Lowbrow Truth Serum

2007-07-24T22:31:00.000-07:00

The Strange, Long Tale of Mike and Tim
Part One: Into the Breach

Tim Gorman may never go camping again.

Last weekend, Tim and I spent two nights camping in the West Clear Creek Wilderness, part of the Coconino National Forest. It’s about 120 miles northeast of Phoenix -- Mogollon Rim country.

Tim works with me at a major newspaper in the arid American Southwest. I don’t want to say right out which publication because loyal reader and Jefferson County [N.Y.] Legislator Phil Reed recently informed me that his family computer cannot open my blog because it contains “highly inappropriate terms and objectionable content.” So I fear the newspaper would not care for any association with my modest and apparently vulgar Web postings.

At any rate, Tim went camping once many years ago, but has not logged much time in the wilds since then. I told him I planned on spending a couple of nights under the stars and he said he’d join me. Now my camping gear is, for the most part, 1,300 miles away at my home in Columbia, Mo. and Tim has no equipment. But I figured tramping across the backcountry of Arizona packing light would be fun, like something out of an Edward Abbey book.

I told Tim ours would be a Spartan Camping trip. No tent. No fancy backpacks. No hot food. No turning back. Just a sleeping bag, a bag full of peanuts and dried fruit and a 99-cent poncho.
Perhaps I romanticized this mode of camping. Perhaps I downplayed the potential discomfort. Or maybe Tim is just a little too trusting of a guy; a genuinely nice individual not used to interacting with the criminally insane.

He did say at one point during the trip, delirious from sleep deprivation, that he thought he’d have made a good priest and I see what he means. He’s one of these attentive, quiet trusting individuals who doesn’t have to try hard to behave like a good boy. But ultimately he’s no priest. He’s too thoughtful and has a zest for life not found in any man who purposefully avoids the vagina folds just because he thinks that’s what God wants.

Whoever’s to blame though, Tim ended up throwing his small amount of gear in the back of my SUV early Friday evening and we drove north up I-17 from Phoenix Arizona to the Camp Verde exit. We took Route 260 east to 87 north to forest route 3 to 81E. This road is NOT marked so you must map out the mileage or you will miss it.

Route 81 is a one-lane, out of the way dirt road so we whipped out the 24 ounce Mickey’s we bought at a gas station and rumbled along in near total darkness, sipping at our cheap beer and the closeness of our weekend wilderness adventure.

At the edges of the federal land, close to the road, car campers had set up a few separate bases of operation. We passed the Parson family reunion, the Sato reunion, the Wilson reunion and then the Parson reunion again. We were lost and feared we would have to ask the Parson Projects for directions.

Luckily, we came across a group of teenagers. A group not deterred by the social consequences of giving head to a person they met at a family reunion. They were driving around in what looked like a roll bar, two seats and four wheels wrapped around a large engine. They set us on the right path toward the Maxwell Trail head, our intended destination. The guy in the Carhart jacket helped us out despite the fact that I referred to him several times as Caligula and threatened his cousin with the pepper spray I brought to fight off bears.

A treacherous drive across oil-pan scraping rocks and ruts large enough to swallow an army convoy, oh and through a herd of grazing beef cattle, spat us out at what the next morning’s light would reveal as pretty close to the trail head.

“I’ve smelled the smell before, but I’ve never been in this total absence of sound before,” Tim said, while I marveled at a couple of shooting stars.

Another beer, a swig of bourbon a little more talk under the heavens and we rolled up in our sleeping bags for a sleep interrupted only by the brief and pleasant little pitter patter of a few drops of rain against our bags.

So Big it's The Man.

Pretty.

West Clear Creek

Pell, a watery tart.

Tim Gorman the wilderness is funny.

2007-07-10T22:42:00.000-07:00

I Feel Like a Phoenix -- Rising From Arizona!

Dianna has thick blood, like all good Germans. And as a thick blooded woman, she has no patience for the heat. So last weekend, the two of us made haste for Sedona, Arizona, about two hours north of Phoenix and about 20 miles south of Flagstaff.

Sedona’s higher elevation makes it a little cooler than the Valley of the Sun. Sedona sits about 4,400 feet above sea level, where as Phoenix is at about 1,100 feet above sea level. It’s still in the high 90s and 100s in Sedona, but nothing like the 116 degree Fourth of July last week. And at night, the temperature in Sedona dips to a dry, cool high-50s range. Beautiful.

Primary objectives:

1.) To have a fancy, shmancy meal Saturday night;

2.) to enjoy a physical hike during the day.

Secondary Objectives:

1.) Not get taken in by the obvious tourist traps;

2.) To terrorize the staff at the King Ransom’s Hotel with wild antics.

I’ll kill the suspense here and tell you, yes we accomplished all of these goals.

The hiking took place in Coconino National Forest’s Red Rock Secret Mountain Wilderness. This is red rock country, and I’m not talking about that cheap, fake opium people used to smoke in college. I’m talking buttes, sculpted pinnacles, windows, arches and slot canyons. It looks like Mars had a garage sale and Sedona bought up a ton of its furniture.

There are dozens of trails in the area, but we decided on Brins Mesa trail, which has a trail head just north of Sedona. The trail climbs among agave, prickly pear cactus and pinyon pine trees about 600 feet in approximately a sixth of a mile to a -- you guessed it -- a mesa top. Wilson Mountain as it‘s known.

A nasty fire burned over 1,500 acres on the mountain last year. The pinyon pine and juniper trees were twisted and scorched. The blaze was started by a transient who let his cooking fire get out of hand, according to a state Web site.

That dude must be a hardy “transient” to make his home in the desert. I mean, the guy is hardly alone out there.

The wilderness area supposedly is filled with coyotes, bears, mule and white tail deer, javelinas, a relative of the European pig, and even mountain lions. But the only thing stupid enough to traverse the mesa during that summer morning and afternoon, was Dianna and I.

After eating a couple of sandwiches under the shade of a pinyon pine in a sandy little dry wash, we headed back up the mesa. This is when one of the first monsoon storms of the season started rolling across the mountains toward us. As a man once said, “assummmm.” I didn’t want to be on that mountain when the lighting started forking down.

We made it back to the car before the rain hit, but we marched to the tune of thunder. Dianna, once again not acclimated to the heat, had a wee bit of an overheating problem, but nothing a little AC and a chilled Gatorade couldn’t fix.

Thankfully, I had made our dinner reservation for 8 p.m. This gave Dianna an hour or two to nap and me an hour or two to drink Oak Creek pale ales, without having to rush.

(Next time on Lowbrow Truth Serum: Mike gets saucy with a waiter, Dianna gets kicked out of the hotel swimming area and some pre-teen children staying in the room next door get a late-night audio lesson on drunken, wet body slapping.)

An agave.

2007-07-02T20:38:00.000-07:00

Revolution!!!

This president of ours sure is a brassy son-of-a-bitch. The idea of Lewis Scooter Libby going to jail put a little itch in my jeans. It made me feel like political reform was more than mere fancy. Like, I was not just a cock-eyed optimist with an inspiring haircut.

Oh, and speaking of haircuts. I had my first Asian the other day. Nothing of a sexual nature I assure you. It was simply a haircut. I walked in off the street and plopped down into a chair without knowing the least bit about the place. She knew what she was doing. Nothing fancy, no texturing, but every stroke of her clippers and slice of her scissors made a precise incision, a surgical procedure. My side burns were mathematically even. It was like somebody was using the cosign factor on my parabola. And even though she pushed the happy ending a little too strong and I had to give her a James-Bond-Sexy-Opend-Handed-Slap as I tried to leave... I'll go back.

