Indolence

...uh.... no. Nope.

Whew.

For a moment there, I almost cared about something. Started to think maybe I should do something, fulfill some sort of responsibility.

But I sat real still, and it went away.

Important Update!!
In the comments, Kim from Frothing at le Mouse, asks if there is such a thing as enhanced indolence, and posits that she could be suffering from it. This is an exciting new concept for me, since I'm new to slacking, and I think every reader should investigate it thoroughly this weekend. Get to it! We must know more. Get back to me on this.

This means something, people.

Dear John Letter

John Reilly seems a decent sort, and save for a mildly amusing letter from Brown U., the only other political response I've received from the Instalanche. (Instalanche: A dubious blessing, I assure you, but I'll take it!)

Georgetown is much better served by Mr. Reilly, who, while making a faux pas, seems nonetheless a man of letters and good manners. That he views my "voice" as that of a man amuses me to no end.

He's hoping I'm not an anarchist.

I'm not. Well, not today, anyway:

John,

Honey, for a Georgetown Grad and sometime editor, you really should read just a wee bit more before commenting about bloggers! It wouldn't have been too much of a task to figure out my sex. I welcome your comments, but question how much you understand the blogging forum, sugar.

No matter... and yes, it was a joke.
:)

And yet, I would hope one could see the juxtaposition between public service and self-serving politicians. I'm no anarchist, but I can no longer apologize for those styling themselves as "public servants" when in reality, they are noxious publicans and tax collectors. I could go 30 years without "politicians." I won't go three hours of uncertain governmental oversight without my sweet Colt .38 snub-nose.

Politicians as Public Servants; the meaning has been lost, i.e., we are now a "constituency" to be harvested, not a populace to be served. A pox on each of their money-grubbing black pirate hearts.

Warmest Spengler-like regards,

Joan Varga

Sloshin' Back the Slack

Just a few reasons why trying to get anything done around here is like pushing a rope.

This is what a $10,000/yr. cut in pay will get you: two more hours of life. Two more hours filled with pictures like these. My little town is out to get me and ruin me.

It's just a matter of time before I take a really big pay cut and have all day to slack. Well, a long way off from today, but a pirate can dream, can't she?

Before you get back to work...

Uncrate is featuring a little something for the know-it-all in your office. Some of you probably have already received a copy.

It would make a great re-gifting among my family members.

About the Blogroll...

Like I know from fashion.

In building this stupid blog, the idea of "slack" was the theme. So I figured my blogroll should be full of slackers.

Trust me. It is.

However, the "Rack o' Slacks" sounded too good to pass up and so I'm kinda stuck with a stupid fashion statement on the left side of my blog. Mostly a statement about my ignorance.

Still, I try to make it fun and imaginative. I think it's fun for the visitor to roll over the name and see who it is. Why give anything away for free? is my motto. Make 'em work for it.

For instance, the Velocigod needs to be changed to a "Pimp Hat", a flamboyant and accurate acoutrement, and Elisson went from "chinos" to "fedora", a vital accessory. It seems I know a wee bit more about men's fashion than womens, thanks to the Manolo. Erica was easy to figure, what with a Yankees' ball cap from some team north of Georgia (thanks, Jimbo!), but the Red Sugar Muse packs heat, and so I just let her be herself. Besides, she's too cool for the room here, so I hope you geeks go visit at her place.

And, "Picture Perfect" is Robin Starfish, proprietress of the most unique blog on the planet. It is my daily dose of beautiful pictures and thoughts. She deserves her own blog-post here about her blog. Just awesome. And so many others that I've re-discovered since I changed computers and lost my bookmarks. This blog is kind of a way to assure that doesn't happen again.

The Fug Girls have been a favorite for years and they really defy any sort of category so tie-dyed seems a good fit. Was I the only one who learned how to tie-dye in high school art class?

When I have to dress up for my little town's 442nd Birthday this Friday, I'll be all aglow as a muttering fishwife-fortune teller with her idiot oracle at her side. Fisherman's net around me waist, apron, bodice and boots, assorted shackles, a leather beer mug, a wee dram o' grog, feathers, a bag of pigeon bones for fortune telling, and a dagger in m'bodice shall make for more ideas for my blogroll.

Hang around.

Update: Oh yeah, the backtalk has already begun in the comments. Keep it up, and someone's gonna become a cute little cotton boatneck-shell with the most adorable Hello Kitty sequins.

Informal poll: Should I change Erica's blogroll name, or leave it like it is? Cuz now, it makes me laugh. Like I said, I don't know from fashion-- and anywhere north of Georgia is like some crazy, mysterious country from a Discovery Channel special.

Other Jobs Available

Why work in the corporate world when you can be a pirate? There was a Tallships festival in the scurvy town just north of here, and of course there were many big-name sponsors.

Phone tone: Yo ho! Yo ho!

Capn' Morgan: aarrrghh! Who be this?

Big name Rum company: Uh, it's us. We need you in Jacksonville in April.

Cap'n Morgan: if it suits me and my wench, we'll be there. Now off with you! I'll likely kill you if call here again!

