STRANGE WORDS AND LATE NIGHTS

It's 10 p.m. Monday -- 48 hours straight of High Life beer and pounding away at this damn article on the design of housing developments. Working on the thing between classes, teaching assignments and football has been tough, physically and spirtually. I even lost faith in my self for a second after I got the second revision back. I mean, if I can't move into a foreign region of the country in August and then write a 2,500 word article on the design of housing developments -- a topic I know nothing about -- what the hell good am I?

Hmm, maybe I need to increase the pace and take the entire article on a ridiculous turn that no one could possibly see coming. Maybe announce in the bottom third of the thing that one source regularly confers with Benjamin Franklin on all matters of exterior design concern, but never interior. He's got Aaron Burr for that. Then wrap up the whole piece with a stern warning about sound mental hygiene being what's really cool.

No, that's no good at all.

And if this whole dead line thing with an 8 a.m. class looming isn't enough, I'm still the target of several would be cock smokes.

Twenty-four hours ago, I was taking a long pull off my Miller High Life, celbrating the nailing of one transition graf that really should have been much easier, when my phone started skipping around and vibrating all over the desk. The name on the phone screen said Hoffman, but I knew better. It was an unwashed Frenchman looking to derail my recent progress.

I cringed. Maybe Dianna could take the call and tell him I was doing pilates in the basement? I thought. Shittt, he'd never believe that. Not because it isn't an outstanding lie. No, it's good. She just wouldn't be able to deliver it.

"Hoff, how bout those Birds?" I said.

He's already in the middle of a tirade, the gist of which seems to be that I'm an asshole. Oh, untrustworthy too.

He rattles off the number of drinks he's had while watching the Eagles game and part of the late game. There's a pause while he waits for me to sound impressed. He's drinking Scotch these days and desperately hopes that powerful, brown liquor will wash away the stink of the Seine and the morning's anal lube.

Maybe I don't sound impressed enough.

He starts making bold claims that he's been carrying my blog.
"Yeah, you sure do Hoff," I tell him assuringly. "You're a special guy. Nobody else is as good as you."
His mom paid us to hang out with him in college and part of the deal was we had to take a weekend couse in calming him down from these shame spirals he gets in. I only receive a pension from her now, but I figure I owe the lady a free be.
He says that he's been talking to Matt Dunn and Matt agrees that he's been carrying my blog. (Sounds like Matt may have taken his own course in dealing with the mentally unstable.)
I don't know what to believe though. Could Big Daddy really be in league with this filthy rablle rousing Frenchman?
"I'm renting Beaches tomorrow and have a nice cry," he says thickly. "My lawyer will have a field day with this. Write that down you son of a buitch. I have this from not only my attorney but from Los Papas Grandes as well. He's so big he's plural. "Cry Baby Bryan Hoffman said he's going to sick his lawyers on me."
I'm pretty sure that last line is him imitating me.
This is followed by grabled nonsense, something Alexis Smith..."he smells like cabage."
He gets upset and called me a "gip." Under intense questioning, he admits that he doesn't know what the word means. No definition.
"You've been riding me since day one," he suddenly exclaims.
He catches a burst of momentum though and starts spinnig yarns about how he's carrying this blog and he hasn't seen a decent comment on there from anyone else. He feels like, "Cock of the Walk."
"Fucking A pell there's no one else in the running," he shouts. "Matt Dunn's comments, not funny, but he's pretty big. Forget I ever said that."
So he immediately bad mouths his ally. Ahh, that's how come I can afford not to take him seriously. Frenchmen always turn on their allies when things get tough.
Hoff, begs me not to mention the comments he's made baout Dunn. He fears retribution.
"I need to go dude." I say.
"College football is for fags and you can quote me on that."
"I sure will."
Well I've found just the right tempo from "The In Sound From Way Out," so I should probably get going.

