We will temporarily halt the production of Truck U. which is being written by yours truly. That chronicles my life at Truck U. back in tha day.
Me and Kitty took a break from our respective jobs this week and took two different forays into moviedom viewing.
We bought our tickets last nite for "Finding neverland." Cost $14.50. [ Damn, when did they go up on the tix? ] A trip to the concession stand: 1 nachos-$4.50. Extra cheese-$1.00. Bucket of popcorn-$5.75. Refillable the day of the show. Duh, really? $4.00-Large diet coke. $4.00-Coke on the rocks. And $19.25 later we were ready to go enjoy the movie. [ After devouring my nachos and extra cheese and sharing some of Kitty's popcorn, the obligatory word to follow must be "priceless," eh? ]
Today we went to the matinee. And only had to pay $10.50 to get in. And we grabbed the special. 2 large drinks and a tub of popcorn for only $10.95. What a bargain!
And once again the movie was GREAT. THE AVIATOR: NOW PLAYING EVERYWHERE and even playing On Golden Pond. Not sure about Pond Jovi, but it does say everywhere. Go see 'em. Sometimes they do make 'em like they used to.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Due to the overwhelming response, Truck U. II will resume soon.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Truck U
I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck.
The day the music died.
I was going to Rowdy U and it would be my first time away from home. I might have been a broncin' buck but I did not have a pickup truck- no rifle, no rifle holder- just a VW bug.
The bug was my vehicle of choice-not by design, mind you-but because we were somewhat lacking in funds. The family had bypassed the Big 3 who cranked out those huge, gas guzzlers back in the day-and yes, the precursor to global warming-and settled instead for the economical and thrifty product from Germany with the motor in the back, of all places. Gas was around 25 cents a gallon, and you could go approx. 250 miles on a tank of gas. Do the math, eh? 25 X 10 [ that's how many she would hold ] and voila: $2.50 to go 250 miles. And she purred on regular petrol- Ethyl be damned.
That was one of the secrets to good gas mileage. The damn thing could barely get up to 70 mph. Sometimes 75, if you were going down a steep hill, and you and any other passengers were leaning forward towards the windshield. Added inertia or something like that. And this was pre-Energy crisis, so the speed limit was 70. And just like today, nobody went the speed limit. More like 80, 90, 100-just like today-some things never change.
So if you wanted to pass someone-which was rare in a bug-you had better put the petal, er, pedal to the metal, cos you might get blown off the road. And normally mild-mannered folks would roll down their windows and shout the nastiest of epitaphs my way. And many a time, I was a recipent of the infamous middle finger.
"Get that piece of shit off the roads!" would be the normal response.
And it was one of the kinder/gentler messages yours truly received.
"Hey, you piece of dog shit. You're puttin' the American worker [ i.e. Big 3 ] outta work when you buy imported shit from overseas."
Well, I was rowdy back then and I'd engage a conversation with my attackers-albeit briefly-as they were zooming by.
"We can't afford a Big 3 car, you bastards. Truck U."
And that was my destination. Truck U.- College, here I come. Driving a bug from Germany and heading for the bright lights of higher education.
After being insulted-"Hey, does that funny looking car have a motor, fart face?"- heckled, and abused throughout my journey, I pulled into the parking lot of Payne Hall. I was a freshman-more abuse was on the horizon-and couldn't park in the dorm's lot-just unload; it was reserved for upperclassmen. The plebeians had to park in the Siberian section of campus and walk a coppola miles back to our fraternal domicile.
My buddy, Keith, would be my roomie. We had gone to Rowdy High together and had become best friends. He had arrived a day or two before me and had picked the lower bunk leaving me the top.
"But, Keith, I have vertigo. And I sleepwalk. And I might fall on you during a fitful nights sleep."
I don't think I used words like fitful back in the day. It was more like:
"I ain't sleepin' on the top bunk, you piece of horse shit. Just because you got here first don't mean shit."
Keith would simulate playing a violin. And unless I wanted to "kick his ass" the arrangements had been chiseled in stone.
Keith was my best friend. He helped initiate my entry into the wonderful world of smoking. Fags, as we called them in those days, were 25 cents a pack, allah petrol. He was carrying on a family tradition-both his dad and mom smoked- and, me, wanting to be Kool and the Gang, began the long, arduous road to addiction. Thanks, Keith. Especially if you're reading this.
He also introduced me into the wonderful world of soft porn in the downtown district of Golden Pond. Remember, we were teenage broncin' bucks and tho "the times they were a'changing," they weren't changing fast enough for us.
These movies today would be rated "R" for Rowdy, er, risque, but in those medieval times,[ back in tha day ] they were the best things going for horny teens with accelerated ragin' hormones. Sure our shoes would stick to the floor as we made our way to our seats. Shirley, it was a few cokes that had been spilled accidentally. But we could never be sure so I could never bring myself to buy any popcorn or candy.
To enter the emporium, the patron was supposed to be 18. We were 16 and looked like we were 14 at the max, but the ticket taker never discriminated and we were always allowed in. Keith became obsessed with perusing the flicks of Golden Pond's adult cinema. A frequent customer, but I did go with him many a time.
We saw movies like "The Lustful Turk" which was filmed-believe it or not- in technicolor. Most belonged to the black and white genre. Most of the participants, er, actors smoked grass and took off their clothes. We got to see a lot of T & A, and would rejoice-titillated is more like it-if we got to see some bush, er, pubic hair.
Most of the plots were bizarre, if they even had a plot. But we didn't care. We just wanted to see women naked. [ if offended, please see the opening paragraph ]
Which means we've come full cycle. And a good stopping place for part one of Truck U.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck.
The day the music died.
I was going to Rowdy U and it would be my first time away from home. I might have been a broncin' buck but I did not have a pickup truck- no rifle, no rifle holder- just a VW bug.
The bug was my vehicle of choice-not by design, mind you-but because we were somewhat lacking in funds. The family had bypassed the Big 3 who cranked out those huge, gas guzzlers back in the day-and yes, the precursor to global warming-and settled instead for the economical and thrifty product from Germany with the motor in the back, of all places. Gas was around 25 cents a gallon, and you could go approx. 250 miles on a tank of gas. Do the math, eh? 25 X 10 [ that's how many she would hold ] and voila: $2.50 to go 250 miles. And she purred on regular petrol- Ethyl be damned.
That was one of the secrets to good gas mileage. The damn thing could barely get up to 70 mph. Sometimes 75, if you were going down a steep hill, and you and any other passengers were leaning forward towards the windshield. Added inertia or something like that. And this was pre-Energy crisis, so the speed limit was 70. And just like today, nobody went the speed limit. More like 80, 90, 100-just like today-some things never change.
So if you wanted to pass someone-which was rare in a bug-you had better put the petal, er, pedal to the metal, cos you might get blown off the road. And normally mild-mannered folks would roll down their windows and shout the nastiest of epitaphs my way. And many a time, I was a recipent of the infamous middle finger.
"Get that piece of shit off the roads!" would be the normal response.
And it was one of the kinder/gentler messages yours truly received.
"Hey, you piece of dog shit. You're puttin' the American worker [ i.e. Big 3 ] outta work when you buy imported shit from overseas."
Well, I was rowdy back then and I'd engage a conversation with my attackers-albeit briefly-as they were zooming by.
"We can't afford a Big 3 car, you bastards. Truck U."
And that was my destination. Truck U.- College, here I come. Driving a bug from Germany and heading for the bright lights of higher education.
After being insulted-"Hey, does that funny looking car have a motor, fart face?"- heckled, and abused throughout my journey, I pulled into the parking lot of Payne Hall. I was a freshman-more abuse was on the horizon-and couldn't park in the dorm's lot-just unload; it was reserved for upperclassmen. The plebeians had to park in the Siberian section of campus and walk a coppola miles back to our fraternal domicile.
My buddy, Keith, would be my roomie. We had gone to Rowdy High together and had become best friends. He had arrived a day or two before me and had picked the lower bunk leaving me the top.
"But, Keith, I have vertigo. And I sleepwalk. And I might fall on you during a fitful nights sleep."
I don't think I used words like fitful back in the day. It was more like:
"I ain't sleepin' on the top bunk, you piece of horse shit. Just because you got here first don't mean shit."
Keith would simulate playing a violin. And unless I wanted to "kick his ass" the arrangements had been chiseled in stone.
Keith was my best friend. He helped initiate my entry into the wonderful world of smoking. Fags, as we called them in those days, were 25 cents a pack, allah petrol. He was carrying on a family tradition-both his dad and mom smoked- and, me, wanting to be Kool and the Gang, began the long, arduous road to addiction. Thanks, Keith. Especially if you're reading this.
He also introduced me into the wonderful world of soft porn in the downtown district of Golden Pond. Remember, we were teenage broncin' bucks and tho "the times they were a'changing," they weren't changing fast enough for us.
These movies today would be rated "R" for Rowdy, er, risque, but in those medieval times,[ back in tha day ] they were the best things going for horny teens with accelerated ragin' hormones. Sure our shoes would stick to the floor as we made our way to our seats. Shirley, it was a few cokes that had been spilled accidentally. But we could never be sure so I could never bring myself to buy any popcorn or candy.
To enter the emporium, the patron was supposed to be 18. We were 16 and looked like we were 14 at the max, but the ticket taker never discriminated and we were always allowed in. Keith became obsessed with perusing the flicks of Golden Pond's adult cinema. A frequent customer, but I did go with him many a time.
We saw movies like "The Lustful Turk" which was filmed-believe it or not- in technicolor. Most belonged to the black and white genre. Most of the participants, er, actors smoked grass and took off their clothes. We got to see a lot of T & A, and would rejoice-titillated is more like it-if we got to see some bush, er, pubic hair.
Most of the plots were bizarre, if they even had a plot. But we didn't care. We just wanted to see women naked. [ if offended, please see the opening paragraph ]
Which means we've come full cycle. And a good stopping place for part one of Truck U.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Monday, December 27, 2004
Sunday, December 26, 2004
Acid Reflux Rears Its Ugly Head
Acid reflux is the scourge of the new millineum. Maybe it's the jalapenos, the pizzas, the spicy cajun dishes, the enchiladas, the refried beans that we, as Americans, tend to overindulge in. Everyone I know has the dreaded disease. And it doesn't matter if you're a member of a red state, blue state, zombie state, or state your name, either someone in your family now has acid reflux or will one day be afflicted.
