nobody asked…

Throughout my adult life, Carlin was my guiding light, my conscience, my benchmark. He had that laid back I don’t give a damn what you think I’m saying it anyway and if you don’t like it you can just fuck off attitude that drew me in like flies to horseshit.  Looking around for someone alive to pray to ( I mean there’s not much point praying to somebody who is dead because what can they do for you? )  I consider Joe Pesci. George prayed to Joe Pesci and said it worked out OK about half the time, roughly the same results Christians get by praying to God. Not being a personal friend or a big fan of Joe, I continue my search. As of last night, I’ve settled on Jimmy Buffett. He  has that same laid back I don’t give a damn what you think I’m saying it anyway and if you don’t like it you can just fuck off attitude. Jimmy is also a spiffy dresser, is the personification of fun, always has a lot of babes hanging around, all of which are artfully shown in the following hymn from one of his parties services. And, WWJD? has a familiar ring to it. Yeah, for now, he da man…

If God had intended us not to masturbate he would’ve made our arms shorter. — George Carlin

R.I.P.  George Carlin

1937 - 2008

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In the previous episode, extreme trepidation was evident as I prepared for a plunge into the dark side. This morning about half way through my second cup of coffee, a little voice spoke to me and said, Do it. Do it now. But I quickly told that noisy little bastard to leave me alone, that I was getting ready to do my WordPress upgrade. So with that and a small amount of last minute checking of the security net and bungee cord anchor points, away I go.

After free fall through what had to be six levels of perdition, I realized that Dante was nowhere to be seen, and nobody had a name-tag saying, Hello, My Name Is Lucifer. So I said, Screw this, I’m getting the hell out of here.

All my fears were for naught. Or perhaps it was the well wishes of commenters to the previous episode, those who enjoined the gods and ghods and The Force to be with me and watch over me. I thank you. Or perhaps it was the calming voice of experience, CGHill, who assured me nothing had gone wrong when he had taken the plunge. Or the wise counsel of Jean, who advised the age old technique of finger crossing for good luck. Believe me Jean, I had body parts crossed all over the place, including some that ain’t supposed to.

To make a short story quite long, the upgrade went without a hitch. I did not even have to find and restore my header graphic, theme modifications, etc. It all happened within a couple of minutes of hard work by the Dreamhost elves and so far it appears they got it right. If any of you stumble across anything needing attention, please let me know. Billy Gates and the Redmond Banditos should spend a couple of days learning from the WordPress and Dreamhost dudes. It is obvious that they care about the user and that they have the technical skills and knowledge to bring it off flawlessly. Thank you WordPress. Thank you Dreamhost. And thank all of you dear readers for giving me a reason to do this in the first place.

This site may soon go dark for a day or three. Or not. Since WordPress released the “latest and greatest” version 2.5 a couple of months ago, I have ignored it for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is my Oblomovian lassitude (follow link to my previous post if you have forgotten what that means or if you (…gasp…) never read it). Every time I open WordPress, it nags at me like an ex-wife, reminding me that my crusty olde version is unsafe, unstable, expired, moldy, dried out, lost its fizz, contaminated, and about to either implode or explode (they do not specify which). If it was so friggin’ terrible, why did they tout it the latest and greatest at the time of release? It’s been good to me and has not blown-up or kicked me in the arse.

On the slim chance that a couple of features have been added that within three days will have me wondering how I ever lived without them, I’m prepping to take the upgrade plunge. Dreamhost usually does an outstanding job of providing a “One-click Install” through their Control Panel, and I have never had any disasters. The hind-side of my brain is quite preoccupied with thoughts of the “proverbial first time.” At the very least, I will be required to add back the plug-ins and themes I want to be active, and perhaps some upgrading of some of those to their “latest and greatest” compatible versions.

The mission date has not been established and will depend on whether I can find something else to occupy my idle time. I do expect this will happen within the next week, probably when it is raining in the Nashville area so that I am stuck inside anyway. Emergency lights have been installed. High-powered handheld halogen beacons will be deployed around the perimeter for use by the curious among you who have the courage to venture forward for peeks into the dark chasm. My best bio-chem warfare suit has been cleaned and checked for moth holes. My newest assault weapon has been cleaned and calibrated and is fully loaded and charged for the dangerous mission ahead.

Your kind thoughts and well wishes are appreciated. If you are inclined to pray, this might be an appropriate time to do so. If by chance I do not return, it has been a nice run. I love you all — well, most of you — and appreciate your time and patronage in visiting, reading, and commenting on my murmurings. All I can hope for is that you will remember me with a slight smile and the thought that he was a pretty good guy.

