Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Nothing's Gonna Change My World

This is another great guitar song from the Beatles' White Album, including, as it does, guitars both crunchy and squealy. What more could a man ask for? Plus, fuck gimme more cowbell — how 'bout that fire bell in this song?

I'm pretty sure this song has the distinction of having the longest title of any song the Beatles ever released, it's official title being "Everybody's Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey". Of course, John never actually sings that line; instead, he consistently sings "Everybody's got something to hide 'cept for me and my monkey."

One of the inspirations for this song was an editorial cartoon John saw which depicted Yoko, for whom John had recently abandoned both wife and child, as a monkey on John's back, her long claws thrust into him, presumably sucking the talent out of him. (Needless to say, there were racist under- and overtones to a lot of the early objection in the press to Yoko's sudden appearance on the Beatles scene.) John took that depiction and turned it on its head — basically saying, "Fuck you! You're all hypocrites, and you're all hiding something, but me and my 'monkey'? At least we're honest", which you may or may not buy; but it's certainly how John saw himself & Yoko. To John, it was them against the world.

The White Album sessions are notorious for having been just chock full of bad vibes and therefore pretty ungroovy for any of the participants because there was so much tension between the group members by then, a goodly amount of it caused by John's insistence on bringing Yoko to every recording session. (He actually had her sing a line on "The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill", the only female lead vocal on any official Beatles release1.) John has been quoted many times saying the White Album is really "me with a backing group; Paul with a backing group; George with a backing group" — that there was really very little cooperation or cross-pollination between group members. George famously brought Eric Clapton in to play lead on "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" because he thought the presence of a guest would get the others to behave and treat his composition with the seriousness he felt it deserved but had not been getting.

Yet, despite that, despite the tension, despite the fact that the Beatles weren't exactly "playing well together" by this time, some of the songs on the White Album sound as though they must have been a blast to record, just a ton of fun; and "EGStHEM&MM" is one of them. Because you can hear all the background yelps and "woo"s from John and Paul and it just sounds as though they're really enjoying themselves. And it always amazes me that they didn't just crack up laughing while recording those manic "C'mons" at the end of the song. (If you guessed that the working title of this song was "Come On, Come On", go to the head of the class.)

Considering how at loggerheads John and Paul were by the time The Beatles were recording the White Album, it's interesting to note that John's favorite song on the album was Paul's "Why Don't We Do It in the Road", which Paul went off and recorded with no one else but Ringo while John and George were working on "Revolution 9", a "song" Paul wanted nothing to do with. John always resented Paul for not including him in this recording, and even claimed that he could have sung it  — Paul's song  — better than Paul! (Hard to credit, since Paul kicks the shit of of "WDWDIitR". It's hard to imagine its being sung better.)

And one of Paul's favorite songs on the White Album is John's "Happiness Is a Warm Gun" — understandable, because it's possibly the best song on the album.
I went on a 4.96-mile run this morning, which brought my March total up to a LuMu-infuriatingly weird 110.21 miles total. (Deal with it, LuMu!) That's the most I've ever run in one month.


(Added  later: O, um, I should probably have mentioned above that I listened to "EGStHEM&MM" about 20 times in a row on my run this morning, because it's a good song to run to. That's why I wrote about it.)
1 I say lead vocal because, technically, there had been some prominent female backing/harmony vocals on one Beatles release, an early version of "Across The Universe"; during the recording of which, two "Apple Scruffs" — female fans who hung around outside the studio hoping to spot a Beatle — named Lizzie Bravo and Gayleen Pease (could someone be named "Gayleen Pease" anywhere other than in England?) were brought in, literally off the street, no singing experience at all, to sing harmony vocal. (You can hear this (significantly sped-up) version here. I've always preferred this version to the piece of shit version that that hack producer Phil Specter Spector issued on the Let It Be album.)

The version of the song containing these girls' prominent harmony vocals, which is a different mix, though not version, from the one the Beatles ultimately released on the Let It Be album (from which the girls' vocals were removed), was given to the World Wildlife Fund and released on their charity album called No One's Gonna Change Our World.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010


Large Hadron Collider smashes protons, record
The $10-billion structure at Geneva collides particles at three times previous energy levels. It hopes to find smaller particles and make other physics discoveries.
I have to say, I never quite understand this stuff (to understate it dramatically), but it fascinates me. (h/t to Teh 'Bride for alerting me.)

And, of course, that LA Times headline reminds me of The Simpsons episode in which Homer fakes his own death by throwing a dummy that looks like him over a cliff into the river; beavers attack it and rip its pants off just before it gets sucked into a turbine and shredded.

The next day's headline in The Springfield Shopper?

Reclaiming April

T.S. Eliot once famously called April "teh cruelest month"1; literary/biographical scholars recently discovered that this was because he came home one day to find April fucking his wife. And he was all, "This, THIS is how you tell me you're a lesbian? Helloooo?! Hallmark has a card for everything these daze, you know?" And his wife was all, "O, Tommy. I'm not a lesbian. I did this to get back at you for all the future freshman college students who will take Introduction to Anglo-American Poetry 101 and will be forced to read your obscurantist tripe, those lines that mean nothing and end with a footnote2 promising clarification and then when they go to the footnote it'll be in fucking GREEK or some shit, and they'll be all, 'Eliot, you fucking dick!' and their profs will assure them it's genius because it's indecipherable and like that. This Sapphic act" — vaguely indicating April, here —  "is for them!" And of course T-Bag is all, "You realize that, technically, that's not the correct usage of 'obscurantist'?" And Mrs. T-Bag turns to April and is all like, "BLARRRGH!1! See what I have to put up with?" And April's all, "Whatev. 'S been real. I'm outta here."

And that's why the first line of "The Wasteland" now reads:

April is the cruelest month, breeding
instead of the original way Eliot had it, which was:

Woo-Hoo! It's April! Warm temps again! SHOW US YOUR TITZ, BITCHEZ!1!

Which most scholars agree is a way better opening line, yo.

But it is not my intention here to argue the merits, or lack thereof, of Eliot's poetry; or to speculate on the subject of whether or not his wife was, as we say in Joisey, "a whoo-wer". It is my intention to reclaim the Good Name of Teh Month of April.

And this is how I intend to do so:

I hereby announce that, for the entire month of April, I will attempt to post only the most genteel of posts. No "fuck this" or "n*ts@ck that"; no calling people "anal whoo-wers" even when it's true, for truth will not be a defense for boorish behavior in Teh Genteel Month of April.

I will also attempt to post something every single day for the full 30 days of April, a feat I nearly achieved, unintentionally, in this here month of March. The posts will all probably be very short because if I can't say, "eff this" and "n*ts@ck that", then let's face it, I got nothin', and I'm not un-selfaware enough not to realize that. So it'll be interesting to see what I come up with, or, to put it another way, it'll probably fucking bore your dicks off, or, if you're a chick, it may just bore a dick on  you — I'm not sure how it works with you skirts when you get penis-sheddingly bored; something will happen down there; I'm just not sure what.

And so but then those of you whose blogs I read should be prepared because my comments in the month of April are bound to be even more offensive than usual. All this pent up sleaze has to come out somehow and, from my perspective, that's basically what you guys are for; that's your purpose. O, sure — to you, you're all about, "Woo-Hoo! I PR'd this weekend!" or "I finished my dissertation!" or "I finally made friends by giving everybody free fudge!" or "I officially became more of a wingnut than Glenn Beck!" or "I fucked a horse!" or "I have a killah @$$!" or "GAH!" or "Ranty Ranty Rant Rant!"

But from here, from my perspective, that's not what you're about. You're about providing me with an outlet for my gross and inappropriate thoughts when I get bored at work.

And in April, I'll need you more than ever.

TIA for your cooperation.
Ran 5.07 miles in 44:33 this morning for an 8:48 pace. I am up to 105.25 miles for the month. If I can get a 4.75 mile run in tomorrow, I can make it an even 110 miles for March. This may or may not happen, which pretty much covers it, the law of excluded middles being what it is and all.
I have no idea why Cletus never told us that he was interviewed on the radio by Don Savage:

1 Eliot seemingly had it in for months with thirty days in them; because in an early draft of "Teh Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock" (later revised), he, less famously, called November a "cocksucker"; and — despite exhaustive searches through journals, letters, memoirs, etc. of everyone who knew Eliot, as well as through the letters and journals of Eliot himself — scholars have found no evidence that November ever wronged him in any way. He also once took a paper bag full of dog poop, brought to September's house, lit the bag on fire, left it on the stoop, rang the bell and ran away. Luckily, September wasn't home — in fact, was off fucking Eliot's wife at the time, though Eliot never knew that, so the joke was kinda on Eliot again. There is no evidence Eliot ever did anything to June, which has led certain scholars to speculate that he had an unrequited love for that month.

2 It is generally agreed that people who overuse footnotes, especially footnotes that don't really provide any useful information, are total dicks. Also, people named Tom/Tommy/Thomas are invariably douchenozzles.

