Bachelor Parties: So easy a caveman can do it!
Thanks to all of those who made it. I had a blast!
Monday, March 26, 2007
BP Highlight (More to Come)
Bachelor Parties: So easy a caveman can do it!
Thanks to all of those who made it. I had a blast!
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Attack of the 'Landers
This weekend is the big Bachelor Party bash. I'm fortunate that I've got some NYC-based friends coming on back with me to show them the pleasures of the diviest of dive bars, The Fabulous North Bend Hotel. While I would have liked to have something at camp (weather isn't permitting), I do love that bar. The way the roof sags just so and the smell of stale beer and nicotine from generations of daytime-drinking alcoholics just spells C-H-A-R-M. Plus, at night the place clears out quickly (maybe the daytime crowd passes out early?), it has a cheap pool table, a good jukebox, cheap beer, a touch trivia machine, and Phyllis. What more could you ask for? ... One thing you shouldn't ask for is a mixed drink, unless you want a good laugh.
Remember When?
Do you remember that one time when that thing happened?....
... Yeah... That was crazy!
... Yeah... That was crazy!
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
You know what's funny?
Neuticles are funny. If you don't know what Neuticles are, check them out right here:
http://neuticles.com/index1.html
Do you know maybe the only thing funnier than Neuticles? Guys who are so insecure with their own junk that they transfer it to their pet. Now, that is funny.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Die, Cow, Die!
I've been eating a TON of red meat leately. So much that I can actually feel the plaque affixing itself to me arteries' walls. You see, I am trying to think unselfishly and martyrizing myself for my cause: The Anti-Cow Flatulence Colition. You see, all of these cows are ripping their stinky-assed cow farts all the live-long day. Seriously, try eating some grass, puke it up, and eat it again, and tell me that you're not gassy as all get-out in an hour or so.
These cow farts are a major contributor to one of the people of Earth's greatest challenges: global warming. You hear of all this business about driving less, turning back the thermostat, shutting off all unnecessary appliances, don't burn truck tires, blah blah blah.
Well, I don't want to listen to that--And That Is That! I'd rather just eat a bunch of those darned cows. It'll help the planet by stopping their farting...and it'll help my mood by maybe starting mine.
These cow farts are a major contributor to one of the people of Earth's greatest challenges: global warming. You hear of all this business about driving less, turning back the thermostat, shutting off all unnecessary appliances, don't burn truck tires, blah blah blah.
Well, I don't want to listen to that--And That Is That! I'd rather just eat a bunch of those darned cows. It'll help the planet by stopping their farting...and it'll help my mood by maybe starting mine.
What the Eff?
Alrighty: this one has been slowly smoldering my tailpipe for a while now and sparked white heat this evening. I was already heading home late because I was stuck at work for a spell, so I was in a bit of a rush to begin with. Cut to me trying to negotiate the long, narrow flight of stairs that exits the Bedford Avenue L-train stop.
The long line started slowing and I was craning trying to see the culprit. Jesus-tap dancing-Christ, is that what I think it is? Yep, some clueless idiot savant, minus the savant portion, was trying to read a book while navigating the stairs and was holding everyone up.
What is the deal with people who try to read while walking? Don't get me wrong, I love to read as much as anyone--hell, it's one of the few ways I like to relax that is actually healthful. And speaking of healthful, I also walk a lot--an average of more than an hour of powerwalking every day. But why the need to read and walk simultaneously?
Honestly, it baffles the hell out of me to the point that whenever I see someone doing it, my brain cells burst in fireworks of anger. For some reason, the neighborhood I live in--Dipshitburgh--is just crawling with people who don't have enough sense to walk to wherever they're headed and then take the few minutes saved by not reading while walking and then dig into that piece of must-read literature.
I know that it is only hurting myself by getting upset at these soft-brained pieces of dogturd, but I can't help it. It pisses me off... That is all.
The long line started slowing and I was craning trying to see the culprit. Jesus-tap dancing-Christ, is that what I think it is? Yep, some clueless idiot savant, minus the savant portion, was trying to read a book while navigating the stairs and was holding everyone up.
What is the deal with people who try to read while walking? Don't get me wrong, I love to read as much as anyone--hell, it's one of the few ways I like to relax that is actually healthful. And speaking of healthful, I also walk a lot--an average of more than an hour of powerwalking every day. But why the need to read and walk simultaneously?
Honestly, it baffles the hell out of me to the point that whenever I see someone doing it, my brain cells burst in fireworks of anger. For some reason, the neighborhood I live in--Dipshitburgh--is just crawling with people who don't have enough sense to walk to wherever they're headed and then take the few minutes saved by not reading while walking and then dig into that piece of must-read literature.
I know that it is only hurting myself by getting upset at these soft-brained pieces of dogturd, but I can't help it. It pisses me off... That is all.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Speaking of Lucinda Williams
Not only does Lucinda Williams have what I consider to be the best, most expressive voice housed by a human--surpassed maybe only by Hank Williams to dig deep into wells of tears.
And she's not too shabby in the words department either.Below is a favorite lyric of hers. It makes me almost want to cry just to more thoroughly appreciate it. The poetic simplicity combined with its ability to pipeline emotion never ceases to kick me in the guts. Just like ole Hank done it:
Artist: Lucinda Williams
Album: World Without Tears
Title: WORLD WITHOUT TEARS
If we lived in a world without tears
How would bruises find
The face to lie upon
How would scars find skin
To etch themselves into
How would broken find the bonds
If we lived in a world without tears
How would heartbeats
Know when to stop
How would blood know
Which body to flow outside of
How would bullets find the guns
If we lived in a world without tears
How would misery know
Which back door to walk through
How would trouble know
Which mind to live inside of
How would sorrow find a home
If we lived in a world without tears
How would bruises find
The face lie upon
How would scars find skin
To etch themselves into
How would broken find the bones
If we lived in a world without tears
How would bruises find
The face to lie upon
How would scars find skin
To etch themselves into
How would broken find the bones
How would broken find the bones
How would broken find the bones
And she's not too shabby in the words department either.Below is a favorite lyric of hers. It makes me almost want to cry just to more thoroughly appreciate it. The poetic simplicity combined with its ability to pipeline emotion never ceases to kick me in the guts. Just like ole Hank done it:
Artist: Lucinda Williams
Album: World Without Tears
Title: WORLD WITHOUT TEARS
If we lived in a world without tears
How would bruises find
The face to lie upon
How would scars find skin
To etch themselves into
How would broken find the bonds
If we lived in a world without tears
How would heartbeats
Know when to stop
How would blood know
Which body to flow outside of
How would bullets find the guns
If we lived in a world without tears
How would misery know
Which back door to walk through
How would trouble know
Which mind to live inside of
How would sorrow find a home
If we lived in a world without tears
How would bruises find
The face lie upon
How would scars find skin
To etch themselves into
How would broken find the bones
If we lived in a world without tears
How would bruises find
The face to lie upon
How would scars find skin
To etch themselves into
How would broken find the bones
How would broken find the bones
How would broken find the bones
Pearly's Listening Lounge
I recently came by a bit of a windfall of new music and am really digging into it. Two favorites musicians of mine have new albums out--Lucinda Williams and Son Volt--that sound, after a few spins, like they are good/but not great. The Son Volt album "The Search" has a couple of killer tracks with the wonderful wail of the high-lonesome pedal steel that hearken back to the sounds of the original lineup of the band. There are certainly some misfires on this one, though. I still can't judge how it will line up next to their last release.
