I was dirty. My hands were covered with grease and dirt and all the other crap that gets churned up when you mow a Louisiana yard that is about 1 inch in elevation above the local wetlands. My head was aching.

I went inside for a sip of water. The car race was on, same old story; the same guys as always were up front, the same as always in the back. My head was pulsing. I wanted to take a nap, close my eyes and try to dull the vibrations caused by the little gremlin pounding away on my optic nerves with his little gremlin sledgehammer. I climbed into my recliner and put a pillow over my head to drown out the children, the car race, my wife, the damn birds outside.

The phone rang.

"It's your Grandaddy," my wife informed me, looking at the caller ID.

Great. I had just fallen asleep. The little gremlin was doing his best Barry Bonds impression now. A Barry Bonds that actually uses performance enhancing substances. I didn't want to talk to him. He was just going to talk about the same old stuff and everything. He was just going to tell me about his personal problems and everything. He was just going to tell me how he would like for me to drive the six hours to his house so he could see the kids and everything. Why did he have to end every sentence with "and everything," anyway?

"Don't answer it. I'll call him back tonight after we eat supper and get the kids in bed."

Only I didn't. I got busy cleaning up supper, or taking a shower, or ironing my clothes for work, or making Li'l Heavyarms' lunch for school, or playing Guitar Hero, or any of the inane shit that consumes my time between the hours of 5pm and bedtime.

"Dang it," I told my wife as we drifted off to sleep that night, "I forgot to call Grandaddy. You've got to remind me to call him tomorrow night."

Only she didn't. She got busy cleaning up supper, or taking a shower, or putting my daughter Apple to sleep, or grading papers, or making sure Heavyarms didn't forget any of the inane shit that consumes his time between the hours of 5pm and bedtime. By Monday night, it had slipped my mind along with the lawn mower and the car race and everything.

Tuesday my phone rang. It was my dad. "Son, I'm just calling to let you know that Grandaddy was in a car wreck. We don't know how bad he's hurt, but they're taking him to the hospital. I'm always giving my dad a hard time because we have conversations that go like this; him: "Did I tell you that Pop (his dad) was in the hospital last week?" me: "No, you never call to tell me any of that stuff." him: "Oh, well it wasn't a big deal. It was just...(some sort of everyday affliction old men seem to suffer from.)" I didn't think anything of it.

"Okay, well, call me and let me know how he is."

"I will as soon as we know something."

That night, I was in the middle of all the inane shit that consumes my time from the hours of 5pm until bedtime when my phone rang. It was my dad. I could hear someone hysterical in the background.

"Son, I'm just calling you to tell you that your Grandaddy didn't make it."

He said some other things about the wreck and the other car and jaws of life and ribs and heart stopping, but I just hung on those last four words "Grandaddy didn't make it." I closed my eyes and could actually see those words burned into the black field behind my eyelids. I marveled at all the euphemisms we use for when the life energy in a person is exhausted and nothing but an empty husk is left. "Passed away," "Dearly departed," "called home."

"Didn't make it."

Suddenly, my Grandaddy wasn't that annoying old man that tried to call me Sunday. He was the man that used to tell me the story of the Three Little Pigs before I went to bed. He was the man that took me camping at Albert's Pike where I met my first TRUE girlfriend (it lasted 1 week.) The man that would let me stay up late and watch rasslin' with him. The man who always smelled like hickory smoke during Thanksgiving. The man that always carried around a milk jug full of the sweetest tasting well water in Arkansas. The man that gave nicknames to all the boys he loved; Scamp, Bearcat, mine was Heavy Metal ("Heavy" for short.) The man that gave me my first shotgun. The man that was there when I killed my first squirrel. The man that taught me how to skin squirrels that had suddenly been "called home."

The man who loved his children and his grandchildren and wouldn't have hesitated to do anything for ANY of them.

We buried him last Friday. It was cold, raining, the graveyard was muddy. I was a pallbearer, one of the only ways I can really think to honor the empty husk that used to be my grandaddy. A former Staff Sergeant in the Air Force, he had an Air Force honor guard; a bugle player who played taps for him and a pair of sharp looking airmen who removed his flag and presented it to his only daughter, my mom. I held together pretty well until then.

Once the ceremony was over, we gathered in clumps and talked about him. Hugged. Even managed a laugh or two;
"Remember that time when we went hunting and we lost Sugar (his dog) and he was hollerin' through the woods 'Sugah. Sugah! That damn dog is deaf. Sugah! Gee-on back hyeah!'" (which is how some folks tell their dogs to "Git on back here!")
"Remember how he used to let out a satisfied "ahhhhhh" after taking a big ol' gulp of sweet tea?"

"As soon as we can." That was always my response when he asked me when I could bring the kids up and visit him. "As soon as we can." People always think they can put off stuff they really ought to do by saying "as soon as we can," and that makes everything peachy. It doesn't.

I could have had one more conversation with him. Could have had one more phone call that began simply "Hey, Heavy!" Looking back, we could have talked about how great Barak Obama is and how he couldn't have waited to vote for him, (which wouldn't have happened in a septillion years) for all I cared. I could have, but I didn't.

I should have answered the phone.

Goodbye, all you people,
there's nothin' you can say
to make me change my mind.
Goodbye

Astronomy has come a long way in 20 years. Just 25 years ago we were finally finding tiny little moons in orbit around our solar system neighbors. Now, because of super-advanced, bad-assed, hyper-awesome astronomical devices, we can actually view things going on millions of light years away in other galaxies. (Well, technically things that were going on millions years ago in another galaxy).

In this instance, a system of galaxies called 3C321, the larger galaxy is bombarding a smaller companion galaxy with cosmic radiation. It is a widely accepted theory that most, if not all, galaxies contain a Supermassive Black Hole at their galactic core. Just as the Moon orbits Earth and Earth orbits the Sun, it is speculated that all stars withing a given galaxy must also orbit something. Since we cannot directly view the center of our galaxy (there are lots of stars, dust, and other particulate matter obscuring the view), we must observe it through X-Ray detection and by other means. Something is definitely there.