At least he and his lady were kind enough to pose for me when I caught them pulling into the parking space. I wonder if pirates get free parking?

The perks could make up for the sparce work load, perhaps.

Sigh.

"Better Headline" says NBC URL -"Church Deacon..."

I'm a newbie, so I'll bite now and regret later. Here's the "money shot" title; roll the mouse over it to see the URL for yourself, or click it (but I'd rather not give 'em the five extra visitors):

Church Deacon, OU Fan, Tears Scrotum of UT Fan in Barfight

As painful as the result of the incident is, it's basically a barroom brawl, probably not unlike many that occurred this past weekend what with the beginning of NFL season around the corner. As stupid as the brawlers were, what the heck is the deal about being "a church deacon"? And is this newsworthy? Apparently, because Drudge took the bait.

NBC can't "label" a terrorist, or even let us know the racial background of a suspect, but its crack team of reporters got another guy at a bar to tell them the religious stature of a dart-throwing, church-going, football fanatic. That's right. There's more to fear from him being a football fanatic than a deacon.

It's not like they were fighting over Armenian v Lutheran doctrine.

Being a church deacon is like being a church-goer. I know the biblical requirements for such a position within the church, but c'mon... I've known a few church deacons and so have you. You might as well say "fisherman". (oh, lighten up!) This was an edited-for-the-blogosphere title to generate traffic.

The fun thing is, NBC possibly had a different headline, and now has a "better headline." In what respect?

All I know is what I read on the Internet. I'll let you decide what it all means.

Just Because

Ain't nothing like a good drinking buddy.

My First Fisking! I'll be Gentle, I Promise!

Wherein I receive an email from an elightened sociologist from Brown University! Gleep!

Because it is an email, and not a posting, I will maintain the anonymity of the sender. Suffice it to say that he seems an accomplished man, for a Sociologist, and quite passionate about his work in the structure of society as regards politics in third world countries. [To clarify, he wants to assure me that polticians are a better choice. -ed]

I am no match for him, since I never attended college and am but a lowly blogger, blogging about a crap-blogging post on a blog written by a man who is the son of a Jawja Senator. Folks, we're talking about crap, here. I know you get this.

Said BU faculty member begins his impassioned discourse thusly:

Dear sloganeers,

Now, fellow new-found friends, don't think ill of him. I must tell you, I was put off by this greeting, but it doesn't matter. He ended with:

Best,

Do you see? He is peeved at the start, makes his case, and then sort of closes with, "Best." Not, "All the best," or, "Best regards," simply, "Best." (Okay, WTF?)

Do you see how I am thrown off by this? How, when writing about crap and the heroic people who were installed in their lofty office by the political infrastructure to remove crap, I am slightly checked in my humble heart to consider the noble politicians who have confiscated my hard-earned Ghost Storytelling money to pay for their junkets to hear Sociologists praise them in South Africa?

I am ashamed. I know we need politicians like we need leeches from time to time; a bit of bloodletting to get the adrenalin going before we shuffle off this mortal coil. Brown University's finest has properly chastised my channeling of Will Rogers, and made this all very serious, indeed. What is a new-born non-political blogger to do? Profess her innocence? No one would believe her.

I do appreciate his taking the time to chide my sense of humor. I'll not fisk any more of his letter because it is the standard sort of stuff that anyone with a lick of sense understands. Even my editor, Captain Obvious, chimed in with, "I'm here to make things clear!"

I have lived for five years in a third-world country of monstrous corruption and near-anarchy. (Oh! Remind me to tell you about the Garbage-pickers' Union in said country!! I risked my life because I was befriended by the wife of the Union organizer. I had no idea. She told me her husband was a lawyer. I was clueless of my peril, until I one day asked her why she always cased the street, left and right, before letting me in the garden door!)

I've also been to an island run by a dictator and seen their health-care system as closely as any film maker or news correspondent. But I'm not a sociologist, so, I just sit around and say shit that sounds cool. Sloganeer. It's going on my resume, under "other achievements".

My final take on all this crap?

It's not that we need politicians so much as we need good Citizens. It always starts there.

So, you gotta ask yourself, what makes a citizen, good? And who arbitrates that elusive quality? And from where does that authority eminate--the enlightened educators?

Instalanche!

I come back from the beach to find a link from the Blogfather?!!

Thanks, Glenn. That's nice!

Welcome new readers! Heck, everyone's new, even me...

Update: The Jolly Roger sez, "That's great, kid. Don't get cocky!"

What? A Chick Can't Review 300?

David, in the comments of a previous post, asks if "300" really was a good movie.

But the acting wasn't actually good, the script was melodramatic, and the most emotional moments were kind of awkward (kind of like a typical teenage boy--lots of energy, but not quite so good at the more earnest bits).

For me, it was a good movie in that it delivered what was expected in the way of the genre. It is an abiding story of epic stature and so was treated in the traditional and broadly heroic storytelling style. (And to one who tells stories for a living, that is pure joy!) That possibly makes it seem a bit anachronistic to modern ears and movie expectations, but we could corellate it with the old Western cowboy movie... without shirts!