Even celebrities are not immune to acid reflux. Their millions- Shirley, in Swiss bank accounts- will only help to make them comfortable when the dreaded A.R. knocks on their door.
Take Ashlee Simpson, for example, newcomer to the music scene, who fled Saturday Night Live's stage Oct. 24 after a prerecorded vocal track began playing while she wasn't holding up a microphone. Simpson blamed the incident on a bout with acid reflux: "It was something I had never done and I didn't want to do," she told PEOPLE of lip-synching. "(But) my voice wasn't strong enough."
And even Paris Hilton, sexy starlet, has known the wrath of A.R. Her X-rated sex tape "One Night in Paris" hit video stores earlier this year. To promote her new project, Paris was recently photographed lacking certain undergarments. Another victim of A.R.
Brittney Spears marriage to hometown pal, Jason Alexander, lasted 55 hours. Yes, one of the parties had A.R., causing a hasty annulment to wedded bliss.
What was Anna Nicole Smith's excuse for slurring her words, stumbling offstage and generally being loopy at the Nov. 14 American Music Awards? If you guessed A.R., you are one who catches on quickly. Intelligence is your forte, and you may want to consider joining the elite organization known as Mensa. A rep for Ms. Smith, 37, who was boasting a newly svelte figure, denied rumors that drugs or alcohol were to blame. Not wanting to cite the true reason.
And moving forward, two months after she was released from prison, Mary Kay Letourneau was planning a walk down the aisle – with the former student she was convicted of raping more than seven years ago. Letourneau, who's 42, announced her engagement to Vili Fualaau on Larry King Live on Oct. 11. The ex-schoolteacher, who first had sex with Fualaau eight years ago when he was 13 and has two children by him, said she's been "blessed" and shares "a deep spiritual oneness" with him. During her prison stay, Ms. Letourneau contracted A.R. It is not known at this time if Vili has been affected or even knows of his wife's malady.
And pop stars: Elton John unleashed his inner diva in September, calling the Taiwanese media "rude, vile pigs" after photographers greeted him at the Taipei airport with a wall of flashbulbs. The following month, John directed his ire at Madonna. At London's Q Awards, the singer accused Madge of lip-synching on her Re-Invention tour. "Anyone who lip-synchs in public onstage when you pay 75 pounds ($134) to see them should be shot," he said. Madonna's spokeswoman denied the allegation saying "I heard Elton has A.R. I hope he seeks treatment."
And in sports: The sports world took a beating in November when it was revealed that the New York Yankees' $120 million-earning first baseman Jason Giambi (right) had admitted to using antacids for at least three seasons. The revelation came out of a federal investigation of the Bay Area Laboratory Co-Operative (BALCO), and included doping accusations against San Francisco Giants slugger Barry Bonds (who says his drug use was unwitting) and five-time Olympic track medalist Marion Jones (who denied using illegal performance-enhancing drugs.
Maalox and Pepto-Abysmal are reportedly seeking legal action against the three.
Yes, acid reflux knows no boundaries. Rock stars, sports heroes, cause celebre's, and even movie stars have fallen victim. Even ordinary citizens like you and me. It has reached epidemic proportions. A.R., the scourge of the new millineum.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Hopefully, you, the readers will never know the heartbreak of psoriasis, er, acid reflux.
Even celebrities are not immune to acid reflux. Their millions- Shirley, in Swiss bank accounts- will only help to make them comfortable when the dreaded A.R. knocks on their door.
Take Ashlee Simpson, for example, newcomer to the music scene, who fled Saturday Night Live's stage Oct. 24 after a prerecorded vocal track began playing while she wasn't holding up a microphone. Simpson blamed the incident on a bout with acid reflux: "It was something I had never done and I didn't want to do," she told PEOPLE of lip-synching. "(But) my voice wasn't strong enough."
And even Paris Hilton, sexy starlet, has known the wrath of A.R. Her X-rated sex tape "One Night in Paris" hit video stores earlier this year. To promote her new project, Paris was recently photographed lacking certain undergarments. Another victim of A.R.
Brittney Spears marriage to hometown pal, Jason Alexander, lasted 55 hours. Yes, one of the parties had A.R., causing a hasty annulment to wedded bliss.
What was Anna Nicole Smith's excuse for slurring her words, stumbling offstage and generally being loopy at the Nov. 14 American Music Awards? If you guessed A.R., you are one who catches on quickly. Intelligence is your forte, and you may want to consider joining the elite organization known as Mensa. A rep for Ms. Smith, 37, who was boasting a newly svelte figure, denied rumors that drugs or alcohol were to blame. Not wanting to cite the true reason.
And moving forward, two months after she was released from prison, Mary Kay Letourneau was planning a walk down the aisle – with the former student she was convicted of raping more than seven years ago. Letourneau, who's 42, announced her engagement to Vili Fualaau on Larry King Live on Oct. 11. The ex-schoolteacher, who first had sex with Fualaau eight years ago when he was 13 and has two children by him, said she's been "blessed" and shares "a deep spiritual oneness" with him. During her prison stay, Ms. Letourneau contracted A.R. It is not known at this time if Vili has been affected or even knows of his wife's malady.
And pop stars: Elton John unleashed his inner diva in September, calling the Taiwanese media "rude, vile pigs" after photographers greeted him at the Taipei airport with a wall of flashbulbs. The following month, John directed his ire at Madonna. At London's Q Awards, the singer accused Madge of lip-synching on her Re-Invention tour. "Anyone who lip-synchs in public onstage when you pay 75 pounds ($134) to see them should be shot," he said. Madonna's spokeswoman denied the allegation saying "I heard Elton has A.R. I hope he seeks treatment."
And in sports: The sports world took a beating in November when it was revealed that the New York Yankees' $120 million-earning first baseman Jason Giambi (right) had admitted to using antacids for at least three seasons. The revelation came out of a federal investigation of the Bay Area Laboratory Co-Operative (BALCO), and included doping accusations against San Francisco Giants slugger Barry Bonds (who says his drug use was unwitting) and five-time Olympic track medalist Marion Jones (who denied using illegal performance-enhancing drugs.
Maalox and Pepto-Abysmal are reportedly seeking legal action against the three.
Yes, acid reflux knows no boundaries. Rock stars, sports heroes, cause celebre's, and even movie stars have fallen victim. Even ordinary citizens like you and me. It has reached epidemic proportions. A.R., the scourge of the new millineum.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Hopefully, you, the readers will never know the heartbreak of psoriasis, er, acid reflux.
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Ode To Kitty II or So I Misspelled Kwanzaa
O.K. so I misspelled Kwanzaa in one of my forays this week. Who gives a rat's derriere-trying to be kinder, gentler because it's Christmas. Who even celebrates the newly christened holiday, eh? Moot point!
And Kitty had it "going on" today. She made me rise and shine so we could open presents and eat breakfast, which consisted of scrambled eggs, biscuits, sausages, bacon, and grits. Now the latter was a bit too soupy for my southern tastes. Note to self- remember to give Kitty the official VC recipe next Kwanzaa, er, Christmas. But all in all it was great.
We opened the gifts and had a great day. Kitty's Christmas dinner was excellent. She makes it all work for me, Charlie Jr., and Katlin. So thank you, Kitty, and here's another ode to you:
There were bells on a hill
But I never heard them ringing
No I never heard them at all
Till there was you
There were birds in the sky
But I never saw them winging
No I never saw them at all
Till there was you
Then there was music and wonderful roses
They tell me in sweet fragrant meadows of dawn and dew
There was love all around
But I never heard it singing
No I never heard it at all
Till there was you
Till there was you.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Merry Christmas
And Kitty had it "going on" today. She made me rise and shine so we could open presents and eat breakfast, which consisted of scrambled eggs, biscuits, sausages, bacon, and grits. Now the latter was a bit too soupy for my southern tastes. Note to self- remember to give Kitty the official VC recipe next Kwanzaa, er, Christmas. But all in all it was great.
We opened the gifts and had a great day. Kitty's Christmas dinner was excellent. She makes it all work for me, Charlie Jr., and Katlin. So thank you, Kitty, and here's another ode to you:
There were bells on a hill
But I never heard them ringing
No I never heard them at all
Till there was you
There were birds in the sky
But I never saw them winging
No I never saw them at all
Till there was you
Then there was music and wonderful roses
They tell me in sweet fragrant meadows of dawn and dew
There was love all around
But I never heard it singing
No I never heard it at all
Till there was you
Till there was you.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Merry Christmas
Friday, December 24, 2004
It's Almost Christmas
It's archive time from the Pond. Chosen at random by a sleepy v.c.
Written a couple of years ago. And here it is:
Christmas is almost here. The rowdiness will soon be over, the passive aggressiveness will temporarily subside, and the instant gratifications will soon be laid to rest for another year. Thank God, the next one is 365 days away.
At times the path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness. For he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children.
Apologies to Quentin Tarantino"s Pulp Fiction
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. 366 days if 2005 is a leap year.
Written a couple of years ago. And here it is:
Christmas is almost here. The rowdiness will soon be over, the passive aggressiveness will temporarily subside, and the instant gratifications will soon be laid to rest for another year. Thank God, the next one is 365 days away.
At times the path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness. For he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children.
Apologies to Quentin Tarantino"s Pulp Fiction
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. 366 days if 2005 is a leap year.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Tooling Home
The rain was coming down pretty hard tonite, as I made my way from my employment venue to the Pond. It was a cozy ride, cos I like the rain. And I like the cold weather. Fire up the c.d. playa and it's a magical mystery tour revisited.
The weather has been crazy lately. Cold for a few days and then a return to normal. Semi-warm days with cool nites. But in the back of my mind, there's always that nagging feeling that the world as we know it is going to hades, with the imminent threat of global warming on the horizon.
But back to the playa. The c.d. that slipped into the slot was one of my creations via Napster- damn the computer viruses, full speed ahead.-which resulted in a cornucopia of songs, stolen, er borrowed from the hit machine.
It was an old recording made a few months ago with songs from "The Steve Miller Band," "The Beachboys," "The Police," just to name a few. You can normally squeeze 17-18 songs on each one. I also had "Sara" by "Fleetwood Mac," and "Woman In Love" by Babs Streisand.
Damn, Babs can really belt out a tune. What a voice. And what range. And can she hold a note? Yes, she can. When it came to the:
"I stumble and fall
But I give it my all....." And holds the note for at least 30 seconds. Incredible.