Just like stars, black holes and supermassive black holes emit energy in the form of cosmic radiation, X-Rays, gamma rays, and the like. The dose of radiation is so massive that, where it to reach Earth it would be lethal on a planetary scale, even millions of light years away. Fortunately for us, because of their physical make-up and the gravitational distortions involved, black holes only emit their energy from their poles, so this energy is directed away from the object in a relatively focused beam rather than in all directions like a normal star.

Here, the radiation from the larger galaxy is blasting directly into a smaller galaxy about 20,000 light years distant (about the distance of the Earth to the Milky Way's galactic core). The radiation is expected to not only destroy the stars, but the massive dose of energy could quite possibly provide the necessary energy for new stars and planets to form.

Because of human advances in astronomy, we are going to be seeing a lot more astronomical phenomena just like this. Who knows, we may even be looking down the barrel of a supermassive black hole pointed right at Earth!

Merry Christmas!!!

Shawne Merriman, Linebacker, San Diego Chargers: tested positive for anabolic steroids in 2006.
Punishment: Suspended for four games of the 2006 season. Also won The Associated Press Defensive Rookie of the Year Award and was selected to the Pro Bowl to represent the AFC.

Ricky Williams, Running Back, Miami Dolphins: violated the NFL's substance abuse policies FOUR times.
Punishment: suspended for four games after the second violation, suspended for the 2006 season after the fourth violation, played in the Canadian Football League during his suspension, NFL eligibility reinstated Oct. 2007. Terry "Tank" Johnson, Defensive Tackle, Dallas Cowboys: In February '06, arrested and charged with aggravated assault and resisting arrest while on probation. In Dec. '06, charged with violation of probation and possession of unlicensed firearms.
Punishment: Received two sentences; 120 days on one charge, 45 days on a separate charge. Allowed to serve the sentences concurrently, spent 120 days in jail. Released by the Chicago Bears. Suspended by the NFL for 8 games. Signed by the Dallas Cowboys. Reinstated Nov. 11, 2007 and currently playing football.

Chris Henry, Wide Receiver, Cincinnati Bengals: Arrested Dec. '05 for possession of marijuana, driving without a license, and driving without auto insurance after being pulled over for speeding. Arrested Jan. '06 for concealment and aggravated assault with a firearm. Violated NFL policies regarding personal conduct and substance abuse policies in Oct. '06. Jan. '07, pleaded guilty to charges of providing alcohol to minors stemming from an incident in the spring of '06.
Punishment: Suspended by the NFL for 2 games because of the Oct. '06 violations. Sentenced to 90 days in jail because of the Jan. '07 guilty plea. Only served 2 days, the remaining 88 days suspended. Suspended by the NFL for 8 games in '07 for violating the league's personal conduct policy. Reinstated by the NFL on Nov. 5, 2007. Allegedly assaulted a parking attendant on Nov. 6, 2007 (currently under investigation.

Michael Vick, Quarterback, Atlanta Falcons: Principle financier of a dog-fighting operation based in Newport News, VA. Plead guilty to "Conspiracy to Travel in Interstate Commerce in Aid of Unlawful Activities and to Sponsor a Dog in an Animal Fighting Venture." Prior to this, Vick had a clean criminal record. Punishment: Sentenced to 23 months in federal prison. By law, will be required to serve at least 85 percent of his sentence. Still faces state charges and, if found guilty, could have his sentence tacked on to the time he serves in federal prison. Suspended by the NFL indefinitely. Because of his sentence, will miss at least two NFL seasons, and possibly a third.

Can someone please explain the reason behind this disproportionate treatment of Michael Vick by our justice system and the NFL? Just what kind of message are they trying to put out there? That it is worse to mistreat dogs than people? This is really fucked up.

And, of course, I would like to point out that we're talking about Pit Bulls, here. If Michael Vick and his buddies hadn't "mistreated" these dogs, they'd probably all be out there biting the faces off small children.

No, I'm not kidding. (Scroll down to the "Catchy Caption of the Day.")

That's pretty damn funny, right there.

UPDATE: Fixed that link! (Thanks Pastor Dave)

6 eggs
4 slices bread (I prefer whole wheat)
1 cup cheddar cheese, shredded (shred your own, don't use that bagged pre-shredded crap)
1 lb. ground sausage (I prefer organic when I can find it. No reason you have to ingest preservatives, additives and all that other shit to enjoy sausage)
2 cups milk

1 tsp ground dry mustard. And for pete's sake, use whole mustard seeds and grind your own*. That pre-ground junk has absolutely no flavor. You can reduce this amount or omit it if your sinuses aren't up to it, though.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Brown the sausage and drain thoroughly (I put mine out on a paper towel after draining). Cut the bread slices into 1 to 1/2 inch cubes and layer evenly in the bottom of a 2 qt. casserole. Layer the sausage evenly on top of the bread. Ditto for the cheese. Beat the eggs, milk, and mustard together and pour over into the casserole, making sure it is evenly distributed throughout. Bake for 45 minutes or until the egg has set in the middle. Let rest for 15-30 minutes before consuming.

Now that seems like a lot of preparation for a Christmas morning meal when the kids are opening presents, but here's the thing: you can make the casserole the night before. When you wake up in the morning, all you gotta do is preheat the oven and pop it in, (obviously, you want to let the casserole come up to room temperature, or at least not take it out of the fridge and put it straight in the oven or your casserole could break.) Open the presents as breakfast cooks, and enjoy a hot breakfast when you're done. Goes best with a hot cup of coffee and a couple dashes of Tabasco. On the casserole, not in the coffee.

