Green Hell

Gettin Medieval on Yo' Ass

Here's one for y'all to check out.

He's a bro of mine from "across the pond," and he takes his sharp, pointy objects very seriously.

His site has the "Green Hell Seal of Approval."

Another AirTran Ripoff

Caveat emptor: Latin for "Buyer, beware!" or "We live in a post-9/11 world – airlines can do whatever they want!"

I despise AirTran.

Beyond its history of wretched customer-service and incompetence at elementary arithmetic (if x= the number of seats on a plane; the number of tickets sold must be ≤ x, as x – x = 0), its penchant for dishonesty leaves me colder than most of the Kennedys.

For whatever reason, AirTran sees nothing wrong with promising and accepting payment for services it doesn't provide. Apparently, the notion of contractual obligation is every bit as alien to them as are restraint and decorum to a coke-addicted Midtown hair-burner. As they're an American company, I'm sure they adhere to the "Let your 'yes' be your 'yes' and your 'no' your 'no,'" or "My handshake is my bond" schools of business ethics – in their own minds. Outside the Rove-ian Wonderland of "creat[ing] [one's] own reality," though, I suspect that they learned of yes's, no's, handshakes and bonds at Jonathan Pollard's feet rather than at The Savior's or even Donald Trump's.

AirTran first pissed me off in July of 2007, in an unprovoked assault on my "personal economy" (to nick a term from a local neocon pundit). I'd booked a morning flight to Denver's hideous, Lovecraftian airport, wherein I'd arranged to meet "Animal" MacYoung between noon and 13:00. Being a naïve, dewy-eyed lad of 39, who had yet to divest himself of the Randian "value for value" myth, I'd assumed that paying AirScam the price they requested to get me there between noon and 13:00 would prove as mutually beneficial as any transaction between two rational, consenting adults.

Unfortunately, rational adults don't make AirTran's policies. That responsibility, it seems, devolves to a roomful of malevolent, sticky-faced, sticky-fingered "special needs" children who arrive at work every morning in a faintly brimstone-smelling Blue Bird Handi-Bus.

Arriving at the gate, I was told that my flight was overbooked – but that for eighty dollars more, I could upgrade my ticket to business class. Resisting the urge to tell the obsequious attendant (there's nothing I hate more than the kind of pantywaist who waxes apologetic whilst picking my pocket on behalf of his handlers) that he could kiss my rosy Scots-Irish posterior gratis, I politely asked the gent whether he was a crack baby or merely illiterate. I showed him my printed confirmation (and empty wallet), offered to help him with his ABC's ("Bean," I said, patting him on the head, "should be near the top of the list, Sparky!") and politely inquired as to the exact nature of the fucking problem. Just as politely, he informed me that AirTran had sold more seats than were actually available, and that catching that particular flight would cost me another eighty bucks.

Having no real choice, and having been refused a refund (although I still need to research his claim that federal law allows airlines to breach contracts with impunity -- it sounds a tad fishy), I submitted to this extortion.

Had it been a matter of business ("Be at the meeting at 14:00, sharp…") I'd have sued AirTran. As it happened, though, I only risked angering a close friend who had driven 25 miles to pick me up, and who had better and more profitable ways to spend his time. As I care more about my friends than AirTran does about meeting its obligations ("We got our money, so up yours! Avaritia bona est!"), getting there on time was worth the additional eighty bucks. (It also occurred to me that standing MacYoung up wasn't a very bright thing to do…)

I was, however, pissed-off at their failure to notify me in advance. I'd given them my email address, snailmail address and telephone number, but to no avail. Apparently, the ten or so cents it would have cost them to tell me that arriving in Denver on time would set me back another eighty bucks was better spent on warm milk, (sugar free) cookies and Ritalin for the incompetent, thieving baw'bags on the board of directors.

AirTran next flew (no pun intended, of course) to the top of my shit list in July of last year. Being a semi-pro photographer (more semi- than pro, admittedly), I'm willing to fork over a few extra shekels for a window seat – as AirTran requires – for the sake of a good shot. Having gladly paid the fee for the chance to get a few interesting aerial photos, I noted, upon locating my seat, that an honest-to-God hag -- straight out of European folklore -- had taken it.

I'll grant that I'm a foul-tempered asshole. But I'm not enough of a foul-tempered asshole to roust an old lady out of my seat – especially an old lady who mutters in strangely corrupted Latin to a rat-like creature named "Ba'alphegor," and who could probably turn me into a frog, werewolf, or worse.