As for the Lucinda CD, "West," her voice is the voice of all voices, so she could sing me the phone book and it would grab me by the soul. There are some duds here, but I have a feeling this album will grow on me. After all, the music itself is more like a canvas for her to color, shade, rip, mend, and bend her angelically ragged, whiskey- and nicotine-soaked vocals.
However, there are two new albums that have really been kicking my ass. The new Wilco album, "Sky Blue Sky," which isn't set for release until May, is a vast improvement over the band's last studio snoozefest. It's good to hear the newest incarnation of this band is firing on all cylinders in the studio much in the same way that its fairly recent live album does. Jeff Tweedy as soul singer works for my hearing ears.
The other CD that has been getting tons of spins is "Hardwire Healing" by The Dexateens. This Alabama-based group just brings the best shades of country-tinged rock. I can certainly hear shades of Mark Olsen-era Jayhawks as well as Drive-By Truckers stylings (no big surprise since the album was co-produced by DBT-er Patterson Hood as well as longstanding DBT producer David Barbe). While the music certainly draws from these influences and more, the final product is a sound all their own. Check them out at myspace.com/dexateens. The tune "Neil Armstrong" is a particularly catchy ditty...and the reason I got teh album (it was on a sampler CD from Paste magazine).
As for the Lucinda CD, "West," her voice is the voice of all voices, so she could sing me the phone book and it would grab me by the soul. There are some duds here, but I have a feeling this album will grow on me. After all, the music itself is more like a canvas for her to color, shade, rip, mend, and bend her angelically ragged, whiskey- and nicotine-soaked vocals.
However, there are two new albums that have really been kicking my ass. The new Wilco album, "Sky Blue Sky," which isn't set for release until May, is a vast improvement over the band's last studio snoozefest. It's good to hear the newest incarnation of this band is firing on all cylinders in the studio much in the same way that its fairly recent live album does. Jeff Tweedy as soul singer works for my hearing ears.
The other CD that has been getting tons of spins is "Hardwire Healing" by The Dexateens. This Alabama-based group just brings the best shades of country-tinged rock. I can certainly hear shades of Mark Olsen-era Jayhawks as well as Drive-By Truckers stylings (no big surprise since the album was co-produced by DBT-er Patterson Hood as well as longstanding DBT producer David Barbe). While the music certainly draws from these influences and more, the final product is a sound all their own. Check them out at myspace.com/dexateens. The tune "Neil Armstrong" is a particularly catchy ditty...and the reason I got teh album (it was on a sampler CD from Paste magazine).
Why Is It Always a Van?
Below is an article that ties in with the ole Dog Perv post. One question, though: Why is it always a van?
A registered sex offender arrested Friday in front of Jamestown Elementary School with pornography in his van was released from jail Monday.
There was not enough evidence to hold 44-year-old Clayton Dean Hill, said Tuolumne County District Attorney Donald Segerstrom.
Hill, who lists his address as the 5100 block of Nuness Road, Turlock, was released from jail around 3:45 p.m. Monday. He had been held since his arrest Friday afternoon on suspicion of failing to register his address, as is required by all convicted sex offenders, and attempting to annoy or molest children.
Segerstrom said Monday afternoon that sheriff's investigators checked with the mobile home park manager in Turlock where Hill said he lived and in fact Hill does still live there. Sheriff's Lt. Dan Bressler added that there was not enough evidence to hold him on the attempted molest charge.
"The elements of the crime weren't there," said Bressler. "There was no attempt made."
But he said the department is continuing to investigate Hill, "where's he'd been, what he's been up to," and that charges could be filed against him if evidence warrants.
Hill was arrested Friday around 2:30 p.m. after a deputy saw him driving around Jamestown Elementary dressed in a black-and-red marching band uniform. In Hill's blue GMC van, Deputy Brandon Lowry found children's toys, games and a pornographic videotape inside a box marked "Cinderella."
"There was no evidence Mr. Hill committed any crime," Segerstrom said. "He lived at the place he registered. That does not mean, however, that we won't still be investigating and possibly filing charges."
Hill's picture appears on the Megan's Law Database, the state Attorney General's Web site of registered sex offenders.
He was convicted of annoying children, a misdemeanor, in Stanislaus County. But, said Bressler, he is not now on parole or probation.
The Sheriff"s Department sent Hill's booking photo and information about his arrest to the Tuolumne County Superintendent of Schools Office for dispersal to the county's schools, but not until Monday afternoon.
Hill's van, which was towed away Friday after his arrest, was claimed by his relatives before he was released from custody, Bressler said.
Jamestown School officials weren't notified of the incident until Monday afternoon, Superintendent Diane Dotson confirmed. Usually, information is promptly given to the Tuolumne County Superintendent of Schools Office, which then passes it onto the schools.
"Typically, we have a really good communication and working relationship with the sheriff, but I'm not sure here what the breakdown was this time," she said.
She hopes it was a one-time oversight, she said.
The district has notified all staff and is in the process of alerting parents.
"We're taking extra precautions with the supervision of the children," Dotson said.
A registered sex offender arrested Friday in front of Jamestown Elementary School with pornography in his van was released from jail Monday.
There was not enough evidence to hold 44-year-old Clayton Dean Hill, said Tuolumne County District Attorney Donald Segerstrom.
