Having Some Trouble

My links to all my friends got fucked up, so, if you don't see yours on here, consider yourself lucky.

Soon I'll have them fixed and you'll once again be associated with me...

I Mean, Honestly, WHO WEARS THIS SHIT???

Have you any idea of the duration of laughter that would erupt in my household if I came home one afternoon and announced to Trixe that I "got us something", and THIS was it?

I'd love to see my fat ass squeezed into something like that...besides that, I KNOW the boys would spill out the side of WHATEVER THE HELL he's wearing.

So tell me, who wears this shit?

Does it come with a free gold chain and a conversion van with a Chester window?

Seen At Lunch Today

Standing in line at a deli downtown, I'm passing the time by scanning the shelves.

Third shelf down, sits a bottle of BBQ sauce named:

Bone Suckin' Sauce

Hmmm...

Pic O' the Day

Me hanging out at home this summer. I think I'm tired.

Love In a Big Way

Have I ever told you about a guy I know who had sex with a girl so big that the bed posts crashed through the floor of his bedroom?

Yum.

The Terror That Is Trixie

So, we've got two weddings and the holiday season coming up.

And, as such, it was time to find Trixie a new cocktail dress.

Trixie doesn't hate shopping. Shopping is Trixie's nemesis.

To make a long story short, after only three stores, we found a smashing dress that Trixie glows in.

Now to me.

This should have been easy.

All I needed was a new tuxedo shirt.

Store # 1 had some on manequins, but I didn't see any in the little cubbie hole thingies, so we left.

Store # 2 had nothing of any merit.

Store # 3 had one. I was immediately greeted by the aging saleswoman and promptly informed her to select a tuxedo shirt in my size.

After some looking on the shelves, she notified me that she would have to locate the shirt "in the back".

I love "in the back".

There's a sense of mysticism about "the back".

They always have more in "the back".

Trixie doesn't beleive in the magic of "the back", but I digress.

She promptly produces the shirt in my size, and at $30.00 more than I thought it was worth.

Trixie looks at me and says: "You wear your tux what, twice a year?"

She needn't say more.

Now, as a part of Trixie's abhorance of the shopping experience, naturally, she detests sales people. Especially women.

So to pass some time, Trixie begins to leaf through the stacks of shirts sitting folded on a table.

She gigglingly begins to make selections and the saleswoman, eager to assist, begins to offer matching ties and slacks, and belts and underwear and offers to take me in "the back" to determine on which side I dress...

Trixie's amassing a pile of shirts and the sales woman is desperately trying to keep pace, throwing ties on top of shirts, looking to Trixie for approval, all the while, I'm delving into a collection of sport shirts, with one eye on Trixie and another on her new friend.

I then make an announcement:

"You know, I think I'm going to forgo the tuxedo shirt. I've got some time before the wedding and I'd like to continue looking around."

You'd have thought I told her "I've plunged an ice pick into the left temple of your Norwich Terrier".

She frightenengly tried to salvage a commission, even if reduced.

Many shirts, of many patterns and colors, were desperately suggested, of which the best was a pink, white and blue gingham plaid one.

When presented this option, I politely told her the color didn't suit my skin tones, but Trixie, Trixie was brutal, telling her "Are you kidding me? He'll look like a piece of penny candy!"

Needless to say, I'm not wearing gingham today.

Illustrated - The Inherent Flaw of the Welfare State

I was fully prepared to post my thoughts on the disaterous effect (yes, words chosen carefully) of the welfare state, and to illustrate the fact that if you haven't found the means to empower yourself, and you're depending on someone or something to bail you out of any conflict in your life, you need to change your way of thinking. Not just because of what's happened, but because of all that CAN happen if you take charge of your life.

The beautiful thing about America is that opportunity abounds, and as members of a free society, we all have the ability to transform opportunity to personal security. Sadly, there are some who simply see the opportunity and others who sieze it.

We all make choices.

We all live with the consequences of our choices.

