Like if you're in the same room with my dad and you ask him pointedly upon greeting, the specific question, "Whattaya know?" because he will, every time without fail, reply, "All around a pig's ass is pork."
- In reference to what you need to know on most plumbing jobs -- "Shit rolls downhill. Payday's Friday."
- On a specific person he considered a dullard -- "That guy could fuck up a wet dream."
- When discussing tough economic times -- "If chickens were free, I couldn't buy the end ass off a hummingbird." (which, to this day, I still do not understand; and believe me, I've bent my brain trying to make it make sense).
Support your local beer distributor.
Despite exploring other brands over the years, I think I'll always be an Adidas guy.
And yes, I am fully aware that the all-white tennis shoes has become a fashion pariah of sorts, but I couldn't care less. Granted, I'm not going to rock the white-shoe-with-blue-jeans look, or the spotless white kicks with the sport coat and porkpie hat (unless I'm looking to be ridiculed while getting my ass kicked), but I will always keep the Stans in rotation. In recent years, I have gone the way of Asic running shoes for walking the dog, and I recently used an REI gift card to replace those Asics with a pair of Salomons that are ultra-light and really comfortable. But I always be down for the man.
Can you imagine? If seminal Detroit rock icons (or, as I call them *rockons*), the MC5, had taken a different lyrical path when composing perhaps the greatest rock anthem of all time, "Kick Out The Jams"?
Imagine, if you will, if the boys had a strong taste for domesticity in those days. Instead of starting the battle cry with "Kick out the jams, motherfucker!," you had this:
"Kick out the jams, Betty Crockuh! Like, you know, some distinctly flavored preserves. Maybe something in an apricot spread?"
Just does not have the same ring to it, does it?
Yesterday's post has had some residue heading into today. I love a good fire. I think a lot of people do, especially those friendly communal types and not some West Coast wildfire blaze, eating up houses. Those are neither good nor fun.
If you find yourself around the warming glow of the bonfire, there is a strong likelihood that you are either in esteemed company and/or somewhere dark and quiet that is moderately untouched by light pollution. This can be at a cabin, campground or even a beach, if certain municipalities still allow such a thing. We, like a lot of people, have a portable fire pit in our backyard, a house-warming gift courtesy of our good friends Heather and Pete,and we manage to put it to use a few times a summer.
It is easy to become lost in the flames, to lose whatever emotional or mental bearings you had at that time, like taking a 20-minute nap without necessarily falling into unconscious sleep. Chances are you may be seated, perhaps after a long day at a nearby beach or campground, or, if you're like me and some of my friends, you are standing around and shuffling a bit because it's 30 degrees outside and you're trying to keep the blood flowing a little, as was the case on this night.
I'll burn anywhere, pretty much anytime.
Since age 19, I have had a small amount of tattoo work done. A certain percentage has been devoted to displaying images of the flame. And I did this because during those years, I always felt as if I was on fire, carrying this intensity like a torch and scorching those around me who had it coming.
You can go on for hours with the metaphors, the furious power to destroy when unchecked, the intoxicating glow, the smell, like none other. It can heat, sustain, cook, kill, be a beacon, and can destroy what you no longer wish to exist. We camped one year and in anticipation of the fire, for several months beforehand, I saved every piece of work-related notes, shitty e-mails from co-workers, bullshit evidence from disposable people, or as I like to call, them, fuckers. And when we threw down on Lake Michigan for 3 straight nights, I slipped each piece, one by one, into the beast. It was actually very liberating. There is something to be said about sitting around a fire with people you trust. I mean, literally, there is something to be said, and I think this guy posited it best.
“For millions of years our race has seen in this blessed fire the means and emblem of light, warmth, protection, friendly gathering, council. All the hallow of ancient thoughts, hearth, fireside, home is centered in its glow, and the home tie itself is weakened with the waning of the home fire. Not in the steam radiator can we find the spell; not in the water coil; not even in the gas log; they do not reach the heart. Only the ancient sacred fire of wood has power to touch and thrill the chords of primitive remembrance. When men sit together at the campfire they seem to shed all modern form and poise, and hark back to the primitive—to meet as man and man—to show the naked soul. Your campfire partner wins your inner love; and having camped in peace together, is a lasting bond of union—however wide your worlds may be apart.” --Ernest Seton Thompson
Unseasonably warm temps this weekend, especially for the first week in November. Sunny and perfect Saturday, around 65. After running around all morning and day, was finally able to knock out some leaf moving and take the evening to burn some woody debris. It was a relaxing way to end another solid weekend.
Don't get it twisted. I'm liberal minded and even I can't stand my fellow leftists. I certainly have no patience for socially-conscious anybody or anything. And I realize that the White Panther Party of the 1960s had holes in some of their theories, including trying to blow up federal buildings. I'm a fat suburban blogger who can't figure out if he's more down for the hip-hop sound or too wrapped up in classic hardcore to know that either calling card, at 40, with a Labradoodle, a brand-new skateboard, and a baby on the way, is nearly farcical in its absurdity.