Monday, March 29, 2010

It's Not Soft

Ian got invited to this birthday party yesterday; kids his age usually have their parties at like bowling alleys (which is where Ian's has been for the past 3-4 years) or skate parks or the like. But the kid yesterday had his party at this place called "Airsoft" which is where kids — and, we learned, adults; lots & lots of adults in every conceivable variety of cammo1 — go to pay money to stalk each other with guns that shoot little white pellets in this room filled with particle board structures. The idea for kids is to have fun playing soldier or hunter or wild west lawman or whatever whereas the idea for adults is to broadcast to anyone who sees you in your ridiculous get-ups that you a member of an elite group of fighting men known collectively as Teh Lame-oid Fucking Luuuuzers.

I was certain that Ian would love this experience because, for reasons neither Teh 'B. nor I can fathom, he's really interested in fishing (which we allow him to do) and hunting (which, needless to say, we do not). Fishing and hunting are pretty big in these parts, though, and as soon as Ralph, the hunter/fisherman down the street whom Ian wishes were his REAL dad, comes home with a buck tied to the hood of his truck, Ian is OUT THE DOOR to go down there and experience the gore firsthand; and he comes home and regales us with Ralph's stories of tracking and killing the deer, and how long he'll be having venison for dinner, and here, Ian, have some fresh-made deer-jerky, and here's some more to take home for the family, etc.

Teh 'Bride and I resisted, for the longest time, even letting Ian have toy guns to play with. Inevitably, they made their way into his life, because people give these things as birthday gifts to boys with the same predictable inevitability that they give Barbies to girls, because otherwise how would the former ever learn that killing is fun? And how would the latter ever learn that their bodies are deformed and worthless and, when they grow up, no man will ever love them because their tits aren't big enough and their waists aren't half the size of their 36 inch hips and, hey, here's an idea — put down the pulled pork every once in a while, heifer-girl, and they TOTALLY could be, but why bother because it doesn't matter because you'll never be a natural blonde anyway, so study hard, chickie, because all YOU have to look forward to is a "rewarding" career, in which you'll make 70 cents on the dollar compared to the man at your company who's doing the exact same job as you. Pfffttt! That'll keep you warm at night and leave you a couple million dollars when it dies in its sleep before you!1!

I am not too upset over the fact that Ian plays with toy guns, though. Because back when I was a kid, and the flintlock had just been invented, I and all the other kids in Colonial America played with guns all the time. And yet despite that, I still grew up to be this Total Pacifist Pussy that you all know and pretend to tolerate. I'm confident Ian will ultimately follow in my pussy footsteps and grow up having these same fights with his son (my hypothetical grandson) who will be certain he has Teh Lamest Dad in Teh Universe.

And I thought Ian would definitely lurve this Airsoft place because he'd actually get to hunt the KKK: Kammo-Klad-Kids. But here's the thing: Ian didn't like it so much because the "soft" in "Airsoft" is a total lie. The little white pea-sized pellets are hard plastic, and even though the place supplies goggles and chest protectors and Ian wore 4 shirts, three sets of pants, his shin guards from back in the day when he never played soccer, etc., he still managed to get hit in relatively unprotected areas, like his @$$-cheek, which had a nice little (and still-expanding, as of this morning) bruise on it; and his forearm, which had a quarter-inch raised contusion on it. And like most people who are into hunting, Ian's more into inflicting pain and death than being on the receiving end of it.

I don't think he wants to go back to Airsoft. But that could change. At the bus stop this morning, he did allow that it was, in fact, fun when it was his turn to shoot the other kids, especially when he got to use the automatic pellet gun. So it could go either way.
Today, I did next to nothing, exercise-wise. Now I know how those adult Luuuuzers in Cammo feel.
1 I'm aware that the preferred American spelling is "camo". But I prefer teh Kanadian spelling because two m's just makes more sense to me, you hosers.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Boner Street

Today's 9.67-mile run included a section through a development hereabouts that has streets shaped like this:

Something about running on these streets — maybe it's just my native competitiveness? — gives me a boner1.

That 9.67 miles, however, put me over 100 for the month of March; now even though I know 100 miles is about what Dr. Super Runner2 and his Dad SteveQ do in a week, still I am somewhat bone-headly happy at the prospect of having my highest mileage month 4EVAH (since I started tracking mileage, at least), and I may even get one or two more runs in before the end of the month, making a 110 miles total not outside the realm of possibility. Or, to put it less wordily, making it possible.

I was even relatively happy with my pace, which was a 9:18-mile average, which for me is pretty good for that distance; because anything above 8 miles, for me, qualifies as a long run. I guess this was also good practice for the end of next month, when I have a 15k race scheduled. That will be by far the longest I've ever raced and I have but two goals in mind: finish it; and do the whole thing running — i.e., without walk breaks.

These are modest goals, but as those of you who read this blog on a regular basis know, I am a pretty fucking modest man. Perhaps Teh Most Modest Man 4EVAH in Teh History of Teh Known & Unknown Universe. Wait. Now that I think about it, there's no Perhaps about it. I am3.
Yesterday, I brewed me up a Grand Cru Belgian White. Today it'll be a nice Dry Rye Roggenbier, the first time I've brewed one. You hear a lotta foax say that beer is just liquid bread because it uses a lot of the same ingredients as bread, but these Roggenbiers really do taste like liquid rye bread. And I mean that in the good sense. I won't get a chance to sample these beers until May, but that's okay. Good beer is worth waiting for.

I have one other kit here but I probably won't get a chance to brew it today.
Teh 'Bride's younger brother just e-mailed that he was interviewed for 40 minutes on some local Delaware AM station regarding Health Care Reform. Her brother, whom she calls "Wombat", is running for state senate in DE.

I think it's cute that Delaware has state senators, just like The Big Grown Up States. Delaware is so cute it makes me want to incorporate myself there.  

Who's a cute little statey-wate? Delaware is! Delaware is!A-wubba-wubba-wuuba-wubba!1!

1 Mine's bigger.

You must've seen that coming. (That's what SHE — O, never mind. If I continue with this endless line of thought I'll never be able to make a graceful exit from this stupid footnote. Meet me back up top. (THAT'S ...! etc.))

2 Who, by the way, just came in first in his AG at Trailbreaker. Don't wait till he writes his race report to stop by his blog and congratulate him because at the rate he posts to the blog these daze? Yeah, that report may not happen in our lifetime.

3 ... I said/ To no one there/ And no one heard at all not even Teh hair/ On my n*ts@ck.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Saturday Routine

Just finished doing some exercise, then about 10 minutes on Morrissey (for a total of 3.5 miles and NO, BrianFlash, I'm not ready for the Olympics because Morrissey is my pussy-@$$ recumbent exercise bike, named after Teh pussy-@$$ Smiths singer in honor of his pussy@$$edness and so whenever you see me saying "I gave it HARD to Morrissey" that means I rode my bike and you can take THAT to mean whatever you want) and then did about 12 minutes of yoga with Rodney Yee, the whereabouts of whose junk is still a mystery to me but I suspect Morrissey1 is involved in some way better left to the imagination and if you hear a loud, high-pitched SQUEAAAAAALLLLL!!!!! coming2 from the area of South Joisey, that there is killah-@$$ed toyBuNz going to town imagining that scenario because in South Joisey? Yeah, the '80s never really ended.

Anyroad, today is the day we go to visit Teh 'Dad in Philadelphia and I just floated the idea to Teh 'Bride that we go later in the afternoon and stop for an early dinner on the way back at this pub in Lambertville that has both Fullers ESB and Chimay on tap; but Teh 'Bride shot that down because it won't be warm enough today for them to open their patio for dining (she claims) and whereas it's teh beer that is the attraction of this place for me, for Teh 'Bride? It's all about the al fresco3 dining exerience. Because neither Chimay nor Fullers is an especially dark beer and as I've noted before Teh 'Bride is an even bigger beer racist than Rush Limbaugh is an actual racist4.

So we'll go see Teh 'Dad after lunch, as usual, and instead of drinking a good beer, I guess I'll be brewing one, because I ordered 3 kits from my Minnesota supplier, Midwest Supplies, and they just arrived the other day, making me as giddy as Rush Limbaugh gets when his pusher arrives with his supply of white OxyContin pills.
And speaking of Extremely White People and Minnesotans, here's The Continuing Story Of Super Fast SteveQ:

1 Pussy-@$$ singer, not pussy-@$$ bike.

2 THAT'S WHAT SH- ... O, forget it.

3 Al Fresco, coincidentally, is also the name of the Guy Who Broke Morrissey's (singer's, not bike's) Heart and turned him into a Pussy-@$$ Singing Virgin Bog-Trotter With A Giant Irish Melon On His Shoulders.

4 Rush insists that all his illegal OxyContin and Viagra pills be WHITE because he's THAT principled!1! If he even sees a dark pill, he starts to shake even more violently than Michael J. Fox did when he was faking having Parkinson's so he could kill babies.

