Dammit Gretta, Get Over It…

FOX News Succumbs To Eternal Reruns


I’ve already commented on this topic a couple of times, yet while I sit here watching two pounds of Boston Baked Beans and a giant chunk of pork shoulder simmer in my ovens I feel compelled to reiterate my earlier comments.

FOX’s Gretta Van Sustren’s topic this evening is YET AGAIN a worn out lost cause:

A. Natalee Holloway.

B. Aruba.

I believe that a better way to put things is this way.

A. Stupid little silly spoiled bitch without a clue.

B. Doting mindless divorced parents.

C. Third world country.

No matter how you try to explain the situation, I say that when you combine A+B or A+B+C you come up with a formula for disaster.

They can argue and endlessly complain about the Aruban police’s ineptitude and the potential guilt of the Van der Sloote punk and his two Kalpoe brother side kicks, but the real engineers of Natalee’s death were her mother and stepfather, the “Twitties”, who allowed her to travel to Aruba and flash her ignorant little eighteen year old tittles around an island full of sexual predators and drug dealers.

Hanging out on spring break in Panama City or Ft. Lauderdale is light years away in terms of safety when compared to most Caribbean Islands and the Mexican Riveria.

Little hundred pound teenaged girls found stumbling around drunk in the wee hours of the morning are equally at risk in Birmingham, Alabama; Atlanta, Georgia; or Cancun or Cozmel Mexico.

So sorry Mrs. Twitty, but YOU killed your daughter when you put her on the airliner in the first place. I sincerely hope you can find some peace one day, but if I were you I'm afraid that I'd never be able to look at my reflection in a mirror ever again.

I hope parents everywhere are paying attention.

Here's What You're Missing

It's Getting A Little Strange Out Here...


OK, I just got back from my little photo shoot, and I encountered a couple of unexpected surprises in the process.

Here's the sunrise that you missed while you were sleeping in this morning:



I managed to disturb this guy while I was hanging around on the edge of the marsh waiting for 6:24 AM to arrive:



Then I caught this bird and plan on serving it at my barbeque tomorrow afternoon:



Anyone have a good recipe for Flamingo?

Maybe a sauce and some pasta...

Anything???

Help Me...Please...

Drive-By, Pool-Side Barbeque

Don’t You Wish That You Were At My Place This Weekend?


A couple of years ago I came up with the idea of staging an impromptu pool side barbeque. The process involved going out to the neighborhood pool, setting up my Webber Kettle grill, powering up the blender, and stepping back to see what happened.

When it was all over with I had cooked several racks of baby back ribs, a Pineapple, various salads and slaw, and I think that I went home hungry because I ended up giving away all but two or three of the individual ribs when the dust settled. We also killed a bottle of Tequila and a fifth of Rum making Margaritas and Pina Coladas.

We attained success by my standards, particularly since we had no standards when we started our little adventure. The key for me was the word impromptu—a low stress, low effort event that both the hosts and the attendees could enjoy without breaking a sweat.

Last year we got rained out on Memorial Day Weekend, but with any luck we’ll do our Second annual Drive-By, Pool-Side Barbeque again on Saturday.

I’ve actually broken my own rules by leaking the word out that a barbeque will be happening starting about 3 PM on Saturday. As a result, we are getting some help in the form of side dishes, deserts, and other contributions and I just hope that the weather holds out.

This year’s menu includes barbequed, pulled pork shoulder roast and chicken breasts. Those pig and chicken pieces are already swimming in a nice brine mixture as we speak. These dishes will feature my home made Kansas City Style Barbeque Sauce. No store bought bottled stuff for my guests.

And of course there’ll be hamburgers and hot dogs in the mix for the unimaginative or really hungry attendees

We’ll also be making Hawaiian Cold Slaw and Fancy Asian Cold Slaw, and the Boston Baked Beans are also currently simmering on the stovetop with some pork neck bones in early preparations.

I just finished two dozen hard boiled eggs that are lounging in iced water in the fridge and will be further processed today as “deviled eggs.” I’ll have to warn my guests to watch out for the ones with the Jalapeno peppers in there replacing the pickle relish.

Now I have to go because I have a date with a lovely island sunrise, and my camera and tripod won't take themselves out to the marsh unless I drive them or walk them over.

Throw All Of The Bastards Bums Out

Where's My Really Big Pointy Stick


OK, I’ve had it right up to here (pointing to the top of my ever graying, ever balding head.)

Have you been following the soap opera surrounding Louisiana Democratic Representative William Jefferson?

You know, the US Congressman from New Orleans that tied up two 5 ton National Guard trucks and a helicopter back in September under the guise of checking on his “constituents.”

You know, the US Congressman that ended up needing two 5 ton National Guard trucks and a helicopter to go to his own house in New Orleans to ”retrieve important documents, records, and personal items.”

You know, the US Congressman that had a 5 ton National Guard truck drive up into his front yard so he wouldn’t get his thousand dollar Italian shoes wet going into his house to “retrieve important documents, records, and personal items.”

You know, the US Congressman that, when the 5 ton National Guard truck got stuck in his front yard after waiting for him for over an HOUR while he gathered his "important documents, records, and personal items," then he refused to ride the lifeline to the helicopter that had been diverted to his rescue.

You know, the pansy assed US Congressman that refused to board the helicopter that was diverted from rescuing stranded citizens from the floodwaters, even after a rescue diver risked his own life by jumping from the helicopter not once but TWICE to give him assistance.

You know, the pansy assed, chicken shit US Congressman that was already responsible for diverting a five ton National Guard truck and a helicopter from rescue operations, and required yet ANOTHER five ton National Guard truck to remove his lily livered, pansy assed, chicken shit, elitist black ass and his possessions from his front yard while citizens were still stranded on roofs and in trees by Katrina’s floodwaters.

Yes…THAT William Jefferson, US Representative, Democrat from New Orleans.

Now I hear that they have video tape of the honorable William Jefferson taking a hundred grand as a bribe for some African Telecommunications scheme, and that they found ninety grand of it wrapped in zip lock baggies and tin foil in his freezer.

And the topper is that after waiting for eight months for him to supply "important doucments, records, and personal items" to the FBI relating to the aforementioned bribery scandal, the FBI obtained and executed a search warrant on the Congressional office of William Jefferson, Democrat from New Orleans, and now the other pompus shitheads other elitist assholes elected officials in Washington DC have gotten their thongs in a bunch over the apparent violation of their sanctuaries.

So now I have to watch Dennis Hastert and Nancy Pelosi, sitting on opposite sides if not astride of the isle in the US Congress, jump into the fray and show themselves to be the moronic elitists that they are.

If any of you out there can possibly believe that any more than a couple hundred of the 535 elected shitheads Senators and Representatives in Washington DC have anything close to your interests in mind for five minutes after they are sworn into office…

I have some ocean front property in Nevada I’d like you to look at…because it’s for sale…

CHEEP.

I Could Be An American Idol?

A White Boy From Alabama Wins!


Just in case you’re wondering, let me let you know that I DON’T WATCH AMERICAN IDOL.

Well…OK…I did manage to trip over and watch a couple of the early shows this season featuring the idiots that can’t carry a tune in a bucket embarrassing four generations of their family and the show with that stupid guy that sang like Cher and then cried when he was unceremoniously asked to exit the building.

Any way…

I was sitting here doing my morning perusal of the news on the internet and editing some photos when FOX News came on and said that the “salt and pepper” headed white boy soul singer from Alabama won this season’s American Idol.

WTF?

I though that you had to be black or have dreadlocks or flash your giant fake tits and otherwise be totally superficial and fake in personality and demeanor to even compete into the late rounds of American Idol.

Are Americans coming to their senses and actually rewarding TALENT for singing rather than supporting people like the no-talent dysfunctional psychopathic sycophants that have people paying for dialing 1-900 phone numbers to vote for their favorites in the past?

Let me get this straight…

An almost middle aged (29 year old) white boy from ALABAMA won American Idol?

A guy named Taylor Hicks won American Idol?

And he had grey (OK…salt and pepper) hair…but was basically normal looking, with natural hair none the less?

Not only did this guy have the family name “Taylor” that is shared with my mother’s family (I have a cousin and an uncle named Taylor in addition to my mother’s mother’s family name being “Taylor’s”) but his last name is “Hicks”—a term that most everybody in New York and Massachusetts uses to describe almost everybody from Alabama.

Well, since I didn’t watch the shows or vote on the outcome, I can’t take any credit for the results, but I can say that it is interesting that someone like Taylor Hicks has managed to perform his way through the gauntlet of bullshit that previously has sidelined anyone that remotely resembles myself and my peers residing here in our middle age in the southern United States of America.

Maybe there is some hope for this country after all…

History—From A Hysterical Historical Perspective

Even More Random Thoughts And Cogitations


One thing that I’ve learned over the past 46 years residing here on this lovely planet is this fact:

I DON’T KNOW SHIT FROM SHINEOLA WHEN IT COMES TO SUBSTANTIAL PORTIONS OF HISTORY—US HISTORY OR OTHERWISE.

