes. I've found myself onstage in Austin allowed to keep playing past 2:00. It's a good law to allow musicians to keep playing and collect unfinished glasses from people rather than just turn everybody out.
He had fans from all over the goddamned place present. I met two groups from England and also yakked with people from New England, New Mexico and all parts of Texas.
We ate at Katz's Jewish deli on 6th street. It was good enough that I'd recommend it to anybody from back east who is used to 1st class sandwiches. There were no signs of what we consider to be obligatory east coast rudeness unfortunately. We were served by a very local looking college guy sporting a dumb faux hawk. Marla ate a frigging cheesesteak that had fucking mozarella cheese! It was good, but not a "Philly cheesesteak" as specified in the menu. Not at all by any stretch of the imagination. I had a corned beef sandwich that kicked ass. Due to the high sodium content I only get to eat corned beef and pastrami and even pepperoni on special occasions. It's all loaded, WAY beyond McDonalds burger level with sodium. On holidays of course I do as I damn well please.
I was elected for dog walking duty for Elvis and his Wife's miniature dachsund. I've sworn off of telling cute cat stories here, but dogs are another species. The little thing is so puny, I can hold it in my hand. It looks like something to eat. I don't know how in the hell a dog that small could scare a black demon cat like my buddy Dixie, but it probably would. The little bougar is the first and only dog I've witnessed my buddy Mike McNally nod in approval at, probably because it doesn't act like a dog. Even when it's in a great mood it looks wary. It yaps rarely enough that it's cute when it does.
It looks like a little goddamned hotdog with feet and a head.
I'm sure I look really goofy being so big walking the critter with a pink leash. Oh well. Who cares.
Following instructions, after the walk I gave it a couple doggie-bacon treats. I rarely get to eat bacon either; I was jealous. I wonder if the treats are low sodium?
I wondered what our cats would think if they saw me standing by the apartment complex puppy-run waiting for the thing to sniff other dogs business. Even though they'd love to sniff it too, they'd never admit it. I'm sure they'd avoid me for weeks.
11/27/08
Between the two of us, Marla and I are pretty damned good at thinking back and remembering details of different events over the years. We can usually nail what we were wearing, how other people looked, hairdo's, what or who we were pissed off at, what we ate, whether it sucked, etc.
Last night we tried to think back to our first Thanksgiving together. We were easily able to recreate what jobs we had, where we were living, clothing we wore often, our mental states and most other details except a big one: where we actually ate the goddamned traditional meal.
Isn't that funny? Usually people remember their "first" together. On the other hand, we remember all too clearly the year we ate undercooked bird at her parents pad in Seattle (excused in part by a power outage), the year when Elvis was about 8 when during the drive to Eugene to chow down with my Mother I decided that if she nagged or preached at me I would get up and walk out of her life forever. A very weird holiday was spent at my sister's pad near the Oregon coast. She and her man had gotten a notion into their heads to be kind for once, so they invited a family of strangers to join us. It was weirder than the Thanksgivings I spent drinking my meal with lonely drunks without families at a joint called the Chinese Village in Portland on 82nd st. Why was I there? For a few years Marla and Elvis dined up North with her family, whom I would have nothing more to do with. One of those years, she had a really "memorable" experience when her Brother and Sister both announced at the frigging table that they were now vegetarian's and weren't going to eat turkey. Bedlam ensued.
One year that I was alone I found a used magazine store that was open, bought up a stack of old wrestling magazines, layed on my ass and read them until I had eye strain, cooked up a 20 ounce ribeye and a bowl of peas..and headed to a theatre that was almost totally empty to see "goodfellas" for the first time. I had a big flask with me. It was a good year.
Another time alone just sucked; I ate at a cheesy buffet called "North's Chuckwagon" and had a gut ache for 48 hours.
There was always a struggle deciding where to go for Thanksgiving. Her parents wanted to see her (and Elvis when he entered the picture in 1984) my Mother was widowed soon after we got together and she sometimes wanted us and then of course after all the years of driving to suit other people we began to have fantasies of being together at home and letting other people come to us.
When we moved to Philly in 1994 our holiday problems were solved for good. NO WAY would we squander the time and money to visit relatives during the peak travel periods. The three of us just toughed it out alone at home for several years.
Nowdays, Elvis is married and in his mid frigging 20's. He and his Wife go to a big feed in San Antonio. We're kindly invited and we like her people, but after years of having to drive to accomodate other peoples lives and schedules, we aren't in a rush to go back to the big traditional feast bit.
We're going to Austin to see Wayne Hancock's Thanksgiving show at the Continental club. We have a motel room booked and plan to eat at a Jewish deli that is celebrated for having an obnoxious owner. We cook turkey several times per year. We can do whatever we want.
Hell, we could eat pizza rolls and dance naked in the kitchen if we wanted to. We could sleep all day. Instead though, we're going to see Wayne the train and we expect to have a good time amongst a crowd of Austin people many of whom are far away from their loved ones and have nohere else desirable to go.
We finally figured out where we ate that first Thanksgiving meal together. I'm out of time, so maybe I'll go into it next year.
To those of you who are alone out there today, REMEMBER! You're the LUCKY ONES! Get pleasantly drunk or high or stupid or something. Uuurrrppp........
11/25/08
Hey, all you lager slurping huns and other European pals of mine out there reading this.
My buddy MARK (the one who plays guitar for both Rancid Vat and Alcoholics Unanimous of course) is going to be special guest artist between Dec 3rd-20th in MULLHEIM GERMANY at Simon's Tattoo & Piercing Studio.
Mark's specialty is portraits. I can thank him for both my Charles Bukowski and Hank Williams Sr. pieces, both of which I'm very proud of.
Here's the shop website: www.simon-sayz.de
I suggest you call ahead and make an appointment. Make sure and tell him the Whiskey Rebel sent you. Buy him a few beers too if he has the time.
People travel from all over Texas to treat themselves to Mark's work. Now you goose steppers have a shot at doin' the tattoo boogie with him.
11/20/08
I attended the final class of my "4 year" college degree which I began working on in 1975. I've thought quite a bit about the me from back then and the me now. I don't feel a total bond with the guy from back then. I've been beaten down in many ways over the years. I was a natural born salesman. All I needed to do was clip on a tie and start talking and I could sell anything. I had two jobs when I was enrolled in 1975-76 at the University of Oregon. I worked for the old retail giant Montgomery Wards and was also a door to door Fuller Brush salesman. I had a lot of fucking nerve (PLUG! you can read about my adventures working these jobs in detail in the new edition of "Jobjumper"). I'm proud of the fact that I was great at coming up with shrewd, often ruthless lines of bull that padded my wallet.