The OTHER good thing about this is that it is modular. You can double it, half it, one-and-a-half-times-it; depending on how many people you need to feed. You can add some herbs and make it savory, or you can do like I do and use honey wheat bread and maple sausage which will make it slightly sweet. Add some green onions and hot sauce to the eggs for a little extra color and zip. Rule of thumb is, if you would eat it in an omelet you can probably add it to this.

Last night during the Republican presidential debate aired on CNN, one Mr. Keith Kerr challenged the candidates on the US military's policy of excluding homosexuals from service.

Kerr, a homosexual, is retired United States Army Colonel, as well as a retired Brigadier General in the California National Guard.

He's also a fucking Hillary Clinton campaign hack. He was appointed last summer to the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transexual Americans For Hillary Steering Committee.

Kerr, naturally, denies that the question was set up in advance or that the Clinton campaign was in any way attached to his question.

CNN (which preselected all the questioners), naturally, denies that they had any knowledge that Kerr was associated with the Clinton campaign. CNN says they verified his military background and that he did not contribute to any presidential campaign's.

Bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit.

Let's check the track record.

CNN spent most of the Democrat presidential debate lobbing softballs at the esteemed Senator from New York. CNN is also widely known as the "Clinton News Network" because damn if they don't have a chubby for the Clintons.

The esteemed Senator from New York has a history of planting audience questions.

CNN supposedly chose this guy's question "at random."

I'm calling shenanigans on this one.

I hope you're all are fucking paying attention, because she's going to be our next president.

And, for what feels like the millionth time, I ask you, "what if?" What if, say, during the Democrat debate on FOX News, a woman had asked the esteemed Senator from New York if she was only continuing her marriage to William Jefferson Clinton because of her quest for power? What if it turned out that this woman was a member of, say, Toothless Gun-toting Rednecks to Elect Fred Thompson? What if FOX News said they had selected the questioner "completely at random."

Would you be able to hear yourself think over the hemming and hawing and weeping and gnashing of teeth coming out of your idiot box during the evening news?

Note:Once again, tblog censored the title of one of my posts. It was "S" is for "Suck". Why is it I can put something like shit-eating donkeyball licker IN a post, but can't put "suck" or "gay" in the title?

I played Scrabble this week for the first time in years. I remember now why I hated playing Scrabble in the first place.

Here's the setting. There were four of us playing, my wife, her sister, HER husband, and me. We had already played two games and were at the very end of what was our last game. There were no more tiles to be drawn and each of us were trying to use the last of what we held. There wasn't much of a chance of someone dropping "Birsled" or "Euripi" on the board, we were trying to find room for a single "V" or an "A" and "I." "Van," "Ail," was the limit to what we'd be able to get.

My problem with playing Scrabble with my in-laws is that you must use The Book&trade . If the word you use is not in The Book&trade, it doesn't count, and I've gotten burned by this before. So I usually stick to words that are indisputable, like "stick" and "words." I played "Radomes" earlier and had to wait a tense 2 minutes as the word was challenged (and subsequently upheld.)

During one of the earlier rounds, I had a G, L, U, and N, and an open O to play on. I debated playing the word "Gluon," but, knowing that gluons were not discovered until the late 1970's and not knowing how old this edition of Scrabble was we were playing, I decided against it. You see, for my in-laws, just proving that a word exists is not sufficient. As I said earlier, if a word is not in The Book&trade, it is not technically a word for the game in which we are playing. Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary; 11th Edition simply won't do.

So, as our last game was in its final throes, I decided to look at The Book&trade and see if "gluon" was in there. My mother-in-law, Scrabble Master and Word Wizard Supreme, eyes wide, asks "WHAT ARE YOU DOING???!!" "Looking up a word," I reply. She's aghast, "YOU CAN'T DO THAT!!!" She goes on to explain that you are not allowed to look in The Book&trade except on challenges. Having been briefed on The Rules&trade prior to the game, I explain that the round is effectively over, that we would not be playing anymore and I was just checking to see if a word I wanted to play in a previous round would have been valid. "YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO DO THAT! IT'S IN THE RULES&trade!!!! If you look in The Book&trade, there's a chance you'll see a word you can play with what you have."

I asked "What difference does it make? The game is over, I'm not going to be able to play this word, I am just looking to see if it's in there for next time." At this point, I was remembering how just 20 minutes earlier my mother-in-law had helpfully told my wife that "Xi" is a word in order for her to play an "X" tile (and also take the lead over yours truly). When asked what it meant, she said "I don't know. Me and momma (my wife's grandmother, a wise woman in her own right) used to study that book so we would always be able to play something with what we had."

"How did you learn that ecks-eye ("Xi," since no one knew how to pronounce it, just that it was in The Book&trade and, thus, was an official Word&trade) was a word?"

"I told you, I used to look at the book in my spare time."

"I don't understand the difference. Why can you look in the book in your spare time to learn words to play, but I can't look in the book for this one word and see if I could (emphasis on past tense) have played it."

"You're just not supposed to, it's in The Rules&trade ."

"So, what you're telling me is that I can't look in The Book&trade right now, but if I were to wait the 3 minutes its going to take for this game to be over and THEN look, I would be within my rights?"

She brightened at that, as if her petulant child (which I admit, I am of hers sometimes) had finally caught on to some basic parenting tenet, "EXACTLY!"

"That's stupid."

"Heavyarms, that's The Rules&trade ."

"Well, I have a problem with The Rules&trade . The Rules&trade allow you to play words that you don't even know the meaning of. (Along with the aforementioned "Xi," "Ab" and "Ya" were also played, challenged (by me) and upheld. The words were played, not because the player knew what they meant but simply because the player knew they were in The Book&trade . You should have to know what a word means before you can play it, and any definable word should be allowed."

"Those aren't The Rules&trade ."

"The Rules&trade are not logical."

I guess that's my main problem with Scrabble. It doesn't reward players for their knowledge and vocabulary so much as it rewards you for memorizing The Book&trade . My memory sucks.

