My sister, Ali, is out stumping the vote in dreary, cold San Francisco, while I am sitting on my big arse watching the tube. There's all kind of good offerings tonite. It's Halloween! There's Scream, Scream 2, I Know What You Did Last Summer, Scary Movie, and the one I'm watching, "House on Haunted Hill."
House stars the delightful Vincent Price who hailed from St. Louis. And it has a star-studded cast? There's Richard Long, late of the Big Valley. And whatever happened to Barbara Stanwyck, eh? The plot centers on a group of folks who must stay the nite in the house for a cool $50,000. They have just met their benefactor [ Mr. Price ] and he is showing them a vat filled with acid.
The flick, shot in black and white, was directed by William Castle, sort of the Wes Craven of the 60's. Another of his forays, "Homicidal," scared the bejeezus out of me as a kid. And another, "The Night Walker," where Barbara Stanwyck ( now that name sounds familiar ) was terrorized by her husband into believing she was sleep walking. Robert Taylor, who played the hubby, wanted to drive his wife crazy or something like that.
And then there's the "7th Voyage of Sinbad," one of me all time favourites and listed on my profiles chart. You can always tell the more smug, er, serious bloggers who fail to fill out their favorite movies, books, hobbies, etc. Unless the book is on the order of "Combining Brain Surgery and Nuclear Physics" by Albert Van Doren or "The Medium IS the Message" by Alexander Putninsky-Van Clydesdale. Books the ordinary layman has never heard of.
"From the land beyond beyond.
From the land past hope and fear.
I bid you, genie, now appear."
To engage the genie, the holder of the magic lamp had to say the three phrases to summon him. Of course, the genie could only use his powers for good. The movie's special effects were created by Ray Harryhausen. Included were one-eyed cyclops, a fire-breathing dragon, giant birds, and skeleton warriors. Ray also did the sp. effects for "20 Million Miles To Earth" and "Clash of the Titans," which starred Harry Hamlin, late of L.A. Law.
Other movies frightened me as a kid. The Leech Woman, The Alligator People, and one of the scariest: "Strait Jacket" with Joan Crawford ( before she became the CEO of Pepsi ( please see "Mommie Dearest" )) and Diane Baker. On Joan's return home from a stay in the looney bin, the townsfolk in her sleepy hamlet begin losing their heads, allah her character who beheads her cheating husband at the first of the film.
Well, the House on Haunted Hill just concluded. Vincent Price got his come-uppance. And his scheming wife....ditto. They were in cahoots. ( pun unintended ) Next is "The Haunting." Damn, that also scared the bejeezus out of me back in the day. Not the computer-animated remake of a few years ago. The latter [ computer-animated ] hold no candle to the classics from yesteryear. The new ones: sKerry, smerry. Which brings us back to Ali, my ultra left-wing sister.
She is waiting with baited breath as to the outcome of Tuesday's election. I feel for her safety if her man doesn't win. Myself? I'll be content to watch another macabre journey to the center of the mind, the mind, the mind.... ( apologies to the Amboy Dukes featuring Ted Nugent )
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Because the Packers beat the Redskins ( not Morisson's potatoes ) we'll have 6 more weeks of winter, er, legal ramifications out the kazoo. And disenfranchised voters, and.....
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Ponders the Pond
What a day! Tomorrow's Halloween but the kiddies are celebrating today. And they were celebrating yesterday. What lucky kids! And when it's time to tally the booty ( her big breasts were accentuated by the tight sweater given to her by vee-sorry, wrong post ) the rowdy youngsters take their treasures to an x-ray machine. Which filters out the razor blades and the like. Ah, 2004. They don't make 'em like they used to.
When we were kids I don't recall being terrorized by the outside world. Sure, there were old farts who wouldn't answer the door. And some would give you the cheapest of candies. But for the most part you could eat your treats in peace. Not any more, eh?
And today Osama bin Laden made his presence felt. Because the pondered pond spent his whole day at H.W. , ( Hell Whole-my employment venue and acronym) I wasn't privy to the spins which shirley followed.
I read Hoots impassioned soliloquy, which was impressive, and must agree with his final analysis-I'll be glad when this shit ( pardon my freedom fries ) is over.
And in San Fran, my sister, Ali, ( pronounced Alley ) is pounding the beat for potential voters.
On a somber note, I'm thinking of suing Tricor Industries or my local pharmacy. Thought old-timers disease was catching-up to me but seems my consumer advisory has been missing off the bottle. "May cause dizziness" is the warning. And all this time, while teetering on ladders and losing my balance sometimes, it was the freakin' medicine all along. Go figga, mon trigga.
And Rockhead, take a number. File a lawsuit, allah vee, if your son doesn't get to vote.
And the Pond will view tomorrow's game with the Redskins ( how insensitive? ) and Packers as must-vee-cee-viewing. ( tip provided by Mr. Anonymous )
Well, it's all hallows eve or something like that in the a.m. ( The all day sucker protruded from her lips, as vee fondled her bushy bushy blonde hairdo-sorry, wrong post again. ) And the spin masters will be out in force, as well.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. There will be no postscripts tonite due to the bewitching hour. ( apologies to Liz Montgomery ) On second thought, this will conclude Ponders the Pond Volume I.
When we were kids I don't recall being terrorized by the outside world. Sure, there were old farts who wouldn't answer the door. And some would give you the cheapest of candies. But for the most part you could eat your treats in peace. Not any more, eh?
And today Osama bin Laden made his presence felt. Because the pondered pond spent his whole day at H.W. , ( Hell Whole-my employment venue and acronym) I wasn't privy to the spins which shirley followed.
I read Hoots impassioned soliloquy, which was impressive, and must agree with his final analysis-I'll be glad when this shit ( pardon my freedom fries ) is over.
And in San Fran, my sister, Ali, ( pronounced Alley ) is pounding the beat for potential voters.
On a somber note, I'm thinking of suing Tricor Industries or my local pharmacy. Thought old-timers disease was catching-up to me but seems my consumer advisory has been missing off the bottle. "May cause dizziness" is the warning. And all this time, while teetering on ladders and losing my balance sometimes, it was the freakin' medicine all along. Go figga, mon trigga.
And Rockhead, take a number. File a lawsuit, allah vee, if your son doesn't get to vote.
And the Pond will view tomorrow's game with the Redskins ( how insensitive? ) and Packers as must-vee-cee-viewing. ( tip provided by Mr. Anonymous )
Well, it's all hallows eve or something like that in the a.m. ( The all day sucker protruded from her lips, as vee fondled her bushy bushy blonde hairdo-sorry, wrong post again. ) And the spin masters will be out in force, as well.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. There will be no postscripts tonite due to the bewitching hour. ( apologies to Liz Montgomery ) On second thought, this will conclude Ponders the Pond Volume I.
Friday, October 29, 2004
Issues Smissues
It will soon be Tuesday. The hype will be over. The president will be crowned. It will be over.
And we will all be able to sit back and relax and get on with our lives. The newly elected John Kerry or the incumbent, George W., will take control or resume control. Yeah, RIGHT.
Too many people are "getting into" this thing and won't let it lie/die. Shirley, there will be lawsuits out the kazoo if Kerry loses. If George W. loses, "he will just go away." ( apologies to the "Weakest Link" game show. ) His chances of overturning the election via the courts would be the same as the proverbial sno-cone in Hades.
My sister in windy San Fran is doing her part. Guided by her idol, Michael Moore, she recently signed-up 30 homeless, er, urban outdoorsmen to franchise the vote. Right on, Sis!
Tuesday should be quite a day. If the Bosox can win the World Series after eighty- six
years, finally quayleing, er, quelling the curse of the Bambino, then anything's possible.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. And as the Stones once said, "Lose your dreams and you will lose your mind." So go for it you obsessed political pundits.
P.S.S. A tip of the cat to the anoymous blogger who keeps plugging my sight. May the force [ synchronicity ] be with you!
And we will all be able to sit back and relax and get on with our lives. The newly elected John Kerry or the incumbent, George W., will take control or resume control. Yeah, RIGHT.
Too many people are "getting into" this thing and won't let it lie/die. Shirley, there will be lawsuits out the kazoo if Kerry loses. If George W. loses, "he will just go away." ( apologies to the "Weakest Link" game show. ) His chances of overturning the election via the courts would be the same as the proverbial sno-cone in Hades.
My sister in windy San Fran is doing her part. Guided by her idol, Michael Moore, she recently signed-up 30 homeless, er, urban outdoorsmen to franchise the vote. Right on, Sis!
Tuesday should be quite a day. If the Bosox can win the World Series after eighty- six
years, finally quayleing, er, quelling the curse of the Bambino, then anything's possible.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. And as the Stones once said, "Lose your dreams and you will lose your mind." So go for it you obsessed political pundits.
P.S.S. A tip of the cat to the anoymous blogger who keeps plugging my sight. May the force [ synchronicity ] be with you!
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Hit Me!
An old friend of mine is mentioned frequently in my forays. He will remain nameless in this one, however, because his blog is outdistancing mine by a long shot. Golden Pond has barely received 200 hits while the anonymouster is quickly seeking a grand.
The nameless blog is politically oriented but also has interesting tidbits about Starbucks and the writer's heart, which sometimes has limits on its space, and preachers who cuss. But mainly it's about Kurds, Iraq, Tony Blair, James Lileks, and John Kerry. And podcasting. Huh? As recently chronicled, the Pond barely knows how to copy and paste. So what's a blogger to do? ( apologies to Jiff )
A new name, maybe? Spicy Golden Pond, perhaps. Where we try a different angle.
The beautiful blonde is mesmerized by Vee Cee, the hunk of all hunks. "How can I please you, Vee?" They had just met in a singles bar and had returned to Vee's crib.
"No one can please Vee, my love, even tho all of womankind has tried," his hand gently unclasping her bra strap."
"Make passionate love to me, Vee Cee! I will be your love slave," she gasps unable to control herself.
"Yes, darling. I know you are putty in my hands," he says, while gently massaging her inner thigh.
"Vee Cee. You're the best lover I've ever had," she screams.
"It was a blast, luv, but I gotta go," he says, exhaling a smoke ring from his freshly lit cigarette.
He strokes her teased bleach-blonde hair
"I love you, Vee. Don't go!" she pleads as if in denial....
Maybe that's the way to go in order to catch the nameless blogger. Or:
Yes, John Kerry gets my vote by Vee Cee!
John Kerry, the charismatic senator from Mass., proudly proclaims victory in all three debates, as Vee Cee gently massages her inner thigh and caresses her bleach-blond hair....
Farewell and adieu, vee cee
The nameless blog is politically oriented but also has interesting tidbits about Starbucks and the writer's heart, which sometimes has limits on its space, and preachers who cuss. But mainly it's about Kurds, Iraq, Tony Blair, James Lileks, and John Kerry. And podcasting. Huh? As recently chronicled, the Pond barely knows how to copy and paste. So what's a blogger to do? ( apologies to Jiff )
A new name, maybe? Spicy Golden Pond, perhaps. Where we try a different angle.
The beautiful blonde is mesmerized by Vee Cee, the hunk of all hunks. "How can I please you, Vee?" They had just met in a singles bar and had returned to Vee's crib.
"No one can please Vee, my love, even tho all of womankind has tried," his hand gently unclasping her bra strap."
"Make passionate love to me, Vee Cee! I will be your love slave," she gasps unable to control herself.
"Yes, darling. I know you are putty in my hands," he says, while gently massaging her inner thigh.
"Vee Cee. You're the best lover I've ever had," she screams.
"It was a blast, luv, but I gotta go," he says, exhaling a smoke ring from his freshly lit cigarette.