I'm very private and reclusive compared to back then. I don't even feel comfortable anymore answering a phone without knowing whose on the line.
I was very game when it came to trying out all the sins I had been only dabbling with living with my square parents. I smoked 3 1/2-4 packs per day of Benson and Hedges 100's or those weird charcoal tasting Tareyton's. I smoked tons of weed too. I loved to drink beer and could hold my own considering my light weight back then (195-200 pounds), but man was I a fucking berzerker when it came to hard liquor. When I cracked open a fifth, I may as well have tossed away the cap. I'd try to drink the whole damned thing but of course usually failed.
Now I know of course that drinking isn't a contest and that MORE isn't necessarily BETTER. The only reason I'm still sitting here comfortably drinking every night like clockwork with a valid driver license is due to the fact that I progressed from my 18 year old mental state.
I didn't have much money back then, so when I could afford the hard stuff it was usually raspy brands. I drank a lot of gin back then, which ruined me for life when it comes to the stuff. I'm really glad I didn't overdue vodka back then; I intend to drink it in my old age if'n I get tired of whiskey.
Speaking of whiskey, I didn't have any taste for it at all back then...imagine that?
I had the same philosophy back then as I do now. I spent a lot of time arguing with people though, trying to straighten them out. As a wise, mature man I know that rarely works. Why waste your breath? I really don't have time to give a rats ass what the next guy or gal believes these days. I've learned to get along with folks of various faiths who can keep their beliefs to themselves. I permit people to preach to me briefly one time, recognizing that they may feel it's their sworn duty to at least try to persuade me.
Everybody believes in god these days. In the 70's a lot less people did and I felt compelled to argue with 'em all the time. If it makes people happy, they SHOULD wallow in their religion. It aint for me though.
So picture an often bitter, inebriated guy who sold stuff for a living wearing cheap clip-on ties, wacky glam style platform shoes and tacky Sears men's wear. You can imagine I was a real hit with the girls. Actually, back in Beaverton several "nice" upbeat girls did dig me, but I was much more attracted to weird girls with a wicked streak. There wasn't a lot of that type to be found in that stinking' hippie-haven Eugene. It's a good thing I found Marla about a year later; she was weird and wicked and alienated.
33 years ago I decided to become a journalism major upon enrollment at the U of O. Within' about a month I was talked out of it. Oddly enough, even my few friends agreed with my parents and relatives on this one. They all thought it was a ridiculous idea. I gave it up and chose something else and lo and behold, here I am just finishing my degree after changing it several more times over the decades (I took a long break while Elvis grew up).
Today, I would NEVER, EVER change my frigging major due to pressure from family, friends, my favorite bartender or anybody up to the college Dean.
Likewise, if you knock on my door today without arranging a visit, I won't answer it. I saw nothing wrong with drop in company back then.
I buy things in quantity these days, since like other middle-aged people I've figured out what I like and don't like. The mighty 70's pinball era is gone, but PS2 has nicely picked up the slack.
I've gone through dozens of changes in the beer cans and bottles I love to swill from. I'm not able to adapt so easily when it comes to plastic soda bottles, plastic cars, stale movies with plastic actors and actresses and musical genres relying on sampling and artificial beats. I never, ever suspected that wrestling would become almost thoroughly disposable in my lifetime.
Yeah, I'm probably a bit crotchety. All this green horseshit they're trying to ram up our asses gets me really pissed off daily. If I was still 18 I'd probably just suck it up and roll into the century along with the majority. I'm not prepared for a future with dry toilets and hippies telling you how many bins you have to sort your garbage into. I hated hippies back then too, but I was more flexible mentally about certain things.
All in all though, I've bucked the common tendency of people to become sappy and moralistic as they get older. I'm not all that different..still alienated..still bitter...in spite of the fact that so many relatives thought I'd simply grow out of it.
11/15/08
The new edition JOBJUMPERS are fucking beautiful. They showed up on Thursday. All orders were swiftly processed. I can't wait to see what readers think in particular about the added stories. "Self Employed Saphead" is about 80% about ebay, an institution that like a woman I am unable to completely do without that unfortunately has brought me heavy loads of misery over the years. I know for a fact that what I have experienced is fairly common and I hope some fellow suffering ebay bastards will be cheered by the old "misery loves company" principle.
BRAVO Steel Cage books! It's a really supple tome to hold in your hand for a book that weighs in at 400 pages; perfect to park on the toilet tank. The 1st edition art is gone, replaced by a couple photos. The cover pic shows me waltzing down Market street in center city Philly working on a bag of beers.
I have a good pile of mailers and am happy to work out a generous shipping deal with folks who want to buy "Hostile City Or Bust" too or perhaps a CD.
11/10/08
I've earned a good, no counting the shots drunk tonight (this morning for you). I completed today what will probably be (unless I unexpectedly failed miserably..and there is that chance) my last college test. It was for my correspondence Euro lit course. I wrote 18 pages, mostly focusing on Kafka's "The Metamorphosis" which I now believe is a helluva book. Marla had the day off and picked me up afterwards. I sat in my chair and closed my eyes and began focusing on my first college lit course in 1975. I recalled the professors voice, the color of the paint on the walls and other minute details. I thought I knew it all back then. It took me another ten years to really figure things out and a total of 33 years to now today be a cunt hair away from finishing my degree off. If you had told me then my mind would have been blown, but then I was higher than Cooter Brown several times per day to begin with. It was the era of the $15 lid. I get drunk once per day now. I don't regret of course anything past or present when it comes to debauchery.
Lots of changes going on around here.
For all of you who have ordered "JOBJUMPER" they are en route to us and it looks like I'll be shipping off your orders on Thursday night. Thanks for bearing with us on a printer change delay.
THE REST OF YOU, it is now time to climb off of the fence and order. Yes, for those of you who want more than one copy or to also order "Hostile City Or Bust" as others have I'm happy to make a deal to you shipping cost wise.
We are selling our least reliable car and getting something a year or two old, hopefully one of these new Dodge Chargers. Why? I'm going to try to re-enter the work force with my new, impressive History degree. I want work that is mental, but so boring most people don't want to deal with it. This should mean a government or library job. Either way, there are no jobs involving thought beyond the level of IQ 72 in San Marcos except at the University. My first choice at employer is on the near side of Austin. More on this sometime later.
