Saturday, March 02, 2002

I wish I could blame it all on THIS. But impotence is not a laughing matter to me, and I know exactly where mine came from. The surgeon who removed my prostate told me that I had about a 60-40 chance of complete recovery, including continence and potency after my operation. I no longer wet my pants the way I did for the first few months, but my sexual wherewithall remains dormant. I don't like that.

One of my musician friends observed that "You used up your quota a long time ago. You slept with more women in five years than most men do in a lifetime." Maybe so, but I intended to keep on truckin'. That's one of the big reasons my divorce hurts so badly. Yeah, my ex-wife was a real shit to me, and she picked exactly the right moment to abandon me and rip my guts out. But I really wouldn't mind running the streets again, looking for love in all the wrong places. I liked it a lot when I was a young man. But I am not that young man anymore. If I chased a woman and caught her, I wouldn't know what to do next. I've been through this once since my divorce, and I'm not certain I want to do it again. My semi-girlfriend grew weary of the sometimes platonic, or sometimes oral, or sometimes "fix-a-flat" injections that marked our relationship. I charmed her britches off, then couldn't follow through without the aid of a hypodermic needle, which isn't the most romantic thing in the world. She went off to find a normal lover.

I'm a nice guy, I'll play songs just for you, and I give a tremendous back-rub. If I only had my former wherewithall to match the rest of the package, I would be quite a catch. But I don't. And I don't know how I'm going to handle that for the rest of my life.
In case no one noticed, we're still WAGING WAR in Afghanistan.

This ain't Vietnam.
As if we don't have enough crap going on in the world, THIS biker-gang story hits the news. I hate to see it, because I know a lot of professional-type guys who ride Harleys and do poker runs and other fund raisers for worthy causes. I like a lot of bikers and I don't think they deserve a bad reputation. Plus, it must be fun to tear down the highway with that growling, vibrating machine percolating under your ass. Hell, I'M thinking about buying a Harley as part of my middle-age crazy evolution. I could handle the barbed wire tattoo around my bicep and afford a cool set of leathers, but I'll leave the gang stuff out of the picture. I own too many guns.

I was driving my son to a soccer game on a Saturday morning in October, which happened to be the first day of deer hunting season in Georgia. We stopped by the Super Wal-Mart to buy drinks for the team and I witnessed an amazing sight. About 200 bikers and their hangers-on, preparing for a poker run, were grouped on one side of the parking lot, while an equal number of deer hunters, preparing to enter the woods in search of Bambi, were dressed in camoflage and standing across from them. Chromed motorcycles and four-wheel drive pickup trucks were everywhere. That's why I don't worry about terrorists where I live. Effingham County, Georgia is home to brigades of motorcycle-riding, gun-toting Southerners who don't take shit from turban-clad nutlogs. Try a little Islamic extremism around here and the authorities will carry you off in a plastic bag.

Osama, come here. We have a lot of Baptists and Lutherans and farmers who grow cotton and Silver Queen corn. We also have one of the most heavily-armed fleets of four-wheel drive pickup trucks you'll find outside of Harlan County, Kentucky. And your insane self will stand out like a snowball in the coal bin around here. Of course, we believe in Southern hospitality. Come get some.
I wanted to put my e-mail address on the left side of this page, so I tried it by myself. I didn't get the e-mail address installed, but I did manage to wipe out my archives. I don't know what I did to screw things up, nor am I completely certain how I managed to retrieve my archives, but I'm going to quit before I kill again.

I am not good with computers. I write words and I make music. I'm pretty good at those two things, but I suck when it comes to putting either one into cyberspace. That's why I turn to mercenary 14-year olds for guidance when I become confused, which is most of the time. They grew up with this crap and understand it a lot better than I EVER will. I accept my limitations. I heed good advice. And this old dog can learn new tricks sometimes, but it ain't easy. I miss the old Royal typewriter I once pounded until the keys were bent while writing millions of words that nobody except me ever read. Hell, I still play a Martin D-28 guitar without a pickup. I'm just an old-fashioned old fart.

