FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Today’s Friday Random Ten is brought to you by Mr. De Bon-Air.

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Say, for example, you’re on a flight from Washington, D.C. to Dallas, Texas. You enjoyed a fine dinner of Chicken Korma last night, but old Mr. Colon is a bit peeved with you right now, and he is threatening to take it out on your fellow passengers.

Avoid the unpleasant grimaces of your seatmates and the inevitable snarky “Who crawled up your ass and died?” comments. No need to light matches, thereby incurring the wrath of the FAA and the condemnation of your fellow travelers as your plane is diverted to a forced landing. A little shpritz of Mr. De Bon-Air’s powerful anti-stench mist, and everyone will be all smiles, enjoying an aroma with more pleasant associations.

Available in New Car Smell, Butterscotch Ripple, and Freshly-Washed Vagina scents. Mr. De Bon-Air: get some today!

And now, back to our regularly scheduled program.

Hello, this is Elisson, bringing you this week’s Friday Random Ten, that dopey weekly post in which I offer up a mixed bag o’ moozik from the Little White Choon-Box. What’s on tap for us today?

1. Bad Boy - The Beatles
   
2. Underground - Ben Folds Five
   
3. Prelude (Main Title) - Bernard Herrmann, Vertigo
   
4. Rudy Wants To Buy Yez A Drink - Frank Zappa
   
   Hi and howdy doody
   I’m the union man
   You can call me Rudy
   Any you boys not paid up on your cards? Huh?
   
   You know I’m pleased to meet ya
   Been tryin’ all day to reach ya
   The union’s here to help every one of you
   Rock ’n’ Roll stars
   Rock ’n’ Roll stars
   
   You boys know we care so much
   About the way they treat ya
   They send a guy like me to every gig
   
   Just to get
   A chance to meet ya
   To check and see
   No wrong’s been done
   That’s one good reason
   I carry a gun
   I hope the bulge
   Don’t bum you out
   Wanna get a good look?
   Let me pull it right out!
   Let me pull it right out!
   Let me pull it right out!
   Let me whip it right out!
   
   Rudy!
   
   Hi and howdy doody
   I’m the union man
   You can call me Rudy
   Any you boys not paid up on your cards?
   
   You know I’m pleased to meet ya
   Been tryin’ all day to reach ya
   The union’s here to help every one of you
   Rock ’n’ Roll stars
   Ha ha ha ha!
   
   Welcome to Chicago
   Welcome to L.A.
   Welcome to our local here
   You’ll always hear me say
   The work is here; it’s a couple a bucks
   I’m sure you’re glad to pay
   Whip it out, here’s your receipt
   Now I’ll go away
   Now I’ll go away
   Now I’ll go away
   Now I’ll go away
   Away-ay-eh-eh-yeah
   Away-ay-eh-eh-yeah
   Away-ay-ay-eh-eh-yeah
   Poo-aah...
   
   
5. One Angry Dwarf (live) - Ben Folds Five
   
6. This Velvet Glove - Red Hot Chili Peppers
   
7. Human - Goldfrapp
   
8. Uf Dem Anger - Were Diu Werlt Alle Min - Christian Thielemann, Orff: Carmina Burana
   
9. Sheik of Araby - Paul Blackman
   
10. Poème Électronique - Edgard Varèse
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

It’s Friday again. What could be greater
Than to look at the kitties at the Modulator?
There’s a whole damn menagerie waiting for you
Just grab hold of your mouse, hit the link and click through.

And let us not forget Carnival of the Cats, the 142nd edition of which will appear Sunday evening at House of the (Mostly) Black Cats, where the resident kitties are all (surprise!) either black or Mostly Black. Perfect company for that formal dinner!

THE COMEBACK: A 100-WORD STORY

Superman strained, sweat glistening on his brow. Nothing happened.

It had been two months since his last brush with Lex Luthor - ambushed in a cave lined with green kryptonite.

He was lucky to be alive - but he was still weak as a Super-kitten.

Sure, his X-ray vision was almost fully intact. He could even bend steel bars, leap buildings at a single bound. But not all of his muscles had recovered after eight weeks of rehab, and the wolf was at the door.

He tried again. Strain. Clink.

That takes care of the rent, he thought. I’m back!

PEARL

<buffalobob>

Say, kids! What day is it?