Yes, I shouldn't be exposing my taste for a woman's anthem, allah Helen Reddy, but it isn't the message necessarily; it's the music and the voice.
Speaking of cornucopia, I enjoy most music. From Rick James to Guns 'N Roses to the Stones to country to blues to Sly and the Family Stone to the latest craze, allah the Macarena from a few years ago. It's all good in my opinion.
But back to Babs. You may not share her political views but the girl can sing.
But it's late. After dealing with passive-aggressive types all day and a long trip home-enjoyable only for the weatha and playa- it's time for bed.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Just two more days til Christmas. At H.W. that means two more days of fun.
The weather has been crazy lately. Cold for a few days and then a return to normal. Semi-warm days with cool nites. But in the back of my mind, there's always that nagging feeling that the world as we know it is going to hades, with the imminent threat of global warming on the horizon.
But back to the playa. The c.d. that slipped into the slot was one of my creations via Napster- damn the computer viruses, full speed ahead.-which resulted in a cornucopia of songs, stolen, er borrowed from the hit machine.
It was an old recording made a few months ago with songs from "The Steve Miller Band," "The Beachboys," "The Police," just to name a few. You can normally squeeze 17-18 songs on each one. I also had "Sara" by "Fleetwood Mac," and "Woman In Love" by Babs Streisand.
Damn, Babs can really belt out a tune. What a voice. And what range. And can she hold a note? Yes, she can. When it came to the:
"I stumble and fall
But I give it my all....." And holds the note for at least 30 seconds. Incredible.
Yes, I shouldn't be exposing my taste for a woman's anthem, allah Helen Reddy, but it isn't the message necessarily; it's the music and the voice.
Speaking of cornucopia, I enjoy most music. From Rick James to Guns 'N Roses to the Stones to country to blues to Sly and the Family Stone to the latest craze, allah the Macarena from a few years ago. It's all good in my opinion.
But back to Babs. You may not share her political views but the girl can sing.
But it's late. After dealing with passive-aggressive types all day and a long trip home-enjoyable only for the weatha and playa- it's time for bed.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Just two more days til Christmas. At H.W. that means two more days of fun.
Throwing Tomatoes
I just threw a tomato at http://princessgirlygirl.blogspot.com/ and it felt good. Hit her site by happenstance. Maybe a synchronistic vibe occurred. Or maybe it was fate that steered me in that direction.
Seems the princess is distressed by a link ( MSNBC ) that a"new poll suggests support for the Iraq war is slipping." And yours truly entered the fray. And added his 2 cents worth.
But enough of the princess, let's get to the meat and potatoes of tonite's foray.
Alas, there is none. The proprietor of Golden Pond is getting sleepy....so sleepy. So:
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. And let me weigh in on the social security hoopla with Bruce Bartlett on Social Security and Early Retirees on NRO Financial
P.S.S. Parting is such sweet sorrow [ Shakespeare was going for the alliterative vibe here, allah vee in his "Ode To Kitty" post from a coppola nites ago]
Seems the princess is distressed by a link ( MSNBC ) that a"new poll suggests support for the Iraq war is slipping." And yours truly entered the fray. And added his 2 cents worth.
But enough of the princess, let's get to the meat and potatoes of tonite's foray.
Alas, there is none. The proprietor of Golden Pond is getting sleepy....so sleepy. So:
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. And let me weigh in on the social security hoopla with Bruce Bartlett on Social Security and Early Retirees on NRO Financial
P.S.S. Parting is such sweet sorrow [ Shakespeare was going for the alliterative vibe here, allah vee in his "Ode To Kitty" post from a coppola nites ago]
Monday, December 20, 2004
I'm Dreaming of a White....
Seems Christmas is really taking a wrap. er, rap this year. Seems it is under fire because it represents the birth of Christ. And a few people [ tiny minority ] are up in arms. Frankly, I could give a damn, Scarlet. And a rat's ass to boot.
Each year you get to hear how people bemoan the fact that we have forgotten the true meaning of Christmas. Bull shit, er, balderdash, for lack of a better word. The birth of Christ was secondary- lost in the translation. It was ALWAYS about giving and receiving gifts.
So give it a rest. And just enjoy the day. 24 hours, 1440 minutes, and 86,400 seconds. There's plenty of time for gloom and doom once the credit card receipts start pouring in.
But if Christmas is on its way out, what will happen to the old standards we've all sung and listened to during the Christmas season? What if they have to be changed, so they will be politically correct. How would that play out. Let's see....
1) "Blue Kwanza"
I'll have a blue Kwanza without you
I'll be so blue just thinking about you.
Decorations of red
On a green Kwanza tree.
Got a nice ring to it, eh?
2) "The First Orwell,"
The angels did say.
Was to certain poor shepards
In fields where they lay.
Nah. Missing something.
3) "Twelve Days of Hanukkah"
On the first day of Hanukkah
My true love gave to me.
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the second day of Hanukkah
My true love gave to me.
2 cream cheese
And a partridge in a pear tree.
And so on and so on. This one has possibilities.
4) "So This is Kwanza"
And what have you done?
Another year older
And a new one just begun.
A very Merry Kwanza
And a happy new year.
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fears.
So a very Merry Kwanza
War is over, if you want it.
Originally entitled "So This Is Christmas" John Lennon, circa 1970.
5) "I'll Be Home For The Holidays"
I'll be home for the holidays
You can count on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
But no presents or tree.
I'll be home for the holidays
If only in my dreams.
Some merit. Yes?
6) We Wish You A Merry Holiday"
We wish you a merry holiday
We wish you a merry holiday
We wish you a merry holiday
And a happy new year.
Something's missing here. Just doesn't quite work.
7) "Santa Claus ( a stalker ) Is Coming To Town"
He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good
So be good for goodness sake
8) "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Cos...."
They didn't see me creep
Down the stairs to sneak a peek.
Claus changed to Cos-Santa could be anyone's name. It fits.
9) "Have Yourself A Merry Little Holiday"
Nuff said. I'm getting the spirit.
10) "White Kwanza"
I'm dreaming of a white Kwanza
Just like the ones I used to know
Where the tree tops glisten
And children listen
To drumming
From the bro's.
Yes, it's a different time. The old traditions are kaput. Fini'. And the old standards....Give 'em a rest.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. There are no transcripts tonite. Due to the political correctness inherent in everything we do.
Each year you get to hear how people bemoan the fact that we have forgotten the true meaning of Christmas. Bull shit, er, balderdash, for lack of a better word. The birth of Christ was secondary- lost in the translation. It was ALWAYS about giving and receiving gifts.
So give it a rest. And just enjoy the day. 24 hours, 1440 minutes, and 86,400 seconds. There's plenty of time for gloom and doom once the credit card receipts start pouring in.
But if Christmas is on its way out, what will happen to the old standards we've all sung and listened to during the Christmas season? What if they have to be changed, so they will be politically correct. How would that play out. Let's see....
1) "Blue Kwanza"
I'll have a blue Kwanza without you
I'll be so blue just thinking about you.
Decorations of red
On a green Kwanza tree.
Got a nice ring to it, eh?
2) "The First Orwell,"
The angels did say.
Was to certain poor shepards
In fields where they lay.
Nah. Missing something.
3) "Twelve Days of Hanukkah"
On the first day of Hanukkah
My true love gave to me.
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the second day of Hanukkah
My true love gave to me.
2 cream cheese
And a partridge in a pear tree.
And so on and so on. This one has possibilities.
4) "So This is Kwanza"
And what have you done?
Another year older
And a new one just begun.
A very Merry Kwanza
And a happy new year.
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fears.
So a very Merry Kwanza
War is over, if you want it.
Originally entitled "So This Is Christmas" John Lennon, circa 1970.
5) "I'll Be Home For The Holidays"
I'll be home for the holidays
You can count on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
But no presents or tree.
I'll be home for the holidays
If only in my dreams.
Some merit. Yes?
6) We Wish You A Merry Holiday"
We wish you a merry holiday
We wish you a merry holiday
We wish you a merry holiday
And a happy new year.
Something's missing here. Just doesn't quite work.
7) "Santa Claus ( a stalker ) Is Coming To Town"
He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good
So be good for goodness sake
8) "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Cos...."
They didn't see me creep
Down the stairs to sneak a peek.
Claus changed to Cos-Santa could be anyone's name. It fits.
9) "Have Yourself A Merry Little Holiday"
Nuff said. I'm getting the spirit.
10) "White Kwanza"
I'm dreaming of a white Kwanza
Just like the ones I used to know
Where the tree tops glisten
And children listen
To drumming
From the bro's.
Yes, it's a different time. The old traditions are kaput. Fini'. And the old standards....Give 'em a rest.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. There are no transcripts tonite. Due to the political correctness inherent in everything we do.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
You Are Getting Sleepy
Another archived post from back in the day. Seems me and my peers were having our monthly and obligatory manager's meeting. This particular meeting would be conducted by Briggs, our regional manager, and we would have a special guest speaker, Mr. Deft Itsallgood.
Our company was struggling at the time and a new regime was taking over. With different ideologies, a good bit of the team was balking and having a difficult time embracing the transition. And as a result, our meeting would include a blurb or two about "change."
Written in January 2003, here's "You Are Getting Sleepy." :
The gold medallion was swaying back and forth, back and forth. Our eyes were mesmerized, watching its every move. The room was still except for a melodic voice telling us that we were getting sleepy, very sleepy. We were encouraged to let it go. Unwind. Relax. To imagine we were on a desolate, deserted tropical island, whose female citizenry frollicked topless in their tiny thong bikinis. ( My dream, anyway ) The medallion continued its journey from side to side. Yes, we were getting sleepy. So sleepy. Our eyelids seemed weighted. We were powerless to keep them open. Sleepy, so sleepy....
It was time for another monthly manager's meeting with our fearless leader, Briggs, who 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 begun."
I could overhear the two dinosaurs whispering to each other as they made their way to their seats.
"I hope I won't have to comparmentalize any creativity in the 'change meeting.'" said one.
"Stay brave," said the other. I had never seen him before. Probably a new recruit. He was 40 ish, maybe 50 ish with a portly build and receding hairline. ( I learned later he had been in the political arena. )
"Let's get down to business. You all know why we're here. Gonna be some changes. But, first, you got to change. Change is healthy, inevitable, and necessary. Gotta change your m.o. Questions? Terry? Go ahead!"