I accepted it as would some Greek citizen attending a play in his day. I would have no expectation of "reality" styling or emotional nuance. (You want awkward? The men played the female roles.) I would want the broad strokes; with wide margins between the dark and the light, good and evil, super-ego and sub-human. Frank Miller's visual styling meshed perfectly with the ancient retelling in that regard; a perfect complement of "voice" and visual. Plus, seeing it on the big screen just added to the effect. It loses quite a bit on the smaller venue of DVD.

The appeal of comic books to the primarily visually-oriented male has endured for the same reasons the very story of Thermopylae captures the imagination: Simple plot, over-the-top characters, stark contrasts, and the surprisingly sophisticated element of an overlooked flaw in all of the perfection of the Spartans. That can't be portrayed with fine engravings, but both have their place.

And besides, it was just freakin' awesome, okay?

No one should expect Frank Miller's styling to deliver on the level of a Shakespearean play, *ahem*.

Do I hafta explain why Samurai Jack kicks ass?

Anticipation and Disappointment

Thunder at precisely 11:31 a.m. Hopefully, they're not the Biblical "clouds without rain" kinda disappoint
-ment. Right now, we're drinking our air through a straw. Time for rain, dammit!

Pepper Dog is the kinda alpha bitch that can't stand things she can't control. Like thunder.

Me? I enjoy anticipation... to a point.

Waiting for rain. Waiting for my very own autographed copy of "Freighter Captain."

Pepper Dog is shivering in the corner and I'm deciding it's time to actively anticipate the death of Castro, seeing as the mailman disappoints yet again: Two red envelopes from Netflix that will never compare to "300", Autoweek, and bank statement. At least my credit cards have a zero balance.

Sigh.

Dead Calm Slack

At 9:30 p.m. I took the Pepper Dog for a walk around the condo complex and found myself in the wayback machine. How long ago was it when I was the arts-and-crafts camp counselor at Ft. Caroline? A night like this, a stillness of mind and heart...

The sounds hit me first, cicadas and crickets in staccatto mating calls; looking for love in all the song places. The summer nights in the bluffs along the St. Johns River settle beside my younger memories-- a faithful hound of the past, and welcome.

The moon was waxing behind a few thunderclouds and decided on indecision, but the stillness was a wool blanket on this August night. The sharp smell of cedar filled the air, being the only sign of the exiting of summer; a harbinger of October already, despite the dogged heat at this late hour.

Here, on the marshes of the Intracoastal, less than a mile from the ocean, you expect a breeze. But you don't know you're expecting one until you don't have one, so reliably does the earth rotate and the Gulf Stream stream and land-sea effects affect. The palm fronds hang lifeless, the strands of moss slide like molasses from the trees, narrowing to the merest hairs of chigger-filled trouble for the unwary passerby.

Dog and I investigate other summer sounds and smells; armadillos, raccoons, possums and a couple of snakes I managed to step on. What are the odds? Damn lazy snakes just don't even care about slithering home. And neighbors don't even sit on the porches or balconies. Televisions don't blare into the street.

Hunker down for The Slack. Plan for Labor Day, but tonight, hunker down.

Musical Notes

"A gentleman is someone who knows how to play the accordian, but doesn't."
-Anonymous

Describing the Harpsichord: "Like two skeletons copulating on a corrugated tin roof."
-Thomas Beecham

Since I was 17 I've played the guitar and sang. I taught myself piano as well, using it much like the guitar, as a backup to my voice.

If the Blown-eyed Blodgers don't mind a git-picking girl, I'm bringing my Ovation and my dearest pirate escort, the Jolly Roger, to Helen, Georgia.

I guess there should be more guitar in this photo.

I have trouble with framing a shot.

Fun, New Party Tricks! Out-of-Body Experiences!

The Blogfather links to the Linkmeister on an important new development in Out-of-Body experiences. It's done without drugs, so, you know, what's the point? There's always a downside to any new technology. Still, it sounds to me as though Total Recall is knocking at our door.

"This is essentially a means of projecting yourself, a form of teleportation. If we can project people into a virtual character, so they feel and respond as if they were really in a virtual version of themselves, just imagine the implications.

Okay... I'm imagining my damn Flying Car NOW! But wait, let's not be so selfish:

"The experience of video games could reach a whole new level, [someone alert Ace -ed] but it could go much beyond that. For example, a surgeon could perform remote surgery, by controlling their virtual self from a different location."

Don't you just want to be on a malpractice trial jury against a virtual surgeon? Can the out-of-body surgeon guarantee that the um... meat bags actually present with the patient didn't monkey around with gooey bits while the virtual knife-jockey was experiencing technical difficulties from server overload? Oh yeah, let me be the lawyer selecting that jury! It will be time for professional jurors. It already is.

I think it will become the latest college craze first, like binge drinking. At any rate, I have out-of-body experiences on a regular basis at work. I'm pretty sure I see myself in a body that's busily working away, but for all the world, it looks like I'm blogging from my desk.