I've competed for almost two years with my nightly PS2 companion Raymond Cobb who was designed as a relation to the great TY. He has a bad attitude that leads to a lot of emotional quarrels when he is called out. Under mostly my tutelage he broke every fucking batting record in the game. Since he's 40 years old, Elvis came by for a special retirement ceremony last night. We decided he should go out on top.
I've updated to a newer PS2 game and we've created another lovable character. He's meant to be a relative of my boyhood fave Orlando Cepeda. He's a mean dude and will probably be my companion an hour per night for another couple years.
I take my PS2 seriously by the way. I'll never forget Ray Cobb; he's never let me down unlike most humanoids I've known.
With school 99% out of the way for good, we want to really focus on playing some music, both bands. I've got to get a new, simple, personal song writing recording unit set up permanently. I feel new songs backed up in me like a fortnight's worth of turds. We don't have a kid to take care of anymore (he's 24 and drumming in A.U. for us) and I don't have to save braincells for college. I would like to buck the trend of musicians the age of Marla and I who only go through the motions on occasion. We learn songs really fast nowadays and play better than ever before. It's time to go prolific.
EnoughTarzan breast beating for now.
I've really earned an undisciplined "drunk of no dimension" right now and am going to finish cashing it in...UURPPPPPPPPPPPPPP
11/06/08
I've been watching a bit too much TV lately, at least by my standards. I often am asked by people who are interested in one of my hobbies such as music, chess, writing and reading how I have had the time to do it over the years. I usually quote advice I got from my local chess hero when I was about 12 and trying to get better at the game. He said simply "turn off your TV..leave it off and study". I did and I got much better, really fast. When we first started playing music in 1979-80 we found that we'd go a month without turning the damned thing on.
I'm really big on self discipline when it comes to self education be it on an egghead level, a competitive game or an art form.
One of my inspirations actually came from a frigging TV show: "The Addams Family" show from the 60's. The family never watched TV; I can't remember seeing one in their house. Instead they played music, fenced, danced, blew up train sets in a basement, tended odd plants, etc. etc. Elvis pointed out to me a few years ago that when he saw The Addams Family growing up he saw similarities between them and our clan, not just because we're a little weird by most normal family standards, but because they were always pursuing interests.
I'm pointing all this out to rationalize my increased TV watching over the last few months. Sometimes I find myself spending 3 hours watching shows, some very good, others horrid.
I've praised "Madmen" here before. I still love it. I've started watching faithfully the motorcycle club soap opera "Sons Of Anarchy" which looks terrible in commercials, but is pretty damned good. I'm absolutely addicted to any of Chef Gordon Ramsey's shows, which include "Hell's Kitchen" and both U.S. and BBC versions of "Kitchen Nightmares".
I sometimes watch Gene Simmons and Chris Angel's (sp?) shows, but I'm not going to sweat it if I miss an episode.
On the other hand, I hardly ever watch WWE product anymore and I never got into TNA.
Chump Hogan's celebrity wrestling show is incredibly fucking bad; the "Plan 9" of both TV wrestling and "reality" shows. I'll admit though, that I still find myself watching it. Lance Storm wrote a column on his website revealing that he has similar feelings about the show.
Since Tiger Woods has been injured for many months I've found that I'm one of those fair weather golf fans who only watches when Tiger competes. I used to watch the food channel all the time, but there's very little of interest for me there now. I've seen old favorites often enough and they haven't been coming up with anything fresh..just a slew of shows showing hosts pretending to drive from town to town to "discover" local restaurants. All these shows are formulaic and not anywhere near as creative as Alton Brown's classic "Feasting On Asphalt".
My latest pet peeve type of show that fucking really pisses me off are the overwhelming number of "makeover" shows on many channels. The absolute bottom of the barrel show I watched about 3 minutes of was a glimpse into hell; it was a goddamned "Eco-bootcamp" where supposedly normal families (presented as ignorant "sheep") are sent to learn the error of their ways for using needless products like buttwipe and bottled water and eating food that actually tastes good. Horseshit carbon footprint / climate change / green propaganda shows make Hogan look like a creative genius in comparison. Hells fucking bells, I'd rather watch the christian network; at least some of their shows deliver their preaching with a sense of humor.
11/03/08
Obama has been an incredibly effective salesman. That's why he'll almost certainly be elected tomorrow. He got an incredible boost by the collapse and lame duck status of Bush who was never able to get Americans back on his side. He just hung in there quietly like a poker player whose lost some dough in a bad beat and is afraid to get back in the game.
As good a salesman as Obama is, I don't think that he could've pulled it off without Bush's help. I've worked with some incredible salesmen over the years. One guy who sold encyclopedias earned six figures in the mid 70's when it meant something. He owned a beautiful hilltop pad, a sports car and his own airplane. He funded all this partly by hiring sales crews like the one Marla and I belonged to from which he took a cut but mostly by talking to about 20-30 people per night over the period of 3-4 hours. The rest of us knocked on doors for 5-10 hours sometimes and yakked with hundreds of folks and couldn't ever keep up with him. He had an aura about him. When he entered a room he had a similar effect as that of the most charming politicians.
Obama with all his messianic skills is even more effective. The enclopedia guy never used religious schtick. Obama has managed to tap-dance around specifics and get a chunk of the American voters to sing "kumbiyah" with him.
He managed to persuade a large chunk of the masses to forget every time in the past they've heard a salesman or politician or TV evangelist or infomercial spieler use empty phrases like "change" and "hope" and remain convinced long enough to get to the polls and vote.
We all knew back when I was a door to door salesman that the most difficult sale to pull off was to another salesman. Why they can see through your charm; they've been there and done it. Similarly, I was never fooled by Obama's pitch. EVER.
Another example. When I sold air conditioners, I avoided technical jargon and spent most of my time telling folks how nice and cool and relaxed they were gonna feel after we had a unit installed for them. This is a page right out of ol' Barrack's book. Many of my fellow salespeople spent a lot of time talking about measurements and voltage and tried to look killer in their fancy suits and in the end couldn't carry my damned jock.
When I sold binoculars, I NEVER, EVER used technical terms about lenses and crap like that; I always told the customers how much fun my Grandmother (the only ones I knew about were deceased at the time of course) had looking at birds with the model they held in their hands.