Terry was Terry Dacktle, a longtime mgr. team member, who retired from the company but couldn't pay his mortgage and had to make a hasty return.
"By m.o., do you mean modus operandi?"
"Terry, do you want to join Bronto Saurus on the unemployment line again? [ Bronto was an ex LSU QB who turned pro. Unfortunately, he couldn't beat out Billy Joke Tolliver and the Saints cut him. Then he was hired by my company- on the fast track- but ultimately couldn't adapt there either and they cut him ]
Briggs continued: "It's time to get down to brass tacks, fellas. Without further adieu, it's my great pleasure to introduce to you the master of ceremonies. Mr. Deft Itsallgood. He will be conducting the 'change meeting workshop.' Let's give it up for Deft!"
"Thank you, r.m. Briggs for that wonderful introduction." Deft told us his life history and then rambled on about the "C" word. We immediately discovered that people don't like change.
"Damn, this is good," I thought. "I never knew that!"
Deft encouraged us to be engaged, and right off the bat, Mr. Garrison, longtime dinosaur g.m. raised his hand to speak.
Deft: "Yes sir!"
Mr Garrison: "Change is bad. Change is bad...."
Poor fella lost it before we had a chance to get into the meat and potatoes of change. Briggs mercifully escorted him from the room. We found out later that he is recovering nicely at the sanitarium. And that the thorazine has been effective and that he will soon be allowed visitors. But his recovery will be a painstaking affair. We, the mgrs., made a pledge to visit him collectively, time permitting.
After the fracas with Mr. Garrison, we trudged onward. We learned that in human behavior 20% of us accept change readily; that 50% of us are "on the fence" with a wait and see attitude; and that 30% will never buy into any changes.I looked around the room. About 20 or so of us. According to Deft's theory, 4 of us would go with the program. 10 of us were on the fence, and 6 of us would oppose any and all attempts at change. I wondered who was who.
Deft said it was break time. Giving us time to let this new theory sink in. "Take 30 minutes for lunch, boys, and when we get back we'll watch 'Toy Story' from Disney." As we were milling about, the two dinosaurs that Briggs had admonished earlier were whispering:
"Thank goodness, I didn't have to compartmentalize."
"We're not out of the woods yet, mi amigo. Stay brave."
"Thanks. A man's got to know his limitations."
"Let's eat. I'm starving."
"Me, too."
"Think we can find a computer? I want to access my blog."
"Huh?"
"Let's eat. It's a long story."
Our company was struggling at the time and a new regime was taking over. With different ideologies, a good bit of the team was balking and having a difficult time embracing the transition. And as a result, our meeting would include a blurb or two about "change."
Written in January 2003, here's "You Are Getting Sleepy." :
The gold medallion was swaying back and forth, back and forth. Our eyes were mesmerized, watching its every move. The room was still except for a melodic voice telling us that we were getting sleepy, very sleepy. We were encouraged to let it go. Unwind. Relax. To imagine we were on a desolate, deserted tropical island, whose female citizenry frollicked topless in their tiny thong bikinis. ( My dream, anyway ) The medallion continued its journey from side to side. Yes, we were getting sleepy. So sleepy. Our eyelids seemed weighted. We were powerless to keep them open. Sleepy, so sleepy....
It was time for another monthly manager's meeting with our fearless leader, Briggs, who 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 begun."
I could overhear the two dinosaurs whispering to each other as they made their way to their seats.
"I hope I won't have to comparmentalize any creativity in the 'change meeting.'" said one.
"Stay brave," said the other. I had never seen him before. Probably a new recruit. He was 40 ish, maybe 50 ish with a portly build and receding hairline. ( I learned later he had been in the political arena. )
"Let's get down to business. You all know why we're here. Gonna be some changes. But, first, you got to change. Change is healthy, inevitable, and necessary. Gotta change your m.o. Questions? Terry? Go ahead!"
Terry was Terry Dacktle, a longtime mgr. team member, who retired from the company but couldn't pay his mortgage and had to make a hasty return.
"By m.o., do you mean modus operandi?"
"Terry, do you want to join Bronto Saurus on the unemployment line again? [ Bronto was an ex LSU QB who turned pro. Unfortunately, he couldn't beat out Billy Joke Tolliver and the Saints cut him. Then he was hired by my company- on the fast track- but ultimately couldn't adapt there either and they cut him ]
Briggs continued: "It's time to get down to brass tacks, fellas. Without further adieu, it's my great pleasure to introduce to you the master of ceremonies. Mr. Deft Itsallgood. He will be conducting the 'change meeting workshop.' Let's give it up for Deft!"
"Thank you, r.m. Briggs for that wonderful introduction." Deft told us his life history and then rambled on about the "C" word. We immediately discovered that people don't like change.
"Damn, this is good," I thought. "I never knew that!"
Deft encouraged us to be engaged, and right off the bat, Mr. Garrison, longtime dinosaur g.m. raised his hand to speak.
Deft: "Yes sir!"
Mr Garrison: "Change is bad. Change is bad...."
Poor fella lost it before we had a chance to get into the meat and potatoes of change. Briggs mercifully escorted him from the room. We found out later that he is recovering nicely at the sanitarium. And that the thorazine has been effective and that he will soon be allowed visitors. But his recovery will be a painstaking affair. We, the mgrs., made a pledge to visit him collectively, time permitting.
After the fracas with Mr. Garrison, we trudged onward. We learned that in human behavior 20% of us accept change readily; that 50% of us are "on the fence" with a wait and see attitude; and that 30% will never buy into any changes.I looked around the room. About 20 or so of us. According to Deft's theory, 4 of us would go with the program. 10 of us were on the fence, and 6 of us would oppose any and all attempts at change. I wondered who was who.
Deft said it was break time. Giving us time to let this new theory sink in. "Take 30 minutes for lunch, boys, and when we get back we'll watch 'Toy Story' from Disney." As we were milling about, the two dinosaurs that Briggs had admonished earlier were whispering:
"Thank goodness, I didn't have to compartmentalize."
"We're not out of the woods yet, mi amigo. Stay brave."
"Thanks. A man's got to know his limitations."
"Let's eat. I'm starving."
"Me, too."
"Think we can find a computer? I want to access my blog."
"Huh?"
"Let's eat. It's a long story."
Friday, December 17, 2004
Farewell and Adieu, Card
The following archived post was written last December after Christmas. Me and me buddy-in-crime, the enigmatic bbq man, wrote some infantile stories about our anonymous fraternity of posters on the PIC message bored, er, board. It was well-received and we, humbly, feel we captured the essence of each character.
According to reports, one of those posters has gone on to the message board in the sky. I salute him, the enigmatic demosthenescard, in tonite's foray:
Demosthenescard: A recurring icon who posts, leaves, is enticed back, and exits stage left again, the mysterious demosthenescard is certainly an enema, er, enigma.
Sorry, the flatulent card has, at times, waxed more than philosophic. Masquerading as Sister Yli, posing as Father A, or "delighting" us with his unusual posts, the card has made a name for himself along with the other bored members, too numerous to recite all the names.
We have long suspected the card of being British-his use of the word "loo" notwithstanding. Probably hails from England, Scotland, or Wales. Or the frozen tundra of Green Bay, Wisconsin.
Yes, he's a young 62. His idea of a "delightful" evening is snuggling with his cat, Snugglepuss, and sipping on his drink of choice, the dreaded elixir, prune juice, and his fav pastry, ditto, prune danish.
To keep fit, he scales mountain tops, most recently, the cavernous Virunga. Helps keeps him regular, which is important at his age. And the piece de resistance to an engaging evening, watching an old b&w extravaganza from way back in the day. Preferred viewing: a flick with Victor Mature, Gloria Swanson, William Holden, or anything by Billy Wilder. ( see "Sunset Blvd.," "Stalag 17," and "Some Like It Hot" )
Although he prefers a nice chill to his prune juice, shaken, not stirred, the Card was told never to post again, by yours truly. He was unable to help himself, when the dreaded shakeandbakeihelped emerged on the scene. Put-off with shake's Andy Kauffman impersonation, the card, along with other bored members, which included Rock Port, on loan from the LUB bored, bristled at shake's lame attempts to engage them.
Yes, the card, quite an enema, er, an enigma- sorry, line unintended- has been welcomed back to the bored with open arms, a semi-regular-there's that word, again- allah Dorothy Kilgallen, Bennet Smurf, Charles Nelson Reilly, Richard Dawson, et al.
Farewell and adieu, old friend, v.c.
According to reports, one of those posters has gone on to the message board in the sky. I salute him, the enigmatic demosthenescard, in tonite's foray:
Demosthenescard: A recurring icon who posts, leaves, is enticed back, and exits stage left again, the mysterious demosthenescard is certainly an enema, er, enigma.
Sorry, the flatulent card has, at times, waxed more than philosophic. Masquerading as Sister Yli, posing as Father A, or "delighting" us with his unusual posts, the card has made a name for himself along with the other bored members, too numerous to recite all the names.
We have long suspected the card of being British-his use of the word "loo" notwithstanding. Probably hails from England, Scotland, or Wales. Or the frozen tundra of Green Bay, Wisconsin.
Yes, he's a young 62. His idea of a "delightful" evening is snuggling with his cat, Snugglepuss, and sipping on his drink of choice, the dreaded elixir, prune juice, and his fav pastry, ditto, prune danish.
To keep fit, he scales mountain tops, most recently, the cavernous Virunga. Helps keeps him regular, which is important at his age. And the piece de resistance to an engaging evening, watching an old b&w extravaganza from way back in the day. Preferred viewing: a flick with Victor Mature, Gloria Swanson, William Holden, or anything by Billy Wilder. ( see "Sunset Blvd.," "Stalag 17," and "Some Like It Hot" )
Although he prefers a nice chill to his prune juice, shaken, not stirred, the Card was told never to post again, by yours truly. He was unable to help himself, when the dreaded shakeandbakeihelped emerged on the scene. Put-off with shake's Andy Kauffman impersonation, the card, along with other bored members, which included Rock Port, on loan from the LUB bored, bristled at shake's lame attempts to engage them.
Yes, the card, quite an enema, er, an enigma- sorry, line unintended- has been welcomed back to the bored with open arms, a semi-regular-there's that word, again- allah Dorothy Kilgallen, Bennet Smurf, Charles Nelson Reilly, Richard Dawson, et al.