Dwight Billingsly in today's Post-Dispatch:

I think there are two lessons we need to take away from the Katrina fiasco:
First, the people we saw rioting in New Orleans are America's flotsam, and they exist in every society. Other than the physically disabled, young children and seniors 80 years old and up, the people we saw holed up in the Superdome and elsewhere are the perfect demonstration of what happens to people who choose (yes, choose) to lead third-world lives in a captialitst society.

They were accustomed to living off a government check every month, accustomed to subsidized housing, accustomed to food paid for by food stamps. They've elected politicians like Mayor Ray Nagin and Gov. Kathleen Blanco to make them comfortable in that third-world existence, and now they have neither the resources nor the political leadership to survive in a time of crisis. Such has been the case throughout history for people who don't take charge of their lives.

Currently Playing - The Heart of the Matter

God damn.

All I can say.

The Heart of the Matter

I got the call today, I didn’t wanna hear
But I knew that it would come
An old, true friend of ours was talkin’ on the phone
She said you’d found someone
And I thought of all the bad luck,
And the struggles we went through
And how I lost me and you lost you
What are these voices outside love’s open door
Make us throw off our contentment
And beg for something more?
I’m learning to live without you now
But I miss you sometimes
The more I know, the less I understand
All the things I thought I knew, I’m learning again
I’ve been tryin’ to get down
To the heart of the matter
But my will gets weak
And my thoughts seem to scatter
But I think it’s about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don’t love me anymore
These times are so uncertain
There’s a yearning undefined
And people filled with rage
We all need a little tenderness
How can love survive in such a graceless age?
The trust and self-assurance that lead to happiness
They’re the very things - we kill I guess
Pride and competition
Cannot fill these empty arms
And the work I put between us
You know it doesn’t keep me warm
I’m learning to live without you now
But I miss you, baby
And the more I know, the less I understand
All the things I thought I’d figured out
I have to learn again
I’ve been trying to get down
To the heart of the matter
But everything changes
And my friends seem to scatter
But I think it’s about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don’t love me anymore
There are people in your life who’ve come and gone
They let you down you know they hurt your pride
You better put it all behind you baby; life goes on
You keep carryin’ that anger; it’ll eat you up inside, baby
I’ve been trying to get down
To the heart of the matter
But my will gets weak
And my thought seem to scatter
But I think it’s about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don’t love me
I’ve been tryin’ to get down
To the heart of the matter
Because the flesh will get weak
And the ashes will scatter
So I’m thinkin’ about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don’t love me
Forgiveness
Forgiveness - baby
Forgiveness
Forgiveness
Forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, you don’t love me anymore

Why the 80's Ruled

Just a quick top of the mind list of why the 80's ruled.

Please add to it.

1. White Miami Vice Suits
2. Breakin'
3. The Smurfs
4. Duran Duran
5. Parachute Pants
6. Breakin' 2 - Electric Boogaloo
7. Hands Across America
8. Transformers
9. O.P.
10. Michael Jackson's Nose
11. New Coke
12. ColecoVision
13. You Can't Do That On Television
14. Silver Spoons
15. Bartyles & James
16. Clearly Canadian Seltzer Water
17. Slimer
18. Neon Shoe Laces
19. The Original Black and Red Air Jordans
20. Rising Sun Headbands

Bastard in Mustard

So, yeah, the Annual Float Trip is over.

Thank fucking God.

I'm tired.

So tired.

Is it really worth it?

The weight has been sliding over to the "probably not" side of the scale for the past year or two, and the events of the past weekend may have just given it the nudge it needs to crash down permanently upon the "definitely not" side.

The Recap:

Friday Night -

Good.

Arrived listening to "Steppin' Out" by Joe Jackson at approximately 4:30 in the afternoon.

Not bad time...a little over an hour and ten.

Checked in at the lodge and paid for two nights camping and a three mile float.

