nobody asked…

• My favorite pastime is football, both college and pro. I am so tired of muttering “Maybe next year…” before the seasons have gotten off to a full start…
• If god had intended us to put lettuce on sandwiches, he woulda made it flatter.
• Aging is so kind to us. We become physically unable to do the things we enjoy most, but before we hurt or grieve too much over the loss, our memories of those joys fade.
• It is so unfortunate that we allow an artificial, often arbitrary, man-made pair of boxes we call Democrat and Republican, become such divisive mechanisms that turn us against one another and define who and what we are as individuals and as a people.
• Why do so many people retire and then die within a short time? I think I’ll just keep working till I drop.
• Why would anyone voluntarily jump from a bridge or tower, attached by a long rubber band known as a bungee cord? This insane practice is nothing but suicide practice.

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Here’s something you’re not likely to hear if you live in Boston or New York or LA…

A couple of days ago, the morning traffic report on 104.5 The Zone had all the usual alerts such as injury accident in the southbound lanes of I-65 just north of Trinity Lane, overturned truck blocking the westbound side of I-40 at Fessler’s Lane, disabled vehicle in the median on Briley Parkway, fender benders here and there. And this…

A cow is reported to be running loose in the roadway on White’s Creek Pike at Greenbriar Road.

Fifteen minutes later on the traffic update, it was reported that police were on the scene, still trying to arrest the cow…

Nashville is a bustling and dynamic city, loaded with culture, major league sports, and abundant opportunities, but occasionally we are shocked back to the reality of how close we still are to our roots. That is good. It keeps us grounded…

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Heh… I saw this over at Dustbury and thought I would help Chaz get the word out…

One improvement would be a padded shoulder strap so you could just sling it up and keep your hands free for torturing other small domestic pests. And maybe a Velcro strap for lashing down the tail. Chaz pointed out that it may not work for ferrets. I would add the caveat to use extreme caution if trying to secure your pet python with the Cat Carrier — it probably ain’t gonna work — and the snake is gonna get mightily pissed.

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No matter which holiday you celebrate at this time of year — Christian Christmas, secular Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, or just a few relaxing days off while everyone else plunges toward bankruptcy as they celebrate — I wish for you peace, love, joy, health and happiness throughout the year. And chocolate. Lots and lots of dark, rich chocolate…

The bond of friendship that develops among virtual friends here in the blog world has become an important part of our real world existence and self-definition. Thanks to all of you for stopping by, for reading, for offering your comments, and for your lasting friendship. Those who have drifted through here and then moved on, we remember you with fondness and will always welcome your return.

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Sometimes I think I have an open mind. Other times I realize it is just vacant property. The tiring stress of work at work and work at home and my Tennessee Vols losing and the stupid weather and did I mention work and the natural erosion of aging, have all conspired to dull me senses and drain me brain. Synaptic explosions are more like dull thuds. Thoughts have no discernable pattern, and when I finally think one does, it splats and runs like a sunny side up egg thrown against the wall. Sure, I have copious notes and outlines for posts that will thrill and mesmerize my readers for hours on end. In the future. But not today. Today I am a veritable tabula rasa, so I went stumbling around in the dark for an idea that would not exacerbate the simple minded state I find myself fast approaching. Where do the simple of mind go for entertainment? I have no clue, but I went to Elisson’s and found this; he got it from Verbatim, his alleged Blogmamma, whatever that is.

Grab the nearest book and answer the following questions:

Title and Author:

The Art of Amazement: Judaism’s Forgotten Spirituality by Rabbi Alexander Seinfeld

Is the book dedicated to anyone? If so, whom?

Dedicated in honor of a beloved Bubbe (Grandmother)
V’rachok mip’nimim michra….Her value is far greater than pearls.
Proverbs 31:10

and in memory of three grandparents

Charles Chester Goodman

Lester Seinfeld

Sylvia Seinfeld

What is the first sentence?

Try to remember the most spectacular sunset you ever saw.

Turn to page 47. Please share the first sentence of the first full paragraph.

Could another delicate planet like ours exist in the universe, or are we alone?

OK. Easy enough. For even the likes of me. It is not yet clear what we have accomplished here, but I invite all of you to join in the simple minded fun.

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In a comment to my previous post about Mutant Tits in Wales, frequent visitor Elsie said she was going to post about the mutant wood pecker lurking around [her] yard just to see if [I would] give him equal time. Well, boys and girls, you all know that ol’ Winston is deep into equal time, always striving to be fair. And something as perversely weird as a mutant pecker is not likely to be ignored by this observer of life.