I first encountered the term Oblomovian lassitude on a private blog I am privileged to read. Soon after, I stumbled over the term again on another blog, Anecdotal Evidence, where Patrick Kurp was discussing Samuel Beckett thusly…

“All I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.”

True even if apocryphal, this crack is attributed to Samuel Beckett in the 1930s. True because it distills three Beckett obsessions in 16 words: Oblomovian lassitude, Swiftian scatology, and Dante. The last is first in importance. He thought a lot about Dante for more than 60 years.

Further investigation at the usual sources led me to learn that Oblomov was the best known novel by Russian writer Ivan Goncharov, first published in 1859. Oblomov is also the central character of the novel, often seen as the ultimate incarnation of the superfluous man. He rarely leaves his room and for the first 150 pages of the book, does not even get out of bed. In the Russian language, Oblomov and its derivations are used to describe someone who exhibits the personality traits of sloth or inertia similar to the novel’s main character.

But what of lassitude? This one I know all too well. I often suffer this condition of indolent indifference brought on by weariness of mind and body. The oppressive summer temperatures around here will do that to you.

So, now you know. If someone describes you as suffering (or maybe it is enjoying) Oblomovian lassitude, you have been called a lazy ass. Now I need to put my weary ass to bed for a few days and try to build up enough interest and energy to check out the aforementioned Swiftian scatology, though something tells me it will be a rather messy topic.

This

drove Roomie to this

and has me thinking seriously about this.

Spoked Stoked by her envy of a writer friend, Roomie went out and bought a 26″ Schwinn Comfort Bike of the female persuasion. She did the research herself and made her own decision. Atta girl! Then whined and pouted until I went to the store to haul it home in my trusty Subaru Outback wagon. She was so pleased with herself on being able to get what she wanted in the price range she had set. Of course, her careful budgeting had overlooked a few items like helmet, tire pump, tool kit, clip on bag for carrying assorted things that women have an innate penchant for hauling around wherever they go, rack for hauling the bike around on the arse-end of her car, luggage rack and/or basket for hauling home the goods from all those quick trips to Walgreens and Publix, and whatever else she decides to add. Her total investment will probably double from her original objective. Miles per gallon: infinite. But, she seems happy for the moment and it will keep her occupied and distracted while I consider my big purchase.

Visiting clients in downtown Nashville, I’ve noticed the street cops are using these sharp little Honda scooters that look more like small motorcycles than the image you probably have from the word scooter. They are nothing really fancy, just your basic, bare-bones suicide machine. I could not haul all my service bags and tool kits around town, nor haul a customer’s computer back to the shop. But, I want one! Miles per gallon should be in the range of 75 to 80 while cost to fill the tank at todays price is about $5. That’s a slight improvement in cash flow from the $54 fill-up I had on Friday. I want one!

Fully clothed and nude
Running to hide from the eyes
That see right through me

The Republican Offenders website maintains a growing list of Republicans charged with criminal activity. Of the 284 presently on the list, at least 60 are pedophiles. Each name is linked to a group heading of the type of crime alleged or convicted. (Among the categories are rape, bribery and “assorted felonies”.)

Ahhh… the Grand Old Party of George Bush and John McCain… If this was not so pathetically sad, it would be hilarious…

[ A rattle of my handcuffs to Crooks & Liars ]

Just stumbled across this little jewel. The Everlys were popular back when I was. They still are…

This is rare footage of Don and Phil performing without their own guitar accompaniment. In fact, they may be lip-synching, which was very common in those early years of live television. I believe this was probably from The Andy Williams show (in the opening seconds Andy is visible on the left side of the screen) circa 1958.

It wafts across my consciousness like an ancient dream, but it was very real and just a few decades removed. It now seems a world away, but it’s only a couple of hours drive. Going there now is to travel back in time, to the formative years of my youth and my coming of age. So much of it remains untouched by the passing of years. Yet it is in enough ways different that it is no longer home.

We did not appreciate it then, but growing up in the ’50s in Huntingdon was about as close to ideal as anyone could hope for. It was small town USA with a tree-lined Main Street, where everybody knew everybody, where house and car doors were left unlocked with never a problem reported. People had values. The school, along with several Christian based churches, provided the social hubs for most of the population. People worked hard but enjoyed life and took a day off on Sunday. Most merchants also closed shop on Wednesday afternoons, a practice that now seems odd. I never knew or thought about why — that was just part of the natural order of things.