[Note to boss: I'm home at lunch right now. I'm not really blogging from work. -ed.]

Google Sky wants to make an asteroid of itself.

I'm still sold on Stellarium, but it may be interesting to see if Google Sky can zoom in on the moon trash like we can on Los Angeles. Maybe we'll capture Martians picking their noses, thinking no one can see them while they're stuck in traffic.

Update: First pics of Martian trailer trash already rolling in.

(8/28/07 note: Not my photo, click on it to find its presumed owner. I've never had Martian visitors.)

Wrecking the Slack Curve

I met another local artist tonight. Actually, I work with him, just didn't know of his other interests. Of course, he's not from around here, so The Slack hasn't throttled him just yet. Maybe it eludes the artists here, because most of them are hard working folks.

Benjamin Enzfelder is not only a wonderful talent, girls, he's a hottie and he'd blush to read this; but I think I'm a pretty good judge of what a good-looking man looks like, and Benjamin is all that. But he's also an all-around wonderful person and I hope you like his work. He's currently working on illustrating a children's book, so you know, he can't be all bad.

I like the play he has on contrasting soul moments. He's finding a good stride and he displays a bit of whimsy and a bit of contrasting darkness. Kind of like any one of us, if you could look inside.

(Click the pic to find its owner.)

Stress Relief for a Wednesday

First, go to Brain Fertilizer and watch this. It'll take you three seconds.

And this is probably old, but it still makes me laugh:

STRESS RELIEF

Just in case you are having a rough day, here is a stress management technique recommended in all the latest psychological journals.

Just follow the 7 steps below. The funny thing is that it really does work:

1. Picture yourself lying on your belly on a warm rock that hangs out over a crystal stream.
2. Picture yourself with both your hands dangling in the cool running water.
3. Birds are sweetly singing in the cool mountain air.
4. No one knows your secret place.
5. You are in total seclusion from that hectic place called, “the world.”
6. The soothing sound of a gentle waterfall fills the air with a cascade of serenity.
7. The water is so crystal clear that you can easily make out the face




of the person you are






holding underwater.


See? It really does work. You’re smiling!

Slackage

Damn, I have an absolutely great, true fictional story about the wickedest pirate in my little town. Beyond wicked, she's absolutely bloodless and without a soul. If I told too many details, I'd be at a merciless disadvantage and likely never work in this town again.

If ever a person needed a reckonin' it would be she. I know her. I worked for her I know someone who worked for her once. I had no idea. You have no idea. I'm gleaning more information because I think she merits her own novel, the likes of which would make Misery seem like a cake walk.

I would tell you all about it, but the slack tide of laziness has a mighty pull on me tonight, and it's ghost stories for the tourists the next couple of nights. Stay tuned, though. She's worth it.

It's a Dog's life

How come I can take my Pepper Dog to the vet at 2:15 for a 2:20 appointment and get seen at 2:20? Not only was the appointment on time, but she got three shots, two blood tests, a poop test, plus the test results, AND toenails clipped and lots of hugs and love from the staff AND we were done by 2:55!!

Whereas my primary care physician was two hours late for my appointment when I re-dressed, grabbed my chart from the door, walked back up to the front desk while passing my physician, and said, "I'm done." Had to get my co-pay check back from the desk chick and dared her to charge my insurance company.

Noisesome Pestilence

Why can't people enjoy the natural part of "being outdoors" without their farkin' stereo systems and stacked speakers?

The beach has become a Battle of the Bands competition. Can't hear the lovely waves. Gah!

There's more to this rant, but I'd rather enjoy the silence.

Castro and the Afterlife--and a contest of sorts

Only Babalu Blog could post these items so close to each other.

China Bans Reincarnation

I don't know a lot about Cuba's healthcare system. Is it a government-run system? -John Edwards

Castro's Obit Contest

The results of the contest should be fun, but one commenter has jumped the gun with a great St. Peter joke. The possibilities are endless. Go see for yourself.

In Praise of Public Servants

After reading Velociman's post from today (Ack!) I got to thinking about who the real, "public servants" are in our society. No, it's NOT the men who can proudly boast of their elimination processes (what is it with you guys??!!) but the men who can quickly and efficiently make sure that none of the rest of Jacksonville had to do anything more than imagine the scene.

Seriously, would you rather live 30 days without a politician or 30 days without a sewage treatment facility in your neighborhood?

The septic tank pumpers, the garbage collectors, and the electricians are the only folks who hold back the threat of a new Dark Ages. They stand alone along the thin, brown line between anarchy and order. Some of the dirtiest jobs are the most vital. And over in Velociville, the truly reliable public servants certainly are doing yoeman's work keeping back the tide of vile bile that would certainly decimate the surrounding civilisation.

If the world was a fair place, the sump-pumpers and bilge-bailers of this world would make as much as a Congressman. They do more for the public good than both houses of Congress.

Update: It's officially moved beyond Will Rogers humor.

LOLCat Bible Translations

I so totally ripped this from the peerless, pistol-packin' Red Sugar, but it seems that the LOLCat meme has jumped the shark. Blasphemy from the strangest sources! And yet...