</buffalobob>

It’s Pearl Harbor Day!

Yes, it’s the sixty-fifth anniversary of the Date That Will Live In Infamy, as FDR so eloquently put it, when the Empire of Japan attacked U.S. forces stationed on Oahu in the Territory of Hawai’i.

In retrospect, it’s probably a good thing Japan attacked when they did. The dramatic blow brought the United States into World War II, helping make possible the Allied victory which shaped today’s world. The alternative - an Axis win which would have given the Nazi regime hegemony over Europe - is too horrible to contemplate.

But the attack was devastating, costing over 2,000 American lives. It was a painful blow, one that still resonates today.

To appreciate the sacrifice our fighting men made on that day, there’s no better place to be than Pearl Harbor itself. She Who Must Be Obeyed and I have made that pilgrimage twice - most recently in 1992.

When you take the motor launch out to the site of the sunken U.S.S. Arizona, where a memorial pavilion has been erected over its sunken remains, the thing that strikes you is that it feels like a holy place. You speak in a hushed voice, all the time aware that you are standing over a gravesite. Survivors of the attack serve as docents, explaining the events of that terrible day.

Sixty-five years later, oil still seeps from the wreck to form rainbow patterns on the water of the harbor.

It’s a very different world today. The Japanese are our friends now, a major partner in trade and technology. Japanese cars fill our highways and sushi is available in the corner supermarket. Turn on the Cartoon Network and you can watch anime, fresh out of Tokyo.

Sixty-five years after 9/11, what will the world look like? Will we have crushed Islamofascism...or will the nations of Europe be reduced to dhimmitude within a greatly expanded Umma? Who will be our enemies, and who our friends?

MOZZIL TOV

Congratulations are in order for the finalists in the 2006 Weblog Awards, the “World’s Largest Blog Competition.”

What, you didn’t know about the 2006 Weblog Awards? Neither did I, but it seems that without any help from me, several of my Regular Reads have landed on the Finalist List. Here they is:

Best Middle East or Africa Blog
Treppenwitz

Best Diarist
Just *dot* Christina

Best Photo Blog
Daily Dose of Imagery

Best of the Top 250 Blogs
Sisu

Best of the Top 1751-2500 Blogs
Parkway Rest Stop

Best of the Top 2501-3500 Blogs
The Impolitic

How ’bout dat? Got a couple of Blown-Eyeds in there...and Treppenwitz, where Yours Truly has written a few guest posts. Hoo-Hah!

I may not care overmuch about Bloggy Awards, but if I dismiss ’em as just so much Internet Circle-Jerking, one could fairly accuse me of griping about Sour Grapes. So instead, I will Shut The Fuck Up and congratulate the folks who managed to score Finalist nods. After all, it’s a considerable achievement, given the fact that there were over 4,500 nominations, out of which were chosen 450 finalists - ten to a category. Just think about the immensity of the Bloggy-Sphere, and you know that you’ve gotta have some chops to get on that Finalist list!

Voting begins sometime later today. As the late Mayor Richard Daley used to say, vote early and vote often...unless the software restricts you to a single vote, in which case do As You Will. But if nothing else, stop by these fine sites and congratulate the authors on a Job Well Done!

Update 12/12:
I added The Impolitic, running in the Best of the Top 2501-3500 Blogs category, to the list. The Impolitic is one of the brainchildren of Libby Spencer, who also writes at Last One Speaks and is a frequent commenter here. How the hell did I overlook that one?

IN WHICH ELISSON DISCOVERS A NEW TASTE SENSATION

It was on our flight to Washington, D.C. last Friday that She Who Must Be Obeyed and I discovered a new taste sensation.

Mango Vodka.

Specifically, we discovered a snazzy Adult Beverage that Delta is pushing: the Mango Kiss, comprising Finlandia mango vodka, cranberry-apple juice, and a splash of club soda. A lime wedge garnish adds flair...and vitamin C.

SWMBO ordered one just for the hell of it. Well, more properly, she ordered one because she does not enjoy flying, and a little in-flight anesthesia never hurts. She tasted it and her eyes lit up. It was damn tasty!

Just what we need. A pleasantly fruity, innocent-tasting beverage that packs a wallop. Ah, well.

I spent a good chunk of this evening seeking out the ingredients, that we might enjoy a Mango Kiss or two at home...possibly to be followed by a Mango Getting Lucky. Alas, the vodka proved elusive. I will have to resume the search tomorrow.