Farewell and adieu, old friend, v.c.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Ode To Kitty
Tonite's foray will be brief. We will eshew ( gesundheit ) entering the perilous parameters of the political arena [ strong attempt at the alliterative vibe, here ] and, instead, go with something a bit more constructive: An Ode To Kitty, my darling wife of umpteen years. How she's been able to put up with me for so long defies comprehension.
Her job description is limitless. And she never receives enough help from me and the kids, Charlie Jr. and Katlin.
She cooks; she works; she listens to my whining; she scolds; she inspires; she's industrious [ envious am I, here ]; she's responsible; she's loving; the list goes on and on.
I have been listening to "Revolver" this week via the c.d. playa. During those lonesome times on the road from H.W. to the Pond and back. And one of me favourites [ keep listening to it over and over ] is the lovely "Here, There, and Everywhere." And the lyrics describe my affections for Kitty, my wife, confidante, and friend.
So here's to you, Kitty:
To lead a better life I need my love to be here...
Here, making each day of the year
Changing my life with a wave of her hand
Nobody can deny that there's something there
There, running my hands through her hair
Both of us thinking how good it can be
Someone is speaking but she doesn't know he's there
I want her everywhere and if she's beside meI know I need never care
But to love her is to need her everywhere
Knowing that love is to share
Each one believing that love never dies
Watching her eyes and hoping I'm always there
I want her everywhere
and if she's beside meI know I need never care
But to love her is to need her everywhere
Knowing that love is to share
Each one believing that love never dies
Watching her eyes and hoping I'm always there
To be there and everywhere
Here, there and everywhere
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Due to the sensitive subject matter of tonite's foray, all postscripts have been shelved until a later date.
Her job description is limitless. And she never receives enough help from me and the kids, Charlie Jr. and Katlin.
She cooks; she works; she listens to my whining; she scolds; she inspires; she's industrious [ envious am I, here ]; she's responsible; she's loving; the list goes on and on.
I have been listening to "Revolver" this week via the c.d. playa. During those lonesome times on the road from H.W. to the Pond and back. And one of me favourites [ keep listening to it over and over ] is the lovely "Here, There, and Everywhere." And the lyrics describe my affections for Kitty, my wife, confidante, and friend.
So here's to you, Kitty:
To lead a better life I need my love to be here...
Here, making each day of the year
Changing my life with a wave of her hand
Nobody can deny that there's something there
There, running my hands through her hair
Both of us thinking how good it can be
Someone is speaking but she doesn't know he's there
I want her everywhere and if she's beside meI know I need never care
But to love her is to need her everywhere
Knowing that love is to share
Each one believing that love never dies
Watching her eyes and hoping I'm always there
I want her everywhere
and if she's beside meI know I need never care
But to love her is to need her everywhere
Knowing that love is to share
Each one believing that love never dies
Watching her eyes and hoping I'm always there
To be there and everywhere
Here, there and everywhere
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Due to the sensitive subject matter of tonite's foray, all postscripts have been shelved until a later date.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Bush Bashing
My sister is at it again. Blaming George W. for everything wrong in the world.
S.O.S. Same old story from the liberal playbook. Ol Lonesome George is responsible for global warming, according to Ali [ pronounced Alley ] who resides in windy, damp San Francisco in the Hate, er, Haight Ashbury district. So what else would you expect?
Ali isn't much for organized religion but does believe in a divine spirit. So she get's a pass on "Judge not, lest ye be judged."
While reading the various blogs, er, liberal ones, I am amazed at how smart and intelligent the writers are. They must have some pretty good inside information on how to solve all of the problems-home and abroad-and who's to blame. Instead of blogging, these folks would make great CIA operatives. Blog, James Blog.
We have heard for years how social security will soon be out of money. The system also discriminates against black males who, on average, will never collect the money they have invested into the system.
What about privatizing s.s? Huh? Instead of trying to figure out what the best way is to reform Social Security, why not implement the plan of a country that has been successfully doing it for years: Chile.
Bush bashing? The hate towards this man is unbelievable. And yet 59 million people voted him into office. Go figga.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. We have problems on the Pond that aren't world related. Nobody other than the Pond's inhabitants could give a rat's ass. But if any compassionate soul can leave the worldly forum for a minute, we could use some advice.
S.O.S. Same old story from the liberal playbook. Ol Lonesome George is responsible for global warming, according to Ali [ pronounced Alley ] who resides in windy, damp San Francisco in the Hate, er, Haight Ashbury district. So what else would you expect?
Ali isn't much for organized religion but does believe in a divine spirit. So she get's a pass on "Judge not, lest ye be judged."
While reading the various blogs, er, liberal ones, I am amazed at how smart and intelligent the writers are. They must have some pretty good inside information on how to solve all of the problems-home and abroad-and who's to blame. Instead of blogging, these folks would make great CIA operatives. Blog, James Blog.
We have heard for years how social security will soon be out of money. The system also discriminates against black males who, on average, will never collect the money they have invested into the system.
What about privatizing s.s? Huh? Instead of trying to figure out what the best way is to reform Social Security, why not implement the plan of a country that has been successfully doing it for years: Chile.
Bush bashing? The hate towards this man is unbelievable. And yet 59 million people voted him into office. Go figga.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. We have problems on the Pond that aren't world related. Nobody other than the Pond's inhabitants could give a rat's ass. But if any compassionate soul can leave the worldly forum for a minute, we could use some advice.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Spill The Whine
Eric Burden, formerly of the "Animals," had a big hit with "Spill The Whine, er, Wine" with "War" back in the haze when we were all dazed and confused [ apologies to Led Zep ] After the hit, the brothas kicked Eric to the curb and went on to modest success on their own.
Because whining has become the national pastime these days, I would like to submit the folowing songs for all you whiners out there. Coming to you from Pond 103 F.M. for your listening pleasure:
1) "Crying" by Roy Orbison
2) "Cry, Baby, Cry" by the Fab 4.
3) "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" Hank Williams
4) "Cry Me A River" Peggy Lee, perhaps? [ after investigation, the song was penned by Julie London ]
5) "I'll Cry Instead" see item 2 for artist
6) "Crying Time Again" various artists including luminaries such as Babs Streisand and Ray Charles.
7) "Cry Babies" by Ludacris. Who, it is safe to say, is not an evangelical Christian. Check out the words to this song:
I caught him with a blow to the chest (oh no!)
my hollow put a hole in his vest(oh no!)
I?m bout to send two to his dome(oh no!)
cry babies go home!
[verse one: ludacris]I got people scared as f**k like when condoms breakOr how your heart deals with eatin? eighty pounds of steakSo put your belly on a plate and watch your weightYou frostin? like a flake and ludacris feels grrreat!Who want come face me, face come want who?
There is more but it gets a bit graphic. So you'll have to look up the rest of it for yourself.
8) [Whew! How do you top that one? ] Cry, Cry, Cry. By Johnny Cash
9) It Takes A Lot To laugh; It Takes A Train To Cry" Bob Dylan classic.
10) "It's Judy's Turn To Cry" And Susie, Billy, Johnny, Joanie, Chachi, Tom, Dick, Harry, Axel, et al. An oldie but goodie? from the enigmatic Leslie Gore.
11) "Welcome To The Jungle" The jungle is gonna make you cry. Guns 'N Roses
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. And to all you whiners out there, Pond 103 F.M. is signing off for the nite.
Because whining has become the national pastime these days, I would like to submit the folowing songs for all you whiners out there. Coming to you from Pond 103 F.M. for your listening pleasure:
1) "Crying" by Roy Orbison
2) "Cry, Baby, Cry" by the Fab 4.
3) "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" Hank Williams
4) "Cry Me A River" Peggy Lee, perhaps? [ after investigation, the song was penned by Julie London ]
5) "I'll Cry Instead" see item 2 for artist
6) "Crying Time Again" various artists including luminaries such as Babs Streisand and Ray Charles.
7) "Cry Babies" by Ludacris. Who, it is safe to say, is not an evangelical Christian. Check out the words to this song:
I caught him with a blow to the chest (oh no!)
my hollow put a hole in his vest(oh no!)
I?m bout to send two to his dome(oh no!)
cry babies go home!
[verse one: ludacris]I got people scared as f**k like when condoms breakOr how your heart deals with eatin? eighty pounds of steakSo put your belly on a plate and watch your weightYou frostin? like a flake and ludacris feels grrreat!Who want come face me, face come want who?
There is more but it gets a bit graphic. So you'll have to look up the rest of it for yourself.
8) [Whew! How do you top that one? ] Cry, Cry, Cry. By Johnny Cash
9) It Takes A Lot To laugh; It Takes A Train To Cry" Bob Dylan classic.
10) "It's Judy's Turn To Cry" And Susie, Billy, Johnny, Joanie, Chachi, Tom, Dick, Harry, Axel, et al. An oldie but goodie? from the enigmatic Leslie Gore.
11) "Welcome To The Jungle" The jungle is gonna make you cry. Guns 'N Roses
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. And to all you whiners out there, Pond 103 F.M. is signing off for the nite.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
You're Such A Lovely Audience
I was intrigued back in the day of flower power. LBJ [ my fellow Americans ] was giving the fireside chats, allah FDR, and he was the CEO of these United States.
I remember seeing him in person as he rode through Golden Pond in his bulletproof limo. He did have the door open and was waving to the crowd. Although he looked tired and sad.
And Vietnam was heating up. And the civil rights era was in full bloom. And Sean Connery was hitting his peak as the suave, debonair, Bond, James Bond.
And the Fab 4 were turning out one momentous l.p. [ long playing ] after another.
According to Rolling Stone, the Sgt. Pepper album, circa 1967, was/is the greatest album of all time.
I concur. Even tho I liked the White Album and Abbey Road just as much. The former was a double album. Indeed a special bonus.
My first glimpse of the Pepper cover made me visualize a magical mystery tour lay ahead. It was an album jacket like no other I had ever seen before. The 4 lads from Liverpool, prominently featured, were dressed in their Sgt. Pepper attire. Behind them were Madame Tussauds wax replicas of famous people, including Einstein, Laurel and Hardy, Bobby Zimmerman, er, Dylan, Lawrence of Arabia, Marilyn Monroe, and Sonny Listen-of all people-just to name a few. And to their side, wax replicas of themselves portrayed as mop-tops.
