RTWT, as we Citizen-Journalists say.
RTWT, as we Citizen-Journalists say.
These men that I've been seeing, baby
Got their soul up on the shelf
You know they could never love me
When they can't even love themselves
But I need someone to love me
Someone to really understand
Who won't put himself above
Who just loves me like a man
I've never seen such losers, Darlin'
Even though I tried
To find a man who could take me home
'Stead of takin' me for a ride
And I need someone to love me
I know you can
Believe me when I tell you
You can love me like a man
(complete lyrics here)Ummm, Bonnie. Darlin'. No offense, but we men have the SAME complaint. Or rather, some of us might do. I'll freely admit some men have found their one-and-only but there are considerable numbers of us who've simply given up. I mean, one can only kiss just so many toads until the warts become a problem, eh? It is what it is, innit?
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Another Re-Run: Smoke 'Em If Ya Got 'EmI went looking for something this morning (I found it, too) and came across this old chestnut from four and a half years ago... which I posted right at the time I quit smoking cigarettes. It kinda rang a couple o' bells with me; I hope it works for you, Gentle Reader. The post, in part:It’s been a week today and I’m still off
the evil weedcigarettes, still haven’t cracked the Partagas stash. It’s still very early days, but at least I haven’t done that backsliding thing immediately. Thank you, Nicorette.
So. Just by sheer coincidence (and thanks to the inimitable Lileks, he of the cigarillos taken under the gazebo in the summer), I came across a couple of items on smoking yesterday, wouldn’t you know. And they’ll continue to pop up just like clockwork for the foreseeable future, too. Life’s like that.
The first: Barack Obama is a smoker. No sh!t.But Obama's semisecret weapon amounts to a double-edged sword. After all, what sort of successful Democratic politician smokes nowadays? Smoking is GOP old-school. House Minority Leader John Boehner regularly smokes cigarettes—which helps explain why he didn't hesitate to hand out tobacco-industry campaign checks on the House floor some years back. But Democrats shun the demon weed, at least in public. One of the first acts of House Speaker Nancy Pelosi was to ban smoking in the Speaker's Lobby, long the haunt of nicotine-crazed legislators. (The most famous Democratic tobacco addict doesn't even smoke. Former President Clinton likes to chomp on cigars—and, as the Starr report detailed, to occasionally use them for other purposes. Sometimes a cigar is not just a cigar.)
So, it's understandable that Obama, according to his aides, has been trying to kick the filthy habit as he gears up for a possible presidential campaign. The senator is refreshingly honest about his penchant for cigarettes: When asked about it by the Chicago Tribune in 2005, he replied, "The flesh is weak." When asked whether Obama still smokes, his spokesman, Tommy Vietor, hedged. "I haven't seen him for a month, so I don't know," Vietor said in late December. Vietor later declined to comment for this piece. (emphasis mine)That Starr report link is pretty danged graphic, but I’m probably not telling you anything you don’t already know. Back to Barack… I really don’t give a damn if Barack, or anyone else, for that matter, smokes. I don’t think most Lefties are that tolerant, however. Because they know what’s good for you, even if you don’t…and they’re not shy about telling you, either. Still and even, I think this just has to be the most unique, if not bizarre, reason to quit I ever heard… “Well, I decided to run for President, so I guess I better quit.” Takes the cake, that does.
The second item is quite old, a Times Online (UK) item from March of 2005 titled “Up in Smoke.” (Ed: The Times link is dead and more's the pity) (No, Sparky, not that Up In Smoke) It’s a bit of nostalgia, and Boy-Howdy, do I ever relate.Not very long ago, the whole world smoked, no room was truly furnished unless it contained an ashtray, and all of waking life was measured out in cigarettes. Doctors smoked in their consultation rooms. Chefs smoked in restaurant kitchens. Mothers smoked while dandling their babies. Mechanics smoked in oil-flecked garages. Athletes smoked on the sidelines. Teachers smoked in classrooms. Patients smoked in hospital solariums. Television presenters smoked on camera. Shoppers smoked in the produce aisle at the supermarket. We smoked in the rear halves of airliners, in the balconies at movie theatres, between courses at formal dinners, on crowded dance floors while gyrating, on elevators despite the signs, on the subway if the hour was late enough. We smoked in the office and at the beach, in the waiting room and at the hair salon, in the art gallery and at the stadium. We smoked in bed: just after waking and just before sleep, after making love and sometimes during it. We often smoked without being aware we were smoking.