But while hunting for Mango Vodka, I found something that is even more fascinating.

Skorppio Vodka.

Skorppio is distilled from wheat, but what makes it unique has nothing to do with what it is made from. Wheat, potatoes, old tires - it matters not. Skorppio is of interest mainly because each bottle contains a whole, honkin’ scorpion, complete with sting.

You over there with that bottle of mezcal? The one with the worm - the gusano - laying in the bottom of the bottle? The worm that is ceremonially consumed by the guy who polishes off the bottle? Yeah, you.

You are now officially a Pussy.

Eat that fuckin’ scorpion, Mr. Big Ball-Sack.

Or (as the Skorppio folks recommend) fry it in butter and serve it on a cracker.

Not enough Scorpion Goodness for you? Skorppio sells the scorpions in bottles of 50 (whether marinated in vodka, I cannot say). Perfect for that midnight snack. Or handing out to pesky Trick-or-Treaters. Or as a garnish on the lip of a Martini glass...filled with a tasty Skorppio martini, of course.

I can think of two crazy motherfuckers who would love to find one of these in their Christmas stockings. Oh, yeah.

ASK MR. DEBONAIR

Dear Mr. Debonair,

I hate to travel by air. I don’t mind the long delays, the security procedures, the uncomfortable seating, and the tasteless airline snacks, but I have a terrible problem with flatulence. Being cooped up in an airplane only makes it worse, and it’s so embarrassing when I inadvertently let pass a little toot! Do you have any suggestions?

Hates Flying

Dear Hates,

Ahh, the dreaded Airborne Attack of the Vapors.

Indeed, there are many among us who have an especial problem with flatulence at 35,000 feet. Whether or not you dined on garlic sausage, five-alarm chili, Brussels sprouts, and hard-boiled eggs prior to your embarkation on that Boeing 737-300, it matters not. What does matter is that you are strapped in to that center seat next to a screaming baby, the seat belt light is on due to that “light chop” that had one of the flight attendants pinned to the ceiling five minutes ago, and the low air pressure makes the escape of Toxic Vapors almost inevitable.

For your peace of mind, recognize that we are all human, and we all suffer from the same problem.

If you find that you must pass gas while in flight, do what Mr. Debonair does. Open your air vent full blast; this will not only dilute the Vile Aroma and distribute it rapidly throughout the cabin, but the noise it generates may help cover up any noise you may generate while in flatulentia delicto.

Try to “slice the Swiss” quietly. Cough, if necessary, to cover up any noise - or rend one of your garments. Explain that you are enroute to a funeral and that tearing your shirt-tail is a traditional expression of grief.

Should you succeed in “hacking the Havarti” noiselessly, there is still the matter of aroma. Call it Murphy’s Law of Airline Flatulence, but it seems that most people save their most toxic, stench-filled emissions for the airplane. Should you detect an unmistakably fecal odor, simply wrinkle your nose in disgust - even if you are the responsible party and you are experiencing what the Germans call Fertzelstolzfreude - the strange, yet unmistakable, mingling of pride and pleasure upon smelling our own farts. People will assume someone else did it, particularly if you are a middle-aged woman.

Whatever you do, learn well the bitter lesson of Richard Milhous Nixon: Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to cover up a Farctic Blast with another aroma. Perfume is ineffective and obvious. And a woman discovered this week, to her intense dismay, that lighting matches - in effect, covering up one sulfurous exhalation with another - is not an alternative to be recommended whilst in flight.

Consider this tragic case, a 21st Century Cautionary Tale. Here is a woman enroute from Washington, D.C. to Dallas, who, in attempting to cover up her (presumably) prodigious and pungent gaseous output by lighting matches, ran afoul (heh) of the regulations that prohibit open flames aboard aircraft.

Whatever was she thinking? Rather than the momentary embarrassment of suffering other passengers’ withering stares (assuming the above Diversionary Tactics were unsuccessful or, indeed, not attempted), imagine the embarrassment attendant upon having the flight aborted and all passengers and luggage removed, causing the flight to incur at three hour delay; and being permanently banned from American Airlines!

This woman, apparently bereft of Critical Thinking Skills, would have been better off taking a five-pound shit in her knickers - never mind suffering the minor embarrassment of Being Caught Farting in Public.