He strokes her teased bleach-blonde hair
"I love you, Vee. Don't go!" she pleads as if in denial....
Maybe that's the way to go in order to catch the nameless blogger. Or:
Yes, John Kerry gets my vote by Vee Cee!
John Kerry, the charismatic senator from Mass., proudly proclaims victory in all three debates, as Vee Cee gently massages her inner thigh and caresses her bleach-blond hair....
Farewell and adieu, vee cee
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Gaffe
The Cards of St. Louis had a rally going. But leave it to Jeff Suppan, the pitcher, to make a monumental gaffe in the second inning. Down 2 zip the Cards were threatening to make things interesting. Suppan was on third via a swinging bunt and Edgar Renteria's double. But Suppan dilly-dallied on a grounder to second-he could have easily scored-hesitated and was thrown out at third, trying to retreat back to the base. Snuff the threat. Snuff the morale. Like letting a balloon go; all the air was gone.
My fellow blogger, hoots, [ Hootsbuddy's place ] wouldn't know a Suppan from a Renteria, a Pedro Martinez from a Tony LaRussa, a Jason Veritek from a Trot Nixon, etc. so we will attempt ( key word ) to explain the game to him. ( provided he views )
Baseball was invented by Abner Doubleday, appropriately back in the day. Abner decided to use a ball made of cowhide. About the size of an orange. A pitcher throws the ball to a [ batter ] who has a bat made of wood. ( see Louisville ) The batter wants to hit the thrown ball as hard as he can. If contact is made, the "hitter" runs in a square around things called bases. There are 3 bases ( first, second, and third ) and home plate, where the batter originally swings at the ball.
The batter must run fast around the bases to score a run. The opposition consists of 8 men in the field and one catcher, stationed behind the batter. His primary job description: catch the ball from the pitcher, in case the batter misses the ball. However, if the batter hits the ball over a wall or fence or designated target, it's called a home run. In this scenario, the batter doesn't have to run fast because he has an automatic run. But he must go through the theatrics of running around the bases-he just can't call it in. Plus, the batter wants to rub- it- in to the pitcher so he normally runs slowly. If he runs too slow, this may be called showboating. And the pitcher doesn't like this and may hit the next batter. With the cowhide ball. In that event, the batter gets a pass to first. But he may get thrown out of the game because he may "storm the mound." And a rhubarb ensues. ( No, hoots. I know your thoughts have drifted back to our once popular rhubarb pie, sold on our pie counters throughout the states, but this term is exclusive to baseball and means melee ) The batter normally wants to "kill" the pitcher because it really hurts to get hit by the cowhide baseball.
Each team of nine plays nine innings. And whoever scores the most runs wins the game. Each team gets 3 outs. And outs can be made a number of ways. Striking out aka a "K." ( 3 swings and "yer out" and you must take a seat on the bench ) Or grounding the ball to the fielder and his throw beats you to first. An umpire decides if you get to stay on the base, because he is the supreme authority on the field. Nobody likes the umps, even the fans, ( derived from the word "fanatic" ) cos they sometimes have to make "bang-bang" decisions. And if the men in blue [ umps ] decide against your team, then you have the right to boo. And you can yell derogatory insults, the most popular being "kill the ump."
Well, that's just a brief synopsis, hoots. That's how baseball, once the National Past Time, ( see the NFL, who use an oblong ball made of pigskin ) is played. The baseball foray is submitted for your approval and perusal.
The Bosox are about to win game 3. Poor Jeff Suppan. What might have transpired if not for the Gaffe.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. The Bosox did win. Up 3 zip. Will history repeat itself. Can the Cards come back? Stay tuned....
My fellow blogger, hoots, [ Hootsbuddy's place ] wouldn't know a Suppan from a Renteria, a Pedro Martinez from a Tony LaRussa, a Jason Veritek from a Trot Nixon, etc. so we will attempt ( key word ) to explain the game to him. ( provided he views )
Baseball was invented by Abner Doubleday, appropriately back in the day. Abner decided to use a ball made of cowhide. About the size of an orange. A pitcher throws the ball to a [ batter ] who has a bat made of wood. ( see Louisville ) The batter wants to hit the thrown ball as hard as he can. If contact is made, the "hitter" runs in a square around things called bases. There are 3 bases ( first, second, and third ) and home plate, where the batter originally swings at the ball.
The batter must run fast around the bases to score a run. The opposition consists of 8 men in the field and one catcher, stationed behind the batter. His primary job description: catch the ball from the pitcher, in case the batter misses the ball. However, if the batter hits the ball over a wall or fence or designated target, it's called a home run. In this scenario, the batter doesn't have to run fast because he has an automatic run. But he must go through the theatrics of running around the bases-he just can't call it in. Plus, the batter wants to rub- it- in to the pitcher so he normally runs slowly. If he runs too slow, this may be called showboating. And the pitcher doesn't like this and may hit the next batter. With the cowhide ball. In that event, the batter gets a pass to first. But he may get thrown out of the game because he may "storm the mound." And a rhubarb ensues. ( No, hoots. I know your thoughts have drifted back to our once popular rhubarb pie, sold on our pie counters throughout the states, but this term is exclusive to baseball and means melee ) The batter normally wants to "kill" the pitcher because it really hurts to get hit by the cowhide baseball.
Each team of nine plays nine innings. And whoever scores the most runs wins the game. Each team gets 3 outs. And outs can be made a number of ways. Striking out aka a "K." ( 3 swings and "yer out" and you must take a seat on the bench ) Or grounding the ball to the fielder and his throw beats you to first. An umpire decides if you get to stay on the base, because he is the supreme authority on the field. Nobody likes the umps, even the fans, ( derived from the word "fanatic" ) cos they sometimes have to make "bang-bang" decisions. And if the men in blue [ umps ] decide against your team, then you have the right to boo. And you can yell derogatory insults, the most popular being "kill the ump."
Well, that's just a brief synopsis, hoots. That's how baseball, once the National Past Time, ( see the NFL, who use an oblong ball made of pigskin ) is played. The baseball foray is submitted for your approval and perusal.
The Bosox are about to win game 3. Poor Jeff Suppan. What might have transpired if not for the Gaffe.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. The Bosox did win. Up 3 zip. Will history repeat itself. Can the Cards come back? Stay tuned....
Monday, October 25, 2004
The Restaurant Biz: One Flew Over The Looney Bin
A few years ago I had a quick stay in the looney bin. Took some vacation time so no one would know. Briggs, my boss, called my first day back. He was on my ass for something already, and I hadn’t been in the door 5 minutes.
He did ask about my vacation.
I told him the fishing was great and that I had resumed surfing, a passion of mine back in the day. “Gotta make that one last ride,” I told him.
Briggs said goodbye and I tried to concentrate on my work. But my mind kept drifting back to my stay in the looney bin. Modern technology is great. The guys in my group ( bin ) were nice. Most were ex restaurant mgrs., some fast food and some from the corral. One group member was an Indian, who went by the name of Cherokee Fiddle. In our focus group, he kept singing “good whiskey never lets you lose your place.”
I made a mental note to remember that sage advice on my exit from the bin. If it worked so well, why was he in here?
Anyway, I needed to get moving and take care of business. It was the day after payday. And it’s always rowdy after getting paid. Never know who's gonna show up. Sometimes the team members call, sometimes they don’t. Too bad we don’t close the next day after getting paid. We could get a professional sign made, put ads in the paper and on t.v.
“Due to the lack of participation of our team members after payday, [ our store ] will be closed every Friday.” The guests would miss seafood schizophrenia. And v.c. basa or catfish, depending on your proximity to Louisiana.
Team member Billy did call to say he couldn’t work because the ants in his ant farm had expired. He was seeking grief counseling. He would call back when the psychiatrist released him. I suggested he call Dr. Myeyes. And even gave him the number. And the # to the bin.
Team member Suzy called and said her play 6th cousin was having an unscheduled emergency operation today and couldn’t work. Some kind of ectomy. The play cousin meant a lot to her and Suzy wanted to be there. I gave her Dr. Myeyes # in case there was any grief relief needed. I could relate, having had my own erectomy problems lately. Thank god for the free 6 pack Myeyes gave me.
I don’t know why I continue to recommend Dr. Myeyes. His advice to me on RKN [ Rowdy Kids Nite ] was useless. And his fee is exorbitant.
Things got worse. The fry cook showed up in a foul mood. Myeyes had suggested AA for his predicament. But he stopped at step 2. He plans on returning to the program if he wins the lottery. He keeps getting behind on the fried chicken. I was tempted to retreat to the car where I keep my 44. I had read that somewhere. Maybe it would work.
Then Briggs called again and said I had made the list. While driving to work I had seen a bumper sticker which read, “My son made the principal’s list at Rowdy High.” Another case of the force known as synchronicity. Being on any list would be a good thing.
“Thanks, Briggs,” I said confidently. Earlier he was chewing my ass for some obscure transgression. Now I had made the list.
“You're #1 on my shit list, Charlie.” he said.
“I’m sorry, Briggs. What didn’t I do? Cucumbers cut the wrong size? Mysterious shopper score too low? White pepper not from McCormick? Potatoes from Colorado? Too many unread e- mails?”
“No, Charlie. You’re on the list because I just don’t like you.”
As Briggs was berating away and making me feel bad, I remembered Cherokee’s advice, having brought a bottle from home for this type of emergency. While Briggs was still ranting, I began pouring the first of many shots, chug-a-lugging them as the bottle slowly emptied. The door was closed ( new directive ) and no one could see me.
As Briggs was going on and on and on, I heard a knock at the door. It was Cherokee. He had just left the looney bin. He said leaving Nurse Ratchet was hard but it was time to move on. I returned to the phone and told Briggs that I would work on my shortcomings. ( it was probably the whiskey talking )
It was good to see Cherokee. I felt bad that my bottle was a shot away ( apologies to the Stones,' "Gimme Shelter" ) but old Cherokee had come prepared. He displayed a fifth of whiskey from out of nowhere.
"Good whiskey never lets you lose your place," he said.
End of Part One.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
He did ask about my vacation.
I told him the fishing was great and that I had resumed surfing, a passion of mine back in the day. “Gotta make that one last ride,” I told him.
Briggs said goodbye and I tried to concentrate on my work. But my mind kept drifting back to my stay in the looney bin. Modern technology is great. The guys in my group ( bin ) were nice. Most were ex restaurant mgrs., some fast food and some from the corral. One group member was an Indian, who went by the name of Cherokee Fiddle. In our focus group, he kept singing “good whiskey never lets you lose your place.”
I made a mental note to remember that sage advice on my exit from the bin. If it worked so well, why was he in here?
Anyway, I needed to get moving and take care of business. It was the day after payday. And it’s always rowdy after getting paid. Never know who's gonna show up. Sometimes the team members call, sometimes they don’t. Too bad we don’t close the next day after getting paid. We could get a professional sign made, put ads in the paper and on t.v.
“Due to the lack of participation of our team members after payday, [ our store ] will be closed every Friday.” The guests would miss seafood schizophrenia. And v.c. basa or catfish, depending on your proximity to Louisiana.
Team member Billy did call to say he couldn’t work because the ants in his ant farm had expired. He was seeking grief counseling. He would call back when the psychiatrist released him. I suggested he call Dr. Myeyes. And even gave him the number. And the # to the bin.
Team member Suzy called and said her play 6th cousin was having an unscheduled emergency operation today and couldn’t work. Some kind of ectomy. The play cousin meant a lot to her and Suzy wanted to be there. I gave her Dr. Myeyes # in case there was any grief relief needed. I could relate, having had my own erectomy problems lately. Thank god for the free 6 pack Myeyes gave me.