But I've got a blog now, and I like it. As soon as SCOTT calls me with the necessary information, I'll have a better-looking page with some more bells and whistles. In the meantime, you can e-mail me at:

I wonder whether any of the global warming scare-mongers, with their giant Cray computers running sophisticated climate models left and right, predicted the weather in south Georgia this week. Monday, the high was almost eighty degrees. Wednesday, the thermometer on my back porch read 18 degrees at 5:00 in the morning. Friday, I had to carve tank-turret view-slits through the ice on my windshield to begin my trip to work in the morning, and that evening I drove home with my jacket in the back seat and my shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Today, the sky is glowering and gray, with a steady drizzle of rain soaking everything.

Anyone who claims to predict the weather 100 years in the future should be dunked in sheep-dip, tarred, feathered and run out of town on a rail for being the lying hockwad that he is. Mother Nature is a capricious bitch and her mood swings are extreme, which is understandable for a woman who has been going through "the change" for about four billion years. Climate models don't consider her hot flashes and bouts of depression, nor do they factor into their equations her ultimate resiliance. That's why they are wrong. Earth abides. I don't believe the globe is warming, but if it were, we couldn't stop it, any more than we could reverse the rotation of our orbit. I'm surprised we don't have an international coalition of diplomats and bureaucrats signing paperwork to proclaim that henceforth and forevermore the earth will TURN BACKWARD around the sun. Fuggitaboutit. You can't stop what you can't control, and Mother Nature is one of those unfettered forces that don't listen when you preach, no matter how sincere you may be.

Friday, March 01, 2002

I don't mean to insult lawyers, except to say that a lot of them are belly-crawling, low-down, worthless whores, because my brother and one of my best friends are lawyers and they are pretty nice guys, for belly-crawling, low-down, worthless whores. But too much crap appears on THIS SITE for me to leave the matter alone. Just read and JUDGE for yourself.
My mama worries a lot about me. She sent me three e-mails today, two of which were pretty good jokes (although I had heard them before) and the last one was the zinger she always thows in there, the religious, come to Jesus, get some faith and save your soul solicitation she casts like a champion bass fisherman trying out a new lure. I never bit before, and I won't bite tonight. I know she means well, but I wish she would stop it. God and I had a severe disagreement years ago, and I don't believe reconciliation is possible.
I named this blog site "Gut Rumbles" because I always wanted to play bass guitar in a rock-and-roll band by that name. Of course, I always wanted to play in a bluegrass band called "Cooter Gap," too. I never had the chance to stamp those names on any band, so I put "Gut Rumbles" here. It may not be pretty, but it sounds better than the "Cooter Gap Blog."

My son is with me this weekend, and I'm beginning to worry about that boy. I had pizza and bread sticks delivered to the house for supper tonight. He sat, wiggling and squirming and stuffing his face with pizza at the kitchen table while informing me that Michael Jordan may be too old to play basketball anymore, but he's still not FIFTY the way DADDY is, which is REALLY OLD. I am beginning to feel my ego collapse like the WTC towers when I discern a recognizable sound, accompanied by a distinctive aroma.

"Did you just poot?" I asked.

"I poot all the time," he answered, still scarfing pizza. "I think one time I went about ten or fifteen minutes without pooting. But that was when I was little."

He is SERIOUS about it, too. He poots A LOT. I don't know what his mama feeds him at home, but it must be cabbage, sausage, raw potatoes and pickled eggs, because he generates a hurricane of wind coupled with the scent of a South Georgia paper mill. A belly as young as his should not generate such disgusting things. But HE DOES.

Hell, I should have called this blog "Cooter Gap" and named him "Gut Rumbles."
My broken-down, over-the-hill, stone-deaf, shadow of the man he used to be ex-Special Forces friend, "RECONDO3," sent me an e-mail today to let me know how bluegrass music got its name. Being the sort of egotistical snot who thinks he's smart, he felt obliged to send me THIS.

Hey, RECONDO3. I WAS BORN IN KENTUCKY, you pathetic fool, way up a hollow (pronounced "holler") in the hills where bluegrass music has its deepest roots. I have the mountains in my blood and that music in my soul and the Scots-Irish green eyes to prove it. A flatland, sand-pounding, palmetto-scrub, low-country low-brow such as yourself has a lot of nerve to lecture ME about BLUEGRASS. But I appreciate the e-mail. I figure you must have read my post about the Grammys last night, or at least had someone READ IT TO YOU, you illiterate swamp-thing. A hit is a hit, no matter where it comes from. I appreciate them all.
What has gotten into the Secret Service? I always believed those guys were the chosen few, the elite of the elite, trained, disciplined and determined to protect their special person even if they had to step in front of a bullet. I'm not so certain anymore.

