It's all a matter of perspective.

Friday, October 11, 2002

The Thrill

Doyle: See, you don't want to question the genius, Vaughan. Morris here is a modern-day poet, kinda like in olden times.

Morris: Yeah, I got a new tune in composition entitled "The Thrill." And it goes somethin' like this:
"I stand on the hill, not for a thrill, but for the breath of a fresh kill. Never mind the man who contemplates doin' away with license plates. He stands alone, anyhow, bakin' the cookies of discontent by the heat of the laundromat vent. Leavin' his soul!"

Then like in poetry I go dot-dot-dot, you know, kinda off center, then I drop down and then I go:
"Leavin' his soul! And partin' the waters of the medulla oblongata of---brrrrrr!---mankind!"

That was a damn good song, wasn't it Doyle?
I've got a big bag of peanut emenems on my desk and I just can't help myself.
So Jimmy Carter has been given the Nobel Peace Prize. I was trying to think of what he has done in the last year to deserve this. All I could come up with was a couple of subversive op-eds in the New York Times (or was it the Washington Post? Does it make any difference?) and having cocktails with murderous dictator Fidel Castro. Of course the Nobel Peace Prize has been a joke ever since they gave one to Arafat.
In his latest column for NRO, John Derbyshire slam dunks New Jersey poet laureate Amiri Baraka and his horrible screed "Somebody Blew Up America." Derb spends the better part of the column making like a college English professor on Baraka's horrible poem. He closes with the following passage:
Pleased with having got to the bottom of this "powerful and respected" poet's challenging production, I felt inspired to have a go at something along the same lines myself. I cannot hope to compete with such a giant of American letters, of course, but imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and I hope Mr. Baraka will take my feeble effort in that spirit. Everybody has to start somewhere, after all. Amiri Baraka, for example, started out as LeRoi Jones, a humble organizer of race riots back in the 1960s. Who knows? If I keep at it long enough, maybe I could become Poet Laureate of New York State. I could sure use 10,000 bucks. OK, here goes.

Somebody Stuck It To New Jersey Taxpayers
by John Derbyshire

Who took help from Jews when getting his scam started
Then turned and spat on them when a cozy sinecure came along
Who praises despots, wreckers of nations
Murderers, despoilers of innocence — Kabila, Lumumba, Lenin, Che
Who thinks Nkrumah was a benefactor of anyone but himself
Who believes the most transparent driveling anti-Semitic lies about 9/11
Who thinks "Tom Ass" is a really, really funny way to write "Thomas"
Who mau-maued the governor
Who put one over on the guilty white liberals at those fool Art Councils
Who's an illiterate moron
So stupid he can't even keep his racism straight...

Thursday, October 10, 2002

Wednesday, October 09, 2002

I realize that I am a few weeks and two columns late, but I just discovered that Hunter S. Thompson is back from his summer in Lebanon.

Omar's grasp of American football was improving. Two years ago he thought a football was round.

"How did you get so smart so fast?" I asked.

"Well," he said, after giving my question some thought, "maybe it is because I studied American football very intensively for 10 years before I even met you."

I laughed at him. "We will see," I smirked. "I will bet you $100,000 that I will pick more winners than you do this season."

He reached into the pocket of his long black jacket and pulled out a fist-full of money. "Yes," he muttered, "I think I have it right here." He smiled faintly and dropped 100 big ones down on the bar.

I was stunned, but not entirely surprised by his bold maneuver. "Fair enough," I said. "I will go along with just about anything, in September. Can I give you a check?"

"Of course," he chirped. "Money means nothing to me, nothing at all." He paused. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Because I hate people like you," I said sharply. "Your instincts are Evil, and you are overcharging me for petroleum products." I flashed a grotesque-looking grin at him, a face he had never seen before. "You might get away with that oil rip-off," I told him. "But you will never get away with pretending to know Football. I will beat you like a gong."
This week is a washout. I know it is only Wednesday, but I hold no illusions of improvement. I could not get motivated right now to stand up and pee at the same time.

It all started Saturday morning when I woke up to discover the boy covered in flea bites and my house in a state of chaos. I flipped and started lunging around the house slamming cabinet doors and cleaning as if it were the Lord’s work.

The only good thing that has happened this week is that I have won three free Mountain Dews in a row.

