It's raining today...a dripping mist really.
Sky's like a dirty dish rag.
It's cold (40 or 50...yeah Adam I know). That's our winter.
I pulled out of the drive this morning with no gas. I didn't know that 'til the truck started beepin' at me...beep, "time to go stand out in the mucky air," beeep, "clean the passenger floor board out," beeeeep, "roll your eyes and mutter because the pump's so slow, "beeeeeeeep." I hate to stop for gas. I just put it out of my mind until it can't be avoided. It's a reminder of just how high maintenance these machines are. I love what the car means. I go when I want and, in my wown peice of property, I conquer time and space. Plus, I can stop for coffe and a square whenever I feel like it; however, I hate the object itself...or maybe it's being forced to ponder the car's limitations that I hate.
Of course, that attitude leads to poor upkeep...which leads to more mechanical problems...which only fuels my purple, bleeding, hatred of the thing. It's a bulletproof cycle...the only way to avoid what I hate is to do what I hate. So why bother?
If I had the money...I'd pay somebody to sneak onot the drive at night and fill it up with gas while I slept.
I don't have that kinda bread though so...beeeep. I'm husslin' to get to the gas station. Probably the exact opposite of what you should do but, you try fightin' the urge. I knew it was bad too because the light came on yesterday..and I ignored it. Now I'm trying to make up for lost time but, there's a problem.
It's wet...and when it's wet the driver in these parts has one of two reactions. Either they take it as a sign of the Rapture and slow to a crawl..I guess in order to minimize the damage that will occurr once they disappear from the car...or in sheer terror they drive like hell to find dry land.
You're movin along at 80 miles an hour. That means that the car in front of you doing 30 miles an hour...hands at 10 and 2, chin jutted out above the steering wheel...just appears in your windshield. You can either slam on the breaks or pass 'im. That's when a streak screams past on the left...a hole in the mist. This must be what it's like driving from one deminsion to another.
I came out the other end at the Shell Station on Watkins. Suspiciously there were open pumps. I thought I might make it to work on time after all...'til I reached in my back pocket and realized I didn't have my wallet. ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHH.
A quick call to the office and then back into the wormhole to risk my life on vapors...
I survived and I made it home to retrieve my wallet...even made it to the gas station where I got the tank about half full before I completely lost patience with the pump. Which means I'll have to fill up again tomorrow on the way to Baton Rouge...:grindsteeth:.
How did I manage all that before 8:30 this morning...how did I keep it all together? With a lot of this...
at full blast.
It's about the only thing that suites this crap weather.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
This One is Personal
If Gerogia are Communist Jihadis, what does that make florida state? Well...they aren't quite as bad as penn state but, that's about as far as I'll go.
I spent the first 13 years of my life in Tallahassee...10 minutes from the campus of florida State. You won't find a bigger bunch of fair-weather, front running, losers on the planet.
We were at the game in 2007. When I say we...I mean me, Martha and, though we didn't know it at the time...the Boy. He's been a Gator since the womb.
We went through a bushel of raw oysters before the game...which might explain some of The Boy's wacky behavior. That's me shucking'... just before we headed to the stadium and I...allegedly...placed myself in the middle of brawl so I could take a swing at one of these f$u clowns.
I just haaaaaaaaaate f$u...that's all.
On your a*** b....!!
I can hear they've brought their 75 tubas with 'em.
Brantley...GO AWAY!!
I don't care about the personal foul...hit him again.
Gators 0 - dirt bags 7
Get Brantley out of there.
The defense is stout...maybe they can score.
First Down!
JOHN BRANTLY IS A MORON! GET HIM OUT!!!!!!!
Way to go John you jerk...0 - 14
Interception number three...can we please put this precious jack-ass on the bench??
You can't ask anything more of the defense...
Great...downed on the one. Now maybe brantly can get the pick six he's been trying for all night.
Thank goodness for these freshmen.
There you go.
There you don't go...this is pathetic.
As bad as the offense has looked the defense has been lights out. Brantly's the only reason the crimenoles have scored.
See you John...china doll.
That looks bad. Just an extremely dangerous game...at least he moved his arms.