Another thing that I’ve come to realize is that many if not most people around me know even less than I do.

A major problem, as I see it, is that our schools aren’t teaching history any more.

History curriculums are all tangled up in the political agendas of the liberal textbook publishers and the political correctness crowds, and what little factual history that actually manages to leak through the process and gets taught in a few classrooms falls on the ignorant, deaf ears of children that could care less about the lessons to be learned from studying the few successes and many failures of our ancestors.

I know that I couldn’t have cared less about history lessons when I was in school back in the 1960’s and 1970’s, but I did manage to absorb enough names and dates to supply me with a foundation to learn a good deal more about the events that preceded my appearance on the planet in 1959.

With rare exceptions, it seems that your history genes only kick in after you’ve lived through two or three decades of your own personal history and start realizing that a broad knowledge of world history might represent a good form of an “owner’s manual” for living life in general.

I wish that I could go back and take all of my classes over again, because I might come away with an appreciation of the efforts and tribulations of our predecessors that could have saved me a good deal of time and effort expended because of my ignorance to date.

The other thing that I’m learning to appreciate is the oral history provided by older people that I come in contact with.

Everything from family stories recited by my recently departed 93 year old grandmother to stories of growing up on Long Island, NY in the 1920’s and 1930’s told by my 85 year old friend Harlan “Bucky” Strader (Dartmouth Class of 1942) have slipped right past me in my day to day life and I can’t remember 1% of what I was told.

I wish that I could keep a tape recorder in my pocket and pull it out and thrust the microphone toward some of the characters that I’ve known in the past and/or still run into today.

My Uncle John—the WWII B-25 tail gunner—and “Old Man Schwaller” that lives down the street and grew up in Chicago in the 1920’s come to mind at first, but on second thought our little island is a haven for literally hundreds if not thousands of ancient individuals with amazing historical insights to relate, if someone would just listen.

Our neighborhood lost another beloved resident, 89 year old Laura, to heart failure last weekend. Although I hardly knew her, I did know that Laura was from a well-to-do local family and grew up riding a steam ship ferry from Sea Island to the mainland to attend grade school in the 1920’s and early 1930’s before the causeway connected the islands to the mainland.

She told stories of playing Golf in the UK at St. Andrews and riding horses instead of driving a car around the island and seeing the Georgia coastal islands go from the playground of industrial magnates like Morgan, Coffin, Vanderbilt, and Rockefeller to becoming the home of thousands of slightly above average Americans (all legends in our own minds) that it is today.

Ironically, I’ve set here this morning with the History Channel droning on in the background with their program addressing the potential disaster that a hurricane striking NY City would cause.

It seems to me that since Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans that the media and much of general public are continuously in a state of hysterical disarray about the potential of additional “killer hurricanes” coming grinding on shore this summer to kill women, children, and minorities is disproportionate numbers.

Excuse me while I take this opportunity to YAWN in a quite disinterested manner.

You see, using my own intimate knowledge of history, this middle aged southern Redneck has lived to be on a first name basis with a number of category two and three hurricanes in the past and all I have to say is…

“Told you so…”

What I want to know is, why is everybody freaking out?

Just like the History Channel program pointed out, “killer storms” have hit places like NY City before in the past, and ignorantly building structures and placing your coffee table, wife, children, and dog (not to mention your photo album and family heirlooms) within miles if not yards of flood plains and coast lines is just inviting disaster.

The question isn’t IF, it’s WHEN you’ll appear on CNN and FOX News.

That said, I will admit we live within about a mile and one half of the Atlantic Ocean, and in addition the salt marsh is about 100 yards away from our front door. According to the media, I should tilt my head back, throw my arms into the air, and run screaming to the nearest FEMA official to complain about my plight in life.

But I won’t, because I’ve lived within a couple hundred miles of the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic my entire life (much of the time within 100 miles or less) and hurricanes are just part of life—not a news event or a government relief program in the making to me.

Gosh darn it people, anyone with any sense should realize that it’s just a matter of time until we get nailed here on St. Simons Island, and the fact that Miami missed Hurricane Andrew by 50 miles and Charleston, SC missed Hugo by 30 miles just makes the probability of a major strike imminent in the next ten or so years a no-brainer.

Get ready, because if the Bird Flue and the sharks and the alligators don’t get you, the next “monster storm” probably will.

Regardless of what form my ultimate demise takes, I’m going out kicking and screaming.

I just want to die of or for something other than cancer or old age...how about you?

Ramifications & Repercussions

Circumstantial Evidence


Well ladies and gentlemen, it’s now official.

I now hold the title of “Neighborhood Pool Nazi.”

This being the beginning of our third summer spending 90% of my time lounging like a turtle poolside, I’m living, breathing proof that some people aspire to greatness, while others have it thrust upon them sit around and are smacked in the head with it while they’re taking a nap.

It’s a title that I’ve not really worked very hard at obtaining, but I did pass up the positions of “old neighborhood bastard” and various and sundry subordinate positions of “second lieutenant curmudgeon of this or that” because they were already substantially occupied by other long term residents of our condo complex.

The position (“neighborhood pool Nazi”) doesn’t actually pay anything in financial remuneration, but it does have its benefits, and it’s basically the only “unofficial” official title that can be had if you’re under the age of one hundred fifty.

I’ve learned from past experience that basically no one pays any attention to the swimming pool out here except for me, and as a result a bunch of stupid things have happened in the past that could have been prevented if someone…anyone…would spend twenty minutes once a month just walking past the pool area and making a couple of phone calls.

For instance, last year the pool service contractor did their usual crappy job (because no one was paying any attention) and the pool water turned green from an algae bloom and the pool was closed over the FOURTH OF JULY WEEKEND.

What total stupid crap—of all times to make sure the pool is in good shape, one would expect that the holiday weekends would be a priority, but nnnoooooooooooo—that would require organization and make sense.

The year before last the county inspector came in and had an absolute shit fit conniption fit poolside because of a half dozen violations that the stupid asshole property manager, Mr. Steve Kendall, said that he didn’t have time to worry about.

(I am making an exception to my standard privacy policy in naming Mr. Kendall in this posting since he has directly insulted me several times without provocation and he is a textbook example of an incompetent, unprofessional, useless asshole when it comes to performing real estate property management. I feel that I’m performing a public service by mentioning his qualifications, or the lack thereof.)

It has taken me twenty seven months conducting a constant drumbeat of rhetoric and commentary directed at the board of directors and the new property management company to get the pool brought up to the functional and safety standards expected of a community swimming pool that also in theory serves the public.

One emergency telephone, one life ring, a fence repair and paint job, 48 sets of keys to the pool house restrooms, a few lounge chairs here or there, and we almost have a first class operation on our hands.

The total cost, not including my time and efforts, was $1.99 less than $3,000.

Hurray for me…

I basically been cruising along on autopilot, until today when I sat quietly poolside and watched our pool service guy spend a good fifteen minutes vacuuming the pool, dumping a few handfuls of chemicals into the water, and then get in his truck and drive away WITHOUT TESTING THE POOL WATER CHEMISTRY.

WTF?

You have to understand that “community swimming pools” are required by law to have the pool water chemistry tested EVERY DAY, but we settle for testing twice each week because thus far it has been impractical and expensive to have it done daily. (I’ve also offered to test the water myself if they would supply me with the test materials.)

I’m making a phone call tomorrow morning and arranging to have a little prayer meeting with the owner/manager of the pool service company. If I don’t get the quality of the pool service improved and we spend another holiday weekend with a green swimming pool, I guarantee you that I’ll relegate his company to the same status like “former” property manager Kendall’s operation.

The other thing I intend to do is kick a few asses when it comes to the behavior of some of our residents' and guests' children. For some reason that is beyond my understanding, the current pool rules state that “children under the age of 10 YEARS must have adult supervision.”

WTF?

I’m extremely tired of watching other people’s little bastards little darlins while they hide in their condos--peeking out of the curtains to make sure that a drowning isn't in progress else sitting dozens of yards away from their prodigy with their nose buried in a book.

Late yesterday afternoon I was walking back over across the parking lot to the pool with Pat and from a distance I heard children’s blusterous voices and I observed what I thought was a plastic deck chair flying through the air into the pool.

Then from a distance of about twenty yards I saw a plastic table land in the pool. I announced my presence while still hidden behind the pool house with a shout of “THAT IS UNACCEPTABLE BEHAVIOR!”

As I turned the corner at the fence gate I saw the stupid little fat assed 13 year old bastard Jake lovely young Master Jake (Sally’s son) emerging from the pool with a table in his hands. (As a matter of undeserved respect, I’m omitting last names here.)

Having already crossed swords with me many times in the past, I wasn’t surprised that stupid little fat assed 13 year old bastard Jake young Master Jake then re-entered the pool and extracted yet another table (not a chair as I had first thought) and then proceeded to collect his towel and belongings and he exited the pool deck without uttering a single solitary word.