Did You Know?
...That the version of A Charlie Brown Christmas, the version you've watched annually for 5, 10, 20 years and have memorized and know by heart is NOT the complete version of the special?

The original 1965 cut of the special had numerous "product placements" (signs, etc.) for Coca-Cola. Coca-Cola signed on as the special's sponsor and remained so for three years. In 1968, Coke ceased being the primary sponsor and all references to the company were removed. Some cuts included:

- In the opening credits after Snoopy spins Charlie Brown and Linus around with Linus' blanket, Linus crashed into a wooden fence with a Coca Cola sign. This scene was edited so that you can't tell where Linus lands.

- In the scene where the characters are throwing snowballs at cans on the fence, Linus knocks down a Coke can. This scene has been edited so that Linus knocks down a generic can.

- The original ending had the message "Merry Christmas from the people in your town who bottle Coca-Cola" along with a voiceover that gave a similar message. This is why "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" sung by the characters ends in a sort of funny place.

- Well, besides a fried turkey, I mean? Seriously, if you've never had one of these, give it a try. Unless you live north of the Mason-Dixon. I don't know if yankees can fry a turkey. I asked my in-laws (with whom where spending Thangsgiving) if they were going to fry one this year (because I always do when we have Thanksgiving at my house or at my parents' house). My mother-in-law's eyes dropped, she sighed and said "No, where just going to bake one this year..." I pouted long enough that they offered to buy the oil and get out their fryer if I promised to do the labor.

- Does anyone still participate in the mass hysteria shopping binge on Friday after Thanksgiving? I went one time when I first got married. I don't even leave the house on Friday after Thanksgiving anymore.

- One of my best memories of Thanksgiving is waking up that morning before the sun came up to go squirrel hunting with my Grandaddy. We'd plan it so that we'd be in the woods right as the sun started to break through the forest canopy and Rocky and all his little buddies were rummaging around for acorns (unaware that the God of Death was about to place his icy hand on their shoulder...mwah hah hah haaaah!)

- Do squirrels even have shoulders? I miss going hunting with my Grandaddy. I'll have to remember to call him.

- I also miss the annual football game my brother and I played in our backyard after Thanksgiving dinner. I don't remember all the rules for 1-man football, but our yard was about 10 yards wide so it made for some pretty high scoring affairs.

- Go Lions!

- Go whoever's playing the Cowboys!

- I always try to limit my intake at the Thanksgiving meal to two plates worth of food, but it doesn't count if I take it off my wife's or my kids' plate.

- Okay, the ABSOLUTE best thing about Thanksgiving...better than fried turkey...better than sweet potatoes...better than the best dressing you ever had...is the Thanksgiving sandwich. Once the kids are in bed, once all the beer has been consumed, once all the food has been packed away in the fridge, once the football games are over, I sit down and fix a late night snack. I take two slices of bread and toast them. I pop a spoonful of sweet potatoes, a spoonful of dressing, and a couple slices of turkey in the microwave until their nice and hot. Spread the dressing on one slice of bread, the sweet potatoes on the other slice, put the turkey in the middle with a few dollops of cranberry sauce (the real thing, not that canned purple jello crap) and enjoy!

- Happy Thanksgiving!

Okay, not really. Alexandria is situated right in the middle of the state and is situated in a perfect location to be the center of trade, communication, and infrastructre of the state. But it isn't. Because they have had idiots running the show for decades. When I was a kid, the mayor tried to find a use for the city's swimming pools while they were closed during the off season, so he stocked them with catfish. Only someone didn't tell him that fish don't take to chlorinated water all that well. I digress.
Here's the old house (HINT: click on the street address in the map below. For some reason the arrow on this map is not pointing to the right area. The map that opens up will be correct.)

View Larger Map

It's the one with the brown roof in the center. The yard's boundaries are roughly defined by the roads on the northeast and east sides, to the southwest by a line that starts near the large solitary tree to the south and runs parallel to the NE road, and a line that would continue to the SW where the two roads to the NNE intersect. It was about an acre to give you an sense of scale.

The large tree to the south and the two trees between the house and the road that runs NW/SE are large pecan trees. The two side by side are about 50 feet tall and the one to the south is a real monster, 80-100 feet. All the rest of the trees around the house are trees my dad planted and were only 5-6 foot saplings when we moved out.

My brother and I used to play in the fields to the south and south east. They were always planted with cotton, or corn, or sugarcane. When they were planted with cotton, we'd grab our plastic rifles and hide in the cotton rows, pretending the cotton combines picking cotton were enemy tanks or giant imperial walkers. My dad would go out sometimes and cut off a piece of sugarcane and let us chew it. When the fields were fallow, the grass would grow up over your shoulders. We'd go out and mash the grass down and make rooms and hallways and pretend it was a fort.

The building with a red roof directly to the east is a barn. I used to stand on top of our picnic table, which was under the big pecan tree, and shoot the roof of the barn with a bb gun. It was cool to take a shot and count "one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, one-thouasnd-three" before you heard the "WHOCK" the bb made against the barn's tin roof. In the winter, the trees thinned enough that I could see the bayou (which curves in in the bottom right corner and curves out in the upper right) and could sploosh shots into it.

The road that runs off the main road to the NE is where I learned to drive. The houses in the area didn't have trash collection, we used to have to take our trash to a dumpster, about a quarter-mile up this road (which was dirt at the time.) When I was 12 or 13, my dad started letting me put the garbage bags in the trunk of his car and drive it down to the dumpster.

If you follow the main road southeast to where it both the road and the bayou make a bend and run directly east...right there between the road in the bayou, back up in the trees is where I smoked my first cigarette. Thankfully, it was also my last cigarette.