First, a Secret Service agent made national news by showing his behind in grand fashion when he was not allowed to walk onto an airplane with a pistol under his suit. Then, a couple of clowns left Dick Cheney's security plans behind in a shop in Salt Lake City after they bought souvenir Olympic hats. Now we have the Secret Service engaging in BAR FIGHTS?.

Working for Bill and Hillary must have been a terrible blow to Secret Service morale, but the good ones should have hunkered down and waited for the dungmeisters to go away. Maybe the good ones couldn't take it and quit. Maybe they were fired by the dungmeisters and replaced with lackeys and cronies. Maybe Bill wanted a Secret Service that resembled his Cabinet: misfits, looney-tunes, incompetents and malignant dwarves. If so, I believe he accomplished that goal.

The Secret Service needs to stay out of the headlines and behind the scenes, where it belongs.

Thursday, February 28, 2002

I didn't watch the Grammy Awards last night. One reason is the fact that I have a Dish Network system and out here in the boonies where I live, they don't offer the Big Four commercial channels. I've never bothered trying to hook up my antenna and seek out the local stations, but even if I had, I would not have watched last night. I was certain that a bunch of manufactured, shuck and jive pseudo-musicians would win the awards.

I was stunned when I saw the winners today.

For my party two weekends ago, my sister-in-law brought a cake that had a picture of me, about twelve-years old, sitting on my back porch playing a Sears & Roebuck Silvertone guitar with heavy-gauge Black Diamond strings. I remember it well, because the damned thing had a neck like a pine log and those heavy strings would kill a cornshucker's fingers after thirty minutes of playing. But that is the instrument I utilized to teach myself to play guitar. When I saw the cake, I said, "Y'all can eat the cake, but I want that picture."

"Rob, uh... I mean Acidman, you can't have the picture because it's not a picture. It's icing."

"Bullshit," I responded. "I want that picture of me when I was fucking young and fucking innocent and playing a fucking Silvertone guitar." Acidman had been celebrating his birthday with several dozen other musicians for about six hours by then. I was going to peel that picture off the cake and save it whether they wanted me to or not. I went to grab it. And my finger slid under the edge and came up with nothing but icing on it.

They weren't lying. Computers can scan a picture right into the icing on a cake now. I'm still amazed by that fact, which shows just how pathetically unsophisticated I am when it comes to computers. Hell, just look at this blog site for further evidence.

But I remember being that twelve-year old boy, armed with that hand-killing Silvertone and a Mel Bay chord book. I was bound and determined to learn the guitar, and I did. I managed it the old fashioned way: practice, practice, practice. By the time I was seventeen, I was a fair finger-picker, thanks to Paul Simon. I put Simon & Garfunkle albums on my turntable and played them at a slower speed so I could listen to the finger licks done slowly. (you could do that a long time ago) The technique worked, and I became a legend in a small circle of friends when Mason Williams released "Classical Gas," because I slowed that rascal down and learned to play it when even the GOOD musicians wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole.

People often ask me, "Can you teach ME to play?" I always say yes, because anybody can learn to play guitar. But I also say, "I'll show you what you need to know to get started, but the rest is up to you. Practice what I show you, then come back and see me in six months." Not many people have the want-to to do what it takes. They want to play guitar the same way they want buns of steel and killer abs-- as long as there is some electronic device you plug in to a wall socket that does the work for you and in one week, you've got it. It just doesn't work that way.

I KNOW that anyone bound and determined to play guitar can do it, because my college roommate did. When he started out, he couldn't even tune the piece of crap Yamaha he had, but he shopped up quickly to a fine Epiphone that he still owns to this day. He couldn't tune that one either, at first, but it sounded a lot better out of tune than the Yamaha did. He knew basic chords and if I showed him a lick or a run, he would retire to his room and do it over and over and over again until he had it. On many occasions, I listened to his diligent practice as long as I could stand it, then kicked open his door, snatched the guitar from his hands, tuned it, and gave it back. "Yeah, that's better now," he said, picking and grinning.