A Hoffstrocity in Motion

Pell, your blog frightens and confuses me. I'm just a caveman. At least that's how I feel on this crisp Thursday evening after having worked 49 hours this week...through 4 days....after a bachelor party weekend that involved about 12 hours of travel and 8 hours of combined sleep. It's taken me four days, but I may actually be ready to talk about last week's game, or as I like to call it, the game that shall not ever be talked about again.
First up: Joselio Hanson, go back to joining your fag, fair haired brothers in that loser attempt at a boy band b/c while you may wear a football uniform, you sir are no football player. Can't wait to see him start this weekend. Fantasy alert: Start your 49ers wide receivers this week!!!!
-Andy "I must've been thinking about cheeburgers b/c I just went for it w/ 8 minutes left in the 4th quarter well w/in Akers' kicking range on 4th and 1 w/ no discernable running game instead of just taking a shot at 3" Reid. Fuck you, fat man.
-A big, hale and hearty "Fuck you" to Donte Stallworth for making his first signifcant drop (w/ many more to come I'm sure) of the season on the final drive when McNabb put it in his hands w/ a chance to move the chains and run out the clock. Oh, don't think I forgot about you either LJ Smith for mimicking that on the next play (3rd down I might add...let's bring out Dirk Johnson).
-A minor "fuck you" to Matt Schobel for dropping an endzone pass that Evans would've caught. Only gets a minor one b/c Westbrook ran it in a play or two later.
-A big, warm, "thanks for coming out this season" to Jevon Kearse. Incredible 1.86 games. Matched his numbers from last year. Thanks for sticking around. I guess we can pencil the the "Freak" (or the I'm going to get at least 3 random injuries per game guy) in for 3.5 sacks, 6 hurries and 4 tackles per season, regardless of the amount of games played. Good stuff.
-A large "blow me and my half Irish cock" to the contingent of Giants players and fans who lauded them for "never giving up" and "fighting like hell" to come back in that game. Eff you. A fumble recovery in the end zone, followed by a Westbrook fumble on our own 30, followed by a 10 seconds and the clock is running w/ Feely needing a 49 yarder after a ball spike to tie the game..."kicked" into a chip shot w/ the clock stopped. Nice footwork, Trent Cole. You fucking moron.
-A happy "welcome back to being an Eagles fan" to yours truly, Bryan Hoffman for watching that debacle in RI on 4 hours of sleep after driving for 2 hours to get there, only to get to drive almost 3 more hours and then get on the train for 2 more before getting home Sunday night. Yeah, that drive wasn't angry at all.
Well, I feel better. Now let's not ever talk about that game again. Ever. Fuck you, Evans. With a dildo w/ a rubber on it, Cape Cod stripper style.