In Europe - actually, in most parts of the world other than the US - everyone was perpetually offering everyone else a smoke. Sit down at a table with three people and instantly out come four packs, an expertly gradated trio of ends poking out of a corner of each, and of course you have to take one, even if it’s a brand you abhor, just as they must take yours. To refuse would be an act of aggressively bad manners, like spurning the proffered tea in an Arab country or the bread and salt in Russia. In America, by contrast, prison yard customs prevailed. The pack was kept in a shirt pocket and one pill was drawn out at a time and inserted into the owner’s mouth. This was not viewed as a breach of etiquette since, it was reasoned, everyone you encountered would already have his or her own pack. Keeping your pack to yourself was a sterling example of the American ethos, like fencing your land and shooting trespassers and considering that basic societal benefits belong to those who can afford them. (Ed: gotta get that snark in, doncha?)
Bohemians and intellectuals predictably went for Camels or Luckies. Raymond Loewy’s Lucky Strike package was a triumph of design, even after the green background was excised in the Forties so that the dye could be saved for the war effort. In the Twenties it was stylish for cigarettes to allude to the Near East, hence Murads, Fatimas - and Camels, now the last survivor of the trend. (Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade smoked Fatimas.) Supposedly, there were dirty pictures concealed within the image of the camel on the package, but though I nodded yes when they were pointed out to me, I was never able to make them out. Both Camels and Luckies appealed to a certain purism, to a nostalgia for fedoras and speakeasies, to a peculiar impression that the brands were so elemental as to be something like produce, not really commercial brands at all. Nothing was better at conveying cosmopolitan style and culture in America than possession of a pack of Gauloises, or Gitanes. The aroma of black caporal tobacco was so distinctive you didn’t need to flash the pack to stand out in a crowd. (Ed: You sure didn’t. Gauloises and Gitanes stink, in a manner that’s simply beyond the stink of an ordinary cigarette and is, essentially, indescribable. Anyone who has ever been to Paris, or anywhere else in France, knows this for a fact. It begins when you ask yourself “What the Hell smells in here?”)
Anyway you can’t smoke any more. You can’t smoke anything - not low tar, not Sher Bidis, not all-natural additive-free tobacco in unbleached paper. It’s not yet illegal to possess the materials and implements for smoking, nor to consume them in the privacy of your own home, but it is increasingly difficult to smoke in public places, even outdoors, even in Europe. It’s true that a certain dark anti-glamour lingers outside the restaurant doorway, as you and people you will never meet again enjoy the rough comradeship of exile, puffing away in your thin jackets in February as if you were doing something heroic. It’s true that in a few Western settings - student life, for example, or among fashion models - smoking remains almost normative. It’s true that if you produce a pack of cigarettes in the right place and at the right time entire roomfuls of confirmed quitters will line up to bum one. And of course everyone knows at least one defiant and unapologetic smoker. In general, though, and especially in prosperous suburbs, you can expect passers by to glare at you with undisguised contempt, however discreetly you light up.Barack, take note of that last paragraph. Or perhaps he’s already read the article. At any rate, every single thing in the above paragraphs is true, with the possible exception of smoking during sex. After sex? Most certainly. During? I don’t think so.
I’m old enough to remember the days when smoking was cool, the days when, as noted above, everyone did it. I learned “British Rules” on smoking when I lived in London. Not coincidentally, The Second Mrs. Pennington’s and my consumption rate doubled or tripled, even, when we went out on the town or down to the pub. We realized this almost immediately and developed subterfuges to counter the expense, which could be considerable. There were nights when the two of us would go through five packs of cigarettes, simply because all our mates were eager to accept our cigarettes when offered. I would routinely pass on the cigarettes offered in return, having never developed a fondness for Players Navy Cut or Rothschilds. We figured out what the Brits didn’t like (Trues, IIRC) and we’d both bring a pack of those along to offer around. Naturally, the offered smokes would be declined. Thus: money saved. I’m embarrassed to admit this, but it’s true.