Elsie’s comment had a sort of tongue-in-cheek, sassy challenge kind of tone to it, so I decided to get ahead of the curve by mentioning that this feature story is coming, even before it opens in a theater near you. So, how is that for a jump-start on the equality thang, Elsie?

[UPDATE: Just "fixed" the non-existent link that wasn't there and therefore didn't work. Sorry, Elsie. Forgive me? 10/19/07, 7:45 PM CDT]

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Welsh reporter Liz Hinds writes that a rare mutant tit has been observed. She presents a graphic description along with photographic evidence. Be one of the first to share in this titillating discovery that is sure to bring addititional credibilitity to the blog communitity.

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So, what do you call your vehicle? What? You don’t name yours? Not to fret, mon ami, neither do I. But in some areas of the country, it is routine for people to give their cars and trucks names. Human names. Pet names. Handles they actually use to address the beasts. Like Ingrid, Sparky, Billy Bob, Mona, General Lee, Arthur, or Bubba. Though I grew up in a small Southern town, annointing 2000 pound chunks of steel and plastic with names that could have been picked out of the baby naming book was not a common practice.

When I recently met the ol’ Straight White Guy hisownself, Eric, and his Missus for drinks and dinner in Knoxville, I was reminded of this arcane practice when Eric introduced me to Sylvia, their sporty Audi convertible. I remembered meeting C.G.Hill of Dustbury fame when he came through town last summer on his World Tour 2008. His mohicle was affectionately name Gwendolyn. Then I remembered, and bored Eric and Missus, with the story of the one time that I had a named vehicle.

A number of years ago I bought a new, early model 4×4 Chevy S-10 Blazer, a 1983 as I recall. It was black and gold which was fitting since I was living in Pittsburgh at the time and had become a huge Steeler fan. Soon after taking delivery, I was giving a ride to a friend and business acquaintance. Before getting in, he walked around the vehicle, inspected every detail, checked the power plant under the hood, and kicked the substantial tires. Once his interior inspection was completed, Ken turned to me and gave a nod of approval. Then he asked the strangest thing, “What’s it’s name?”

“Whaddya mean, what’s it’s name?” I replied.

“Well, back in Indiana where I come from, a guy has to have a name for his vehicle. Especially a fine truck like this. You gotta give it a name.”

I allowed as how I had no experience naming my rolling stock and invited him to come up with a name for it. On arrival at our destination, Ken once again walked around the truck, noting details he may have missed before. Then he stopped, looked off into the distance, squinting as if trying to focus on answers written in the ever-present Pittsburgh clouds. After several seconds he confidently proclaimed,

“Buster!”

To which a startled me looked around and said something sage like, “Bust her what?”

“Buster. That’s what this truck should be named.”

“OK, Ken, if you say so, Buster it is.”

And so it was. Long after I escaped Pittsburgh and found my way back to Tennessee where I belong, long after I saw Ken for the last time, that ol’ beatup Blazer was Buster, to me and to everybody who knew me or it. And a right fitting name it was.

Do you have a name for your car or truck or SUV? Tell us the story…

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A couple of oarstrokes behind us, there was a post titled Before You Croak… which I had been honing, off and on for a month or more. For some strange reason I wanted to name it Before You Die…, or more accurately, the French translation of those words, in the context of a list of things to do before you die.

First stop was the Google translator, which gave me several variations depending on how I phrased the thought. My command of French has more to do with fries and pastries than with the nuances of the strange language of France. So I happily chose the one that looked and sounded best to my untrained ears. A couple of other internet based translators yielded totally different results. I bounced it off Roomie, a college English major with a minor in French. She studied the several results I had and said that her French was rusty, but none of them really looked correct.

OK, so I check it out with a woman now working for one of my customers. She tired of teaching high-school level French and decided to go to work in business for better pay and benefits. She asked the context and then gave me a string of French words that could have been curses on my next of kin for all I knew.

So, who do I know that lives it? Aha! My blog friend, the old Loose Poodle hisownself, Peter (the other) recently chronicled his acquisition, remodeling, and decorating of an apartment in Paris. France, that is. An email to Peter brought his reply sent from Montreal and he did not have his English-French dictionary with him. His best effort produced something different from all the other attempts.