Errr... Yes, but back to politics. What's so terrible about Scooter, VP Dick Cheney's former chief of staff, getting a commuted sentence (Bush wiped out the 30 months in prison and left him as he said with a stiff $250,000 fine and a disgrace that only God or Dorian Gray could dismiss) is that it was a solid leadership decision by the judiciary. The decision essentially sent a message to all the toadies in both parties and in all branches of government: If you want to lie to cover up for the disgraceful conduct of your bosses, fine, but the cake walk is over. You lie, you go to jail. Fuck the fines that the corrupt scum you're protecting will fundraise to pay for you. Fuck the disgrace of a penaltyless conviction -- disgrace is something these people honestly don't understand. The one thing they get is getting locked up in jail. Separation from their families, their jobs, their mistresses, this they understand.

Sadly, we the people were robbed of that warning to our elected officials. I recomened sending a letter to your duly elected federal representative, just one, although all three would be better. Send Arlen Spector if you're from PA and tell him you are pissed and you want to see him take a shot at the president, figuratively of course. Tell, Spector you want him to call Bush on the carpet for this repungnant behavior. Tell him, you wouldn't stand for your dog pissing in the house without swatting it in the nose with a rolled up newspaper and you expect no less from your president.

Send your letter to:
Senator Arlen Spector
711 Hart BuildinG
Washington, DC 20510

I only suggest Senator Spector because he's a level-headed moderate Republican who would probably kick Bush in the scrotum if the Secret Service looked away for just two minutes. But look up your own Senator or House Represenatative if you feel like it. Letters work better than e-mail, but if you don't have the time, send an e-mail. It only has to be one sentence, maybe two. Just let them know that you're pissed. Good luck.

2007-06-27T20:34:00.000-07:00

Zona: Land of the Tan and Wrinkled
I've gone to a couple of swanky restaurants in the last couple of days. I'm not saying word one though until I get the software to download a few photos. The recomendations for those restaurants came from John R**dy, the inventor of the "big cheezit." The guy knows his dining.

This is my last week at the Crystal Meth Suites in Phoenix. After this, I go to live with Dona, my now deceased grandfather's wife. That's one hell of a title for Dona. And yes Big Daddy her name is spelled with one "n," so back off. Anyhow, she lives near the Biltmore area of Phoenix.

It'll be a change from my current digs at the Domestic Dispute Hotel. Where as the Burned-Lipped Suites here wreaks like urine, spilled soda baked in the 110-degree sun and an over-turned 50 gallon ash tray, Dona's place smells of grapefruit blossoms and a classy cocktail hour. Where as at the Shank You Motel a man named Jesse offered me the use of his chubby, skanky, Italian twins, as they finger fucked in a nearby van, at Dona's I expect... well, nothing like that feaky shit.

Life is good.

2007-06-24T16:07:00.000-07:00

Phoenix: Desert City on the Grow???

The funny thing about Phoenix is, it's such a strange environment to find 2 million plus people. I don't know how 112-degree heat, a distinct lack of local water resources and dust storms attracted all these people to the Valley of the Sun.

The cool thing about "The Valley,"as it's known locally, are the mountains that surround the urban center. Bare, dry and crumbling the crags and peaks still hold a sense of wild. A scarry, searing, poisonous wild. Even the television, radio and telelphone towers that cluster on North Mountain makes the geogrpahy seem that much more tenacious. Almost, but not quite resistant...

Matthew Big Daddy Dunn, The Trout Runner and Keeper of the Fun Factory Keys and Annual Profit Guide, known in Puerto Rico as Los Papas Grandes arrived in Phoenix Thursday evening. He spent several nights in the Gila River Valley in New Mexico fishing for trout fish. He was a tad ripe at first, it was actually an awful smell. His ruddy, sun burned face was bronzed by a thick layer of desert dust. But the good people staffing my home at the Crystal Meth Suites got him a hot shower, a cold beer and a mostly clean towel in no time. The staff had him feeling like an honest to god human again. I applaud their effort.

We dined Thursday evening at Hooters. I believe the chain is over-priced, the food selection poor and dishes bland. But Hooters holds a certain appeal for a man who has spent the better part of the last three weeks in wilderness areas. Big Daddy insisted we eat there and refused to leave until we were the only customers left in the restaurant. After dinner he was so angry about the refusal of one young lady to join him for a fine hand crafter beer that he bought four Coors Original tall boys and slammed them in about 29 minutes.

Friday night, we ate at Delux, a chic hamburger joint at 32nd Street and Camelback Drive. There were a few cute waitresses dressed in form fitting black outfits. Delux offered a wide selection of beers. The Delux cheese burger includes applewood-smoked bacon, blue cheese, gruyere cheese, baby arugula and carmelized onions on a soft baguette. The beef-steak burger was well worth the $9. The fries and the gazpacho were good. Not great, but certainly good enough. The service on the other hand sucked out loud. There was the typically snotty behaviour by the staff of a chic restaurant. But they also brought all of our food out in one lump sum. They were obviously rushing us out the door. We didn't respond. Even the waitresses constant questions as to whether or not we were done, when we clearly had taken only a few nibbles, didn't enduce us to leave.

All in all, I'd say we had a good time.

2007-04-25T15:21:00.000-07:00

The New York Times is about as gay as it gets. The front page today includes an article about the upcoming NFL draft. As both the people who read this blog know, I love NFL football and the draft is an oasis of professional football in an otherwise barren mid-spring.

But with world events as they are -- a foundering dunder head as president, a costly war and continuing environmental degradation -- do we really need an article about the NFL draft on the front page? Unless this is an investigative story revealing systemic dirty pool in the NCAA (fuck college football) or an in-depth preview of the Eagles draft day (the Eagles go to the Big Game this year), I say keep that shit on the sports page or just drop it.

Worse yet, the article is about a side show freak who won't even get picked until Sunday at best. Over the last two years he's spent more time defending himself in court than playing football (he still has charges of conspiracy to commit robbery pending against him according to the Times). And his amazing stats when he was on the field (two games mind you), came while playing for a community college team in north western Mississippi.

Times reporter Lee Jenkins may have decided to write the story on Thomas because he can do a front flip. Style over substance wins out again. Perhaps if the NFL doesn't work out for this guy he and former XFL star Rod Smart, AKA: He Hate Me, can go into business selling gimmicks to draft prospects.

But come to think of it, Thomas does weigh 370 pounds and could probably clog an offensive line like... well, like Hoff's dog Pork Chop, also a draft day hopeful. But much like Pork Chop, Thomas' girth probably just indicates that he's a fat body, lacking discipline.

Still, Thomas is a fast 370 pounds. He ran the 40 in 4.9 seconds. And he's powerful, 800 pound squats, 475 pound bench press. Who gives a fuck though? You can find lots of guys who look physically gifted and they just can't play football (see people who run track in college). A raw defensive tackle is a little different than a dude who is ultra fast but has a pair of stone hands, but still the point stands.

There's a good chance this guy ends up getting drafted either very late Sunday or sometime next week as an undrafted rookie by a team that has to take an insane gamble because they suck every year and have no long-term strategy (Cleveland, Houston, Detroit...). But let's face it, where he'll really end up is Oakland.
*Warning: If the Eagles draft Thomas I reserve the right to completely reverse from opinion on him.

2007-04-17T20:22:00.000-07:00

Julia takes no shit. Not from an Irish dog or a Slavic Jerk Store Owner/Operator.

I’m feeling a tad warlike, sans the war, but fierce none the less. I feel dazed. Nothing to add. No meaningful dialogue. Just another geek clogging the internet. Hmmmm… did anyone else notice the Eagles signed Takeo Spikes? Hoff? Yes, you did, that’s right.

2007-04-10T16:56:00.000-07:00

WHO SAID THAT, WHERE?