You see, Obama never conned me, but I have to hand it to him. He's one helluva salesman right down to the shoe salesman clothes he seems to often dress in.
The thing is though, it's really difficult to keep selling people over and over using these sort of tricks. They catch on. When we had a big day "promoting" the University Society Library" we'd hit the bloody road. We often didn't stay in the towns we worked deliberately. There was always a percentage of folks who wound up with buyers remorse. In fact, the slicker you are, the more likely that when that 20% of people with buyers remorse come out of the ether they're gonna be howling for your blood.
I hope Obama does a great job; why would I want otherwise?
The fact is though, even if he does a good job, he's NOT gonna turn out to be a messiah. The closest thing to political messiah's this nation has produced in the last few decades was the Kennedy clan. Ask old snortin' Ted...he kept his job in congress, but never managed to cash in on the family pseudo-messiah status enough to get it to pay off nationally.
He won't have to crash and burn to lose his "aura". All he has to do is be himself....a super powerful salesman and the clouds are gradually gonna lift for a lot of people. We'll probably have to suffer through a few nauseating months of "new Camelot" crap, but it'll start stinking pretty bad in about a couple years when folks start realizing they're simply taking their orders from another cold, calculating political machine.
What's that? You say he'll blame anything that goes wrong on Bush? Yes, he will..as long as he can get away with it. Eventually he'll have to stand on his own..minus the messiah schtick.
10/30/08
I'm finally ready for my college degree. Part of the challenge is overcoming the desire to have fun and blow off your studies. Old Phil (back at University of Oregon and Portland State university in the late 70's and early 80's) did pretty good in subjects he was interested in, but avoided shit classes he didn't like. He dropped classes at the first sign of trouble and was often swayed by Spring fever, causing him to chortle "what the fuck" and go drink in a park instead of suffering through classes. New Phil has suffered mightily through many humiliating class situations. He hasn't shrugged off his duties and headed for a bar even once. Furthermore, new Phil takes nothing for granted. If he earned "A's" in the first two of four scheduled tests, he didn't work any less hard on the next two.
When new Phil massively ripped his sweat pants on the way to an important German test, he trotted home and back to the bus stop and even though he showed up sweaty and got only a 55 out of 100 (his worst test on Texas soil) he used those 55 points and wound up making it through, whereas old Phil would have moaned "what the fuck" and headed to drink and piss and moan with one of his daydrinker buddies.
The new Phil enjoys a good time as much as old Phil, but realizes that if you're going to spend the time and money to go to college, FUCKING GO TO COLLEGE. DO IT RIGHT, and THEN GO DRINK.
New Phil began this term only needing to complete 1) a once a week Physics lab designed for liberal arts people with grade school level science aptitude and 2) a final upper division elective, which he chose to complete at home as a correspondence course with no human instructor. The class is "The European Novel". He needs to read 10 books and score a "60" average on four tasks: Paper #1, midterm, Paper #2 and a rigorous final.
Against his better judgment, he used a "sex and the city" analogy in a "Madame Bovary" paper that lead to a "75"..a low mark for him. He earned only a "75" on the midterm. New Phil didn't like the picky margin comments by his Professor; he thought it was possible she was a post-menopause crank using an unfair approach that contradicted all he had learned from other English Professors, who usually gave him "A's".
Old Phil might have bailed out of the class. New Phil suffered over a long weekend and busted his ass to write a better Paper #2. This time, no TV analogies. This time he wrote about a book "The Metamorphosis" that made him uncomfortable, but that included as a theme criticism of the work scene in Germany in the early 20th century complete with a son of a bitch boss. Having a pedigree of shitty jobs himself and having actually written a 346 page book on the subject, he forged on. He didn't fall back on what he knew after a cursory reading; he re-read the book and charted EVERY SINGLE REFERENCE HOWEVER VAGUE IT MIGHT BE towards work.
Old Phil would NEVER have devoted that much time after getting a couple disappointing grades. New Phil got PAPER #2 back in the mail today marked with a frigging "93" . He has 3 more points now than he needs to get a passing grade allowing him to graduate and even though old Phil might've just said considering it's his last days at the university "what the fuck" , new Phil will put in a reasonable amount of study time in and take the final next Tuesday not wanting to risk some sort of fine print last minute failure.
New Phil's wife says he is ready for his degree now. He told her that at his "simple" Physics lab he is academically clueless. The class is loaded with sexy female education majors all trying to wear as little as possible. He has to work in groups with them to complete the weekly labs. It is embarrassing for him to admit, but these broads know more about science than he does. Old Phil would have probably quit the class (after tripping over his tongue a few times) because it required group work. New Phil got a pat on the head from his wife when he told her that he USED HIS FELLOW STUDENTS in these group situations, being jovial in a way that reminds some of them perhaps of a grubby, misfit Uncle. He copies their answers down often, just like dozens of "team" partners have been copying answers of his throughout his college days.
Yes, new Phil's wife says he has finally figured out how to "play the game" and is ready to take on the world, sheepskin in hand.
10/29/08
I'm really fucking glad that the Phillies are now world champions. I hope they're boozing it up and running blind drunk in the streets in Philly all night long.
The playoffs were very enjoyable this season, particularly with the Yankees and Braves completely uninvolved.
I thought McCarver and Buck called a very biased series. I don't know what the hell they have against Philly. Why the love affair with the "Rays"?? I really admire their manager who seems like a real brainiac, but thought too many of their players looked like meek little squirrels. I know that Cliff Floyd was on the bench with an injury, but maybe they need a few veteran players to balance their team out. I couldn't work up much of a hate for 'em though.
McCarver was on the Cardinal teams I loved when I was a kid. My greatest heroes were Bob Gibson and Orlando Cepeda, but I always liked Tim too. Over the years we've created St. Louis teams for PS and PS2 baseball. Elvis and I have each batted as him probably 1,000 times, probably averaging .450 or so and this is the way he thanks us?
Maybe Buck and him ate a couple of bad center city hotel room service psuedo-cheesesteaks or got spooked by a scary crackhead. When the Yankees win, broadcasters double as cheerleaders; last night when the Phillies won they seemed about as excited as if they were calling that snotty dog show that pre-emps RAW once a year.
I caught an amusing blooper during the post-game festivities. Cole Hamels was awarded as series MVP a trophy and a new red Camaro. He declared to a huge nationwide TV audience it was going to his Wife, who was celebrating her 30th birthday !?!) OOPS.