I don’t know why I continue to recommend Dr. Myeyes. His advice to me on RKN [ Rowdy Kids Nite ] was useless. And his fee is exorbitant.
Things got worse. The fry cook showed up in a foul mood. Myeyes had suggested AA for his predicament. But he stopped at step 2. He plans on returning to the program if he wins the lottery. He keeps getting behind on the fried chicken. I was tempted to retreat to the car where I keep my 44. I had read that somewhere. Maybe it would work.
Then Briggs called again and said I had made the list. While driving to work I had seen a bumper sticker which read, “My son made the principal’s list at Rowdy High.” Another case of the force known as synchronicity. Being on any list would be a good thing.
“Thanks, Briggs,” I said confidently. Earlier he was chewing my ass for some obscure transgression. Now I had made the list.
“You're #1 on my shit list, Charlie.” he said.
“I’m sorry, Briggs. What didn’t I do? Cucumbers cut the wrong size? Mysterious shopper score too low? White pepper not from McCormick? Potatoes from Colorado? Too many unread e- mails?”
“No, Charlie. You’re on the list because I just don’t like you.”
As Briggs was berating away and making me feel bad, I remembered Cherokee’s advice, having brought a bottle from home for this type of emergency. While Briggs was still ranting, I began pouring the first of many shots, chug-a-lugging them as the bottle slowly emptied. The door was closed ( new directive ) and no one could see me.
As Briggs was going on and on and on, I heard a knock at the door. It was Cherokee. He had just left the looney bin. He said leaving Nurse Ratchet was hard but it was time to move on. I returned to the phone and told Briggs that I would work on my shortcomings. ( it was probably the whiskey talking )
It was good to see Cherokee. I felt bad that my bottle was a shot away ( apologies to the Stones,' "Gimme Shelter" ) but old Cherokee had come prepared. He displayed a fifth of whiskey from out of nowhere.
"Good whiskey never lets you lose your place," he said.
End of Part One.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Strange Things In Each Bite
Leave it to the Chairman of the Bored to come through in our time of need. Only Mr. Sinatra can make things right. And what better way for him to contribute than in a song. The following e-mail has been circulating throughout the internet causing quite a stir. And so it is my duty to pass it along. Sung to "Strangers In The Night."
Strange things in each bite
It's exchanging glances
Wond'ring in each bite
What were the chances
Digging through the bowls
Before each bite was chewed.
Something in its thigh
Will be indicting.
Something in its bile
This ain't exciting
What's that? It's heart?
Told me that we were through.
Strange things in each bite
Two lonely fecals
There were even strange things in my Sprite
Up to the moment
When we perused our first jello
Little did we know
The "guv" was just a call away
Damn ain't this a price to pay?
Ever since that night
I check my food, everything in sight
What a major blight
It won't turn out right
For strange things in each bite.
Ratta Tat Tat Tat
Budda Bing Bang Boom
Zooma Zooma Zoom.
Send that bastard to the moon....
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Bosox take game 2, but the series shifts to St. Louie.
Strange things in each bite
It's exchanging glances
Wond'ring in each bite
What were the chances
Digging through the bowls
Before each bite was chewed.
Something in its thigh
Will be indicting.
Something in its bile
This ain't exciting
What's that? It's heart?
Told me that we were through.
Strange things in each bite
Two lonely fecals
There were even strange things in my Sprite
Up to the moment
When we perused our first jello
Little did we know
The "guv" was just a call away
Damn ain't this a price to pay?
Ever since that night
I check my food, everything in sight
What a major blight
It won't turn out right
For strange things in each bite.
Ratta Tat Tat Tat
Budda Bing Bang Boom
Zooma Zooma Zoom.
Send that bastard to the moon....
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Bosox take game 2, but the series shifts to St. Louie.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
This Week On The Pond
Sometimes you got to get a spark before beginning any foray. And on golden pond ( a tip of the cap to myself ) it is no different. Sitting down to compose earlier, my thoughts and typewriter keys came to a halt. The juices weren't there, and we were going nowhere. So I took a stroll outside, lit up a smoke, and came back with this:
The Bosox made history this week by coming back from a 3-0 deficit to beat the dreaded Yankees. Had never been done in the anals, er, annals of baseball. Imho, the pinstripers lost their aggressiveness and quit swinging at the ball. And Mariano Rivera proved he was human after all, blowing two saves in a row. And what of the curse? Well, the beantown bombers ( gotta love the nomenclature ) still have to beat the Cards to erase 86 years of futility.
Btw, I finally noticed that someone responded to "Another Post About Nothing." Thanks, Snave. It is reassuring to know that others have such good taste in movies. Oh, the synchronicity!
On a somber note, my company is in deep shit. ( pardon my freedom fries, er, french ) Sales in Hotlanta have gone in the tank ever since a guest reported finding a varmit in his turnip greens and sharing it with the news media. Spreading quickly-like an elephant with diarrhea-it was all over town.
We interrupt this transmission to announce the curse of the bambino is rearing its ugly head. The Cards and Bosox are tied 9-9 in the top of the eighth. The men from St. Louie have the bases loaded with one out. Unusual and bizarre events are unfolding. Give it a rest, Babe!
Back to the varmit. The media pounced on the story like a vulture on a carcass by the side of the road. Did any of the savvy media types question the story's authenticity or the victim's credibility? Who knows, but it is doubtful any CNN types peruse Piccadilly for lunch.
Sorta like the presidential debates and the subsequent barrage of frenzied exchanges. It is tiring, so tiring. I for one will be glad when it's over. The back-stabbing, the name calling, the hair pulling, and the disparaging insults. And that's just between me and Kitty. She wants her candidate to win and vice-versa. It would be unfair of me to divulge who's for who, er, whom's for whom, er, who's for whom!
Sorry, we must halt this train of thought for another break. The Bosox just tweaked a fly ball onto the foul pole and have gone ahead 11-9. Cards fans are looking to the heavens. Where are you, bambino? What's in your bag of tricks? Will Boston win game 1?
Anyway, the feeding frenzy by the media is making mincemeat of sales. ( pun intended because Thanksgiving is rearing its ugly head-see catering season-allah the bambino ) Will the stores make a comeback? Is this the end?....
It's over! Boston hangs on to win game one. Will the Cards come back? Is this the end....of the curse?....
Stay tuned....
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. For those unfamiliar with turnip greens, please consult your favorite search engine.
The Bosox made history this week by coming back from a 3-0 deficit to beat the dreaded Yankees. Had never been done in the anals, er, annals of baseball. Imho, the pinstripers lost their aggressiveness and quit swinging at the ball. And Mariano Rivera proved he was human after all, blowing two saves in a row. And what of the curse? Well, the beantown bombers ( gotta love the nomenclature ) still have to beat the Cards to erase 86 years of futility.
Btw, I finally noticed that someone responded to "Another Post About Nothing." Thanks, Snave. It is reassuring to know that others have such good taste in movies. Oh, the synchronicity!
On a somber note, my company is in deep shit. ( pardon my freedom fries, er, french ) Sales in Hotlanta have gone in the tank ever since a guest reported finding a varmit in his turnip greens and sharing it with the news media. Spreading quickly-like an elephant with diarrhea-it was all over town.
We interrupt this transmission to announce the curse of the bambino is rearing its ugly head. The Cards and Bosox are tied 9-9 in the top of the eighth. The men from St. Louie have the bases loaded with one out. Unusual and bizarre events are unfolding. Give it a rest, Babe!
Back to the varmit. The media pounced on the story like a vulture on a carcass by the side of the road. Did any of the savvy media types question the story's authenticity or the victim's credibility? Who knows, but it is doubtful any CNN types peruse Piccadilly for lunch.
Sorta like the presidential debates and the subsequent barrage of frenzied exchanges. It is tiring, so tiring. I for one will be glad when it's over. The back-stabbing, the name calling, the hair pulling, and the disparaging insults. And that's just between me and Kitty. She wants her candidate to win and vice-versa. It would be unfair of me to divulge who's for who, er, whom's for whom, er, who's for whom!
Sorry, we must halt this train of thought for another break. The Bosox just tweaked a fly ball onto the foul pole and have gone ahead 11-9. Cards fans are looking to the heavens. Where are you, bambino? What's in your bag of tricks? Will Boston win game 1?
Anyway, the feeding frenzy by the media is making mincemeat of sales. ( pun intended because Thanksgiving is rearing its ugly head-see catering season-allah the bambino ) Will the stores make a comeback? Is this the end?....
It's over! Boston hangs on to win game one. Will the Cards come back? Is this the end....of the curse?....
Stay tuned....
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. For those unfamiliar with turnip greens, please consult your favorite search engine.
Friday, October 22, 2004
"Whiskers" Screenplay
The following exercise in infantility ( not sure if this is a "real word" but who cares since it's not being graded by any of my teachers at Rowdy High ) was written many moons ago. ( aplogies to the American Indians ) I know it was chronicled in one of my recent posts that "apologies" would r.i.p. So call me Mr. Flip-Flop. It is deserved. But this inhabitant of the pond is tired and not engaged to write tonite. And it has been a few days since we hit the old submit button, so, once again, it's publish or perish time.
From the archives. Submitted for your approval and perusal:
"Whiskers" written in the summer of 2001. A few moons before 9-11.
Scene 1: Young adults sitting around a campfire. On a sandy beach. Waves cascading in the background. Drinking beers. Having fun. One young male eyes a young female. She eyes him back. He wants to get naked. She gets naked. He tries to get naked. She wants to go skinny dipping. He wants to do something else. Girl swims out into the water. He's still trying to get naked. Girl is suddenly attacked by something in the water. Young man is looking for his beer and trying to get his pants off.
Scene 2: Sheriff Labroddie awakens at his house on the island. Only an island if you look at it from the sea. Kisses his wife. Scolds the kids. Gets a phone call. From the young male from scene 1. Young male wants to report that Prissy may have drowned. That was her name-he thinks?But he was drunk. Labroddie discounts the story. Makes obligatory sweep. Finds girl washed up on the beach. Looks like she's been attacked by something.
Scene 3: Labroddie wants to close the beaches. Coroner, Mr. Quincy, tells him that a shark attack is the reason for the girl's death. Paints signs. "No Swimming." To be posted all over the island.
Scene 4: Mr. Springer, the mayor, finds out that Labroddie wants to close the beaches. Finds Labroddie on the ferry. With his signs and paint cans.
Springer: "You gonna close the beaches, Rotino? ( Labroddie's first name ) On whose authority?"
Rotino: "On my authority." He didn't know he had to check with anyone. Rotino says there's a big fish in the waters. And boy scouts are doing their mile swim. He's worried. Springer tells him the coroner made a mistake. Wasn't a shark but a boat's propellers. "They've never had that kind of trouble in these waters." Springer tells Rotino the 4th of July is looming. Might be a panic. Labroddie acquiesces.
Scene 5: Every denizen from Damnity Island is at the beach. Swimming and having fun. Kids are splashing in the water. A young man is throwing a stick into the water. His dog is retrieving. Labroddie is pensive as he sits on the beach. He worries about deferring to Mayor Springer. A lttle kid named Jason runs up to his mother, Mrs. Voorhees, who's sunning herself on the beach. He wants to go back in the water. She looks at his prunish hands, but lets him go back in. He jumps on a raft. Splashes about. Having fun. Young man with dog hollers out: "Toto, Toto."Toto has disappeared. ( Show stick floating on the water) Jason disappears, too. Mrs. Voorhees looks around for Jason. Big fish is eating him.