Jake’s stupid bitch clueless mother lovely mother Sally, who had witnessed the goings on from the living room of her adjacent condo, then pulled the curtains.

Jake’s stupid bitch clueless mother lovely mother Sally had already accosted me and complained a couple of summers ago for my public commentary about stupid fat assed bastard Jake young Master Jake’s propensity to throw anything that was not tied down into the pool.

Jake’s stupid bitch clueless mother lovely mother Sally averred that it was just an unfortunate coincidence that things always ended up in the pool after stupid little fat assed bastard Jake her offspring visited our complex. Apparently gravity increased it’s affect on items on the pool deck and they just jumped or were otherwise drawn into the pool waters on their own.

Jake’s summer is going to be long and quite miserable if I have anything to say about it.

After all, a “Neighborhood Pool Nazi’s” job is never done.

Silence

Self Imposed…


Being the single minded fool that I am, I’ve spent most of my creative energy for the past four days doing only two things, and both of them involve color.

The first endeavor has involved soaking in about 20 hours of sunshine laying beside our swimming pool—enjoying the marvelous sun filled days and low humidity which we’ve had since this past Thursday. One of our neighbors commented that based on my tanned skin color they were beginning to doubt my race and country of origin.

The second project is my continuing efforts to produce extemporaneous pen and ink drawings and water color paintings while sitting outside—again in this case poolside.

I’m sure that all of the palm trees are quite flattered by the attention I’ve given them in painting their portraits this weekend. In addition, one lonely Magnolia blossom gave its life wilting in the sunshine as my subject on Sunday.

As to my writing (or the lack thereof) here on the blog, I’m fed up with being fed up. I just don’t have the desire or energy to bitch about the stupidity of our elected officials on both sides of the isle in Congress.

While I would never endorse violence over voting in establishing our representatives in government, I think that I can almost understand where John Wilkes Booth and John Hinkley were coming from when they committed the acts that inscribed their names to history.

The only problem today, besides breaking the law, would involve having to target practically every moron in Washington DC if you were actually going to make any meaningful difference in the governance of our lives.

I’m telling you people, until, and only until we enact TERM LIMITS and pass true campaign finance reform eliminating both “hard money” and “soft money”, we as productive individuals are going to be relegated to the back seats and sidelines as the politicians pander to the “poor” and “minorities” and “corporate interests.”

Right and wrong are secondary issues and I find that to be quite depressing

It seems to me that half the population is deluded, and the other half is just plain stupid.

Which half are you in?

Cheep Indian Cars

I Have The Secret Photos…


There was a time in my life when my car was not only my transportation, it was also my ego—or at least a public statement thereof. Over the past 32 years I’ve gone from a pre unleaded fueled 1974 Honda Civic to my current gas guzzling Chevy Suburban.

My first car cost a little over $2000 new, while my Suburban cost over $36,000 in 1995. In between was a parade of Audis, Buicks, Chevys, Nissans, and Pontiacs ranging in price from the thousands to the tens of thousands of dollars.

Today I could basically care less what I drive, as long as it is safe and reliable. My old Suburban meets those requirements nicely, in spite of costing nearly $125 to fill up it’s 42 gallon tank and only getting about 9 MPG.

That said, this Yahoo News story about a company in India producing a $2000 car caught my eye this morning:

NEW DELHI - India's largest automobile manufacturer, Tata Motors Ltd., said Thursday it plans to set up a plant in the communist-ruled West Bengal state to manufacture a family car that will cost little more than $2,000.

The plant will be set up with an investment of 10 billion rupees ($220 million), and is expected to start production in two years, said Ratan Tata, the company's chairman.

A prototype of the five-seater model to be manufactured at the West Bengal plant is undergoing tests at a Tata facility in the western Indian city of Pune, Tata said.

You've got to wonder how much car you could buy for $2,000 these days. I did a little research and I actually found a top secret photo of the new Indian conveyance.

Here…take a look for yourself.

I hope it doesn't rain much in India...

DUCK!

Incoming...

The Torture Continues

Incompetence Squared…


If I give you a baseball bat, will someone out there promise to beat some sense into me?

If I hand you a pointy stick, will you attempt to prod me into ending my self induced suffering?

Please?

Pretty Please?

My latest adventures in self abuse culminated in my acceptance of an invitation to attend the quarterly meeting of the Condo Nazi’s Condominium Board of Directors held late yesterday afternoon.

Let me preface this discussion of my adventures with the following summary:

WHAT A TOTAL %&$#@* WASTE OF TIME.

At the request of the old fart retired pawn shop owner Association President, I spent part of the last two weeks soliciting pricing on metal roofing alternatives to replace the piece of shit, improperly installed, worn out roof twenty year old asphalt shingle roof currently serving as a barrier between my artwork and the next rainstorm.

I also investigated the available alternatives for sealing the expansion joints in the concrete deck surrounding our swimming pool.

I was quite enthused with the options which I had come up with and looked forward to presenting the information to the incompetent group of ancient morons Condo Board.

I knew that I was in trouble when my host didn’t bother to tell the assembled board members that he had demanded my presence asked me to attend the meeting.

Actually, I knew that I was wasting my time when he accosted me in the parking lot and , upon looking at the metal roofing samples I brought with me, he said “let’s not bring that up in the meeting.”

WTF?

I had spent two weeks working on the internet, E-mailing specifications and talking to vendors on the phone long distance (at my expense), and having manufacturers sending me packages of literature and samples of their products, in addition to submitting budget pricing; and now this asshole gentleman announces that “we won’t bring that up in the meeting?”

WHY THE %^$#*& AM I HERE THEN?

I ended up sitting through 75 minutes of mindless babbling about spending thousands of dollars planting Sago Palm Trees, followed by an inane layman’s discussion of attempts to improve drainage and hire a consulting Civil engineer to do a drainage plan.

At the 60 minute mark, one of the drunken sots board members looked at his watch and said “let’s hurry up people…it’s happy hour."

In my experience, this same philandering womanizer gentleman makes this same announcement at every meeting that he doesn’t miss. (I find it impossible to conduct business on a 60 minute time clock, especially when half the time is spent listing to the attendees discuss the health of their spleens or colons and the demise of former residents that moved to assisted living or were recently buried.)

Every single time I attempted to open my mouth I was cut off by the stupid asshole Board President, even when he asked me not once but TWICE if I had any comments.

After the aforementioned 75 minutes had elapsed, I was “excused” from the meeting so that they could conduct some additional clandestine cogitations.

I should have expected nothing less from such a self important group of ignorant ingrates. While I’m sure that each of the board members are wonderful people with friends and families and successful careers in their past, in their capacity as managers of the ongoing health and success of 48 condominium units in a property with a market value of $13 to $15 million dollars, they are effectively “rearranging the furniture on the deck of the Titanic.”

They choose to spend their time worrying about pressure washing sidewalks and planting palm trees while the site rainwater drainage system and the 50,000 square foot area of roofing is on the verge of collapse.

I’ve officially had it up to here (pointing to the top of my ever balding, ever graying head.)

And, having successfully conducted a two year long campaign to update and improve the swimming pool and pool house, the prospects of spending further substantial portions of my time addressing issues that do not directly impact my own life here in our little slice of Paradise are virtually NONEXISTANT.

Yet again I’ve learned the hard lesson that my efforts are worth exactly what I charge for them.

In this case, that would be NOTHING.

Name That Odor Smell Aroma

Strange Goings On…


My regular readers might have noticed that I’ve missed writing a new posting a couple of days over the past week because I was busy or otherwise didn’t have anything to say worth writing. (Some might say that is true every day here on this blog)

This morning I’m in a similar boat—not feeling like ranting about life in general or jumping in on the commentary about President Bush’s speech last night on immigration.

I wanted something lighthearted to talk about, and my reliable old buddies over at the Local6 website, as usual, didn’t let me down.

Take a look at this story about "Play-Doh" perfume:


PAWTUCKET, R.I.—It’s one of the most unique smells around. And now you can wear it.

Hasbro is continuing its celebration of Play-Doh's 50th anniversary by releasing "Eau de Play-Doh," a perfume designed to smell just like the kids' modeling clay.

Spokesman Gary Serby said Play-Doh's smell is one of its most enduring memories, and Hasbro figures smelling the perfume will transport people back to their childhood.

It sells for $19 a bottle.


Play-Doh perfume?

Are they serious?

They actually think this is going to sell because it will “transport people back to their childhood”?

If a woman came up to me smelling like Play-Doh, I’m not sure that I could stop myself from saying something and it might not be the kind of comment that she was expecting.

If this stuff actually sells, I’m going to run out to the patent office with a couple of my own ideas because I don’t want to miss out on this potential gold mine.