Hill, who lists his address as the 5100 block of Nuness Road, Turlock, was released from jail around 3:45 p.m. Monday. He had been held since his arrest Friday afternoon on suspicion of failing to register his address, as is required by all convicted sex offenders, and attempting to annoy or molest children.
Segerstrom said Monday afternoon that sheriff's investigators checked with the mobile home park manager in Turlock where Hill said he lived and in fact Hill does still live there. Sheriff's Lt. Dan Bressler added that there was not enough evidence to hold him on the attempted molest charge.
"The elements of the crime weren't there," said Bressler. "There was no attempt made."
But he said the department is continuing to investigate Hill, "where's he'd been, what he's been up to," and that charges could be filed against him if evidence warrants.
Hill was arrested Friday around 2:30 p.m. after a deputy saw him driving around Jamestown Elementary dressed in a black-and-red marching band uniform. In Hill's blue GMC van, Deputy Brandon Lowry found children's toys, games and a pornographic videotape inside a box marked "Cinderella."
"There was no evidence Mr. Hill committed any crime," Segerstrom said. "He lived at the place he registered. That does not mean, however, that we won't still be investigating and possibly filing charges."
Hill's picture appears on the Megan's Law Database, the state Attorney General's Web site of registered sex offenders.
He was convicted of annoying children, a misdemeanor, in Stanislaus County. But, said Bressler, he is not now on parole or probation.
The Sheriff"s Department sent Hill's booking photo and information about his arrest to the Tuolumne County Superintendent of Schools Office for dispersal to the county's schools, but not until Monday afternoon.
Hill's van, which was towed away Friday after his arrest, was claimed by his relatives before he was released from custody, Bressler said.
Jamestown School officials weren't notified of the incident until Monday afternoon, Superintendent Diane Dotson confirmed. Usually, information is promptly given to the Tuolumne County Superintendent of Schools Office, which then passes it onto the schools.
"Typically, we have a really good communication and working relationship with the sheriff, but I'm not sure here what the breakdown was this time," she said.
She hopes it was a one-time oversight, she said.
The district has notified all staff and is in the process of alerting parents.
"We're taking extra precautions with the supervision of the children," Dotson said.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
A Sight to Behold
This morning, while on a hike with Lucy I realized there are few sights as satisfying than watching a fit, enthusiastic dog trotting and sniffing and "working." Just watching the nose to the ground, the legs moving at not-quite-running pace, the tail rotating in near-concentric circles, the joy in her expressions, and the whole sum greater than the parts of her body in motion, all while inhaling fresh air, taking in the trees, and kicking up near-virginal snow has this day off to a great start.
Seeing Lucy contentedly working the ground for a whiff of a chipmunk or the scent of a deer that had passed across the dirt road brings back memories of the dog of my childhood, Bucky. There was always excitement bubbling over in my young head when that Beagle and his sometimes-teamates Mindy or Becky first got out of their crates in the back of our vehicle, tested the ground for any errant scents, stretched out, shook their pants, and eagerly anticipated the beginning of a day's rabbit hunt. And the only thing more exciting and satisfying than that was when Bucky would first get onto a rabbit's trail and bawl out in that beautiful bay that many hounds posses. To this day, that sound is as musical to my ears as Hank Williams, Mozart, The Beatles, or James Brown.
I am fortunate in that Lucy is blessed with that sonorous half-wail/half-bark. That, along with her poetic way of moving on a hike, are just a few of the many things about her that make me thankful Marnie and I found her. I have never fully appreciated why dogs are often referred to as "man's best friend," but I do now. The time in boot-camp-like training, the daily doses of play and exercise together, the quiet moments when you are just "being" together and that appreciative look they sometimes give make for a bond and a relationship that is unavailable anywhere else.
We, as people, forge many of the relationships we are involved with because they offer us another piece in the puzzle of making us feel more whole. If lucky, we find a spouse who can take care of a majority of those pieces of the puzzle. Then there are friends who offer a bit of this and a touch of that. Pets, in general occupy yet another portion of this wholeness to those who choose to share their time, energy, and home with them.
The relationship that Lucy and I have built over the past almost-a-year has been satisying beyond decription to me. On top of that, she is keeping my ass moving. I could certainly beg off going to the gym to hop on a machine that gives the illusion of movement in the most boringly stationary manner possible, but I can't beg off the exercise Lucy needs on a daily basis. Even when it rains, or the mercury dips down damned low, even when I just don't feel like it. It may sometimes impose on other aspects of my life, but I never begrudge it. After all, there are few sights as satisfying than watching a fit, enthusiastic dog trotting and sniffing and "working."
Seeing Lucy contentedly working the ground for a whiff of a chipmunk or the scent of a deer that had passed across the dirt road brings back memories of the dog of my childhood, Bucky. There was always excitement bubbling over in my young head when that Beagle and his sometimes-teamates Mindy or Becky first got out of their crates in the back of our vehicle, tested the ground for any errant scents, stretched out, shook their pants, and eagerly anticipated the beginning of a day's rabbit hunt. And the only thing more exciting and satisfying than that was when Bucky would first get onto a rabbit's trail and bawl out in that beautiful bay that many hounds posses. To this day, that sound is as musical to my ears as Hank Williams, Mozart, The Beatles, or James Brown.
I am fortunate in that Lucy is blessed with that sonorous half-wail/half-bark. That, along with her poetic way of moving on a hike, are just a few of the many things about her that make me thankful Marnie and I found her. I have never fully appreciated why dogs are often referred to as "man's best friend," but I do now. The time in boot-camp-like training, the daily doses of play and exercise together, the quiet moments when you are just "being" together and that appreciative look they sometimes give make for a bond and a relationship that is unavailable anywhere else.
We, as people, forge many of the relationships we are involved with because they offer us another piece in the puzzle of making us feel more whole. If lucky, we find a spouse who can take care of a majority of those pieces of the puzzle. Then there are friends who offer a bit of this and a touch of that. Pets, in general occupy yet another portion of this wholeness to those who choose to share their time, energy, and home with them.
The relationship that Lucy and I have built over the past almost-a-year has been satisying beyond decription to me. On top of that, she is keeping my ass moving. I could certainly beg off going to the gym to hop on a machine that gives the illusion of movement in the most boringly stationary manner possible, but I can't beg off the exercise Lucy needs on a daily basis. Even when it rains, or the mercury dips down damned low, even when I just don't feel like it. It may sometimes impose on other aspects of my life, but I never begrudge it. After all, there are few sights as satisfying than watching a fit, enthusiastic dog trotting and sniffing and "working."