Friday, March 26, 2010

You'll Have To Have Them All Pulled Out


I am starting this blog post off with that ejaculation2 because this morning I went for what turned out to be a 5-mile run (exactly 5, totally by accident) and it was at a craptacular 8:54 pace. I'm usually happy enough to make an ejaculation of some sort any time my pace is under 9 minutes, but I'm not happy with this sub-9 minute pace because as I logged this run into my M$ Excel "Glaven's Runs" spreadsheet, I couldn't help but ejaculate. (Wait — that period back there is a typo; I wasn't finished with that sentence.) I couldn't help but ejaculate: "I managed an 8:54 pace two daze ago while running nearly a mile and a half farther!" And this totally pissed me off almost as much as having to figure out who's gonna clean up all these ejaculations around my computer this morning.

Of course, I didn't get much sleep last night and it was raining this morning and also my vagina hurt. But I won't make excuses for this bad pace because my breasts are SOOO tender this morning, especially the nipples.

Yeah but so then so I am NOT a very happy camper, but I'm trying not to make anymore ejaculations because what am I? A Sex Machine?
The other day, the brakes on my car failed on the way home from work. Not "failed" in the I-couldn't-stop-the-car-and-ended-up-running-a-red-light-and-I-read-the-news-today-O-boy sense, because I found out later that the front brakes were fine; but the back brakes were gone and I really had to slam the brake pedal to get the car to stop. And so this ended up costing me a grand and, incidentally, also ended up costing Ian at least one semester at college unless HE can come up with the scratch.

And so yesterday I had to suffer the indignity of driving the Mini to work because the rental car we got was an FUC, or as some would call it, an SUV, and Teh 'Bride took that because she evidently thought I was in no condition to drive the FUC what with my sore vagina and tender nipples and whatnot. But really because we had to bring it back with a quarter tank of gas, which is what it came with, and the commute to Teh 'Bride's library is like 2 miles, whereas my commute? Yeah, more like 25. And the FUC would have used up about 15 gallons of gas on the 50-mile trip back and forth. So letting Teh 'B. have the FUC saved us some money.

And so the mechanic calls me mid-morning yesterday to tell me that the back brakes are totally gone and they're like ejaculating fluid all over the back end of the Neon and I'm thinking My Neon is like a total whoo-wer, because how could it let the brakes DO that to it? That's worse than what LuMu lets Mr. Moose do to her and she knows what I'm referring to3; because how will my Neon ever land a husband if she's willing to do ... THAT on a first date? It's DISGUSTING and also kinda hawt!1!

The Neon is all fixed now, but I don't respect it anymore.
All four of George's White Album songs are great but I think "Savoy Truffle" is my favorite because it has a great, stinging guitar sound and fat Motown-like horns and it rocks more than the other three George White Album songs. And it also demonstrates that great song writers could be inspired by pert-near ANYTHING because the song is about a box of fucking CHOCOLATES and the fact that George's buddy Eric Clapton had horrible teeth because he couldn't resist chocolate - if he started a box, he had to eat the whole thing - and the line "you'll have to have them all pulled out" is not meant to represent what SHE said because she didn't want to end up pregnant ... it's actually George warning, "After that last chocolate, the Savoy Truffle, you'll have to have all your teeth pulled, Eric."

Had to add this (from here) because it contributes to today's major theme of orgasmic punning (click to embiggen THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!1!):

1 That's for you, AQA Aleece. I hope you know what it it because it's "GAH!" spelled backwards, sorta, is what it is, with even the exclamation point first and upside down and all. Because I woulda written "GAH!" but I thought that would be too derivative and I wanted you to see how much my writing has improved, especially on the originality front; and I also thought if I did that, did sorta a mini-homage to you, you would overlook the spelling error in the comment I left on your blog this morning. And while I'm making amends, Kanada Keef? I'm sorry I called you a "whoo-wer" in that same comment. Because I think the Korrect Kanadian spelling for that is "whoo-wre". We're good now, right? I can still be a part of your Odyssey to Planet Fitness? Because I'm thinking the only way to make the "trip" to this "planet" is by smoking metres and metres of Kwality Kanadian DuBois.

2 Yeah, that's right ... ejaculation. Because it has that more innocent meaning, too. In fact, that's it's primary meaning, as any common semen seaman could tell you. But — HAHAHAHAHA!1! — look at the awkward way they phrased that second definition at the site I just linked to!1! "noun:  the discharge of semen in males"!1! "In"? They make it sound like the males are the recipients of this ... O, let's just say, "wadded gift". (Not that they can't be — just ask Cletus — but being on the receiving end is not an ejaculation by any definition!)

Wouldn't a more felicitous — and correct — phrasing be "the discharge of semen by males"? 

I give OneLook's choice of words here a C- (<-- Rapper name = C-Min; pronounced, semen). Do you agree, AQA Aleece? Because that's a pretty bad choice of words right there. 

3 For the rest of you who might NOT know, I'm referring to Teh anal, which is how Irish LuMu managed to have only two kids.

Thursday, March 25, 2010


The 12 of you who read this blog1 know that I promised, at the end of my last post, to tell Teh Saga of Teh 'Bride and Teh Frenchman Who Made Her For To Swoon Using Nothing But His Suave French Accent. But here's The Thing2: There is still much to tell about this event — i.e., this funeral and consequent Meeting Up With Heisenberg Family Members Whom We Had Not Seen In A Long Time (Or Ever) — that took place in my life two days ago. And I didn't manage to tell the whole story yesterday, and so now a whole other story-filled day has passed in my life but here I am tied to telling the rest of the story from two days ago, which I fully intend to do, but doing so might take me this present post and at least one more and so now I have like all these subsequent Heisenstories to tell and they're just kinda circling in the aether like planes around O'Hare Airport on a busy day — like, say, the day of Teh Annual Trannies, Chiropractors 'N' Canadians Convention, which is held in Chicago every year about this time and is probably why Dr. Nic hasn't posted in awhile3, because he's Teh Keynote Speaker, is why.

And so but now I think I kinda understand how the fictional character Tristram Shandy felt when, at one point in telling his life's story, he stops to calculate how long he'd have to live past his own death to finish telling his own story because of all the digressions he's indulged in because the novel is One Big Digression, kinda like this "running" blog of mine. And I know some of you out there would suggest, Hey, easy solution: Just stop with the digressions.

To which kind suggestion I would respond: Fuck YOU!1! MY blog. MY Rules.

But so, okay, back to our story:

So finally,  finally Teh 'B. and I get to the funeral and the priest is already up to the Gospel reading, which means, for the sake of my heathen4 readers, we're pretty late. And we quietly take a seat near the back, from which vantage point I manage to spot my Uncle Bill (Teh 'Dad's and Aunt Dorothy's youngest brother) and his wife, Aunt Ann; my cousin Beth and her husband Jerry; and, over to the side, entering the church even later than us, my wheelchair-bound Aunt Vera and her eldest daughter (also Beth's sister), Carol Ann.

Now my Aunt Dorothy has three children: Frank, Connie and Celeste. They are somewhere in the front pew, but I'm not sure who is who (other than Frank) because when I was a kid, we didn't really see them that often — unlike the rest of the Heisenberg cousins, who all lived no more than like 5 miles from us, tops; Aunt Vera's Clan of Seven Children5 actually lived two streets over and my elder brother and sisters were like best friends with Vera's kids.

And so on the drive there, Teh 'Bride, between "Fuckity FUCK"s, was saying how she had always thought that Celeste and her French husband Louis (O, yeah, you bet it's pronounced "loo-WEE") were from Teh 'Mom's side of the family because, Teh 'Bride maintained, Teh 'Mom always spoke of them with a special reverence that Teh 'B. just attributed to Family Pride because she'd never heard that tone in Teh 'Mom's voice when Teh 'Mom spoke of, say, Frank or Connie, who are in fact Celeste's siblings6. And I was like, "No, Celeste is Dorothy's daughter — strictly from Teh 'Dad's side of the family."

And so then Teh 'Bride is like, "Well Louis is French and cultured and he and Celeste are globe-trotters and he has an important job, and they're both well-educated ... I guess it can just be attributed to your mother's usual elitism." And I was all, hmmmm ...

But then so guess who Teh 'Bride falls immediately in love with as soon as she sees them? Go ahead — guess! Because if you guessed Louis and Celeste, you'd be right, and if you guessed anybody else you're a fucktard, because I think I pretty much telegraphed the correct answer for you. And so but okay, who's the snob NOW, Teh 'Bride? Because Teh 'Mom at least stayed with Celeste and Louis for a week in France back in the 1980s when Teh 'Mom went on a trip to Europe, and so she had had time to be fully charmed by them — as were they by her, because when I finally got to talk to Louis, whom I'd never met before, he told me first thing about how he still had found memories of Teh 'Mom.

But here's Teh 'Bride falling in love with them and she's just met them!1!