The moral? Lighten up, relax (albeit not your Sphincter Muscle) - and leave those matches at home!

OUT TO LUNCH

Elder Daughter in a pensive mood.

One of the extra benefits of our trip to Maryland last weekend was the opportunity to spend time with Elder Daughter. As you can see, she is the model of Taste, Class, and Gracious Living.

But there’s another side to her. No surprise, considering whose daughter she is...

Who else would take her Brown Bag Lunch to work in a Robert Crumb Devil Girl lunchbox?

When her employer recently conducted a major Attic-Cleanout, this was among the many gewgaws, trinkets, and Items of Memorabilia they were giving away. Needless to say, she jumped right on it.

It has already attracted envious gazes and admiring comments, yea, even unto the Vice-Presidents of the Company. And in what better container can one bring one’s Deviled Eggs and Devil’s Food Cakes to work, thereupon to sup?

I am indeed a Proud Daddy.

A VISIT WITH HELEN

Some time back, I recounted a story of five sisters.

Four of those sisters - young women at the time - emigrated from Europe. One ended up in Argentina; the other three came to the United States, where they started families and lived long, productive lives.

The fifth sister was not so fortunate. Unable to escape from Festung Europa as the Third Reich rose to power, she was swallowed up by the Holocaust, never to be heard from again.

Of the three sisters who made their homes in the United States, one eventually became SWMBO’s grandmother Ann. The others were her great-aunts Dorothy and Helen.

Today, only two of the original five sisters survive. Dorothy is a feisty 95-year-old. She still has all her marbles, so to speak, but in recent years she has become increasingly frail. It is only within the last six months that she reluctantly moved out of her house and into assisted living quarters.

Her younger sister Helen, who is anywhere from 86 to 92, depending on which piece of documentation you happen to be looking at, is not doing quite as well. Helen has been suffering from Alzheimer’s syndrome for the past few years, and her daughter Margie - an only child - moved her from her home in Kansas City to a facility in Maryland for elderly people with cognitive issues. It’s a half hour drive from Margie’s home, making it easy to visit frequently.

I had last seen Dorothy four years ago, at the Bar Mitzvah of her grandson Josh – the Missus’s second cousin. Back then, Dorothy was robust enough to manage the trip from Kansas City to Chicago all by herself - not too shabby for a 91-year-old lady. And it was not the easiest journey, given the air traffic delays endemic to O’Hare. This year, when Josh’s sister Leah celebrated her Bat Mitzvah, Dorothy was no longer able to travel. However, the Missus had spent a few days with her over the summer, flying out to Kansas City to help with the difficult task of packing up for the move to assisted living.

Helen was another story. Neither of us had seen Helen in the past eleven years - not since she came to Fort Worth back in 1995 to watch SWMBO’s kid brother Morris William get hitched. She and her sister Dorothy provided hours of amusement back then, bickering and needling each other.

[Years later, when Matata would chase Hakuna around the house, trying to bite her ass, there would be a familiar feeling to the proceedings. Perhaps I was flashing back to that last time I saw Helen and Dorothy together.]

This weekend we were in Columbia, Maryland to watch SWMBO’s other second cousins - Helen’s twin grandchildren Ryan and Rachel - step up to the Adulthood Plate. As long as we were there, it would have been a shame not to visit Helen...who knows how many more opportunities we’ll get? So it was that we found ourselves at Dementia Central, out in the wilds of Maryland.

It’s not an easy thing, visiting a resident of an Alzheimer’s Retreat. A faint pong of urine hung in the air: the spoor of the terminally aged. We passed a brightly lit common room in which an elderly gentleman was holding court, talking excitedly about some random topic. We passed pleasantly appointed bedrooms, all nicely made up...and yet with the unmistakable aura of loneliness, of the End-Game. It’s the anteroom outside the office of the Big Guy, and there is no denying it.

They wheeled Helen into one of the atrium areas where we could all fit: SWMBO and her mother, Elder Daughter, Helen’s daughter Margie, her sister Dorothy’s son John, and me. I will admit that I was not quite prepared for how much Helen had changed since I had last seen her eleven years before. She was thin, almost skeletal...and she looked old. Frail, as if a puff of air could make her disintegrate.

And yet, as soon as she opened her mouth, there was no mistaking that Five Sisters Personality.

