Lord of the Marketing Flies

We used to do this with bees when we were kids. Which tells you everything you need to know about marketers:

Rant of an Educated Man

A quiet man, if you will. Blogodidact is a velvet hammer of exposition and most of it is a painstaking labor of love and logic.

So imagine my supreme-- well, delight isn't the right word -- satisfaction in reading Van's latest, brief, visceral, blue-est yet true-est screed about term limits and the people who think they're a great idea.

Oh, he's right as the morning rain on a thirsty field of hope, but I fear we are long past the point of returning to that place of responsibility he so ardently outlines in a plain brown wrapper of truth.

Two minutes. Go.

Or at least go and swipe the logo at the top of his sidebar. heh.

I hate to talk about myself, but. . .

Here's an update:

Made the move the Chucktown.
Missed the Blogmeet at Eric's due to logistical issues with the move. Damn!
Started at new location of old job yesterday. So far, so good.
The J.R. is loving his new gig. Lots of cars, work, and racing!
Pepper is disgusted that everyone is working again.
Our next door neighbor has the flu. . .
Hot tub is still wonderful.

That is all.

I'm pretty sure. . .

. . . that when I get a search term for, "hang together or hang separately" from a place like Saudi Arabia that it's likely more an inquiry into proper etiquette than a call for solidarity.

*****

More enemies: the 3,856 people out there who haven't gotten around to hitting this blog and putting it over the paltry 100,000 mark. At least Google loves me.

Crap. I sweatagot that I'll start channeling Stacy McCain and I'll post pics of naked celebrities (thank you, Miley Cyrus!). Or trot out weird terms for perverse sexual proclivities until ya'll de-link me. Don't make me stop this blog and come back there!

*****

Discuss: Who is the bigger whore, Levi Johnston or CBS? Which is more desperate? Nevermind, the Huffington Post is.

Enemies List

I will not pretend to understand why someone with literally the most power in the world feels the need for a list of enemies when it's pretty well understood by most people that very few people are your friends.

Right off the top of my head, here at my table in a new city I can conjure up enough paranoia to qualify me for a job in the White House myself. My list, just for this morning includes:

The crack/meth dealers product distributors across the street and their mules sales associates buzzing up and down the street on razor scooters, their middlemen customer service personnel standing on the corner a half-block away directing traffic and working the cell-phones; along with the late-night "discreet" horn beeps by the middle-class drive thru customers.

And the city official who was likely paid off after he put up a city-official-looking road sign two streets over, warning ne'er-do-wells that this is a drug-free commerce-free zone.

My various neighbors, who are sweet as sugar, god-fearin', church-goin' folks who will never.ever.report their drug dealing multi-level marketing neighbor and will sigh tiredly when their children at last fall in with them. Well, they're not my enemies, but they sure aren't my friends.

The pile of rotting trash that has been left to sit and stink and breed flies in front of the meth lab self-employed distribution business, because the men there are too stupid/lazy to figure out how to get the city to pick it up. Maybe after two full weeks they'll get a clue and pick it up and put it in the wheelie-bin. Or not. Maybe the cops will get wind of that. . . wouldn't that be funny, to be busted for being a slob instead of a dealer of death product distributor?

The entire Congress of the United States. If they're making new laws, they sure aren't my friend, no matter what party they belong to.

People who tailgate in the right-hand lane on a busy street full of stop lights where it's impossible to go any faster than 30 mph. Seems to be another boundary issue here.

The person in Minneapolis that is looking up my IP addy on WhoIs. Minneapolis is another Obama outpost, along with St. Louis, so even if it is benign, I like to err on the side of paranoia.

People with the flu who leave their house.

Customers who hold their credit card in their mouth and then hand it to me.

The person in the FTC in D.C. that is googling up images of Ann Margaret. I don't care what the reason. In fact, any D.C. hit on the site meter is immediately relegated to "suspicious".

The person in Iran that is googling up, "I'm sick of women". Pretty sure that can't be good.

*****

Note: I just made up all of this. None of it is true. There's nothing to see here on my street. Nothing.at.all. Nope. All of my neighbors are good, decent, law-abiding citizens (unlike those folks two streets over who attracted no less than seven cop cars, police tape, social workers and crime-scene investigators just last Saturday, or the Econo Lodge just over a mile from here that was being used as a meth lab) and this post was just created for humor and entertainment purposes only. See category label, "fun stuff"! See disclaimer at bottom of blog.

The Warrior Song

Men of Action: crank up the volume, if you dare:

A perfect accompaniment to my mood!