And then when I introduced Teh 'Bride to Louis, and he pronounced her name with his French accent, I watched as she melted and turned into Liquid 'Bride right before my eyes and just kinda swooned and was all THIS guy? [meaning ME] No, I'm not married to him. I'm totally available, Louis. TOTALLY.

And the whole ride home, the "Fuckity fuck"s were replaced with, "O, weren't Louis and Celeste GLAMOROUS?"s and "Isn't Celeste elegant?"s and "Can we call Louis when we get home and have him say my name again?"s.

Hahahahaha! Teh 'Mom's "elitism" doesn't look so "elitist" now, does it, 'Bride? Now that it's also yours! Hahahahahaha!

In Teh 'Bride's defense, her name does sound majorly sexy when pronounced the French way. And Louis and Celeste are elegant. And, let's face it, I'm none of that. I'm actually pretty hideous to look at, which is why I developed this winning fucking personality that I have.

ZOMG!1! What do you know? I did manage to get to teh part about Teh 'Bride and Teh Frenchman in this post, which I didn't think I'd be able to do thanks to all of my Shandian digressions! I had to skip a lot of the story, because this 'Bridal meeting happened near the end of the whole funeral affair, but I got to it! Woo-hoo! I totally RULE!1! Which means I won't have to do another post on this, even though a lot of other interesting stuff happened at the funeral reception, afterward, because Frank brought along Aunt Dorothy's Big Ass Photo Album, which somehow ended up in Teh 'Bride's arms for like 45 minutes while everyone flipped through it and her arm went numb from the weight of it but she didn't say anything, opting, instead, to try, non-verbally, to get someone else to take it from her because evidently she forgot how to say the English words, "This tome be sore heavy and I would fain put it down" or else thought for some reason that saying that would be rude in some way that I, frankly, can't fathom at all. But that's Teh 'Bride. Because there was a picture of Teh 'Dad in there in his little baptism dress from 1922! As well as this picture of him from like his teen years, and when I looked at it I thought I was looking at my eldest brother Frank (who died in 1983) dressed up in circa 1938 duds, because Teh 'Dad looked exactly like Frank, a resemblance I'd never noticed before.

But I've already milked this story long enough.
Some stretching and exercise this morning and then giving it HARD to Morrissey for 7.1 miles in 20 minutes.

1 Yeah, and while I may not know who all of you are, I do know you have certain weird shared predilections, the most salient of which, as far as I'm concerned, is that you'll obviously read pert-near anything because you're reading this right now, aren't you?


Yeah, and so to attempt to attract a better class of reader, I put that there "Trannies Welcome" graphic up at the top of my blog, and who does it end up attracting?

Dr. Nic and yet another Canadian. Or, to put it another way, two trannies. Woo-Hoo! It worked!1!

2 Short version of The Thing: I'm a fucking liar. For Long Version of The Thing, see above.

3 Rumor has it this will be the year Dr. Nic applies for Canadian citizenship so that he hits the coveted trifecta of Tranny, Chiropractor and Canadian. But the joke'll be on you, Dr. Nic, because Canadians have Socialized Medicine too! Hahahahahaha! It's EVERYWHERE!1!

4 I.e., non-Catholic. If any of you heathens are offended by this characterization, leave an irate comment and I will add a "Heathens Welcome!" graphic to the top of this blog. But face facts: The only person that'll end up attracting is Dr. Nic again.

5 O, yeah, there were 7 kids in her family, too, just as there were in mine, because when it comes to the Biblical Admonition Be Fruitful And Multiply, Irish Catholics of that generation didn't fuck around, or, to put it another way, they did — and how! But it was cool because they were always married (at least by the time the first kid popped) and the wimminfolk got pregnant EVERY SINGLE TIME!!11!

6 And you're thinking, "Well, how could Teh 'B. have been confused about this, because surely Teh 'Mom must've said, when she spoke of these relatives Teh 'Bride had never met, 'Aunt Dorothy's daughter Celeste and her husband Louis' etc. But I assure you, The 'Mom did no such thing. For some reason, it was always assumed that you — whoever "you" may be — just knew the tangled branches of Teh Heisenberg Family Tree, and so Celeste, whom I myself had never met before, would often enter a Teh 'Mom story with no further context than "Celeste". Now, these were my cousins, aunts, great-uncles, etc., and even I found this confusing and difficult to follow. And Teh 'Dad was no help here, either, because he would talk about ancestors from like the 1850s as though they were about to come through the door and pound a few beers with us and you'd have NO idea how they were related to you. But here was Teh 'Dad, regaling you with Stories and Legends about them.

So Teh 'Bride's confusion was not merely understandable: It was all but inevitable.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010


Teh 'Bride and I were the only ones from our side of the family who could make it to my Aunt Dorothy's funeral the other day. It was a 10 a.m. funeral in Lansdale, PA, just outside of Philadelphia and Teh 'B and I left at 8 a.m. which should have given us plenty of time to get there on time because Google Maps said it was a one hour and 23 minute trip but guess what because you'll never guess.

We were late.

And that happened because originally Google Maps said, hey go THIS way — it'll only take 58 minutes; but THIS way would've taken us via a road I happen to know twists and turns and just fucking well goes out of its way to get you lost in the hinterlands of PA's Bucks County and if you've ever been to PA's Bucks County you'd agree with me that "Bucks" is probably a typo for "Sucks"1.

So I grabbed one of the little nubbie things on the route-line generated by Google Maps, saying, Fuck YOUR suggestion, Google Maps! Give us directions that'll get us there THIS way, via major arteries. And I dragged the little nubbie thing until Google Maps gave us directions to Lansdale via 95 and the PA Turnpike.

Yeah, but the thing is? The directions as to how to get on the PA turnpike from 95? Not so intuitive. And the Pennzers2 haven't quite learned Teh Ancient Art of Useful Road Signage because two miles before the exit for the turnpike there would be a sign with an arrow saying "Penna Turnpike" but when you got to the exit? No sign for the turnpike. O, sure, there were signs, saying things like Route This and Route That. But nothing for the turnpike.

And so you reckon quite reasonably, Well, then, the exit for the turnpike must be the next exit. But you realize, to your dismay, when you get off at that exit, that it is not the exit for the turnpike, and you (meaning Teh 'Bride, who's driving) risk life and limb trying to get across traffic on a busy Pennzer highway so you can get back on 95 going the other way and get back to the exit where the connection to the turnpike can be made.

And then but so even when you do that and you (again, you = Teh 'Bride) get to that exit (and there are NO SIGNS for the turnpike going this direction, either) going like 90 because you realize, now, that even though you gave yourself a 35 minute driving time buffer you're still going to be late for the fucking funeral, and when you get off  at the correct exit, finally, finally, you further realize that the connection to the turnpike is not a direct one and so you end up getting lost in local traffic in Bristol, PA, where the kids are sharp as a pistol3 when they do their eponymous Stomp and you do manage to spot the turnpike signs, but the directions they give are contradictory; because when you follow one sign you end up on a road that is clearly wrong, and you look back and, going the other way, there's another turnpike sign pointing you back in the very direction from which you've just come (that's what she said!)!

And this whole time, Teh 'Bride is going, "Fuckity fuck fuck fucky fucky fuckity fucking Pennzers can't make useful signs fuckity fuck with a Large Fuck4 on top!1!"

We finally did get on the turnpike, though.

And just as it looked as though we still might actually make it to the funeral on time, and we're less than 2 miles from the church?

Yeah, the road was closed due to construction and we were detoured about 5 miles out of our way. And Teh 'Bride's all: "FUCKITY FUCK FUCKING PENNZERS!1!"

This post is already too long, so tune in tomorrow for part two of Our Day At The Funeral, in which a Genuine Frenchman pronounces Teh 'Bride's name with his French Accent and Teh 'Bride swoons as she's FUCKITY FUCK well never done over anything I've ever said!

6.4 mile run this morning at an 8:54 pace

1 In fact, parts of Bucks County are quite rural and picturesque, even breath-takingly so. But the part of Bucks County where this particular route loses you?

Yeah, pretty sucky.

2 Teh 'Bride's ... let's just say "pet name" ... for Philadelphians and Pennsylvanians ever since she, a life-long Joiseyan, attended a party, years ago, at my brother's house in Fishtown (a part of Philadelphia) and all the people there, including me, got drunk, which was typical of Teh 'Bro's parties at the time, and they were all Philadelphians and, as is typical with Drunken Philadelphians, the conversation eventually turned to the topic of Jersey Drivers and How Horrible They Are and everyone shared their Favorite Jersey Driver Stories, including me, and Teh 'Bride Proud Garden State-Reared Heart was taking all of this in and on the drive back home — Joisey Driver Teh 'Bride behind the wheel — I got an earful about what JERKS those Pennzers were and LOOKIT THAT PENNZER DRIVER OVER THERE he can't even stay in his lane, stupid Pennzer, etc.!1!

3 Which may very well be true, but you gotta think, also, that these Bristol Kids are also a bit fucktarded because "sharp as a pistol"? What are they doing  — stabbing people with their guns?