She marveled at how good SWMBO and the Momma d’SWMBO looked. She griped about the accommodations: “I hate it here. But - what the hell...” And John pulled out his cellphone and called up his mother, so that Helen could talk with her sister for what was probably the first time in many months. At first she did not recognize the voice on the other end of the line...but you could see her eyes light up when she realized who it was.


From left: Elder Daughter, Margie, Aunt Helen, SWMBO, Momma d’SWMBO.

After spending some 45 minutes there, SWMBO, Elder Daughter, and I left while SWMBO’s mom and Margie continued their visit. I thought of Helen as a young woman - Margie’s house is festooned with photographs that show Helen as a vivacious young strawberry blonde, nattily attired, looking as though she could’ve stepped directly from the pages of Vogue. Somewhere, in the misty recesses of Helen’s mind, I’m sure that is how she still sees herself...

And I thought of my own mother, who would have turned 79 today. I had always held a vision in my head of my mother as a little old white-haired lady, a vision that, as things turned out, was never to be. Having passed away at the age of 60, she would never see her grandchildren grow up, never attend their Bat Mitzvahs, their weddings. Yet I had no regrets. Not for her, the lonely bedroom with the faint ammoniacal Nursing Home Odor, the long, slow slide into twilight.

Ah, time. It heals all wounds even as it wounds all heels...and there’s never enough to go around.

REQUIES-CAT IN PACE, PIPER

I just got, via IM, a piece of heartbreaking news: Piper, one of the three resident kitties at the Laurence Simon household, has just passed away.

Piper was the diminutive one of the Simon cats. Small and reclusive, she had a quiet beauty all her own...and yet, she could be feisty when the occasion demanded.

I am fortunate enough to have met Piper in person on several occasions. Like the Great and Powerful Edloe, she was one of a kind...and she will be sorely missed.



Our hearts go out to Laurence and Gina, who have lost a friend. May your memories - and the best wishes of friends around the world - provide you a measure of comfort.

96 AND STILL CHARMING

The Missus and I were on the way to our gate at Washington Reagan Airport this morning. We had had a busy morning, grabbing a cup of coffee with Elder Daughter and driving her to work up in Silver Spring; stopping at a downtown hotel to make arrangements for a family get-together several months from now; and picking up a gift for the Mistress of Sarcasm’s boyfriend. Rather than cool our heels in the airport for three hours, we elected to catch an earlier flight back to Atlanta, one that just might get us home before the worst of the rush hour struck.

We ducked into a newsstand for a moment, but I lost interest rapidly when I saw that every single Theobroma cacao-related product offered there was priced at roughly triple what it would cost back home. I likes me my chocolate, but I’m not a total cacao-crack whore. I could wait.

On exiting the newsstand, She Who Must Be Obeyed pointed out an elderly lady who was sitting in an airport wheelchair just outside the newsstand. “Isn’t that...?

It was. I spoke her name, questioningly; she smiled and said, “Yes,” whereupon I took her hand in mine.

“Hello, my name is Elisson. You don’t know me, but you met my father in Paris last year. Do you remember Eli...?”

She did. For, of course, I am blessed with an Unforgettable Daddy.

It was spring of last year when Mr. And Mrs. Elissonsdad were vacationing in Paris and its environs. Among their very small tour group was this selfsame elderly - yet sprightly - lady, who promptly took a shine to them and had dinner with them on at least one occasion (documented here). What were the chances that SWMBO and I would ever have encountered her?

The lady? None other than the legendary Kitty Carlisle Hart, who at the age of 96 can still do an entire cabaret show solo, standing in high heels, without the aid of glasses or contact lenses, and can still hit (most of) the high notes without so much as a glass of water.

Miss Carlisle’s curriculum vitae - spanning the movies, opera, and television - is impressive enough, but the list of people she used to hang out with back in the day reads like a Who’s Who of the 20th century American arts and culture scene. George and Ira Gershwin. The Marx Brothers. Irving Berlin. Oscar Hammerstein. Frederick Loewe. Kurt Weill. Moss Hart, to whom she was married for fifteen years until his death in 1961.

She had been in Washington to attend the 29th annual Kennedy Center Honors awards celebration and was on her way back to New York, her longtime home.