Take a look and see if these fragrances will “transport” you anywhere…


Would you buy a cologne or perfume that was named or smelled like:

Mimeograph Fluid (for all of the former teacher’s aides from the 1960’s and 1970’s)

Toe Jam (for those out there with a “foot fetish”)

Jelly Bean

Locker Room

Grass Stain

Grass Stain with Doggie Poo

Model Airplane Glue

Kitty Litter

Windex

Pine Sol

Old Spice (oops…they already make that one)

Old Tennis Shoe (see “Toe Jam” above)

Hush Puppies (the shoes, new used or otherwise)

Hush Puppies (the food)

Sushi (an exotic aroma from the far east…)

“Space Food Sticks” (for all the astronaut wannabe’s)

Fish Bait (see Sushi above)

Old Fashioned Grease and Weasel (don’t ask…)

Public Restroom

Gunpowder (for the NRA members)

Brake Shoe (for the mechanic in the family)

Diesel Fuel

Fried Chicken

Tooth Paste (it might come in a tube rather than a bottle)

Pocket Lint

Doctor’s Office

Halitosis (see Tooth Paste above)

Septic Tank

Trailer Park

Athletic Supporter (for all the rabid college alumni in your family)

Peat Moss (for the gardener in your life…)

Perspiration (a simple, natural aroma)

Spam (it could come in a bottle shaped like the Spam can)

Hey all you married guys, it just hit me that there is an over looked cologne out there that would greatly improve your image.

I’d call it HOUSE WORK.

And finally, for the ladies, I believe that the most successful perfume aroma that is not yet produced and would be absolutely GUARANTEED to attract men, no matter what personality or appearance God gave you, would be…

NEW CAR

Anyone out there got any more suggestions?

I’m listening…

UPDATE:

Here's a couple of other fragrances that I forgot earlier:

Retread (for those women that have gotten remarrried--to their ex-husbands)

Watermellon (it would also contain a green dye...so you'd be green on the outside)

Squash Casserole (children would fear you)

Poison Ivy (for all the Batman fans out there)

Naugahyde (made from the hides of thousands of innocent little Naugas)

Kiddy Pool (You never know what it will smell like)

Sock Drawer (Self Explainitory)

Back In Paradise

We Made It…


I woke up Monday morning with a sense of dread. I just knew that something was going to go wrong, because other than the little tiny detail of forgetting to bring along my razor, the trip had been absolutely perfect.

When I turned on the Weather Channel, I thought that I saw the making of our first real problem. Thunderstorms were lined up covering the entire distance between Savannah and Brunswick.

Not to worry, we just hung around the hotel until about 1:30 PM waiting out the rain to move away as the cold front pushed through.

I’m pleased to report that my theory worked, and by the time we were rolling down the interstate about 2:30 the storms had moved off to the southeast and we were home by a little past 4:00 PM.

All and all it was a great trip. If you've never been to Savannah, Georgia, you really aught to consider it as a short vacation destination.

We'll be back again.

I’m A Blogaholic

Somebody…Please Do An Intervention


How many people do you know that will drive two hours to get to their weekend destination, only to spend the first three hours in a four star hotel worrying about the room not having a functioning high speed internet connection?

Yesterday I did exactly that, and I’m starting to feel a little guilty after the fact.

Well, maybe not…

We took a chance and arrived at the hotel about 11:30 AM, hours before the normal 4 PM check-in time and they promised us a room within a half hour.

Hurray...Hurrah...Hubba Hubba...

After taking a brief cruise around the neighborhood to kill a little time, we returned and were promptly settled into our room on the first floor adjacent to the pool courtyard.

So far, so good—right?

Wrong, because the first thing I did was attempt to connect to the hotel’s wireless internet service. NO SIGNAL.

None.

Zero.

Zilch.

NADA.

Not to worry, I’d just whip out my 20’ CAT 5 cable and plug into the wall jack. The problem was that not only was there a wall jack, but there was something close to fifty feet of blue CAT 5 cable coiled up in a bundle with yet another jack on the end of it laying nearby under the desk.

Certainly there would be a nice fast internet signal on at least one of the two connections.

Wrrroooooonnnnnggggg.

I wiggled the connectors, checked my software settings, and hit the connect button at least twenty times to no avail.

No problem, I just called the hotel “engineering” department.

Yeah…that’s the ticket.

I’m happy to say that if my AC wasn’t cooling or a light bulb wasn’t working I would have been in fat city, but the gentleman that arrived at our room just blinked and grunted and pointed to a phone number that he said that I HAD TO CALL to get service on THE HOTEL’S own internet wiring!

WTF?

So I called the number, and a service tech prompted me through a series of mindless questions like I didn’t know a CAT 5 cable from a garden hose, and once he realized that I knew how to turn the power switch on my computer to the “on” position AND that I was network savvy, he threw up his hands and called the hotel…

Hotel “engineering”, that is.

The same guy came back to the room, crawled around on his hands and knees under the desk for a few minutes, and then he asked if we would like a different room.

Not yes, but HELL YES, was my answer.

Arrangements were made with the front desk, and we wandered down to the waterfront for a late lunch while the bellman moved our luggage between rooms.

I marched back into the building and on to the second floor into our new room with a song in my heart and trepidation in my head.

Within minutes, I was in ecstasy…and here I sit 25 hours later.

I really can do without internet…really I can…IF I WANT TO…

I just don’t want to.

At least not now…

Afternoon Near The Garden Of Good & Evil

Alive In Savannah


We made it!

It really wasn't that hard--just a couple of hours including filling up on gas before leaving St. Simons and making one wrong turn coming into Savannah looking for Abercorn Street. I was surprised at the number of new fourlane bypass roads that have been constructed in the past 8 years or so.

Abercorn Street is like Atlanta's Peachtree Street, and its loaded with popular landmarks. Pat was suprised when we drove past many of the famous squares and the cemetary that was featured in the film "Midnight In The Garden of Good & Evil."

This little town has changed a great deal since I first set foot here in 1979. Since then I've been driving around Savannah at least a couple of times each year on business, but I haven't been back since about 1998 and boy has the change REALLY accellerated.

I guess it helped when "Midnight et. al." and "Forrest Gump" were filmed here and brought it to national attention. In my considered opinion, more is not better, and there are definitely more tourists and more "tourist streetcars" filled with gawking senior citizens and although urban renewal has removed much of the industrial clutter on the waterfront--I still think that I liked Savannah of the late 1980's and early 1990's better than todays version.

We've already wandered down to River Street (like Bourbon Street or Beale Street in Memphis) and had a late lunch, and now I'm sitting here in our second room at the hotel (the first one's internet connection wouldn't work--but I didn't pitch a fit) happily blogging away watching the weather channel.

I'm gonna get up at dawn tomorrow morning and run out to do a photo shoot on a bunch of the public buildings and churches within just a few blocks of where I sit here now. The early hour will hopefully eliminate all of the people from the scenes.

Wish me luck...

Neighborhood Nazi’s

At It Again


Just look at this stupid CRAP:

Garland Simmons was excited when the Cowboy Church began meeting at his place on Horseshoe Bend Road in late March.

It appears, however, that somebody did not share his enthusiasm. Simmons was notified by Bedford County officials that the Cowboy Church meetings violate county zoning regulations.

"I got the notice certified through the mail, Monday morning," Simmons said.

The notice consisted of two letters. One was from Gary McIver, the county's building official. McIver wrote that, by hosting the Cowboy Church on his property, Simmons is using it in a manner contrary to its agricultural (AR) zoning.

He also wrote that the building in which the Cowboy Church is being held, is defined as a farm building by the Virginia Uniform Statewide Building Code. The Cowboy Church constitutes a change of use for the building.

"We are all in agreement that this event is a worthy and admirable cause," McIver wrote.

However, he wrote that it is an unpermitted change of use for the property.

The other letter was from Lindsay Blankenship, a planner in the county's department of planning. It directs Simmons to "obtain the necessary permits for the establishment of a Religious Assembly" on the property by May 28.

Can you say “STUPID, IDIOTIC, EMBICILIC, MEDDLING MORONS?”

What ever happened to a man’s home being his castle (and his outhouse being a library or his barn being a church if he wants it to be)?

That tears it…I thought that I was through writing tonight, but the above story reminded me of my own situation that I hadn’t bothered to vent my spleen about here on the blog.

You see, we’ve got our own “Neighborhood Nazi” problems.

We live in a fairly nice condo complex with all of the obligatory covenants, rules, regulations, and limitations—some of which sometimes verge on insanity.

The thing is, you are supposed to know what the rules are when you move in and thus far we have managed to avoid the wrath of own “Neighborhood Nazis.”

Notice that I said “so far”?

Well, that all ended last Wednesday when I received a phone call from the owner of the Condo property management company. She said that she had received a complaint from one of my neighbors about the “red lights” that I had hanging inside around the perimeter of our screened sun room.

By “red lights” she was referring to the two new strings of parrot lights and pink flamingo lights that I had hung up a week or two ago in anticipation of celebrating Cinco de Mayo.

The manager tendered the call in a humorous fashion and didn’t demand that I actually had to remove the lights; she was just obligated to pass the complaint on to me because it was her job.

What is ironic about this situation is that I’m pretty damn sure that I know who complained, and said mean old bitter busybody hag the lovely woman sits on the board of directors with me and has been sparing with me over issues relating to the swimming pool for the past two years.