Scene 6) Damnity calls a meeting. Everyone wants to know if they are going to close the beaches. Talking at once. Chaos. Suddenly a terrible sound emanates from the back of the room. A finger on a chalkboard. The finger belongs to an old salty dog and shark fighter, Mr Quick:
"You all know how I make a living. I'll find this bad fish. Shake it and bake it. Get your businesses back on a paying basis, so you won't have to go on welfare this winter."
Quint values his life more than $3000. Mrs. Voorhees reward. Gonna take more. He wants a quart of watermelon jelly every day plus $20,000. Plus expenses. Springer takes plan under advisement.
Scene 7: Labroddie calls in help. Matt Scooper from the Oceanagraphic Institute. Damnity's fishermen throw chum in the water. Throw firecrackers. Everybody wants the reward from Mrs. V. Somebody catches a huge tiger shark. Everybody's happy. Mrs. V shows up in black and slashes Labroddie with a knife. He's o.k. But she delivers a poignant soliloquy. Tells Labroddie that the girl [ Prissy ] from scene 1 had been killed by the big fish and he didn't do anything about it. Labroddie's depressed. Springer tries to cheer him up. Quick drives by in his boat. The "HOKI." Scooper measures bite radius.
Scene 8) Scooper dines with Labroddie and wife. Brings wine. Wants to let it breathe.
End of part 1. Parts 2 and 3 to follow?
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. The above foray is patterned ( stolen is more like it ) after Peter Benchley's novel.
P.S.S. Duh! Really?
From the archives. Submitted for your approval and perusal:
"Whiskers" written in the summer of 2001. A few moons before 9-11.
Scene 1: Young adults sitting around a campfire. On a sandy beach. Waves cascading in the background. Drinking beers. Having fun. One young male eyes a young female. She eyes him back. He wants to get naked. She gets naked. He tries to get naked. She wants to go skinny dipping. He wants to do something else. Girl swims out into the water. He's still trying to get naked. Girl is suddenly attacked by something in the water. Young man is looking for his beer and trying to get his pants off.
Scene 2: Sheriff Labroddie awakens at his house on the island. Only an island if you look at it from the sea. Kisses his wife. Scolds the kids. Gets a phone call. From the young male from scene 1. Young male wants to report that Prissy may have drowned. That was her name-he thinks?But he was drunk. Labroddie discounts the story. Makes obligatory sweep. Finds girl washed up on the beach. Looks like she's been attacked by something.
Scene 3: Labroddie wants to close the beaches. Coroner, Mr. Quincy, tells him that a shark attack is the reason for the girl's death. Paints signs. "No Swimming." To be posted all over the island.
Scene 4: Mr. Springer, the mayor, finds out that Labroddie wants to close the beaches. Finds Labroddie on the ferry. With his signs and paint cans.
Springer: "You gonna close the beaches, Rotino? ( Labroddie's first name ) On whose authority?"
Rotino: "On my authority." He didn't know he had to check with anyone. Rotino says there's a big fish in the waters. And boy scouts are doing their mile swim. He's worried. Springer tells him the coroner made a mistake. Wasn't a shark but a boat's propellers. "They've never had that kind of trouble in these waters." Springer tells Rotino the 4th of July is looming. Might be a panic. Labroddie acquiesces.
Scene 5: Every denizen from Damnity Island is at the beach. Swimming and having fun. Kids are splashing in the water. A young man is throwing a stick into the water. His dog is retrieving. Labroddie is pensive as he sits on the beach. He worries about deferring to Mayor Springer. A lttle kid named Jason runs up to his mother, Mrs. Voorhees, who's sunning herself on the beach. He wants to go back in the water. She looks at his prunish hands, but lets him go back in. He jumps on a raft. Splashes about. Having fun. Young man with dog hollers out: "Toto, Toto."Toto has disappeared. ( Show stick floating on the water) Jason disappears, too. Mrs. Voorhees looks around for Jason. Big fish is eating him.
Scene 6) Damnity calls a meeting. Everyone wants to know if they are going to close the beaches. Talking at once. Chaos. Suddenly a terrible sound emanates from the back of the room. A finger on a chalkboard. The finger belongs to an old salty dog and shark fighter, Mr Quick:
"You all know how I make a living. I'll find this bad fish. Shake it and bake it. Get your businesses back on a paying basis, so you won't have to go on welfare this winter."
Quint values his life more than $3000. Mrs. Voorhees reward. Gonna take more. He wants a quart of watermelon jelly every day plus $20,000. Plus expenses. Springer takes plan under advisement.
Scene 7: Labroddie calls in help. Matt Scooper from the Oceanagraphic Institute. Damnity's fishermen throw chum in the water. Throw firecrackers. Everybody wants the reward from Mrs. V. Somebody catches a huge tiger shark. Everybody's happy. Mrs. V shows up in black and slashes Labroddie with a knife. He's o.k. But she delivers a poignant soliloquy. Tells Labroddie that the girl [ Prissy ] from scene 1 had been killed by the big fish and he didn't do anything about it. Labroddie's depressed. Springer tries to cheer him up. Quick drives by in his boat. The "HOKI." Scooper measures bite radius.
Scene 8) Scooper dines with Labroddie and wife. Brings wine. Wants to let it breathe.
End of part 1. Parts 2 and 3 to follow?
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. The above foray is patterned ( stolen is more like it ) after Peter Benchley's novel.
P.S.S. Duh! Really?
Monday, October 18, 2004
Paws On Damnity Island ( The Movie )
OVER BLACK
1) Sounds of the innerspaces rushing forward.
Then a splinter of blue light in the center of the picture. It breaks wide, showing the top and bottom a silhouetted curtain of razor sharp teeth suggesting that we are inside of a tremendous gullet, looking out at the onrushing sounds of a restaurant. You can hear a symphony of underwater sounds: landslide, metabolic sounds, the rare and secret noises that certain predator species share with each other.
CUT TO 2) Interior Cafeteria - NIGHT The old girl had seen better days. The lights are dimmed-there is nothing stirring not even a ....
EXT. DAMNITY MAINSTREET - NIGHT
3) The quaint little resort town is quiet in the middle of the night. A ground fog rounds a corner and begins spreading toward us. It fills over sidewalks and streets like some Biblical plague. The fog that has reached Damnity proper is seen only as a low-hanging cloud.
4 Martin Grodie at forty-two, stands rigid, lifting himself from the sink counter-top with both hands. Satisfied, he turns toward the mirror, squinting in the light, measuring himself up and down. Advancing waistline, receding hairline. Gray around the ears. Martin Grodie makes another silent promise to get his act together -- tomorrow. He is the the General Manager of a cafeteria.
These are just the first few scenes from " Paws on Damnity Island." Due to copyright laws, we are unable to reprint the entire text, but here is some of the dialogue from the movie and some vintage scenes:
Mayor Jerry Springer-Vaughn: Martin, I don't think you understand people's gut-reaction to something like this. You say someone found a roach or hair in their food and they'll say "Huh? What?" But you say "varmit" and you've got a panic on your hands on Thanksgiving Day.
And:
Martin Grodie: Hey, Squint, ( old Salty Dog and Regional Manager) let Scooper ( called in to help-he's an expert from the Varmit Institute in the big city ) take a turn dipping some of this shit. ( turnip greens )
Squint: Scooper drives the truck back to the supplier, Chief. ( Martin Grodie )
And then when they see the varmit for the first time:
Scooper: One Footer!
Squint: Two!
And:
Grodie: We need a bigger bowl!!
And the ominous ad in the Damnity Gazette ( newspaper ):
"ALL OR A FRACTION OF $3000 BOUNTY TO THE MAN OR MEN WHO CATCH AND SLAUGHTER THE VARMIT THAT SAVAGED THE TURNIP GREENS IN THE TOWN OF DAMNITY."
And:
Mrs. Kintner is draped in black mourning, and never utters a sound. She lifts her veil, walks two paces forward and spits down at the pot of turnip greens, takes two paces back and replaces the veil, recovering her poise:
( To G.M. Grodie ) You knew those greens weren't safe. And yet you let them stay on the serving line. And now my boy's dread-ing the day he ate them. My boy's dreading the day he ever ate them!
Mayor Jerry Springer-Vaughn: She's wrong, Grodie!
Grodie: No, she isn't.
And when Scooper sees a big hole in the wall of the storeroom:
Scooper warily turns a full circle with his flashlight. At first we see nothing out of place about the hole except that it is huge . But as Scooper travels the bottom looking for damage, he comes across another jagged hole two-thirds of the way forward. The hole is about the size of a basketball, and the wood around it has been bashed and splintered. Scooper explores the hole with his hands, then takes the knife from its sheath and begins to dig at something. Whatever it is comes free in his hand. As he studies his find, his light wanders upward, pointing directly into the dark hole. Scooper looks up....
Ben Gardner's dead face stares out through the hole, eyes and mouth gaping in frozen horror, his skin pinched like a prune.
And:
Beyond them a few feet away, stand Grodie and Scooper, watching Mayor Springer-Vaughn pacing back and forth, sucking on a Havana. He has a newspaper in his right hand. Scooper is sketching on a sketch pad.
Springer-Vaughn: It says here IT IS CAUGHT! Period!
Grodie holds out the two-inch tooth.
Grodie: Mr. Scooper figured its size from this -- it's over a pound. It's also over ---
Springer- Vaughn Put that rotten thing -- (he pushes it away, it slices) Yee-ow!
And:
Squint: You know what I found in that pot of turnip greens? Twenty feet of cable, half an army cot, four brass buttons, a cocker spaniel, license plate, ( Louisiana ) a drip- dry shirt, and a six-pack of diet Pepsi....
And:
Grodie: (nursing forehead, gesturing at china cap and ladle) I don't understand though...How you expect to ---
Squint: This tricks him to the surface, got that? Then I can jab him, under-stand? (goes to potroom, muttering) Think I'm gonna haul it in like a vietnamcatfish?
Grodie begins to apply cream to his sunburned nose.
And the climactic finish when Grodie says:
Smile, you son of a bitch.
Coming soon to a theatre near you.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Not to be confused with "Paws" the 1997 thriller!
1) Sounds of the innerspaces rushing forward.
Then a splinter of blue light in the center of the picture. It breaks wide, showing the top and bottom a silhouetted curtain of razor sharp teeth suggesting that we are inside of a tremendous gullet, looking out at the onrushing sounds of a restaurant. You can hear a symphony of underwater sounds: landslide, metabolic sounds, the rare and secret noises that certain predator species share with each other.
CUT TO 2) Interior Cafeteria - NIGHT The old girl had seen better days. The lights are dimmed-there is nothing stirring not even a ....
EXT. DAMNITY MAINSTREET - NIGHT
3) The quaint little resort town is quiet in the middle of the night. A ground fog rounds a corner and begins spreading toward us. It fills over sidewalks and streets like some Biblical plague. The fog that has reached Damnity proper is seen only as a low-hanging cloud.
4 Martin Grodie at forty-two, stands rigid, lifting himself from the sink counter-top with both hands. Satisfied, he turns toward the mirror, squinting in the light, measuring himself up and down. Advancing waistline, receding hairline. Gray around the ears. Martin Grodie makes another silent promise to get his act together -- tomorrow. He is the the General Manager of a cafeteria.
These are just the first few scenes from " Paws on Damnity Island." Due to copyright laws, we are unable to reprint the entire text, but here is some of the dialogue from the movie and some vintage scenes:
Mayor Jerry Springer-Vaughn: Martin, I don't think you understand people's gut-reaction to something like this. You say someone found a roach or hair in their food and they'll say "Huh? What?" But you say "varmit" and you've got a panic on your hands on Thanksgiving Day.