Across this great land of ours, from sea to friggn’ shining sea, people are starting to realize we have a few environmental issues to contend with. Dumping oil into storm water drains ain’t gonna cut it anymore. (I know it’s been hard for me too. I hate taking my used oil to Pep Boys.) One proposed solution is the use of alternate energy sources such as wind power. In the town of Cape Vincent New York on the St. Lawrence River, residents are considering doing their small part to help the environment, while simultaneously lining their pockets, by allowing a developer to install wind turbines along the river. Sitting here swilling my Miller Highlife at 7:30 in the morning just hours before my shift at the newspaper, I have a few thoughts on the proposed development.
First off, I'm not anti-wind power. I'm not anti-gun either, but I think both should be used with a modicum of forethought before somebody makes a decision that can’t be taken back. Don’t worry my doctor assures me that’s an appt metaphor. To the point though... there are serious problems with making the St. Lawrence River Valley the home for industrial wind power production. (The term wind farm is cute, but let’s face it, it’s an industrial site, not a bucolic pasture.)
Placed in their proposed location these turbines will almost certainly have a negative impact on the river environment. The towers will stand out like a stripper in Church if the developers get their proposed set backs of a quarter of a mile from the river and a view shed can be a beautiful thing. Now on the other hand, some people I’ve chatted with say they’ve seen hundreds of turbines in Holland and they look just swell. But guys come on, the reason a ton of people live and play in the St. Lawrence is that it doesn’t look like a densely populated European urban landscape – Boldt Castle aside. Didn’t Thoreau or Ed Abbey or Doug Peacock or some shit head say something about America needing wilderness? And I think those guys are supposed to be smart.
But beyond the view there’s another big problem. Ornithologists who supported the Lewis County New York wind turbine project reject the St. Lawrence River Valley as a potential site because those towers and spinning blades will kill the hell out of migrating birds. It’ll be a God damned massacre. A bird lover and legitimate science typ guy told me that ridges running north south, especially the most important flyway for bird migration on the east coast, are bad sites for wind plants and east west running ridges like the Flat Branch project in Lewis County are good sites. Furthermore, Cape Vincent is a shitty place for a farm because song birds, raptors and water fowl hug the shorelines of the river and lake on their trips south during the fall and again on their way back north during the spring. I’m sure the power company has a study that shows otherwise, but the power company might not be the objective source we’re looking for here.
Some granola chewing friends of mine argue that even though some birds will be killed and the valley will take another step toward looking like a European metropolis, we need this ”wind farm” to help prevent global climate change. Let’s think about this for a second. What percentage of the nation's electricity comes from wind power? According to a recent LA Times article, less than 1 percent. So what impact will the wind turbines in Cape Vincent have on reducing carbon emissions? Zero. Like a fly shit on an elephant’s ass. The LA Times quoted an anti-wind researcher saying that: “Converting 5 percent (of national energy consumption) to wind would require almost 10 million acres, most of it rural and wild, turned over to 400-foot-high machines and their motion, noise and lights.”
The power company wants Cape Vincent residents to believe this is an urgent matter and there’s no time for lengthy consideration.
The other night I had a couple of drinks at Captain Jacks in Cape Vincent with one power company executive, who, in reality, doesn’t exist. He pounded his fist on the bar once he realized the two of us just didn’t see eye to eye on the issue.
“Sea levels are rising and if we don’t make get a few hundred wind towers up soon, we’ll be flooded out,” he said. The exec casually dismissed the argument about wind not producing enough juice to make a difference. “God just wants a good show of faith that we’re on the right path and then he’ll ease down the thermostat. But Jesus age Christ the real reason we need these ffffing towers is to stop the Godless Arab hordes. Those oil glutted terrorists will slit the throats of three out of four children in the next 10 years if we don’t do something soon. You know, the only thing they fear is renewable energy.”
So I guess what I’m trying to get at here is that producing energy, even wind power, has unintended consequences, much like staying up all night drinking and writing vulgar e-mails to minor local celebrities who you know will take the time to read through their “fan mail.” I am now late for work and seemed like just hours ago it was 4:30 a.m. In closing, Hollywood is leading us down a moral sewer…

Wilderness is an anchor to windward. Knowing it is there, we can also know that we are still a rich nation, tending our resources as we should--not a people in despair searching every last nook and cranny of our land for a board of lumber, a barrel of oil, a blade of grass, or a tank of water."- Senator Clinton P. Anderson of New Mexico in American Forests, July 1963

Here’s a link to the LA Times article: http://www.casperstartribune.net/articles/2007/04/03/news/regional/e17d2ba89394e772872572b100672340.txt

2007-04-07T10:17:00.000-07:00

Stink dogs often need to recharge their stink and swimming in a muddy creek and rolling around in beaver shit is the best reload manner I know.

Speaking of covering yourself in shit... did anyone else notice oddities about the press coverage of Sen. John McCain's recent trip to a Baghdad market? Under an umbrella of attack helicopters, snipers and 100 heavily armed soldiers McCain ushered a Congressional delegation through the market place unscathed by IEDs, mortar attacks or insurgent gun fire. He said his free and easy stroll through the market indicates U.S. efforts to bolster security have worked. But Iraqi store owners pointed out to the London Times that when the helicopters and soldiers aren't hanging about the market, that is to say normal conditions, the outdoor shopping area is often attacked with car bombs. It seems McCain has gotten a pass on this assertion of security. A couple of newspapers have picke up on the irony in it, but for the most part they let it slide.

Well, I've got a girl dog to beat, no more time to waste here.

2007-03-26T17:08:00.000-07:00

Lawyers And Threats

Over the past approximately six weeks dozens of allegations of improprieties have been leveled against my client Michael Pell. The insulting accusations stem mainly from people who judge how cool something or someone is buy size and a man who smells of finely crafted cheese and cowardice. These individuals, who, under the advice of the state attorney general of New York, where we are pressing our case, will remain nameless.

Their most harmful, and to my client financially damaging, claim is that he no longer posts anything on this site. Some have even accused this budding-young-go-getter of using a ghost writer -- hired muscle with a well carved haircut -- just to fill space. Outrageous, libelous hoodwinkery such as this will not stand. It's a mockery of free speech. So grievous an offense to the very nature of the rule of law is this that my office and I would take on the case for free if it was not already for the substantial retainer paid to my firm by Dianna M. Pell on the first of each month.

My client has sustained acute mental and emotional trauma as a direct result of the afore mentioned jies. His highly volatile psychological state caused him to take wrecklessly aggressive and wholy irrational actions that are beyond the scope of his normal character. Fueled by intoxicating liquors, which he rarelt touches unless needlessly agitated, and the relentless fear of lossed internet ad revenue for his blog, Mr. Pell sabotaged his own future. He lashed out at professors, his employers and coworkers. The following e-mail, sent late week to one of his proffessors, makes the extent of his dister clear.

Mr. Pell had recently received a grade of 43 out of 100 for an in class presentation. There were no notes attached. He was only told the article was not academically robust enough. Normally Mr. Pell would have let it go, knowing his final great rested entirely with he outcome of one project, but in his addled state he felt compelled to respond.

Yo Elizabeth,
First off I hate acting like a grade grubber here. But my wife makes me. She's a strident young lady. And from what I've read in her diary, she has a dark streak.

But to the point, I hear where you're coming from as far the article I selected for my presentation lacking the ability to make a reader break an intellectual sweat. Perhaps an article with a little more force than a historical analysis of fake television news would have made for better cerebral soup. But I honestly didn't know that was a qualification that would hurt my grade. I know I'm pressing here, but stay with me. The only reason I selected the SNL article was because the presentation the week before was also a little flaky in an entertaining kind of way and I wanted to keep up the pace. I'm the god damn class clown! Do you know what kind of pressure I'm under?

And, as pointed out during class, I thought there was some value to the article's more unfinished (I use "unfinished" here instead of shitty) aspects. You said it too in class and I have the whole thing on tape...video too.