Not everyone makes it to their mid-nineties; certainly, not all of those who do still have all their shit in one sock. But Kitty Carlisle Hart most definitely is a Together Lady. Perhaps a bit more frail than she was in her prime, she is nonetheless still active, attractive, and charming.

All of us should be so fortunate.

FURRY

One of the side benefits of traveling and visiting members of the Extended Family is the chance to make the acquaintance of New Kitties.

This weekend we visited the Momma d’SWMBO’s cousin Margie and her brood: husband Gerry, twins Ryan and Rachel, and their younger brother Jacob. Not only do they live in a house that boasts the Coolest Backyard Treehouse in North America™, they have a cat.



Say hello to Furry, who packs even more avoirdupois than Matata! Above, she sits in the classic Old Man pose...



...and here, she reclines in the beloved Sausage Position.

I am happy to report that Furry’s kittycat Belly Protection reflexes are intact (much more so than, say Matata’s), and that she is a delight to skritch.

I am also happy to report that Carnival of the Cats #141 is up at Catymology. Drop by and say hello!

BUBBATEEF.COM

That’s gonna be the title of my bext Web-Log.

Of course, it’d be a complete waste of time. These guys have got the genre bracketed.

[Warning: those last two links are not for the faint of heart...really!]

SIDNEY: A 100-WORD BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Sidney the Squid was a cephalopod.
He was mighty odd for a cephalopod.
On his Undersea Tee-Vee he’d watch the CephaloMod Squad -
And the Mickey Mollusk Club: he loved Jimmie Cephalo-Dodd.
A Religi-Squidgy, he was a disciple of the CephaloGod.
He caught dinner (Boston scrod) with hook, line, and CephaloRod.
He was a Music Maven with his Cephalo-iPod.
He hung out at Gold’s Gym to buff his CephaloBod.
He’d watch Superman II and root for General CephaloZod.
He’d indicate approval with a wink and cephalo-nod.
Despite Sidney’s being so cephalo-odd,
His friends worshiped the ground ’pon which he cephalo-trod.

[See if you can figure out the theme for Weekly Challenge #33 over at the 100 Word Stories Podcast.]

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Hoo-Hah! It’s Friday!

Time to see what the little white iPod d’Elisson has for us in its voluminous Memory Bank. Today’s Random Assortment o’ Moozik followeth:

1. Merikäärme - Alamaailman Vasarat
   
2. Windows - Chick Corea
   
3. Act II - Tagore, Scene 1 - Philip Glass, Satyagraha
   
4. Saltwater To Quench Your Thirst - Michael Leviton
   
5. How Do You Do? - Radiohead
   
6. Yes It Is - The Beatles
   
7. Variazioni - L. Stokowski, Capriccio Espagnol
   
8. Something Monstrous...Neither Beast Nor Man - James Newton Howard, King Kong
   
9. Fistful Of Steel - Rage Against The Machine
   
   Huh!
   Check it...uggh!
   Silence
   Something about silence makes me sick
   ’Cause silence can be violent
   Sorta like a slit wrist
   
   If the vibe was suicide
   Then you would push da button
   But if ya bowin’ down
   Then let me do the cuttin’
   
   Some speak the sounds
   But speak in silent voices
   Like radio is silent
   Though it fills the air with noises
   Its transmissions bring submission
   As ya mold to the unreal
   And mad boy grips the microphone
   Wit’ a fistful of steel
   Yeah...and mad mad boy grips the microphone
   Wit’ a fistful of steel
   
   Wit’ a fistful of steel
   (’Cause I know the power of the question)
   Wit’ a fistful of steel
   Wit’ a fistful of steel
   (And I won’t stop ’cause I know the power of the question)
   
   It’s time to flow like the fluid in ya veins
   If ya will it, I will spill it
   And ya out just as quick as ya came
   Not a silent one
   But a defiant one
   Never a normal one
   ’Cause I’m the bastard son
   With the visions of the move
   Vocals not to soothe
   But to ignite and put in flight
   My sense of militance
   Groovin’, playin’ this game called survival
   The status, the elite, the enemy, the rival
   The silent sheep slippin’, riffin’, trippin’
   Give ya a glimpse of the reality I’m grippin’
   Steppin’ into the jam and I’m slammin’ like Shaquille
   Mad boy grips the microphone
   Wit’ a fistful of steel
   Yeah...and mad boy grips the microphone
   Wit’ a fistful of steel
   
   Wit’ a fistful of steel
   (’Cause I know the power of the question)
   Wit’ a fistful of steel
   Wit’ a fistful of steel
   (And I won’t stop ’cause I know the power of the question)
   Ahh shit
   
   And I won't stop ’cause I know the power of the question
   
   And if the vibe was suicide
   Then you would push da button
   But if ya bowin’ down
   Then let me do the cuttin’
   Yeah!
   Come on!
   
