It's all a matter of perspective.

Friday, July 26, 2002

Welcome to my Garage sale. Come in, take a look around and see if there is anything you might like. We are very friendly and open to haggling!

Oh yes, I see you have excellent taste! That shirt was a favorite of mine, back before I got so fat. It would look very handsome on you. It is still in excellent condition as I refused to wash it so as not to fatigue it. And it is a bargain at the Fifty cent asking price. No sale? Very well. Browse on, my friend. I’m sure the next person will not be so slapdash.

Aaahh, I remember those socks. I have been looking for them. I did not know that my wife had marked them to be sold. They were my favorite, you see. But I really do need to earn some money, and I suppose I could part with them for your sake. Just show me the quarter! What, not interested? Very well, you do not deserve my favorite socks anyway.

Look over here . . . that’s right it is the ABC gum table. This was my idea. This gum was hardly even chewed! Some of it still has flavor left! And only a penny! Hey, where are you going? You are going to miss the best deal of all. I save my mouthwash! It’s an antiseptic, why would you spit it down the drain? It is reusable. Hey come back, I need your nickels!!!
"There is, of course, an immutable law of celebrity: The more nauseatingly and insistently two stars proclaim their togetherness, the closer they are to coming apart. (Witness Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee, Jennifer Lopez and Puffy, or America's Sweetheart, Julia Roberts, who has declared her eternal devotion to everything that moves, and several things that don't). Meanwhile, celebrity couples that evidence staying power, like Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson, tend not to conduct interviews with their legs coiled around each other's heads. A stable marriage is about more than wearing each other's panties and draining each other's blood. Sure, that's part of it. But these things are no substitute for the things that really matter: responsibility, fidelity, mental stability."

-Matt Labash

Allen Barra has become my favorite sportswriter, mostly for the way that he hates Major League Baseball owners yet loves baseball. His column today is number 30-20 of his top thirty baseball memories. Here is my favorite:

29) Nov. 14, 1999, at the Montclair Book Center, Montclair, N.J. I get Yogi Berra to autograph his new book for me. I show him a copy of his 1961 autobiography, which he autographed for me at the Menlo Park Mall, Edison, N.J., 38 years earlier. I asked him if he remembers me from this. He smiles and says, "Yeah. How 'ya been doin'?" this morning has the best article yet on the Steve Earle/John Walker's blues controversy. I honestly do not understand what all the hoo-haw is. When Johnny Cash sings "Delia's Gone," nobody fears for June Carter Cash's life. People write songs from the prospective of characters just exactly like novels and short stories are written from other people's prospective. Think of the song as historical fiction. If you don't want to hear a song about John Walker, then don't listen to it.

The dumbest commentary has been the people who claim Earle did this as a publicity stunt to boost his career. That is ridiculous. Since his return from rehab, his career has been as successful as he wants it to be. He owns his own record label and sells enough albums and concert tickets to make a pretty decent living. Hell, he hasn't even commented on all of this controversy as he has been vacationing in Europe. He probably finds all of this quite humorous.

Thursday, July 25, 2002

Nobody Loves me but my Momma,
And she could be Jivin' too.

Jonah Goldberg pointed out in National Review Online's The Corner the need to be nice to the Alpaca.

I am curios if perhaps these evil alpaca are in league with their obvious relatives, al Qaeda

-----Original Message-----
From: Dan & Leslie
Sent: Thursday, July 25, 2002 10:04 AM
To: Nathaniel Greer
Subject: Re: Yahoo! News Story - Boy's penis stitched back after donkey bite

Of course under Arab laws...this was a perfectly legal act by the boy. Unfortunately, the donkey will have to suffer the consequences of his/her own actions. The punishment of a Donkey for biting of any genitalia is of course...Death. Same as any donkey not wanting to work today...Death.

----- Original Message -----
From: Nathaniel Greer
To: 'Dan & Leslie'
Sent: Thursday, July 25, 2002 10:01 AM
Subject: RE: Yahoo! News Story - Boy's penis stitched back after donkey bite

What were the boy and his donkey doing when this happened? I've heard rumors about those dirty Arabs.
Dan brought this story to my attention:

Boy's Penis Stitched Back After Donkey Bite
Thu Jul 25,11:01 AM ET

RABAT (Reuters) - Surgeons have managed to stitch back a Moroccan boy's penis after it was bitten off by a donkey, the official MAP news agency reported Thursday.