Being the good Bohemian I aspired to be in my youth, I began with Luckies. I even did the James Dean thing by rolling them up in the sleeve of my tee shirt while on the job as a landscaping contractor’s assistant in high school. Yes, I began in high school. We all did the JD thing, and we all smoked Luckies, too. It was the thing to do. Over the years I moved from brand to brand, changing about every ten years or so. At the end (last week, ha!) I was smoking American Spirits, one of those “all-natural additive-free tobacco in unbleached paper” brands described above. Well, the paper is bleached, I think. And the damned things were still killing me, in spite of their “naturalness.” God willing, I’ll make it stick this time.
Even though I’ve excerpted from the article heavily, there’s much, much more. Here’s the closing graf:
Maybe there are ex-smokers out there who feel uncomplicated relief at having quit. I doubt there are many, however. Your cigarette was a friend - the sort of friend parents and teachers warned you against, who would lead you down dark alleys and leave you holding the evidence when things went wrong - but a friend nevertheless. It’s terribly sad that you can’t enjoy a smoke now and again without tumbling into the whirlpool of perdition, the way you can take a glass of spirits on the weekend with no danger that by Monday you will end up filtering the shoe polish after exhausting the cooking sherry. But just as an alcoholic remains an alcoholic even after decades of abstinence, so a smoker is a sinner forever after. You have breathed fire. You have experienced one of the deepest satisfactions of life: the first cigarette of the day in tandem with the first cup of coffee. (Ed: Or the two glowing cigs in the dark after wild, wild sex!) You have felt that knee-trembling rush upon taking the first drag after suffering an enforced separation from cigarettes - after a trip to the moon, for example. Your friend has come running to your side in the worst moments, and has been there to cheer you on in the best. You have tasted of the fruit of good and evil. Now that you have chosen the path of righteousness, can it be that the decision is fixed and irrevocable? Is it possible that smoking will be legislated or taxed out of existence? Is it possible that the Earth will be wiped so clean of tobacco that, like opium, it will be difficult to find without undertaking hazardous journeys in troubled regions? Is it possible that you will never again be able to enjoy the comfort of knowing that you have traded five minutes of life for five minutes of serenity? We may all have stopped smoking, but we continue to burn.
The pic is one of the very few I could find showing me with a cigarette, which is passing strange, mainly because we almost always used ciggies as props in the way-back... before smoking went out o' style. True confession: I still miss the damned things.
Maybe there's nothin' happenin' there
Maybe there's somethin' in the air
Before our upper lips get stiff
Maybe we need us a big ol' whiff
If we could just get off-a that beat little girl
Maybe we could find the groove
At least we can get a decent meal
Down at the Rendezvous
'Cause one more heartfelt steel guitar chordMemphis has been on my to-do list for a long, long time. We thought we were gonna check it off on the return trip from our recent vay-kay, but noooo. There was no stoppin' on the way out to Virginny (we were on a MISSION) and by the time we were on our way back we'd been on the road too long to spend another day or two away from our bed... and our stuff. So, Memphis is still on the to-do list. Mebbe some day...
Girl, it's gonna do me in
I need to hear some trumpet and saxophone
You know sound as sweet as sin
And after we get good and greasy
Baby we can come back home
Put the cowhorns back on the Cadillac
And change the message on the code-a-phone
But... Lets go to Memphis in the meantime, baby
Memphis in the meantime girl
An' if you see me walkin' down the lineThe Rolling Stones are rightly (self-)described as "The World's Greatest Rock 'n' Roll Band" and I won't argue that point. But ZZ Top is arguably the "World's Greatest BOOGIE Band," and I say "arguably" coz George Thorogood might take issue with that appellation. That said, I'll stand by what I said: ZZ Top IS the world's greatest boogie band. They're also a damned good blues band when they put their minds to it. Witness:
With my favorite honky tonk in mind
Well, I'll be here around supper time
With my can of dinner and a bunch of wine
Listen as the wind blowsI heard this on iTunes Radio this afternoon, on the Norah Jones station I defined a couple o' few days ago. There's this about that... iTunes Radio is pretty good, as long as you set your preference on each and every station at "Discovery." One has three options... "hits," "middle o' the road," and "discovery"... I've tried all three and "discovery" is the best, by far. I now have eight stations defined on the meRadio and I've been exposed to some new-to-me artists performing some genuinely good stuff. Me likee.