The other great thing about the playoffs was the fact that Barry Bonds wasn't seen or heard from. What a great fucking year. Maybe he can be recruited for Chump Hogans laughably bad "CCW" celeb reality wrestling show. Shit, don't get me started on THAT aborted mess. It's about as thrilling as Yahtzee night down at the senior citizen home.
10/26/08
For a few days now I've been moping around trying to figure out the answer to some strange life and death shit I wrote about last week. After thinking I had things figured out a couple of times, I realize now that I don't have the answers in this situation. That's not bad though. BAD is when you submit to usual humanoid reasoning using bullshit notions like karma or faith or other such wild hunches that you are able to convince yourself and maybe others around you have some sort of validity.
I don't know the answers when it comes to my current dilemma...and what's so bad about that? I figure there's a chance I'll figure it all out sometime down the road when I have more data to work with.
I take comfort in knowing I haven't made some idiotic, wild emotional leap.
Having come to grips with things, I enjoyed watching the Phillies decimate the team formerly known as the Devil Rays. I ate a couple big slabs of red meat and am now getting slowly tanked with a clear head for the first time in days.
10/22/08
I just heard an hour ago that my birth Mother died on 10-12-08. I'm a bit blown away as you might expect. I never met her, but I know all about her and have of course met and gotten very close to several family members.
She's been in care facilities for years and it would've been awkward and cruel to see her. I was the first of two babies she delivered out of wedlock. Although it's a common thing these days to accept kids born in these circumstances, this was a source of shame for folks way back when I was born. I know all about her life, and what she was like and loved her from a distance. Wouldn't you?
She had four more kids in the 60's. One of them was given legal custody a few years ago. She quietly moved our Mother 1,000 miles away from the other relatives and lodged her in a facility near her home and of course away from the family. This is one of the relations who chooses not to "recognize" me in spite of my birth certificate. It's her choice. I'm not going to force myself on anyone.
Why oh why did this particular Sister of mine feel the need to keep Mother's death secret for over a week, excluding most other family members?
How can anybody be so cold and conniving when there doesn't seem to be any money or property at stake? Wouldn't you be pissed off?
I don't think I could pull anything like that. When my other Mother who raised me passes, I intend to legally step aside and let her other relatives plan a funeral she would want. I don't consider myself a very nice person, but it seems like common courtesy and won't harm me a bit.
I'm done here, but don't know what to say in closing. I feel stunned and sticky and unable to figure out how to finally mourn her. No, I never met her..but she was my Mother. What would you do? How many shots do you hoist to a Mother who didn't drink? None..or 20?
10/21/08
I've never gotten along with people who are overly shocked by the use of profanity. The worst of the breed are the ones who flip out when their kids use a naughty fucking word.
I think that kids should be taught on a situational basis when they should avoid swearing, such as around touchy Grandparents or other sensitive old farts. If you have a complaint to make about a product or service and you want help, you're best off not cussing. Why? Savvy salespeople know that they have the "right" to end a conversation with somebody using profanity. I have a filthy mouth personally, but have used this tactic to my advantage over the years at my retail jobs.
Colorful cussing is an art form. I'm very thankful that my late old man Bob not only influenced me to read and play chess, I'm glad that he set a good example when it came to creative swearing. When he was pissed off or frustrated or even in an occasional devilish mood he would string together words that I appreciate more and more as I get older.
Bob's cuss words stemmed from his upbringing in Missouri and his years in the army. Even though he earned a Masters degree eventually and taught classes at Portland State University, he never changed his swearing habits. He could quote Shakespeare, Clemens and a raft of 19th century poets. He read the bible countless numbers of times and had a concordance the size of a set of encyclopedias that was loaded with handwritten notes in the margins. He was fascinated by men of wit such as Sam Johnson and Oscar Wilde. He was an incredible role model for the pursuit of self education and overall DIY mental activities.
This well read man, who picked up Latin and Norwegian and bits of other languages throughout his life never forgot his country roots. This was well exemplified by his daily, hourly, constant usage of profanity in front of squeamish Aunties, old farts and church folk even. It's not that he swore that I salute; it's the way he made it a personal form of expression.
Take for example testicles (a word I never heard him use).
If he was in a poor state he had several testicle words and expressions to convey his mood from a simple "oh balls" to "balls balls ba-balls balls!" to "my balls are on the chopping block" or "you've got me by the scrotum" or "my balls are hanging low". If he was elated he'd use phrases such as: "I've got you by the short hairs now!" or "got you by the scrotum!". If he was pissed off at somebody he'd frequently use another balls phrase: "I wouldn't give him the dew off of my balls, if he was dying of thirst in the desert!". He had other catch phrases involving "tools", "pecker", "peckerhead", "peckerwood", etc.
I could go on and on about his expressions concerning farts and shit houses and piss, but I don't have the energy tonight. I'll leave off with one of his more detailed and regular utterances: "That son of a bitch is so goddamned worthless, he couldn't pour piss out of a boot if there were instructions written in neon on the heel!!"
People who don't cuss really are missing out, aren't they?
10/16/08
Look, if you consider yourself a kind soul, a generous person who wants to share with the less fortunate, take the money you would spend to see Oliver Stone's "W" and give it to a needy person.
I can't think of a better way to waste money than to take this film in at a theater.
I researched the early reviews for this film and was disgusted to see how many reviewers making decent money writing for large newspapers and magazines stated or implied that one might see the TRUTH in this film....the true George W. Bush.
Once again for the record, I give him a big thumbs down overall as a President.
That doesn't mean I'm going to suck up to some known blowhard film makers "vision" of him as some sort of Jim Varney rube.
The liberals who will be stuffing the theaters chortling at Stone's creation are the same people who bitch and piss and moan over non-factual films over the years dealing with traditional hero's; I'm talking Republican directors such as Walt Disney or John Wayne.
Disney's Davy Crockett strays far from both reality and feasabilty. Wayne's Crockett is hardly any better. Lib's scream and howl about the nonsense paraded on the screen.
Oliver Stone has never been any closer to my knowledge when dealing with historical figures. Yet, the same libs doubling over in laughter at the "real" Bush in Stone's film don't make the connection.
Just like any grown adult pledging allegience to one of the allowed political parties in the USA should (but don't) realize that car salesmen are with few excceptions liars, almost everybody is suckered by film directors.
Well, NOT ME. And if you have any fucking sense, NOT YOU. Take the money you'd spend watching this load of hippie generation exploitation hokum and give it to somebody who needs it.