Professor Mouaad Mounir, chief urologist at Ibnou Toufail hospital in the southern city of Marrakesh, was quoted as saying the operation on the seven-year-old boy was carried out last week.

He said the operation had taken 45 minutes and was successful.

MAP did not say how the donkey managed to bite off the boy's penis.

A source at the hospital confirmed the agency's report, but declined to give further details.

Donkeys in Morocco are used for laborious work on farms and garbage collection and are often subject to harsh treatment.
"You have found The Mountainbike Militiamen Movement Subversion Site. Here you have access to information you will need to 'ride the apocalypse.' If you are easily offended, have a weak stomach, or you are a politically correct vegisexual treehugger chi-chi boy technoweenie squid you better go cryin' home right now. This is the Mountainbike Militiamen Movement and we mean to ride even if we have to be mean to ride. "
Last night I made Dan watch Glengarry Glen Ross for the first time. This morning when I got to work, this email was waiting for me. Notice the time when it was sent.

From: Dan & Leslie
Sent: Thursday, July 25, 2002 2:40 AM
To: Nathaniel Greer

Man that was just a great movie. I can't get it out of my head!! I can't sleep!! Just bloody evil. What a bunch of cut-throat bastards. I hate that movie so much, and I love it. ARHHHH!!!!!! God I just want to scream!!
Jonah Goldberg's list of possible bumper stickers for the inactivist movement he is spearheading:

Visualize me ignoring you.
How about "let's not."
Don't honk if you can't be bothered.
Don't Act, NOW!
If not now, whenever.
Leave well enough alone
Slacking: It's not just for kids.
YOU Save the Whales!
Practice Random Acts of Self-Restraint.
Ask Not.
Future Site of Political Statement.

Wednesday, July 24, 2002

People Who Hate Their Jobs

Nick Green – Computer Tech: The thing that drives me crazy is the people that I work with. Let me tell you something, my job would be completely tolerable if only they would institute one office wide rule: NO TALKING! I mean that. No talking about personal issues. No talking about work issues. No talking about your stupid rugrats and how great they are doing in Jr. High basketball. If you have something that you need to communicate, we have telephones and email and memos. There is no reason to stand up above the cube line and say something out loud.

And would you like to know what part of this is the most annoying? It is when people make general announcements to the entire office. Things like, “That damn babysitter is going to run my phone bill up if she keeps calling me eighteen times a day!” Or perhaps, “Ya’ll, I spent six hours last night trying to change the oil in my wife’s car.” Why do I care? What business is it of mine? Just shut up and get back to your solitaire game so that I can get back to mine!
People Who Hate Their Jobs

JW Bond – Drywall Contractor: There are things about my job that I like. I’m not sitting down in some lousy office chair that has a thousand farts from strangers in it. I could never do an office job. Piped in air, piped in sunshine, talking on the damn phone all day. Give me the great outdoors.

That’s where we come across out first problem. I ain’t outdoors. Slaving away all day in these partially finished houses, you could fit the wife and I’s little homestead in the master bedroom of most of these places. I’m lifting these heavy-assed pieces of sheetrock, up to the wall, up over my head, in a nicer house than I will ever get to live in. I mean, my work pays the bills I guess, but it ain’t gonna pay these peoples bills.

The damn general contractor wants it done yesterday. It’s dirty in a half finished house. The lighting is not up yet, so we get to work by little clip on lights like an auto mechanic uses and whatever sunlight leaks through the open unfinished windows and doors. At least I do get plenty of fresh air.