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Lucy's Got a New Cousin
Last weekend Buff Bro John and his wife Buff Vicky decided to make good use of their newly acquired real estate and got a puppy. Leahy is a Basset and Lab mix that hails from West Virginia. I don't know if there is anything cuter in the world than a young puppy. Of course, they have to be so you don't kill them over crapping on the carpet and chewing on the endtable.....
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Dog Perv on the Loose!
The nearby dog run that I go to pretty much every day with Lucy has a Google Group that emails updates, gives alerts for work days, etc. Well, last week there was an interesting post on there. I've also used the daycare/boarding place mentioned:
"I wanted to send you an email that I hope you can send out to others you know who use the McCarren dog run. I was at the run this morning (02/27) at about 9:00 am when I was approached by a Hasidic male who was asking me questions about my dog (breed, gender, etc). I was inside the dog run and he was talking over the fence. When I left the run to bring my dog across the street to Must Luv Dogs, he approached me and asked if he could pet my dog. I told him yes, and as he was petting my dog's head, he took his other hand and started fondling my dog's genitals. I saw what he was doing, pulled my dog away, and loudly told him off. He left the park very quickly.
When I went into MLD, they told me that he has been in the day care before, asking to hold the dogs, and that had fondled another dog's genitals that was with a female owner.
I found this to be very disturbing and alerted the NYPD. While nothing will probably will come of it, anyone at the dog run who is approached by a mid-30's to early 40's Hasidic male, with dark brown hair and glasses should be careful. I would especially tell any women, children, or teens that may go to the dog run alone.
Thanks for spreading the word."
I am an avid fan of weird, off-beat news stories. But when it hits home like this, it is quite disturbing. It's like the difference between hearing those perenial tales of a mysterious candy-giver parked in a van near an elementary school... It's a different story when it is your kids' school. And to top it off, I saw this guy at the dog run last weekend with two kids in tow and he was talking over the fence to a female owner of a male dog. If I see him around again, he'll certainly have a run-in with my trucker mouth and size 13s.
A funny sidenote to all of this (hey, there can be humorous underbelly in dog groping), some of the other dog owners on this email group thought it might have been a joke because the email—in talking about this Hasidic Jewish pervert—kept referring to the dog's "gentiles [sic]" rather than genitals...
"I wanted to send you an email that I hope you can send out to others you know who use the McCarren dog run. I was at the run this morning (02/27) at about 9:00 am when I was approached by a Hasidic male who was asking me questions about my dog (breed, gender, etc). I was inside the dog run and he was talking over the fence. When I left the run to bring my dog across the street to Must Luv Dogs, he approached me and asked if he could pet my dog. I told him yes, and as he was petting my dog's head, he took his other hand and started fondling my dog's genitals. I saw what he was doing, pulled my dog away, and loudly told him off. He left the park very quickly.
When I went into MLD, they told me that he has been in the day care before, asking to hold the dogs, and that had fondled another dog's genitals that was with a female owner.
I found this to be very disturbing and alerted the NYPD. While nothing will probably will come of it, anyone at the dog run who is approached by a mid-30's to early 40's Hasidic male, with dark brown hair and glasses should be careful. I would especially tell any women, children, or teens that may go to the dog run alone.
Thanks for spreading the word."
I am an avid fan of weird, off-beat news stories. But when it hits home like this, it is quite disturbing. It's like the difference between hearing those perenial tales of a mysterious candy-giver parked in a van near an elementary school... It's a different story when it is your kids' school. And to top it off, I saw this guy at the dog run last weekend with two kids in tow and he was talking over the fence to a female owner of a male dog. If I see him around again, he'll certainly have a run-in with my trucker mouth and size 13s.
A funny sidenote to all of this (hey, there can be humorous underbelly in dog groping), some of the other dog owners on this email group thought it might have been a joke because the email—in talking about this Hasidic Jewish pervert—kept referring to the dog's "gentiles [sic]" rather than genitals...
Movin' On Up
Much like the Jeffersons before them, I know a whole batch of folks who are movin' on up. Both of my brothers have scored new jobs that will make their lives and lifestyles much better. John has left the big-city life behind and is settling into some Amish-influenced living in Lancaster and Keith is now management (jeez, who woulda thunk he is management material??) and will, reportedly, have a home life during the week.
My former co-worker and an all around good guy, Dustin (the dude who created the cartoonish version of me that graces this page) is leaving the demolition site that is Adventure Publishing and has decided to actually get paid for writing promo copy in the world of advertising.
And last, and certainly not least, Marnie will be leaving the never-ending hamsterwheel that is her current job and is going in-house at UBS. I'm really excited at this opportunity because she has been trying to break into the world of in-house for quite some time. Hopefully, I'll even be able to see her during the week on a regular basis...with this extra time in store, I just hope she doesn't get sick of me before I can make an honest woman of her!
Congrats to these folks. These new opportunities couldn't have happened to better, more-deserving people.
My former co-worker and an all around good guy, Dustin (the dude who created the cartoonish version of me that graces this page) is leaving the demolition site that is Adventure Publishing and has decided to actually get paid for writing promo copy in the world of advertising.
And last, and certainly not least, Marnie will be leaving the never-ending hamsterwheel that is her current job and is going in-house at UBS. I'm really excited at this opportunity because she has been trying to break into the world of in-house for quite some time. Hopefully, I'll even be able to see her during the week on a regular basis...with this extra time in store, I just hope she doesn't get sick of me before I can make an honest woman of her!
Congrats to these folks. These new opportunities couldn't have happened to better, more-deserving people.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Musical Gambling
On a music message board I post on, someone started a great thread asking people to recount some musical gambles... you know just taking a chance on an album or a show ... that have been paydirt. Here are a couple of my best gambles:
One of my biggest gambles was when I was joining Columbia House back in the late 90s. I was running out of CDs that I knew I wanted and that they had available, so I remember this rocking chick who I had seen a few months before late at night on VH1 playing this awesome tune called "Changed the Locks." Boy oh boy, who was this whiskey-soaked amalgam of guts, grit, country, rock, blues, and SOUL--you can't forget the soul. And what a tune! So, because I needed to fill out my X amount of CDs for a penny quota that joining Columbia House offers, I figured, hmmmm, I'll check out what this album "Car Wheels on a gravel Road," by this darkened angel, Lucinda Williams, sounds like.