Or, better yet..invest in a bottle for yourself.
10/14/08
A man I respected made an absolute ass of himself on a talkshow on which he should have been able to get his views across easily.
I mention this, because as I've stated before even though I prefer McCain to Obama and Palin to Mr. Green Jeans (my codeword for Biden) I'm not wild about either ticket. Palin is way the fuck too conservative for me, but I think she and her family are very normal folks and not dangerous in any way. When I hear Hollywood elitists bellyache about her I get just as pissed off as I did when I heard Ted Nugent make a fool out of himself on Hannity & Colmes. He contradicted several weeks of Hannity attacking the Dem's for their personal insults towards McCain & Palin by grinning and shucking and jiving about his reference in a new book he wrote to Obama as a "piece of you know what".
Nugent is supposed to be a christian? huh....HUH...you've got to be kidding me. I read an earlier book of his and enjoyed it as entertainment, but couldn't figure out just when and where his road to Damascus took place; during one of his tours in which he tread the boards of the stage in a loin cloth perhaps?
Christian my fucking ass. Oh yeah, Jesus instructed his flock to refer to their political enemies as "pieces of you know what".
He then topped himself by suggesting that fat people be sent to camps if they can't control their urges, or have respect for themselves enough to evidently assume his healthy lifestyle.
Colmes ate him alive, shaking his head and getting Ted to repeat his desire that fat people be sent to camps. He remarked "you know, you aren't doing McCain any good here".
Anybody that wants to have their lifestyle enforced by law as the gospel can just go piss up a yogi rope, as my old man Bob used to say.
Hunting? a great hobby.
Meat? I love it.
Guns? I dig 'em.
Ted's appearance on Hannity & Colmes? A pathetic, aborted mess.
As an advocate of speaking ones mind, I hope Ted would understand why people like me would take umbrage at his draconian remarks and call him out.
I'll defend all day his lifestyle, but can't tolerate him trying to cram it down other peoples throats.
10/11/08
You can expect frequent plugs here for the very soon to be in our mitts, expanded and revised 2nd edition of "JOBJUMPER". Man, what a helluva hit the book has been in many households (where folks know how to read that is) on Xmas morning. The first Xmas the 1st edition was out I actually received photos of satisfied readers posed with their Moms and Dads perched under their family tree holding their own copies of my book up. Hey, JOBJUMPER turned out to have a much broader appeal than I expected. I knew lots of scumbag musicians and janitors would read it, but was delighted that it was well received by normal, working-class people. I got letters and emails from not only a few distinguished Professors, but also a couple cops, several school teachers (both public and parochial), plenty of landscapers, retail employees tons of temps, a couple lawyers, grunts, clerks, administrative assistants, fast-food sad sacks and more former door to door salespeople than I could have imagined. I received a jolly email from a former Radio Shack employee (he didn't serve as long as I did..lucky bastard) who advised me that a few years ago a group of former Shack workers sued the bastards for pulling some of the same shit on them they pulled on me and actually got some sort of settlement. SEND ME SOME OF THAT.
For me to write the damned book, I had to relive in detail dozens and dozens of really bad experiences, the worst being job searches. Newspaper and on-line classifieds are still chock full of deceptive and manipulative advertisements that promise money and prestige working for ripoff, control freak jackasses with no scruples. It was more than a little humiliating knowing that relatives and people whom I respect and even enemies could see all my years of suffering close up. Yes, I had a few suicidal moments. What the hell, at least I also "enjoyed" a period of time as THE BOSS with my own offices and secretaries and 3 piece suits and the accompanying 60 to 90 hour work weeks.
I sold toilets for a living, was a frigging repo-man and bill collector, Fuller Brush man, malicious baby-sitter and warehouse laborer. Have you ever had a kid knock on your door to try to sell you a newspaper subscription? Uh huh...I managed a crack crew of 12-14 year olds and trained them to be topnotch salespeople. We road around in my Dodge van 6 days out of the week. It was like running my own greedy cult. It's all in the book.
I met my Wife Marla as fellow employees selling encyclopedias door to door across the Western States. The job was a total scam, but I made better money at it while it lasted than at most other jobs I've had.
The first bonus story (there are 50 more pages than in the first edition) "Diapers For Grandpa" covers my stint working in a warehouse for one of the slimiest bunch of two faced assholes I ever dealt with: AARP. Whenever I see their happy junk mail I still rip it to shreds. I don't know why I forgot about that disastrous gig when I wrote Jobjumper several years ago. Maybe the Muzak piped in for us to constantly listen to there destroyed some of what's left of my brain.
"Self Employed Saphead" is the other bonus tale. It covers bad experiences that still are fresh enough in my mind that I feel my fists clenching just typing these words. It's not completely devoted to Ebay; let's just say it's a LONG OVERDUE double middle fingered salute to the lying jerk wads who run non-stop infomercials about how easy it is to make big money in on-line marketing.
If you want to see my lovely Wife Marla foam at the mouth and get really, really pissed..just mention the Beanie baby loving twats who founded Ebay. In spite of some "troubles" shall we delicately say over the years, I'm still a part time seller and will be offering the new and improved "Jobjumper" in my WHISKEYREBEL store very, very soon. UUrrpp.
10/07/08
A bit of personal misfortunate took place at the chess tournament Saturday. I was playing my first round game against a guy rated very close to my own level.
I was a bit out of my normal mental state due to problems we had trying to set a chess clock before the game for a strange time control popular in Asia that Texans don't ordinarily use.
I'm not blaming what happened on that.
What happened in a nutshell, was that I completely came intellectually unglued at the board, unable to calculate a few moves ahead. At the 38 move point I felt like I couldn't go on, but of course you have to. There are no time outs in chess. I made a blunder and immediately lost a game in which I had an advantage (according to my chess computer).
You don't have to be a chess player to understand. I've seen the same thing happen to skilled musicians a zillion times. The best golfers in the world (including Tiger) can suddenly "forget" how to putt...a basketball player can lose his shot for awhile.
I actually withdrew from the tournament knowing it was pointless to continue until I figured out what happened. I hung around and watched other peoples games and went back to the sanctity of a motel room and drank on it. The answer came to me in a dream that night.