And there were flowers. And a garden of marijuana. And a disparaging dig at the Rolling Stones. On the inside a pic of the boys. And on the back cover were the words to the songs.
Words to the songs? My first thought was WOW! The music must really be good to have the WORDS published.
And it was:
1) Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band [ title cut ] : French horns and guitar riffs. Go figga.
2) With A Little Help From My Friends: Interplay between the lead singer [ Ringo ] and the backup singers [ John, Paul, and George ] Priceless. And a new consciousness, if you will. [ Also see Joe Cocker and Woodstock for more details ]
3) Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds: Most say the song was an acronym for LSD but John always claimed his son, Julian, showed him a picture drawn at school entitled Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
4) Getting Better/Fixing a Hole: A new way of expressing a new culture-the hippie culture, that was on the immediate horizon.
"I'm taking the time for a number of things
That weren't important yesterday."
6) She's Leaving Home: Freakin' Harp of all things but it works. And another interplay between the singers. Freakin' awesome. Makes me want to put it on the turntable, er, cd playa now.
7) Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite: Calliopes/circus sounds, etc. Stolen, er, borrowed from a circus poster that John found, which advertises: "A Splendid Time Is Guaranteed For All."
8) Within You/Without You: More sitar from George Harrison. "Life flows on within you and without you," eh?
9) When I'm 64: What a cozy song from Paul. Whimsical clarinet throughout.
"In the summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight
If it's not too dear.
We shall scrimp and save.
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck and Dave."
10) Lovely Rita ( Meter Maid ) : Bouncy tune from Paul.
"Took her home and tried to win her
Had a laugh and over dinner.
Told her I would really like to see her again."
11) Good Morning, Good Morning: John supposedly watched a lot of television. And was inspired to write by viewing a Kellogg's Cornflakes commercial. [ a rooster's crow jump-starts the song ]
"Went by the old school.
Nothing has changed; it's still the same.
I've got nothing to say
But it's o.k.
Good morning."
12) Reprise-Sgt. Pepper: Grande finale- One, two, three, four! Which ends with a bang and mutates into:
13) A Day in the Life: What an ending. And what a song. Sugar plum fairies, sugar plum fairies.
Sgt. Pepper was the beginning of the "concept album." After listening, I thought the music was amazing. And "A Day in the Life" was unlike any song I had ever heard. But in hindsight, Sgt. Pepper was a symbol of the times, circa 1967. Of a new beginning. The world was changing. Vietnam, L.B.J., civil rights, et al. And there was no turning back.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. The following is another "off-the-cuff foray" by you know who. And is submitted for your approval and perusal.
http://www.rollingstone.com/news/story/_/id/6595610?rnd=1102833896421&has-player=true&version=6.0.11.847
I remember seeing him in person as he rode through Golden Pond in his bulletproof limo. He did have the door open and was waving to the crowd. Although he looked tired and sad.
And Vietnam was heating up. And the civil rights era was in full bloom. And Sean Connery was hitting his peak as the suave, debonair, Bond, James Bond.
And the Fab 4 were turning out one momentous l.p. [ long playing ] after another.
According to Rolling Stone, the Sgt. Pepper album, circa 1967, was/is the greatest album of all time.
I concur. Even tho I liked the White Album and Abbey Road just as much. The former was a double album. Indeed a special bonus.
My first glimpse of the Pepper cover made me visualize a magical mystery tour lay ahead. It was an album jacket like no other I had ever seen before. The 4 lads from Liverpool, prominently featured, were dressed in their Sgt. Pepper attire. Behind them were Madame Tussauds wax replicas of famous people, including Einstein, Laurel and Hardy, Bobby Zimmerman, er, Dylan, Lawrence of Arabia, Marilyn Monroe, and Sonny Listen-of all people-just to name a few. And to their side, wax replicas of themselves portrayed as mop-tops.
And there were flowers. And a garden of marijuana. And a disparaging dig at the Rolling Stones. On the inside a pic of the boys. And on the back cover were the words to the songs.
Words to the songs? My first thought was WOW! The music must really be good to have the WORDS published.
And it was:
1) Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band [ title cut ] : French horns and guitar riffs. Go figga.
2) With A Little Help From My Friends: Interplay between the lead singer [ Ringo ] and the backup singers [ John, Paul, and George ] Priceless. And a new consciousness, if you will. [ Also see Joe Cocker and Woodstock for more details ]
3) Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds: Most say the song was an acronym for LSD but John always claimed his son, Julian, showed him a picture drawn at school entitled Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
4) Getting Better/Fixing a Hole: A new way of expressing a new culture-the hippie culture, that was on the immediate horizon.
"I'm taking the time for a number of things
That weren't important yesterday."
6) She's Leaving Home: Freakin' Harp of all things but it works. And another interplay between the singers. Freakin' awesome. Makes me want to put it on the turntable, er, cd playa now.
7) Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite: Calliopes/circus sounds, etc. Stolen, er, borrowed from a circus poster that John found, which advertises: "A Splendid Time Is Guaranteed For All."
8) Within You/Without You: More sitar from George Harrison. "Life flows on within you and without you," eh?
9) When I'm 64: What a cozy song from Paul. Whimsical clarinet throughout.
"In the summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight
If it's not too dear.
We shall scrimp and save.
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck and Dave."
10) Lovely Rita ( Meter Maid ) : Bouncy tune from Paul.
"Took her home and tried to win her
Had a laugh and over dinner.
Told her I would really like to see her again."
11) Good Morning, Good Morning: John supposedly watched a lot of television. And was inspired to write by viewing a Kellogg's Cornflakes commercial. [ a rooster's crow jump-starts the song ]
"Went by the old school.
Nothing has changed; it's still the same.
I've got nothing to say
But it's o.k.
Good morning."
12) Reprise-Sgt. Pepper: Grande finale- One, two, three, four! Which ends with a bang and mutates into:
13) A Day in the Life: What an ending. And what a song. Sugar plum fairies, sugar plum fairies.
Sgt. Pepper was the beginning of the "concept album." After listening, I thought the music was amazing. And "A Day in the Life" was unlike any song I had ever heard. But in hindsight, Sgt. Pepper was a symbol of the times, circa 1967. Of a new beginning. The world was changing. Vietnam, L.B.J., civil rights, et al. And there was no turning back.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. The following is another "off-the-cuff foray" by you know who. And is submitted for your approval and perusal.
http://www.rollingstone.com/news/story/_/id/6595610?rnd=1102833896421&has-player=true&version=6.0.11.847
Saturday, December 11, 2004
Where Do They Find These People?
Allah Jerry Springer, the king of the passive-aggressive reality shows. Who often asks: "Where do they find these people?" Referring to his rowdy guests.
I often wonder where we find the asst. managers that work for my company. And ultimately and unfortunately some work for yours truly.
They have little or no ambition. They have no clue as to what it takes to run a business, much less the restaurant business. And they're always taking the victim's role, like you're persecuting them or something. When you get in their shit, er, stuff.
They have it wrong. They persecute me. With all their mistakes. And all the whine.
I have come to the conclusion that I just don't like my mgmt. staff. And, Shirley, they feel the same way about me. But I could give a rat's ass.
Just tired of putting up with the mediocrity. And sensitive, shmensitive.
I would love to go back to the time where it was o.k. to call a subordinate an idiot.
"Bill, you're an idiot!"
"You hurt my feelings."
"I could give a rat's ass about your feelings, Bill. If you would give a little more effort, instead of just going through the motions."
"But I have feelings."
"Bill, I have feelings, too. And I'm feeling like you should get your ass in gear. And perhaps contribute a wee bit more-no, a lot more."
"I'm gonna report you to human resources."
"Bill, we have no human resources. What do you think this is? 2004?"
"I'm gonna cry."
"Bill, you're useless. And a wussy. Cry me a river. Anyone can open and lock the doors. It's what you do in between that counts. And speaking of which, what's that between your ears? Why don't you use it for more than a hat rack?"
"You're making me feel tighter than Dick's hat band."
"Sorry, Bill. Why don't you go back to Burger King? McDonalds? Cracker Barrel? And do us all a favor."
"Are you having problems at home that make you an asswhole?"
"Bill, I am not having problems at home; I'm having problems here at work because of YOU! And my personal life is none of your concern."
"Boo hoo. I want my mommy."
"Maybe your mommy could do a better job."
Can you tell the Pond has had a bad week?
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Due to the insensitive diatribe, there are no postscripts tonite.
I often wonder where we find the asst. managers that work for my company. And ultimately and unfortunately some work for yours truly.
They have little or no ambition. They have no clue as to what it takes to run a business, much less the restaurant business. And they're always taking the victim's role, like you're persecuting them or something. When you get in their shit, er, stuff.
They have it wrong. They persecute me. With all their mistakes. And all the whine.
I have come to the conclusion that I just don't like my mgmt. staff. And, Shirley, they feel the same way about me. But I could give a rat's ass.
Just tired of putting up with the mediocrity. And sensitive, shmensitive.
I would love to go back to the time where it was o.k. to call a subordinate an idiot.
"Bill, you're an idiot!"
"You hurt my feelings."
"I could give a rat's ass about your feelings, Bill. If you would give a little more effort, instead of just going through the motions."
"But I have feelings."
"Bill, I have feelings, too. And I'm feeling like you should get your ass in gear. And perhaps contribute a wee bit more-no, a lot more."
"I'm gonna report you to human resources."
"Bill, we have no human resources. What do you think this is? 2004?"
"I'm gonna cry."
"Bill, you're useless. And a wussy. Cry me a river. Anyone can open and lock the doors. It's what you do in between that counts. And speaking of which, what's that between your ears? Why don't you use it for more than a hat rack?"
"You're making me feel tighter than Dick's hat band."
"Sorry, Bill. Why don't you go back to Burger King? McDonalds? Cracker Barrel? And do us all a favor."
"Are you having problems at home that make you an asswhole?"
"Bill, I am not having problems at home; I'm having problems here at work because of YOU! And my personal life is none of your concern."
"Boo hoo. I want my mommy."
"Maybe your mommy could do a better job."
Can you tell the Pond has had a bad week?
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Due to the insensitive diatribe, there are no postscripts tonite.
Friday, December 10, 2004
Damn Dubya
Before beginning, let's set the record straight. Breakup Babe has officially vanished from the Google blog landscape. There's a link to Molly and Peter now, respectively. All the very breast to you, B.B.