So the free CDs show up and the "Car Wheels" sounds like heaven to me. I immediately (and probably since then) have listened to Lucinda's Car Wheels CD more than all of the others I got combined. I might have even listened more to it in the ensuing couple of days than I ever listened to the others--and bear in mind there were a few classics in that batch that I love and listen to regularly (Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On" comes to mind).
Of course, my college roomates at the time, who came from much more urban backgrounds, both personally and musically...well, they just **sarcasm** loooovvvved the nasally waltz "Concrete and Barbed Wire," a tune that tells the tale of a heartbroken lover longing for her man who is stuck on a state-sanctioned vacation (aka doing hard time).
Funny enough, I never knew just how much this gamble would pay off. A few years later, in New York, I answered an online ad to play bass in a band that played a gaggle of tunes off of this album in particular. And, to put a long story short, I never would have met my soon-to-be bride if I hadn't taken that gamble and hadn't answered that ad. She was the singer of the band I would soon join.
Speaking of my special ladyfriend, the next great gamble was all her doing:
Marnie had won some free tickets to see a Patterson Hood solo show a few years back. Now, I had read about The Drive-By Truckers and even had a friend or two tell me that I'd really like them...but I'd never had the opportunity to sample any of their stuff.
I went to the show with a belly full of apprehension and doubt. I just figured it'd be another enjoyable singer/songwriter type who was listenable but just didn't grab ahold of me enough to want to listen to him over and over... and the first few acts of that night fit this description to a T.
Then Patterson, EZ B (the DBT's drummer), and John Neff (longtime cohort and sometime pedal steel player for DBT) came out, and the music and stories they spun that night completely put my entire universe aflutter. Where has this music been all my life?, I asked myself repeatedly in ecstatic, dizzying reverie. That night was one of the best live-music nights of my life--this music is the perfect combination of my gritty hick underbelly and my more literary pursuits (it was the epitome of the "Hick Savant" moniker I proudly embrace). I never realized that these sort of yarns could be spun into song... I could relate to the characters in these songs; heck, I grew up around some of these types of hard-luck and Hard-scrabble characters. It reminded me of why I love all music so much. It made me want to play and write more music. It made me feel like, "damn, it IS great to be alive!"
On the cab ride home that night I felt like I was on happy pills, jumping from cloud nine to cloud 10 and beyond. The only feeling I could equate it to is those first few moments when you've realized that you have, indeed, fallen in love. You know, where all colors are brighter, the air sweeter, the birds more musical, and everything just seems like a work of beauty... even the cold, late-night desolation of the parts of NYC through which our cab glided. As our cab crossed the East River, via the Williamsburg Bridge, the light-speckled city was the most beautiful place on planet Earth.
So, the next day, as soon as I could (aka, I took a field trip from work to the record store...after all, it was Urgent!), I went out and bought "Decoration Day" and "Southern Rock Opera," the two most-recent albums from The Drive-By Truckers (and I had picked up Patterson Hood's solo album, "Killers and Stars," the night at the show) and just dug in. Deep.
Since that fine fine evening, not only have The Drive-By Truckers remained my favorite band, but I have also preached the gospel of them to anyone who will listen.
... and don't get me started on the face-blistering Rawkness that is the live DBT experience... that's for another time.
One of my biggest gambles was when I was joining Columbia House back in the late 90s. I was running out of CDs that I knew I wanted and that they had available, so I remember this rocking chick who I had seen a few months before late at night on VH1 playing this awesome tune called "Changed the Locks." Boy oh boy, who was this whiskey-soaked amalgam of guts, grit, country, rock, blues, and SOUL--you can't forget the soul. And what a tune! So, because I needed to fill out my X amount of CDs for a penny quota that joining Columbia House offers, I figured, hmmmm, I'll check out what this album "Car Wheels on a gravel Road," by this darkened angel, Lucinda Williams, sounds like.
So the free CDs show up and the "Car Wheels" sounds like heaven to me. I immediately (and probably since then) have listened to Lucinda's Car Wheels CD more than all of the others I got combined. I might have even listened more to it in the ensuing couple of days than I ever listened to the others--and bear in mind there were a few classics in that batch that I love and listen to regularly (Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On" comes to mind).
Of course, my college roomates at the time, who came from much more urban backgrounds, both personally and musically...well, they just **sarcasm** loooovvvved the nasally waltz "Concrete and Barbed Wire," a tune that tells the tale of a heartbroken lover longing for her man who is stuck on a state-sanctioned vacation (aka doing hard time).
Funny enough, I never knew just how much this gamble would pay off. A few years later, in New York, I answered an online ad to play bass in a band that played a gaggle of tunes off of this album in particular. And, to put a long story short, I never would have met my soon-to-be bride if I hadn't taken that gamble and hadn't answered that ad. She was the singer of the band I would soon join.
Speaking of my special ladyfriend, the next great gamble was all her doing:
Marnie had won some free tickets to see a Patterson Hood solo show a few years back. Now, I had read about The Drive-By Truckers and even had a friend or two tell me that I'd really like them...but I'd never had the opportunity to sample any of their stuff.
I went to the show with a belly full of apprehension and doubt. I just figured it'd be another enjoyable singer/songwriter type who was listenable but just didn't grab ahold of me enough to want to listen to him over and over... and the first few acts of that night fit this description to a T.
Then Patterson, EZ B (the DBT's drummer), and John Neff (longtime cohort and sometime pedal steel player for DBT) came out, and the music and stories they spun that night completely put my entire universe aflutter. Where has this music been all my life?, I asked myself repeatedly in ecstatic, dizzying reverie. That night was one of the best live-music nights of my life--this music is the perfect combination of my gritty hick underbelly and my more literary pursuits (it was the epitome of the "Hick Savant" moniker I proudly embrace). I never realized that these sort of yarns could be spun into song... I could relate to the characters in these songs; heck, I grew up around some of these types of hard-luck and Hard-scrabble characters. It reminded me of why I love all music so much. It made me want to play and write more music. It made me feel like, "damn, it IS great to be alive!"
On the cab ride home that night I felt like I was on happy pills, jumping from cloud nine to cloud 10 and beyond. The only feeling I could equate it to is those first few moments when you've realized that you have, indeed, fallen in love. You know, where all colors are brighter, the air sweeter, the birds more musical, and everything just seems like a work of beauty... even the cold, late-night desolation of the parts of NYC through which our cab glided. As our cab crossed the East River, via the Williamsburg Bridge, the light-speckled city was the most beautiful place on planet Earth.