4 In fact, Teh 'Bride never uses the word "fuck". Mostly she was saying "freak" or "a-hole" or just "Stupid PENNZERS!1!".

But she was thinking "fuck".

A husband knows.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

I/I Want/Want To/To Hold/Hold Your/Your Kankle/Kankle

Yet another truly far out youtube vid that the good foax at hey dullblog1 hipped me to — a side-by-side comparison of The Beatles' two performances of "I Want To Hold Your Hand" on February 9, 1964: the 4:30 taped version; and the version they performed live at 8:00. They sync up almost perfectly. I don't know why anyone would think to do this; and I don't know if anyone hereabouts other than me would find this interesting, but I consider it Groovy To Teh Extreme.

I was three when The Beatles performed for the first time on the Ed Sullivan Show.

No, I don't remember it. Because I'm old and the memory is the second thing to go2.

I'm sure all of my older sibs were gathered around the TV, though, because they all loved the Beatles and my brother Frank spent ALL the money he made on his paper route3 on records and he HAD to have Beatles and Stones stuff the DAY it came out.

4.22-mile Kankle run this morning at a 10:24 pace, which is a LOT faster than it felt. As usual, I felt like giving up every minute of the run.
1 Still Teh Awesomest Blog Name 4EVAH!1! I just wish those foax would post more often because when they do, it's always interesting; because they seem to find the grooviest videos of the Beatles, and when they write about the Beatles, it's always insightful. I still think the Literal Penny Lane video they found is one of the cleverest things I ever saw.

Horse Montage!

2 Possibly second, now that there's Viagra, aka "Limbaugh Pez."

3 For my younger readers — i.e., all of you — papers weren't always delivered at 6:00 in the morning by some old weird guy driving a 1987 Monte Carlo who throws the papers, wrapped in plastic, on your front lawn. Back in MY day, there used to be papers that came out in the afternoon — like The Philadelphia Bulletin — and they were delivered on bikes by underpaid pre-teen boys, like me, who had to walk each paper up to the front stoop and put it inside the screen door; and, every Friday, had to knock on doors and say "Collecting!" to whoever answered the door and get the people to pay you for last week's deliveries and you hoped they'd tip you because if they didn't you made basically fuck-all, like maybe a buck for the week. And a lot of the people didn't tip, the cheap fucks, but what was even worse was there were foax who dodged you, week after week, and NEVER paid what they owed, but when you got back to the branch (which is where you went to pick up the 40 or so papers that you had to deliver each day) on Saturday afternoon, you had to have your full "bill", which is what YOU owed for the papers. And if there were foax who didn't pay you, tough titties, Sherman, you were still responsible for what they owed. Because the branch manager — who was an adult and was a bit of a loser and probably the prototype for today's Guy In The 1987 Monte Carlo Who Makes His Living Delivering Papers — might let you short him for ONE week, but you'd better make it good the next week or be ready to be yelled at and/or threatened with the humiliation of being fired. (Of course when you were fired, they asked you to stay on until they could find your replacement and often asked you to aid in the search; and so for that search period you were a Dead Paperboy Walking (actually, D. P. Biking), and everyone knew it; and the only possible revenge you could wreak was to find a replacement who was even lamer than you as a paperboy, which wouldn't be easy because, face it, you were pretty lame.)

And so here you were, a 12 year old kid, carrying around a — no shit — little black book with all your customers' names in it and you had to keep track, from week to week, of who paid and who didn't. And when one of the deadbeats finally did answer the door, and you'd say, "Yeah, you owe me for two months", they'd say, "O, that can't be right! I remember paying you just a couple weeks ago. I couldn't owe you for more than 3 weeks." And then they'd make a big deal about scraping together the $2.10 it cost for three weeks' delivery of the Bulletin  — even though they owed you for EIGHT — and they'd give it to you and consider themselves square and then they WOULDN'T EVEN TIP YOU, the CHEAP FUCKS!1!


Monday, March 22, 2010

Man* Versus Blog

* Title FN: "Man", here, very loosely defined, and if you need to know why, well, you haven't really been paying much attention, have you? But if you do, just go look at the comment I left on Kanada Keef post today, because, man, that'll tell you all you need to know and it is, sadly, 100% true.
Most of the running blogs I read are blogspot-based blogs. However I also read two and a half1 wordpress-based ones. The wordpress-based ones2 are okay except for the small fact that they totally fucking suck.

Now of course, I don't mean the content of the blogs suck; I mean the wordpress software sucks, and yes I have my reasons for saying this and yes I intend to share those reasons with you and yes they will be buried in my usual logorrheic flurry of irrelevancies and therefore YES, I DO INTEND TO MAKE YOU WORK FOR IT!1! FUCKING CRYBABIES!1!

I used to think the wordpress blogs were cool and when I read one or posted a comment to it, I tried to act cool myself because I wanted to impress the wordpress software because I reckoned if it thought I was cool it would like hang out with me and maybe even tell one of its many girlfriends to "be nice to me", if you get my drift.  Because the wordpress blogs had like tabs and when you commented you could reply directly to others' comments and then reply directly to that reply and so on and you could use like the [strike] tag in a comment which is cool because that one isn't already WAAAYYY overused by bloggers and you could seemingly do all these cool things while still being basically as digitally and computer-relatedly fucktarded as LooMoo3.

But I soon cooled to wordpress (the software) because it requires that you enter an e-mail address before it will let you comment. This was not that big a problem until I found out that you better fucking well remember the bogus e-mail address you put in because if you don't and you try a different one?


You see, I use Firefox on a Macintosh and I occasionally clear out my browser's cache (as one ought to do every once in a while) and when you do that? Firefox "forgets" whatever it was you put in the three fields the wordpress software asks you to fill out every time you comment4.

And that's what it did when I went to comment at cv's blog like 5 or 6 daze ago.

So okay, I put gqh in the name field, then I put in the e-mail field, because I'm pretty sure that's what I used before, and then I type my usual loooooong, insulting NC-17-rated comment ...


So then I typed another, and it EATED THAT!1!

And so but then this fucked my whole world up because this is the first time I got furious at someone or -thing and found myself screaming at it "DON'T  EAT ME!1!" It's just unnatural to tell something you hate not to eat you.

And the same thing happened to my various comments at LuMu's blog!1! And I couldn't, for the life of me, remember what bogus e-mail address I had been using, and so wordpress kept EATING ME!1!

Finally, finally — just the other day, I decided to try yet another bogus address.

And so using the (as far as I know, bogus) e-mail address of phuk@u.org5, I was able to see my own comments and I got the "your comments are being moderated" message. And finally, TODAY, the comments are there on those blogs without the "you're being moderated" designation and I know other readers can see them (at least at LuMu's) because Kanada Keef already responded to one, claiming he was NOT the one who started the blogospheric whispering campaign claiming that LuMu is totally into anal, which is a TOTAL lie. I mean the part about Kanada Keef's not being the one who started that rumor (he did start it). Because L. Moose?

TOTALLY into anal. And it must be true because I read it on teh Intertubes.

In conclusion:

1 The half-blog is Needledick's, which counts as only half a blog, half a blog, half a blog forward, because Needle posts like maybe, MAYBE once a quarter; evidently because that's about how often he runs. If there were Truth in Advertising laws in teh blogosphere (which thank god there are not)? Yeah, the name of Needle's blog would have to be changed from its current Needle Is Running to like Needle is — Pfffttt! — "Running".
2 The other two: LuMu's and carpe viam's.

3 No offense, LuMu. I believe these are the very words you yourself used to describe your computer skillz, though. If it wasn't you who said that, I think it was Xenia. Point is, I'm not to blame for this characterization of your computer skills. But look, I'm not some heartless ogre3a, so if you leave a comment indicating that you are offended, in any way, by this characterization3b, I promise I will come back and edit this post so that the offending phrase is in strike-through text, like this, because that'll make it all better and, yeah, THAT'S not overdone in Teh Running 'Blogosphere.

3a Full Disclosure: Yes I am.

3b Of Xenia's.

4 Two fields — Name and E-mail Address — are required; one — web site address — is optional.

5 The ".org" in this case stands for ".orgasm", and if you've never had a ".orgasm" that means one of two things:

1. You haven't really lived.
2. You're married to Needledick.

Possibly both.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

For Realz Guest Post by QuixDraw* McSteve

* Title FN: That's what she said.
What follows is a Guest Post by QuixDraw McSteve. If you find any of the content objectionable, leave your ruthlessly condemnatory comments at HIS blog. Remember: Your comments will be graded based on their lack of ruth.
As I tried today to reconcile my love of fudge-making and -eating with my need to drop 10 lbs before my next ultra on the planet Xorax, I was reminded of the famous Marburg Colloquy between Ulrich Zwingli and Martin Luther in 1529. They were meeting to see if they could resolve their differences over the meaning of the Biblical phrase hoc est corpus meum, which Luther took to mean that the communion bread really, literally was the actual Body of Christ; whereas Zwingli thought the bread merely symbolized the Body of Christ. It is said that as the two men sat down at the meeting table, Luther put his index finger on the table's surface and slowly wrote the word "est" — "is" — in the thick dust, thus revealing his position that nothing less than Zwingli's complete acceptance of the doctrine of consubstantiation would make Luther willing even to begin to acknowledge Zwingli's presence.