Girl at front counter was as quoted by Van, a "Hoosier Hottie", or as I put it, a "Dixie Darlin'".

Thin, spindly legs, tight shirt, smallish perky breasts.

Badly dressed.

Probably blows donkeys for meth.

Set up Camp.

Van, who had been there by himself for hours, helped.

Donned in a wife beater, shorts and a camoflaugue hat, Van hopped in the truck in search of firewood.

I join him and Daisy, his golden lab.

After a quick scanning of the camp ground, which netted all of seven small pieces of wood, it was decided that an external search would be necessary.

We drove across the rickety, built in 1914 suspension bridge, crossed the river and were on our way.

Two men in search of wood.

We happened upon an old lodge/club that at then end of its long driveway had stacked oodles and oodles of seasoned wood.

Of course we stole it. Need you ask?

Trixie and Bridget arrived at 7:30 or so and found Van, Sean and I circled around the fire, consuming beverages.

Nothing of note happened the rest of the night.

Rochester and his wife Kay arrived with Fairfield and his wife Doreen a little later in the evening.

They joined us as we drank.

Saturday -

Began with a shot of Jose' at 10:30 a.m.

We started our float at 12:00 noon and immediately sought out a sandbar.

Nasty curved navigated.

Sandbar located.

Drinking commenced.

Budweiser.

On to the next sandbar.

Budweiser.

Budweiser.

Rough water navigation.

Near tipping.

Next sandbar.

Budweiser.

Budweiser.

Budweiser.

Famous "River Lovin' Sandbar"

Budweiser.

Budweiser.

Lunchable.

No group sex.

Further navigation.

Next sandbar.

Five of us guys sitting on a submerged log, Budweisers in hand.

Picture of our asses.

Budweiser.

Crabby wife.

Let's try to finish the damn float.

500 yards from the finish.

Sandbar.

No Budweiser.

Crabby, now hungry wife.

Tell Van, who has my keys locked in his car (via keyless entry), we intend to head back.

Bridget, who is floating with Van, also sites her desire to call it a day.

Mr. Good Times Van decides we're all assholes for wanting to leave.

Gives us code to get in car.

Two different codes.

We know something's up.

All three leaving confirm code.

He affirms.

Get back to car.

Code no work.

Try different code.

No.

Try random codes we think Van might like.

No.

Begin to curse Van.

Decide it would be a good idea to enact revenge.

"Bitch" is written upon his windshield, in Ketchup.

More friends arrive at campsite.

Van still not back from the river.

Still locked out of car which contains keys to cars that contain soap, towels, food and Tylenol.

"Bastard" is scribed upon the back window in Mustard.

Van sees adjectives and becomes visibly infuriated.

Immediately blames me.

He pouts the rest of the night.

Fireworks are sent dangerously and horizontally toward spectators by disheveled and drunken Sean.

Van exercises sound judgement when he confiscates the pyrotechnics and responds no to Sean's pleading to "get out the .22 and do some shootin'".

Van then retreats to his pouting chair.

Two married couples engage in marital affairs in the shower, and although one couple interrupts the other, marital relations do not extend beyond the realm of married couples.

Fire started.

Lots of burning.

Bratwurst cooked on the open flames.

Time for micro-brews.

Tired, but trudge forward, drinking on.

Bridget decides she's bored and leaves around 8:30 p.m.

More campfire.

More micro-brews.

Early evening snack of chocolate chip cookies.

Micro-brews.

Debate leaving.

Trixie advises against it.

More micro-brews.

Tired.

Tent.

Sleep.

Startled awake by loud cackling and laughter from next campsite over.

Avow revenge.

Sunday -

Wake at 7:00 a.m.

Rochester and Kay, along with Fairfield and Doreen are preparing to leave.

Kay, still steaming from the 4:00 a.m. whooping, starts Rochester's diesel truck and parks it in front of their tent, which is right next to the Whooper's tent.

Loudly preparing to leave, Kay deflates a mattress with an audibly evident electronic pump.