So while I heartily agree that I could have picked a more robust article, I think my ignorance here should actually save me a few points. I mean, I know what article I select is not your call as you said, but throw me a fucking bone here. If you knew I was walking into an academic tiger pit, a heads up could have helped. That wasn't the only historical article I read for Christ's sake. I could have used one of the others pretty easily.

Plus I bet I spent a lot of time working on my project. I still talk to Aaron, the author of this much maligned article. He's not a bad guy. Portly yes, but smart as a whip. Not wise in an academic sense perhaps, and maybe not street-smart either, but he sure knows a lot about the A-Team.

But for once this isn't about Aaron. Look, maybe we can come to some kind of accord, in the middle. I have to go back to D$ -- my wife -- with something. Otherwise I'll look like a fool. Or have I already vaulted across that threshold? Ahh, no matter. The fact is that with only three more points to my grade I could still get a low-A on the project. That way I still loose some points for selecting an easy article and you can sleep at night knowing that you didn't usher me along to my academic ruin.

I hope I made my point. Looking back on what I've written a part of me I thought long dead shrieks in horror.

Thank you very much for taking the time to dicker with me,
Pell
Spring Break 99

As Mr. Pell's attorney I ask all readers to refrain from insulting this poor man.
Signed,

Cry Baby Michael Pell's Lawyer

2007-03-23T09:35:00.000-07:00

Hoff blog, Hoff man
A night at the Pellboy Mansion
Welcome back faithful readers. Let me first apologize for my lack of recent blogging, but D$ and I have been fervently trying to get her inserted as President of the condo board here in Del Boca Missoura. We plan to have her in a puppet regime where Julia and I will secretly wield power from behind the scenes. Who are we running against, you ask? Common sense and a guy in a wheelchair. I like our chances here.
Today I was forcibly removed from the newsroom (yet another reason I have time to post this) and was told to “come back when I sober up.” Sure I’ve been keeping myself on a steady diet of uppers, downers, laughers and screamers, but that’s simply to aid in the handling of the stress that accompanies my daily life of ogling 18 year olds in short shorts. They had no right I tell you. None! And yeah, maybe I brought Julia to the office and had her sit down next to my desk. This girl who also writes for the paper, and who shall remain nameless for fear of retaliation, says to me, “Uh…Pell, why did you bring your dog to the office today?” I replied quickly that it was Bring Your Dog to Work Day and then slipped in a quick, “I love your body, Larry.” Evidently this did not hold water for her as she quickly went to the powers that be and ratted me out. When my boss approached I shouted “Nixon!” with intent of Julia attacking him before things got out of hand. Sadly, she approached slowly, sniffed his crotch and then licked herself before returning to my side. That’s when various insults were exchanged and I wisely went on my way.
Now onto more pertinent matters. Bryan Hoffman, or Frenchy as we know him, has been hounding me to finally write something. See, he’s unemployed, bored and thinks that he’s cock of the walk b/c he’s got a dog now too. A bulldog named T Bone or Porterhouse or Porkchop or something. Now there’s nothing more depressing in my opinion than a skinny, closeted Frenchman walking a man’s dog like a bulldog. Keep in mind, Frenchy’s mother has been paying me good money ever since college, unbeknownst to him, to “stay friends with him and make him feel like less of a loser.” Her words, not mine. Now he’s got some good observations, keeps me updated on important things like what the Eagles are doing in the off season and his dog’s bowel movement schedule, but he really needs to start listening to his mom and I. We’ve been pushing for him to enter the Bloomingdale’s executive training program for years. So if you’re reading this Herr Hoffman, please consider what we’re saying.
(Hah, and he told me he’d write a blog for me b/c I hadn’t written something in so long. Not bloody likely. Tune in later in the week though, maybe we’ll give the little guy a shot)

2007-02-08T20:48:00.000-08:00

Palm Oil Flames Licking my Foreign Born Doobie
The Dutch grow synapse popping pot. And when you go into a little shop in Amsterdamned to purchase a henry of mushrooms they offer you a menu with different kinds of trips. I like their style. But it turns out that when it comes to energy policy, they suck.

According to the January 31 business section of the NY Times (jesus ball-tickling christ, I told somebody earlier today that the article came out yesterday and I only realized right now when I looked at the paper that it was eight days ago) the Dutch use of palm oil as an alternative energy source is an environmental disaster. Yeah, the Dutch and their "progressive" EU buddies are not so innocent as their wooden shoes and recent genocides might suggest.

The Times claims that the draining of peatland in Indonesia, where the palms are grown, releases 660 million tons of carbon into the atmosphere a year and that the fires plantation owners use to clear peatland adds 1.5 billion tons of carbon a year. The fires and the draining of peatland combine to equal 8 percent of all global emissions from burning fossil fuels. Way to go Europe. You're killing us all.

So what I'm getting to here is that I would like to travel to the land of the Dutch to beg their government to reconsider and institute a smothering law that would make the sue of palm oil punishable by castration. If you're a woman, you have to wrestle another woman convicted of using palm oil. And both women have to be covered in palm oil... and they have to kiss, a lot, and they have to go down on one another. Unless they're really ugly and they can't find anyone in the country to watch, in which case they have to tend an acres of peatland for a year.

But this kind of trip and lobbying effort isn't cheap and lord knows I don't have that kind of money. Neither does my wife -- I've checked. But with a few hundred donations from the anonymous faces on the Internet, I can go to Dutchland and save the planet.

If you want to send a donation leave your e-mail address as a post and I'll e-mail you my address. Remember, this isn't for me, or my desire get cockeyed on mushrooms and yell at a foreign bureaucrat, it's about our children.

My friend Big Daddy would say, "Ohhhh, dude, I just think we're screwed. I honestly don't think we can do anything to save this planet. I bet a satellite smashes into my house tonight."

He's wrong though. Send me money and we can all save the planet.

2007-02-06T21:15:00.000-08:00

A night of poetry from slower lower Delaware.
I was sitting here typing -- not hurting anyone -- when I run into a tangent from the past, The E-Train Wayland, a jittery, pasty, chronic masturbator who once shared a bunk with a Mexican admiral. I met Wayland while we were both living in Newark, Delaware. He was a strange, but sage man then. A Holy Man, he once applied a thick layer of viscous "Death Hot Sauce" to his coin purse. I think he was trying to purify the house we were both sharing with some guy who had a solid haircut. At any rate The Train hooted like a screech owl, poured vodka down his throat and made gristly predictions of the future -- it was shortly after Bush had been inaugurated President, so The E-Train's methods might be unconventional, maybe uncomfortable, but they work.
Well, E-Train is back and he's writing poetry. I found this in my inbox. Keep in mind his power.

There is nothing like going to Arby's on a Tuesday night.
Going through the DriveThru getting a Big Montana Value Meal
(make sure you get extrahorsey sauce!)
eating in the parking lot
and playing an endlessloop of Desperado
(sometimes I throw in Witchy Woman if the moodstrikes me).
After the meal, grabbing a periodical, I head into Arby's to go to the real office and do the Junior Jumble Crossword.Now that is a good day!
-Wayland

2007-01-23T19:55:00.000-08:00

Speech? What speech? Ah, the president. I saw that. I remember my wife Dianna was there.

"Isn't that a nice jacket?" she asked, referring to House Speaker Nancy Pelosi's trim light mint suit. Pelosi, the first woman to ever call Congress to order before a state of the Union Address, banged her gavel a few times and turned the floor over to President Bush.

It's hard to take him seriously anymore, but I feel it's important to stay on top of what he says just to throw it back at him for the next two years. Stone the man with his own words until he stumbles back into his Texas compound and out of our lives forever.