John Taylor Pell...Your betrayal in my time of transition and temporary weakness did not pass without notice. Sure, I've been quiet, biding my time, waiting until I've regained my footing and a steady supply of ammunition.
Ever since you berated me for spelling your wife's name wrong -- which I DID! -- I've gotten a rotten pile of trash talk from you. In your last communique, you insinuated that my conflict with the two women in the NewsRoom I told everyone about last month was false. A mere fancy. Some delusional episode made up to medicate a more grim yet less narrative reality. And you demanded I provide more information concerning the event! Yet even then I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I called you to explain the whole shitty deal. Then you... you refused to pick up your phone. What the hell else could you have been doing at 1 a.m. eastern time on a Tuesday night? Obviously not drinking Miller High Life and explaining to your wife the importance General George Patton had on your life philosophy of making sure you're always on the offensive, controlling tempo and making sure you're long gone before anyone can start asking a question let alone organizing resistance. J.T., cousin, do you know what happened to Peter after he denied Jesus? (Uh, yes, I am comparing myself to Jesus here, and, to tell you the truth, I think he comes off much the better for it.)
Well, of course you know what happened to Peter, and, suddenly, as Chekhov said in a writer's world everything happens "suddenly," I've written myself into a corner. Didn't Peter offer the Greeks pork and never-ending after life on the cheap? Or was that Paul? Either way, the man was an early Sam Walton, selling morality and the fruits of the flesh at wholesale discount.
Bhahhh, it doesn't manner anyway.
The point is, I apologize for mispelling Kaori's name. I take full responsibility. No time to pass the buck now. Yet... I can't help thinking that I did ask Dianna to fact check the piece, and she was dead sober. So, I mean even though I've been the stand up guy and taken on the full load of that all-too-adult term, responsibility, for the aforementioned events, I think, perhaps, Dianna... that is to say, my wife, should share the burden as well. Maybe even take on 70 percent, like the arrangement I worked out for our future child rearing.
Anyway, I've been under tremendous stress. I cannot reveal too much now, as my council with Los Papas Grandes has left me very paranoid of possible legal action taken against me by the university. He says that, should I say something about one of the students I'm supervising having taken a severe blow to the head during childhood, leaving them borderline retarded, the school may take legal action against me. Perish the thought, I know, but still.
Otherwise, school is going well. I'm up against a deadline for an article for both a class and a local magazine, one in the same article, but double the pressure.
In addition, I've taken up mining for data as a hobby. The fact that I have a teacher who is teaching me to use the law to strong arm bureaucrats into giving me electronic files to root out waste and bitterness in the system is like an evil genius finding a mentor. These Computer Assisted Reporting (CAR) classes I've been taking are right on. Wave of the future and nobody else wants on board because of the writer's natural fear of numbers. But screw them, this could be "big-time," as a young man I knew once said. With a basis in fact and dead-on numbers, I could mix it up with these fuckers.
And I think I've made my point. John Pell, I expect a full apology pasted on my message board, tut sweet, and if not an apology, than at least a scathing attack against Money for her outrageous copy editing.
Best on...
Pell

Here we have Amanda Lewis and D$.

A stained glass window in Boldt Castle, Alexandria Bay, New York.

I got this shot of Owen Lewis from a security camera in the Copenhagen, NY, Stewarts.

Labia Lapping Losers

Over the past few weeks I have received much criticism of my heretofore polite and cool-tempered blog. At first, I took this good naturedly, as a sign of interest in my endeavor. No longer. Siege warfare takes its toll, quickly reducing the most prim and proper maid to a raving cannibal. Prepare for the unfairly provoked return volley. And as I am a bushwhacking son-of-a-bitch-- a dry gulcher who shoots hyenas like you in the back from close range with over-kill ordinance -- none of you should be surprised by my dirty pool.

First things first. Owen and Amanda Lewis, the north country's answer to Sonny and Cher, are having a child. (I've asked for an ultrasound imagine to insert here, but Owen said it was a little early for that. I suspect it's a boy and the prenatal shots indicate he's not particularly well endowed, just like his old man.)
OK, so Owen complains today, practically in tears, that my blog is far too "West Chester centric."
"Mike, you haven't even mentioned anything about my boys being able to swim," he said through gummy sobs. "I mean come on. What do I have to do to get you to respect me?"
Well, Owen, not asking questions like that to start, but I'll give you your moment. Hey --everybody -- Amanda -- is -- pregnant -- wow -- that -- is -- so -- cool! -- That -- is -- like -- the -- best -- thing -- ever -- no one -- has -- ever -- done -- that --before!
There ya go Owen. Now, you can finally sleep at night and you'll have the confidence to fire that guy who's been stealing from your Rent-A-Zone.
But really folks, what did Owen do that was spectacular? Insert penis in wife (there are soooo many things I wanted to say instead of wife here and I didn't), gyrate softy, and roll over. That's easy. A challenge is taking long in and out thrusts and then pretending that it was an accident when you squirt all over your partner. See the challenge comes because there's no way she could possibly believe it's an accident, especially when you're screaming out your intentions preceding the event.

Thanks for playing Owen. Tomorrow night...John Pell.