The Boy is very concerned about the injury. After we told him an ambulance was taking the player away...he wanted to know if the poleese were going to show up. I told him the poleese were always on hand when f$u comes to town.
Another three and out...f$u has less than 40 yards of offense. But thanks to Brantly they have 14 points.
Defense moved 'em backwards again.
The defense is ferocious...offense is....not.
WIIIIDE LEFT...loser.
Usual cheap crap from the crimenoles.
If the defense doesn't score we're done for.
Did you see that...a first down.
Stuffed 'em again...too bad you don't get points for defense.
First down...
Hammond has to catch that.
Brisset is going to be a great quarterback but...for now he's still a freshman.
Gators 0 - f$u 21 without moving the ball at all.
We've got an SEC defense and a SCAC offense...only if they were a SCAC offense they'd be making smarter decisions.
12 plays of negative yards by the Gators.
There goes Rainey. The Boy is adamant that he needs to go to the hospital too.
The crimenoles still have less than 100 yards in the game. Geez
Gators stoned 'em. Backed 'em up 12 yards but, now what? The offense couldn't move the ball against Messer Park Pee Wee.
punt
It's something at least. Maybe they can get three and not get shut out for the first time since 88.
Looks like they might score exactly the same way f$u has...turnover and penalties.
What a catch...TOUCHDOWN.
Gators 7 - f$u 21.
Onside attempt...nope.
Body slam 'im again.
Especially if they're too stupid to leave it alone.
One more snap...
That was disgusting.
I spent the first 13 years of my life in Tallahassee...10 minutes from the campus of florida State. You won't find a bigger bunch of fair-weather, front running, losers on the planet.
We were at the game in 2007. When I say we...I mean me, Martha and, though we didn't know it at the time...the Boy. He's been a Gator since the womb.
We went through a bushel of raw oysters before the game...which might explain some of The Boy's wacky behavior. That's me shucking'... just before we headed to the stadium and I...allegedly...placed myself in the middle of brawl so I could take a swing at one of these f$u clowns.
I just haaaaaaaaaate f$u...that's all.
On your a*** b....!!
I can hear they've brought their 75 tubas with 'em.
Brantley...GO AWAY!!
I don't care about the personal foul...hit him again.
Gators 0 - dirt bags 7
Get Brantley out of there.
The defense is stout...maybe they can score.
First Down!
JOHN BRANTLY IS A MORON! GET HIM OUT!!!!!!!
Way to go John you jerk...0 - 14
Interception number three...can we please put this precious jack-ass on the bench??
You can't ask anything more of the defense...
Great...downed on the one. Now maybe brantly can get the pick six he's been trying for all night.
Thank goodness for these freshmen.
There you go.
There you don't go...this is pathetic.
As bad as the offense has looked the defense has been lights out. Brantly's the only reason the crimenoles have scored.
See you John...china doll.
That looks bad. Just an extremely dangerous game...at least he moved his arms.
The Boy is very concerned about the injury. After we told him an ambulance was taking the player away...he wanted to know if the poleese were going to show up. I told him the poleese were always on hand when f$u comes to town.
Another three and out...f$u has less than 40 yards of offense. But thanks to Brantly they have 14 points.
Defense moved 'em backwards again.
The defense is ferocious...offense is....not.
WIIIIDE LEFT...loser.
Usual cheap crap from the crimenoles.
If the defense doesn't score we're done for.
Did you see that...a first down.
Stuffed 'em again...too bad you don't get points for defense.
First down...
Hammond has to catch that.
Brisset is going to be a great quarterback but...for now he's still a freshman.
Gators 0 - f$u 21 without moving the ball at all.
We've got an SEC defense and a SCAC offense...only if they were a SCAC offense they'd be making smarter decisions.
12 plays of negative yards by the Gators.
There goes Rainey. The Boy is adamant that he needs to go to the hospital too.
The crimenoles still have less than 100 yards in the game. Geez
Gators stoned 'em. Backed 'em up 12 yards but, now what? The offense couldn't move the ball against Messer Park Pee Wee.
punt
It's something at least. Maybe they can get three and not get shut out for the first time since 88.
Looks like they might score exactly the same way f$u has...turnover and penalties.