Of course, one night I listened to him playing the same thing over and over and over again out of tune and I snapped. I kicked open his door, snatched the guitar from his hands, and beat the living shit out of him with it until he lay dead in a bloody pulp on the floor. Then, I hauled the corpse off threw it in the woods outside Noble, Georgia, where it has not been found to this day, but may be found tomorrow if they dig deep enough around the creamtorium.

Okay, I didn't ACTUALLY do that, but I thought about it more than once. Today, my old roommate is an accomplished musician who has electronic devices with which to tune an instrument. He does well.

I started playing semi-professionally in 1974 on River Street in Savannah. My brother and I formed a folk duo and sang exquisite harmonies together. We weren't half-bad and took our act to Athens when we attended the University of Georgia together for two years. Making music beat flipping hamburgers, and we actually supported ourselves fairly well playing the motel bars during that time. I left journalism school in 1976 and became an advertising copywriter. My brother stayed, went to law school, and became a maggot.

I was starving to death writing, so I went back to River Street, auditioned for a job as a solo entertainer and launched a five-year career as a one-man barroom band. I didn't intend it initially, but I had more fun, made more money and met a much better variety of people in the bars than I did writing copy, so I quit my REAL job and pursued music full-time. It was one hell of a ride. Looking back now, through the filter of time and my current miserable condition, I believe those were the best days of my life. I know I must have been unhappy a time or two, but I can't recall a single instance now. I remember keeping vampire hours, running through women the way Sherman went through Georgia and generally not giving a damn if the sun came up in the morning. It was a time of irresponsible, glorious bliss and I wish I could go back and live it all over again. Of course, I would require my young body back again to make it worthwhile.

Two things happened to drive me out of the bars and into the chemical industry. First was the "Band in a Can" phenomenon that erupted around 1979. I knew a musician on River Street who played in the same place for years and he filled the room with music all by himself by picking a "guitorgan," which put organ chords on top of whatever he played on his guitar, pressing a set of bass pedals with his bare foot and using a beat box to provide drum beats and various percussion behind his songs. He could sound like a six-piece marachi band all by himself. I was impressed. So were others.

The "Bands in a Can" came next. These were guys who RECORDED all their background music, including harmony vocals, then plugged some giant boom-box into the PA and basically lip-synched their entire show. It was loud, it was fancy, and the crowds loved it, drunken swine that they were. A goddam stage-hogging Karioke Show was all it amounted to, and the bovine public thought it was great.

I remained a purist, playing an unbugged Martin D-28 through a microphone, writing my own songs, telling jokes, juggling tennis balls and generally doing what worked well five years earlier. But my time was running out. The last job I played was at one of the prestige places in Savannah at the time, and I worked there for three months. During the last two weeks, Margie, the bartender, began receiving threatening phone calls from her ex-husband. On one of my breaks, I listened to her tell him to leave her alone before she took out a warrant on his ass, and I asked her what was going on.

"That man is crazy," she explained. "He's already killed two people and got sent to Milledgeville (the biggest mental hospital in Georgia) instead of Reidsville (the Big House) where he belongs. He's out now, and he's scaring me to death. He's crazy!" I didn't think much about it at the time. But I rethought a lot when I read the newspaper the week after I left the place.

A woman who played piano and sang like a bird took over as entertainment when I left. She started on Monday and lasted until Friday, when the ex-Milledgeville nut-ball walked into the bar at 1:00 in the morning (last set!) with a shotgun and a pistol. Using the shotgun, he shot the piano player, shot her husband and shot two people at the bar. He aimed at Margie, but his pump shotgun jammed. She ran out the back door of the bar, which led to the swimming pool area of the motel. He followed and shot her six times on the cool deck. The piano player's husband lived. Everyone else was killed. The nut-ball was arrested and SENT BACK TO MILLEDGEVILLE! He may still be a free man again one of these days.

If you think I'm making up this story, think again. It happened.

I still hate "Bands in a Can," which is why I despise the Backstreet Boys and N-Sync and all the other twitching, spastic, non-musical hockwads who don't play instruments, don't write songs and don't do anything except look good, dance frenetically, spew crap that was spoon-fed to them by some asshole promoter, and make teenyboppers cream their jeans. As a former semi-professional musician, I can say: That Aint Workin'. (with apology to Dire Straits)

That's why I LOVE IT when bluegrass rules at the Grammys. I know I am a former hillbilly who evolved into a genuine Georgia cracker, and I may be prejudiced. But "Bands in a Can" took a backseat boys, un-sync drubbing in this event. And I love it.