Did I mention that I’m the only non-owner that’s been asked to sit on the board of directors?

Did I mention that I’ve spent at least 40 hours of my time at no cost to the Condo Association writing specifications, attending board meetings, and meeting with contractors on site?

Did I mention that I just got through doing about 8 hours of work LAST WEEK at no cost to the Condo Association buying materials and managing their “Pool Fence Painting Project?”

Did I mention that this week I have spent another four hours studying metal roofing options for our Condo Complex and soliciting proposals for the installation of said metal roofing on said Condo Complex?

Did I mention that I had a couple of strings of white lights installed in the exact location for almost two years and received nothing but complements about their appearance?

Did I mention that, if the mean old spineless bitch or bastard the person that has a problem with my celebratory lighting will address me personally in a direct and polite manner, rather than calling the authorities on my ass, that I will consider removing the plastic parrot and pink flamingo covers from the lights—leaving an appearance exactly like we’ve all lived in harmony with for the past 26 months?

Did I mention that my “red lights” are still hanging up and will remain lit throughout my weekend visit to Savannah, and will only be turned out when a bulb fails or I find something costing less than $19.99 that I want to replace them with?

If they keep screwing around with me, I’m going to buy an entire flock of plastic pink flamingos to put in the front yard and buy an old VW bus and park it up on cinder bocks in the back yard and serve happy hour drinks in it.

I will win this one…just watch.

I’m A Ramblin’ Man

With All Due Respect To Greg Allman


I’m sitting here this morning doing something I rarely do these days…WORKING.

Actual ENGINEERING WORK, if you must ask.

That’s right ladies and gentlemen—I have some paying engineering consulting work that I’m doing for an associate in Atlanta—looking into the potential cause of an accident that caused the expansion joints in some 16” diameter steel pipes to rupture in a Data Center chilled water system.

OK, you can stop yawning now…I won’t bore you with any more technical details, but aren’t you impressed?

I am, because my old brain cells, or at least the ones I haven’t killed already, are spinning around on their little synapses and neurons trying to remember things that I learned almost thirty years ago in my “Statics”, “Dynamics”, and “Deformable Bodies” classes at Georgia Tech.

Unlike the coursework taught in many classes inflicted on engineering undergraduates, I’ve actually managed to USE the knowledge gained in those fifteen quarter hours of torture many times in my professional career, but I have to admit that it’s been at least six years since I sat down and drew a free body diagram of a beam or column and it’s taken a few hours to clean the dust off of my skills.

Meanwhile, I’m also mentally preparing to make a long weekend trip up old US 17 (running parallel to I-95) between Brunswick and Savannah where we’re spending a long weekend.

There should be a number of great photo opportunities including old buildings along the route, not to mention the beauty of downtown Savannah where we’re staying a couple of nights near the river.

I’ve spent part of the evening cleaning up the hard drive on the laptop so that I have room to download photos in route.

While working this evening, the words to one of my favorite Allman Brother’s songs kept creeping into my head while I was waiting for the computer hard drive to finish defragmenting…

"Lord, I was born a ramblin' man
Tryin' to make a livin' and doin' the best I can
And when it's time for leavin'
I hope you'll understand
That I was born a ramblin' man"

You'll have to excuse me if my blogging is light for the next couple of days.

But then again, if something stupid happens in the news or I get all inspired over something I see , you’ll be the first to know.

Regards Y'all

Loose Lips Sink Ships

Translation: “Leaks Sink National Security”


Is there anyone else out there besides me that doubts the coincidence of the Senate’s confirmation hearings for General Michael Hayden as CIA director this week and USA Today’s Wednesday recycling of the headline story about NSA’s “massive database” of American phone calling habits?

In fact, USA Today has managed to kill two birds with one stone story—bashing Hayden as he sits before the Senators and keeping the “Bush bashing” going as the country moves toward November’s mid-term elections.

USA Today is also counting on their readers having short memories

As Michell Malkin points out in today’s NY Post , USA Today’s effort is just a rehash of an old NY Times article ON THE EXACT SAME SUBJECT published last December.

The only thing that I found new in the USA Today story was that AT&T, Verizon, and Bellsouth were cooperating with the program, while Colorado based Qwest has thus far balked at providing their cooperation.

I see a new add campaign emerging for Qwest:

“Qwest and Al Qaeda—Can you hear us now?”

Or maybe “Qwest—Preferred by nine out of ten terrorists living in the USA…”

I don’t care if you AGREE with the use of these type programs or not (I happen to support them), what you and I should be concerned about is the on going LEAKING OF NATIONAL SECURITY INFORMATION to the media and ultimately--TO OUR ENEMIES.

I want to slap the somber smirk off of Pelosi’s and Reid’s partisan faces when they jump in front of the nearest camera and declare their intention to “Get ToThe Bottom” of this story and other non-stories like it.

NEWS FLASH—There is absolutely nothing for them to get to the bottom of, because key senators are already constantly briefed about ALL of the NSA’s activities.

SECOND NEWS FLASH—IF a government employee, private contractor, or any other of the so-called “unidentified sources” has any concerns about the legality and propriety of anything which the government is doing, they already have official procedures in place to complain about it and insure that it is investigated.

Instead of going to USA Today or the NY Times with the story, why not pick up the telephone and go straight to the horses’ mouths Pelosi, Schumer, and Reid and let them deal directly with the potential offending parties.

But Nnnnooooooooo, dealing properly with their concerns, following the chain of command wouldn’t accomplish their actual goal here.

The goal isn’t about personal privacy or the legality of the programs, it’s about stirring public hysteria and thereby publicly embarrassing their political enemies.

I sincerely want President Bush to order the CIA and the FBI to go out and find a couple of these treasonous partisan assholes”unidentified sources,” try them publicly in court, televise the entire proceeding, and if and when they are convicted, lock them up in jail for about twenty years.

That should take care of the endless stream of “unidentified sources,”

It would also force USA Today’s reporters to do some actual reporting rather than simply serving as a conduit for the transmission of our national security secrets directly to terrorists.

Chasing Our Own Tail?

More Government Stupidity


I don’t know about you, but I’ve been pretty impressed with the success to date of The Minuteman Project in demonstrating the shortcomings of government border control efforts while at the same time improving border security.

It’s amazing to me that regular citizens—mere amateurs—can do a better job for FREE than the Imperial Federal Government of the United States could spending billions dollars annually.

In spite of being called vigilantes and “a ticking time bomb” by the usual suspects (various “immigration activists”, socialists, liberals, Democrats, and many in the Lamestream Media,) to my knowledge there has been no reported abuse, injuries, or deaths of any prospective “guest workers” trying to walk or climb or swim across the Rio Grande in the presence of the Minutemen and Minutewomen.

Hundreds of illegal border crossings have been thwarted and dozens if not hundreds of potential “guest workers” have been rounded up and either sent back to Mexico or are awaiting justice in jails in the Southwest.

I would think that a reasonable person or group of persons like the Government officials responsible for border control would be thankful for the assistance, but instead this article indicates that our government may be actually tipping off the Mexican Government of Minutemen activities in advance.

While Minuteman civilian patrols are keeping an eye out for illegal border crossers, the U.S. Border Patrol is keeping an eye out for Minutemen -- and telling the Mexican government where they are.

According to three documents on the Mexican Secretary of Foreign Relations Web site, the U.S. Border Patrol is to notify the Mexican government as to the location of Minutemen and other civilian border patrol groups when they participate in apprehending illegal immigrants -- and if and when violence is used against border crossers.

A U.S. Customs and Border Protection spokesman confirmed the notification process, describing it as a standard procedure meant to reassure the Mexican government that migrants' rights are being observed.

"It's not a secret where the Minuteman volunteers are going to be," Mario Martinez said Monday

My first reaction was my usual “What the HELL?”, but after letting things develop during the day today now things don’t seem so cut and dried because US Customs and Border Protection is now publicly denying the allegation.

U.S. Customs and Border Protection is refuting a Daily Bulletin report that the U.S. Border Patrol provided information to the Mexican government about the whereabouts of civilian border watch groups.

Today's report by the Inland Valley Daily Bulletin, `U.S. tipping Mexico to Minuteman patrols,' is inaccurate," read the statement issued Tuesday evening. "Border Patrol does not report activity by civilian, non-law enforcement groups to the government of Mexico."

Kristi Clemens, a spokeswoman for the Department of Homeland Security and Customs and Border Protection, would not elaborate on the agency's statement other than to say the U.S. gives information to Mexican officials under the rules of the Vienna Convention on Consular Relations of 1963, which provides foreign nationals being detained by a government the right to consular access.

I did a little snooping of my own and, being unable to read much Spanish, I was able to get Google to give me this translated copy of the Mexican government website containing a discussion of US cooperation with them regarding the Minuteman project.

Looks to me like someone here in the US is talking to someone south of the border, and it looks like the information is making it onto the internet and could potentially be used by someone intent on getting a job plucking chickens here in Georgia.