Needless to say, the meeting did not go well.

And this is just my usual Quixdraw McSteve way of saying that my eating of fudge and my hope to lose 10 pounds cannot — like Zwingli and Luther and the issue of consubstantiation — be reconciled. I truly wish there were an easier and less obscurely erudite way for me to make this point, but there is not.

I once wrote a joke for a stand-up comedian friend based on this Apocryphal Marburg Colloquy Anecdote, and he later told me he used it but it didn't exactly kill. This did not surprise me, given the fact that there are, by my unscientific estimate, roughly 12 people in the world who would get the reference, and the likelihood of any of them being in the crowd that night roughly nil. And even if one had been, the likelihood that he'd be the one who speaks English would be less than nil. And even if the one who understood English had been in the crowd, he would not have laughed because I told him this joke already.

For the record, he laughed his ass off the first time he heard it. "Est!" he repeated. "Ha Ha Ha Ha! That est rich, QuixDraw!"

I am thinking if I really want to lose that 10 lbs in time, I'll just have to quit eating solid food for the next month, which, for me, should be a snap, since I'm certifiable and I enjoy hurting my body. For instance, while typing this very post, I, at various times, dislocated, then relocated, one of my hips and both of my shoulders. I learned long ago how to dislocate my shoulders — it's the only surefire way to get out of a straitjacket, which I have, on occasion, had to do. Dislocating his shoulders is also how Erik Weisz used to do this. And no, I'm not going to tell you who Erik Weisz was — I'm going to assume you already know; and if you don't, you're hopelessly ignorant. Read a dusty, rare, two thousand year old book every once in awhile, ignoramus!

Today I ran 9.36 miles at a 9:18 pace, which would be pretty impressive if I were a luuuuzer like Glaven, but given that I'm Ultra Man QuixDraw McSteve, that is just an awful performance.

I will now go and see how many of my joints I can dislocate at once as punishment for my terrible training run.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Long, Maudlin Post

I just found out from my sister in Michigan that my Aunt Dorothy died. Dorothy was Teh 'Dad's older sister. She was 92.

Ian, Teh 'Bride and I will be heading down to Philadelphia today for our usual weekly visit with Teh 'Dad, so we will probably be the ones who break the news to him.

I'm pretty sure Teh 'Dad will take the news in his usual restrained way. He loved his sister, but Teh 'Dad has experienced so much loss in his long life that I think he has to kinda wall himself off from his feelings; because if he allowed himself to feel them too deeply, he might spend the rest of his days doing nothing but weeping. I know there are times when that's exactly what I feel like doing when I think about these things too much.

Teh 'Dad had seven kids, three of whom he has already outlived: My brother Frank died when he was 30; my sister Laura when she was 46; and my sister Virginia just after her 49th birthday.

I have one child and I simply do not know how Teh 'Dad (and Teh 'Mom, when she was still alive) managed to keep going after the loss of a child, much less the loss of three. I guess in part they kept on going for the sake of the rest of us, but you hear stories all the time about parents who, after the loss of a child, basically give up on life. They get depressed; they withdraw; they drink; or they just literally die themselves of heartbreak.

I get that. I get that entirely, because I'm pretty sure it's exactly how I would react.

I think no one knows better than Teh 'Dad — knows viscerally; knows in the gut — the truth of that famous line uttered by one of Saul Bellow's characters: "[E]veryone on this side of the grave is the same distance from death". I'm sure Teh 'Dad expected to die long before any of his children; because that's how it should be; that's the way life goes. That is the natural order of things. Except when it isn't. And it always seemed arbitrarily cruel to me that Teh 'Dad has had to endure seeing not one, not two, but three of his children die. I too was affected by all of this because they were my brother and sisters; but I did not fully comprehend until Virginia's death, which occurred after we got Ian, how different the feeling that a parent has for his child is. I'm pretty sure I have harped on this in other posts on my other blogs, but I learned it rather late in life and when I did finally learn it, it came to me with the force of a revelation. There is simply no equivalent to it — there is nothing as profound, as all-consuming, as true as that love, for if there is anything that is both true and good in this life it is a mother's love for her son, a father's love for his daughter — a parent's love for his child. And that unique love has to evolve because even though you as a parent feel essentially the same way about your child when he is 50 as you did when he was 5, you can't express that love the same way; part of that love has to be allowing the child to grow up, make his own mistakes, become responsible for himself.

It is hard to do.

When another kid picks on Ian or hurts him emotionally or physically — which doesn't happen often — I find I have to restrain myself from teaching that other kid a lesson. But Ian's 10 now, and I have to let him fight his own fights. I was allowed to when I was 10. But that parental love pulls you in opposite directions: The understandable desire to Defend My Child At All Costs must give way to the necessity of Letting Him Stand Up For Himself.

All of this has very little to do with my Aunt Dorothy. But I'm getting to that.

Teh 'Bride and I recently attended a funeral. The mother of the assistant director at Teh 'Bride's library died. She was 98. I used to work at Teh 'Bride's library but I quit one day eight-and-a-half years ago over a blatant injustice that is irrelevant to this particular story, but which I mention here only to point out that I have not set foot in that library — which is my local library, two miles away — from that day to this. I shook the dust off my feet when I left, vowing never to return.

But Floyd, the assistant director, never wronged me and so I told Teh 'Bride — without her even having to ask (which she wouldn't have done because she knows how I feel about her library and about many of the people who work there) —  that I would attend Floyd's mother's funeral. I knew Floyd's mother lived with him and that they were very close. Nevertheless, I was thinking, Well, she was 98. How unexpected could this have been? He'll be upset, of course, but probably not too upset.

Of course I was wrong.

When we got to the funeral service, Floyd, even now, days after his mother's death, was visibly upset, still, and said to us he just hoped he could hold it together long enough to get through the eulogy. He was very appreciative of my attending his mother's service because he knew how I felt about the library and many of the people there. I tried to tell him that he should be prepared for these waves of emotion to come over him at the oddest times. I am not sure if I managed to convey what I meant in a coherent manner. I told him that I watched, essentially dry-eyed, as my mother, comatose from a heart attack, died in a hospital bed; I sat dry-eyed through her funeral mass.

And three days later, while making the coffee early one morning before work, I broke down sobbing loudly enough to wake Teh 'Bride from a sound sleep upstairs. And I realized why the sound of the coffee being made caused this: My mother gave birth to, and raised, seven children. By the time I was 6 (and my youngest sister, the seventh child, was a mere 1 year old), she was also working full-time as a teacher in the Philadelphia public school system. Teh 'Mom didn't sleep much — she was a bit of an insomniac — and she would rise before the rest of us and have her coffee in the morning alone. As the mother of seven with a full-time job, she did not have very much time to herself: These mornings alone with her coffee in a temporarily quiet home were her mini-vacations — her me time. The only real me time she had.

And the sound of the coffee forced me, finally, to realize that. When I was a somewhat troubled beginning college student, still living at home, and I would hear her downstairs making coffee, I would sometimes come down and join her and we would have coffee together. And she would ask me what was bothering me because she knew. And I would say that nothing was bothering me but she knew I had come down so that I could be alone with her and we could talk. And I realize only now that I was intruding on her me time, but I never knew that then because she never begrudged me the time. She just asked me, "What's the matter?" and kept talking to me until I told her and she listened and she made me feel better about myself and that — making me feel better — was more important to her than her "me time" ... which she had never really claimed as her own, anyway. It was always provisional. She'd give it up gladly if one of us needed her.

And I wanted to say to Floyd, it may not be coffee, but it will be something, and when it comes it will be unexpected, and because it is unexpected it will hit you like a truck, and you'll be unprepared and it will hurt. But it will also mean that your mother made a big difference to you and you'll be glad it hurts because that's what love for someone who has died feels like.

And I realized what an idiot I had been for thinking, O, his mother was 98. He must have been prepared.

You're never prepared.

My mother died when she was 71 — which is about a decade longer than anyone else in her family ever lived — and I wasn't prepared.

Floyd's mother was 98 and the moving eulogy he gave — his voice broke once, but he did manage to hold it together — proved, yet again, as though it needed any further proof, that he was not prepared.

And we just got back from our visit with Teh 'Dad and we told him of his 92-year-old sister Dorothy's death and the catch in his voice when he said, "She died? O, she was such a beautiful woman!" told us he was not prepared, either.

Thirty years is not enough.

Forty-six years is not enough.

Forty-nine years is not enough.

Seventy-one years is not enough.

Ninety-two years is not enough.

Ninety-eight years is not enough.

None of it is enough.

There is never enough time.

Friday, March 19, 2010

Friday Rant: I HATE Club Penguin!