It all started back in the mid 70's. An allegedly chronic drunken Soviet Grandmaster wrote a book that became popular in the West titled "Think Like A Grandmaster". Due to the cold war, it was difficult for Americans to get Soviet books. They dominated the sport, so there was a real demand to know how they did it. "Think Like A Grandmaster" explained a system of calculating moves ahead of time utilizing a "tree of analysis" with branches. One of the premises was that you were supposed to only check each "branch" of possible play once and rely bravely on your mental abilities. For that reason, the book never appealed to me. I'm the kind of guy who wants to double check things. Quite a few great (and not so great) American players soaked up the book and its "tree of analysis" like woodland creatures thirstily drinking from a forest stream.
In recent years the book has been debunked by several writers. Plenty of strong masters and grandmasters still claim to think this way though. Since coming back to the royal game a few years ago, I use a method of planning learned from a couple books by a writer named Jeremy Silman who also has a large following of students. My best games have been due to learning his suggested way of doing things. It's more or less second nature now, but what with finishing school and learning a second language and writing a batch of new songs, I can get a bit mixed up at times over the chessboard. Hey, when baseball players or bowlers lose their form, they work their asses off and get back to where they should be.
Anyway, a couple weeks before the tournament I studied a book of deep chess problems written by a popular Euro GM who uses the "tree of knowledge" system to explain answers to the exercises. I studied the book for many hours, not thinking it was going to do me any harm to do so. During that horrible game Saturday, The GODDAMNED tree of analysis fell over and knocked me on my thick head. As I lay outstretched, a birdie that had been perched on a branch dropped a payload of poop on my noggin. It twittered at my misery. "Think like a grandmaster" my fanny.
That's why I found myself like a deer in the headlights wondering what to do.
I bring this up not only because I think in a way it's funny, but in hope that those of you who do something mental in your own lives be it play guitar or dick around like a pudpulling jackass with sudoku might benefit from it.
The moral is that when you fuck up, rather than making lame excuses, try to figure out what went wrong and get back to the basics of what you know is right. ACCEPT RESPONSIBILITY. That's the only way you are going to get better or get back to what was once familiar and programmed in your head. Whether you shoot pool or toss dried buffalo turds, this is what you need to do.
Don't just shrug it off and mumble "Whiskey Rebel's writing about chess again..YAWN" Apply it to your stinking endeavors whatever they may be. UUurrrpppPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP... I should be charging money for this type of advice.....
10/02/08
I'm playing in a chess tournament down in San Antonio this weekend; the Octoberfest Open. I'll do what I can. I wish I had more time to study, but when it comes to chess there is never enough time. No excuses, I'll go there with the intention of fighting every goddamned game and see what happens.
I'm not sure when I mentioned the Phillies last here. Elvis and I (and Marla too) never have shifted our baseball allegiances to Texas teams. We're thrilled with Hostile city's finest. We really did tough it out for many years during the mid to late 90's never completely giving up on the team. We attended a damned load of games when they weren't anywhere near being able to contend. I take every Philly victory and loss from this point on in the post season personally. It looks like they will be advancing (knock on wood) to the next round to play the Dodgers whom we once also rooted for when we lived in L.A.
As much as I love broadcaster Vin Scully, a true gentleman of the game, if he leaves the safety of the press box in Philly I hope the Philly fanatic kicks him in the scrotum..ruining those luscious pipes for good. They need to get down and dirty and slug their way into another world series.
Speaking of Philly, when I hung out with thee Cosmic Commander at the Antiseen 25th Anti-versary folks lined up to have their pictures taken with us.
No, we've no heat with him down here in Texas. I was impressed to see that he's sporting a complete set of gold teeth now. He's a nazi deathcamp commandants dream. We won't allow his death and de-toothing however. He's been voted into the hall of fame for our band and we'll back him up. UUrrppppp.......
09/30/08
Marla thoughtfully worked on updating the web site a bit today. You can click on the NEW cover of "JOBJUMPER" and read an excerpt.
I would say pardon the grammar and typos (since I know a bit better now) but the truth of the book is that it was written by a guy (me) in the wee hours of the morning when he should have been sleeping and resting for his crappy 40 hour job.
Who will most likely enjoy "Jobjumper"? Judging by the feedback from the first edition, certainly people who have worked crappy jobs who also like to read. I was honored to learn over the years that many folks who don't ordinarily like to read really got into the book.
Who will be most likely to hate "Jobjumper"?
Folks who really know how to "play the game" in the workplace.
Also, people with large emotional and financial support systems from upper middle-class families tend to think it's all a pack of lies that grunts like me would be screwed over by bosses (whom are in many cases their relatives).
Example: I presented a cleaned up version of the Radio Shack segment Marla has posted for folks to read to my College upper division level creative writing class. Out of about 25 students half of 'em thought it was extremely accurate and three or four thought it was a complete fabrication; impossible in our society. It was very helpful watching them all pass judgment on it in the usual writers circle jerk fashion originated in Iowa in the 60's.
The working masses don't seem to disagree with the book. Incredibly, the first edition of the book never got a bad review that I saw. Personally, I think I was cut some slack because I'm a long term musician and beer monster. They didn't expect much and I delivered quite a bit if I do say so myself.
I had THE TRUTH on my side..I know it. When you read it, you (as an average working-class schmuck) will recognize the truth and also the fact that I had a series of crazy ass jobs over the years. I was a traveling door to door encyclopedia salesman, a repo man, a toilet salesman for Sears and as a kid the baby sitter from hell. I tried for a few weeks to be a blue collar grunt, I spent almost three years with Radio Shack, worked for 7-11 for a stint and was stationed at the ancient city hall in Philadelphia where I read the wills of dead people. I worked for small businesses, huge corporations and many in betweens. I worked jobs from Hollywood to Seattle to Philly. I managed a run for almost two years in management, sporting three piece suits daily. I also worked in warehouses where nobody shaved very often and we took turns swabbing the piss and shit off of the floor and toilet seats.
If you enjoyed my pal Ben Hamper's auto manufacturer workplace expose "Riveted" or my other pal Ian Levison's "Working Class Manifesto" (damn, now he had some REALLY shitty jobs) you will probably dig "Jobjumper".
If you're a member of the Jane Austen society and are offended by profanity, you'll HATE IT.
All right, enough for now. I'll post subsequent infomercials over the next few weeks.
09/27/08
It's been almost a week now and "Animals Eat 'Em" is still running through my head. That's provided a nice distraction from a lot of horse shit people want to fill my head with.
The phones ringing off the hook with political adds and calls from pollsters. This campaign, which has lurched along for way too fucking long still has several weeks to go.