What a catch...TOUCHDOWN.
Gators 7 - f$u 21.
Onside attempt...nope.
Body slam 'im again.
Especially if they're too stupid to leave it alone.
One more snap...
That was disgusting.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
"I'm Mad at Yawwwll!"
Some of y'all are parents..you know how torturous or hilarious it can be trying to reason with a toddler.
For the rest of you, here's a little glimpse into the active mind of a three year old.
...
Yesterday mornin' I'm back and forth in the hallway, gettin' ready for work when I hear a shout from the bathroom...
"Hey Dhaaaa-Dee."
I pop my head in the door...and there he is standing in front of the toilet with his pajama bottoms and drawers around his ankles. What are you gonna do?
"What's up big man?"
"Dhaa-dee," he says...his brow all scrunched up, "I don't think Santy Clause is gonna bring me a chainsaw for Christmas...so, I'm gonna have to borrow y'all's."
...
Saturday night I took him to the Ole Miss/LSU game in Oxford. We parked at the Mall on Jackson...like four miles from the stadium. In years past there was a shuttle...in years past.
The walk there was long but without incident. It was 2 miles into the walk back that we had an issue...
"Dhaa-dee...I gotta go potty."
Of course he did...
"Alright son. We'll go over them bushes..."
"No dhaa-dee. I gotta poo poo."
Of course he did...
"Can you hold it til we get back to the truck?"
He said he could but it wasn't convincing...in fact he hinted that the process might already be starting. I'd seen a couple of port-a-potties in the lot where we parked. That was our best, if not our only, option. There was no telling what the traffic would be like and every gas station from there to Batesville would be jammed up with people in the same predicament.
As far as I knew..and you never really can know...he had never contemplated, much less been in, a port-a-pottie...so I told him our plan in hopes that it would distract him.
"A port-a-potty. What? Who came up with that? Adamparsons came up with that?"
"I don't think we can blame him for that one son."*
We carried on...cracking jokes about the port-a-potty til we finally arrived at our destination and he handled his business.
"Look son...you gotta tell your Momma that you went in a port-a-potty. Momma hates port-a-potties...she thinks they're nasty."
"They're nhaastee groowse," and he breaks up laughing.
I tell all that to set the scene for a conversation we had about twenty minutes later...just as we were gettin' on the interstate to head south.
"Dhaa-dee...are you proud of me."
What in the world? Is he three or thirteen?
"Of course I'm proud of you...you my main man. You're the best son ever."
"But Momma's not proud of me."
"What are you talking about son? Of course you're Momma's proud of you. Why would you say such a thing?"
"She's not proud of me...cause I went to the port-a-potty."
Oh Lord what have done? I've scarred this kid...
Then he breaks into maniacal laughter. I'm thinking I warped him for life and it was a punch line.
...
He has a problem with choices. He has no problem making a decision between choices...he just doesn't seem to understand that once you make a choice your options are closed.
"I wanna taka bath...I was on the play ground. I'm dirty."
"No son," his Momma deliberately explained, "I asked you..do you want to take a bath or watch football with Daddy. You decided you wanted to watch football. It's too late take a bath now. We're putting on your pajamas"
"Nooooooooooo. I'm dirty. I'm dirty," running off to the other side of the house.
Obviously he wasn't dirty or there wouldn't have been an option. He thinks he's a Jedi. He'll tell you he wants to watch football to put an end to the discussion but, in his tiny little mind, he's thinking he'll watch football til he's ready to go play in the bath...expecting that we'll have completely forgotten that a deal had been struck. He does it all the time and even though it never works...it makes him furious every time.
I followed after him...
"Look fella...stop being a lunatic and go put you're pajama's on."
Y'all should know he's standing in the kitchen, in a t-shirt, Thomas the Train drawers and green rubber rain boots (that's pretty much every night). He's frownin' hard...like he's trying to punch me in the face with his dirty look.
"Goooooooooo put your pajama's oooon."
"No!," and he folds his arms, "I'm mad at yawwwll."
His Momma who was headed into the kitchen with a purpose turned and went back the way she came, shoulders shaking, trying not to laugh out loud. It was all I could do to swallow hard and keep it together.