The population then was around 3,500 but we liked to call it 5,000 because that sounded so much larger. The Court House, situated on a knoll where Highway 70 intersects Highway 22, remains as it was then, a permanent sentinel keeping watch over the town, and an effective speed-bump in the center of town. Thru traffic and townsfolk alike had to literally drive around the Court House to get through town. U.S. Highway 70 was the main East-West route across the state, so there was a lot of Memphis to Nashville traffic, including 18-wheelers, that cursed and smoked and spit their way around Court Square. The Interstate Highway System was just getting underway, would be years in the making, and would miss Huntingdon by about 20 miles. The bypass, similar to the ones that would encircle every small town eventually, had not yet been thought of.

On a recent visit with my remaining family there, I discovered that a traffic light had been installed where the bypass intersects Highway 70 on the west side of town. This is not a flashing yellow caution light, or a flashing red stop then proceed with caution light, but a full-fledged light with green, yellow, and red lights that work on a timing mechanism. Prior to this, Huntingdon proudly claimed to be the largest town in the country without a stop light.

In the 1950s, all commerce in town was huddled around Court Square or within a couple of short blocks on the spokes coming into the Square. The only bank in town, a couple of general stores, or department stores as they preferred to be called, one jewelry store, a florist, two insurance agencies, a grocery store, the obligatory cab stand — pool hall combination, and three car dealers, one to represent each of the great American automobile manufacturers. And, of course, the churches — one each of Baptist, Church of Christ, Methodist, and Presbyterian, all within shouting distance of the Court Square.

In the ’70s and ’80s, as the town grew, new strip shopping centers opened on the east side of town, right along East Main, or Highway 70. When the mecca of Walmart was established, smaller merchants sprang up around it, as if to suckle the rich flow that would follow. Downtown began to wither. Stores changed hands. The jewelry store became a card shop, the Post Office became offices when the new one was built out on the edge of town. Even the doctors’ offices moved out to stand sentry around the new hospital. Some of the churches moved to the ourskirts of town and erected new buildings. Like so many other little towns across the country, especially the ones missed by the interstate highways, downtown Huntingdon was changing. It was beginning to die.

There were enough stubborn merchants that held on, determined to not let the town wither into obilivion, as had happened with others around it. Stores came and went, sometimes coming back again. The couple of cafes in town changed ownership, changed names, moved to a different building, changed menus, and somehow managed to survive. Some of the small mom and pop shops were able to retain enough of their loyal clientele to withstand the merciless marketing onslaught of Walmart. Bob’s Dairy Bar out on the edge of town had disappeared after Bob died at a too early age, and was eventually replaced by the usual assortment of McDonalds, Hardees, and Wendys. The local bank was swallowed up in the bank merger mania that started in the ’80s, but the main local office continued to anchor the same downtown corner on Court Square.

The aluminum foil plant that had arrived in the late ’60s continued to grow and provide stable employment and a strong economic base for the town. As the population grew and the bypass was completed, Walmart moved from their original location to a huge new Walmart SuperCenter across town. After the bumpy turn of the century, an old department store that anchored the Court Square across the street from the bank was taken over and rebuilt as The Dixie, a first class performing arts center for the region. The name derives from Huntingdon’s claim to fame, Dixie Carter, who grew up in Huntingdon as I did. As a senior, Dixie played first chair trumpet in the school band, while I sat as a shy freshman in the clarinet section, sucking on my reed, slobbering on the stage floor, and peeking over my sheet music at Dixie. She went on to entertainment fame as Julia Sugarbaker of Designing Women. I went on to post stuff that nobody cares about in this blog.

Daddy died in early ‘95 and Mom is in a nursing home only a few blocks from where her house, now someone else’s, sits. Most of their contemporaries are either gone or in nursing homes. My brother and family are still there — never left. He retired from the aluminum plant a year ago and his wife just hung up the teaching tools after a long career. Some of my old school mates are still around, all looking much older/fatter/balder/grayer than I do, of course. We’re having a class reunion this fall and it will be interesting to hook up with some that I have not seen or thought about in 30 or 40 years. Going back now is a bitter-sweet experience. Of course I visit with Mom at the nursing home, go by Daddy’s grave and say howdy, visit with my baby bro, and occasionally see someone who I recognize or who remembers me. Driving around town always impresses me with how little the town has changed, while reminding me how very much it has changed. I leave and head out Highway 22 toward the interstate, realizing once again that I can’t go back.

Here’s one to work seamlessly into your next conversation…

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tohubohu

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to·hu·bo·hu [toh-hoo-boh-hoo] -noun

chaos; disorder; confusion.

[Origin: 1605–15; Heb tōhū wā-bhōhū]

Example of usage: From its beginnings in 2000, the Bush administration has been a hotbed of tohubohu.