Mary was all preggers from the Holey Ghosty.

19. Joe was all liek "Oh snap, dis embarrassin. I's gonna hide mah wife".

20. But when he was tihnkin, zomg, angel frm Invisible Man was in his dreems! Angel sayed "Hai, don't be fraided to has Mary for ur wife, cuz her baby be frm Holey Ghosty.

21. "And she gonna made a son, and you gonna call him Jesus, cuz he gonna save ppl and pwn dere sinz."

22. So all dis was all did so it'd be all liek Invisible Man sayed it was gonna be. His profet was all liek:

23. "Hay guise, look at dis, teh virgin iz all preggers, and dey gonna call him Immany", dat means "Invisible Man wit us"

You can't really argue with the theology as presented.

Not sure if it's gonna be with us for another 3 months or, like "All Your Base Are Belong To Us", will ride the tide of tedium right on into another half-decade.

8/28/07: sent cat pic back to its owner.

Due Diligence

It's why I'll never be a lawyer. I think I could handle it, and probably be good at it in a William Shatner Law & Order kinda way, cajoling juries and posturing like a pompous idiot. But then due diligence failures would bite me in the ass.

F. Max Hardberger is my case-in-point. I was having so much fun writing him into my dialogue here, ordering his book, and hoping he doesn't sue me, that I never really clicked around to find out more. And I'm a damn fine click-arounderer.

So, imagine my mortification at finding that not only is he an accomplished writer, but he's also a stunt-man, screenplay writer, poet, maritime lawyer, and likely a very nice gentleman if you ever met him in person. Plus, he has hot chicks pointing guns at him. And here I am, just using him as a plot-device for my silly blog!

Anyway, he is very nice, (he's autographing a copy for me!) and his book is available at an extremely reasonable price if you want to order through Bluewater Books. It'll cost you about a sawbuck. C'mon, you've spent ten bucks on some lunch you hated. With this book you can find enough room for your mind to wander south into the Carribbean and almost smell the diesel and feel the hum of the engines of the MV Erika and feel your buttcheeks clench up at the thought of your ship sinking, or pirates stealing it. More than a vicarious thrill, it's a handbook for finding your way in an uncertain world.

Thanks, Max!

Wear it like a Badge of Honor

Ann Coulter is the fly in the ointment that is John Edwards' charmed life:

Edwards, D-N.C., was railing against the right-wing media -- including Fox News and Rush Limbaugh -- when he reminded a crowd in Burlington, Iowa, that his wife stood up to Coulter in a public spat earlier this summer.

"We know these people. We know their game plan. They're going to attack us personally," Edwards said. "They attacked Elizabeth personally, because she stood up to that she-devil Ann Coulter. … I should not have name-called. But the truth is -- forget the names -- people like Ann Coulter, they engage in hateful language."

Man up, John. Who uses the term, "she-devil" anymore? That would be like me calling you a "Nancy-boy".

I hate politicians of any stripe, but I love a woman who is unapologetic about the way she expresses herself. "She-Devil." I hope she laughed herself silly over that!

What the hell am I doing here?

It's Saturday. Slack-day.

Too bad the pool-boy looks like ZZTop with a beer belly.

I guess the beach will have to do.

One Sentence, 500 Words

Bakerina has rules, as any good pastry chef should. She also has a marvelous challenge she posted over at Scrine, the One-Sentence forum. Bakerina's Rules: 500 words, no more, no less. Herewith I post my entry:

The thought of a sentence with five hundred words seemed to her like a river that would overflow its banks and flood the plain and simple truth of the landscape that surrounded her mind’s ebb-and-flow of temporal reaity--if reality could be the word for what went coursing through her waking moments-- and really, she longed for constraint and discipline like an out-of-control woman needing a good spanking; her own thoughts being difficult and unruly, childish in one moment, soaring and esoteric the next, or else given to a deep melancholy that threatened her tenuous grip on the fact that her life wasn't going exactly as planned…she chided herself inwardly for that weak thought, then cursed that bad habit of self-criticism--still, the thrill of something bigger and stronger, a Rule, that would take all the roaring and rushing torrent of words and make them BEHAVE in a demure, desirable form of womanhood…well, that was a challenge that she’d have to take on, if only to delight in the steadfast firmness of something, anything, that would be unchanging, solid in her gypsy imagination; five hundred words seemed almost too easy if she just wanted to prattle on, but the constraint of one.single.sentence. was just another in a long series of dares she felt compelled to take on, as though working two jobs and writing a stupid blog (oh, she needed the writing outlet and would likely kill the child in its crib before long, but as it was, the care and feeding of the damn thing seemed just one more task she compulsively took on, knowing full well that when she invited that desire into her bed, she would loathe the child of such a union and fear it would grow into a miscreant aberration of embarrassing self-revelations about family dysfunction—or worse—devolve into a whiny teenager that was never going to decide on a career path or do anything to further itself) wasn’t enough for her insatiable appetite for creative output; no, she was determined to completely alienate any chance for something remotely normal even if it meant the indescribably lonely feeling one has when they realize their obsessions have taken them places they probably shouldn’t be, but were irresistible nonetheless…places where the ego wants to expand and vaunt itself to dizzying heights just because the fear of heights was so viscerally implanted in her psyche to a point of danger, and there it was: the reason she simply could not resist the temptation of the challenge of five hundred words in one sentence was the possibility of abject failure or abiding achievement as the result of disciplining the thousands of synapses into one cohesive (and hopefully, coherent) phrase of meaning; an accomplishment that she knew she would enjoy rewinding (now there’s a new anachronism!) and replaying in her stupid blog just as soon as she posted it here in this amazing forum, concluding the deed with a sigh of almost sultry satisfaction and lighting an imaginary cigarette.

