Speaking Of . . .

By now you’ve probably seen the video of Chris Morgan, the thimble-fuck who went on a tirade about women in a Long Island bagel shop recently. Turns out, that’s his shtick; to engage in public rants and then slap ’em on YouTube. He considers himself the Martin Luther King of short dudes and I’m not kidding. So I gotta wonder how long before he gets a White House invite. I want to see the handshake . . .

Speaking of . . . Bums. They should fine ballplayers who can’t bother running to first base. Let’s say . . . half a million Wagners every time they pull that shit. Their lazy asses would either find some urgency right quick or they would owe the MLB money in perpetuity. Better yet, MLB can set up a GoFundMe page with the money, for the fans who have to put up with crap like that.

Speaking of . . . Weeds. Cassandra Walker was fired from her job at Dairy Queen because someone wanted a Moana birthday cake and her boss fucked up the translation since this is Georgia we’re talking about. So . . . this happened.

Moana Cake

Fired? Give her a raise, because that is an amazing fucking birthday cake! I saw Moana . . well, the first three minutes anyways. And believe me, a wasted Little Pony is way better. Yo Duff Goldman, give this cake artist a job! Immediamente!

Speaking of . . . Cheeching. I partake on a semi-annual basis and my fifty third birthday seems a logical toking point. In spite of the fact that I’m not a drug user as per the definition (this guy), I do have my very own dealer. Now all I need to do is get in touch with Cassandra Walker for my cake.

Speaking of . . . Skunk. What’s up with the peeps who still abide by twelfth century hygiene? Otherwise known as BO. Listen, unless you have a serious medical condition, are homeless or Amish, there is no excuse. We are GED level lunchboxes compared to the other species that inhabit the earth. Soap and deodorant are the only things separating us from the sloth, and if you can’t bother to dabble in the stuff, then go live on that deserted island Tom Hanks made famous.

Speaking of . . . Stench luggage. You ever go in a public restroom and get hit in the face with that shroud of unspeakable hell? I call it the thousand year stench, after which I’m always forced to hold my breath. Only problem is, when I’m on the spot like that, I can’t hold my breath for very long. If I’m in the water, I can hold my breath for about a minute. But under pressure? Two and a half seconds, after which I bury my nose in my arm and curse the existence of humanity as I perch at the urinal and exhort my bladder to speed it up.

Speaking of . . . Pissing contests. Oscar Wilde would be thrilled to know they actually have their own Wikipedia page.

Speaking of . . . Wicked genius (Wilde . . not pissing contests), Peeps either get the movie Under the Silver Lake or they do not. I happen to think that if this flick was a stock, it would be a can’t lose long term investment. Because someday it will achieve cult status for being what it is. Hitchcock in Kurt Cobain’s iconic sweater.

Speaking of . . . Sweaters. I ain’t in need of one currently. Because it’s a hundred fucking degrees outside (wind chill) and I just put a bounty on Al Gore’s head.

Speaking of . . . Too soon?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Snide of the Yankees

All that romance I was painting when I wrote about a day at the ballpark turned out to be a much needed prescription for my home town Bombers. Because after being held to one run in that eleven inning loss last Saturday, they exploded for thirteen runs the next day. And they haven’t lost since. I like to think we served as a baseball talisman for the pinstripes. It’s not the coziest notion, seeing as how there are thirty thousand peeps who think the same thing. But it still counts.

Anyways . . I figured since I was gifted with some free baseball at no additional cost (since the MLB hasn’t figured out how to tack that on yet ), Imma pass it along in kind.

  • The only time a hot dog is an entree is at the ballpark. Something happens to the little fuckers on the other side of the gates that ups the flavor equation exponentially. There’s nothing like having a dog at the game, because the game is the only place it tastes like Kobe beef with a fried egg on top.
  • That thirty thousand (or thereabouts) was the attendance for a Saturday afternoon first place showdown in which the weather was picture perfect says everything about the insane price structure of game tickets. In the quest to make each game an “experience”, the MLB has beaten the living shit out of the sticker price. I’d be sadder if I didn’t have the MLB network on speed dial.
  • As for those prices, it ain’t reserved for the seats. We grabbed a foot long, a bucket of chicken tenders and garlic fries with three drinks for the princely sum of $51 U.S. Mantles. I could have hosted a BBQ block party for less.