Perhaps a meaningful contribution... if you spend most of your time eating or thinking about eating... ahhh, like me.
The above is a nice kind of Southwesty type of thing that feels great when teamed up with a grilled piece of meat and a mixture of black beans, cilantro and corn, all topped off with a dollop of sour cream. Marinate the meat (chicken, beef, PORK, yes poke is very good) in mezcal (tequila can substitute, but the smokey flavor of mezcal adds charcter), lime juice, minced garlic and a little olive oil. The before you grill it shake some chili powder over it to taste.
But the veggies right? Pretty much the same deal as above.
First, an axiom to help prepare you for your trip to the grocery store: you can pick your peppers, but you can't pick your friends. No, your friends are criminals, but so heedless of the law, that they don't even realize they're criminals. Whether engaging in a bullshit contest with a self-righteous, Southern Baptist, "cop" on a public beach in Key West over the effects of second-hand marijuana smoke on his kids or leading you in a mad dash from the Samson Street Oyster Bar in Philadelphia with two angry oyster shuckers chasing you, your friends must be endured. Unlike peppers. I'd go with at least two different colors, you want a nice mix of colors in your food, obviously it makes the presentation much more impressive. And I'd pick my peppers based on the color of the other ingredients I was mixing them with. For the above picture I used red and green peppers, although in retrospect yellow instead of green would have worked better as I already had green apples. So it's green apples with the peppers, mushrooms, onions, ground cumin and a little cinnamon, all cut up in pieces about as long as your finger. We want em big because we're going to grill them. Put the veggies in a bowl and spray them with a little mezcal, a little vinegar and some lime juice about 30 minutes before you put them on the fire. The veggies should go on the grill last and served hot. When you're cooking the veggies put them in a grill basket or on grill tray so they don't fall in the fire below. You can get these grill implements at Home Depot or Lowes or even at your grocery store. And if you like to eat healthy but tasty, they make a great at-max $15 investment. When you're cooking the veg mixture, stir them up once a minute or so for a few minutes until they have the texture you want. Reach in and taste one and if it's too cripsy, leave the rest on, if not, take 'em off.
I'd arrange the beans and corn mixture as a lump in the center, put the meat on top of that and tumble the veggies around the periphery. There are a ton of variations you could do with this, but a good one is to take away the beans and corn and add plantain fries, or leave the beans.
Great well, I hope this counts as community service for my probie.

Drew's hands smell like fish...
It's true. Drew caught this northern pike just on the Canadian side of the St. Lawrence River. He bought property there with a buddy of his. A Mr. Wang. Phil Reed, in the background, helped Drew land the mighty fish. At first Drew was handling it with a towel, but then Phil told him he was being a pussy so Drew decided to show off with the bare hand grab. I like to show D$ the same move.

A Battle Brews
The tension of impending conflict grips the historic valleys and the rolling hillsides of south eastern Pennsylvania. Residents are stockpiling supplies and preparing to grapple with both neighbor and foreign invader. I know this from countless interviews and a studious examination of newspaper accounts. Credible media only.
Not only is the Philadelphia-area home to three of the most hotly contested Congressional races in the country and not only will the fight for Senate play out in the form of idiot child and Senator Rick Santorum vs. "My Daddy was Governor" Bob Casey, but starting Sunday...dare I say it? Starting Sunday the Eagles campaign for the Vince Lombardi Trophy begins. Oh, yeah, Governor Rendell is about to kick the shit out of former Steeler Lynn Swann.
The political elections and football games are intertwined. For example in the governor's race, the Birds face off against the Steelers in the form of Rendell and Swann. And in the Senate campaign, western PA, filthy Steeler fans, will back Santorum and in the east, hard working, noble minded Eagles fans, will vote Casey. The capper, according to the Philadelphia Inquirer, of the $16.1 million Republicans and Democrats will spend on television advertising for the suburban Philadelphia Congressional elections, the most expensive single ad will be $65,000 for one 30-second ad during the Eagles game against Jacksonville on CBS Oct. 29. It's the last game before the election and exactly halfway into the team's season. Nov. 5 is a bye week and we will need the time to lick our wounds and sniff over the survivors, searching out the strong and weak.