Seventeen-year-old dropouts seem to be the only people that want to earn an honest dollar. I guess if I could pay them more than $8.00 to start out, I might draw a classier crowd. I just hate the way they don’t warn you when they decide to quit. When you have got a 5000 square foot house on a golf course with some wiry old rich lady on your ass to get it done yesterday, zitty chin will decide that it is appropriate to submit a resignation by not showing up for work. Also they drop the mud on the floor and don’t clean it up. I hate slipping in drywall mud.
Mark Steyn on the corporate scandals

"Enron was comparatively easy: It was an energy company, from Texas, whose rise had coincided (more or less) with Bush's governorship. Connect the dots, implied the Dems, and what you have here is the worst example of the Texas wildcattin' business culture from which this oil stooge President emerged. But they couldn't make it stick. And the terrain's far less favourable in the current crop of scandals. For one thing, it's not a shady energy company, but a diverse portfolio: telecommunications, biotech, pharmaceuticals, and even Christmas spice balls and cockscomb topiary, for among the fallen corporate idols is America's happy homemaker Martha Stewart, supposedly under investigation for insider dealing -- or, as Martha would put it, 'Here's a stock deal I made earlier.'"
Rob Lowe to leave 'West Wing' over salary dispute...
Greenwich Time
July 24, 2002

Landscape designer sues Paula Zahn and husband

A local landscape designer is suing CNN news anchor Paula Zahn and her husband for failing to pay in full for extensive landscaping at the couple's Greenwich home on Hurlingham Drive, according to documents filed in state Superior Court in Stamford.

Last week, the lawyer representing Zahn and her husband filed a motion for a protective order arguing that Zahn should not be deposed in court because she has "celebrity status."
Read Joe Bob Briggs' piece on the Fancy Food Show in Manhattan. To be paid to do what he did . . . what can I say. It is my fantasy.
I have added a checkbox on the right that will give you the option of links opening a new window.
Headline on The Onion this morning:

Karaoke Singer Will Survive

I went in to check on Wylie this morning and he was lying on his back in the bed with his baseball cap and his glove on. He had slept with the foul ball he got at the game last night and was popping it into his glove hand. He just casually looked up and said, "Hey Dadoe" and went back to popping the ball into his hand.

Tuesday, July 23, 2002

I wonder how many pounds-per-square-inch I can generate when I really have to go?
I went to an Arkansas Travelers baseball game tonight with Mrs. J, our two-year-old son Wylie, and my old man. We had a wonderful time, even though it trickled rain on us the whole time. (Or as my old Cajun Granny would have said, “It was a mizelin’”) Wylie got a foul ball from one of the security guys and he immediately said, “Where’s my bat?” He loves baseball more than anything and would rather go to a ball game than watch cartoons. That’s my boy!!

One thing that always gets my dander up about baseball is bunting. I do not understand why professional ballplayers would pop up a bunt! I was taught that popping up a bunt was the unpardonable sin in baseball; right up there with missing a sign. My old man (who was also my coach for my entire ten year career) taught me a method for bunting where I could lay it down every time and put it wherever I wanted. You just keep your hands together, let the whole bat slide down where you are gripping it about halfway down the barrel, then you just put the bat on the ball. The but end of the bat will hit you in the chest if you try to drop the barrel below your hands - if the barrel is above your hands, it is impossible to pop up the bunt!

It seems like every time I see someone trying to bunt on TV or at a game, they will pop up a couple foul before finally popping it up to either the pitcher or the third baseman. Sheesh. To quote Harry Caray “I Just don’t understand it.” Lay the stinking ball down on the grass and advance the runner; it is what you are being paid for.
An old man is married 40 years. He is retired and not altogether a hermit, he will leave the house if he needs to. His trips outside are ruled by one goal only, which is to get back home as soon as possible. What drives him to rush from place to place and hurry home ASAP?

Why his recliner and television of course.

The recliner is his comfort blanket, the television his best friend. If you would like to have a nice unrushed visit with him, you had better have it at his house in his living room with him in the chair. Also you had better hope that there is nothing good on. No Yankee's games, no PGA tournament coverage, no decent movies on HBO and he will be glad to sit in the chair and visit. The television does not get turned off, however. Only turned to something that does not require one's full attention and perhaps the sound muted.

How did this man come to this, you may ask? The last thirty-five years he worked eight to five, Monday through Friday. He helped coach junior's little league baseball teams and peewee football teams. He took the boy to his piano lessons and his little girl to her dance classes. Then they would come home and eat dinner and help mom clean up. Next are bath time and story time, and then how do you do this math homework and one more drink of water and I have to go to the bathroom.