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  • And no, alcohol was not included in that price, which would have added a ten spot to the bill.
  • Because I do not drink alcohol when the sun is in prime time. It’s not because I’m an alcoholic vampire, but thanks to the memory of a football game in Baltimore in the middle aughts when I made merry under the sun. The resultant headache had me wishing I was Tracy Mills from the movie Seven.
  • The wave has made a comeback at stadiums across the country. And it made me wonder where this collective psychosis originated, so I found this article that settles the matter.
  • It should be illegal for a man to wear a jersey . . even at the ballgame. It also should be illegal for a woman not to wear a jersey, wherever they like. Sorry dudes, they’re just better at it.
  • Is it wrong to feel provoked when I see a flat bill on a baseball cap?
  • Eleven dollars for a 16 oz Bud Light is only worth it if there’s a bottle of Jim Beam inside the can.
  • If you’re not in line to see Monument Park before 11:50 am, you’re out of luck. The gates open at 11:30 am. We were unaware of this short window as we strolled over to find our seats and then grabbed some dogs before heading over. We made it with three minutes to spare. Babe Ruth’s number was three. Coincidence? Probably, but I like to think the dogs worked in our favor. Even at six bucks a pop.
  • As we waited in line to get into the Stadium, a sixty something dude who was six pack pregnant took off his t-shirt to put on his Rays jersey. If I hadn’t already spent forty five bucks to park my car, I’d have given him a fifty spot to keep his t-shirt on. We’re standing right in front of a fucking sign that prohibits just about everything short of breathing but this guy can go horror story on our eyeballs. Jesus!

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  • Why is it that conversations about sports always seem so smart when you’re spikes deep in them, but mindless when you’re eavesdropping?

About that Seinfeld skit: I spotted a fella of Italian descent several rows below us sporting a Jason Giambi t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. And my mind went here . . .

George: (Laughing) Jer, check out the guy in the fake Giambi jersey . . . amateur.
Jerry: Wait a minute . . are the sleeves cut off?
George: They are! Do you think he cut them off on purpose?
Jerry: What other possible explanation is there?
George: Who does that?!
Jerry: It’s unheard of!
George: There’s no room for people like this in civilized society!

From there, Jerry engages the fan in a conversation that goes sideways. After which Jerry and George end up being escorted from the Stadium by security.

  • The shift is the new phone booth stuffing. Scientifically speaking, it’s when the defense only butters one side of the bagel. It’s done so’s the hitter can’t pull the ball into real estate where they ain’t and it looks something like this.

The Shift

  • Players don’t know how to bunt any longer because bunts don’t get them paid.
  • It’s frightening how many dudes leave the men’s room without washing their hands.
  • What do you answer hot dogs, chicken tenders and a pound of garlic fries with? The responsible choice would’ve been salads, ice water and laxatives. Let the record show that a case of White Castles ain’t the responsible choice.

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Welp, that’ll do it. I’d like to send out a special thank you to Gary Cooper’s stylish Brylcreem, Derek Jeter’s tarnished reputation and the lost (then found) files of Kate Smith.

Always bet diamonds.

My First Girl

This Mothers Day post is from the way back of time, but it still keeps. To all the Mamas out there . . Happy You Day.

Peace and love

I remember walking you home from school. We’d stop by the park and I’d push you on the swings. We’d fill our faces with chocolate bars so perilously close to supper, because we could. And then we’d laugh at having broken with such frivolous convention. We’d hike to the supermarket and trade knowing winks, as if we had committed high treason on the butcher with our chocolatey smiles.

I’d haul the heavy bags home as we talked about the Beatles and the travails of kindergarten. You were my first girl. Hey, I was rather mature for my age, and you needed a five year old best friend. You needed to know what it was to feel young. God knows you had so much of it stolen from you.

I’d tell you how beautiful you looked and how great you smelled. Compliment your shoes. Hold the door. We’d make dinner. Dad, absent; the hours with him were dissolving as work took him away from us more and more. So it was you and me. You taught me to cook. Give foot rubs. Dance. All the essentials for a boy who was just beginning to marvel at the wonders of a girl.

I was the man of the house whenever he was away, and you made me earn it. Cause a Catholic girl always does. I loved the time we spent alone, because it gave me the chance to steal that amazing laugh you possessed. I wish dad would’ve warned me about that laugh. To this day, a woman’s laugh holds a most deliciously intoxicating mystery for me. Yours was childhood, the one you never got to unwrap because you were too busy growing up, too soon. I knew enough to know too much. It’s why I beckoned that laugh whenever I could. To summon the little girl away from the primitive conclusions of this world for a little while.