And:
Martin Grodie: Hey, Squint, ( old Salty Dog and Regional Manager) let Scooper ( called in to help-he's an expert from the Varmit Institute in the big city ) take a turn dipping some of this shit. ( turnip greens )
Squint: Scooper drives the truck back to the supplier, Chief. ( Martin Grodie )
And then when they see the varmit for the first time:
Scooper: One Footer!
Squint: Two!
And:
Grodie: We need a bigger bowl!!
And the ominous ad in the Damnity Gazette ( newspaper ):
"ALL OR A FRACTION OF $3000 BOUNTY TO THE MAN OR MEN WHO CATCH AND SLAUGHTER THE VARMIT THAT SAVAGED THE TURNIP GREENS IN THE TOWN OF DAMNITY."
And:
Mrs. Kintner is draped in black mourning, and never utters a sound. She lifts her veil, walks two paces forward and spits down at the pot of turnip greens, takes two paces back and replaces the veil, recovering her poise:
( To G.M. Grodie ) You knew those greens weren't safe. And yet you let them stay on the serving line. And now my boy's dread-ing the day he ate them. My boy's dreading the day he ever ate them!
Mayor Jerry Springer-Vaughn: She's wrong, Grodie!
Grodie: No, she isn't.
And when Scooper sees a big hole in the wall of the storeroom:
Scooper warily turns a full circle with his flashlight. At first we see nothing out of place about the hole except that it is huge . But as Scooper travels the bottom looking for damage, he comes across another jagged hole two-thirds of the way forward. The hole is about the size of a basketball, and the wood around it has been bashed and splintered. Scooper explores the hole with his hands, then takes the knife from its sheath and begins to dig at something. Whatever it is comes free in his hand. As he studies his find, his light wanders upward, pointing directly into the dark hole. Scooper looks up....
Ben Gardner's dead face stares out through the hole, eyes and mouth gaping in frozen horror, his skin pinched like a prune.
And:
Beyond them a few feet away, stand Grodie and Scooper, watching Mayor Springer-Vaughn pacing back and forth, sucking on a Havana. He has a newspaper in his right hand. Scooper is sketching on a sketch pad.
Springer-Vaughn: It says here IT IS CAUGHT! Period!
Grodie holds out the two-inch tooth.
Grodie: Mr. Scooper figured its size from this -- it's over a pound. It's also over ---
Springer- Vaughn Put that rotten thing -- (he pushes it away, it slices) Yee-ow!
And:
Squint: You know what I found in that pot of turnip greens? Twenty feet of cable, half an army cot, four brass buttons, a cocker spaniel, license plate, ( Louisiana ) a drip- dry shirt, and a six-pack of diet Pepsi....
And:
Grodie: (nursing forehead, gesturing at china cap and ladle) I don't understand though...How you expect to ---
Squint: This tricks him to the surface, got that? Then I can jab him, under-stand? (goes to potroom, muttering) Think I'm gonna haul it in like a vietnamcatfish?
Grodie begins to apply cream to his sunburned nose.
And the climactic finish when Grodie says:
Smile, you son of a bitch.
Coming soon to a theatre near you.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Not to be confused with "Paws" the 1997 thriller!
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Another Post About Nothing
A tip of the cap to Seinfeld, whose founder and creator claimed his television show ( see the vast wasteland ) was "a show about nothing."
We're struggling here on the Pond to come up with subject matter for tonite's foray. We do have an idea in the think tank, but it could be arduous and tiring, so we''ll wait for a pregnant pause ( good nite's sleep ) before proceeding.
Plus the Yankees are beating the Bosox at present ( 4-3 in the top of the eighth ) and on TCM, one of my favourite movies ( The Thing ) is playing, circa 1951. The flick was shot in glorious black and white and takes place on the frozen tundra of Antarctica. It stars James Arness before he became Marshal Dillon. And character actor Kenneth Tobey co-stars, who once played one of the villains in "Billy Jack." One tin soldier rides away, eh?
So you can see the dilemma. Watch the ball game ( we all know the curse of the bambino will intercede ) ; watch the Thing ( Mr. Arness plays an alien carrot from outer space and he ain't friendly ) ; or begin work on my new project.
Well, Mariano Rivera, best post season pitcher in history, is strutting himself to the mound; The Thing just thawed out and is wreaking havoc on the ice; and I'm pooped. So here's your obligatory:
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. And thanks to Rockhead for perusing the pond. Party on dude!
P.S.S. "The Thing" is also known as "The Thing From Another World." Go figger, mon trigger.
We're struggling here on the Pond to come up with subject matter for tonite's foray. We do have an idea in the think tank, but it could be arduous and tiring, so we''ll wait for a pregnant pause ( good nite's sleep ) before proceeding.
Plus the Yankees are beating the Bosox at present ( 4-3 in the top of the eighth ) and on TCM, one of my favourite movies ( The Thing ) is playing, circa 1951. The flick was shot in glorious black and white and takes place on the frozen tundra of Antarctica. It stars James Arness before he became Marshal Dillon. And character actor Kenneth Tobey co-stars, who once played one of the villains in "Billy Jack." One tin soldier rides away, eh?
So you can see the dilemma. Watch the ball game ( we all know the curse of the bambino will intercede ) ; watch the Thing ( Mr. Arness plays an alien carrot from outer space and he ain't friendly ) ; or begin work on my new project.
Well, Mariano Rivera, best post season pitcher in history, is strutting himself to the mound; The Thing just thawed out and is wreaking havoc on the ice; and I'm pooped. So here's your obligatory:
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. And thanks to Rockhead for perusing the pond. Party on dude!
P.S.S. "The Thing" is also known as "The Thing From Another World." Go figger, mon trigger.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Leave It To Hoots
Before beginning, thanks to the hootster ( my coined affectionate term,created in the not-so-distant back in the day ) for congratulating me on 100 hits to the Pond. I am riding his coattails, cos he so graciously advertises my blog on his blog. Eye blog ( no relation to CBS, the network ) , you blog, he, she, it blogs. And Hootsbuddy's Place is becoming the "in" place to be.
The hootster has to be one of the smartest life forms on planet Earth. Shirley, he takes a backseat to no one on any subject. Well, he did admit he knows nothing about sports.
Speaking of which-sorry hoots-the Yankees are pummelling the Bosox as we speak. If the outcome stays the same, the curse of the bambino lives on. ( the current score is 13-6 )
I continue to digress-sorry hoots. ESPN Classic had a great biography on Joe DiMaggio the other nite. When the song "Mrs. Robinson" first appeared on the scene, Joltin' Joe considered suing Simon and Garfunkel, thinking old Tom and Jerry were poking fun at him.
Well, old Joe became a cause celebre, again, overnite. And parlayed the fame into a "Mr. Coffee" gig. They also told of his love for Marilyn Monroe and his disdain for Robert, not John, Kennedy. Seems Joe was a loner kind of guy. One of his favorite pasttimes ( pun unintended ) was to rent a hotel room for the day so he could watch the boob tube .
The Yankee Clipper was married to the blonde bombshell for only 9 months. His agenda: he wanted her to stay home, cook dinner, clean house, make babies, etc. And M.M. wouldn't be a party to it. She balked! ( pun intention left to the discretion of the reader ) But when she died, old Joe was there handling the funeral arrangements.
And they talked about his hits record ( 56 in a row ) which earned him icon status amongst the American public during the early winds of World War II. Great story, especially for a baseball fan. I was eating it up with a spoon.
But back to hoots. Shirley, he is da man and one of the more intelligent life forces, well-versed on any subject matter sans sports. Keep up the good work, Hootster.
Farewell and adieu, v.c., your irreverent host
P.S. Look who's in the crowd at Fenway Park. Author extraordinaire, known for penning "Carrie," "Cujo," and "Shawshank Redemption." Yes, Stephen King. A Bosox fan? Go figger, mon trigger.
The hootster has to be one of the smartest life forms on planet Earth. Shirley, he takes a backseat to no one on any subject. Well, he did admit he knows nothing about sports.
Speaking of which-sorry hoots-the Yankees are pummelling the Bosox as we speak. If the outcome stays the same, the curse of the bambino lives on. ( the current score is 13-6 )
I continue to digress-sorry hoots. ESPN Classic had a great biography on Joe DiMaggio the other nite. When the song "Mrs. Robinson" first appeared on the scene, Joltin' Joe considered suing Simon and Garfunkel, thinking old Tom and Jerry were poking fun at him.
Well, old Joe became a cause celebre, again, overnite. And parlayed the fame into a "Mr. Coffee" gig. They also told of his love for Marilyn Monroe and his disdain for Robert, not John, Kennedy. Seems Joe was a loner kind of guy. One of his favorite pasttimes ( pun unintended ) was to rent a hotel room for the day so he could watch the boob tube .
The Yankee Clipper was married to the blonde bombshell for only 9 months. His agenda: he wanted her to stay home, cook dinner, clean house, make babies, etc. And M.M. wouldn't be a party to it. She balked! ( pun intention left to the discretion of the reader ) But when she died, old Joe was there handling the funeral arrangements.
And they talked about his hits record ( 56 in a row ) which earned him icon status amongst the American public during the early winds of World War II. Great story, especially for a baseball fan. I was eating it up with a spoon.
But back to hoots. Shirley, he is da man and one of the more intelligent life forces, well-versed on any subject matter sans sports. Keep up the good work, Hootster.
Farewell and adieu, v.c., your irreverent host
P.S. Look who's in the crowd at Fenway Park. Author extraordinaire, known for penning "Carrie," "Cujo," and "Shawshank Redemption." Yes, Stephen King. A Bosox fan? Go figger, mon trigger.
Friday, October 15, 2004
Perusing The Pond Revisited
It's time to invent some new tag-lines and trademarks;the old ones have run their course. You may now disembowel, er, disembark the nite train has served me well. But all good things must pass ( apologies to George Harrison, the shy Beatle back in the day ) Speaking of which, "apologies to" must rest in peace, too, allah the nite train.
And then there's apollo g's, a reference to our grand gala, circa 1998, where we celebrated the purchase of Morrison's, once our chief rival in the cafeteria business. And we invited Jim Lovell, the astronaut from Apollo 13 to attend, played to the "t" by Tom Hanks in the flick by the same name. The g's referred to lunar spacecraft talk, i.e. "Houston, we have a problem." And the gravitational forces which keep us firmly implanted on Earth.
Here's thinking we'll keep the < > marks. Stylish and unigue, imho. A departure from the mundane. The blog recognizes them now for some reason. In the beginning, it did not. And farewell and adieu, yeah we gotta keep that one. Cos it was my first post on the yahoo and the first here. So for old times sake, it's a keeper. ( pun unintended )
And the postscripts have to stay. Seems we can't always finish a train of thought and the p.s.'s come in handy. And, yes, submitted for your approval and perusal will remain intact. Stolen from the twilight zone, allah Rod Serling, but tweaked with perusal so it is somewhat original.
Thus, as I'm perusing my diminishing returns ( see the turnip greens caper ) the nite train, er, the benefactor of Golden Pond will have more time to invent clever? hooks. ( pun, once again, unintended ) Submitted for....
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Due to the length of tonite's post and the advancing time, and the turnip greens caper, there will be no postscripts. Sorry!
P.S.S. No sooner had I celebrated the < > marks enabling my forays, the powers that be quickly put me back in my place. Not recognizing the said symbols. Back to square one. Go figger, mon trigger.