Trixie wakes up and we begin our packing in earnest.

Munching on a donut, I hear someone from Whooper's camp say something about "kicking someone's ass" for making all the noise so early in the morning.

Sensing the irony in his remarks and knowing that those making the noise are, Rochester, and the newly awakened Fairfield, at 6 foot 3 and 6 foot 7 respectively, I invite him to commence his transgressions and point in their direction.

He declines.

We finish our packing and make the hour and ten minute ride home.

I sleep most of the day.

I'm still tired, and Van is still a bastard.

A Stream of Slaps and Sighs

This weekend is the annual Float Trip.

It's been annual for about five or six years, and although kids and careers have taken a wrecking ball to the attendance figures, the core still remains, and I'm looking forward to a great weekend of overconsumption, time on the river, and if we're lucky, a little debauchery...or at least some boobies.

Now LAST YEAR, we actually had a little...(no wait, let me clarify, when I say we , I don't mean me or Trixie, or the core group, I mean the group in general, including the fringe element that shows up) wife swappin' and river lovin'.

It's no shit.

A couple of fringe friends and their girlfriends apparently REALLY hit it off, so much so that about half way through the float trip, when we all pulled over at the umpteenth sand bar to drink (cause you know you shouldn't drink and paddle), we lost them. We all shoved off, and about twenty minutes later we noticed that we were missing two couples.

We thought nothing of it and headed back to the end of the run and to our campsite.

And waited.

And waited.

And barbequed.

And drank.

And watched the sun set.

And waited.

And caught fireflies.

And finally, the four of them showed up, interrupting our speculative conversation...which actually centered around wife swappin' and river lovin'.

The rest of the night, the four maintained their distance from the rest of the group, finding harbor in a tent, which was actually pretty stupid because we could all see their shadows and hear their groans...and then we decided that if the "swingin' good timer's" were going to make all of us sick, we were going to disturb the slurping, slapping and sighing...by throwing a package of firecrackers into their tent.

God that was awesome.

And I thought nothing was louder than a whore's scream...My God was I wrong.

Slaps succumbed to snaps, cackles made way for crackles and banging just became BANG!

Ahh, the good times.

I'm hoping Dionysus stays home this weekend.

The Downhill Slide

I've officially thrown in the towel. I'm nearly 31 and I can't wait for the season debut of The OC. Of course, there are certain reasons I watch the show (see Godess above), but I have to admit my crap filter has crumbled and succumbed to the eye candy and transparent plotlines that is The OC.

And for God's sake, I went out and bought a Rooney CD this weekend...

Levity

In response to all the negative imagery and audio, enjoy a chunk of levity, on me.

Not to worry, I've got a lot of serious things to say, but maybe tomorrow.

Thanks to my friend Kirsten for the pics...

Pic O' the Day

Disasters Are Regressive Events

It's amazing how quickly we as a society can revert to primal thoughts and actions.

Quite honestly, I can't blame the looters.

If I were chest deep in the muck, or in any anarchistic situation anywhere else, you can damn sure bet there are a few things I would be stealing:

1. A gun - Beleive me, you're better off with one.
2. Cash from cash registers - In a crisis situation, cash = power.
3. Bottled drinks - For consumption and bartering.
4. Flashlights - Three for me, and the rest for bartering.
5. Granola Bars - They're small, sealed and portable.
6. Cigarette lighters - Don't get wet like matches and can be used to start fires for warmth or cooking.
7. Cigarettes- For bartering.
8. Medicine, especially Tylenol or Advil - For personal use and especially for bartering.


One question that comes to mind is:

With no radio or television, and everyone stranded in attics and on roofs throughout the city, how is word spreading that evacuations are taking place at the Superdome? If they're stranded five miles from there, and the only navigable means is a boat, how are these people staying informed of developments?

How about you? I only gave my list about 2 minutes of thought, which is probably a pretty realistic timeframe. What would you steal if it were you?