With that out of the way, Damn Dubya. By outsourcing the flu shot vaccine-we all know the punchline- my team members are all coming down with the Hong Kong flu. Typical. With Christmas acoppola weeks away and business booming. So we're short-staffed. And it's all Dubya's fault.
With most of the team in sick bay, I decided to call Susie and beg, er, ask her to work in the a.m.
"Can you work tomorrow, Susie."
"I can't. My uncle died in Breaux Bridge yesterday, and we're on our way there now. Sorry."
"But you were at work tonite for Rowdy Kids Nite."
"I didn't tell you. I wanted to put it out of my mind."
So I tried Excellious.
"Can you work tomorrow?"
"Sorry. My friend's friend died. And we're flying to D.C. in a few minutes. Sorry."
So I called Ayisha.
"We're in a bind, Ayisha. I need you to work Friday."
"Cough. Cough. I wish I could. But I'm-cough, cough-er sick. Hong Kong flu."
"Thanks, anyway."
"All right den."
And Cordelia wanted to get off early today. Seems her auntie has had a stroke and has fluid around her heart. She wanted to visit her auntie in sick bay.
"Is it life-threatening, Cordelia?"
"They don't know."
And Homer is back in jail. His wife beat him up again. Only 25 stitches this time.
And Johnny had to see his probation officer tonite at 6. Or he goes back to jail.
And Luann splashed some bleach in her eye while blowing her nose and coughing. Early symptoms of the dreaded Hong Kong Flu.
And we just heard from Carlos for the first time in 8 days. Seems he had the H.K. flu but is over it now. Ready to go to work.
"Sorry, Carlos. But we thought you quit. And had to replace you."
"I told you I was sick."
"I'm an insensitive asswhole, Carlos. Sorry."
And all the rest of the team are experiencing dizziness, hot flashes, nausea, coughing, sneezing, cold flashes, exhaustion, etc.
And it's all Dubya's fault for outsourcing the jobs. Damn you, Dubya.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. I may be coming down with something. Cough, cough. Achoo.
With that out of the way, Damn Dubya. By outsourcing the flu shot vaccine-we all know the punchline- my team members are all coming down with the Hong Kong flu. Typical. With Christmas acoppola weeks away and business booming. So we're short-staffed. And it's all Dubya's fault.
With most of the team in sick bay, I decided to call Susie and beg, er, ask her to work in the a.m.
"Can you work tomorrow, Susie."
"I can't. My uncle died in Breaux Bridge yesterday, and we're on our way there now. Sorry."
"But you were at work tonite for Rowdy Kids Nite."
"I didn't tell you. I wanted to put it out of my mind."
So I tried Excellious.
"Can you work tomorrow?"
"Sorry. My friend's friend died. And we're flying to D.C. in a few minutes. Sorry."
So I called Ayisha.
"We're in a bind, Ayisha. I need you to work Friday."
"Cough. Cough. I wish I could. But I'm-cough, cough-er sick. Hong Kong flu."
"Thanks, anyway."
"All right den."
And Cordelia wanted to get off early today. Seems her auntie has had a stroke and has fluid around her heart. She wanted to visit her auntie in sick bay.
"Is it life-threatening, Cordelia?"
"They don't know."
And Homer is back in jail. His wife beat him up again. Only 25 stitches this time.
And Johnny had to see his probation officer tonite at 6. Or he goes back to jail.
And Luann splashed some bleach in her eye while blowing her nose and coughing. Early symptoms of the dreaded Hong Kong Flu.
And we just heard from Carlos for the first time in 8 days. Seems he had the H.K. flu but is over it now. Ready to go to work.
"Sorry, Carlos. But we thought you quit. And had to replace you."
"I told you I was sick."
"I'm an insensitive asswhole, Carlos. Sorry."
And all the rest of the team are experiencing dizziness, hot flashes, nausea, coughing, sneezing, cold flashes, exhaustion, etc.
And it's all Dubya's fault for outsourcing the jobs. Damn you, Dubya.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. I may be coming down with something. Cough, cough. Achoo.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Get Your Whine At Piggly Wiggly
We're all wussies today. And I whine; you whine; he, she, it whines.
And writing these infantile stories? As chronicled before, it's a tough gig. Especially when it comes to grammar. I haven't seen the inside of a textbook since my abs were tighter than Dick's headband. And that, my amigos, was a long, long time ago. And old Dick doesn't even wear a hat these days. Ain't chic, hip or fashionable.
Now the dilemma Does a comma follow hip? [ in the last sentence of the last paragraph ] To comma or not to comma-that is the question. Back when I was trudging thru the snow to disembark at Rowdy High, a comma followed hip. But in 2004 the comma does not belong. [ someone correct me if I'm wrong ]
And I get perplexed in infantility when it comes to placing "because" or "since" in a sentence. And vexed when considering whether to use "to" or "from" as a preposition.
Many a night I've debated on the correct usage, normally choosing the wrong one. It's 50-50, you know.
And sometimes it's easy to misuse the verbs. You can use the past tense in the first half of the sentence and follow [ incorrectly ] with the present tense for the last half.
And take for instance Tea Leoni, star of "Family Man," recommended by yours truly a few nites ago. How do you get the little mark above the "e" in Tea? And Rene', pardon my freedom fries, what's the doo-hickey punctuation mark called at the end of the name?
It's too damn complicated and anal. No wonder foreigners have trouble grasping the language, as well as the average high-schooler.
There are forms of grammar that pique my curiosity and frustrate the hell out of me. And these are just a few for tonite-there are many more. But if breakup babe can handle the strain, then so can I.
Submitted for your perusal and approval:
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Thanks to my good friend, the bbq man, who has helped inspire me through the years. And who enjoys reading The Pond. I appreciate the kind sentiments.
And writing these infantile stories? As chronicled before, it's a tough gig. Especially when it comes to grammar. I haven't seen the inside of a textbook since my abs were tighter than Dick's headband. And that, my amigos, was a long, long time ago. And old Dick doesn't even wear a hat these days. Ain't chic, hip or fashionable.
Now the dilemma Does a comma follow hip? [ in the last sentence of the last paragraph ] To comma or not to comma-that is the question. Back when I was trudging thru the snow to disembark at Rowdy High, a comma followed hip. But in 2004 the comma does not belong. [ someone correct me if I'm wrong ]
And I get perplexed in infantility when it comes to placing "because" or "since" in a sentence. And vexed when considering whether to use "to" or "from" as a preposition.
Many a night I've debated on the correct usage, normally choosing the wrong one. It's 50-50, you know.
And sometimes it's easy to misuse the verbs. You can use the past tense in the first half of the sentence and follow [ incorrectly ] with the present tense for the last half.
And take for instance Tea Leoni, star of "Family Man," recommended by yours truly a few nites ago. How do you get the little mark above the "e" in Tea? And Rene', pardon my freedom fries, what's the doo-hickey punctuation mark called at the end of the name?
It's too damn complicated and anal. No wonder foreigners have trouble grasping the language, as well as the average high-schooler.
There are forms of grammar that pique my curiosity and frustrate the hell out of me. And these are just a few for tonite-there are many more. But if breakup babe can handle the strain, then so can I.
Submitted for your perusal and approval:
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Thanks to my good friend, the bbq man, who has helped inspire me through the years. And who enjoys reading The Pond. I appreciate the kind sentiments.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Blondes Have More Fun
Yes, it was the name of Rod Stewart's l.p. back in the late 70's. Rod got in on the disco craze and penned some tunes, most notably "Da Ya Think I'm Sexy?"
But tonite's foray has nothing to do with Rod or blondes having more fun. Even tho Ms. Clairol started it all with her assumption that "blondes do have more fun." And all the girls went platinum or bleach blonde and bushy bushy blonde hairdos became the rage.
But nothing looked worse than seeing the black roots beginning to show. It looked ugly as if the hair wasn't clean. Oh, well. We digress, eh?
Around midnite tonite, Penny the Poo, our sweet, lovable refugee dog from the lb., was outside barking. Normally laid back-she is the happiest dog we've ever had, without a care in the world-Penny was woofing ferociously at something.
Maybe it was an opposum or a squirrel or a hoot owl? But then it could have been a psychopath, wearing a hockey mask to conceal his facial features. Or maybe it was a lunatic who just escaped from the looney bin, allah Michael Meyers.
I decided to investigate, wary of finding a shadowy figure wearing a Captain Kirk mask lurking in the back yard. Or discovering Dr. Loomis, brandishing a 44, running across the lawn.
I did an obligatory sweep and found nothing. Or so it seemed? Maybe I will get a phone call in the middle of the night from a crazed fiend and have the call traced via the telephone company, and learn the call is coming from inside the house. Allah "A Stranger Calls."
Lord, have mercy! Why did my parents let me watch "Homicidal," "Strait Jacket," Psycho," "I Was A Teenage Food Service Team Member," etc. when I was a young whiskersnapper, er, whippersnapper?
Why do I continue to watch movies like the "Exorcist;" "Scream's I, II, and III;" all the "Friday the 13th" forays; "Halloweens';" and the worst of them all, "Benji, the Hunted?" Must have seen the latter 100 times. Charlie Jr.'s favorite as a child.
And Katlin loved "Messy Room" by the Beranstain Bears. And skillfully guided, her room today is MESSY. Go figga, mon trigga.
Yes, I have always liked the science fiction genre. And the slasher movies. But in hindsight, and as Rod used to sing, "Oh, Maggie, I wished I'd never seen your face." Especially the ones in hockey/Captain Kirk masks.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Charlie Jr. is watching "Willard," a remake from the 70's. Like father, like son.
P.S.S. Never heard from Breakup Babe. Wonder if she's a blonde? And if she has more fun?
P.S. 3: In retrospect, it was Miss Clairol. Ms. hadn't been widely accepted at the time.
But tonite's foray has nothing to do with Rod or blondes having more fun. Even tho Ms. Clairol started it all with her assumption that "blondes do have more fun." And all the girls went platinum or bleach blonde and bushy bushy blonde hairdos became the rage.
But nothing looked worse than seeing the black roots beginning to show. It looked ugly as if the hair wasn't clean. Oh, well. We digress, eh?
Around midnite tonite, Penny the Poo, our sweet, lovable refugee dog from the lb., was outside barking. Normally laid back-she is the happiest dog we've ever had, without a care in the world-Penny was woofing ferociously at something.