Filched from Pam, who is always a step ahead of me on these things.

Passivity, Authority, and Cynicism

We were invited to a church group picnic today to meet friends of our son and his wife. Amidst the fun and food, the D.I.L. trots out baby pics of my son that she had gleefully pounced on as we were still unpacking at the house. Paul's friends were amazed to see proof of his wittle, cute wittle, vulnerable self as a mere babe and toddler.

One young dad said to me, "It's really something to see pics of him so little and cute, because anyone will tell you that when Paul walks into a room, the testosterone level jumps up off the scale. He just brings such a sense of his own manliness with him, we're all impressed."

I secretly glowed with pride at such high praise that reflected so well on his father: The Authority. The Man. The Do-er. The One Who Will Not Be Bullshitted.

Back to today. Well, actually, to yesterday, as I went with my darling D.I.L. to visit the home of some nearby neighbors for the purpose of checking on the elderly matriarch to see if all was well. The home reeked of human grunge and little cockroaches were hatching before my eyes while the D.I.L. was sweetly speaking with the old woman. I kept a wary eye on the varmits, and on the other people in the home. The old woman's son was there, as well. As was a grandson or great-grandson. Men were in this house.

But Authority was not.

That home reeked of a passivity and lack of anyone ever taking charge, ever manning up enough to even just vacuum the carpet. It reeked in a spiritual sense that I could not ignore even in my stubborn resistance to enter into that particular attitude of involvement.

There was a poverty of action. Men, totally robbed of any desire. . . no, robbed of even the knowledge of What To Do. No authority, just a passive acceptance of what had been handed to them from whomever raised them. It is the saddest thing you can imagine. And it made me angry at the government class-mongering politicians that robbed these men of even the knowledge of What To Do in their own home. Men without a clue.

*****

The pernicious passivity that plagues so many of our menfolk, from Obama to my neighbors, reeks of a decay that eventually reaches the physical senses after it has eaten away the moral ones. The inability to act; to clean a pot, sweep a floor, or, if you will, send troops in support of our international obligations or enforce a deadline, is a passivity that will not bring peace to a home or a nation; indeed, it will bring death. A parent that will threaten but not follow through is setting up a negative result that redounds to their disinclination and their passive-- or just plain lazy-- attitude toward any challenge.

It leaves a person or a people open to the lightest winds of change as double-minded polarities of inaction lessen the pull of a gravitational center. We risk becoming lighter than air in a turbulent, troubled political atmosphere. Which makes for easy target practice for more single-minded men of action as we drift and bump along toward. . . wherever.

Cynical Passivity. Just say no.

If you read here you most likely have not given up or in to willful passivity. However, our particular challenge is to not become worthlessly cynical. Yes, it's true: all your wise cynicism will not buy you a cup of coffee. Lily Tomlin once famously said, "I try to be cynical, but it's hard to keep up." That's how it feels today. It is sooo tempting to just crack wise amidst the blurring chaff of so many national emergencies and the onslaught of the Nanny State directives. But you know full well that your old Dad (meant to include any parent who understands the nature of authority) would kick your ass for not caring about your Duty, because he had the Authority to move you from your place of complacency; he was no politician to be bribed, but a Reckoner and a Righter of Wrongs.

My task today is to provoke a bit of encouragement; to remind myself and perhaps you, dear reader, that we musn't grow weary in our vigilance. The temptation to cynical passivity is just as damaging as the enervating and hopeless situation of those who long ago heard the siren call of, "just let someone else take care of it. " Well, "someone else" is a hireling who cares less for your concerns than you do. "Someone else" is a politician, after all, to be bought and directed by men of action.

And now we have elected a man who refuses to enact the authority placed in him, fecklessly still voting "present" as though just showing up entitles him to accolades and considerations; who whines that nobody else is "mopping up the mess" because somewhere in his training, he was conditioned to let somebody else take care of things, thinking himself above or below the pay grade of any certain action. It stinks. It offends the senses and sensibilities of grown-ups everywhere.

Never forget how bad passivity reeks or the vermin it breeds. I certainly can't, even after just a few minutes in the anarchy of a home without active authority, I felt the need to thoroughly wash my mind and nostrils of the residual stench.

And the unforgettable sight of the little hatchling cockroaches headed toward my feet?. . . Not in my house. Not in my country. Not in our future.

Get up. Get out. Get loud. Get heard.

Viral Fruitiness

Sometimes, you just gotta go with the inspiration.

h/t Innocent Bystanders.