And then there's apollo g's, a reference to our grand gala, circa 1998, where we celebrated the purchase of Morrison's, once our chief rival in the cafeteria business. And we invited Jim Lovell, the astronaut from Apollo 13 to attend, played to the "t" by Tom Hanks in the flick by the same name. The g's referred to lunar spacecraft talk, i.e. "Houston, we have a problem." And the gravitational forces which keep us firmly implanted on Earth.
Here's thinking we'll keep the < > marks. Stylish and unigue, imho. A departure from the mundane. The blog recognizes them now for some reason. In the beginning, it did not. And farewell and adieu, yeah we gotta keep that one. Cos it was my first post on the yahoo and the first here. So for old times sake, it's a keeper. ( pun unintended )
And the postscripts have to stay. Seems we can't always finish a train of thought and the p.s.'s come in handy. And, yes, submitted for your approval and perusal will remain intact. Stolen from the twilight zone, allah Rod Serling, but tweaked with perusal so it is somewhat original.
Thus, as I'm perusing my diminishing returns ( see the turnip greens caper ) the nite train, er, the benefactor of Golden Pond will have more time to invent clever? hooks. ( pun, once again, unintended ) Submitted for....
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Due to the length of tonite's post and the advancing time, and the turnip greens caper, there will be no postscripts. Sorry!
P.S.S. No sooner had I celebrated the < > marks enabling my forays, the powers that be quickly put me back in my place. Not recognizing the said symbols. Back to square one. Go figger, mon trigger.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
I Have A Plan Revisited
Thanks to those who peruse the Pond. And thanks to Snave, the scatologically-inclined poster from Oregon. We make strange bedfellows. You like the Fab 4 and baseball and John Kerry. I like the Fab 4 and baseball and George Bush?
Most of what I write is tongue-in-cheek. And after realizing that my opinion doesn't amount to a "hill of beans" in the grand scheme of things, I decided to go infantile.
My sister hails from the city on the bay and is as left-wing as they come. Her older daughter lives in Orange County and is right-wing but is easily suede, er, swayed by her husband, a staunch George Bush proponent. Her younger daughter-by 12 years-is a chip-off-the-old-block. She hates George Bush. With a passion.
My sister has always been liberal, dating back to high school or even earlier. And that was a rarity-at the time-in the deep South.
My point basically last nite was that John Kerry seems to have a plan for everything. To the casual observer, he would seem the ideal choice. He will tax the rich; he will create jobs; he will make quadri-plegics walk again; he will protect the country; he will straighten-out the quagmire in Iraq; etc.
To each his own. But thanks anyway to those who Peruse the Pond. < Is there a slogan here? > Liberal, middle-of-the-road, and those to the right.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
Most of what I write is tongue-in-cheek. And after realizing that my opinion doesn't amount to a "hill of beans" in the grand scheme of things, I decided to go infantile.
My sister hails from the city on the bay and is as left-wing as they come. Her older daughter lives in Orange County and is right-wing but is easily suede, er, swayed by her husband, a staunch George Bush proponent. Her younger daughter-by 12 years-is a chip-off-the-old-block. She hates George Bush. With a passion.
My sister has always been liberal, dating back to high school or even earlier. And that was a rarity-at the time-in the deep South.
My point basically last nite was that John Kerry seems to have a plan for everything. To the casual observer, he would seem the ideal choice. He will tax the rich; he will create jobs; he will make quadri-plegics walk again; he will protect the country; he will straighten-out the quagmire in Iraq; etc.
To each his own. But thanks anyway to those who Peruse the Pond. < Is there a slogan here? > Liberal, middle-of-the-road, and those to the right.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
I Have A Plan, Too
The Pond is swayed after listening to the debates. I must vote for John Kerry. I only wish he had Molly Ivins on the ticket rather than trial lawyer, John Edwards.
The Kerry Team has solutions for everything. Duly impressed, the Pond is moved. Health care for everyone equivalent to what senators receive. 10 million new jobs. Cutting the deficit in half. More troops to Iraq. Stem cell research! More surveillance at the borders. Minimum wage hike to $7.00. < are wait staff classified as making minimum wage? > Bi-partisan leadership. Less taxes for the middle class. A savior for Social Security.
All doubts have been erased concerning the man's leadership. He is the man. Kerry/Edwards 04.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. I am v.c. and I have approved this presidential foray.
P.S.S. It goes without saying, but we'll say it anyway. J.K. won the debate.
The Kerry Team has solutions for everything. Duly impressed, the Pond is moved. Health care for everyone equivalent to what senators receive. 10 million new jobs. Cutting the deficit in half. More troops to Iraq. Stem cell research! More surveillance at the borders. Minimum wage hike to $7.00. < are wait staff classified as making minimum wage? > Bi-partisan leadership. Less taxes for the middle class. A savior for Social Security.
All doubts have been erased concerning the man's leadership. He is the man. Kerry/Edwards 04.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. I am v.c. and I have approved this presidential foray.
P.S.S. It goes without saying, but we'll say it anyway. J.K. won the debate.
Monday, October 11, 2004
Welcome To Golden Pond
Computer savvy I ain't, er, am not. I've come a long way and have mastered the art of copy and paste. But that's the extent of my knowledge. No flow sheets, graphs, etc. are in my resume.
That being said, my intro to G.P. continues to disappear. I have written the aforementioned at least three or four times. And saved the last one, in case my intro went the way of Harry Houdini, again. But couldn't remember where it was stored, so < light bulb > I decided to just write the damn thing as a post. Maybe then I'll remember where it is. And because it's publish or parish, er, perish time
here we go:
Welcome to Golden Pond, home to yours truly, v.c., your irreverent host, my charming wife, Kitty, and my two kids, Katlin and Charlie Jr. Katlin is 19 and loves to talk on her cell phone and shop in the malls, both activities draining the assets from my bank account, and Charlie Jr. is gainfully unemployed and sponges off ( pun unintended ) the Pond's reserves, as well. Hopefully, John Kerry will become the next commander-in-chief and give Charlie Jr. a job.
We have two pets, Penny the Poo, a pound dog, and Neil Diamond, a black cat, a stray rescued from the cold, cruel world. Our last pet, Atlassie, met an untimely early demise when he encountered the Big C. a couple of years ago. The clan on the Pond, except for Charlie Jr., believes that Neil Diamond is Atlassie reincarnated. There is a synchronistic story behind that, but we will postpone it for another time.
My employment venue is H.W., which is an acronym for Hell Whole. I once toiled at H.H. which is an acronym for Hell Hole., but due to the evolutionary curve < See Darwin's "Origin of the Species" > I have graduated to bigger and better things.
Writing is my passion and obsession. < apologies to Liz Taylor or Calvin Klein > And to tell you a little about myself, I enjoy sports, movies, and taking Viagra. I once tried Levitra but my 4 hour plus erection and the subsequent trip to the emergency room derailed that plan of attack.
I like romantic evenings, a good book, bubble baths, security, and holding hands. < now how did Kitty's profile make it in here >
Well, that's my intro. Written for at least the fourth time. Welcome to Golden Pond. Each submission will be for your approval and perusal. Signed, v.c., your irreverent host.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. We once lived On Pond Jovi, but that was back in the day.
That being said, my intro to G.P. continues to disappear. I have written the aforementioned at least three or four times. And saved the last one, in case my intro went the way of Harry Houdini, again. But couldn't remember where it was stored, so < light bulb > I decided to just write the damn thing as a post. Maybe then I'll remember where it is. And because it's publish or parish, er, perish time
here we go:
Welcome to Golden Pond, home to yours truly, v.c., your irreverent host, my charming wife, Kitty, and my two kids, Katlin and Charlie Jr. Katlin is 19 and loves to talk on her cell phone and shop in the malls, both activities draining the assets from my bank account, and Charlie Jr. is gainfully unemployed and sponges off ( pun unintended ) the Pond's reserves, as well. Hopefully, John Kerry will become the next commander-in-chief and give Charlie Jr. a job.
We have two pets, Penny the Poo, a pound dog, and Neil Diamond, a black cat, a stray rescued from the cold, cruel world. Our last pet, Atlassie, met an untimely early demise when he encountered the Big C. a couple of years ago. The clan on the Pond, except for Charlie Jr., believes that Neil Diamond is Atlassie reincarnated. There is a synchronistic story behind that, but we will postpone it for another time.
My employment venue is H.W., which is an acronym for Hell Whole. I once toiled at H.H. which is an acronym for Hell Hole., but due to the evolutionary curve < See Darwin's "Origin of the Species" > I have graduated to bigger and better things.
Writing is my passion and obsession. < apologies to Liz Taylor or Calvin Klein > And to tell you a little about myself, I enjoy sports, movies, and taking Viagra. I once tried Levitra but my 4 hour plus erection and the subsequent trip to the emergency room derailed that plan of attack.
I like romantic evenings, a good book, bubble baths, security, and holding hands. < now how did Kitty's profile make it in here >
Well, that's my intro. Written for at least the fourth time. Welcome to Golden Pond. Each submission will be for your approval and perusal. Signed, v.c., your irreverent host.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. We once lived On Pond Jovi, but that was back in the day.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
All Set To Publish
You've got to be in the mood to do this stuff. Sometimes it's like magic. You can rattle it off faster than a bevy of bullets from a machine gun. And sometimes ye old writer's block gets in the way.
Well, the latter applies tonite. The G.P. intro disappeared again, and I can't find the file-don't know where it is-which killed the creative spirit. Kaput, fini.'
So we'll have to go to the archives. We'll be write back when we find one of substance. Please, hold on.
Sorry it took so long but here's one from back in the day. It was/is entitled "Bedtime Story." Written 5-28-03. It is submitted for your approval and perusal:
Ten years from now I'm sure I'll have some grandkids. And as we all know, you have to read/tell them a bed time story. Since ten years can go quickly, it's time to get into practice. So here goes. Bed time story 2013, sometime in the not too distant future....
"Granddad, tell us a story, please?"
"Sure, kids. Huddle around."
"Tell us about Piccadilly, again, granddad. Can it include ronnie? Those are our favorite stories."
"Sure, kids. Well, we had just bought Morrison's and we had a mission. One team, one mission. And we had an astronaut at our big gala event. He told us about Apollo 13. And how three men and a team of engineers overcame big obstacles in space, and averted a catastrophe by working together. One team, one mission. Get it."
"We get it, granddad."
"The big meeting was all glitz and glamour. And we heard testimonials from some of the managers. And PIC had gone big time. We were the largest cafeteria chain in the universe. And we were gonna kick some serious butt.
But, soon, it turned sour. Like javelin, I went to a conversion. And when we left, like javelin, they went back to doing things the Morrison's way. And we spent a lot of money. And we changed the name to Piccadilly. And the customers balked, cos they liked getting hoki on a child's plate, and turkey and dressing, and a quarter of a chicken. And jello. And bread. And a drink. And we couldn't understand why the customers < that's what we called them, back then > didn't like our child's plate. Half a piece of cod and two veggies. But they did."
"Granddad, what about ronnie? What happened next? Did he have a plan?"
"Well, kids. Ronnie fired all the district engineers. And then he fired guys who had helped build Piccadilly. Men with many years of service. And he fired our general manager and replaced him with azam."
"What's an azam, granddad?"
"Well, azam became the new coo. It was well chronicled how he had rescued Chi Chi's, a well known mexican restaurant, from the grim reaper. He cut and snipped at Chi Chi's and was hailed as the new messiah of restaurant revitilization. And ronnie hired him. And they sent out an inspirational tape, and they talked about the team, the piccadilly team. And his plan worked for awhile. The stock went from $1.00 and topped out at a little over $3.00.