Zoom the map out about 2 or 3 clicks. If you follow the bayou north to where it makes a bend to the west, and draw a line directly north from the house until it crosses the bayou, you can see a little grass airstrip. There used to be some crop dusters stationed here. We'd hear them flying around outside and we'd go out and wave and they'd waggle their wings back.

When I was in 6th grade, I got punished for talking in class. For that, I had to "write pages" (which basically consisted of hand-copying some book until I filled up 12 pages of paper, single-spaced, no margins, front-and-back.) I didn't do my pages so I got suspended from school for a day. When I got home from school, I left my suspension notice on the kitchen counter for my parents to find, grabbed my tent and sleeping bag and ran away from home. If you follow the dirt road to the east of the house directly south until it comes to a creek, you'll see a building with a reddish roof on the south side of the creek. Follow that creek east until it runs into some trees. That's where I ran away to. My dad found me about three hours later.

Wasn't a bad little place to live.

At a campaign stop in Iowa last Tuesday, one Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton-Rodham was visiting a biodiesel plant. Naturally, there were more reporters than actual Iowa voters in attendance, and there were reporters from CNN, the AP, NY Times, LA Times, and others.

During a Q&A session, Muriel Gallo-Chasanoff, a student at Grinnell College, asked Senator Clinton what she would do to stop the effects of global warming (I guess she's fucking Super Woman?)

Well, as it turns out, Clinton's campaign actually PLANTED this questioner and her "spontaneous question." Ms. Gallo-Chasanoff came forward and admitted as much.

This act in and of itself doesn't bother me. I'm sure campaigns have planted questions in the "audience" at their campaign stops all the time. But there are two things about this that DO bother me:

1) This happened a week ago. It wasn't "widely" reported until this weekend. And by "widely," I mean, "reported by FOX News and the blogging community" mainly. But there was virtually no attention paid to this nationally. There was no outcry at all. Imagine, just imagine, if this had been done by Fred Thompson, or America's Mayor, or even those guys at the bottom of the "Insert Republican Here for President" tier. It would have been worse than the Jena Six. It would have been Nixon all over again. Corngate!! But no, it was the Woman Who Will Be President, and thus the free pass was granted.

2) When asked if the question was planted, the Clinton campaign replied in typical Clinton-ese (or Clintonspeak, if you prefer) "It is not a practice of our campaign to ask people to ask specific questions." Notice, if you will, that the Clinton campaign did not DENY this specific incident, just that it is "not a practice of their campaign." If When this woman becomes president, you can expect a lot more of this. And no one will call her on it, either.

A few minutes later, LH asks, "Dad, can I go over to Mr. James' yard?" "Did they invite you over?" "No sir, I just wanted to see if I could go play with their kids."

My neighbors have always been friendly with us. They brought us a gift when my daughter was born. They always set aside some extra candy for the kids at Halloween. We let each other know if we're going out of town for a while and keep an eye on each other's house. "Make sure its alright with Mr. James before you play." "Yes, sir!" he said an trotted off, happily.

I finished up with the brake pads and went inside to wash the brake dust and brake cleaner and brake lube off my hands. It had started to sprinkle outside so I went back out make sure LH wasn't in the neighbor's house. It's one thing to go next door and play with the kids in the yard, quite another to go inside someone's house uninvited. He wasn't in the yard, so I started over to the neighbor's house to tell him to get his butt back outside. However, as I rounded the corner of my house, I saw him standing under one of our trees, looking at the neighbor's house. I said "Whatcha doin,' bud?" and noticed, as he turned around, that he was crying. We met half way and I asked "What's wrong?"

He wouldn't look at me, instead he looked at the ground. He let go in that way that kids will when they're trying to hold it in but can't once they're around someone they feel comfortable with. He still wouldn't answer. I repeated, "What is wrong." Immediately, my mind raced through the possibilities; he got in trouble, he broke something and was told to leave, he did something he wasn't supposed to do, the neighbor's kids were leaving and he was upset he had to come home. Still no answer. He just stood there staring at the ground, fists clenched, crying. The sprinkle was turning to drizzle.

"Son, you need to tell me what's wrong." I stressed the syllable "need" in that "if you're hurt, I've got to know/if you did something wrong, you better tell me right fucking now" way that most father's have picked up over years of trial and error. I'm on the verge of impatience. This is when he picked his eyes up and looked at me. Choking back tears, "Those kids told me I stink!"

Here's where the difficult part of fatherhood comes in. My immediate gut reaction was to tell him "Son, it doesn't matter what those little fuckers say. The worth of their opinion is just a little shy of being exactly jack-shit." Nah, that was no good. Then that smart-ass little devil on my shoulder must have been whispering in my ear, because I thought to tell him, that next time just sa, "Yeah, I probably do. I'll need to take a bath later. Hey! It's too bad you can't take a bath for being a dickhead. You'll never be able to wash that off, I guess." That wouldn't work either. Then I thought about taking the psychiatrist approach; "Son, the only reason that kid said that was because he doesn't feel like he is important and feels the need to tear down everyone he perceives as being a little better than him, just so he can feel better." But, hell, the last thing you want to hear when you're mad is fucking logic.

So, I held my tongue, tempered my reaction, and dispensed what is probably the oldest piece of advise a father can ever give out to his son..."It doesn't matter what they say. If they're going to treat you like that, you don't need to waste your time with them."

But just let that little cocksucker accidentally toss a ball over the fence into my yard...

UPDATE: Sitting down to supper last night, I asked Lil' Heavyarms the specifics of what happened to him on Sunday. Turns out, the kids were telling him that he stunk at dodgeball. DAMN! I told him that the next time some kids in the neighborhood are giving him a hard time about his dodgeball skills, just bring them on over to the house and they can play against him and me. I got picked on in school a lot so one of the skills I perfected was a laser-guided throwing arm when it came to dodgeball. There was nothing more satisfying than the sound those red kickball's made when I was bouncing them off the head of some dick that was flicking my ear on the bus the day before.