Thank you for teaching me how to throw a baseball . . . how to set a table . . . how to love a woman . . . thank you for that silent conversation we shared when you came to visit me in the hospital, a conversation I might never match with spoken word if I live to 100. Thank you for the advice you would impart whenever I went searching for the answers to a woman’s heart, like the time you told me “If it was that easy to figure out a woman, there’d be no need for alcohol.”

My little girl has a middle name that comes from you, but that’s not all she carries of you. She carries your sense of humor, your honesty, your grace. And my son has your persistence and that wholesome sense of purpose that makes him my twelve year old role model.

Because of you, I spend a small fortune on Mothers Day cards. I have my own personal “Mothers Club”, and you are the reason why I lean on them so hard and love them so completely. Because of you.

You taught me that life isn’t about having all the answers. Not when comfortable shoes are so much more important.

There is a thank you in every conversation we share. But here’s one for the hell of it.

The Zen of Katharine Hepburn, Dragons and Tigers and Canada’s Best

I was watching Bringing Up Baby earlier today and thinking to myself that Katharine Hepburn possessed the rare ability to play opposite any leading man. No matter how aloof (Cary Grant), scene stealing (Jimmy Stewart) intense (Bogart) or intimidating (Spencer Tracy) the personality, Kate made ’em look like pups once the director yelled ‘Action!’ and the match got lit.

For some . . it be that way.

It got me thinking about how damned comfortable some people can be in their own skin, while others spend a lifetime searching for that precious real estate. We’re adaptations whose chapters are constantly being written and re-written. Here on solid ground, we’re graded on the shit. But I like to think the cosmic plan is a tad bit more understanding. As I watched her nail the landing in scene after scene, chasing her pet leopard as well as the man of her dreams, it felt as if Kate and the Universe were on a first name basis. Handling her lines the way Ted Williams used to hug a curve ball. Smiling in a way that made you wish you were the reason for it. As if the secret to life truly was black and white.

Those thoughts of mine begat more thoughts . . .

  • Like, I plum forgot what last season’s Game of Thrones was all about, so it was a good thing I watched the two minute catch-up before tonight’s season premiere.
  • It was an ayt first inning, with plenty of table setting shit happening. And even still, I was literally gawking as I watched the first few minutes with the gang all there. It was like a class re-union, if my class was full of really cool ass kids whose drug of choice was Valyrian steel.
  • The best part is, I didn’t even need my special edition Oreos to enjoy it.

GOT Oreos

  • Just a couple, three fingers of Knob Creek and cold Sams on demand.
  • Oh . . what? Like you don’t treat a season premiere as if it’s a sporting event too? Puhleeze!

Sansa Stark: What do dragons eat anyway? 

Daenerys Targaryen: Whatever they want . . .

  • Yup . . they still got it.
  • Hey, Tiger won a major for the first time since Trump was bossing around interns and not an entire country.
  • I don’t watch much golf, but when my son texted me that Tiger had won the Masters, my official reply was Holy fucking shit!! I missed it??? I mean, I behaved as if I had a set of golf clubs. Imagine that.
  • Oh, and do yourself a favor? Don’t be like me and go chasing Gypsy Blanchard documentaries with Chris Watts documentaries on YouTube. Lest you find yourself watching Rob Zombie’s The Lords of Salem at one o’clock in the morning whilst taking communion with an Italian sub. I do not recommend it . . .
  • Of course, that YouTube spell also introduced me to Billie Eilish, whose wicked hatchet of a voice sings songs of death. Gloriously.
  • And Pluto TV should be called Satan Woo. Which is my way of saying I likey.
  • Every time I see someone vaping, I feel as if I should tell them to donate their lungs while they still got ’em.
  • So the lesson for all the kids out there is to stay in school, and if you’re gonna smoke . . go with nicotine. At least you know how that’s going to work on your insides.
  • I’m not gonna lie, I didn’t know that vines were a big deal until they were no longer a big deal.
  • I had a sausage McGriddle sammy for breakfast last week, and as far as best inventions of all time go . . it’s right up there with the wheel and the light bulb in my book.
  • As you can probably tell, I’m not a tough grader.
  • My new running playlist includes Grandmaster Flash, Salt ‘N Pepa, Public Enemy, Queen Latifah, the Sugarhill Gang, N.W.A, Dr. Dre, and MC Lyte. Its like I’m pumping morphine into my dogs whilst French kissing a turbine. Chill fixed, plunge ready . . coo.

And last but most certainly not least, is a shout out to my blog pal Dale Rogerson over at A Dalectable Life. I call her Q, and she calls me all sorts of names. But I leave her to that, because she’s usually spot on in the doing. And while she doesn’t have maple syrup running through her veins- that’s an urban legend- she is still plenty sweet. And totally real.