   A .44 full of bullets
   Face full of pale
   Eyes full of empty
   A stare full of nails
   The roulette ball, rolls along on the wheel
   A mind full of fire
   And a fistful of steel
   
   And if the vibe was suicide
   Then you would push da button
   But if ya bowin’ down
   Then let me do the cuttin’
   
   Yeah! Wit’ a fistful of steel!
   Come on!
   Uggh!
   Wit’ a fistful of steel!
   Uggh!
   
   
10. Blessed Relief - Frank Zappa
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

Aahhh. Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.

But not for long. This afternoon, the Missus and I will be flying off to the Washington, D.C. area yet again, this time to attend a family event in Columbia, Maryland: the B’nai Mitzvah of SWMBO’s twin second cousins.

We’ll hook up with Elder Daughter in D.C. before heading out to Maryland. Wowee, we get to see E.D. twice in the span of a single month!

But meanwhile, it’s Friday, which means that the 115th Friday Ark, replete with the usual Animalicious Goodness, is up at the Modulator.

We’ll be in Washington Sunday evening, but that won’t stop me from enjoying the 141st Carnival of the Cats, scheduled for a stop at Catymology. Be sure to drop by and say hello!

IN WHICH ELISSON MISPLACES HIS DICK

I was on my way to George Bush Intercontinental Airport this afternoon when I realized my dick was missing.

I had had it with me earlier that day. No doubt about that; I distinctly remember using it right after lunch. But now it had gone missing.

OK, it wasn’t really my dick. It was my cellphone. But it may just as well have been my dick, for all the Diminishment of Manhood I felt when my primary means of portable communication was missing.

As I sped north on the Sam Houston Tollway at a leisurely 70 MPH, I checked every pocket. Shirt. Pants. Jacket. Everything came up empty.

Where the fuck had it gone? I mentally retraced the events of the afternoon.

Just before, I had attended a meeting in one of the satellite offices that sits just a few blocks west of the Great Corporate Salt Mine’s main compound. Upon arriving in the meeting room, I had removed my suit jacket and draped it over a chair. After about 45 minutes of listening to my colleagues feed data to a consultant, it was time to head to the airport for my flight home. I grabbed my jacket, excused myself, and left.

Aha! thought I. The phone had been in one of the jacket’s pockets and must have fallen out when I draped the jacket over the chair. That, at any rate, was the most likely scenario.

I was about to replace the phone anyway - with one of those fancy-pants Crackberries, so I could check my e-mail on the fly - but to be without a phone for even a single day is...well, it’s like being without a dick, in today’s plugged-in, high tech, space-age world. I had to get the damn thing back.

As soon as I arrived at the airport, I checked in my car and caught the bus to the terminal. Once there, I ran to the nearest pay phone.

“Pay phone”? What the hell is that?

They’re what Men Without Dicks use to make phone calls. They are thin on the ground these days, but you can always count on finding one or two, where in years past, entire banks of them stood. And I don’t miss the days when pay phones were the only way to make calls while on the road. They sucked then - and they suck even worse now, since only Desperate Losers need them anymore.

Getting the damn thing to accept my corporate credit card was an exercise in futility. I ended up feeding in five dimes, enough to make a single local call - which I did, to one of the meeting attendees. With any luck, she might have noticed the phone lying there on my chair. If not, I was screwed.

I got her voicemail and left a message asking her to call my home phone and leave a message there for me, telling me whether she had found the cellphone. As it turns out, she did find it - right where I’d figured it was, too - but when she called my house, she got a real live SWMBO instead of our answering machine.

This was Not Good...because the last time SWMBO got a call from a Great Corporate Salt Mine location from someone other than me, it was to tell her that I had been carted off to the hospital with a kidney stone. When The Missus saw the caller ID, she had one of those brief “shitting a peach pit” moments until she realized that the call was simply to let me know my dick cellphone had been found and would be express mailed to me. No kidney stone or other disaster this time.