F. Max Hardberger - A Signature Review!

My book, "Freighter Captain" has arrived! I bought it online and paid more than is seemly for a wench in this little town. Still...

It's autographed by the Man himself!

Just a signature. But a really good one; like someone with other things to do, but still has the flourish of an Alpha ego. The enigmatic "F" slanted into a thin wafer that overpowers the rest of the letters, even as it flows into them. Like a smooth operator lining up his queue of options.

I can make out the "M" and the "a" pretty easily, and the "x" is such a strong stroke you can tell he's done with his name. Like, "MaX, dammit! If you need to know more, I'll tell you when I'm good and ready!"

The "H" is wide and carefree, and then curiously, as though remembering a discipline, the tail of the "H" doubles back and swoops through the entire ensemble for the sole purpose of crossing that "F" --like an important afterthought--then races to the edge of the page and off. No final flourish, just a dismissal of the deed. Damn!

Of course, they'll be Russian cars and refrigerators...

Still, you gotta love a good marketing scheme.

If I could create a reason for a holiday, I'd have difficulty coming up with a better one!

Ghosting

The old house seems quiet tonight.

I found a voodoo spell left on the back porch of this building yesterday. I posted a note by it for the erstwhile idiot who put it there: "Ain't Skeerd!!"

The note was gone tonight, but the voodoo doll was still there. I punted the doll into the night without so much as a by-your-leave. Puh-leeze!

Even if I just work here, it's my house when I'm here.

Don't.even.try it.

Meanwhile, on the tour, some folks just take it too seriously and find that they can't handle the rest of the tour.

Theater of the Mind can be quite intimidating if you don't have a firm grip on your own!

A Birthday Wish from BabaluBlog

Val Prieto is wishing Castro a long life.

No, really.

I had a pic of Fidel here, but it was just too much to look at.

Monday Mayhem

Elisson is giving link-love to the vile desecration of religious icons. I know! He seems like such a nice guy. But go see for yourself. (Well, some folks have turned it into a religion. -ed.)

Where he's linking to is the real culprit, and actually there's yet another culprit behind that one. But Elisson's setup for the kill is just too good to miss.

Muppet Misanthropy

The level of incongruency in this clip staggers the innocent mind. I laughed myself silly, then stole the link from Dorkafork:

Salty Dog

The world's best dog on one of the world's nicest beaches.

Meet Pepper. Hard-headed MadMax dog!

Blue Heelers are awesome dogs. She loves to surf and chase birds for hours. She's pretty sure that every child she sees, even babies, are her long-lost puppies.

No amount of coaxing could get her to look at the camera and smile. She has an awesome, funny doggie-smile. Little kids run up to her while parents blanche in mild panic, and I have to keep Pepper from rolling onto the ground and begging for a tummy-rub. Then the smiles break out all around and long conversations ensue.

Most little boys run up to me and ask, "is that a wolf?!" You can see the possibility of excitement and worry in their eyes. "Can I pet it?"

"Only if your mom says it's okay. You always need to ask permission, remember."

"Lady, this is the bestest dog I've ever known!!" offers up one fatherless boy, his eyes fixed with so much love on the Blue Dog. Pepper has been doing her magic, just being herself, while the mom and I were talking. And right there and then I want to give my dog to him because I know what good she'd do him. Deep breath. Smile. Keep walking.

She's a great dog with a noble mission: being herself--the bestest dog in the world.

Tom Clancy, Amazon Lightweight - Hardberger Update

Oh, I'm a fan of Clancy, for sure. I love reading his books. But I can buy any of them online at Amazon starting at about .01 dollars.

Hardberger? Hard cash, ya landlubbers.

F. Max Hardberger, slices Amazon like a f*ing hammer (h/t to Paul Anka). You wanna read his book? It's gonna cost you, friend. You're gonna have to fork out $50 just for a fargin' paperback. Hard cover of Hardberger is going to set you back 15 sawbucks, for starters. It goes up from there. And Ebay? Fuggeddaboudit.

Why should his book be so costly? Does the high cost of dangerous work equate to high value? Is his writing that good? Apparently. (Or there must be some sort of secret pirate code in the book! )

I'm about to find out, in about 3-4 days' shipping time.

Wait! I wasn't planning on having this much to say; was merely happy to find a fitting pirate sort to come rescue my little town, and Mr. H became a casual muse, and a good sport.