This past weekend Wylie’s room suddenly became infested with fleas. I do not know why. Chloe the Brave Dog had not been inside in weeks and they were not anywhere else in the house. Suddenly the boy was covered in bites. So I spent the day Saturday washing everything in the house and Ms. J sprayed some raid around in his room and helped clean up. Sunday morning there was double the number of bites on him. Apparently we just pissed the little demons off.

So after church on Sunday I sent Ms. J and the boy to Meemee and Obi’s for a few days and rounded up Dan and we worked ourselves into a murderous rage. We closed up the house, turned off the power, and set off three cans of flea bomb inside and one under the house. Then we spread ten pounds of diazinon on the yard. Finally we flea dipped Chloe the Brave Dog and put a fresh flea collar on her. If the bastards come back, I am giving them the house and moving.

So that means that Monday after work I had to skip class and clean up all of the counter tops and wash all of the dishes that were exposed to the fleabomb. (While this was going on I watched my hapless Braves get beat by the personality-less Giants.) For dinner, a crappy frozen pizza.

Tuesday afternoon I had to go back to my heartless ham-fisted butcher of a dentist to have the permanent crowns put on. As usual, he did nothing to numb the teeth that he was working on, but stopped several times to give me injections that ensured my lips and nose were numb until well after dark. I went home and went to bed.

I woke up from my nap yesterday to discover that Ms. J was home. She left the boy at Meemee and Obi’s. She had already eaten dinner, and she had decided that I needed to keep my current job (which I loathe and have been desperately trying to find a replacement for.) I had slept too late to go to class, which I really did not want to go to anyway. Finally I went to McDonalds and got a Big ‘n Crappy only to discover that my bite was all screwed up and I was going to have to go back to the butcher and have it adjusted.

Today has been a busy, shitty day at a job that I hate but have been informed that I can not leave. Worst of all, you people don’t even care. Just another day filled with disappointments. Thank God for Mountain Dew.

Tuesday, October 08, 2002

Tony Pierce's latest post about Kirby Puckett and Bob Costas is why God invented blogs.

saps like bob costas are going to get on the tv and tell the millions of viewers that this is the perfect time for us to appreciate kirby puckett, but costas is a short little condescending fire hydrant ripe for a dog's hind leg. we don't need costas to tell us when to love kirby. any time is a perfect time to appreciate the hall of famer.

costas will get on his soap box and try to tell us something we don't know about the former twin who rejected wheelbarrows full of cash to pull a giambi and sign up with the bronx bombers, and instead stayed where he belonged, where he was adored, in the twin cities and helped win the world series for minnesota in seven games back in '91, the year that punk broke.

old bob will go on and on and they might even play the music from "the natural" or "field of dreams" or some made for tv tear jerker starring the blue eyed golden boy and his game winning moon shot over the old wooden fence advertisizing a shaving creame and the slow motion cameras and the cheers and the fanfare and his ma in the stands in her straw hat and his best girl.

too bad hollywood baseball movies don't star big fat round black guys who stand five foot nine going blind on one eye youngest child of nine who sign autographs and go to hospitals for the kids and really do end game six with one swing of the bat. not in the bottom of the ninth. but in the bottom of the eleventh, sucka. because if they did make those sorts of movies you could get kirby back in those slimming pinstripes and theatre-goers would finally have someone they could root for again.
Jen Jen is a huge Razorback fan. She sent me this excerpt of an article in the demzet about Houston Nutt's hygiene:
Possible rain has also become a factor in the Hogs preparing for their first conference road game.

“The rain doesn’t bother us,” Nutt said. “We’d be fine with rain. We play good in the wet weather, but it doesn’t look likes it going to rain at game time. We’ve had wet balls for a couple days.”

Footballs, coach?

Monday, October 07, 2002

My favorite Uncle and Aunt on the in-law side gave me a gift certificate to Barnes and Noble for my birthday. I did not buy any books because I have a stack about ten high that I am reading right now. Instead I got They Might Be Giants - NO! and The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band - Will the Circle be Unbroken Vol.III. Both of them are excellent albums, but the TMBG is un-freaking-believable. I am a connoisseur of children's music. Tony Bennett's album is great, Peter, Paul, and Mommy is a classic, The Schoolhouse Rock set is in my collection Garcia/Grisman - Not for Kids Only used to be my favorite, this new TMBG is witty, catchy, danceable, and my two-year-old started singing and dancing along immediately. If you have children, you must get a copy. If you do not have children, get some so you will have a reason to buy a copy.