Almost as much as I love my Martin D-28.


According to a report composted, I mean compiled, by the National Cancer Institute and the Centers For Disease Control and Prevention, "PRELIMINARY research shows that 15,000 cancer deaths in the United States MIGHT have been caused by radioactive fallout from Cold War weapons testing." Of course, the 15,000 dead bodies might not really be 15,000 because "estimates COULD have a CONSIDERABLE margin of error due to UNCERTAINTIES in the research." Those weasel words didn't stop every anti-nuke activist group in the country from crawling out of their fallout shelters to proclaim the report as gospel truth and blame the government for covering up these horrible findings.

I'll admit that the finding are pretty horrible. They were extrapolated from a computer model and correlated through a formula and then masturbated, masticated and manipulated until they proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt that "a single radionuclide, which is a by-product of above ground testing, was tied to between 11,000 and 212,000 cases of thyroid cancer." Tied by a very thin string of snot, evidently, because that number stretches a long way.

But it must be true because the computer models show that radiation from bomb tests spread so far and wide that "no US resident born after 1951 escaped some exposure." I was born in 1952. THAT EXPLAINS IT! THAT"S why I developed prostate cancer when I was 49. Heredity and an unlucky draw from the deck of genes my parents offered me had nothing to do with it. Radiation from atomic bombs gave me cancer. I AM A VICTIM! I WANT MONEY!

That's why I skimmed over the activist's bombast about dead children and the massacre of more Americans and rampant cancer epidemics if nuclear weapons testing ever resumes. "Compensation may be an issue down the line," was all I wanted to hear. And I want to be first in that line with both hands outstretched. The government exploded nuclear bombs in Nevada while I was growing up in Georgia and I got cancer. If that's not an obvious cause-and-effect, I don't know what is. Just read the report. Science is on my side.

I want the government to PAY for what it did to me. I want the government to pay me A LOT. I want to be rich beyond my wildest dreams and fill my bathtub full of $100 bills and lay naked in it. I want a check with at least SIX ZEROES following a THREE DIGIT NUMBER. THAT'S WHAT I WANT!

Of course, the most important role my check will play is to save the world from from nuclear weapons. That's what I really care about.
I find a lot of amusing material in various blogs, but few make me laugh out loud. Stephanie Dupont DOES in this one, and it's not even HER blogsite. She is a mere gopher, simply occupying the site while the Tall Dog is in London getting drunk with the Samizdata bunch. At least that is her persona when she writes. It's the Bridget Jones' Diary of blogdom and it's worth a look.

Wednesday, February 27, 2002

Cincinatti finally apprehended the cow that jumped the six-foot slaughterhouse fence and eluded helicopter searches, foot patrols, all-point bulletins and satellite detection for twelve days. I believe the Special Forces training the bovine Rambo received as a young LEATHERNECK paid off. The cow was never fooled by a STEAKOUT, could not be MOOved to surrender, and allegedly vowed, "I VEAL not be taken alive." Authorities feared the large animal would wander onto a nearby interstate highway and cause a T-BONE crash. Nearby farmers recommended simply shooting the animal, but local politicians, when GRILLED by reporters, admitted that they didn't want to deal with animal rights activists screaming, "HOLEY COW!"

I would MILK this story for a few more puns, but I'm UDDERly exhausted. Call me a COWard if you wish, but I am perSUEDEd that enough is enough.

Today I was invited to join a class-action lawsuit. A totally selfless, crusading law firm is determined to protect my rights as a consumer by extorting all the money it can from the company that manufactured my son's Big Jake battery-powered kiddie-truck. I remember the recall that was issued after my son, along with several of his friends, had been riding Big Jake's or similiar vehicles for about two years. Some defect in the wiring created the possibility that the battery could catch fire, although I never saw that happen, and the manufacturer offered to replace the defective unit for free at a toy store I passed on my way to work. I dropped off my son's vehicle and a neighbor's vehicle, then picked them up repaired the next day. Problem (if there WAS one) solved, as far as I was concerned.

I'm not sure what sort of damages I am supposed to have suffered to make a lawsuit necessary. My son doesn't want another Big Jake because he outgrew that ride a few years ago after putting about 100,000 fire-free miles on the thing. My only complaint about the toy was the fact that my son would ride it so hard and so far that he would run the battery dead at the end of the road where we lived. Then he would walk home and I would have to go load Big Jake on my truck and bring it home for recharging.