Now I must inform every real man reading this blog that Max is The Man. Hands down. Anyone who names their boat, and their very latest book, The Sea Bitch is a man to be reckoned with. To learn even more about this consumate man's man, click the link on the sidebar. Yeah, the one marked, "Commando".

Update: Oh hell. I see he's a lawyer now. My blogging career may be cut short if his sense of humor doesn't hold out.

What the hell are you doing here?

It's Saturday, for pity's sake!

Isn't there some yard work you should be doing, you poor bastards?

Not me. The condo association does a nice job of making my weekends my own. I wake up wondering whether to go to the beach or lounge around by the pool and watch the sailboats float along the Intracoastal.

Must. Obey. The Slack.

A Massage--with a happy ending

Tuesday night I pinched a nerve between my should blades while coughing up a gnat I'd inhaled. EWww, I know.

So, Thursday I scheduled a massage appointment with Anke. Thirty minutes and $35 later I left feeling still pretty rough, because, while the muscles were a bit more relaxed,and the traction was helpful, the nerve was still pretty mad at me. "Ice it down," says Anke.

So I ice it down. Relax a bit. Take another Advil. Sure enough, two hours later, POP! POP! and my vertebrae just released all on their own, and the pain vanished. DAA-YUM!

I coulda spent $35 on a co-pay to see a doctor who would give me fun and costly drugs, schedule an MRI that would tell me nothing and cost quite a bit, schedule a follow-up, and still tell me what I already knew.

$35 bucks, some nice music, firm persuasion, pleasant conversation and good advice. Yes, I tipped her an extra $5 when I left. Worth it a twice the price!

"We're All Gonna Die!"

98 degrees.

What a buncha panic-mongers the local press has become.

We would play all day in 104 degrees, never drink enough water, come in and complain of headaches, drink Kool-Aid (the safe kind) and lemonade, eat dinner, cool off, and then out again until the street lights came on. And NO air conditioning. In Florida!

It's a wonder we survived. I know, I know. Old fart rant. I'm channeling Rob Smith, I'm afraid.

Hope it's cooler where he is, God rest his farty soul.

Buck up, ya wussies.

Innocent Comments

One of the best things to ever come out of Ace's moron blog is the collection of commenters known as the Innocent Bystanders.

I don't have the chops to stand up to their byline, "Anyone Can Blog--Commenting Is Hard". I lurk around, dive in once in a while, but my geekdom can't keep up. They are an acerbic bunch of morons and make me laugh more often than any other group of crazies.

That's a big reason why I started a blog. It's easier, by far, than sitting around waiting for the wit to rouse itself out of a rum reverie and pipe up with a pithy observation.

So, after seven years' worth of blog commenting, I'm ready to relax and just write. Leave teh funny commenting up to the youngsters.

The View From Here

At 9:00 tonight, this is the view I'll have from my back porch.

Go get your own view here.

( What's the verbiage? Click on pic to embiggen?)

Update: I really must fully establish my geek creds by telling you that this easily downloaded program just rocks. It may appear at first that you're looking at a static dome of the sky when you first set it up, but just try zooming in on a planet or star. They skitter across your screen because the entire time you've been gawking at the prettiness, the sky has been moving around you. You can even increase the speed and experience the evening sky moving around you.

I use this knowledge of the night sky for my ghost-story telling. Some evenings I'm strolling down ancient streets, the train of my hat streaming out behind me, and my guests following my lantern-led steps into the night. I point to the heavens above, naming some prominent stars, and assure then that the sky they're seeing was no different 440 years ago as pirates and profiteers went seeking out the spot where they are now standing.

It's nice to see the light come on in some young faces when a really good ghost story takes them somewhere they didn't expect to go.

F. Max Hardberger update!

In my comments, an amusing and/or possibly ominous development:

Thanks for the laugh Joan. I am Max's business partner. I'll be sure to forward your comments to Max. He'll get a kick out of it. - Michael

I really do hope he'll see the humor in my artistic license. At any rate, he's certainly welcome to visit my little town and ply the locals with 180 Rum and learn what he may.

I think there could be enduring glory for him here, what with some of the local pirates having a very hefty name-recognition. Max's excellent book, "Freighter Captain" is ranked number 1,694,968th on Amazon. I think Michael needs to encourage Max to do some pro-bono, high-profile butt kicking on the First Coast to lift those sales. (Maybe do some sort of bodice-ripper cover on the next edition, as well, ya know? -ed)

There is a pirate ship coming to town in January 2008, and berthing at the local muni marina. It will represent competition for tourism dollars. I could use a few good men, blowtorches, a few choice lies told here and there, some expensive Vodka... and a fake news camera crew. Good lord, how the locals will do anything, say anything if they think it'll be on the news!

Guess I'll have to go here and plead my case.

Go there yourself, it's an awesome site. Dream big, me hearties!
.

Speaking of Krauts

I'm almost all German. A bit of Cherokee for interest and bronzing, but the rest is undeniably driven, perfectionistic, and slightly... gosh, would likely be arrogant but for the strict Catholic upbringing in an overly-large family with little to brag about.