Or we could have played them in football. Put a NERF ball in his hand, limit your routes to about 10 yards and the kid looks like John Elway.

Heavyarms don't do baby showers and so we left it up to our son to decide if he wants go out of town with mom or stay home with dad. We gave him the choice about a week ago and at dinner Sunday, posed the question again. He thought for a moment and asked, "If I stay home with dad, could I play video games?" "Well, you've gotten up on time and gotten dressed and done your homework for two weeks without any problems. Yeah, you can play video games."

My wife, who for some strange reason, believes it is not good to play video games for more than about 30 minutes at a time, quickly jumped in, "But you can't play video games ALL weekend, son. You'd have to stop playing for a little while and do other things."

He looked at her and, without pausing, replied "I know that MOM. I'd have to stop so I can eat and go to the bathroom and go to sleep!" (DUH! - H)

*sigh*

He's WAY too much like his old man, sometimes.

Lt. Col. Paul Tibbets has commanded and led bombing groups in the European and later Mediterranean theaters, earning his stripes in the B-17 Flying Fortress. In late 1944, he had just returned from a training flight in a brand new B-29 Superfortress bomber. He was met on the ramp and told to grab his clothes and his bags, he was going to Colorado Springs, CO. Once there, he told "we got a little thing going on called the Manhattan Project, and we're told you're the man we need."

The mission was outlined for him, dropping atomic weapons simultaneously in the European and Pacific theaters. The B-29 was the only aircraft suitable for the job, and Lt. Col. Tibbets was going to be able to hand-select the aircraft and crews he needed. He was told "There's nobody could tell you what you have to do because nobody knows." Essentially, Paul Tibbets was going to have to figure out the logistics behind dropping an atomic bomb.

Of the terrible weapon he was going to be using, he was only told that the bomb would explode with the force of 20,000 tons of TNT. To that end, "I'd never seen 1 lb. of TNT blow up. I'd never heard of anybody who'd seen 100 lbs. of TNT blow up. All I felt was that this was gonna be one hell of a big bang."

And Tibbets, being the extraordinary man he was, assembled the necessary components for his mission. And he carried his mission out perfectly. A lot of people would assume that Tibbets would feel terribly guilty. That he might have the death of 140,000 people weighing on his conscience every day. Not so.

"Second thoughts? No...Number one, I got into the air corps to defend the United States to the best of my ability. That's what I believe in and that's what I work for. Number two, I'd had so much experience with airplanes... I'd had jobs where there was no particular direction about how you do it and then of course I put this thing together with my own thoughts on how it should be because when I got the directive I was to be self-supporting at all times.

On the way to the target I was thinking: I can't think of any mistakes I've made. Maybe I did make a mistake: maybe I was too damned assured. At 29 years of age I was so shot in the ass with confidence I didn't think there was anything I couldn't do. Of course, that applied to airplanes and people. So, no, I had no problem with it. I knew we did the right thing because when I knew we'd be doing that I thought, yes, we're going to kill a lot of people, but by God we're going to save a lot of lives. We won't have to invade [Japan]."

In the end, I think that Paul Tibbets did not have any regrets over what he did, nor should he, I believe. Yes, 140,000 people died on the morning of August 6, 1945, most of them unfortunately innocent civilians. But, as Gen. Tibbets said later in life, he SAVED a lot of lives. Those 140,000 people died, (and 80,000 more in Nagasaki) so that hundreds of thousands, perhaps a million United States Marines, sailors, soldiers, airmen, Japanese civilians and soldiers, could be spared. "He said he wasn't proud of all the death and destruction at Hiroshima, but he was proud that he did his job well."

In the end, General Tibbets didn't want to be buried. He didn't want a physical location...a tombstone or grave, some place that could be easily designated as a gathering site for for anti-whatever demonstrators. Instead, he wished to be cremated and his ashes spread over the English channel. One last time to the body of water that so many Army Air Corps crewmen crossed on their way to war, never to return.

Anyway, here's a list of things I like to watch around Halloween time to get me in the mood.

It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown - Peanuts has always been one of my favorite comic strips (along with The Far Side, and Calvin and Hobbes). I'd say that this Halloween special is a great metaphor for steadfast belief in something even when it alienates you from the rest of your peers, but truth be told, the thing I like the most about this show is "I got a rock." I've always sort of identified with Charlie Brown, and getting a rock just sort of encapsulates that. Just like A Charlie Brown Christmas, I try to see this one every year.

Treehouse of Horror - While it may be true that The Simpsons have become stale in recent years (I wouldn't know, Mrs. Heavyarms won't let me watch it when the kids are awake), I have always enjoyed their annual Halloween specials. These little mini-trilogies are always good fun. Its frustrating that FOX's Major League Baseball contract usually means that Treehouse of Horror is shown AFTER Halloween, but the Simpsons are so easily found in syndication you can usually find one or two episodes to watch before Halloween.

Korn's Groovy Pirate Ghost Mystery - For its first three seasons, South Park had a Halloween episode, Pinkeye, Spookyfish, and this one. KGPGM is a spoof on Scooby Doo, and probably one of the best SP episodes. From Cartman's mom's Antonia Banderas blow-up doll (which Carman thinks is a Christmas present for him), Kyle's dead grandmother being dug up and eaten by a stray dog (some grave watchers report the missing body to Kyle's mother and they graphically explain that she was probably stolen by a necrophiliac), a guest appearance by the band Korn (as a cheery mystery-solving team, "Form of...KORN!"), to Kenny's shitty ED-209 costume, this is a great Halloween episode.

Godzilla - Always leave room for a good monster movie, and this is the best one ever. Not that crappy Raymond Burr version, but the original version. I finally had a chance to watch this version a year or so ago...speechless. The ONLY monster movie where the monster is omnipresent, inexorable, inescapable.