I am NOT going to join the lawsuit. I am surprised that anybody asked me, because I was a victorious party to a class-action against Providian Bank that I didn't even know about, until I received a check for about $8.00 in the mail. That one involved Providian's insidious practice of sending customers a low-interest credit card and later (gasp!) RAISING THE INTEREST RATE! It never cost me a dime because when Providian raised their rates, I cancelled my card and went with another low-interest provider, one of many who were sending me tons of applications every year. Evidently some people believed the Providian card was surgically implanted near vital organs in the body and, screaming RAPE!, paid the higher interest rate because they honestly believed they had no other choice. I don't know the particulars, but I received $8.00 for my pain and suffering, just as every other plaintiff did, and the selfless, crusading lawyers walked off with a cool $28 million. Justice was done.

Now, Food Lion MVP card-holders are eligible for TWENTY-EIGHT CENTS in a settlement of a class-action over sales taxes paid on discounted purchases. The one really crucial piece of information missing from this article is: How much did the lawyers make?

I'll bet it was a lot more than twenty-eight cents.

Okay, Blogger is really beginning to piss me off. I wrote the secret service post below last night, checked the link and then couldn't get back into Blogger. I published it today and it took a looooong time. Then I added the update, posted that, and now see a notice saying that publishing is temporarily unavailable. Did somebody federalize Blogger?

I'll write this piece anyway. That obnoxious guy ROB SMITH is on Samizdata again, this time talking about gun control and some podunk burg in Georgia that REQUIRES the head of every household to own a firearm. I mention the article because there is something about Rob that reminds me of me. In fact, that piece reads a lot like something I wrote last night, except for the fact that MINE WAS BETTER and it would be posted right here, right now, if Blogger hadn't gone belly-up.

I'm not going to talk about plagiarism, but Rob writes a lot of things that read as if they sprang from the mind of Acidman. I like that in a man. But I'll give him once piece of good advice: GET A PSEUDONYM! With a name as common as "Rob Smith," you will never make it as a blogger because at least 2,674 other Rob Smiths are out there blogging and you will disappear into that vast ocean of Rob Smiths like deck furniture on the Titanic. Nobody will ever take you seriously, nor will they ever remember who you are.

If MY NAME were Rob Smith, I would call myself "Acidman."

Tuesday, February 26, 2002

The SHOP KEEPER says it's true and I wonder, why would he lie? Two secret service agents evidently walked off and left the top-secret security plans for Dick Cheney's visit to the Olympics in a souvenir shop after they bought a couple of hats. When the shop keeper found the plans, he called to tell the secret service what he had. The secret service said they would come retrieve their lost top-secret property but never showed up, so the shop keeper delivered them to their office himself. He asked for an autographed picture of Cheney as a reward and the secret service told him to get lost.

Good God, I hope that's not a true story. If it is, we have people with the competence of airline security employees guarding the top two leaders of our country. And THEY ARE RUDE besides. Tell me it ain't so.

UPDATE: Now the secret service says the plans were not classified. I still believe an assassin would have found them very handy.
I don't watch a lot of television, but HERE IS A SHOW I wish I had seen. The "Glutton Bowl" featured some of the most talented overeaters in the world stuffing themselves full of unbelievable amounts of food. I remember reading about "Tsunami," the 130-pound Japanese garbage disposal who won the hot dog eating championship last year by consuming 50, and really would like to see him work. I'm not certain about "Gaseous Maximus," however. If he ever blew the doors off the competition, I don't believe I would want to be downwind.

"Tsunami," obviously blessed with a twenty-foot tapeworm in his gut to compensate for the weight advantage he spots his opponents, ate a mere 31 hot dogs in this contest, no doubt saving lots of room for all the cow brains he devoured in the finals to capture first place. Some people may call this trash TV, but I believe it sounds more like food porn. I like a good porno show every now and then.

(I had a really great link to a chomp-by-chomp commentary on the contest, but I can't get that rascal to take. Sorry.)

Try THIS and scroll down to "Glutton Bowl."