From across the great divide
Voices trapped in yearning
Memories trapped in time
The night is my companion
And solitude my guide
Would I spend forever here
And not be satisfied
DEATH OF THE OLD COWSuddenly, a cow runs out into the road and a Limo driving late at night hits it head on and the car comes to a stop. The woman in the back seat - in her usual abrasive manner, says to Stan, the chauffeur, "You get out and check on that poor cow--you were driving." So Stan, the chauffeur gets out, checks, and reports that the animal is dead but it appeared to be very old. “Well,” says the wealthy, abrasive woman, "You were driving, so you go and tell the farmer in that lighted farmhouse over there."
Two hours later Stan, the chauffeur, returns totally inebriated, a full belly, his hair ruffled, with a big grin on his face. "My God, What happened to you?" asks the woman.
The chauffeur replies, "When I got there, the farmer opened his best bottle of single malt scotch, the wife gave me a meal fit for a king, and the daughter made love to me."
"What on earth did you say?" asks the woman.
“Well, I just knocked on the door..........and when it opened I said to them, ‘I'm Stan, Nancy Pelosi's chauffeur, and I've just killed the old cow.’"
Robbie Risner Dies
Retired Brig. Gen. Robinson "Robbie" Risner, who spent more than seven years as a prisoner of war in Vietnam, shot down eight MiG-15s during the Korean War, and served during World War II, died on Oct. 22 in Bridgewater, Va. He was 88 years old. "Risner was part of that legendary group who served in three wars, built an Air Force, and gave us an enduring example of courage and mission success," wrote Chief of Staff Gen. Marc Welsh in A True Airpower Giant, his tribute to Risner. "I'm proud to serve in Robbie Risner's Air Force and to try and live up to his example," stated Welsh. Born in Mammoth Spring, Ark., in 1925, Risner flew the P-38 and P-39 in Panama during the latter portion of World War II. Recalled to active duty during the Korean War, Risner completed 108 combat missions in that conflict, downing the eight MiGs in the F-86. On Sept. 16, 1965, the North Vietnamese shot down Risner's F-105 during a bombing mission and took him prisoner. He endured torture and solitary confinement at the infamous Hanoi Hilton prison during his captivity. Risner retired from the Air Force in August 1976. Among his decorations, he received two Air Force Crosses for his heroism in Vietnam. Risner authored the book "The Passing of the Night: Seven Years as a Prisoner of the North Vietnamese." A statue of him is on display at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colo. (Includes Washington, D.C., report by MSgt. Angelita Colón-Francia) (For more on Risner, read Nine Feet Tall from Air Force Magazine's February 2012 issue and Valor: When Push Came to Shove.)Gen. Risner was a contemporary of Col. Bud Day, who also passed this year. Both men were veritable giants among men and examples for all of us.