Here are my highlights:

Bush says he wants to balance the federal budget and eliminate the federal spending deficit in five years. You could see Pelosi tell Cheney that even she'd stand up for that. He said he was going to do this without raising taxes and the only spending cuts he mentioned were those concerning earmarks. Now, I respect the attack on earmarks, and I'm not just applauding for the cameras like the Senators and members of Congress who make their bread and butter on earmarks. But even by his own estimates, Bush said eliminating half of all earmarks will only reducing spending by $9 billion. That's like 10 days in Iraq.

He wants to improve on the successes of his No Child Left Behind program. I only included this in my highlights because I believe the Constitution's enumeration of powers leaves the education process to states. I think the only time the federal government should be involved in education is when the National Guard is needed.

Mrs. Bush standing up to Dikembe Mutombo's elbow. If I was Mutombo I would have swatted her the hell away from me. She looked like a vicious predatory feline with her bright blue eyes flashing in contrast to her bright red suit and bloody scarlet lips. Instead Mutombo probably just offered to "sex her up."

The health care plan is a crock. I need more time to look into the issue, but my wife assures the whole thing will screw young, healthy people like us over big-time.

Pelosi could barely contain her laughter as Bush presented his energy plan. He said he wanted to reduce gasoline consumption by 20 percent in 10 years by increasing the production of ethanol. VP Cheney openly laughed, it wasn't even his usual smirk, he out loud laughed as Bush talked of taking climate change seriously. Cheney knows Bush has no such plans. He knows Bush's pandering is just meant to buy time, like sending somebody a check and "forgetting" to sign it. But apparently Bush and his VP were having a little fun with Secretary of Energy Samuel W. Bodman. I don't think they let him in on the sham. Bodman looked like he was going to cry, his chubby red face was all scrunched up around every orifice.

Bush said he didn't want a war with several different factions in Iraq, just like everybody else, but here we are. It's surprising that he and his crack staff couldn't see this coming.

I'm done. I have more to say, but not the strength with which to say it.

2007-01-22T16:25:00.000-08:00

I don't have much to say these days. My NFL predictions were all trash. I guess I better admit to that, but in all fairness I hate New Orleans forever now. Perhaps those two ideas aren't connected, but suffice to say, I'm glad the Saints lost to the Chicago Bears. The above picture pretty much sums up my thoughts on the entire city of New Orleans right now. May they fester and rot in their own fetid corruption for the rest of eternity. Jesus little baby, I may be losing my head here. But I do take solace in the disappointment that all those bubble gum chewing college football fans who tuned into the games this weekend just to watch the Saints make a good story must feel right now.
Anyhow, speaking of retards, check this out: http://www.freetraficant.com/. It's brought to us by one Irish McNasty.

2007-01-12T12:59:00.000-08:00

2007-01-12T12:51:00.000-08:00

2007-01-08T18:28:00.000-08:00

Oh, when the Saints come marching in...
According to the Associated Press eight people have already been gunned down in New Orleans this year, which may seem like a lot, even for the Sodom and Gomora on the Miss-a-sipp, but it makes sense. These are tense days for eight NFL cities, Philadelphia, Nawleans, Boston (OK, New England is a region, but you get the point), Baltimore, San Diego, Indie, CHI Town, and Seattle. And the fan bases of each community are turning to their roots to soothe their nerves.
Philadelphia residents are preparing for Saturday's match up against the Saints by cramming down hot wings in obscene numbers and developing a non existent quarterback controversy. "If Donovan McNabb was healthy, wouldn't you still rather have Jeff Gracia at the helm?" You might as well ask if Jesus could QB your team, would you want him or McNabb? The Philly area's talk radio is filled with idiotic accusations and the maligning of Donovan, and his mother. Philly fans would have run Babe Ruth out of town given the opportunity.
On the other side of stupid, the good people of Indie have collectively stuck their heads in the ground, praising Peyton Manning, even as he threw three interceptions in the team's victory over Kansass. God damn are they cheery.
Baltimore fans are eating crabs and praying a key member of their team doesn't get arrested before they face the Colts.
The people of San Diego are probably sunning themselves, California Dreams, on such a winter's day and what not. But I haven't been to southern California recently so... well, who cares, Baltimore is going to win the AFC anyhow. (Bold statement from a strange man.)
I haven't been to Chicago recently either, but the fans there can't feel confident, even though the Bears are the top seed in the NFC. They suck out loud. Grossman is an INT waiting to happen and Chicago's once lauded defense is pathetic now. If I lived in Chicago, I'd order a couple of deep dish pizzas, pick up a 30 pack of High Life and baricade myself in Sunday. If the Bears lose Sunday, I predict a return to mob rule.
According to my sources in Washington, the fair weather fans of the Seattle Seahawks aren't even aware that their team is still in the hunt. My grandmother tells me most of her neighbors are getting ready to root for the Mariners, until May, when they give up and start looking forward to Huskies football.
For the people of New England, well, the folks up there are probably drinking terpentine and having sex with their cousins as they always do. (Wow, that was an unimaginative cheap shot.)
All in all, this should be the best weekend of football in a long time.

2006-12-22T07:32:00.000-08:00

It's the holiday season and I'm sitting here on a rainy day in West Chester, Pa., wondering what I could write that would most offend the few Christians who check out this site. What hasn't been said before though?
Anybody have a few comments that are religously charged? Nothing constructive, please.
And hurry up and submit your last few slang comments to the slang contest before I start handing out awards. Big Daddy has a substantial lead in the West Chester category, although Bob Noknow and Leigh have made a good effort. In the broader category, Bryan Hoffman with his nine entries in well out ahead of the pack.
Some of you may be curious how the drive from Columbia, Mo., to Chester Co. went. Well, it was over 1,000 miles of fun. Julia and I sang along with a couple of Motown CDs made by my lovely and talented wife Dianna to keep a steady rhythm. I traveled with a bag full of high-explosives, two shotguns, a rifle, and enough whohaa to keep the California penal system riot free for a month.
Julia and I stopped in Pittsburgh, Clairton more specifically, and turned it up to high-volum with R Kelly and Los Papas Grandes. We spent all of Saturday shooting guns and drinking beer. Experimenting with a new rifle grip, I allowed the scope of a 30.06 rifle to slam back into my head, splititing my sun glasses in half and leaving me dazed and bloodied. Not to fear. Dianna, my girl on the side, digs scars and I have already purchased a new pair of shades.
Now let's rev up some Eagles talk as well. This game Monday is big. I think they have it in them. The linebacking corps is hugely improved with the introduction of Gaither as an outside linebacker. Matt McCoy sucks and I can't wait until the team cuts him. The defensive line is playing better in the interior because the sweeps to the outside have been reduced. God, I hated watching McCoy lamely trot after sprinting running backs like a four-year-old in diapers. He compounded his lack of speed with poor tackling and a lack of intelligence. Gaither is going to be big.
B Dawk forced one fumble and intercepted one ball on Sunday and has been a force all season long. Probably the best safety in the league this year.
My prediction... 33-20 E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES!!!!!!!
...but the score will bely a tough hard fought game, much like last week against the Giants.

2006-12-14T17:59:00.000-08:00

The semester is winding down here in America's Heartland. And I have little to say on the matter. I'd like to talk a little politics here, especially the war, but I don't have time. This Stoner chick is putting the screws to me. Wants an edit for her story. She just threatened me and said she needed a drink before dealing with a Jerkstore of my magnitude.
Also, I had a request to join some NFL blog thing. Any thoughts?
Anymore entries for the contest?