Monday, February 25, 2002

Bill Clinton was back in the news today for giving a speech in Austrailia. He collected $300,000 for his appearance and used the opportunity to announce that the United States' dominance in the world today is a "temporary" phenomenon that cannot possibly last more than a few decades. He suggested that we be especially nice to our "friends" now, because we'll need them when we eventually fall from our position of power.

I agree that if we proceed to elect a few more corrupt, pecker-driven dorkles such as Clinton as president, we probably won't last even a few decades. But I don't see another male politician of his ilk on the horizon. That reptilian wife of his, however, is out there crawling through the tall grass and using her forked tongue to test the wind. If she ever makes it back to live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, I give up all hope for this country. We had eight years of her husband, with her pulling a lot weight behind the scenes, and after all the loot those vandals stole on their way out was replaced, the fumigators and disinfectors remain busy today making the White House fit for civilized people to occupy. I know I WOULD NOT sit on a toiIet seat that I believed either one of them had used. I would rather take my chances in an overflowing port-o-let in Savannah, on River Street, on St. Patrick's Day. At least then I wouldn't KNOW who had been there before me.

I can understand New York electing Hillary to the senate. New York elected Chuck Shumer, too, so obviously the voters in that state need intense therapy. I simply hope that the rest of the nation is not nearly so crazed.

But I wonder. I always knew that Jimmy Carter was an incompetent president and I disagreed with most of what the silly bastard tried to do. But I never disliked the man on a personal level. I still believe that Jimmy Carter is a good man who tries to do what he thinks is right, even if he's all screwed up in his thinking sometimes.

Bill Clinton, on the other hand, gave me the creeps the first time I listened to him campaign. The more I listened, the more convinced I became that there was something rotten at the core of the man. My opinion never changed, except for the fact that the creeps turned into intense dislike, then absolute revulsion, then complete loathing. He has not changed by leaving office and my opinion of him has not changed either. In fact, his LEGACY becomes more clear every day.

I don't know what possessed a number of Americans (never 50%!) to vote for that tall stack of drek TWICE to make him president, but I hope they have come to their senses since 9/11. We can't afford another Bill Clinton. Not now. Too much is at stake.

"If you take out the killings, Washington actually has a very low crime rate." -- Marion Barry, former mayor of our nation's capitol.

Just to inject a note of levity into the grim proceedings of everyday life, go HERE and enjoy various profundities spouted from the great minds of American politicans.
A few short weeks before I was hit by divorce papers and prostate cancer at the same time, I thought I had a piece of really bad luck when I was driving home from work at 5:30 in the evening and a deer ran into my truck. The fully-grown doe came tearing out of the woods on Highway 30 as if her ass were on fire and slammed head-first into the left rear quarter panel of my vehicle. I never spied her until she went pinwheeling through the air behind me, causing me to wonder, what was that THUMP! and what in the world was THAT FLYING THING in my rear view mirror. I pulled over and went back to look. She was lying, deader than a wedge, in a ditch by the side of the road. I checked out my truck and found a HUGE dent where she rammed me.

At first, I was angry because I knew that had I been travelling one mile an hour faster, she would have missed me. Then, I realized that had I been travelling one mile an hour slower, she would be in the front seat with me and MY TRUCK probably would be in the ditch. I drove home to call my insurance company.

The deer did $750 worth of damage, but I never thought about suing anybody. If PETA wins their suit, then I missed a golden opportunity to turn a complete incidence of random chance into a lucrative reward simply by blaming it all on someone who had absolutely nothing to do with any of it. Those suits win frequently today.

Sunday, February 24, 2002

Okay, she CHANGED HER MIND which is a woman's perogative. But I believe Hillary Clinton wears a rubber mask, and if she ever peels it off, we'll see a lizard underneath.
I lied. I didn't buy a guitar yesterday. I bought TWO guitars! I couldn't help myself. I got the one I wanted and saw a lap steel that was reasonably priced, so I bought it, too. I've managed to get the lap steel tuned dobro-style and make some incredibly terrible noises on it, but I'll figure it out soon enough. The new acoustic plays great and it's already immortalized in pictures. I went down to Clyo with some friends this morning and posed in front of what I think is the old railroad station, a dilapidated wooden building that appears ready to collapse at any moment. I took my new guitar and struck some artistic poses in front of the station, then sat on the railroad tracks for some more really bohemian shots. I hope the pictures turn out well. I'll put them on the cover of my Third Greatest Hits albumn.