That's part of the problem trying to deal with these jokers. It's hard to discipline somebody when they're being hilarious...even if you're still just as mad at 'em. Not only was the scene hysterical...but his drawl was exquisite . An impossible situation.
...
At least he's starting to realize that it's us against him...instead of trying to play us against one another. The last time he tried that was an "argument" over what day of the week it was.
It was Monday morning...Mon-Day morning.
"It's Sundee....we gotta go to chuch."
"No it's Monday. You gotta go to school and me and Momma gotta go to work."
"It's not Monday...It's Sunday. I'm goin' to church."
"Dude it's Muuuuundaaaay...you want me to get a calendar?"
"I'm tellin' my Momma about you," and he jumps off the bed...runs outta the room to find his Momma.
...
Every day for at least the next 15 years...Lord help us.
It was Monday morning punk...Monday morning.
*I made the mistake of telling him that Adam Parsons had come up with the rubbish lorry after being asked about 1,000 times. He heard it on one of his videos and thought it was the craziest thing ever..."It's a Garbage Truck...not a rubbish lorry. Who came up with that?" He was incredulous.
For a couple days it was hilarious as he went around the house saying..."Adamparson's crazy." Then it back fired...he wanted to know all about Adam and all the other crazy things he's come up with. We talk about Adamparsons a lot.
For the rest of you, here's a little glimpse into the active mind of a three year old.
...
Yesterday mornin' I'm back and forth in the hallway, gettin' ready for work when I hear a shout from the bathroom...
"Hey Dhaaaa-Dee."
I pop my head in the door...and there he is standing in front of the toilet with his pajama bottoms and drawers around his ankles. What are you gonna do?
"What's up big man?"
"Dhaa-dee," he says...his brow all scrunched up, "I don't think Santy Clause is gonna bring me a chainsaw for Christmas...so, I'm gonna have to borrow y'all's."
...
Saturday night I took him to the Ole Miss/LSU game in Oxford. We parked at the Mall on Jackson...like four miles from the stadium. In years past there was a shuttle...in years past.
The walk there was long but without incident. It was 2 miles into the walk back that we had an issue...
"Dhaa-dee...I gotta go potty."
Of course he did...
"Alright son. We'll go over them bushes..."
"No dhaa-dee. I gotta poo poo."
Of course he did...
"Can you hold it til we get back to the truck?"
He said he could but it wasn't convincing...in fact he hinted that the process might already be starting. I'd seen a couple of port-a-potties in the lot where we parked. That was our best, if not our only, option. There was no telling what the traffic would be like and every gas station from there to Batesville would be jammed up with people in the same predicament.
As far as I knew..and you never really can know...he had never contemplated, much less been in, a port-a-pottie...so I told him our plan in hopes that it would distract him.
"A port-a-potty. What? Who came up with that? Adamparsons came up with that?"
"I don't think we can blame him for that one son."*
We carried on...cracking jokes about the port-a-potty til we finally arrived at our destination and he handled his business.
"Look son...you gotta tell your Momma that you went in a port-a-potty. Momma hates port-a-potties...she thinks they're nasty."
"They're nhaastee groowse," and he breaks up laughing.
I tell all that to set the scene for a conversation we had about twenty minutes later...just as we were gettin' on the interstate to head south.
"Dhaa-dee...are you proud of me."
What in the world? Is he three or thirteen?
"Of course I'm proud of you...you my main man. You're the best son ever."
"But Momma's not proud of me."
"What are you talking about son? Of course you're Momma's proud of you. Why would you say such a thing?"
"She's not proud of me...cause I went to the port-a-potty."
Oh Lord what have done? I've scarred this kid...
Then he breaks into maniacal laughter. I'm thinking I warped him for life and it was a punch line.
...
He has a problem with choices. He has no problem making a decision between choices...he just doesn't seem to understand that once you make a choice your options are closed.
"I wanna taka bath...I was on the play ground. I'm dirty."
"No son," his Momma deliberately explained, "I asked you..do you want to take a bath or watch football with Daddy. You decided you wanted to watch football. It's too late take a bath now. We're putting on your pajamas"
"Nooooooooooo. I'm dirty. I'm dirty," running off to the other side of the house.