2006-11-29T19:30:00.001-08:00

Sorry it's been so long, but I've been sick, feverish with school work. I've tried to shake it. I can't though. Maybe a couple of weeks more and I'll be clear.
I have events of note though. Many of us lost a friend earlier this month. Ron Jones, a former editor at the Watertown Daily Times and a generally good man, died and it's a god damned shame. He was as sharp as sudden lower back pain and by all accounts carried a huge trouser snake that all women other than my wife found beautiful.
I wish him the best.
But the circle of life continues, and I'm sure Ron would like us all to recognize that Bob Diehl, the mad monk of Jerusalem Road, and Julie Berry, 4 time winner of the Femme Fatale North Country Agricultural Related Employee Award of the Year, brought a fiesty little girl into the world Friday November 24. Well, actually Julie did the hard part and from what I hear, Bob spent most of his time trying, "to score some meds off hospital employees."
(Pictured above is Bob Diehl killing bugs with an electrified tennis racquet.)

2006-11-29T19:30:00.000-08:00

Sorry it's been so long, but I've been sick, feverish with school work. I've tried to shake it. I can't though. Maybe a couple of weeks more and I'll be clear.
Some notes though. Many of us lost a friend earlier this month. Ron Jones, a former editor at the Watertown Daily Times and a generally good man, died and it's a god damned shame. He was sharp as sudden lower back pain

2006-11-05T21:21:00.000-08:00

The first Sunday in November 2006
Bye week can be tough for anyone, but when your Philadelphia Eagles team is 4-4, dropping three games in a row, games that they should have won, but lost after failing to play like professionals, well, at that point, bye week is a welcome respite. If you're smart and you have an honest man at the helm, you use the bye to drill like hell with one consideration only -- beating the snot out of the next team on the schedule, in this case the Washington Redskins, the Beltway Bullies if you will.

The squad needs to watch game tape, recognize the strategies the Washington power elite will throw at them, and then develop a plausible response scheme. It's possible , no matter what a few weak-kneed national Democrats have asserted. I mean, watch the match up of Dallas and Washington earlier today -- a cruel, but literary twist for President Bush. The Skins won off a dirty Cowboys face mask, and a 15-yard penalty issued by the black and white striped officials of justice. With no time left on the clock, and due to the technicality that the game can't end on defensive penalty, Washington kicked a 47-yard-field goal, just barely, through the uprights.

Texas and the Republican Party faced a similar disaster earlier this year when Tom DeLay, "The Hammer," left the seat for his staunchly Republican district open to Democratic molestation in Tuesday's election. And only because he maybe screwed around with a few minor campaign finance laws and then didn't withdraw from the ballot at the proper time. A good team pays attention to the rules. False starts on third down will kill a drive.

The Republicans will probably ask themselves how they fucked up this badly -- oh, that whole war thing.

"Well, I wasnt' for it!" they'll scream like Al Gore, when pressed about Clinton's philandering.

This could turn into a serious shift to the left. It takes a while for these things to gain momentum, but the power always shifts.

Time for one more greyhound and then sleep, sleep and dreams of a divided executive and legislature. And if not divided then at least fractured.

2006-11-05T11:37:00.000-08:00

Dog attacks good looking journalist. Dog claims journalist bit her first in attempt to stir up news. More on this story as it develops.

2006-11-05T11:23:00.000-08:00

CONTEST REMINDER:
The 2006 M.B. Pell Vernacular Contest is coming to an end 2 p.m. December 24. That's a strict deadline. I need at least an hour to go over last minute entries before I start deciding winners and losers. Oh, yes, there will be a losers category.

There have been some strong entries thus far. Leigh, Bob NoKnow, and Dunn have jumped out in front of the West Chester crew, while Owen Lewis reigns supreme from the north country category. I think Country Bob shold stop his belly aching and start throwing some good terms at me. I mean jesus, dude spends how many years following hippy festivals and he can't toss out a few phrases of pure stoner jargon?

Big Daddy's example of the term "creamer" is exactly what the judges are looking for.

Definition, "creamer," a thick, smokey bong hit that looks milky, almost yellow, in the tube before inhalation. Creamers are intimidating and usually far in excess of the daily recomended dose. For extra points include an instance of the term or quote. For example, I remember taking a particularly nasty creamer one night in R's Rafters after hanging our at Andrea T.'s house. I threw up cheese doodles all over myself. And then passed out on the floor.

Get to work people for there will be prizes.

2006-11-03T15:52:00.000-08:00

I never thought it would happen to me...
Recently at an MU football game I garnered the attention of two charming fellows, good chaps. It turns out they were state troopers though. The hat, poncho and repeated warnings to me from them should have alerted me to this fact earlier, but MU was driving and I didn't fully appreciate their authority or anger until they were poking me in the ribs with billy clubs, prodding me out of the stadium. Apparently you're allowed to sneak whiskey into the game, but screaming at the coaching staff for terrible play calling...well, that's another matter all together.

I'd do it again though. I don't understand a team that starts first and goal on the one yard line and doesn't run one play with a running back. Five wide receivers and an empty back field from the shot gun four plays in a row, the fourth play being a fade pattern to a tight end who had already dropped three wide open touch down passes in the first half. It's called bunk ball ladies and gentlemen and while it may fly in the collegiate level, it doesn't work in the pros. That goes for every aspect of life too. It's a concept my trooper friends don't understand.

You can't fake power and determination. I don't care how many Middle Eastern nations you reduce to rubble, if you're witless, spoiled, chowder head, people will eventually notice. Not all people of course. Shit, some fans out there still support the spread offense. They don't care about meat and potatoes, time of posession and defensive stands, or well thought out policy and honest communication. These people are morons though and once I launch my voluntary sterlization plan, they will no longer be a concern.

Sleep well.

2006-10-23T20:51:00.000-07:00

Beauty is all around us.
Hoffstrocity brings up a good point, even though he was just beat up by some fake slam pig in Chelsea last weekend. Anyone can make a mistake... even a $25, 35 minute, four Kleenex mistake in a back alley. "I didn't realize it was an asshole until I finished and then I felt I had reasonable cause to refrain from the full payment agreed upon during the initial negotiation phase, which I held while talking on the phone with my grief counselor," he told me earlier today from the waiting room of his local clinic.

As I said though, he advanced a facinating point of interest: the Philadelphia Eagles lost a game Sunday on a 61-yard-fieldgoal by the Tampa Bay Bucs. They lost and the defense only gave up six points the entire day. They lost after Donovan and the offense scored with less than a minute left in the fourth quarter. They lost after the defesnse held a Tampa kicker who hadn't hit anything from more than 30 yards out all season to a 61-yard attempt.

I've been sucker punched a couple of times in the past, knocked senseless by a wild roundhouse to the teeth. The uncertain feeling after a brain jaring blow to the head is remarkably similiar to the way I felt when I saw that little brown football streak powerfully through the uprights. For just a second I thought it could still fall short. It couldn't be going that strong. The NFL record field goal is 62 yards... no. I was struck numb when I saw the refs signal, both hands up straight.

This is unbelievable and I friends will no longer stand for it. I'm drafting a letter that will be mailed TUESDAY offering my services to the Philadelphia football franchise. I need to get involved here, sitting on the sidelines watching the team self destruct is not an option. We could end up a six win team again real quick, and I don't have the stamina for that.

Until the Eagles get back to me, I need something to keep the spirits up. And so does everyone else. I fully believe in the healing powers of stiff spirits.

2006-10-22T21:51:00.000-07:00

Thanks for the positive feedback folks. I agree with Big Daddy, I do need an editor, every good writer does. A common lament of many of the journalists I'm learning from now is that they can't spell and constantly battle copy problems. It's an issue, but they say it with a nod and a wink that seems to suggest, there's more to story telling than clean copy. You need style, charisma, power. And besides, we've got to give the copy editors something to do. So I'll continue to chant my mantra: endeavorrrrrr to cleannnneeehhh zhhhhhe copyyyyy...at least until I find the right editor and leave the trivialities to the trivial. Man, that might not be the best note to start out my future relationship with my future copy editor. Shit, I have to apologize to a person I've never even met to convince them to take a job I can't even offer. Oh, well...they'll have to have a thick skin anyhow.But I think we should all keep in mind that this blog is designed specifically for firing from the hip, usually from the folds of a nice mellow six beer belly buzz. (Maybe I should stick with free form poetry, that would avoid further copy critiques.) But even so, I think I'll start writing these entries in Word and importing them.Maybe this will allow me to live up to the standards of one Drew Mangione. Ahhh, there you are peering out from the shadows…A little snarky aren’t we Mr. Mangione? I’ve never needed anything “desperately” since I was 18 (I’ll explain what I needed at that age when you’re older). Calling me desperate is a grossly erroneous characterization and you know it. Mean spirited? Juvenile? Self centered? Sure, all those descriptions fit, but desperate... No, desperation is your bag DGM, and don’t try to pawn that rancid shit off on me.