You Had Me At, Chicken n' Waffles

In pure defiance of the Nanny State, Global Warming, Cap and Trade, and the American Heart Association, I fell headlong into a torrid and hopeless state of infatuation with my new hometown. Yes, dear reader, Charleston has the friendliest people (it's true!) with the best ideas:

Chicken. Waffles. Pecan-encrusted fried chicken. Belgian waffles. On a plate. Together. Sweetly surrounded by the confluence of curried honey-mustard, maple syrup and a ritual slab of butter. And it's all about a quarter-mile from my house.

I am in trouble.

Catch 'er In the Wry. . .

Stoaty is at it again:

And don't miss this one. Perfection.

Just go ahead and add her to your feed-reader and save me the trouble, already.

Going Rouge? Sounds like. . .

. . . a great title for Obama's version of the Little Red Book.

Or maybe a fitting and somber epitaph for Lady Liberty.

Oh. Maybe some context is in order: here and here.

What I Wanna Know Is. . .

If we're so farookin' evolved as a species, how is it that we can still somehow manage to accidentally chew a hole into our own cheek, or bite our tongue, or pierce the inside of our lip while eating. What is up with that?

Ouch.

People in Charleston Have Boundary Issues

The people in Charleston are really nice, if spacially inept. It truly is a different sort of atmosphere here, mostly soggy, and the weather is cool for now, the traffic is bearable, and I haven't gotten lost yet.

I arrived alone on Thursday afternoon and set to cleaning up the little house we rented, sight unseen. It was a pleasant surprise with the hardwood floors and french doors facing south over the deck. The dining room will afford me some marvelous light for my artwork-- which I'm determined to resurrect now that there is room for it.

The hot tub is up and running and after missing it for 9 months, it feels like heaven on my overworked muscles and achy feet. I can just picture how good it will feel after a full 10-hour shift! Met my new overlords at my job. I'll start on the Thursday after the Hysterics at Erics and it'll be full speed ahead into the holidays.

My son and DIL have essentially doubled their living space by having us next door, and have already happily availed themselves of said hot tub. Our bedroom barely holds our king set, but the living room is extra large and we could easily accommodate a small crowd throughout the 1,000 sq.ft. little home. And "square" is the key, being the most uninteresting of old home architecture but certainly the most space-efficient.

The Pepper Dog is quite pleased to have her "pack" back and each morning greets me with real joy and questions about whether or not we're going back home any time soon. But she loves having a back yard (two back yards) and has already claimed her sleeping spot in the living room, of course.

Now if I could just find a place for all the dishes, pots, pans and food. The kitchen is huge, with literally no cabinet wide enough for a simple dutch oven pot, much less any room for dishes.

Otherwise, the drug dealers multi-level marketers across the street keep the neighborhood low-key, not wanting to draw too much attention to their activities, other than the runners that haunt the corner, constantly working the cell-phones and directing customers to the unassuming little house.

Oh yeah, boundaries. People in Charleston are too polite to ever use their horns (or blinkers), they believe that riding in your blind spot on the left-rear quarter-panel is Law, pedestrians all have a death-wish to be directly in the path of hurtling vehicles, and parking lot stripes are a suggestion only. I swear I'm gonna just take a whole raft of pix just to prove it, because I've never seen anything like it. Fortunately, I'm driving a deuce of an old beater Geo that we bought for errands, since the Miatas don't carry much. It's perfect for my half-mile commute to work, and I enjoy parking it next to fancy cars that don't like the suggested parking space parameters. I got'cher boundaries right here, mister.

More, after we get Internet hookup.

Careful With the Naughty Bits. . .

h/t Last of the Few

Careful With the Poiny Bits. . .

I should be packing clothes n' stuff, I guess

. . . but all I can do is sleep. I'm just bone-tired.

Way down deep.

. . .

Just to Cap Off a Startling Year

With a year that began Sept. 30 of 2008 with major surgery, major upheaval, the death of my father, the loss of so many things, my dog moving away to live with my son; and it being a year that seems to be ending with new beginnings, new possibilities and a Major Move to a new state, how better to cap that off than by taking a weekend to unwind with all the hysterics at Eric's?

Booked, baby.

Just let me finish up my last stint of 12-hour days, pack, and move and unpack things that have been in storage for the last 9 months, settle in Charleston, hug and squeeze the Pepper Dog until she avoids me, and then off we go to Tennessee. It should be a great drive from Charleston, a stopover in Atlanta, and then good music, conversation and maybe some beer at Eric's. Just can't wait.

By the first of November I should start at the super-duper wine emporium in Chucktown.