When all else fails, go to the source. To the epicenter. So I did what I should have done to start — contacted Madame Levy of La Vache Qui Lit fame. Leslie reported back after double-checking with a couple of the natives, and gave me yet another string of words that I had not seen before, and which almost certainly translates to blow in my ear through a soda straw and use Uncle Buford’s cat to wash the car that hit you. And then Madame Levy said the most amazing thing: “before you die” … simply wouldn’t be said in French.

That declaration, underpinned by the proliferation of translations cluttering my screen, convinced me to abandon the whole idea and just write about the experience. How do the damn French ever communicate anything clearly? Maybe they don’t…

Thank to Roomie, unnamed ex-school teacher, Peter, and Leslie. Merci beaucoup.

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This came from a despair.com ad. If you don’t know Despair, you should. You’re probably familiar with the rah-rah, pump it up, feel good, company, Successories, that has stores in malls around the country. They market all those wonderful posters and calendars and mugs that motivate us to give more than we have to achieve more than we are capable of. Well, Despair is a hilarious antithetical parody of that, recognizing our daily human struggles and limitations for what they are — a pain in the arse. They present their demotivators with tongue firmly planted in cheek, making them my kind of guys.

Go. Visit. Buy. Enjoy.

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Original source unknown, but H/T to my friend PITA.

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• If global warming is a myth, then why hasn’t it snowed enough to talk about in years, and why are the summers so much hotter and drier here than in years past?
• You really begin to suspect drought when the weeds start dying.
• Convicted criminals, trashy thugs like Michael Vick, should never again be allowed the opportunity to play professional sports and make more millions. Sorry, no compassion here for any scumbag that willingly kills dogs.
• Further to the above point, those who argue that killing dogs for the hell of it is no different than hunting and killing a deer obviously have never thought it through, and probably do not have the mental capacity to do so.

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Being of hollow mind, shallow soul, and lazy arse, I choose to repeat my wrap-up comment on the previous post for those who may be lazy enough (like me) to backtrack and read it. ‘Twould be a pity for my patrons to miss the opportunity to bask in these glorious words. Did I mention that I am lazy? So without further ado, here are my responses to the silly pizza quiz…

A couple of you were quite close with your guesses, which means my disguise and cover-up need work… So here we go point-by-point:

Actually have relatively small appetite and have never complained about portion sizes one way or another. However, I do think it ridiculous that most restaurants these days give you more than a family of four can or should eat.

Picky pizza eater? No. I know what I like and prefer, but will eat damn near any kind of pizza. When I lived in Iowa I even tried the sauerkraut and Canadian bacon pizza from that strange uppa mid-west chain… what was the name… Happy Joe’s? Or something like that. I did balk at the PBJ pizza…

NE U.S.? Depends on how far north and how far east and the time of year.

Traditional and well-crafted. Check. But I also like so-called “gourmet” food from time to time.

Dependable and loyal are my middle names. Conservative? Definitely on some things, absolutely not on others.

Unadventurous and boring are my middle names. I do vacation at home.

Geek is my middle name. But I don’t eat at computer. I have serviced too many that had soup or grape soda dumped on keyboard or globs of ketchup dried on the mouse. I drink coffee, water, tea, or adult beverages (when done with work) and may eat something clean. Like M&Ms.

So, there you have it. And oh, while I was doing this, a new comment came in from Gerry Rosser, to whom I say: Anyone who reads this blog is intelligent enough to know that those tests are silly, stupid, ridiculous wastes of time. And occasionally will make for some humorous blog fodder. Sometimes one will bring a smile to my face. And I need to smile occasionally. So, Gerry, please lighten up a bit…

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I stumbled over this at both Kay’s and Tamarika’s. It is amazing how many of these silly little tests there are out there. Some are spot on, while others miss by a country mile. Same with the findings spelled out below — some are me, some are not me. Any guesses about which is which?

What Your Pizza Reveals

You have a hearty appetite. You are likely to complain if a restaurant has small portions.You are a very picky pizza eater. Not any pizza will do. You fit in best in the Northeast part of the US. You like food that’s traditional and well crafted. You aren’t impressed with “gourmet” foods. You are dependable, loyal, and conservative with your choices. You are unadventurous and boring. You should consider staying home when taking a vacation. The stereotype that best fits you is geek. You’re the type most likely to order pizza to avoid leaving your computer.

What Does Your Pizza Say About You?

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