2006-10-21T00:06:00.000-07:00

More football? Another frenetic day of blurred thrusts and parries? Last weekend I told this girl I met after the bars closed that although Dianna was a good wife, every once in a while, not frequently, maybe once a week, she'd...push me down the stairs. Or maybe, she'd crack a rib with a stiff elbow to the mid section.
"She put gasoline in your gin and tonic?" she asked, wide eyed with slam pig innocence. "That's terrible. No, if she's doing that I think you're wrong. I really don't think she loves you. No, it's not your fault. No you really can do better I don't care what your mother says."
Now, I can only assume that as I said this I thought she knew how ridiculous the proposition of Dianna tossing my underwear with lye was. I pointed out D$ when she stumbled into the room, a can of High Life clutched in a hand that would have better served as a support beam off the couch.
"That's the wife who abuses you?" she asked.
"Does what? Oh, yes...in fact I still have a smudge on my back from where she touched me with the belt sander Sunday night. You've got to admit, she's cute."
"She's insane. I'm going over there and saying something..."
She was serious. And, she was the only person in the room dead cold sober. A scary kind of sobriety lurked around her eyes -- focused-- corrupt -- Christian. She probably votes anti abortion, pro death penalty every year. Shit, she even had a cross tattooed on her throat. The shadow must have obscured it earlier.
She got up and set a course for D$. Intersting, I thought. I wonder how Dianna will react to this? Not well, might even say I'm a psycho.
"Miss, girl, woman with the blond hair...I know you're Christian and I'll admit I'm terrified of making you look like a joyless idiot, but my wife has never sodomized me with the grip nob of a rolling pin...or otherwise abused me. She's a sweet kid..."
"You...you... asshole!" she screamed at me.
Time to make peace. Get her to quiet down. Maybe even encourage her to forget the whole incident.
"WHORE!!!!!" I yelled. "She told me her pussy tastes like strawberry ice cream with only light undertones of fresh water salmon," I yelled to the roomfull of people. "'As good as it gets,' I recall her saying."
Well, my friends took my side and her friends hers, but I think that really it would have broken down on social lines no matter what and at least this way I was on the offensive. Push a little further and I bet I could have gotten her back to the dark times -- high school -- the eating disorder -- mom and dad yelling all the time -- her boy friend mechanically pumping away as she cried softly in the dark.
Oh, jeeze...is that what I have in store for me again this weekend? Is my life really my fault? I blame Dianna.

2006-10-16T21:11:00.000-07:00

I'M STARTING TO RECONSIDER MY OPPOSITION TO COLLEGE FOOTBALL.
I'm just kidding, but certain fans make a compelling argument for the game. It's a fool's gold though. The bubblegum charm of college ball loses it's appeal when chewed too long and then your'e left searching for a place to spit out an unedible, rubbery wad of pink caulking.

2006-10-15T22:36:00.000-07:00

FLYING DOGS INVADE EAST COAST: THOUSANDS FLEE IN TERROR

2006-10-15T22:29:00.000-07:00

This is the rugged sort of individual you'd want with ya if the whole world went to shit. A key individual for any Plan Appalachia operations.

2006-10-11T22:09:00.000-07:00

2006-10-11T21:59:00.000-07:00

CONTEST ANNOUNCEMENT:
Uhh, so I have a story about the last stage of my time travel attempt. But that's not for right now.
We're talking contest with super big surpise prizes! I'm looking for any West Chester cronies to submit slang, lingo, word choice, bullshit that we have ever used in common conversation. I am especially interested in the West Chester verbage, but I will take applications for other regions as well, upstate New York, New Jersey...France. That is to say there will be a separate regional surprise prize.
The first place west Chester submission will win a happy fun surprise complete with crab comb. The second, third, fourth and fifth places will also receive a prize, but without the crab comb.
Area award winners outside of West Chester have the oportunity to host me, Michael Pell, for at least one night of drunken nonesense in your town and a giant, expensive prizes.
Awards will be announced in mid December.
Jerk Stores not required.

2006-10-08T15:09:00.000-07:00

TIME TRAVEL
Necessity is the low-rent, welfare, bitch-mother of invention. And I the limp-membered father who barely managed to shoot off my seed. But like my fore-fathers, Capt. James T. Kirk, Doctor Emmet Brown, William Preston Esq., and Theodore Logan I have achieved climax -- meaning success.
Today I had to work at the Missourian during the Eagles/Cowboys game. All week I schemed to get out of the shift. I even dressed up like a pirate ghost and haunted the newsroom in a bid to shutdown the place for at least the Sunday night game.
"I do remember the day you dressed up like a pirate," Matt Harris, an undergraduate said as he was reading this over my shoulder.
But a few meddling kids got in the way so I came up with a better plan. I was watching Superman, the original, when I realized that if I turned back time after my shift, I could watch the game and fulfill my responsibilities at the paper. Pretty simple solution really. First, I isolated myself during the game. I taped up posters in the newsroom demanding people not talk to me about the game and then I went back home to where Dianna was in seclusion in the east wing and popped in a tape of the game. Not as daring as Doc Brown or as rocking as Bill and Ted, but it's a workable plan.

Dr. Emmett "Doc" L. Brown: I'm sure in 1985, plutonium is available at every corner drugstore, but in 1955 it's a little hard to come by!

Biff Tannen: I have your car towed all the way to your house and all you've got for me is LIGHT beer?

One of the best 21st birthday quotes ever:
"I got kissed by a woman who smelled like cigarettes and Tanqueray." -- Matt Harris
He also got taken to bed by a 250 pound face-breaking goon. Matt had a good time.

2006-09-24T19:21:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-09-24T11:18:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-09-20T19:59:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-18T18:31:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-09-12T20:04:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-09-09T20:06:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-09-05T20:38:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-08-31T21:27:00.000-07:00

DON'T WORRY, BRYAN'S GOT THE CABOOSE
Please everyone save the following words from Hoff of, well, poignant scincerity for a time when you can sit back, open a fine bottle of Cabernet, and have a good cry because my boy really opens up.
August 30, 2006
Last night was a sad night indeed when we lost possibly my all-time favorite Eagles superstar due to the vagaries of the production parameters of this fragmenting of the audience to the cable television, carnivals, water parks...well, let's face it, Koy got canned b/c he didn't move his arms when he danced!
I tried (unsuccessfully I might add) to explain to my Eagles fan coworkers how and why Captain Neckbeard was my all-time favorite Eagle. Even the anecdote about his travelling/hygiene habits didn't sway them. You know, come to think of it, I'm starting to doubt whether you could squeeze even one ounce of human deceny from the whole lot of em. Let's just move on.
On a lighter note, the one guy w/ legs the same size as mine will finally no longer be wearing an Eagles jersey(Todd Pinkston). Let's face it, I love the Eagles more than almost anyone you'll ever meet and I don't want legs like mine playing for my squad. That is all. Pell, fix your misspellings on your damn blog.
Jeff "Hey Alonzo, I heard you suck almost as much as your blog" Evans
(The preceding was edited by Hells Pells Media Inc.)