For thirty-five years the only time that he got that was truly his was at the end of the day, when the kids were in bed and the wife was in her room reading a book and he could finally crawl up in to the lap of his old friend. He would pull the lever to elevate his feet, grab the remote from the crack between the seat cushion and the chair arm, flip it to TBS and catch the last two innings as the Braves put it on the Cubs, 8-3. Then, as Dave introduces us to his good friend Paul, he would relax his neck and let his head rest on the top pillow and drift away. Eventually the wife would come out and coax him to the bed. Thirty-five years of longing all day for this one fleeting moment has conditioned him. He does not have thirty-five left to break the cycle. The best thing for you to do would be to learn to sit with him in silence and enjoy a good show.
Check out this test

I got a 37! A more conservative score than anyone I know. Get your hands out of my wallet, you bunch of lily livered, tree hugging, pink-o, red, lefty, Marxist hippies.

Long live the Gipper!!
Earlier today, my good buddy Dan alerted me to something called Salvia

While reading the information on that website several things occurred to me

1) It is completely legal
2) It is completely natural
3) It only lasts 15-20 minutes

That said, I don't think that I would ever have the courage to try any substance that could trigger schizophrenia and requires a sitter to keep you from hurting yourself.

But wow, I had no idea that such a substance existed!

I suppose I will weigh in on the Steve Earl thing as my first political post.

Writing a song from the point of view of an unsavory character is a constant theme in Steve's work. I'm sure that is what is happening.

But I did read an interview with him where he said that his new album was going to be very political and, "There's a time to write chick songs, and then there's a time where there's too much else going on. This is one of those times."

That makes me nervous, because as much as I like his tunes, and as much as I have historically liked his lyrics, when it comes to politics he could not be more wrong. I can sympathize with him on the death penalty thing, but on pretty much every other issue he is as wrong as he could be. I do not want to hear a tune called "Ralph Nader's Prayer" or "V.I. Lennon Blues" about how multi-national corporations and globalization is going to be the downfall of man.

Whatever. It does not matter a hill of beans. Steve Earle eventually pisses everyone off, could be my turn. That does not make Carrie Brown or Copperhead Road kick any less ass!

Lament For A Coffee Mug

Editor’s Note: Nathaniel is a former two-pot-a-day coffee abuser. About a year ago his doctor ordered him to quit cold turkey because of chronic acid reflux. Three months ago Nathaniel finally got around to quitting.

Let me tell you something cowboy:

I had a coffee mug that I loved very much. I would refill it many times during the day. When it was fresh and full I would gently hold the steaming mug to my bosom and let the aroma lift to my anxious palate in a sort of olfactory orgasm. Savoring every molecule, I would slowly lick the last few drops from the sides of the mug when the volume became low enough that gravity would not pull them out.

The dark bean was my savior; the snowy ceramics mug my best friend.

Focusing on the sunburst Gibson Les Paul on its outer shell, I know its message well. "Hard Rock Cafe" it proclaims, "Houston, Texas." Loud and clear it speaks to me, in a back country sort of guffaw that makes one picture a lonesome scene, perhaps a camp fire and Sam Elliot as he pulls the mug away from his parched lips and sucks the java residue from his ample mustache.

Ah my old friend the coffee mug, how it has been with me through the ages. A gift to me from my roommate Ray-Ray after a psychology department field trip, I often carried it in my backpack during the college years. Many a day it left the classroom next to notebooks in an empty and neglected state, waiting to be rinsed and refilled at my convenience. Often times it would hold more than just coffee. First thing in the morning as the precious brew was percolating; perhaps I would fill it with milk to take a BC powder with. Occasionally it would be necessary for the first cupful to be half Evan Williams or cheap vodka, still trying to combat that hangover. My mug was always with me, and often the only thing that got me to work or class on time.

Perhaps the thing that I miss most about my old friend is the way it brought perfect regularity to my digestive system. As I close my eyes even now I can remember sipping that last cup of the morning and immediately making a break for the privy. Nothing in the universe is so healthy for ones colon as a steady supply of the glorious bean juice of the Java Arabica plant. Even to this day I long for that feeling of immediacy to my bowels.

The coffee mug, I know it well. Alas I have no good use for it now. The damn thing just sits on my desk holding pennies.

Hello and welcome. I have finally joined the revolution and decided to create my very own blog. I feel quite certain that no one will notice or care. I have a lot of things to post, but I think I will dole them out slowly, so as not to blow my load right away. Enjoy.