Obviously he wasn't dirty or there wouldn't have been an option. He thinks he's a Jedi. He'll tell you he wants to watch football to put an end to the discussion but, in his tiny little mind, he's thinking he'll watch football til he's ready to go play in the bath...expecting that we'll have completely forgotten that a deal had been struck. He does it all the time and even though it never works...it makes him furious every time.
I followed after him...
"Look fella...stop being a lunatic and go put you're pajama's on."
Y'all should know he's standing in the kitchen, in a t-shirt, Thomas the Train drawers and green rubber rain boots (that's pretty much every night). He's frownin' hard...like he's trying to punch me in the face with his dirty look.
"Goooooooooo put your pajama's oooon."
"No!," and he folds his arms, "I'm mad at yawwwll."
His Momma who was headed into the kitchen with a purpose turned and went back the way she came, shoulders shaking, trying not to laugh out loud. It was all I could do to swallow hard and keep it together.
That's part of the problem trying to deal with these jokers. It's hard to discipline somebody when they're being hilarious...even if you're still just as mad at 'em. Not only was the scene hysterical...but his drawl was exquisite . An impossible situation.
...
At least he's starting to realize that it's us against him...instead of trying to play us against one another. The last time he tried that was an "argument" over what day of the week it was.
It was Monday morning...Mon-Day morning.
"It's Sundee....we gotta go to chuch."
"No it's Monday. You gotta go to school and me and Momma gotta go to work."
"It's not Monday...It's Sunday. I'm goin' to church."
"Dude it's Muuuuundaaaay...you want me to get a calendar?"
"I'm tellin' my Momma about you," and he jumps off the bed...runs outta the room to find his Momma.
...
Every day for at least the next 15 years...Lord help us.
It was Monday morning punk...Monday morning.
*I made the mistake of telling him that Adam Parsons had come up with the rubbish lorry after being asked about 1,000 times. He heard it on one of his videos and thought it was the craziest thing ever..."It's a Garbage Truck...not a rubbish lorry. Who came up with that?" He was incredulous.
For a couple days it was hilarious as he went around the house saying..."Adamparson's crazy." Then it back fired...he wanted to know all about Adam and all the other crazy things he's come up with. We talk about Adamparsons a lot.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Hope You Don't Land on Your Whatchyamacallit Larry.
Praise for the Georgia Bulldogs doesn't come easy here...in fact under normal circumstances it doesn't come at all but, the death of Legend is not a normal occurrence.
Larry Munson died of complications due to pneumonia yesterday. From 1966 to 2008, he was the voice of Bulldog football...the voice of Georgia. He was the most partisan, biased, irrational caller that ever got behind a microphone. The games turned him into an emotional wreck...just like the fans. Maybe the fact that he was born in Minnesota accounted for his fanaticism...a constant need to prove his loyalty to the team, the state, the region. However it started, whatever caused it...it was genuine and he was the greatest that there will ever be. Period. A Legend among Legends in a league full of them.
All my people are from Georgia (some of 'em are even Bulldogs. Right SKIPPY?). We were back there in September of 08 to bury my Grandmaw. As usually happens whenever there's 3 or more family members gathered...me and Daddy ended up in the car together. As we left Alma headed out 32 to my grandparent's place we listened to Georgia play some nobody. It didn't matter. I was listening to Larry Munson. He didn't care that they were playing a nobody either...every play was life or death for him. It was comforting.
Course he wasn't always a comfort. This one isn't a distant memory to me. Whenever it plays I'm seven years old...it's a recurring heartbreak but, it is, without doubt, the greatest call ever.
It's been posted but...
Rest in Peace Larry.
Larry Munson died of complications due to pneumonia yesterday. From 1966 to 2008, he was the voice of Bulldog football...the voice of Georgia. He was the most partisan, biased, irrational caller that ever got behind a microphone. The games turned him into an emotional wreck...just like the fans. Maybe the fact that he was born in Minnesota accounted for his fanaticism...a constant need to prove his loyalty to the team, the state, the region. However it started, whatever caused it...it was genuine and he was the greatest that there will ever be. Period. A Legend among Legends in a league full of them.