The dominant parties have said little of substance the whole long drawn out election period. It's the same old canned drivel with the emphasis being on preventing errors which can be converted by the enemy to sound bites with a 50 hour shelf life.
Hey, I'll vote for whomever promotes a law that shortens drastically the campaign period. After a year and a half (or has it been two or ten?) plus of the same old, same old slogans and gotcha's it's starting to sound as plastic and meaningless as Toyoto commercials.
The even more disappointing than usual array of third party candidates this time around hasn't helped matters. What a load of tired retreads and loons.
This extended campaign reminds me of a way too big box of doughnuts shared with others; I've had three and frankly, I'm going to HEAVE if I eat more, yet I see a few knuckleheads still stuffing them non stop into their maws because they are free and available and taste sugar sweet going down. They're TOO GODDAMNED DUMB to stop. Better have a frigging mop handy.
09/24/08
I arrived home from the Antiseen extravaganza ("Animals Eat 'em" is still running through my head) and limped up to the front door. Suddenly my heart raced; what had been going on here in my absence?
There it was..even visible in the dark.
A goddamned "Welcome" mat.
I grilled Marla good. She insisted repeatedly that she bought it at work to deal with the slew of tiny leaves from our driveway that have been getting tracked into our house and are all over our carpeting.
I've decided to take her at her word, pending a very soon spray paint job to customize it.
"Welcome" can kiss my ass.
09/23/08
First off, Happy Birthday Elvis!
I thought I'd lay that down here, even though he rarely reads this.
He's 24 today.
I've been trying to think of a way to write here about my trip with Mark to see Antiseen's 25th anniversary show over the weekend.
I don't want to go down a list of bands that played; frankly, I was too busy to see some of them at all for reasons I'll go into. I was lucky enough to be invited to croon a Merle Haggard song with Hammerlock. They played great and dazzled the crowd. I saw all of Antiseen's set, much of it from close up front. I asked Mark and he said it was the best set by them he had ever seen. I told him I thought if it wasn't, it sure as hell was right up there. I asked him if we could specify actual reasons for it being better than the other performances we've seen by them. He said yes..and lead off with "perfect stage".."best audience"..I chipped in with "best sound" and we kept going back and forth mentioning enough aspects of the show that it must be true.
Of course, we've only seen a fraction of their shows since they play all over the half of the world that will put up with them. As far as Mark and I are concerned this show was the best.
I couldn't see much of many of the bands, because I kept seeing people I hadn't seen in 6-10 or even 15 years.
Believe it or not, by my calculations I believe I ran into about 80 people over the 2 nights whom I pumped hands with and hugged sometimes and posed for pictures with. Two things I want to make clear.
1) A lot of these people are worried at first they're bothering me; Hey, if you folks out there reading this see me in public at a musical show, come on up. It made my year. I can see bands play any night of the week. I can play cd's at home by most of these particular bands, who were hand picked and worthy. Seeing people in groups whom I actually like however is a very rare occurance. Yes, seeing so many at once was mind blowing.
2) I kept declaring out loud at the club that if I drank everything all the nice people layed out on the bar for me, I'd be taking a rescue vehicle to Charlotte hospital. KEEP ON BRINGING THEM UP THOUGH! Let me be the judge. I passed up quite a few whiskey shots and all offers of vodka, jager, etc. I DID manage though to drink up EVERY (!) beer offered me at the club.
THANK YOU, THANK YOU. UURRRPppppppPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP.
BRAVO ANTISEEN...I'll be there for #30.
I'll lay down more here soon on the vicious, suffering bastard aspects of the travel days so you can all have a few laughs at my expense.
09/15/08
I'm really looking forward to hitting North Carolina soil for Antiseen's 25th Anti-versary. Mark and I are flying out there on Friday and will arrive just in time to head straight to the Tremont music hall for the night before festivities.
I'm expecting to see one helluva lot of old friends there. I haven't seen my good friends the Gavin's in something like 6 years. I yakked a bit with Geoff tonight. Their family just moved to Charlotte. Even though they had a horrible disaster by renting a Uhaul vehicle against my advice, I told him I wasn't going to say I told you so. I sure as fuck will if they ever do again. Let their experience be a reminder to what I layed down in "Hostile City Or Bust": FUCK Uhaul. Their equipment is the joke of the rental industry.
I hope there are some Germans at the show (there has to be) so I can try out my German on 'em.
Ich trinke gern Bier.
Ich trinke gern viel Biere
Yeah.
Before I leave town I have to take my Euro lit correspondance course midterm at some oddball building on campus on Wednesday and then get through another Physics lab on Thursday (Donnerstag). The lady who grades the stuff seems to be a cranky old piece of work. I'd better do good or I might fuck up my December graduation. I spent a few hours studying at the San Marcos public library today and am going back tomorrow for more. Cross your fingers if you can manage to remove them from your ass crack for long enough. Uurrppp.
Ich muss deine Prufung machen.
The Physics lesson will concern vectors. I feel better about vectors or for that matter American lit than I do about spouting off about Euro lit horsecrap. The bastards simply whine too much about the wretched fact they must live with we crass, insensitive types.
Whoops....on that happy note I just spilled my beer (aka Bier) Enough....FUCKKKKKKKKK
09/13/08
Since the hurricane path drifted to the East, we'll only get rain and medium-heavy winds here in our town. I saw a TV report that said that about a million people are fleeing coastal communities and Houston. Our towns shelters and motels are filling up rapidly. You've got to feel sorry for these poor bastards being run out of their homes.
I pounded my fist on the padded arm of my chair and jumped to my feet. Maybe it's ok for you folks in other States to just sit by passively while your town is full of thirsty refugees.
I headed to the local HEB grocery store and pushed my cart to the beer aisle. I selected 3 suitcases of corporate beer in cans and a couple of 12 packs of bottles of a couple other brands. Pushing my cart through the parking lot I noticed a sign that directed my fellow Texans to a local community center that is serving as a shelter.
Loading the beer in my trunk I realized what I had to do.
I gunned my Mercury "cop" style car up the hill to our home.
I filled a couple coolers up with beers and ice in case there's a power outage; without power, the contents of your refrigerator gets warm much faster if you keep opening it.
I slipped a special webbed grip holder over a liter of whiskey and placed it on the small table by my overstuffed chair. I arranged everything just right so I can snag cans from a cooler with my left hand and work the whiskey bottle with my right. I added a can of mixed nuts to my table and then went about the house pulling candles and holders from their storage places. I set the best