So, the next day, as soon as I could (aka, I took a field trip from work to the record store...after all, it was Urgent!), I went out and bought "Decoration Day" and "Southern Rock Opera," the two most-recent albums from The Drive-By Truckers (and I had picked up Patterson Hood's solo album, "Killers and Stars," the night at the show) and just dug in. Deep.
Since that fine fine evening, not only have The Drive-By Truckers remained my favorite band, but I have also preached the gospel of them to anyone who will listen.
... and don't get me started on the face-blistering Rawkness that is the live DBT experience... that's for another time.
The White House
09/08/2004
This bit all unfolded around the time that jackass Bush was making his big push for the White House. Me, I was contemplating another kind of run to the White House—only my White House was an outhouse at Echo Hollow Lodge.
Sitting snugly along a native trout stream in a small hollow in the Appalachians of Central Pennsylvania, this hunting cabin harkened back to a long-gone era. Well, obviously, the plumbing was just a tad primitive. Also, electricity was just unfeasible to pipe into these parts, so everything—lights, stove, and refrigerator—were powered by propane. This place was a throwback in one other way; it was a place for grown men to misbehave secluded by miles of oaks, maples, hemlock, and rock. The camp’s tagline said it all: “Echo Hollow Lodge, where the boys become men and the men become boys.” Guys these days chose to make an arse out of themselves in public. Like the aforementioned jackass yearning to be accepted into his White House of choice. Too bad his didn’t accept him. My White House certainly did.
Well over a decade ago, I had been one of the most regular of regulars. I was one of the boys who were forged into men inside of those very walls. I watched many of these men and gained utmost respect of who they are. They are the type of men’s men that make Eastwood and his macho movies seem like petty posturing. But here they were, hooting, hollering, and, above all, having an absolutely riotous time. Well, except when two drunkards, near the end of a long day and night of drinking cheap beer (the kind that would send each one of these guys into the White House the next morning) would argue about the two things that should never be discussed in a setting such as this: religion or politics.
Well, this camp, as the locals referred to dwellings of this sort, didn’t need electricity; the nights of cards, beer, food, fights, and raucous humor are what powered this testosterone-ruled oasis. I had often been a witness to the “men becoming boys part of the camp’s motto,” and I found myself overjoyed to be given the fine opportunity to roll back to boyhood. Well, almost boyhood, after all this day-into-night beer sloshing lasted at least 15 hours, which is certain not to happen in the care-free days of life.
All of the men out here now had all of the responsibilities in the world. There were a few exceptions—like ole Doc, who was retired, and my old man, whose load lightened the day he successfully released my younger brother into his own world. But there was Dave, for whom this day was conceived; it was the 24 year old’s bachelor party. Then there was Thomas, an even younger kid whose teenage girlfriend had a bun in the hearth; he was also set to leave for a tour of duty in a war that shouldn’t have ever happened. But you know how those political shits like to sling innocent kids who are trying to merely figure out how to get by in the battle of life into a much more dangerous war in some part of the world these kids have no business being anywhere near.
And Thomas’s dad, Donny, not only had a grandchild on the way, a son going to a sandblasted hell, and a newly arrived unexpected child at home with his new bride, he was also trying to find a decent job within a few hour radius. The international corporation that owned the paper mill that had provided for him for the past two decades decided to close up his plant.
He had this in common with about a third of the local men. About five years previous, the parent company had poured tons of money into the plant by installing machinery capable of producing recycled paper from start to finish. It thought it was the wave of the future. Tough luck there. The company was unable to conjure up enough of a demand for the recycled stuff to even repay its investment in machinery and training.
Funny thing about people, they can squawk and squawk about how something should be done without putting their wallet where their mouth is. Reduce, recycle, reuse is an easy enough catchphrase to babble mindlessly, but how many people act?
One guy in particular was one of these type of folks. The talkers. The people whose mouth spews transparent attempts at being something, anything other than a shit. In his drunken state Otis challenged four different, larger and more athletic, guys to a wrestling match on the lawn. A few of the more level-headed (and sober) guys at camp squelched this sad display when he challenged the wrong guy—Bobby was three years removed from his run as state wrestling champion in the 135 lb. weight class. When this happened, Otis started screaming and whiningly inquiring as to where his wallet and keys were. I’d say most everyone who bore witness would have gladly watched this drunken dolt go about anywhere than there.
Man, Otis reeked of grass stains and moist, naturally fertilized, soil. I could smell it sitting across the card table from him. Poor guy doesn’t even realize what a shit he is. But camp is an embracing place. Even the losers and outcasts were at least tolerated. Hell, they can’t help who they are, and they still do need to blow off some steam once in a while.
One thing can be said of virtually anyone out at camp that day. They worked hard, often having to commute hours and hours just to make ends meet. Others, like me, had long-ago decided to get the fuck out of dodge. For me, and others, it was not an ideal place to live, but, damn, it sure is a fantastic place to visit. The hustle and hassle of the everyday life of those who moved to more prosperous areas were few and far between at Echo Lodge. TV? Nope. Traffic? Yeah, right. Telephones? Sure Pal—and don’t even mention a cell phone. They stop working about 45 minutes away from here. And it’s awfully tough to access the information superhighway when the nearest paved road is miles away. Your old lady? Try again, buster, this is a boys club 95 percent of the time. Besides, how many women would like to spend a night in a cabin whose walls are covered with deer antlers, that is filled with dank couches, hand-me-down easy chairs and card tables—and smelly drunk men involved in all sorts of vice.
But, the wives and girlfriends of this lot of characters are most accepting of this ritual. These guys work hard for their money in one of the most economically repressed areas above the Mason-Dixon Line. They also need to play hard. After all, that is what men in America do. And, I have got to say it, this is a facet of the real America. These men are what give America its spine, character, and soul.
In Fear in Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S. Thompson went out to that land of flash and pizzazz in search of the American Dream. Maybe the adrenal glands or the ether got them entirely too fucked up, but they went searching in the wrong place. While Vegas may embody a lot of the things that people worldwide hold against this country, it is very far away from the everyday lives of most who live here.
The American Dream is alive and well along this small trout stream. After all, many of our forefathers came here to be freed from the big-brother attitude that was rampant in many homelands across the world. They were individualists and that very spirit is alive at camp as anywhere else in the land. And even though there are many things going down that were initiated by the current administration that aim to cut into this dream, it would take a lot of shit hitting the fan to curb camp time and all that it entails.