2006-08-30T20:43:00.000-07:00

A bowl of gazpacho at a restaurant on Mallory Square in Key West, Fla.

The Bob deep in thought
How can you not love this guy? I mean, you know he's going to say something that knocks you on your ass the second he opens his eyes. This is probably the last stages of a thought he's been batting around since he saw X Men two years ago. Here's a fact, Bob Norris is the name of the New Garden Township supervisor. New Garden is in southern Chester County. Bob has a great name for politics, not like me. I may change my name to Max Powers.

THE PRIDE OF IRELAND
I can't believe the idiots in charge of this fly-by-night operation haven't put up a picture of this guy, Michael "R" Kelly. This is a picture of him at his home in Clairton, Pa. During the day he leads a normal life, making coke to melt steel, but he moonlights as the commander of the Irish Death Watch Guards Brigade. He and his Irish companions rabble rouse around the country attempting to keep the spirirt of Ireland alive in all he encounters.

Cool drinks?
Professor Verde in a picture from a book we co-wrote entitled, "Booze Where You Are: How to Sneak Drinks into Your Favorite Places." This is chapter Three, "The Beach, Why Swim Sober?" We detail how if you just tell the security guard there's nothing in your cooler but fruit juice and lemonade he'll be too lazy and overcome with heat to possibly search you.

2006-08-27T11:41:00.000-07:00

Here are a few more background shots for all ya. Up top is a photo I took at Yankee Stadium. These kids that sat in front of us cracked me up. They fought constantly and jeered Arod like only true Yankee fans could.
The seconf photo down is the one and only Col. Andrew Pell. He just got back from a mission to the spice islands of Antille for the U.S. Foreign Trade Advisory Committee. This is the first delegation he's ever lead solo (by the way he's the youngest person to hold such a post since John Quincy Adams was sent to St. Petersburg in 1809.)
Then we have Adam and Katie in West Chester.
The photos I've been posting have been kind of a historical record of the last year, so that way we can put it down for the record and move on to the present, or actually what will be the present once it's here. I think the last photo sums up our time in Copenhagen rather nicely. It's D$ and Kayote, my cousin J.T.'s wife posing right before a stand off with some of our neighbors. Good times.

2006-08-27T11:08:00.000-07:00

2006-08-26T15:59:00.000-07:00

The first image up there is of Dianna and myself at a Japanese restaurant in West Chester. We went there with Adam and his girl Katie, who is bad ass even though she punched me in the kidney and I spent hours pissing out clotted blood.

Then there are some shots from Key West. Ben Green and Leigh Stewart, Ben's girl on the side, made the trip to the southern most point in the United States with Dianna and myself in July. Good times all around.

2006-08-21T20:45:00.000-07:00

Matt Dunn ladies and gentlemen.
I have it on good authority that Matt Dunn, my friend and your favorite, authorized the following statement.
Effective immediately I am suspending all Fun Factory activities and am stepping down from the post of Big Daddy. This move has nothing to do with any ongoing investigations by any federal authorities. I have nothing but respect for the fun factory and its mission, the build fun, but I am afraid my leadership could be more of a distraction than a positive in the months to come. I have nothing more to say at this time.
--30--
Shocking words from a shocking man. (Oh, and I love the little --30-- that his staff included at the end. It looks so official, like a real piece of news written by a real reporter and not just a cheap press release conned together by idiot PR lackies.) We will keep our readers, both of you (Bryan Hoffman and Bob Norris) informed of latest events.

2006-08-21T20:23:00.000-07:00

Bryan following a nice evening drive to the north country, former home of Dianna and myself. The evening dumped about 13 inches of fresh snow on us, not an unusual occurrence.

2006-08-21T19:15:00.000-07:00

One feature on this "blog" will be outside commentary. Today we have the inspirational words of one Bryan Hoffman. Don't let the name fool you, he's French.
A Human Hoffstrocity
Pell you shitheel! I'm a semester away from finishing up my doctorate so you better get on that "degree" of yours touts sweet. (Pell here for an explanation: Hoff and myself have a standing bet, $25 million and two Hawaiian islands to the first man to earn a doctorate in journalism. I'm enrolled at the University of Missouri masters program and he's taking online courses.)
There's no shot in hell someone in Missoura is giving you a haircut that can hide the fact that you're a deformed parabola headed loser. (Sorry for all of the explanations, but I don't pay him enough for coherency. Anyway the preceding sentence is just a general pot shot at me. He often side tracks in this direction. Oh, and he doesn't even know what a parabola is.)
Your blog made me laugh...and cry. Laugh b/c it's funny and cry b/c you're a blogger now. I might have to add my own posts to your blog, mostly berating you and everything you stand for. Plus, if my name shows up on that damn site you'll hear from my attorney. (His attorney was deported three months ago, so good luck with that.)
As for the Birds. I had them pegged at a 16-0 regular season followed by a steamrolling/asspounding of everyone in the playoffs to go the distance undefeated, mostly led by Captain Koy Detmer. That is until Evans told me I might not be able to watch opening day at his house. Something stinks and if you ask me, that stink is coming from the Ho-Train. I'm now going to return to "looking at" my shirtless Jeremy Bloom poster.

Hoff is pictured above. The "Birds" in reference are the Philadelphia Eagles. Hoff and I share only two things, a love of the Birds and a intense dislike of eachother.

2006-08-21T06:36:00.000-07:00

Breakfast log:
It's an exciting day and I'll need plenty of energy, not so much because I'm attending class today for the first time in five years, but because it takes a lot of energy to keep blood flowing to all extremities while walking around on campus.
I made up a bowl of oatmeal and mixed in some bananas and local honey. My Kroeger's brand orange juice, which actually causes scurvy rather than preventing it, complimented the meal perfectly.

2006-08-19T17:19:00.000-07:00

2006-08-19T15:09:00.000-07:00

So it's early in the afternoon, a Saturday, and the cicadas hum in Columbia, Missouri. This is the calm before the academic shit-storm. To keep up morale, I've been running the old engine on high.
A good friend of mine, Sir Rodney Knowno, a good man in a pinch with a sort of suave Inspector Gadgetesque manner, sat me down earlier this month before leaving the east coast for the Midwest.
He said, "Pell, a man like you needs to take advantage of modern mediums." Rodney paused here and leveled a fixed gaze across the room, forming just the right words in his mind's eye before continuing. "You've...got things to say -- a lot of things to say. I think you make sense for the most part. I'll be perfectly honest, I like where you're going. You get down to the truth...pretty quickly and well, the world needs more of that."
"Really?" I said.
"Mmmm, yeah. Take advantage of this electronic age and you could be the next Thomas Paine."
"No."
"Uhh, yeah."
And here we are. After a few fun household chores, I got to it this evening and started my very own Online Log. The air up here in the logosphere is very fine indeed.
But then my bitchy wife, dianna, started up with her "rules" and "regulations," always trying to hold me down.
"Basically, if anything you did with me/to me would get an NC-17 rating...you can't talk about it in your blog," she said after much deliberation.
Ahhhh...it's just like that time I was trying to make my own black powder and she told the saltpeter distributor that I didn't have state approval to conduct the transaction. He was hot for the deal and his boss knew it was the right thing to do, a nod and a hand shake would have served those two just fine, but Dianna has to put what we all know out in the open and queer the deal. No, matter now though.
I'll have to find out just would get a NC-17 rating, really walk a fine line. Let's face it, she'll never check this site anyway.
To cover the business end of this whole thing, well, the picture above and to the right is Julia, my dog. We had a photo shoot last March. It was the first real warm day and Julia strode forth to survey her domain. Her lands are considerably smaller here in Columbia. But on the plus side, she does have access to many dog parks, like the one pictured in the upper left. Yeah, that other dog's sniffing her ass.
Keep checking, we'll have some good shit up here.