Alien - This movie scared the shit out of me when I was 10 when I was at home, bored, and digging through all the rated R movies my dad said I couldn't watch. I spent the rest of the day with every light in the fucking house on. I started sleeping with the covers over my head, a habit I didn't break until...well, last year, I think. I've seen it 100 times, and it still scares the shit out of me. I know what's going to happen, I know WHEN its going to happen and it scares the shit out of me.

So there ya go. What gets ol' Heavyarms in the (Halloween) mood.

Happy Halloween!

A teenager at the center of a civil rights controversy is back in jail after a judge sentenced him on charges that were pending before the attack that put him in the national spotlight, his attorney said Thursday.

Mychal Bell, who along with five other black teenagers had been accused of beating a white classmate, went to juvenile court Thursday expecting another routine hearing, said Carol Powell Lexing, one of Bell’s attorneys.

Instead, after a six-hour hearing, state District Judge J.P. Mauffrey Jr. sentenced him to 18 months on two counts of simple battery and two counts of criminal destruction of property, Lexing said.

You'd think the National News Media that spent weeks painting the members of the Jena "Six" as victims, who only participated in a "schoolyard fight," might think it worth mentioning that one of these poor young boys was being returned to jail.

You'd think that the same news bureaus that sent reporters to do live on-site reports of the "injustice" of the whole situation would at least dedicate a little time to letting you know that one of the Jena Six had violated the terms of his probation (which stemmed from an unrelated case, BTW)

You'd think that the anchors who breathlessly portrayed Jena as a backwater town of burning crosses and white-hooded shadows would think it important to inform us that one of these "innocent" young men already had a rap sheet and now has to pay the piper.

You'd think...

Take those nooses all down

Those are the lyrics from John Cougar Mellencamp Cougar-Mellencamp's new "insightful" song, Jena. Of course, this assclown only knows about Jena and the Jena "six" from what he read in the newspaper and saw on TV. Just like all other celebrity assclowns, he forms his opinion without finding out the whole story.

"It's our job to read the newspaper, and then say what we read as if it's our own idea."
--Janeane Garofalo, Team America

First of all, as noted right here in this very blog, the "convicted by an all-white jury" statement is a misdirection. Yes, the jury that convicted Michael Bell was all white. Over 150 people were sent jury summons for the trial but only 50 people reported. None of the 50 that reported were black. LaSalle Parish does not record race in its juror database, and thus, does not use race as a determining factor in sending jury summons. Of course, if no blacks report for jury duty its kinda hard to put them on the fucking jury, isn't it, Mr. Cougar Mellencamp Cougar-Mellencamp?

Then there's, once again, mention of those damn nooses. The nooses were never mentioned as a factor in the attack. That is, of course, until the six suspects were arrested. Then it was, "Oh, well, they only did it because of the nooses." Did you knwo, Mr. Cougar Mellencamp Cougar-Mellencamp, that the nooses were "taken down" the very same day and the three responsible were punished? Were you aware, Mr. Cougar Mellencamp Cougar-Mellencamp, that the victim in the beating had nothing to do with those nooses? And isn't tying a knot in a rope a pretty shitty excuse to beat someone unconscious anyway?

John Cougar Mellencamp Cougar-Mellencamp has backpedaled a bit, saying on his website "The song is not written as an indictment of the people of Jena but, rather, as a condemnation of racism."

But then, looking at the song's Chorus..."Oh JENA, oh JENA, oh JENA, take your nooses down..." it SOUNDS like a pretty clear indictment of someone or some place named "Jena." But then, I'm not a celebrity assclown so the song's concept may be a bit above my head.

Ribs are IDIOT-proof, yet it takes practise to learn to cook them just right. You can walk into just about any establishment; fine dining, smokehouse, BBQ joint, gas station (some of the best food in the world is found in those little southern gas stations that are usually buried more remote locations. HINT: the FURTHER away from the interstate you go, the better gas station food gets.)

Ribs even come with a built in "done-ness" indicator. Want to know if your rib is ready? Just grab a bone and wiggle. If the bone wiggles easily, time to go to town. You can boil them, broil them, bake them, smoke them, or (most appropriately man-ish) cook them over open flame. In fact, you have not OFFICIALLY passed into the realm of manhood until you have stood over some sort of fire with a splayed-open animal ribcage suspended over it.

Here's to you, RIB!

Which is to say that it was nothing like my old job, where I felt like I was the only competent person on staff. There was absolutely ZERO communication, and if you wanted something done (not just done right, but done at all) you had to do it yourself.

I had been at my old job for a little over a year and received one pay raise, an 8% increase that basically boiled down to a cost of living increase that several others were getting. While that may sound nice, a pay raise in the first year, you have to understand that this place was throwing pay increases around like they were Mardi Gras beads. One of our accountants was making $10/hour and change and had found out "through the grapevine" that our newest accountant was making about $3 an hour more. She pitched a royal hissy and threatened to quit, so she ended up getting a $3 an hour increase. Of course, the way she found out how much the other person was making was a violation of company policy and was grounds for disciplinary action, but we didn't DARE consider that.

Our payroll clerk actually did the "give me a raise or I'm going to quit" song-and-dance twice in a six month period, and managed to get herself 3-4 more dollars an hour.

My raise resulted in less than a dollar an hour. I'm not the kind of person that goes and demands more pay from my boss. I prefer to just let my work speak for itself...which didn't do me a whole lot of good.

So, as things happened in my life, it started to become apparent that I needed to find another job. One that paid better and was, more importantly, closer to home. (This one was over 30 miles away, and commute time was about an hour in the mornings and about 45 minutes in the afternoon.) My wife's vehicle was on its last legs. I had put over 20,000 miles on my car I bought a year ago. All the while busting my ass in this job with not even so much as a "good job."

So, I started looking for a new job and this one fell into my lap and here I am.