Ian got hisself banned from Club Penguin the other day. For life. Of course, he didn't do anything wrong. Because I asked him and he said, "No, Daddy, I didn't!" Big tears welling in his eyes and all.

Yeah, see, Ian, a few days before this, had been saying how some kids on CP get around the "No Bad Words" rule by writing "asssssss" etc., but of course Ian himself (I asked) would never do such a thing!

CP being a Disney scam, they, of course, take the family-friendly "no cursing" rule pretty seriously. More seriously than they do, say, the more meaningfully family-friendly policy of not outsourcing the production of your Movie Tie-In Happy Meal tchotchkes to Third World countries that force eight-year-olds to work 14-hour shifts for pennies an hour making those plastic princesses and frogs. Because why should Disney take that policy seriously? IT'S NOT ONE OF THEIR POLICIES!1!

Hahahahahahah! Joke's on YOU, poor Asian kids! Life's tough working for the owners of Teh Happiest Place on Earth! If you wanted meaningful human rights you should have been born an American Corporation! Sux for you that you weren't!

Anyroad, of course Ian thought he could get away with writing "asssss" for "ass" and he got caught. It was his third strike, so he got banned — 4EVAH!1! He finally admitted that's what he did. He didn't expect to get banned because his other two strikes on CP were unrelated to bad language use, I think.

And so Ian has proved himself a real Heisenberg in two ways:

First: I, too, thought there was no way anyone would figure out what I was talking about when I wrote about my n*ts@ck, but I suspect some of you have sussed out what that really refers to.

Second: Teh 'Mom would get these chest pains, which like months later we'd find out were heart attacks. After the first one, we were like: "Mom, when you get those pains, STOP hanging the laundry out to dry, because that's not helping; and get to the hospital."

So the next time Teh 'Mom had those pains, she'd just "rest" (we'd find out later) till they "went away". And we'd be all "Dubya Tee Eff, Mom! What did we say before about teh chest pains?" And she'd be all, "O, this time I didn't hang out laundry. I did ironing after I felt better."

And so to Teh 'Mom's way of thinking, the previous warning  about heart attacks didn't apply because, see, THIS time, there was no laundry-hanging involved. Therefore it couldn't have been a heart attack! QED.

And Teh 'Mom eventually died of a heart attack.

So since Ian's two previous strikes were for something different, there was no way he could see that third strike as being the third. Due to rampant Teh 'Mom logic.

That there above is a beer I had to buy when I saw it because it is a He-Brew: Teh Chosen Beer. Specifically, a Messiah Bold Brown Ale. I would certainly choose it again! It goes great with matzos and foreskins.

The two pix above are Ian's latest drawings. (I spared you the one that consisted of a small penguin followed by the words  "I Hate hate hate ... etc. Club Penguin!" — and yes, the "hate"s filled up the whole page; because, you see, it was Club Penguin's fault Ian was banned.)

The first depicts Ian's daily dilemma: Video Games or Math. But doing math wastes paper and hurts Mother Earth. So ... dilemma solved.

The second is Ian's take on Lady Gaga's boyfriend ... whoever he is. Ian's class is obsessed with Lady G. to the point that his teacher has forbidden them to speak of her in class.

Ian forced me to download "Paparazzi" and now he listens to it all the time and sings along.

I asked him if he knew what "paparazzi" meant. He said yeah, they're little cockroaches.

His best friend is this Mexican-American kid who lives across the street and it took me a while before I realized that Ian was getting paparazzi confused with cucaracha.

Or not. They're pretty much the same.
Congratulations (of sorts) are in order for carpe viam — no, not because I am anticipating she'll BQ at her marry this weekend, but rather because she is, O, let's just say the ONE MEEEELLIONTH blogger to ban (or partially ban) me. Because over the past two days, I left — actually, tried  to leave, is more like it — like FIVE comments on her blog, and her blog EATED EVERY SINGLE ONE!1! Innocent glitch? Pfffttt! I wasn't born yesterday!

And, speaking of born, good luck getting child support out of me now, CV! Talk to my lawyer — assuming his comments don't get EATED by your blog! You're worse than SteveQ, who had a short-lived fetish for deleting my comments from his blog and still, to this day, deletes whole posts of his merely because I've commented on them1!
6.36 mile run this morning at a sub-9 minute pace! Woo-hoo!
1 I have no proof that that is the reason he deletes these posts, but ... Wait! I do have Faux News Proof! It's true because I just reported that it was! But what we really wanna know here at Faux Blog is ... why is SteveQ carrying out the Obama Administration's Radical Socialist Agenda of Curbing Free Speech? Also, is Obama the real father of carpe viam's love child1a, with Glaven being set up as the Fall Guy like that fuckhead former John Edwards adviser who just wrote a book called I Was Teh Father of John Edwards' Love Child!1!

Also, was Obama the father of the father of the guy who was the father of John Edwards' Love Child? I've heard rumors that he was and so my repetition of those rumors is proof it's true!

1a Also, is he "better endowed" than I, cv? You know what I mean! When, O, when will Democrats learn the truth of what Republicans live with every day - smaller is better?

Thursday, March 18, 2010

RIP Alex Chilton

Alex Chilton, December 28, 1950-March 17, 2010.

h/t to Steve "If They Rocked And Just Died My Blog Should Be Your First Stop" Q

Teh NYT: Spreading LIBERAL Claptrap Since AT LEAST 1899

One of the other reference librarians here at the library where I work knows I love beer; and whenever she finds a beer story, she clips it and sends it to me.

She must've been doing historical research for a patron and accidentally come across what you see below (click to embiggen), because it's from 1899, and it came to me via inter-office mail just this morning:

Yeah, it's cute that the orangutan Mike Roach wears clothes and drinks beer and all ... but do you see mentioned anywhere in that story the fact that M.R. was the progenitor of today's Teabagger movement?

No, you do NOT!

Good GAWD! Where's the fairness and balance in THAT?

Help Make A Girl Feel Pretty!1!

There's something that really has a tendency to get on my tit and today's post is going to be something of a rant against that something. And that something is when someone — a friend — asks for help, indeed cries out for it, but the people who hear the cries? Yeah, all they do is say, "Good luck with that!"

Pffftttt! You call that help?

Just such a plea for help came rumbling out of the Tar-Shack-bedimpled Pineys of South Joisey yesterday, when Country Bumpkinauxpina toyBuNz — who ain't never been to Teh Big City — admitted that she somehow got herse'f uh INvite to uh fancy-schmancy Big City Wedding where the two people gittin' hitched were not only not already related to each other, neither was in his/her early teens. Plus the bride-to-be's dowry did not include livestock of any kind, so we're talkin' classy here.

coyFuN bravely admitted to the 228 people1 who read her blog that she don't own no fancy weddin' frocks because who wears a frock to a ceremony whose reception is going to have a menu of pulled pork and whose activities will include chasin' a greased pig and ketchin' it and somebody better ketch it or there won't be no pulled pork!?1!? (Because those are the kind of weddings she's used to attending. BYOB, affairs (Bring Your Own Bib).)

And so like all the uncaring commenters on her blog merely said, "Hey, good luck with finding a dress, there, Ellie May, and don't fergit to take a dip in the SEE-ment pond, if there's one available."

This struck me as heartless and cruel.

Real friends would do something about finding elliemayRuN a fer realz dress. But since her real friends didn't do it, I guess it's up to me.

Now our first candidate is this here little number:
A nice bright red number that j'R really rocks, doncha think? And let's face it: You don't have to be a Loony Sarah Palin-lovin' Wingnut2 to know that chix with guns are HAWT. Even portly chix. (Lay off the pulled pork and boiled missionaries, there, joyRuN, because you look like you might explode outta that thing. And it's bad taste to do that at a wedding because it's supposed to be the bride's day.)

Next up: This little number, made entirely of dead frogs:
The blonde pageboy haircut makes Ms. RuN look like she should be putting her finger in a dike3. This number makes a statement, viz., "Lookit all teh frogs I done kilt so's I could have me a dress! I also burned down a whole rain forest, just because I could!"

Finally, there's this classic:
I dunno if Ms. joyRuNway is making her way up or down the food chain with this lovely swan-gown, but the point is, by wearing it? She's flipping everyone the bird — especially Good Taste!

If you want to help joyRuN find a dress, why don't YOU upload a picture of what you think she should wear to YOUR blog.

Be part of the solution for once, instead of part of the problem4!

Oboy, oboy, oboy!1! I cannot wait to read SteveQ's review of the Fauxlipina Fashion Awards!1! He can be such a bitch!
O, man, now that I've done all this dress work? Maria isn't  the only one who feels gay!

1 Thanks for the numerical info, little Google Reader "show details" noogie!

I don't wanna brag, but that noogie also tells me that mine own humble blog is up to 12 subscribers (11 if you don't count my subscription to it) and so EAT IT!1! moribund and abandoned blogs that no one has posted anything to for over a year, because I have almost as many subscribers as you!1! O, yeah! I'm nonchalantly sniffing and manually adjusting the ol' 's@ckal package right now, because I'm a BIG DEAL!1!