Of course a critical question in my mind would be the timing of the supply of the information.

IF data is changing hands, are things done in real time or in historical report form?

Knowing the chicken shit manner in which our government handles border security, and considering the level of jealousy and embarrassment that certain officials (elected and appointed) might be feeling over the success of the Minutemen, I certainly wouldn't be too surprised if we’re handing them the location of the border enforcement efforts in an effort to undermine their success.

Let’s just sit back and see where this story goes.

I’m Not Much Of A Groupie

Mundane Celebrity


As most people already know, I’m not much of a fan of pop culture.

Some people might think that I’m gay or something because I can’t name a half dozen “super models” by name and couldn’t put faces with names if one of them offered to marry me and share their fortunes.

That said, I had my third ever contact with a famous musician this afternoon while hanging out down at Murphy’s—our local tavern.

The first time I ran into someone that was a big time artist was back about 1990 when I walked into a bar/restaurant in Marietta, Georgia and sat down to order a beer. When I looked at the man on my left and spoke to him, I realized that I was sitting next to the country singer Travis Tritt.

Being the smooth operator that I was, I introduced myself, shook his hand, and told him that I realized who he was but that I would not disturb him because I thought that it was cool that he was able to hide under a cowboy hat and try to go out in his native Marietta and act like a “normal person.”

His anonymous status lasted about another fifteen minutes as word of his presence spread and fawning little waitresses and other patrons bombarded him with greetings.

I left the room shortly after sharing a beer with him, but without an autograph—I’m not an autograph kind of guy.

This afternoon I managed to sit down beside a slightly less famous, but none-the-less talented guitar player named Stevie Holland. There were only three of us sitting there for about an hour (the bartender that had known him all his life, Stevie, and Me.)

For those of you that don’t remember, Steve Holland was one of the founding members of the southern rock group “Molly Hatchet.”

In college my friends and I probably saw them perform three or four times in Atlanta in the late 70’s and early 80’s, and Stevie has turned his life around after a nearly twenty year absence from the stage and has reassembled a group of former Molly Hatchet band members as a group called ”Gator Country.”

He’s a very down to earth guy. He answered my questions and told some great stories about traveling on the road and performing as the opening act for bands like “The Who” in Europe; and performing at London’s Albert Hall with Eric Clapton, Robert Plant (of Led Zepplin fame) and my fellow blogger and reader John Hooker.

What started out as a trip to grab a quick cold beer and talk to my friend Brad turned into a once in a lifetime experience with someone that lived and breathed good old Southern rock and roll in it’s infancy.

I once again left the building with a handshake, but no autograph.

(For those readers in the Orlando, Florida area, “Gator Country is making their public debut at Orland’s City Hall Plaza this coming weekend. If I didn’t already have plans to spend a long weekend in Savannah I’d have accepted Stevie’s invitation to come down and bring my harmonicas—can you say “BAD TIMING?”)

Things I Know I Can Do Without

Late Night TV Ads


Those that know me personally or that frequent this blog and read my daily rantings know that I’m a night owl. As background noise, I generally turn on the Discover Channel, History Channel, or FOX News and vegetate while surfing the Web or writing about the “topic du jour.”

What totally drives me crazy is that, if I'm not having to look at Greta Van Sustren’s crooked mouth while she talks about some pitiful missing teenager on FOX for five hours in a row, then I'm being tortured sometime between 3 and 5 AM when most cable channels switch over to…(get ready)

PAID PROGRAMMING

You know...

Paid “infomercials” featuring of all things—INANE CRAP LIKE…

A. Anything made by "Ronco" and that marketing genius Ron Popeil. God save us all...


B. Giagantic CD collections of 1970's or 1980's music.

Sorry folks, but I LIVED THROUGH the 1970's and 1980's and I can buy all of the music I can stand to listen to all by myself without having it blended together in a mind numbing mix.

Why don't the try selling me something by Jimmy Hendrix on 8-Track tape format?


C. Real Estate purchasing “SYSTEMS” requiring no money down.

Yeah, RIGHT, I’m going to watch a few video tapes and listen to a few cassettes and then run out and develop a Donald Trump type real estate empire starting with only twenty dollars while making the government and other people pay for it.

I can’t decide who is a bigger Moron—the “system” buyers or the “system” sellers?


D. “Wild” Party Girls Videos

These poor girls parents just have to be totally mortified by their behavior, not to mention that their chances of wearing a white dress and walking down the church isle with a straight face with anyone but a boorish pig are forever reduced by their choice to drink and accept a few hundred dollars to flash their tits on national TV.


E. Girls gone “Wild” Videos (see D above)


F. Exercise equipment comprised of wheels and leavers and bows and springs that are guaranteed to help me lose 50 pounds and give me six pack "Abs" in just six weeks (and hides neatly under my bed or in my bedroom closet.)

Just mail me the six pack and we'll have a drink or two during happy hour.


G. Diploma Mill “colleges and institutes” that offer to teach me to be a male nurse or a TV repair man (something that I really need after I throw the remote control through the picture tube) in the privacy of my own home in only three weeks for two easy payments of only $49.99.


H. Various and Sundry male genital enhancement products—including prescription pills and other things that might cause “Priaprism.”

I didn’t know that the condition “Priaprism” had a name.

You want “Priaprism”, I’ll give you “Priaprism” because I say that most men battled “Priaprism” from about age 14 to age 30 and many just couldn’t find a girl that would appreciate it.


Now you'll please have to excuse me, because I have to go study my TV repair manuals…

My Fish Is Smarter Than Your Fish

Oops...I Mean Mammal

In the past I've had the opportunity to see and interact with Bottlenose Dolphins in the wild while deep sea fishing and scuba diving.

I firmly believe in the popular estimates of their intelligence--often exceeding that of many politicians and media personalities found wandering around out there in the "real" world.

Take a look at this story indicating that individual Dolphins might have specific names, and actually say their names from a young age as a means of introduction and identifictaion.

The Sunday Times - Britain
May 07, 2006

DOLPHINS may be closer to humans than previously realised, with new research showing they communicate by whistling out their own “names”.

The evidence suggests dolphins share the human ability to recognise themselves and other members of the same species as individuals with separate identities. The research, on wild bottlenose dolphins, will lead to a reassessment of their intelligence and social complexity, raising moral questions over how they should be treated.

The research was carried out by Vincent Janik of the Sea Mammal Research Unit at St Andrews University, who has found bottlenose dolphins to be among the animal world’s quickest learners of new sounds.

He said: “Each animal develops an individually distinctive signature whistle in the first few months of its life, which appears to be used in individual recognition.”

The research has its origin in the 1960s when dolphin trainers first noticed that captive animals each had their own personal repertoire of whistles.

This prompted speculation that dolphins had their own language and might even have individual “names”. However, the theory was controversial among whale and dolphin researchers, and until now, there had been no means of testing it.

I wish that congress would pass a law giving Dolphins the right to vote rather than passing that responsibility to illegal aliens and many humans that I know.

But then again, I wouldn't like having to live in a giant concrete pool performing tricks for frozen chunks of Mackerel and Sardines, and that's probably what the Dolphins would do to all us Humans given the opportunity.

Remember...what comes around goes around...

Mexican Food

See What You Missed?







The dust has settled, but I'm still tired.

Time to fry some fish for dinner...

Over 30 Were Fed

(And No One’s Dead)


I am so relieved…I actually did it, and not by myself I might add.

If it hadn’t been for Pat’s steadfast support and my friend Rusty’s ability to imitate my own limited tamale making skills, I might have caused a minor bout of starvation at dinner last night, but instead I laid my head on my pillow before midnight secure in the knowledge that our dinner party was a resounding success.

I sort of out-smarted myself in waiting a bit late to start putting the tamales together because I wanted them to be “fresh,” but Pat and then Rusty jumped in and helped me with the production process and in the end we probably had close to 100 little neatly tied corn husk wrapped packages.

Our buddies down at Marsh Point Bar and Restaurant loaned me two deluxe commercial sized covered chafing dishes and we ran a smaller third chafing dish containing my Mexican Rice mixture and just to put things in perspective let me say that I think that…

Our guests “chowed down.”

I think that everyone was surprised at the quantity of food that we were serving (My Invitation said DINNER and I meant it,) and I never got around to cooking the fish for the tacos and all of the chicken tenderloins still lay raw in the fridge when the dust settled. (I’ve got a long way to go when it comes to estimating proportions.)

In the end I realized that cooking for two or four or six is a no brainer, but that cooking for thirty is HARD WORK, yet having people come back through your buffet line two or three times and rave about your food makes it all worthwhile.

Captain Dave and one of his friends (I forget his name) provided the entertainment by playing the keyboard and harmonica, and I jumped in a couple of times with my own harmonicas and the crowd sang along to things like Billy Joel’s “Piano Man.”

All in all, a “Large Time” was had by all, but I'm definitely not ready to do it again...at least for a few months.

Things All Men Need To Know

An Early Tribute To Mother’s Day...