Come to find out, my replacement at my old job is making more money than I am. A LOT more. When I left, I offered my assistance in helping train my replacement and they've taken me up on this offer. I've gotten several phone calls and have always dropped what I'm doing to help. Well, fuck them. They can figure it out for themselves.

The teacher was shot dead Saturday in the Mohmand Agency in what appeared to be the fulfilment of threats of reprisals by Islamic extremists if teachers did not start wearing head-to-toe veils, the Dawn news channel reported.

Attack at US Embassy in Vienna Thwarted - A Bosnian who tried to enter the U.S. Embassy in Vienna with a backpack filled with explosives, nails and Islamic literature was arrested Monday after the bag set off a metal detector and the man fled on foot, authorities said.

Oh, those wonderful, peace-loving muslims. What a great religion, huh? HEY! That reminds me of this joke...

Q: What did the Imam say to the blond bikini model?
A: NOTHING! He just shot her in the head! *ba dum dum*

Are there any queers in the theater tonight?
Get 'em up against the wall!
There's one in the spotlight, he don't look right to me!
Get him up against the wall!
That one looks jewish!
And that one's a coon!
Who let all of this riff-raff into the room?
There's one smoking a joint,
And another with spots!
If I had my waaaaaaaaaaay,
I'd have all of you shot!

- Pink, The Wall

In 2003, Mr. Eddie Jordan took office as Orleans Parish District Attorney. A mere eight days after taking office he fired 53 employees from the District Attorney Office; clerks, child support enforcement workers, and investigators. The employees all had one thing in common, their race. They were almost universally replaced with members of "the opposite" race.

Do you remember the outrage then? I don't.

In 2005, Mr. Jordan was found guilty of racial discrimination by a federal grand jury. Last week, his appeal was rejected by a Federal Court of Appeals. His last option is the U.S. Supreme Court. Yet, the national media has been strangely silent on this story. You would think, especially in light of the recent Jena "Six" (which is New Math for "One," apparently), that this story would be much more prominent, wouldn't you?

You'd think that Jessie Jackson, Al Sharpton, and Martin Luther King III would be LEAPING at the chance to fight this OBVIOUS example of racial discrimination, wouldn't you? After all, Jackson's Rainbow-PUSH is "a progressive organization fighting for social change." Sharpton's National Action Network's platform revolves around "racial profiling." Martin Luther King III's Realizing the Dream "promotes and embodies justice (and) equality." Hell, Sharpton and King were just here yesterday, standing behind (well, being eclipsed by) my big fat-cow governor at a press conference triumphantly announcing that the prosecutor in the Jena "Six" case had decided to, well, pretty much do as instructed last week and try the case in juvenile court.

It would have been easy for them to say something about this case, too, huh? After all, it affected many more people than the Jena Six case, right?

Wait...oh I see...Eddie Jordan is BLACK, and he fired those employees simply because they were WHITE and replaced almost all of them with other BLACK people. Jessie Jackson, Al Sharpton, and Martin Luther King III only care about racism when it happens to black people, rather than fighting for racial equality for EVERYONE.

And again, I ask, who are the REAL racists here?

(NOTE: I am using the term racism in its new bastardized definition. Racism is defined as the belief that one race is SUPERIOR to another. This was just a case of prejudice, treating one race with preferential treatment, or a bias towards one group over another. Most of the time when you hear "racism" the speaker is actually talking about "prejudice." I don't believe Eddie Jordan was acting in a racist manner. I DO believe, though, that attention whores like Jessie Jackson and Al Sharpton are racists.

My wife noticed this last night. I was surprised because usually I notice these things right away and she had to point it out to me this time. It's from one of those Holiday Christmas catalogs where you can buy candles, cookies, decorations, cheese and cracker sets, etc.

Perfect for winter mornings. With their scrumptious icing, sensual flame, and enticing aroma, no one can resist this set of delicious cinnamon roll candles. Set of 3. Unscented

See if you can guess what's wrong with this picture.

The thing is, I went to go see Wrath in the theater, I was just six or seven when I went to see it. I'm sure we went to go see it in the crummy little dollar theater in town, but I didn't care. I was at the movies!

"At the movies" used to mean something. I didn't have cable when I was a kid. We lived out in the country and we had three channels; the local NBC affiliate, an independent VHF channel and PBS. When the weather was good we could sometimes pick up the CBS station from Lafayette. At the time, VCRs were just beginning to be household items. (Ours was a great, lumbering beast with a spring loaded top-eject and a "remote" control that connected to the VCR via a 8-foot long wire.) Going to the movies was a real treat because movies were NOT an everyday thing. That said, movies tended to have a big impact on me when I was growing up. Or "impression," I should say. They were visual and aural feasts.

Not so, anymore. On the Pink Floyd album The Wall, Roger Waters sang "I got thirteen channels of shit on the TV to choose from." Today, we've got 400 channels of shit on the TV to choose from. You can turn your TV on and find a movie within 30 seconds. And that's if you don't have any of the preeemium channels. Going to the movies today means 10 bucks a ticket (I guess, haven't been in a while), sticky floors, assholes on cell-phones, constantly crackling popcorn and crinkling wrappers, people who won't shut the fuck up. That, coupled with the fact that you can buy the movie on DVD six months after the movie came out and watch it whenever you want, has pretty much meant the death of "going to the movies," at least for me.

How this really bothers me, though, is that for my kids there never will be the magic of "going to the movies." I've taken my son to a few movies, Revenge of the Sith, Cars, TMNT, a few others. But already I can tell the luster is not there, there's no twinkle in his eye. When I was a kid, seeing a movie was a rare treat. My son knows that if he wants to watch a movie tomorrow, all he has to do is pop one in the DVD player. There's no magic, its not something that he won't get to see anywhere else or only every once in a while. The only difference for him is that he gets to sit in one of those cool reclining seats, and we can't pause the movie when he's gotta go pee.

That's sad.