I work in an office. I wear sweater vests and oxfords. Mine is the model that revolutionaries, be they of the '60s or '10-and-beyond, seem to rail against. So, why do I love every syllable of this?
White Panther Party Statement
1969
We are the mother country madmen in charge of our own lives and we are taking this freedom to the people of America, in streets, in the ballrooms and teenclubs, in their front rooms watching TV, in their bedrooms reading underground newspapers, or masturbating or smoking secret dope, in their schools where we come and talk to them or make our music.. For the first time in America there is a generation of visionary maniac white motherfucker country dope fiend rock and roll freaks who are ready to get down and kick out the jams — ALL THE JAMS — break everything loose and free everybody from their very real and imaginary prisons — even the chumps and punks and honkies who are always fucking with us. We demand total freedom for everybody! And we will not be stopped until we get it.
We are bad.
There’s only two kinds of people on the planet: those who make up the problem and those make up the solution. WE ARE THE SOLUTION. We have no problems. Everything is free for everybody. Money sucks. Leaders suck. School sucks. The white honkie culture that has been handed to us on a silver platter is meaningless to us! We don’t want it!
Our program of rock and roll, dope and fucking in the streets is a program of total freedom for everyone. We are totally committed to carrying out our program.. We will do anything we can to drive people crazy out of their heads and into their bodies. We have developed organic high-energy guerilla bands who are infiltrating the popular culture and destroying millions of minds in the process.
As a student, I had a habit of hanging around some sketchy people, who kept friends that generated even more suspect. We were in a bar in Detroit, Alvin's on Cass, drinking in the middle of the day -- getting really drunk, actually -- when one member of our party heard a break from the local public radio/college station announcing a ticket giveaway. Caller 10 gets 2 free tickets to that evening's lecture by reknowned expert on death and dying, Elizabeth Kubler Ross. Ross, an eloquent intellectual, was the mastermind behind the Kubler Ross Model, known to the rest of us as the five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance).
One of the guys at our alcohol pool, Gino, politely excused himself from the table and when he returned, he announced that he was the lucky caller. He walked over to the station as we continued to drink and returned with not only the winning pair, but an extra pair he wrangled from the station, giving us four total. "This is going to be great," he said, as we kept drinking for another few hours.
We stumbled in the rain to the hall, arriving late and not at all subtley, with bluster and ruckus, we grabbed four seats and settled. I was trying to jam my closed umbrella under my seat when it hit the back of the chair in front of me. A man much older than my 22-year-old self turned around and scowled. We all kind of laughed a little. Kubler Ross, at this point, is about 10 minutes into her lecture. I shimmy around again, trying to get my coat off, and I accidentally hit the chair again -- and I feel really bad about this because I'm really trying not to be an asshole. The man in the row ahead of me turns again and says "Do you mind?"
"Sorry," I whisper, which probably sounded more like "Slorrwwee," as I was embracing, in my intoxication, my native tongue of Slurrvic.
Minutes later, a couple of the guys, Gino and Ben, are carrying on a conversation in somewhat hushed tones, but clearly audible by those in our immediate radius. The guy in front of me turns around and hisses like a cat. Those two stop, look at each other, and revisit their laughter and conversation. At this point, the people next to, behind, and in front of us, are all glaring in our direction. We're half-wet, fully smashed, reeking of smoke, and not at all respecting their ability to enjoy this lecture. The man in front, tired of all of this, very slowly and deliberately, so for dramatic effect we can very much see it coming, shifts his shoulders as he is about to turn around again and, this time, to probably tell us to zip it. He is not even fully turned around before we all fall completely silent as Gino says "This motherfucker turns around one more time, I'm jamming this umbrella of yours in his fucking ear canal." We all heard it clearly. The man in front of us heard it clearly, too. And he slowly returned to his looking-forward position, before standing up and leaving his seat. Problem solved.
One minute later, we are being canopied by two university security personnel. "Pack it up, boys. Time to go," we are told. As we are escorted out, we continue to make a scene, gesturing to people in their seats as we make our way up the aisle. "Enjoy the show," we say, giggling, staggering, and looking like complete assholes.
Not sure why we thought attending an Elizabeth Kubler Ross lecture, after drinking for about 4 hours, was a good idea. Nor am I sure how I felt justified in behaving like such a shit, ruining what was arguably a heady presentation by an internationally-recognized authority on the very delicate matter. What I do know is that I'm glad -- as I'm sure others might be -- that stage of my life has passed.
So, what does that say about people who talk on cell phones or to their companions while in the middle of a movie theater experience. If they're my age now, ignoring all social courtesies once the feature presentation begins, what is their excuse? I mean, I was young, drunk, and stupid. Maybe that makes them just stupid?
This, for about a year and a half, was the door to my apartment on Detroit's far West Side.
It wasn't a bad place to live, until some shitheads came and shot up the side of the building, looking for the idiot in the apartment behind ours. I moved out 2 days later.
Loved the accordian gate, though. Very handy.
It's like this, every day when I get home from work. Lamont is just not himself without his evening constitutional.