And we had a big meeting. And the marketing boys were giddy about their suckcess, and they were referring to azam using Superman cliches. 'Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, he's changing clothes in a phone booth, here's our own Clark Kent, azam.'
And he was going to teach us how to celebrate. And increase communication. And how he, er, we were turning things around. And he kept all the pit bull guys, but things turned sour again."
"What happened, grandpa? Did PIC raise the price on a dilly? On drinks? What happened?"
"The marketing boys came up with smokeyard bbq. And we had to have it on our counters for 3 months."
"What's a smokeyard bbq, granddad?"
"BBQ chicken, sliced pork, and corn fritters. And it helped drive the guests away. Then they followed that up with italian cuisine. Chicken thighs, skirt steak, terrormisu cakes, and rice pilaf in a box."
"Granddad, do you miss Piccadilly?"
"Well, I miss the nice people I used to work with. And the guests who weren't rowdy. And the people from the message bored. Clif, bbq, hoots, bongo, a2fay, ditchus, javelin, leftbehindbabs, the card, johnnyc, poopshooter, didacticdaddy, rawchopbeef, pictruandtru, hope I'm not leaving anybody off."
"Granddad, wasn't bbq4u2 the man who wrote the investigative piece that won him a pulitzer? And landed him a job with the Washington Post?"
"Yes, his expose on the horrible conditions of that chinese restaurant won him world reknown. And he quickly became a legend in his own mind. He stays in touch, but you know the press."
"And what happened to ronnie, granddad? Tell us again, please."
"You kids know that ronnie resigned. And that his last statement on the record was 'embrace change.'"
"And, granddad. Tell us again what you said."
"You kids. I said he could embrace my 12 inch pianist."
"What's a 12 inch pianist, granddad?"
"You'll understand when you get older. Now it's time to go to sleep. Good night you rowdy grandkids."
Well, the latter applies tonite. The G.P. intro disappeared again, and I can't find the file-don't know where it is-which killed the creative spirit. Kaput, fini.'
So we'll have to go to the archives. We'll be write back when we find one of substance. Please, hold on.
Sorry it took so long but here's one from back in the day. It was/is entitled "Bedtime Story." Written 5-28-03. It is submitted for your approval and perusal:
Ten years from now I'm sure I'll have some grandkids. And as we all know, you have to read/tell them a bed time story. Since ten years can go quickly, it's time to get into practice. So here goes. Bed time story 2013, sometime in the not too distant future....
"Granddad, tell us a story, please?"
"Sure, kids. Huddle around."
"Tell us about Piccadilly, again, granddad. Can it include ronnie? Those are our favorite stories."
"Sure, kids. Well, we had just bought Morrison's and we had a mission. One team, one mission. And we had an astronaut at our big gala event. He told us about Apollo 13. And how three men and a team of engineers overcame big obstacles in space, and averted a catastrophe by working together. One team, one mission. Get it."
"We get it, granddad."
"The big meeting was all glitz and glamour. And we heard testimonials from some of the managers. And PIC had gone big time. We were the largest cafeteria chain in the universe. And we were gonna kick some serious butt.
But, soon, it turned sour. Like javelin, I went to a conversion. And when we left, like javelin, they went back to doing things the Morrison's way. And we spent a lot of money. And we changed the name to Piccadilly. And the customers balked, cos they liked getting hoki on a child's plate, and turkey and dressing, and a quarter of a chicken. And jello. And bread. And a drink. And we couldn't understand why the customers < that's what we called them, back then > didn't like our child's plate. Half a piece of cod and two veggies. But they did."
"Granddad, what about ronnie? What happened next? Did he have a plan?"
"Well, kids. Ronnie fired all the district engineers. And then he fired guys who had helped build Piccadilly. Men with many years of service. And he fired our general manager and replaced him with azam."
"What's an azam, granddad?"
"Well, azam became the new coo. It was well chronicled how he had rescued Chi Chi's, a well known mexican restaurant, from the grim reaper. He cut and snipped at Chi Chi's and was hailed as the new messiah of restaurant revitilization. And ronnie hired him. And they sent out an inspirational tape, and they talked about the team, the piccadilly team. And his plan worked for awhile. The stock went from $1.00 and topped out at a little over $3.00.
And we had a big meeting. And the marketing boys were giddy about their suckcess, and they were referring to azam using Superman cliches. 'Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, he's changing clothes in a phone booth, here's our own Clark Kent, azam.'
And he was going to teach us how to celebrate. And increase communication. And how he, er, we were turning things around. And he kept all the pit bull guys, but things turned sour again."
"What happened, grandpa? Did PIC raise the price on a dilly? On drinks? What happened?"
"The marketing boys came up with smokeyard bbq. And we had to have it on our counters for 3 months."
"What's a smokeyard bbq, granddad?"
"BBQ chicken, sliced pork, and corn fritters. And it helped drive the guests away. Then they followed that up with italian cuisine. Chicken thighs, skirt steak, terrormisu cakes, and rice pilaf in a box."
"Granddad, do you miss Piccadilly?"
"Well, I miss the nice people I used to work with. And the guests who weren't rowdy. And the people from the message bored. Clif, bbq, hoots, bongo, a2fay, ditchus, javelin, leftbehindbabs, the card, johnnyc, poopshooter, didacticdaddy, rawchopbeef, pictruandtru, hope I'm not leaving anybody off."
"Granddad, wasn't bbq4u2 the man who wrote the investigative piece that won him a pulitzer? And landed him a job with the Washington Post?"
"Yes, his expose on the horrible conditions of that chinese restaurant won him world reknown. And he quickly became a legend in his own mind. He stays in touch, but you know the press."
"And what happened to ronnie, granddad? Tell us again, please."
"You kids know that ronnie resigned. And that his last statement on the record was 'embrace change.'"
"And, granddad. Tell us again what you said."
"You kids. I said he could embrace my 12 inch pianist."
"What's a 12 inch pianist, granddad?"
"You'll understand when you get older. Now it's time to go to sleep. Good night you rowdy grandkids."
Saturday, October 09, 2004
There Is No Space In My Heart Tonite
< EOM >
Back in the day on the Yahoo, you could title a post, hit enter and an ( EOM ) would magically appear. Alas, blogging is different. You have to manually enter the aforementioned icon.
If there were space in my heart tonite, I could continue my foray into baseballdom. Ever since I was nine years old, a young whiskersnapper, if you will, yours truly has immersed himself in the game. Playing, watching, but, most of all, collecting baseball cards of my heroes. Now that was a grand hobby. You could buy them at the store, of course, but you could also find them on the back of a box of Post Toasties, Sugar Crisp, Raisin Bran, etc. Even in a package of Kaun's Weiners.
But my story has a similar refrain that many others have endured. Yes, my mother threw away my 1960 Mickey Mantle. Wonder what that would be worth today? And my 1961 Sandy Koufax, the year he went 8-13. ( that's wins and losses for the uninformed ) And my 1962 Chico ( Leo ) Cardenas. And my comic books, mainly from the DC chain. But that's a different story.
But, alas, there's no space in my heart tonite, and no joy in Mudville, as well.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
Back in the day on the Yahoo, you could title a post, hit enter and an ( EOM ) would magically appear. Alas, blogging is different. You have to manually enter the aforementioned icon.
If there were space in my heart tonite, I could continue my foray into baseballdom. Ever since I was nine years old, a young whiskersnapper, if you will, yours truly has immersed himself in the game. Playing, watching, but, most of all, collecting baseball cards of my heroes. Now that was a grand hobby. You could buy them at the store, of course, but you could also find them on the back of a box of Post Toasties, Sugar Crisp, Raisin Bran, etc. Even in a package of Kaun's Weiners.
But my story has a similar refrain that many others have endured. Yes, my mother threw away my 1960 Mickey Mantle. Wonder what that would be worth today? And my 1961 Sandy Koufax, the year he went 8-13. ( that's wins and losses for the uninformed ) And my 1962 Chico ( Leo ) Cardenas. And my comic books, mainly from the DC chain. But that's a different story.
But, alas, there's no space in my heart tonite, and no joy in Mudville, as well.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
There Is Space In My Heart Tonite
I really enjoyed writing on the PIC Yahoo. But it is a dying institution now. Even my buddy, the enigmatic barbecue man, has bid adieu and hasn't penned a reply in ages. So you know its bad. When it was going strong, I would "feed-off" the various posters/responses and "fire-back" a reply. But with little or no engagement, it is now time to turn out the lights, cos the party's over. ( apologies to Willie Nelson and Dandy Don Meredith )
But unlike hootsbuddy, my synchronistic friend and once-fellow peer, I have space in my heart tonite. It's October and that means playoff baseball And this year there are some intriguing match-ups. The Yankees vs. the Twins; the Braves vs. the Astros; the Bosox vs. the Angels; and the Cardinals vs. the Dodgers.
The Boston Red Sox haven't won a World Series since 1919, the longest streak in history. Most claim it's because the Bosox sold Babe Ruth to the Yankees for a staggering-at the time-$100,000. Affectionately known as "The Curse of the Bambino."
Ironically, the Babe began his career as a pitcher, but due to his hitting prowess, was moved to the outfield. He was quite the pitcher and held records in post-season play for years.
The Yankees have the largest payroll in the big leagues. A cool $180 million. And with the biggest radio/tv deal, they can afford to buy anyone's services. And they do.
The Astros have the "Rocket Man," apologies to Elton John, and a future Hall of Famer.
The Twins, who moved from Washington D.C., back in the day, have tied the Yankees at 1 game apiece. So anything goes!
The Dodgers bleed dodger blue and haven't been in contention for years ( see Tommy Lasorda ) and up to now, are getting hammered by the St.Louis Cards, who have, arguably, the most potent lineup of any of the teams.
And the Atlanta Braves are back in the playoffs for the 13th year in a row. Talk about consistency. And what a level of achievement. The Bravos had to cut costs this year and quickly eradicated high-profile and high-paid cast members. Greg Maddox, Javy Lopez, and Gary Sheffield to name a few. But this team seems different from the past editions. They seem hungry and determined.
Those are the teams. And only one can walk away with the grand salami. Who will win?
It's a tough call. But here's my prediction. Braves vs. Red Sox in the World Series.
With the Braves narrowly squeaking by. Sure, the Braves have sputtered since winning in '96, but this may be their year.
And tho there's space in my heart tonite, there's an empty space in my bed. But not for long. Cos we will submit this foray into baseball prognostication and fill the aforementioned void.
Sleepy, so sleepy....
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Due to the lateness of the hour, there will be limited postscripts tonite.
P.S.S. Hopefully, hoots will find space in his heart and resume his blogging tomorrow.
But unlike hootsbuddy, my synchronistic friend and once-fellow peer, I have space in my heart tonite. It's October and that means playoff baseball And this year there are some intriguing match-ups. The Yankees vs. the Twins; the Braves vs. the Astros; the Bosox vs. the Angels; and the Cardinals vs. the Dodgers.
The Boston Red Sox haven't won a World Series since 1919, the longest streak in history. Most claim it's because the Bosox sold Babe Ruth to the Yankees for a staggering-at the time-$100,000. Affectionately known as "The Curse of the Bambino."
Ironically, the Babe began his career as a pitcher, but due to his hitting prowess, was moved to the outfield. He was quite the pitcher and held records in post-season play for years.
The Yankees have the largest payroll in the big leagues. A cool $180 million. And with the biggest radio/tv deal, they can afford to buy anyone's services. And they do.
The Astros have the "Rocket Man," apologies to Elton John, and a future Hall of Famer.
The Twins, who moved from Washington D.C., back in the day, have tied the Yankees at 1 game apiece. So anything goes!