Somewhere in all this, I hope to get some sleep.

So, tomorrow's my last 12-hour day at work for a few weeks, but I should soon be blogging within a few days from our new digs in Charleston-- across the street from a well-established crack-house in West Ashley. (I'd call the cops on them, but they keep a lovely yard.)

Please Ignore Previous Post

Like you already have, which shows your good sense.

Now, go read this cool and calculated piece of intelligent writing and be prepared to be disabused of any notion of stupidity being behind the Nobel Committee's decision. It's quite chilling.

I was skeptical of their reasons, but I couldn't imagine it was because they were stupid. And yet while I was casting about the river of my shallow acquaintance with international statesmanship, Summer Patriot was hauling in the day's limit.

I think his analysis has the ring of unpleasant truth, but I don't think others have wishfully missed it, it's just too easy to forget--in the blizzard of sheer words coming from the man-- that Obama really does mean what he says about Islam and Israel.

Or, it's Sunday. Maybe we can just enjoy a picture of cute little puppies.

The Nobel Prize: A Stroke of Genius from America's Enemies

Obama's greatest weakness is his overweening vanity and childlike sense of his own significance and privilege. Now there's some serious currency to work with! What's a power-hungry world to do? They decide to jerk him around like the puppet he is.

Let's see, he wants the Olympics, but how can our enemies frustrate his enormous ego? Suborn the IOC to deny Obama his heart's desire. In fact, send in a lie to the O-camp that it's so-o-o-o close, and only he can seal the deal. Prestige! Victory for his cronies! Irresistible! The gods of Olympus comply with the plan, since it makes them look very Powerful and Important and if there's one thing that aggravates the Important, it's others who would impose on that. Plus, Obama didn't bring any schwag to the table. Rookie mistake.

Shame and dishonor. Oh nohz!

Oh yes. There is more. Now they award him an international political shoe-horn to jam him into an tight place. Obama is a man with a resume so thin that he will certainly need something substantial to prop him up and lend prestige. A Nobel! Why would they want to prop him up? To knock him down further, of course.

By playing all sides against the middle the true peaceniks get a new best friend, and the hardball players get a wedge to work mightily between Obama and his military advisers: Obama now has a de facto mandate to work for non-nuclear proliferation. And Peace. He has.a.mandate. A Prize.

I could imagine that no matter what circumstances or new information may unfold, what new dangers our enemies may pose to Obama, he will be hobbled by his own vainglorious vision of himself. Now all happy and honored, he has every excuse to hold the line and not listen to the "warmongering Jews" around him, and still appear noble and above it all. He will be compelled to keep talking and making grand speeches, and as long as he's doing that, the U.S. will pose no defensive stance to anyone. The piggish Congresscritters will keep taxing and that will also pose no profit to anyone, and further compound the resentment and disillusionment currently felt by world's financial suitors toward the Great Whore of Babylon.

If you would destroy a leader, elevate him out of his own context and send in your own obsequious advisers that he'll cling to. Seems like both ingredients are firmly in place.

Obama's ponderous prize will weigh him down and I think someone else saw that.

Either that, or it's perfect cover for Obama's own destructive designs for us.

It's too perfect to be happenstance.

Consolation Prize

Can't win the Olympics? Poor dear, hear ya go: A Nobel Peace Prize!! Now run along and play nice with the terrorists.

Feh.

I'm sure the ever-smug Obama and the outraged Michelle O are scornfully laughing at the IOC.

Although, it seems the fix was in 11 days after the zerO took office.

More here, at the indispensable American Digest.

The Dead Do Blog!

Okay, I'm totally skeeved out to see a 30-second web hit from a cemetery PLOT in Los Angeles. Wanna play along? Paste the logistics into your google map window and see for yourself:

34.0416, -118.2988

Angelus-Rosedale Cemetery to be exact. I wonder if I can find out who's buried there? It can't be that someone is finding a bit of repose and quiet in the cemetery and is using the wi-fi of the undead, can it?

Because, yeah, went to see Zombieland today. Totally fun, btw. Can you say, double-tap?

Meanwhile, who is blogging from a cemetery? Common zombie courtesy demands you leave a comment or a gurgle or something.

It's Always Better to Be Lucky Than Good

But it's gratifying to know that our troops are both. Unbelievable footage.

I think, "holy shit!!!" is pretty mild, considering:

Question:

Exactly how many times can a guy watch, The Fifth Element?

I mean, I love that movie, but, I'm just asking. . .