All my people are from Georgia (some of 'em are even Bulldogs. Right SKIPPY?). We were back there in September of 08 to bury my Grandmaw. As usually happens whenever there's 3 or more family members gathered...me and Daddy ended up in the car together. As we left Alma headed out 32 to my grandparent's place we listened to Georgia play some nobody. It didn't matter. I was listening to Larry Munson. He didn't care that they were playing a nobody either...every play was life or death for him. It was comforting.
Course he wasn't always a comfort. This one isn't a distant memory to me. Whenever it plays I'm seven years old...it's a recurring heartbreak but, it is, without doubt, the greatest call ever.
It's been posted but...
Rest in Peace Larry.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Call Me Rufus.
The Sister got an I-Phone this weekend.
Evidently this thing comes with a lady-in-waiting. For no other reason than that the option is offered...She gave her's an Australian accent.
Having decided on an Australian servant, the obvious next step was to ask it...
"Where can I find a shrimp on the barbie?"
The lady tells her to call Erik...me.
So, of course, she texts me to call her...several times as she got acquainted with Mac's Fascist spell check.
"Hey Rufus...call me."
"call me Dufuss...not Rufus. Call me Dufuss."
Hey Dufuss, why don't you ask Sheila where you can find Flimsy Cups.
The last great Pavement song.
Lest we forget...
Only this morning she has called me "Obnoxious" and uninvited me from Thanksgiving. All I've ever been guilty of is being a loving brother.
Evidently this thing comes with a lady-in-waiting. For no other reason than that the option is offered...She gave her's an Australian accent.
Having decided on an Australian servant, the obvious next step was to ask it...
"Where can I find a shrimp on the barbie?"
The lady tells her to call Erik...me.
So, of course, she texts me to call her...several times as she got acquainted with Mac's Fascist spell check.
"Hey Rufus...call me."
"call me Dufuss...not Rufus. Call me Dufuss."
Hey Dufuss, why don't you ask Sheila where you can find Flimsy Cups.
The last great Pavement song.
Lest we forget...
Only this morning she has called me "Obnoxious" and uninvited me from Thanksgiving. All I've ever been guilty of is being a loving brother.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
The Game
Today the greatest university in North America, Yale University, will take the field against the greatest pretender in the Western Hemisphere.
With absolutely no apologies to michigan and ohio, this is The Game...Yale v. Harvard. This is where it all began. Like its antecedent Rugby, football was meant to be a brutish game played by Gentlemen. J. William White was an early advocate of physical, mental and emotional benefits of football. In a piece for the North American Review in January of 1894, he stressed the fact that it was not like English football. He dismissed that as a game played by "minors, laborers, and all kinds of people."*
(A Gentleman's game...no wonder this northern game came to be dominated by The South.)
With that in mind, we turn our attention to the world's oldest bowl stadium...as Yale welcome's harvard for the 128th installment of The Game. Harvard's already wrapped up the IVY League championship this year...just gonna make it that much sweeter.**
e.f.bartlam '04, M.A.
Sorry about yer luck crimson...fumble into the endzone. Touchback...Yale ball.
They couldn't capitalize...except for field position. Of course, field position matters.
Finally a touchdown for Witt...TOUCHDOWN.
Yale 7 - crimson 0
I look forward to this game every year but it is like watching Club Football...as it should be I guess.
Yale 7 - a color 7. That was a quick 73 yards...Boo Hiss Boo
Great play capped off by a fumble...geez.
Yale 7 - harvard 14
Blocked field goal...this is some bad football.
Bowed up on Em and held Em to a field goal.
Yale 7 - Harvard 17
Nothing to see here...move along.
*This is what we've been dealing with since 1865.
**The Gators are playing 1-AA Furman today...we aren't following that one.
With absolutely no apologies to michigan and ohio, this is The Game...Yale v. Harvard. This is where it all began. Like its antecedent Rugby, football was meant to be a brutish game played by Gentlemen. J. William White was an early advocate of physical, mental and emotional benefits of football. In a piece for the North American Review in January of 1894, he stressed the fact that it was not like English football. He dismissed that as a game played by "minors, laborers, and all kinds of people."*
(A Gentleman's game...no wonder this northern game came to be dominated by The South.)