She happens to think Les Habitants will one day rule the hockey world again (I hope she’s right), and that George Ezra can sing the daylights out of a full moon and that every kitchen has a soul and that the Universe believes in her, most days. Which gives me a leg up on the great big forever, because I believe in her . . like, all the time.

Today marks the birthday of our Queen to the North. Who celebrates her life, one cup of Joe at a time. With a smile that lingers, and a laugh that prospers and a heart that beats to a rhythm that is contagious and true.

Here’s to Canada.

Speaking Of . . .

The great Leonard Cohen once remarked that he felt no urgency as far as his writing was concerned. It was his opinion that mankind would not be damaged if he never put out another record or wrote another book.

Now here was a dude whose works could talk gravity into another million years worth of bubbles. And he’s speaking as if he’s a high school newspaper editor. His point, however, is inviolable. The best part of us, as writers, is the part that can never be taken away.

Speaking of . . .

Urgency, there seems to be a little more of the stuff when it comes to Bryce Harper and the Phillies. And I’m rooting like hell for them to ink the slugger before Brian Cashman sweeps in with a drunken sailor offering that ties the Yankees to a .240 hitter through a third Trump term (Spoiler Alert!). These “Till Meth Do Us Part” unions in sports are onerous for the fans more than anyone. Because in eight years, the fans will be paying Fabulous Bryce Hair prices for Bald Bryce production. Simple as that.

Speaking of . . .

Bald men, the Oscars are tonight. And I’m sorta/kinda excited for the first time in a while. If only because of Queen.

Speaking of . . .

Queens, they’re making a biopic about Elton John. Which is a little strange seeing as how he’s still alive.

Speaking of . . .

Bad jokes (such as the one I just made), Trump and Kim Jong (Pizzeria)-Un will be holding their second summit this week to discuss UN sanctions, nuclear disarmament and Adam Sandler’s curious lack of Oscar hardware.

Speaking of . . .

Oscar, I only saw one Best Picture nominee (Bohemian Rhapsody) and I am only halfway interested in seeing A Star Is Born. I definitely will see Black Klansman when it comes out on video.

Speaking Of . . .

Movies? I tend to gravitate to the flicks that have no blessed chance of winning gold. Take yesterday for example, when I went to see Happy Death Day 2 U. Not as good as the original, but man . . Jessica Rothe is going to win an Oscar for something, some day. And I do not plan on being wrong about that. Girl’s got game.

Speaking of . . .

Game . . I am rocking the Casbah after a two month hiatus from my Fitbit. A week and a half in, and the results are sweetly plucked juiciness. Lost a few pounds already, and am up to three and a half miles. I truly enjoyed my vacation from the the wrist candy, but the reunion is Peaches and Herb righteous.

Speaking of . . .

Righteous deeds, big props to the Ole Miss basketball players for taking a knee during the National Anthem. They knelt together in response to a confederacy rally near their home arena in Oxford, Mississippi. It was the right thing to do.

Speaking of . . .

The right thing, I’m down with Terrance Howard’s support of his former co-star Jussie Smollett. Howard isn’t taking the easy road by staying in Smollett’s corner, but it’s where he started out and it’s what he’s sticking to. Howard isn’t interested in the optics, and that’s commendable in a profession where too many peeps run for higher ground when the shit hits the fan. Come what may, Smollett has a corner man. Emphasis on man.

Speaking of . . .

Yesterday, I was turned onto this cat with the cool threads and the space age folk songs. He’s got a voice that could skate on the icy rings of Saturn and come back hotter than Fortuna’s pocketbook after a Vegas jaunt. His musical roam fits the proverbs of a lazy Sunday afternoon just fine.

And the hat, that’s just bonus round.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Evening Post

I sat down and wrote up a brief letter I was gonna send to the White House, requesting an interview with Trump. Short, concise and pleasant. And then I started filling in all the required information and learned that my email had to be shorter than a tweet. No pun intended, I’m being totally serious. All I was able to write was that I was requesting an interview with Covfefe (I didn’t use that name) before it cut me off at the pass.

Upon careful consideration, I thought it better not to send a request that was going to relegate me to a list which consists of fifth graders and nut jobs. Soooooo . . . the Trump fake interview will happen instead. Unlike the legit interview I would’ve done with Trump . . I get to make up my own rules with this ‘boob job’.

A few more thoughts that zig inside the zag of voices in my head? Sure why not . . .