Don’t even get me started about the politicians. Any politicians. I might lean democrat in my views (mostly due to a lack of choice), but I know deep down they’re all full of sour, runny feces. In all of my travels across this country, I have never seen even an inkling of the America of campaign speeches and rhetoric volcanoes.
The politicians don’t see it. And neither did Hunter Thompson, who, as a fledgling reporter, lived about an hour away from Echo Lodge. Maybe they are all too fucked up. Hell, who am I to talk? I may be too fucked up myself. And I’m scared everyday that this country is becoming too fucked up with all of the recent acts that have been conducted in the name of patriotism and fighting the good fight.
But for all of my fear, I also have a renewed hope. I know that while all of that shit is going down all over the globe and in our own country that the real America will live on no matter what. The just-told story goes to show that the most important things in life aren’t affected by how much you rake in per year, the score of the latest professional football game, or what asshole is in the White House.
The guys at camp that day, or any other day like the one that was sort of unfolded before, that’s where the real America is at. It’s good to know that shit is going to have to get way more fucked up all around to affect this cast of true characters and this scene.
At least I hope so.
This bit all unfolded around the time that jackass Bush was making his big push for the White House. Me, I was contemplating another kind of run to the White House—only my White House was an outhouse at Echo Hollow Lodge.
Sitting snugly along a native trout stream in a small hollow in the Appalachians of Central Pennsylvania, this hunting cabin harkened back to a long-gone era. Well, obviously, the plumbing was just a tad primitive. Also, electricity was just unfeasible to pipe into these parts, so everything—lights, stove, and refrigerator—were powered by propane. This place was a throwback in one other way; it was a place for grown men to misbehave secluded by miles of oaks, maples, hemlock, and rock. The camp’s tagline said it all: “Echo Hollow Lodge, where the boys become men and the men become boys.” Guys these days chose to make an arse out of themselves in public. Like the aforementioned jackass yearning to be accepted into his White House of choice. Too bad his didn’t accept him. My White House certainly did.
Well over a decade ago, I had been one of the most regular of regulars. I was one of the boys who were forged into men inside of those very walls. I watched many of these men and gained utmost respect of who they are. They are the type of men’s men that make Eastwood and his macho movies seem like petty posturing. But here they were, hooting, hollering, and, above all, having an absolutely riotous time. Well, except when two drunkards, near the end of a long day and night of drinking cheap beer (the kind that would send each one of these guys into the White House the next morning) would argue about the two things that should never be discussed in a setting such as this: religion or politics.
Well, this camp, as the locals referred to dwellings of this sort, didn’t need electricity; the nights of cards, beer, food, fights, and raucous humor are what powered this testosterone-ruled oasis. I had often been a witness to the “men becoming boys part of the camp’s motto,” and I found myself overjoyed to be given the fine opportunity to roll back to boyhood. Well, almost boyhood, after all this day-into-night beer sloshing lasted at least 15 hours, which is certain not to happen in the care-free days of life.
All of the men out here now had all of the responsibilities in the world. There were a few exceptions—like ole Doc, who was retired, and my old man, whose load lightened the day he successfully released my younger brother into his own world. But there was Dave, for whom this day was conceived; it was the 24 year old’s bachelor party. Then there was Thomas, an even younger kid whose teenage girlfriend had a bun in the hearth; he was also set to leave for a tour of duty in a war that shouldn’t have ever happened. But you know how those political shits like to sling innocent kids who are trying to merely figure out how to get by in the battle of life into a much more dangerous war in some part of the world these kids have no business being anywhere near.
And Thomas’s dad, Donny, not only had a grandchild on the way, a son going to a sandblasted hell, and a newly arrived unexpected child at home with his new bride, he was also trying to find a decent job within a few hour radius. The international corporation that owned the paper mill that had provided for him for the past two decades decided to close up his plant.
He had this in common with about a third of the local men. About five years previous, the parent company had poured tons of money into the plant by installing machinery capable of producing recycled paper from start to finish. It thought it was the wave of the future. Tough luck there. The company was unable to conjure up enough of a demand for the recycled stuff to even repay its investment in machinery and training.
Funny thing about people, they can squawk and squawk about how something should be done without putting their wallet where their mouth is. Reduce, recycle, reuse is an easy enough catchphrase to babble mindlessly, but how many people act?
One guy in particular was one of these type of folks. The talkers. The people whose mouth spews transparent attempts at being something, anything other than a shit. In his drunken state Otis challenged four different, larger and more athletic, guys to a wrestling match on the lawn. A few of the more level-headed (and sober) guys at camp squelched this sad display when he challenged the wrong guy—Bobby was three years removed from his run as state wrestling champion in the 135 lb. weight class. When this happened, Otis started screaming and whiningly inquiring as to where his wallet and keys were. I’d say most everyone who bore witness would have gladly watched this drunken dolt go about anywhere than there.
Man, Otis reeked of grass stains and moist, naturally fertilized, soil. I could smell it sitting across the card table from him. Poor guy doesn’t even realize what a shit he is. But camp is an embracing place. Even the losers and outcasts were at least tolerated. Hell, they can’t help who they are, and they still do need to blow off some steam once in a while.
One thing can be said of virtually anyone out at camp that day. They worked hard, often having to commute hours and hours just to make ends meet. Others, like me, had long-ago decided to get the fuck out of dodge. For me, and others, it was not an ideal place to live, but, damn, it sure is a fantastic place to visit. The hustle and hassle of the everyday life of those who moved to more prosperous areas were few and far between at Echo Lodge. TV? Nope. Traffic? Yeah, right. Telephones? Sure Pal—and don’t even mention a cell phone. They stop working about 45 minutes away from here. And it’s awfully tough to access the information superhighway when the nearest paved road is miles away. Your old lady? Try again, buster, this is a boys club 95 percent of the time. Besides, how many women would like to spend a night in a cabin whose walls are covered with deer antlers, that is filled with dank couches, hand-me-down easy chairs and card tables—and smelly drunk men involved in all sorts of vice.
But, the wives and girlfriends of this lot of characters are most accepting of this ritual. These guys work hard for their money in one of the most economically repressed areas above the Mason-Dixon Line. They also need to play hard. After all, that is what men in America do. And, I have got to say it, this is a facet of the real America. These men are what give America its spine, character, and soul.