With that in mind, we turn our attention to the world's oldest bowl stadium...as Yale welcome's harvard for the 128th installment of The Game. Harvard's already wrapped up the IVY League championship this year...just gonna make it that much sweeter.**
e.f.bartlam '04, M.A.
Sorry about yer luck crimson...fumble into the endzone. Touchback...Yale ball.
They couldn't capitalize...except for field position. Of course, field position matters.
Finally a touchdown for Witt...TOUCHDOWN.
Yale 7 - crimson 0
I look forward to this game every year but it is like watching Club Football...as it should be I guess.
Yale 7 - a color 7. That was a quick 73 yards...Boo Hiss Boo
Great play capped off by a fumble...geez.
Yale 7 - harvard 14
Blocked field goal...this is some bad football.
Bowed up on Em and held Em to a field goal.
Yale 7 - Harvard 17
Nothing to see here...move along.
*This is what we've been dealing with since 1865.
**The Gators are playing 1-AA Furman today...we aren't following that one.
Friday, November 18, 2011
&@#&%! Morrissey
This is my boss...
He's not my boss anymore and he's always been a close friend more than a boss but, in my mind, he'll always be my boss.
For seven or eight years...off and on...I worked for him as a house painter. Right after I left the Army, while I was an undergraduate at Millsaps, and after I came back from graduate school, me and him spent 30 or 40 hours a week together. Sometimes workin'...sometimes fishin'...occasionally gamblin'...often just drinkin' coffee and smokin' cigarettes. That's mostly what we did.
In the mornings, I knew the second he passed through the doors at Tastee Donuts whether or not we were goin' to work. He'd sit down...really more like a violent assault on the stool and counter...next to me, already smokin', in silence. I'd stare at him trying not to laugh...
"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?," starin' off into space.
"Nothin...nothin," still tryin' not to laugh...I'd duck back into the crossword.
We'd sit like that for a few cups of coffee, half a pack of cigarettes...me trying not to laugh, him muttering curses.
Here we must stop and take a moment to recognize an Artist's mind...a true genius. Had James Joyce known him...heard him handle the language, heard him swear and curse, heard him incorporate comic book heroes and the genitals of aliens into blue tirades...he would have gone straight to his Moma's house, gotten in a fetal position, and never have written another word.
"Whhhaaaaaaaaaaaat?"
"You tell me," without looking up from the paper, "I'm just sittin' here waitin' to go to work."
Then he'd start calculating where we were in the job...what it would take to make up for a lost day...how we'd have to really get after it tomorrow. An hour later we'd be on a bream bed or at a roulette table.
Don't get me wrong...when we worked we worked like Hebrew slaves but, he understood one of life's great Truth's...you can't live to work. We spent a lot of day's 30 ft in the air hanging off a ladder with one hand, pushing a grinder with the other...caulking until you ran out of fingers that weren't bleeding, running trim at the end of the day with hands that had gone numb from exhaustion...layin' across his lap, on three feet of overhang, four stories in the air, so he could reach out and paint a stretch of facia.
In his mind there was nothing that couldn't be got...and he was never wrong. In another life he would've been a hellava engineer. I've never met anybody that understood the relationship of objects to one another any better...or a better painter. There was only one standard for the work we did...and I've got the mental scars to prove it.
We had our moments for sure. He wouldn't just curse you in ways for which there was no defense...he'd get existential on you. He asked me one time, in the middle of a masterful harangue..."You ever thought maybe you're doin' something you don't know you're doin?"
I love the fella...that's all.
I hadn't talked to him in a while though until this week. We've been gettin' the house ready to sell..the burglary and all...and we needed some painting done.
"Hey cat...what's goin' on?"
"I been meanin' to call you just talk but we got some work for you if you want it."
"Hayle yeah."
"Can you come by the house this week...we got a crack we need looked at."
"Yeah man. I'm gonna have to come over tomorrow though. I'm leavin' town Winsdee and you aaain't gonna believe where I'm goin'."