A New Pirate Town To Live In

It's officially ON. The Pirate Palapa is moving to Charleston, SC. Not a bad town for a pirate, I might add.

Work and circumstances dried up in my little town about a year ago and went downhill from there. Promised job (three months of waiting, two interviews, I worked there before!) never came through, car business was all bust, and by the end of January, we knew the jig was up. I won't go into details, as painful as they are, but in the end we remained with a gracious roof overhead and sustenance for the last eight months.

Add to that the powerful, prayerful ambitions of a beautiful daughter-in-law determined to have her in-laws near, and the fact that the fabulous Pepper Dog lives there now, and well, it might be persuasive in the extreme. But mostly, there is nothing left for us here. And, My Son, the Chef and his darling wife have Charleston eating out of their hands, literally and figuratively so we might as well step into their established community and see what it affords. Besides, we'll be living right.next.door. "Everybody Loves Raymond" next door.

The Pepper Dog will be ecstatic to have four people fighting over who gets to take her to the cigar shop or the coffee shop.

Here, my district manager was at the Humongous Adult Beverage Establishment where I work when I gave notice, so he was almost giddy to let the Charleston branch know of my immanent arrival, so in need are they of good, higher-level help. No need to even take me off the payroll, just a clean transfer. Not that I'm thrilled about the prospects of continuing to sling liquor and preside over teenagers, but lawd knows I'd never work out this hard at the gym. (The traps' and para-spinals are looking fab, btw. It's keeping me young!)

So, off to a state with state income tax and a horrific job market. Hopefully, the J.R. will hook up with a job in the Miata biz, and do some building and racing and maybe make a few bucks, and the young 'uns will grace the world with beautiful offspring that we can help raise to be proper pirates and adventurous.

So, in about ten days it'll be all sails up as we relocate. I left my little town 23 years ago to live in a foreign land for five years, in Mexico City, a city that received us with so much love and warmth. Hopefully, Charleston will be as accommodating.

Citizen's Arrest

Just because I know so many bloggers who seriously, seriously need a book of parking tickets they can issue at will:

If having such a resource at hand will save at least one life--possibly your own over-elevated blood pressured vein-popping one-- it will have been worth this expensive blog space.

"Oh the huge vanity!" -Sweasel

The seriously talented Stoat Weasel has done it again. Dear me, but this is epic:

If you haven't ever visited her most excellent site, now would be a good time to see what she's up to. This, however, is so apt and perfect as to bring a tear. Her own comments are a brilliant accompaniment to her art:

To prostrate THE OFFICE OF MY COUNTRY’S PRESIDENT before the international gang of midget wrestlers that is the Olympic Committee, and to do it ON SPEC?! AND FAIL?!

Mmm... mmm.... mmmm...

Don't miss her latest rendering of Mrs. O. That's all I'll say about that. Just hit this link and keep on scrolling.

Caffeine Means You Can't STFU

Never in all my born days have I encountered the non-stop caffeinated patter that is afflicting so many people around me. I work a hard, grueling job with folks who feel the need to drink Monster and Red Bull and Starbucks products just to keep going. Even the guys can't STFU and I'm thinking it's a bad trend.

We're talking a fargin' stream-of-consciousness that runs shallow and fast over every little synapse that crosses its path, creating roaring rapids of . . . noise.

Add to that mix the fact that some of my co-workers are also Alpha perfectionists. What this means is that the combination of neuroses is presented out loud all day long to the Ether, or you; endless listings of what has been done, needs to be done, should have been done. Non-stop chatter, verbal pushing, verbal anxiety.

These are folks with whom you can have no real conversation because it would mean that their brain has to shift gears into a receptive mode, or at least a dynamic 360 mode of thought, and caffeine will simply have none of it. It drives and pushes and channels narrowly down the canyons of the day with a singular focus on whatever is pushing the poor, harrassed soul from within.

A word in edgewise is an impossibility. Any attempt at casual observations is overrun like an Obama staffer under a bus; I am left to never have actually gotten an idea across because the caffeinated conversation simply cannot consider any Other outside of its prime objective: to drive its poor host until it drops from exhaustion. My poor co-hort, just half a year younger than I, spends most of the day in this mode of incessant buzzing, and when not pushing she is always saying, "I am so tired." I am almost afraid for her health, but she is proud of her love for Sbux and carbohydrates-- and it has taken me more than three months to finally have a conversation where she'll let me speak, but it's only because she's the one asking questions.

Just when I'm finding my stride amongst all this insanity, I am leaving it for Charleston, SC.

More on that, later.