Two Million Flight Hours for Predator-Reaper Fleet
The Air Force's fleet of MQ-1 Predator and MQ-9 Reaper remotely piloted aircraft this week hit the mark of two million total flight hours since the service began flying Predators in 1995, announced RPA operators at Creech AFB, Nev., on Wednesday. A hand-picked crew from Creech controlled the MQ-1 that reached the milestone flight hour on Oct. 22, states the base's release. "There is just no way to describe what an amazing event that was," said Col. James Cluff, commander of Creech's 432nd Wing/432nd Air Expeditionary Wing. It took the Air Force from 1995 to April 2011 to reach one million flight hours, but only an additional two-and-a-half years to accumulate the next million, according to the release. "The fact that commanders have had this [intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance] and precision-strike capability from remotely piloted aircraft when and where they have needed it for so long is a remarkable milestone," said Lt. Gen. John Hesterman, head of Air Forces Central Command. "But perhaps the bigger story and true achievement has been the unwavering dedication of the men and women who have made this capability available for such a sustained period of time. They have saved lives and made us and our coalition partners safer and more secure," he said.One wonders just how many hours USAF's drone fleet would have accumulated if Obama were not the president. Then again, USAF isn't the only outfit flying Preds and Reapers; the CIA has a rather large fleet of the beasties, as well. It's gub'mint policy to "neither confirm nor deny" drone strikes and the agency that performs those strikes... in most cases. As for me? I get totally weirded-out whenever I go out to Cannon Airplane Patch and see a Pred shooting touch-'n'-goes. Which they do. Weird, I tell ya. Just WEIRD.
Who's that woman on your arm?
All dressed up to do you harm
And I'm hip to what she'll do
Give her just about a month or two
Bit off more than I can chew
And I knew, yeah, I knew what it was leading to
Some things, well, I can't refuse
One of them, one of them the bedroom blues
That's my very favorite song off this album and one that's served me well over these many years and through many a woman, too. Looking back it seems like every single one of those wimmen were "all dressed up to do me harm," without fail. But, Hey! I was always about "beat me, hurt me, make me write bad checks" where wimmen were concerned. That said, I never wrote that many bad checks in the literal, monetary sense (one? two?)... but I wrote MANY more than a few in the metaphorical sense ("Do you love me?" "Oh, yeah, Baby... yes I DO!"). That said (yet again), I sure as Hell got beat up and I'm (mostly) thankful for the experience(s). I think that says sumthin' good about me, but I'm not exactly sure what.She delivered right on time, I can't resist a corny line
But take the shine right off your shoes
Yeah, right off your shoes
Carryin', carryin' the bedroom blues
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Committed to the Inter-tubes by Buck on 10/20/2009 11:02:00 AM 2 comments:
Impulse BuySo... we were in Wally-World yesterday, doing a mini-resupply run (beer and such) when this caught our eye:
We DO like Dan Brown and $17.50 seemed like a small price to pay for several hours of page-turning entertainment. I picked up "The Da Vinci Code" a couple o' years back when the ex-girlfriend and I were off on a long weekend in Dallas and was enthralled. That book made it through me, the ex-GF, her family, and mine before I lost track of it. And everyone said the same thing, to wit: "Wow! What a page-turner THAT was!" Yup. And we can only hope there's more of the same lurking within the pages of his latest...
All that said, I should note I read Mr. Brown because of the way he writes... and NOT out of any belief there's hidden truth or any such other "deeper meaning" in his plot lines, which is to say I ain't buying into the various alternate Gospel theories and such. He just tells a damned good story. Period. End of report.
Yup, two posts. Go read Lex's story at the link, it's one of my favorites of his. Lord, do we EVER miss the man.Committed to the Inter-tubes by Buck on 10/20/2009 12:47:00 AM 12 comments:
|In the beginning|
|Near the end|
|Dinner is served!|
|Another bad mePhone pic|
|Click to embiggen|
The Black Bra (as told by a woman)
I had lunch with 2 of my unmarried friends. One is engaged, one is a mistress, and I have been married for 20+ years.
We were chatting about our relationships and decided to amaze our men by greeting them at the door wearing a black bra, stiletto heels and a mask over our eyes. We agreed to meet in a few days to exchange notes.
Here's how it all went.
The other night when my boyfriend came over he found me with a black leather bodice, tall stilettos and a mask. He saw me and said, 'You are the woman of my dreams...I love you.' Then we made passionate love all night long.
Me too! The other night I met my lover at his office and I was wearing a raincoat, under it only the black bra, heels and mask over my eyes. When I opened the raincoat he didn't say a word, but he started to tremble and we had wild sex all night.
Then I had to share my story:
When my husband came home I was wearing the black bra, black stockings, stilettos and a mask over my eyes. When he came in the door and saw me he said:
(You are going to love this...)
"What's for dinner, Zorro?"