Maybe it was an opposum or a squirrel or a hoot owl? But then it could have been a psychopath, wearing a hockey mask to conceal his facial features. Or maybe it was a lunatic who just escaped from the looney bin, allah Michael Meyers.
I decided to investigate, wary of finding a shadowy figure wearing a Captain Kirk mask lurking in the back yard. Or discovering Dr. Loomis, brandishing a 44, running across the lawn.
I did an obligatory sweep and found nothing. Or so it seemed? Maybe I will get a phone call in the middle of the night from a crazed fiend and have the call traced via the telephone company, and learn the call is coming from inside the house. Allah "A Stranger Calls."
Lord, have mercy! Why did my parents let me watch "Homicidal," "Strait Jacket," Psycho," "I Was A Teenage Food Service Team Member," etc. when I was a young whiskersnapper, er, whippersnapper?
Why do I continue to watch movies like the "Exorcist;" "Scream's I, II, and III;" all the "Friday the 13th" forays; "Halloweens';" and the worst of them all, "Benji, the Hunted?" Must have seen the latter 100 times. Charlie Jr.'s favorite as a child.
And Katlin loved "Messy Room" by the Beranstain Bears. And skillfully guided, her room today is MESSY. Go figga, mon trigga.
Yes, I have always liked the science fiction genre. And the slasher movies. But in hindsight, and as Rod used to sing, "Oh, Maggie, I wished I'd never seen your face." Especially the ones in hockey/Captain Kirk masks.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. Charlie Jr. is watching "Willard," a remake from the 70's. Like father, like son.
P.S.S. Never heard from Breakup Babe. Wonder if she's a blonde? And if she has more fun?
P.S. 3: In retrospect, it was Miss Clairol. Ms. hadn't been widely accepted at the time.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Breakup Babe Be Damned-Where's My Book Deal?
"Having your heart repeatdly broken, evidently, can be rewarding. Congratulations to our very own Breakup Babe. She just got a book deal with Random House based on her blog. The book will be called Breaking Up, Blogging On. Well done!"
Everytime the v.c. blogspot is engaged, the above link and congratulatory salutations appear. From your irreverent host, "Good job, breakup babe, and breast, er, best of luck." I've been trying to get a deal with R.H. for years. But no dice. Once, they returned my manuscript to the Pond with a big "Huh?" as its lead.
To see what makes a good writer, I took the obligatory perusal through B.B.'s archives, noticing in one of her forays she used the term, passive-aggressive, to describe one of her boyfriends.
And she used "yours truly," in the same post. And even spoke some freedom fries, er, french. "Mais oui, mon ami."
And there is a lot of sex in her posts. She uses "f*cking" a lot. And she uses catchy names for her beaus. "Sexy Blue-Eyed Boy" and "Library Boy" to name accopola.
I'm wondering if B.B. unwittingly read my stuff from back in the day and lifted it as her own. There are plagiarism laws, you know.
And passive-aggressive? Could have been stolen from any of v.c.'s trademark forays.
And, Shirley, "accopola" will see the light-of-day in her new book.
In summary, congrats to you, B.B. And if you need more material or are experiencing "writer's block," just tune in to the Pond.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. If sex is what you're looking for, look no farther. Scroll through my archives for "Screwing Oil."
Everytime the v.c. blogspot is engaged, the above link and congratulatory salutations appear. From your irreverent host, "Good job, breakup babe, and breast, er, best of luck." I've been trying to get a deal with R.H. for years. But no dice. Once, they returned my manuscript to the Pond with a big "Huh?" as its lead.
To see what makes a good writer, I took the obligatory perusal through B.B.'s archives, noticing in one of her forays she used the term, passive-aggressive, to describe one of her boyfriends.
And she used "yours truly," in the same post. And even spoke some freedom fries, er, french. "Mais oui, mon ami."
And there is a lot of sex in her posts. She uses "f*cking" a lot. And she uses catchy names for her beaus. "Sexy Blue-Eyed Boy" and "Library Boy" to name accopola.
I'm wondering if B.B. unwittingly read my stuff from back in the day and lifted it as her own. There are plagiarism laws, you know.
And passive-aggressive? Could have been stolen from any of v.c.'s trademark forays.
And, Shirley, "accopola" will see the light-of-day in her new book.
In summary, congrats to you, B.B. And if you need more material or are experiencing "writer's block," just tune in to the Pond.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. If sex is what you're looking for, look no farther. Scroll through my archives for "Screwing Oil."
Saturday, December 04, 2004
Burnt Out Again Revisited
As I sit here trying to think of something to write, it has become obvious that I have nothing to say.
Perhaps there is no space in my heart tonite. Maybe it's because I had a bad week and my mind is fuzzy.
We could engage a foray into steroids in sports. And how Barry Bonds, Mark McGuire, Sammy Sosa, etc. enhanced their skills and broke records that were once considered impossible feats.
The above trio not only broke the Babe and Roger Maris records but shattered them.
And I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy this Christmas Season. [ Sorry, the Pond is from the old school and wants to simulate gagging when hearing the term, "Happy Holidays." ] Check the entrance of my trousers via the zipper region for some happy holidays.
Then there's the Condaleeza Rice brouhaha. Seems there's no celebration in having a black and female Secretary of State, because she agrees with George Bush on foreign policy. Go figga, mon trigga.
And I could write about the depressing news heard daily on the radio and t.v. My problems don't amount to a hill of beans when compared to child molesters, car and plane crashes, scandals, wars, pestilence, etc. Damn, I ain't got it so bad after all.
And I'm sure the Vanilla Fudge are playing tonite in a sleepy hamlet somewhere in these United States. They just keep hanging on.
So you can see why the Pond is in the midst of another burnout.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. What is there not to like about the food biz, Hootster? A daily dose of passive-aggressivism.
And everyone is an expert in the art of cooking. And they can buy chicken livers at the Piggly Wiggly for 29 cents a pound. And a watermelon for $2.00, er, $5.00. And you stand on your feet all day. And answer the phone....all day. And.....What's not to like?
Perhaps there is no space in my heart tonite. Maybe it's because I had a bad week and my mind is fuzzy.
We could engage a foray into steroids in sports. And how Barry Bonds, Mark McGuire, Sammy Sosa, etc. enhanced their skills and broke records that were once considered impossible feats.
The above trio not only broke the Babe and Roger Maris records but shattered them.
And I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy this Christmas Season. [ Sorry, the Pond is from the old school and wants to simulate gagging when hearing the term, "Happy Holidays." ] Check the entrance of my trousers via the zipper region for some happy holidays.
Then there's the Condaleeza Rice brouhaha. Seems there's no celebration in having a black and female Secretary of State, because she agrees with George Bush on foreign policy. Go figga, mon trigga.
And I could write about the depressing news heard daily on the radio and t.v. My problems don't amount to a hill of beans when compared to child molesters, car and plane crashes, scandals, wars, pestilence, etc. Damn, I ain't got it so bad after all.
And I'm sure the Vanilla Fudge are playing tonite in a sleepy hamlet somewhere in these United States. They just keep hanging on.
So you can see why the Pond is in the midst of another burnout.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. What is there not to like about the food biz, Hootster? A daily dose of passive-aggressivism.
And everyone is an expert in the art of cooking. And they can buy chicken livers at the Piggly Wiggly for 29 cents a pound. And a watermelon for $2.00, er, $5.00. And you stand on your feet all day. And answer the phone....all day. And.....What's not to like?
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Publish or Perish Revisited
The Pond has been in hiatus for the last two days. There always seems to be a positive in a negative, so with that in mind, here's tonite's foray.
1) Before proceeding, I must correct the Hootster concerning the making of buttermilk from scratch. Sorry! Maybe it's old-timers rearing its ugly head, again. But my friend, cajun balls au vin, correctly recalled that 8 gallons of water and 8 lbs. of powdered milk is required. And one quart of store-bought buttermilk. Not the 5 & 5 erroneously reported by you know who.
From yours truly: One key to its success lies in the water temperature.....70-72 degrees are the magic numbers. And a spanking-clean container, as well.
Back in the day the brass firmly disallowed its use in fried chicken. But imho, the b.m. could have been used as a batter, provided the above procedures were followed. The brass had little or no faith in the b.m. makers. And rightfully so.
But in 2004, it's really quite irrelevent. However, if one's interst is piqued, I suggest the following disclaimer: Caution: "Don't try this at home." [ unless your plans include inviting Betty Crocker over for brunch or on feeding a battalion or brigade. ]
2) Each Christmas, "It's A Wonderful Life," the movie, returns to television. There are different versions. The restored original black and white; the grainy one with all the snow and blips; and the colorized one.
Even though I've watched it through the years, I got more out of it last year. Getting older, perhaps? And relating to the central theme: how one's life makes an impact in the grand scheme of things, and how different things would be if not for one's existence.
3) There is no three. Sleepy....so sleepy.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. The "Family Man" with Nicolas Cage is another great Christmas movie foray!
1) Before proceeding, I must correct the Hootster concerning the making of buttermilk from scratch. Sorry! Maybe it's old-timers rearing its ugly head, again. But my friend, cajun balls au vin, correctly recalled that 8 gallons of water and 8 lbs. of powdered milk is required. And one quart of store-bought buttermilk. Not the 5 & 5 erroneously reported by you know who.
From yours truly: One key to its success lies in the water temperature.....70-72 degrees are the magic numbers. And a spanking-clean container, as well.
Back in the day the brass firmly disallowed its use in fried chicken. But imho, the b.m. could have been used as a batter, provided the above procedures were followed. The brass had little or no faith in the b.m. makers. And rightfully so.
But in 2004, it's really quite irrelevent. However, if one's interst is piqued, I suggest the following disclaimer: Caution: "Don't try this at home." [ unless your plans include inviting Betty Crocker over for brunch or on feeding a battalion or brigade. ]
2) Each Christmas, "It's A Wonderful Life," the movie, returns to television. There are different versions. The restored original black and white; the grainy one with all the snow and blips; and the colorized one.
Even though I've watched it through the years, I got more out of it last year. Getting older, perhaps? And relating to the central theme: how one's life makes an impact in the grand scheme of things, and how different things would be if not for one's existence.
3) There is no three. Sleepy....so sleepy.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. The "Family Man" with Nicolas Cage is another great Christmas movie foray!
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