2 Just what the fuck is it gonna take to bring you outta hiding, Dr. Super Runner? Because frankly, if this taunt doesn't work, I give up. I took Sarah Palin's name in vain!1! Time for you to get all tea-baggy about it!1! What are you? A liberal?!1?

3 (But remember to ask first because she could be seeing someone already.)

4 Unless we're talking about j'R's emotional well-being because if you upload a picture of her in a ridiculous dress? Yeah, guess what? You're part of the problem.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Updates On Updates - UPDATED! Now With 33% More Updatedness!1!

First off, Teh 'Dad:

He's doing much better and he so appreciates your expressions of concern that he's made all of you honorary Catholics — you know, like Shakespeare1.  As I've explained elsewhere, Teh 'Dad was granted this special power to give Catholic Field Commissions during Vatican II. (I think it was a rider on the Bill that made it legal to say the Mass in the vernacular.)

Anyroad, it seems Teh 'Dad is suffering from nothing more than a common UTI; and he may go home as soon as today.

When I got there to visit with him yesterday afternoon, he'd just finished his lunch — all except for this ginormous bowl of peas.

"You're looking especially tall today," sez Teh 'Dad as I entered the room tall-ly.

"You better eat those peas if you wanna grow up to be like me, then," I sez.

"O, I don't want to be like you!" quoth Teh tiny tiny tiny  'D.

See? He's fine, because he can still make me cry within three lines of "friendly" dialog.
A certain Sand-Based-South-Joisey Piney-Dwelling Missionary-Munching2 Pretender to Teh Hoarder Throne is apparently having a difficult time conceding defeat to Teh Pile Queen Known As Teh 'Bride.

I didn't want to have to break out the Big Guns, but here you go:

Yeah, I took that picture yesterday afternoon when I got back from visiting Teh 'Dad. And yeah, it's the very same piece of shit kitchen sink that Teh 'B. "liberated" from a neighbor's trash heap what? A year ago? (I posted about it back then, but some n*ts@ck-fondling fucktard deleted ...etc.)

WELL IT'S STILL FUCKING THERE! Right by our shed. Teh 'Bride has conceded that it is beyond reclamation now (in my view, it always was) but ... there on our property it remains to this very day!

So, again, Pretender to Teh Throne, I say EAT IT!1! Eat it as if it were a tender Mormon Missionary3! When it comes to hoarding/piles, Teh 'Bride has no match!
Today is St. Paddy's Day and St. P. is credited with driving all the snakes out of Ireland. But this is not, strictly speaking, true because when it comes (that what she said!) to trouser snakes, we Irish are still — shall we say — pretty well-endowed.

Nice try, though, St. Pat!

5.4-mile run this morning with — finally — a decent pace. 8:48. And by "decent", I mean "decent for my slow @$$."
1 Yeah, and believe me, it'll be easier for all concerned if you just accept this "honor", whether you be Greek Orthodox Apostate, Grouchy Low-Church Rapture-Awaiting Protestant, Beaver-Animal-Spirit Worshiping Kanadian, First-Cousin-Fucking Snake-Handler, or Boiled-Missionary-Eating Fauxlipina Heathen ("Here, try some Mormon!1! They're nearly hairless and sooooooo tasty — especially the tenderloin!"), because, man, you thought Teh Mafia made offers you can't refuse? Teh 'Dad is worried about your immortal soul, so really, don't eff with him and his one-time offer of Eternal Salvation.

You do wanna be with Shakespeare when you die, right? Be careful, then, because you could end up going to the place where Christopher Marlowe is spending eternity1a!

1a Teh 'Dad's rebuttal of Teh Marlowe-Never-Died-And-He-Was-Really-Shakespeare "theory": "Pffffftt!"

2 Yeah, I know "missionary-munching" sounds like some variation on a Vatican-approved sex position, but it's not.

Or should I say "not .... yet".

3 But eat around Teh Latter-Day Taints because no amount of boiling makes them taste like anything other than taint.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Update on Teh 'Dad

Just before I headed to work yesterday at Noon (it was my night at the library), Teh 'Bride calls home from her library to say that Teh 'Bro just sent an e-mail saying that Teh 'Dad had been hospitalized. The foax at Teh 'Dad's home had noticed he seemed disoriented (there are a lot of disoriented people at Teh 'Dad's place, but he is not one of them) and he was complaining of stomach pain.

He was admitted into the hospital with what they seem to think is a UTI.

A few years earlier, Teh 'Dad had been hospitalized with a UTI whose main symptom was EXTREME genital pain. He even said to the doctor at one point, "I don't care if you have to cut them1 off — go ahead. I don't need them anymore." Teh 'Bro and I totally cracked up at this, even though we knew it meant Teh 'Dad must be in Big Time Pain, and so we're both going to Hell for that. At least I'll have someone to drink beer with. I later apologized to Teh 'Dad for laughing at his remark, but he said it was okay because "that was the one time in my life that you were not the biggest pain in my testicles."

Thanks, Teh 'Dad. Love you, too.

Anyroad, Teh Poor 'Bro was at the hospital for like 5 hours yesterday before Teh 'Dad finally got a room. I'll more than likely take time this afternoon to go see Teh 'D., unless something changes.
Teh 'Bride has been bugging me, ever since this post, to issue a correction. She does not sing it: "Toein' the line (toein' the line) BAMP! BAMP!" But rather: "Toein' the line (toein' the line) TOOT! TOOT!" For some reason, this distinction was important to her.

For the record: The song clearly goes BAMP! BAMP! not TOOT! TOOT! And it's still "draggin'" not "toein' teh line". I guess Teh 'B. just likes being wrong because this is the first correction I've ever issued because somebody complained that I didn't get her misquotation completely right. Or wrong. Whatever. Point is, Teh 'Bride's "corrected" version of that line is even farther from what the line actually says and sounds like.
A while back, I was e-corresponding with a friend who claimed she was Teh Queen of Household Piles. I was like, NO WAY!1! Teh 'Bride can beat anyone. But she insisted she was best because there were piles in all the rooms of her house: the kitchen, the living room, her office; and she claimed every direction she gave her kids or her husband was pile-oriented: "Yeah, your keys are in the living room next to the pile on the table..."

But I was all Pfffffttt! Teh 'Bride can beat that!

"How's this: 'Dinner's on the dining room table under the pile ... no, the other pile!"

But my friend is stubborn and would not concede defeat. So we kinda left it there in this sorta in-between, unsettled alpha-state of detente. Or whatever.

But last night, I get home from work, and I see, among the piles on the kitchen table, Teh 'Bride's latest acquisition: this book, Teh Story of Stuff. Because we had seen the author just a couple daze ago on Teh Colbert Report, and I had said to Teh 'B.: "I can't believe you haven't taken that book out." And she sez: "I made our library buy it" - because it's another book about how we all just have too much stuff.

And so last night, there it was.

And it occurred to me: At any given time, among Teh 'Bride's piles, is a pile of roughly eight to ten books, magazines, articles, etc. on how to cut down on teh piles in your life.

So Here's Teh 'Bride, FTW!, Courtesy of 20,000 Bonus Irony Points Because She Has Piles of Things That Tell You How To Rid Your Life of Piles!

EAT IT, Anonymous Friend! You're a distant second at best, pile-ically speaking!1! Teh 'Bride is the Undisputed Queen of Pilesylvania!

But, if it's any consolation, Anon.F., you are the world's worst driver. If not by virtue of your own driving record, then by virtue of your ethnicity. (<-- This is really just a pity trophy here on Everybody Gets a Trophy day.)
Went for a 6.36-mile run this morning and was so lost in thought that I actually managed to trip while transitioning at a crosswalk from road to sidewalk. But here's the thing: The sidewalk "rise" was one of those wheelchair-accessible ones that goes up about a quarter of an inch2 where sidewalk meets street. And yeah, I tripped, or, as they say in Kanadia, I "pulled a Kanada Keef3." And it was one of those trips that, at first, you think you can run and overtake it and re-gain your balance, only to realize, possibly too late, that that strategy may end in a vicious face-plant.

But just in time, I gave up the effort to re-gain my balance, and just gracefully fell on my right hand and @$$-cheek and kinda rolled. @$$-over-teakettle, and thereby minimized the damage.

Total bodily damage: Slightly scraped palm and bruised right @$$-cheek.

Man - it's embarrassing when you have a bruised @$$-cheek and you have to explain to foax that it's not from deviant sex-play. Because you can just hear them thinking: Pffffttt! Luuuuzer!1!
1 Yes, Them.

2 Although most men would tell most women that was a good 5 inches. Not me, mind you. Just those other men. Teh luuuuuuzer men.

3 N.B., by "pulled a Kanada Keef" I do not mean that thing he does when he "whacks his frozen wet cod" then brags about it on his blog because THAT'S DISGUSTING, KANADA KEEF!1!

Besides, mine's more a sleek, writhing python.