  • Never, ever run in frozen winds that whip harder than a Dominatrix with anger issues. I know this rule. I abide by this rule, like almost all the time. Excepting for today, when I ran into the face of an arctic blast that put my face on ice as if it were a button man for the mob. And what’s worse, I ran after having imbibed a couple glasses of water. There I was, a mile out when my nether region was called on to provide a service that wasn’t feeling natural in the least bit. I did an about face, prayed to Jesus, Mary and Joe and went Sun Tzu and Mojave with my thoughts until I arrived back home safe and dry. Moral of the story: Failure to prepare is akin to pissing in the wind (almost).
  • Four episodes into Mr. Robot and loving every minute of it. Rami Malek plays a hacker with a righteous soul who’s trying not to drown inside an evil world. Dark, dastardly, delightful. Thanks to Frank for the 411 on this show.
  • My body has returned to it’s regularly scheduled programming (a wind chilled run notwithstanding) after taking on the black diamonds of Blue Mountain last week. I never realized I was taking my life in my hands when I used to do this shit on a regular basis.  I gotta say, I felt downright fucking heroic after surviving it. Also stupid, a little stupid. Bourbon is a great peacemaker . . just saying.
  • I wouldn’t give a penny to this wall. A strong leader doesn’t need a wall, because a strong leader makes the existing policies work where they failed before. A strong leader doesn’t make promises he knows he can’t keep for the sake of political expediency. A strong leader doesn’t blame everyone but himself when shit goes wrong, because he knows where the buck is supposed to stop. I didn’t name names, because I don’t have to.
  • Besides, a moat would be so much more cost effective. And way cooler. Way . . .
  • Potato salad always seems like a good idea until I’m eating it.
  • Bundt cake . . it never disappoints like that.
  • Tom Brady crying “poor me” just doesn’t work. Feeling sorry for Brady and his team because they’re Vegas underdogs is like feeling sorry for Brad Pitt’s penis . . or Bill Gates’s bank account. Ain’t. Happening.
  • I never got on the craft beer bandwagon. Craft beers are like sliders, they don’t jibe with my particular opinions on beer and burgers. But . . I do have a few faves as per the former. Rogue Dead Guy Ale is one of ’em. Linds B reminded me about it recently when she told me she picked some up. We are not easy customers, so let’s just say the stuff really is very tasty.
  • Storms, more winter storms and freezing temps. And not a single Dennis Quaid sighting. I think we’re safe . . .
  • I want to pet a lion before I die. I mean, not right before I die from being mauled and then eaten by said lion. Like . . I pet the lion, survive . . and then many years later I remember that moment on my death bed. Okay, you know what . . I just like lions. I don’t really need to pet one.

Welp, I could go on. And on. But there’s only so much time in the day, and I have to go in fresh when I see my therapist.

Peace and warmth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sorryless Sunday Morning

Halloween Poster

It’s the end (or beginning) of another week, as summer loses its grip and the leaves swim in caramel and fire. Shorts turns into sweaters and apples into pumpkins and the sky goes thick with slumber.

Music is different inside the fall; tethered to its annual rites rather than a fresh new bundle served up weekly. This time of year is the domain to which the standards rule, and membership is exclusive. We own the music and the music owns us. As it should be.

Tricky Pumpkin

Music should never behave, as far as I’m concerned. It should thrill and provoke and surprise you into places you’ve never been, while at the same time casting a spell that makes you feel as if the moments have your name on them. It should be a place where we can fall in and out of love. Where we can sublime the ordinary, provoke our wicked moods and tease the nickel and dime concerns into million dollar dreams.

I love when a tune has its way with me, as if it has been eyeing me up from the get. And then it feeds me its best line and then I’m falling and then it has me, right where it wants me. Because the right song, it makes you want it that way.

The Only Truth

Personally, this is my favorite month of the fall when it comes to music. Nothing against Bing Crosby and Perry Como, but those fellers is gonna own the deed from November through January while the spooky nooks and crannies of October are left to their thirty one days and nights.

So here’s one from the inimitable Screamin’ Jay Hawkins who tuned it up and shook it loose inside the year of nineteen hundred and fifty six. And in so doing, he delivered up one of my all time favorite Halloween songs. This naughty little thing was originally intended to be a ballad, but it quickly turned into something else entirely on account of Jay and his boys liking their drink rather artfully. And so while he didn’t spill this into vinyl with any spooky ideas, it’s got October written all over it from where I’m sitting.

Lucky thing for me old Jay wasn’t much for good behavior.