Hey all you guys out there…

Yes…YOU…You there…The man averting your beady eyes…answer this question for me if you will:

ARE YOU A TYPICAL “MALE PIG”?

If not, you probably need to thank your mother, and you also need to notice that I intentionally left off the standard “chauvinistic” part of the phrase because that's not what I'm talking about here.

By “Male Pig” I don’t mean the Sally Struthers’ FemiNazi type “Male Pig” that is purported to basically disrespect women and sets about to demean and repress their (the Feminazi’s) government and God given “rights” as the bearers of all of the Vaginas and Mammary Glands on the planet and in the Universe.

No Sirrrrrreeee.

I mean the type of man that thinks that ironing your clothes involves placing a warm cookie sheet and a stack of dictionaries on top of your pants on your desk before dressing for church Sunday morning so you can “dress up;” or that believes that a “bathroom rug” consists of the avant-garde collection of head, body, and pubic hair that accumulates on the ceramic floor tile between your bi-annual vacuuming and occasional random fits of sweeping and dusting.

(Those type guys also think that that pink ring around the toilet bowl is an indicator that the toilet is working properly because the water always fills back up to the same pink ring point after a flush…)

As to being that “type” of “typical male pig”, I’m here to tell you that I aren’t one.

I’m not, thanks to my Mama.

My Mama insisted that I learn what “clean” was.

My Mama taught me to wash my clothes.

My Mama taught me to iron my clothes once they were washed and dried.

My Mama taught me how to “do the dishes.”

My Mama saw to it that I took a bath virtually every single day of the first 17 years of my life (whether I needed it or not.)

My Mama made me take a typing class in High School long before the computer keyboard became a major part of my life. (I've made tens if not hundreds of thousands of dollars of extra income as a result...)

My Mama generally taught me right from wrong and caused my face and ears to change shapes and colors based on the veracity of the statement which I was uttering at any given time.


Red ears…liar.

Red face…embarrassed.

Red neck…walking into the expansive woods on my grandfather’s farm with a rifle in my hands.

With those points in mind, I offer a hearty...

THANKS…MOM!!

Best Laid Plans—Phase II

Draining My Mud Drum…


OK, first go read my previous posting entitled "Best Laid Plans", then stop back by here if you really want to put things into perspective.

I know, I know, I know…poor poor pitiful me….

I’ve spent the entire week trying to selfishly glorify myself by doing things for others, and it seems that God really does have a sense of humor because two of the three projects I’ve undertaken have leapt up and bit me on the ass here at the last minute, in spite of my efforts to have them finished by WEDNESDAY.

First and foremost, I’m cooking dinner for 30 people Saturday night. You might have already heard...

Yes ladies and gentlemen, we’re co-hosting a party. We’ve spent a bunch of bucks on food to cook, and yes they’ll probably slap me on the back and carry me around on their shoulders if I’m successful…but…regardless of any self serving accolades I still have a 7 pound pork roast in the oven and about 5 pounds of beef roast in a Dutch oven on the stovetop as I write.

Come hell or high water the preparation of my menu, including another 10 pounds of chicken, is first and foremost on my personal agenda, but just DAMN…

my other two projects just won’t stay the hell out of the way.

I’ve already written about my “Pool Fence Project”, so now that I ask you to indulge me while I gripe about my “friend’s auto sale” project.

For the past few months I’ve been helping an absentee neighbor sell his car that is sitting here on St. Simons Island.

No big deal, you might say—and that’s exactly what I thought when we started the project. After all, the loan was paid off, they had a buyer, and all I had to do once the title came in the mail was swap the keys and title for a check, right?

Wrrrrooooonnnnngggggg.

Sweet people that they are, the elderly couple buying the car just don’t have a CLUE, and apparently they haven't had to borrow money to buy a used car before.

I’ve been calling and begging and pleading for them to consummate the deal since Tuesday, and finally today we agreed that I would drive the car to their loan office over in the real world in Brunswick at 10 AM to pick up the check in exchange for the title and keys.

Wrrrrooooonnnnnngggggg.

By 10:45 I learned that not only did my buyers not have the necessary documents to get the loan, but they also hadn’t been advised of what they needed until Thursday morning and “they were going back home in Darien” (20 miles away) to get them.

Just DAMN…

I politely told the lovely loan officer that I had had enough and drove back home, thereby limiting my time wastage to a measly 2 hours. I also told her that I had extensive personal commitments until Monday and that we should just plan on rescheduling the transaction for next week.

Come 3:30 PM, I got a phone call delightfully declaring that my purchaser was sitting in the loan office, check in hand, and that they wanted their car.

Wrrrrrrrroooooonnnnnnggggg.

I likewise delightfully reminded said young enthusiastic loan officer of my earlier 25 mile round trip in the morning and my declaration of my unavailability between then and Monday AM. I asked that she offer my regards to my purchaser and explain that their collective ineptitude would result in a slight delay in the consummation of our four wheeled transaction.

I’m such a heartless bastard, but it was “pool time” and in addition I needed to go check on my imbeciles contractors and get a little sun.

Feeling about 50% less stressed, cocktails by the pool ensued.

Oooooohhh…Aaaahhhhhhhh…

Poolside I thought to myself that I’d just put the week’s BS behind me and enjoy doing my cooking, having postponed the auto deal and put most of my contractor induced woes behind me.

Wrrrrrrrooooooooonnnnnngggg.

When we returned from the pool we had a voice mail message from our buyer saying that they wanted to come pick up the car today.

Wrrrroooooooooooonnnnnngggg.

I hate to admit it, but I lost my shit. I yelled at the loan officer on the phone. I would have yelled at the buyer if they had answered the phone. I yelled in front of my girlfriend and I think that I was lucky that I didn’t have a heart attack I was so angry.

Who the hell do these people think they are and what the hell were they thinking?

After all…I was there in the loan office with the car, car title, and keys in hand this morning.

No one else was prepared, even though I called everyone for two days previously and we agreed on the process before I arrived.

I know that my lips were moving and words were coming out of my mouth, but I must be crazy or dreaming or otherwise speaking gibberish because no matter what I do, people have the audacity to not only waste my time, but then they get upset with ME when I won’t bend further backwards to accommodate THEM.

This goes out to several select individuals (and you know who or whom you are)

YOU CAN ALL JUST KISS IT (MY ASS, THAT IS...)

Best Laid Plans

Excuse Me While I Vent…

Maybe there is something wrong with ME, I just don’t know.

I feel my mouth moving and I hear the words coming out of my head, but this week I’ve either encountered a bunch of inept retarded dyslexic morons, else I swear that I’ve started speaking gibberish or lost my mind or something because no matter what I say and agree to do for others, NOTHING I’ve planned has worked out, and I’M THE ONE that has suffered the consequences.

All of this, while working for FREE.

Take our little Condo pool fence project, for example.

You know, the pool fence project that I agreed to help our Elderly Condo Association President (that would be ECAP for future reference) manage?

You know, the pool fence project in the Condo Development that we RENT in, not OWN.

Call me the ultimate philanthropist.

I’ve done my best to ensure that this little piss-ant $1,500 $1,650 $1,700 paint and wood replacement project went smoothly and was completed properly and on time.

I called the contractor last week, whom was conveniently out of town this week, and we agreed that we would await his return and walk through the project, review his proposal, and make sure that we were on the same page before his crew started work.

Seems reasonable so far…right?

Since I’ve done the design and project management of several hundred million dollars worth of heavy industrial fabrication and construction over the past 25 years, a little piss-ant $1500 $1650 $1700 paint and repair job should be a piece of cake.

But Nnnnnnooooooo, can’t have that, because the Stupid Bitch Contractor’s Wife (that would be the SBCW, for future reference) demanded that she be allowed to start the job this week rather than next week when the actual CONTRACTOR and CARPENTERS were back in town from Atlanta.

And of course, rather than telling ME her plans, she called our well intended but totally clueless ECAP, who proceeded to approve the Monday start date (because he wants to ensure that everything is finished before next month’s board meeting.)

For those of you keeping score, that would be SBCW—1, Virgil—0.

As I anticipated (having managed a few so-called residential contractors before), come Monday morning at 8:00 AM there was no sign of any construction or painting going on at my pool-side jobsite.

9:00 AM…..no construction workers

10:00 AM…no construction workers

11:00 AM…no construction workers

12:00 AM…no construction workers

1:00 PM…two construction workers, but the SBCW was no where to be seen.

No supplies, no tools, no paint, just three lonely guys (including myself) standing around picking our noses collectively.

1:30 PM…thank God the SBCW arrives, with two additional workers!!!

1:45 PM SBCW continues to ignore me, even after I have identified myself as the project manager.

2:00 PM I manage to get a few unintelligible grunts and a half smile from SBCW.

2:01 PM I have a “throwing up of my hands and walking away back home” party.

To make a long story even longer, this idiot SBCW allowed her people (two of which left on Tuesday to go to the aforementioned Atlanta job site) to work with virtually no tools and minimal supplies (delivered at the last minute) all week long.

The SBCW converted a three day job into an entire week long project.