You gotta understand and you may have already guessed...the default options for where he might be goin' and what he might be doin' are far greater than those of the average person. I took him at his word.
"Where?"
"I'm goin' ta Dallas...to see PHU-&^*^' Morrissey."
"What the...WHAT," I couldn't help but laugh right into the phone, "you're ole lady's makin' you go innit she?"
"Yeah...G*** &%&*%^&^ it...she's payin for everything. G** &&%&*&...*&*Y*yu8...&^^%%#@@...&&%$#$...&%%$##...
HAHAHHAHAHAHHHHAAAAHHHAAAAahahahah...I just hope nobody gets hurt.
He's not my boss anymore and he's always been a close friend more than a boss but, in my mind, he'll always be my boss.
For seven or eight years...off and on...I worked for him as a house painter. Right after I left the Army, while I was an undergraduate at Millsaps, and after I came back from graduate school, me and him spent 30 or 40 hours a week together. Sometimes workin'...sometimes fishin'...occasionally gamblin'...often just drinkin' coffee and smokin' cigarettes. That's mostly what we did.
In the mornings, I knew the second he passed through the doors at Tastee Donuts whether or not we were goin' to work. He'd sit down...really more like a violent assault on the stool and counter...next to me, already smokin', in silence. I'd stare at him trying not to laugh...
"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?," starin' off into space.
"Nothin...nothin," still tryin' not to laugh...I'd duck back into the crossword.
We'd sit like that for a few cups of coffee, half a pack of cigarettes...me trying not to laugh, him muttering curses.
Here we must stop and take a moment to recognize an Artist's mind...a true genius. Had James Joyce known him...heard him handle the language, heard him swear and curse, heard him incorporate comic book heroes and the genitals of aliens into blue tirades...he would have gone straight to his Moma's house, gotten in a fetal position, and never have written another word.
"Whhhaaaaaaaaaaaat?"
"You tell me," without looking up from the paper, "I'm just sittin' here waitin' to go to work."
Then he'd start calculating where we were in the job...what it would take to make up for a lost day...how we'd have to really get after it tomorrow. An hour later we'd be on a bream bed or at a roulette table.
Don't get me wrong...when we worked we worked like Hebrew slaves but, he understood one of life's great Truth's...you can't live to work. We spent a lot of day's 30 ft in the air hanging off a ladder with one hand, pushing a grinder with the other...caulking until you ran out of fingers that weren't bleeding, running trim at the end of the day with hands that had gone numb from exhaustion...layin' across his lap, on three feet of overhang, four stories in the air, so he could reach out and paint a stretch of facia.
In his mind there was nothing that couldn't be got...and he was never wrong. In another life he would've been a hellava engineer. I've never met anybody that understood the relationship of objects to one another any better...or a better painter. There was only one standard for the work we did...and I've got the mental scars to prove it.
We had our moments for sure. He wouldn't just curse you in ways for which there was no defense...he'd get existential on you. He asked me one time, in the middle of a masterful harangue..."You ever thought maybe you're doin' something you don't know you're doin?"
I love the fella...that's all.
I hadn't talked to him in a while though until this week. We've been gettin' the house ready to sell..the burglary and all...and we needed some painting done.
"Hey cat...what's goin' on?"
"I been meanin' to call you just talk but we got some work for you if you want it."
"Hayle yeah."
"Can you come by the house this week...we got a crack we need looked at."
"Yeah man. I'm gonna have to come over tomorrow though. I'm leavin' town Winsdee and you aaain't gonna believe where I'm goin'."
You gotta understand and you may have already guessed...the default options for where he might be goin' and what he might be doin' are far greater than those of the average person. I took him at his word.
"Where?"
"I'm goin' ta Dallas...to see PHU-&^*^' Morrissey."
"What the...WHAT," I couldn't help but laugh right into the phone, "you're ole lady's makin' you go innit she?"
"Yeah...G*** &%&*%^&^ it...she's payin for everything. G** &&%&*&...*&*Y*yu8...&^^%%#@@...&&%$#$...&%%$##...
HAHAHHAHAHAHHHHAAAAHHHAAAAahahahah...I just hope nobody gets hurt.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)