Still, my brother has an IQ of 200, which left the rest of us seven kids pitching and yawing about in the seas of mediocrity 50 and 60 points below. Hard to stand out in a crowd like that. My grandfather's second, secret family are all geologists and rocket engineers in California. Us, we're more like Prince of Tides types. Southern and sullied by shameful secrets. It's a point of misdirected pride now that the Ya-Ya sisterhood has made it all fashionable.

Still, I wish I had been a part of my grandfather's other west-coast family. I would have enjoyed a geekdom beyond my wildest dreams. Quantum physics and igneous rock talk at the supper table!

But here, once for kicks, I got to work in a makeshift metal foundry pounding and grinding (careful!) and finishing out bronze statues of famous Lions, working with an alcoholic artist who lived aboard a boat that he floated up from the bottom of the Bay of Slaughter. He was a shiftless sort that you just loved to invite to your parties because he was elegantly dashing and charming and had the best stories. And he would make these elaborate repasts for our lunch, replete with wine and cheeses and salads. Why yes, he did work at the local liberal arts college. How did you guess?

I made not one thin dime working for him, received no recognition from the local art community, and got very sick eating the food he served. And a bit of copper poisoning. And a twitch in my right hand that hasn't gone away a year later.

But I can see the Shuttle launches from my balcony and dream of a different life.

If I had known you were coming

I'd have baked a cake! Elisson has sent you here, I suspect, and I thank him and you.

I never did get enough attention as a child. Won't you please help my poor inner child by lavishing me with kind comments and silly anecdotes?

F. Max Hardberger - My Kind of Pirate

My home town is in sore need of a reckonin'.

I think I've found the sort of man who could do it. He understands third-world corrupt practices, knows when to bribe an official, can get local law enforcement to cooperate, convince witch-doctors to cast spells when needed, and can steal cargo ships at midnight and steer them past government officials.

And his name. Good Lord, his name! Wonder what the "F" stands for?

I want him to become the mayor and chief of police in my town, and possibly father my next child. (That could just be the hormones talking, but after watching Tombstone yesterday, and reading this man's experiences today... well let's just say, " I want one.")


Thanks to Book of Joe for the link. Otherwise, this story just languishes in the archives of the L.A. Times.

My little town can whip your ass...

...but not right now.

Oh no. It'll take about two years to do it. Faster, if you try to start a business.

"Where good little businesses come to die!" is the motto boldly displayed on the Chamber of Commerce's seal of this 440 year old town. There's a heavyweight developer making huge noises about turning this idyllic village into a "world class" resort. *snort!*

My little town sez, "bring. it."

(Before this starts to sound like some John Cougar song, let me assure you that Mellencamp has never been here. If he had, you'd have never heard of him.)

This little town sits on the banks of an inlet with an exotic name that translates into English as, "slaughter." Charming, that.

So, you see Mr. Developer, you and your corporate dream of hosting the rich and famous of this world in some fancy resort can jolly well get bent. Because my little town will bend you to its will and make you cry like an amateur contestant on The Apprentice. It's garrotted better pirates than you. It displays garrottes as a matter of pride. The whole town will turn out to turn your neck into jelly.

This place is uniquely qualified as the Perfect Storm of Slack. It has all the right non-moves: It's been here longest, suffered plagues, pyromania, plunder and politicians (I repeat myself) and has summarily dispatched every plan to make itself into something. Its denizens quickly learn to quash the onerous burden of Hope, and renounce Efficiency and Diligence as the bewitching handmaids of Satan.

Smug, satisfied, and subjugated to the local families whose names dot the history books, my little town has deified Slack as the One Truth, and confirms this nightly with a communion of rum and re-tellings of past glory. Non-believers are disposed of in the bay, fast-trackers are tolerated only long enough to bleed them of their money and dreams of a better life. They slink away back North to play golf and pretend it didn't hurt them, or it didn't happen.

No wonder this place is the Honeymoon capital of the South. It's good preparation for a long and happy life: kill ambition, do as your told, have a drink.

Ghost Gig

They enter the darkened room as I sit there, behind my veil, holding my breath. Cameras flash incessantly and I don't move a muscle. It's very late, and some are very drunk. Dear lord! What are children doing up at this hour in this place? Nervous giggles ensue as the room grows quiet with anticipation. Something should happen, but I don't move.

Now the game begins and I am pushed and prodded. I remain as one beyond the reach of this mortal coil. "She's not real!" ventures one falsely brave man. So a woman starts flicking the lovely diamond ring on my hand, once, twice-- then grabs and tugs on it, and that is finally enough. I break pose, turn my veiled face to her and hiss, "just stop it!!"

Mwaaaahhhhoooouuuu!!! A feral scream erupts from the golddigging little thief, and the room explodes with shouts and laughter. I explain to my guests that I meant not to scare them, but to stop a thief. The tall and beautiful blonde tart buries her head in shame, but her boyfriend makes her stay for the rest of the ghost tour and thank me on her way out of the famously haunted building.

They pay me to do this.