An old proverb says that in the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. But in the land of cellphones and Crackberries, the man without portable communications is...dickless.

I can’t wait to get mine back.

TEMPUS NUDGIT

Time flies when you’re having fun,
And even when you’re not.
Just let enough of it go by,
You’ll end up in a plot.

Yes, indeedy: Time Flies. Or, as Eli (the Daddy d’Elisson) is wont to say, Tempus Nudgit. And four whole years have flown by since this guy up in Joisey started plastering his Creative Output on the Inter-Bloggy-Web.

Drop by and wish him well, why don’tcha?

A CHANGE IN THE WIND

There’s an old expression concerning the weather in Texas: If you don’t like it, stick around a few minutes. It’ll change.

True, dat.

I am in Houston, enjoying the hospitality of the Great Corporate Salt Mine. It was 70°F this morning as I gulped down a couple of cups of coffee, chased it with a glass of pulperrific orange juice, and packed my bags. Within minutes – the time it took me to get to the office - the temperature had plummeted to below 50°, and by the time I head out to the airport this afternoon, it’ll be in the low 30’s.

Welcome to fall in Houston, home of the Blue Norther.

Except for the sometimes violent storms that accompany these great, sweeping cold fronts, I have always liked Northers. They clear out all the surplus humidity and the brown funk that seems to hang in the air in this part of the world, leaving behind a crisp, clean, deep blue sky and refreshingly cool temperatures. On a more philosophical note, they’re a reminder not to be too complacent about Life As It Is – because things can change in a heartbeat. Sweat one minute, stiff-nipple chill the next.

It’s a natural human tendency to believe in trends. When the stock market is rising, everyone wants to buy. When prices of commodity chemicals are headed north, everybody in the industry wants to build a plant and get in on the action. But trends are an illusion. Cycles prevail. What goes up must come down, and vice-versa. The tricky part is figuring out when the turning point has arrived. It’s not always as obvious as a change in the wind.

Habits are comforting, and it’s natural to seek refuge in the familiar. But life happens, and when it does, enjoy that cobweb-clearing blast of cold air - even as it soaks you to the bone and freezes your stindeens off. No pleasure without a little pain, eh?

Good Gawd, am I waxing philosophical, or what? I need to post a recipe, or a cat picture...

THAT EXPLAINS IT

Every once in a while, I’ll take a peek at my referrer logs only to find that this site receives visitors from some Strange Searches.

Here are some of the keywords that have sent folks my way...

• jagshemash
  
• king ranch chicken
  
• deflowering
  
• tim horton the hockey player’s birthday
  
• dream about waterspouts
  
• there are two means of refuge from the miseries of life music and cats
  
• bigtime tornadoes
  
• the land of the bean and the cod
  
• seltzer bottles canal street nyc
  
• willingway
  
• springtime in savannah
  
• onglet steak - recipe
  
• yiddish expression to ward off evil eye
  
• king ranch chicken recipe
  
• tornado dream
  
• bump inside ear
  
• types of smoked fish
  
• pachalafaka lyrics soupy
  
• rectum, damn near killed
  
• princeton class of 1974
  
• thick bitter root beer new brunswick canada
  
• pachalafaka lyrics soupy sales
  
• florentine pogen lyrics meaning
  
• chocolate asphalt
  
• how to make donair meet
  
• chunks throat
  
• 007 do i look like a man who cares?
  
• hanger steak
  
• chanukah oy chanukah lyrics
  
• hot pussy
  
• man in line for santa jean shepherd the line end hers

OK, I can understand why these search terms will bring people here. For sure, I have written posts about things like Tornado Dreams, hanger steaks, and an asphalt-like hot fudge recipe.

Hell, I can even understand why someone might want to look for some of these terms on the Inter-Webby-Net. Haven’t you ever woken up in the dead of night, wondering just what Soupy Sales was singing in that dopey song?

I’m a little surprised the term “enema blog” didn’t show up. Some time back, there was apparently a whole squadron of nutcases that found this site whilst looking for an Enema Blog. Jeezus. You write one post that mentions an enema bag, and that’s the one everyone remembers you for...

But today, I saw that someone was drilling into Blogger - specifically, my site - looking for posts about boogers. Boogers! Now, who would do such a thing? And, more important, why?

Mystery solved!