The Dodgers bleed dodger blue and haven't been in contention for years ( see Tommy Lasorda ) and up to now, are getting hammered by the St.Louis Cards, who have, arguably, the most potent lineup of any of the teams.
And the Atlanta Braves are back in the playoffs for the 13th year in a row. Talk about consistency. And what a level of achievement. The Bravos had to cut costs this year and quickly eradicated high-profile and high-paid cast members. Greg Maddox, Javy Lopez, and Gary Sheffield to name a few. But this team seems different from the past editions. They seem hungry and determined.
Those are the teams. And only one can walk away with the grand salami. Who will win?
It's a tough call. But here's my prediction. Braves vs. Red Sox in the World Series.
With the Braves narrowly squeaking by. Sure, the Braves have sputtered since winning in '96, but this may be their year.
And tho there's space in my heart tonite, there's an empty space in my bed. But not for long. Cos we will submit this foray into baseball prognostication and fill the aforementioned void.
Sleepy, so sleepy....
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Due to the lateness of the hour, there will be limited postscripts tonite.
P.S.S. Hopefully, hoots will find space in his heart and resume his blogging tomorrow.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Sleepy On The Nite Train Revisited
Last year during the summer, my employer was doomed to filing bankruptcy. The old girl had "bit off more than she could chew." The PIC Message Bored, er, Board was engaged. And we ain't seen a flurry of posting since. People were pissed, and Ronnie Laborde, ceo at the time, was feeling the brunt of the responses. Inept and corrupt were the words being bandied about. The old girl's demise was imminent.
Yours truly, v.c., your irreverent host, joined the fray along with others. It was a fun time, yet a sad time, in that stores were closing, folks were losing their jobs, and to those that remained, our futures were uncertain. But here is a post penned in late June 03, representative of the assault on our ex-fearless leader. Because the v.p. debate from last nite and dealing with rowdy passive-aggressive guests today has left me worn plumb-out, here is an oldie-but-goodie from yesteryear, and one of me personal favourites. Submitted for your approval and perusal:
"Sleepy On The Nite Train"
Me and cajunballsauvin were tooling down the road listening to the guns n roses c.d. and heading for our monthly managers' meeting and our visit with Briggs. We were reminiscing and telling war stories, recalling our days working together with Sandy Fajitas, ( imho )
as the music blared.
Loaded like a freight train. Flyin' like an aeroplane,
Feelin' like a space brain One more time tonight
Well I'm a west coast struttin',one bad mother
Got a rattlesnake suitcase under my arm
Said I'm a mean machine been drinkin'gasoline
An honey you can make my motor hum
I got one chance left in a nine live cat....
We pulled into the parking lot of the motel and made the trek to our room. We decided to drop by the bar and soak up the ambiance and talk to our peers. Some of whom had soaked up more than the ambiance. One, Mr. Garrison, was in the midst of a story. Seems Briggs had been to his store TE < Tatooine Ewe > earlier in the week. < side note: Little does Garrison or the others know that the GALACTIC EMPIRE has secretly begun construction on a new action plan even more powerful than the first dreaded Death Star. When completed, this ultimate weapon will spell certain doom for the small band of Rebels struggling to restore freedom to the galaxy...> We caught the tail end of Garrison's yarn where Briggs arrives at TE.
Garrison
Lord Briggs, this is an unexpected pleasure.
We're honored by your presence.
Briggs
You may dispense with the pleasantries, Commander. I'm here to put you back on schedule.
Garrison turns ashen and begins to shake.
Garrison
I assure you, Lord Briggs, my men are working as fast as they can.
Briggs
Perhaps I can find new ways to
motivate them.
Garrison
I tell you, this station will become more operational as planned.
Briggs
The Emperor does not share your
optimistic appraisal of the situation.
Garrison
But he asks the impossible. I need more men.
Briggs
Then perhaps you can tell him when he arrives.
Garrison (aghast)
The Emperor's coming here?
Briggs
That is correct, Commander. And he is most displeased with your apparent lack of progress.
Garrison
We shall double our efforts.
Briggs
I hope so, Commander, for your sake. The Emperor is not as forgiving as I am.
Mr. Garrison was a bit shaken after recounting his tale. He withdrew a prescription bottle of pills from his pocket and downed a few. "Daddy's little helpers, eh? What a drag it is getting old," I thought.
After a few more brandys me and cajunballsauvin retired to our room. Garrison and the rest retreated as well. Our meeting was early in the a.m. and we needed our shut-eye.
The next morning arrived, and it was time for the meeting with our fearless leader, Lord Briggs. He called the meeting to order.
"All right, good to see everyone. Let's get started. Hey! You two dinosaurs in the back! If you don't mind, the meeting has come to order."
We all looked to the back of the room and saw no one.
"Lord Briggs, there's nobody there," someone said.
"Yeah, back in the back. The guy that can't compartmentalize and the guy that used to be in the club business in Sacramento," returned Lord Briggs.
"You fired them last week, Lord Briggs. Don't you remember?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah I did. Let's get down to brass tacks, guys and gals. We've got a lot to cover. We've got some new tactics and action plans to devour, and we've got a special guest."
"The Emperor?" we all said in unison.
"No, Harry Reemem. And without further adieu, here's Harry!" ( imho )
Yours truly, v.c., your irreverent host, joined the fray along with others. It was a fun time, yet a sad time, in that stores were closing, folks were losing their jobs, and to those that remained, our futures were uncertain. But here is a post penned in late June 03, representative of the assault on our ex-fearless leader. Because the v.p. debate from last nite and dealing with rowdy passive-aggressive guests today has left me worn plumb-out, here is an oldie-but-goodie from yesteryear, and one of me personal favourites. Submitted for your approval and perusal:
"Sleepy On The Nite Train"
Me and cajunballsauvin were tooling down the road listening to the guns n roses c.d. and heading for our monthly managers' meeting and our visit with Briggs. We were reminiscing and telling war stories, recalling our days working together with Sandy Fajitas, ( imho )
as the music blared.
Loaded like a freight train. Flyin' like an aeroplane,
Feelin' like a space brain One more time tonight
Well I'm a west coast struttin',one bad mother
Got a rattlesnake suitcase under my arm
Said I'm a mean machine been drinkin'gasoline
An honey you can make my motor hum
I got one chance left in a nine live cat....
We pulled into the parking lot of the motel and made the trek to our room. We decided to drop by the bar and soak up the ambiance and talk to our peers. Some of whom had soaked up more than the ambiance. One, Mr. Garrison, was in the midst of a story. Seems Briggs had been to his store TE < Tatooine Ewe > earlier in the week. < side note: Little does Garrison or the others know that the GALACTIC EMPIRE has secretly begun construction on a new action plan even more powerful than the first dreaded Death Star. When completed, this ultimate weapon will spell certain doom for the small band of Rebels struggling to restore freedom to the galaxy...> We caught the tail end of Garrison's yarn where Briggs arrives at TE.
Garrison
Lord Briggs, this is an unexpected pleasure.
We're honored by your presence.
Briggs
You may dispense with the pleasantries, Commander. I'm here to put you back on schedule.
Garrison turns ashen and begins to shake.
Garrison
I assure you, Lord Briggs, my men are working as fast as they can.
Briggs
Perhaps I can find new ways to
motivate them.
Garrison
I tell you, this station will become more operational as planned.
Briggs
The Emperor does not share your
optimistic appraisal of the situation.
Garrison
But he asks the impossible. I need more men.
Briggs
Then perhaps you can tell him when he arrives.
Garrison (aghast)
The Emperor's coming here?
Briggs
That is correct, Commander. And he is most displeased with your apparent lack of progress.
Garrison
We shall double our efforts.
Briggs
I hope so, Commander, for your sake. The Emperor is not as forgiving as I am.
Mr. Garrison was a bit shaken after recounting his tale. He withdrew a prescription bottle of pills from his pocket and downed a few. "Daddy's little helpers, eh? What a drag it is getting old," I thought.
After a few more brandys me and cajunballsauvin retired to our room. Garrison and the rest retreated as well. Our meeting was early in the a.m. and we needed our shut-eye.
The next morning arrived, and it was time for the meeting with our fearless leader, Lord Briggs. He called the meeting to order.
"All right, good to see everyone. Let's get started. Hey! You two dinosaurs in the back! If you don't mind, the meeting has come to order."
We all looked to the back of the room and saw no one.
"Lord Briggs, there's nobody there," someone said.
"Yeah, back in the back. The guy that can't compartmentalize and the guy that used to be in the club business in Sacramento," returned Lord Briggs.
"You fired them last week, Lord Briggs. Don't you remember?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah I did. Let's get down to brass tacks, guys and gals. We've got a lot to cover. We've got some new tactics and action plans to devour, and we've got a special guest."
"The Emperor?" we all said in unison.
"No, Harry Reemem. And without further adieu, here's Harry!" ( imho )
My First Hit/The Making of the President
Thanks to the Hootster, ( see Hootsbuddy's Place ) Golden Pond has a hit counter. It took a few tries, but, in the end, where there's a will, there's a way. Shirley, I will be embarrassed if the outcome is negligible. But in the immortal words of John Ono Lennon, "it's all show biz."
The v.p. debate was tonite and both candidates were well-rehearsed. John Edwards looked refreshed and casual. ( was that a cup of coffee, heavy on the caffeine, he
kept imbibing? ) He didn't appear, however, to be presidential. More like a family's insurance agent or an owner of a car dealership. Or one's dentist. But not presidential material.
And then there was Dick Cheney, wizened veteran of the political wars. Nuff said.
I never read or have read many books, but back in the haze, one of the few perused by yours truly, was "The Making of the President."
It was a fun read! And it detailed the ways in which Tricky Dick Nixon ascended the throne in 1968, learning from his mistakes during the 1960 presidential debates, which were broadcast on the 3 networks. ( CNN nor Fox had been invented at the time )
Most Americans had black and white t.v.'s back in the day. And Nixon, through no fault of his own, bombed. ( pun unintended-cold war, you know ) His 5 O'clock shadow and sinister looks didn't bode well on the vast wasteland.
My mother, who watched the infamous debates, said that "Nixon scared her." And many women, maybe men, too, came to the same conclusion. And Kennedy won. Most pundits and historians credit the debates as Tricky's downfall.
Well, we've pulled up to the station, and it's time to disembark the nite train. All abored!
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. All submissions are for your perusal and approval.
The v.p. debate was tonite and both candidates were well-rehearsed. John Edwards looked refreshed and casual. ( was that a cup of coffee, heavy on the caffeine, he
kept imbibing? ) He didn't appear, however, to be presidential. More like a family's insurance agent or an owner of a car dealership. Or one's dentist. But not presidential material.
And then there was Dick Cheney, wizened veteran of the political wars. Nuff said.
I never read or have read many books, but back in the haze, one of the few perused by yours truly, was "The Making of the President."
It was a fun read! And it detailed the ways in which Tricky Dick Nixon ascended the throne in 1968, learning from his mistakes during the 1960 presidential debates, which were broadcast on the 3 networks. ( CNN nor Fox had been invented at the time )
Most Americans had black and white t.v.'s back in the day. And Nixon, through no fault of his own, bombed. ( pun unintended-cold war, you know ) His 5 O'clock shadow and sinister looks didn't bode well on the vast wasteland.
My mother, who watched the infamous debates, said that "Nixon scared her." And many women, maybe men, too, came to the same conclusion. And Kennedy won. Most pundits and historians credit the debates as Tricky's downfall.
Well, we've pulled up to the station, and it's time to disembark the nite train. All abored!
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. All submissions are for your perusal and approval.
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