In Fear in Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S. Thompson went out to that land of flash and pizzazz in search of the American Dream. Maybe the adrenal glands or the ether got them entirely too fucked up, but they went searching in the wrong place. While Vegas may embody a lot of the things that people worldwide hold against this country, it is very far away from the everyday lives of most who live here.
The American Dream is alive and well along this small trout stream. After all, many of our forefathers came here to be freed from the big-brother attitude that was rampant in many homelands across the world. They were individualists and that very spirit is alive at camp as anywhere else in the land. And even though there are many things going down that were initiated by the current administration that aim to cut into this dream, it would take a lot of shit hitting the fan to curb camp time and all that it entails.
Don’t even get me started about the politicians. Any politicians. I might lean democrat in my views (mostly due to a lack of choice), but I know deep down they’re all full of sour, runny feces. In all of my travels across this country, I have never seen even an inkling of the America of campaign speeches and rhetoric volcanoes.
The politicians don’t see it. And neither did Hunter Thompson, who, as a fledgling reporter, lived about an hour away from Echo Lodge. Maybe they are all too fucked up. Hell, who am I to talk? I may be too fucked up myself. And I’m scared everyday that this country is becoming too fucked up with all of the recent acts that have been conducted in the name of patriotism and fighting the good fight.
But for all of my fear, I also have a renewed hope. I know that while all of that shit is going down all over the globe and in our own country that the real America will live on no matter what. The just-told story goes to show that the most important things in life aren’t affected by how much you rake in per year, the score of the latest professional football game, or what asshole is in the White House.
The guys at camp that day, or any other day like the one that was sort of unfolded before, that’s where the real America is at. It’s good to know that shit is going to have to get way more fucked up all around to affect this cast of true characters and this scene.
At least I hope so.
Hang Your Hat on This
You know what's been burnin' my tailpipe lately? These g-ed up, gangsta types with the brims on their ballcaps completely straight as the pope (who is certainly waaaaayyyy straighter than any priest).
When I was a kid I always viewed learning how to shape the perfect brim as part of learning hoow to be a man. Kind of like shaving, but at an earlier age. The dorkiest of dweebs were the only kids with arrow-straight brims. These brims and whoever adorned them were considered laughable piles of flesh at best.
I remember the first brim I had my hand in shaping. It was my first hat I got after starting little league and I fucked it up beyond all recognition of any expression of something manly. First, I gave it a good, firm crease down the center and it had that ole A-frame, pitched-roof feel to it. Tiring of that, I sharply creased each side about 3/4 the way to the end. Then, after that, I combined the two initial bends and went for a barn-roof-inspired look. Luckily I was 6 or I really would have looked and felt like a royal jackass. By the time my team, sponsored by Irvin's Hardware, won the championship (thanks, in great part, by my 6-year-old tookas's ability to give that bench womb-like warmth) all hat was left of the cardboard structure of the hat was a mushy mess, unable to retain any shape. (and in that shape, it still looked head and shoulders above these straight-brimmed tough guys.)
The next ballcap I remember acquiring was at Knoebels Grove, an amusement park a few hours from home. It was
one of those trucker-style hats with a dark-blue brim and mesh and the front upright section was white and rose just a bit too high. I had my name pressed on it in those fuzzy, iron-on letters. Yeah, that's right, everyone knew whose hat that was. I liked the damned thing so much that I knew I was not yet ready to cultivate the brim on it, so I entrusted my dad with the duty of creating the initial arch. After all, he had long-ago mastered the art of creating the perfect, man's man arch on his brim.
Ballcaps in general, growing up in Central PA, were part in parcel for any dude. And how that brim was shaped played a large role in what kind of dude you were. Overarched could work well on either a weasel with something to hide or a tough guy. But for a man of refined quality, his brim should have the perfect arch. That showed you were a man's man, but didn't need to flaunt it.
Maybe hats didn't and don't have quite the masculine importance that I once placed upon them...but still, every time I see a straight brim, I can't help but laugh--ahahaha--at the hat and the shithead wearing it.
When I was a kid I always viewed learning how to shape the perfect brim as part of learning hoow to be a man. Kind of like shaving, but at an earlier age. The dorkiest of dweebs were the only kids with arrow-straight brims. These brims and whoever adorned them were considered laughable piles of flesh at best.
I remember the first brim I had my hand in shaping. It was my first hat I got after starting little league and I fucked it up beyond all recognition of any expression of something manly. First, I gave it a good, firm crease down the center and it had that ole A-frame, pitched-roof feel to it. Tiring of that, I sharply creased each side about 3/4 the way to the end. Then, after that, I combined the two initial bends and went for a barn-roof-inspired look. Luckily I was 6 or I really would have looked and felt like a royal jackass. By the time my team, sponsored by Irvin's Hardware, won the championship (thanks, in great part, by my 6-year-old tookas's ability to give that bench womb-like warmth) all hat was left of the cardboard structure of the hat was a mushy mess, unable to retain any shape. (and in that shape, it still looked head and shoulders above these straight-brimmed tough guys.)
The next ballcap I remember acquiring was at Knoebels Grove, an amusement park a few hours from home. It was
one of those trucker-style hats with a dark-blue brim and mesh and the front upright section was white and rose just a bit too high. I had my name pressed on it in those fuzzy, iron-on letters. Yeah, that's right, everyone knew whose hat that was. I liked the damned thing so much that I knew I was not yet ready to cultivate the brim on it, so I entrusted my dad with the duty of creating the initial arch. After all, he had long-ago mastered the art of creating the perfect, man's man arch on his brim.
Ballcaps in general, growing up in Central PA, were part in parcel for any dude. And how that brim was shaped played a large role in what kind of dude you were. Overarched could work well on either a weasel with something to hide or a tough guy. But for a man of refined quality, his brim should have the perfect arch. That showed you were a man's man, but didn't need to flaunt it.
Maybe hats didn't and don't have quite the masculine importance that I once placed upon them...but still, every time I see a straight brim, I can't help but laugh--ahahaha--at the hat and the shithead wearing it.
Welcome
Hi Folks,
Welcome to Chris's pearlysnaps blog. This the place where I will publish musings, rants, raves, short stories, essays, trials, tribulations, and interesting little tidbits. Hmmm, now if I only had something interesting to post...
Toodles for Now,
Chris
Welcome to Chris's pearlysnaps blog. This the place where I will publish musings, rants, raves, short stories, essays, trials, tribulations, and interesting little tidbits. Hmmm, now if I only had something interesting to post...
Toodles for Now,
Chris
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