The SBCW also managed to pull an additional $150 out of the ECAP for installing new wood where the wood was rotten, just before she got the extra $50 out of the ECAP for cutting said wood to lenght.

Now the score would be SBCW 3, Virgil 0.

Next, since the local building supply company was out of the needed pressure treated lumber and threatened to delay my "project from hell", I had to drive 25 miles round trip in order to pick up and deliver said wood from Home Depot to our pool-side jobsite.

Then I had to argue with the Stupid Bitch Property Manager (that would be SBPM for future reference) in order to get reimbursed this week for the lumber I purchased, even though I stupidly didn't ask for mileage charges and in spite of saving them a $50 delivery fee.

I watched helplessly as the SBCW’s employees ran around begging to borrow basic things like extension cords and water hoses and the PAINTER that was doing the CARPENTRY work spent much of his time standing around scratching his ass looking for nails over 1-1/2” long for two of the four days he was working.

The second part of the project, which I won’t bore you with the details of, was equally (un)successful.

All I know is that I’m a capable, experienced project manager, and it absolutely drives me crazy when I get myself into these situations.

Instead of just continuing to bitch and complain, let me offer some advice:

If you are a homeowner, I suggest that when you start your next home improvement project that you either hire the most expensive contractor you can find, else you put on your largest boots and, after kicking yourself and your significant other in the ass, you be prepared to kick the shit out of anyone that shows up on your property with a paintbrush, hammer, or any other item remotely resembling a TOOL.

I Know that EVERY contractor isn't a total idiot so don't start E-mailing me with complaints, but residential construction seems to attract the most inane, unprofessional, useless morons living here on the planet.

It's just that simple...

A Belated Happy Birthday

I Missed This...

Most everyone that knows me personally knows that I have a fairly wide range of musical taste and knowledge.

I've wasted time fooling around with the guitar, the piano, the trumpet, and most recently I drag about 30 harmonicas around with me in order to assault a sometimes unwilling audience with various blues bends and riffs.

I also have started singing in public, although I'm afraid that my Willie Nelson, Jimmy Buffet and James Taylor imitations are more like impressionist Rich Little's renditions of Richard Nixon and Jack Benny than actual original vocal talent.

The thing I lament the most about some of today's popular music (particularly that listened to by those under 30) is the obvious lack of vocal talent and inability to actually sing lyrics--Rap and "alternative" artists being the worst offenders.

I just noticed my blog Idols over at Powerline mentioned that Tuesday was the 103rd anniversity of Bing Crosby's birth.



What is hard for me to believe that he's been dead for nearly 29 years now, so I understand why all of the aforementioned "20 somethings" might not know what good singing sounds like.

Happy Birthday Bing ...

I’m A Ramblin’ Wreck From Georgia Tech…

And A Son Of A Gambolier?


OK folks, this morning I want to wade into this hysterical hoopla over the Spanish language version of the National Anthem.

It might surprise you to learn that I’ve decided that I just don’t care…if they want to sing Francis Scott Key’s patriotic ballad in Spanish or Chinese or Swahili—let them sing it.

I’m not insulted and I’m not going to get excited—two reactions that I think might be exactly what they (the British music producer, the illegals, and their supporters) want us to do.

Don’t get me wrong here, my first reaction was probably the same as yours ("WHAT THE HELL?"), but then I started thinking about it and did a little Googleing and you know what?

There are hundreds of songs out there that share the same tunes already, and actually Mr. Key wrote the lyrics to "The Star Spangled Banner" using a tune stolen from an English song called “To Anacreon In Heaven.”

I guess that the maybe the British bitched and complained a little at first, but we’re still singing the song using the same tune today, aren't we?

And here’s a little history for you, by the way…did you know that “The National Anthem” has only been “The National Anthem” since 1931?

Well it has...

And I bet you also think that it was written during the Revolutionary War, but it was actually written in 1814 after Mr. Key witnessed the assault of Ft. McHenry in Baltimore during the War of 1812.

Up until the late 1800’s, Reverend Samuel Francis Smith’s "My County ‘tis of Thee" was the de facto National Anthem until Congress decided to get in on the act and pass the 1931 resolution.

And once again the tune for Reverend Smith’s lyrics was stolen from the British, as it is also the tune for their national anthem “God Save The Queen.”

Other well known songs like Oh Danny Boy and even my beloved Georgia Tech’s fight song “Ramblin’ Wreck From Georgia Tech" each uses traditional folk tunes as their basis.

So calm down, and get over it--I say that we shouldn't get all worked up over this.

After all, if we imposed the same standards on Georgia Tech fans as we want to put on the protesters, I’d be a “Son of a Gambolier” instead of "A HELL OF AN ENGINEER."

Hell, I don't even know what a "Gambolier" is, let alone how I'd go about being the son of one, do you?

Something To Do

Finally...


OK, it’s like this.

Normally I spend my time being a pretty useless bum these days.

Blogging, a little volunteer work, a little writing, and a little drawing and painting and photography is usually on my schedule, but I have to admit that I’m generally pretty slack compared to most of you out there in the real world.

Not so this week, however.

I’m cooking for 30+ people next Saturday night and in addition we learned today that our invitation has been accepted to have a weekend guest in our home.

Suddenly I’m in a hurry, because late last week I added to my to-do list the overseeing of four or five people working for a contractor doing repair and paint work here in the condo complex over the next couple of days.

I’m afraid that I might have bitten off more than I can chew, because now in addition to buying and processing food, I’m responsible for the extra building supplies not included in the original contract due to extra decay and rotted wood we found in the pool deck fence this afternoon.

I did get a bit of a head start making room for our guest’s accommodations by moving and storing a couple of tons of files and paperwork around our second bedroom/office. I normally use the “pile file” theory of paperwork management, but the method is neither attractive nor conducive to accommodating guests.

Now I’m facing having to handle a trip to buy lumber in addition to a last minute shopping trip for food accoutrements tomorrow before setting about the process of brining and cooking about twenty pounds of Pork, Beef, and Chicken in our tiny kitchen.

I know that I can do the cooking because I’ve prepared every dish at least three times in the past month—it’s just the QUANTITIES involved, and preparing everything at the same time, and managing to keep everything hot or cold that is a challenge.

So any way, if the meaningful ranting & raving blogging suffers this week I ask that you please excuse me, and check back once in a while for updates on my progress.

(of course I reserve the right to explode at any time based on any unforeseen news stories…)

May Day’s New Meaning

Mexico’s Newest Holiday?


It’s funny how life’s experiences constantly change the meaning of things.

For instance, when I first started my own engineering business back in 1990, the first thing that I lost was the traditional meaning of Fridays, holidays, and vacation.

As most everyone knows, when you are an employee somewhere and you don’t own or manage the operation, most of the time you can count on running out the door on Friday afternoon and not coming back until Monday morning. Likewise, you can declare your two weeks vacation time and also run out of the office at Thanksgiving and Christmas and never look back.

Not so once you take your employment into your own hands and go into business for yourself. Customers generally could care less if you’ve planned on spending the third week in September at the beach for six months previously, they want their proposal or drawings or material delivered, dang it.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dragged around a briefcase, a fax machine and a computer while on “holiday” or “vacation” in the past 16 years.

Being like many Americans and enjoying a good excuse to celebrate, I’ve often waded into the masses of revelers enjoying ethnic holidays like the Irish’s St. Patrick’s Day and Mexico’s Cinco de Mayo. I’m neither Irish nor Mexican, but I’ve drank my fair share of green beer and Margaritas in my day on these two holidays.

Unfortunately for me, Cinco de Mayo lost its celebratory appeal ten years ago because my father passed away on May 5th, 1996.

It’s taken ten years for me to get back around to even thinking about celebrating on Cinco de Mayo, but I did want to do it this year and darn it if the illegal Mexicans haven’t gone and spoiled it for me again.

Now they’ve all decided to do some kind of strike or walkout or something today, May Day.

Imagine that--Illegal (and generally non-unionized) Mexican “immigrants” celebrating what has traditionally been an organized labor union & communist holiday here in America—the capital of freedom and democracy.

Did someone forget to send me the memo explaining the rational of this maneuver?

What an entirely inept public relations move, in my opinion.

After all, with Cinco de Mayo falling on Friday of this week, it seems to me that IF these invaders and their sympathizers absolutely had to make some kind of warped political statement, it would have made much more sense for them to do it on Mexican Independence Day rather than on May Day.

Then again, I hope that they just keep on thrashing around demanding “rights” and pissing off middle America so that the legal residents of this country will pressure the professional and elected denizens of Washington DC to get off of their collective asses and do something about our borders.

Meanwhile, I'm making my own political statement this week by having a Cinco de Mayo party a day late, on May 6th. In an even more politically incorrect maneuver, I'm buying the ingredients and cooking all of the food (tamales and tacos and salsa and guacamole) for our thirty guests myself.

Maybe I'll start a tradition and call the annual event Redneck de Mayo.

Yeah, that's the ticket...take that Mexico...