The matter was eventually resolved, but only because the flight crew was polite and accommodating above and beyond the call of duty -- or investor confidence. (For whatever sick reason, companies that treat their employees like shit and swindle and mislead their customers induce blue-vein, diamond-cutting priapism in speculator-types -- but that's for another post.) When I explained the situation to them, they cheerfully agreed to spot Mags and me a beer each in compensation. AirTran got their ten bucks, Black Annis got a window seat for free, and I got my ten bucks' worth. Everybody won, but it's sad that the boardroom bozos will spend millions on PR campaigns, while "the help" does a better job at customer relations through simple courtesy and honesty.

I spent the next few days getting drunk and married (in that order), and thought little more of the matter -- until Mags and I tried to make it home the following Monday.

When we arrived at the "Dog Bra," my wife and I were told that our flight had been overbooked…

It's a cute l'il story in and of itself, so I'll tell it elsewhere. Suffice to say that it was Mags' first time riding a MARTA train after 23:00. We'd have preferred an afternoon flight, because MARTA trains are chock full of stoners, panhandlers, bums and other barking moonbats from nightfall until the line shuts down at 01:00. I'll also mention that I'd like to see an AirTran exec ride a MARTA train any time after sundown…

The next outrage occurred the day after Thanksgiving.

My mother-in-law is getting up in years. She's 85 and suffers from Alzheimer's disease. This isn't AirTran's problem, naturally. Their problem was getting Mags to Michigan on time, which (of course) they failed to do. Her flight was scheduled to leave at 18:00, so at 15:00, I drove us to North Springs Station, whence we took the train to Hartsfield.

From start to finish, the train ride took roughly 45 minutes. Check in and lunch at a franchised greasy spoon (AirTran's in-flight meal consists of a bag of pretzels small enough recycle by using the empties to sell single "rocks" of crack inconspicuously) took another 45, but Maggie still had to run the TSA gauntlet. Therefore, we thought it best to get her to the checkpoint by 17:00.

As it happened, the Allgemeine SS to whom we've become accustomed had the day off – or perhaps they were all in Grady Hospital, recovering from overdoses of crack sold in AirTran pretzel bags. The point is: this bunch was friendly, polite, and (Dare this aging, hardcore "anarcho-reactionary" even say it?) downright helpful. Mags made it through the security checkpoint in a jiffy, and reached the concourse without incident.

No, the incidents only began flying thick and fast after she reached the concourse.

I caught the train (and probably hepatitis-C from the gent who shared my seat and identified himself only as "Junkie Jones" when he mistook me for an undercover narc) and made it back to Maison Ridgerunner at 19:00 or thereabout.

Snatching a cold one or two (or six, to be honest) from the refrigerator in the garage, I stomped into the den and slapped a copy of Axis of Evil XXXVIII: Syrian Showdown into the DVD player. I then taught the dog to make IED's, WMD's and lawn darts; to read Arabic; and to ignore the possibility of Oliver North and Bill Clinton having a few coke-dealing mutual acquaintances.

No sooner did my favorite action hero, Chuck-Claude van Warmerbruder, commence to beating RPG-toting cabbies to a bloody pulp than the phone rang.

"Woohoo! 'At's right, Chuck!" I bellowed, taking a huge gulp of beer and toasting the TV screen. "Ye' gon' stomp a mudhole in some raghead ass an' then walk that sucker dry!"

Filled to brimming with armchair warrior spirit and sunshine patriotism, I sucked in my modest, holiday beer gut, scratched my nuts once or twice, thrust out my chest and swaggered to the phone, stopping only to strike a few kung-fu poses before the hallway mirror. Unfortunately, it wasn't the president calling to commend me for bugging the phones of suspected Seventh-Day-Advento-Fascists, Mennonite suicide bombers, or their un-indicted Quaker co-conspirators… It was my wife.

Momentarily forgetting that we'd been married a little over four months at the time (she sometimes accuses me of forgetting that I'm married, period…) and had lived together for more than a year, I reflexively hissed: "I thought I told you not to call me here!" into the receiver.

After declaring that she'd call me here whenever she damn well pleased (and then calling me everything but a white man), she said her flight was delayed and that she wouldn't be leaving Atlanta for quite a while. I consoled her as best I could, roundly cursed AirTran, and went back to watching my movie.

An hour or two later, the phone rang again – and again 'twas the spousal unit. Now a bit grumpy, she said she had no idea when her flight would depart – and that apparently, neither did anyone else. She had, however, found a few other Detroit-bound "refugees," and, being every bit as gregarious as I am surly and antisocial, had talked to them. As it happened, they'd all been given different reasons for the delay. Mags had been told that the plane needed urgent repairs of some sort; hence the "bum's rush" to a different concourse and the multi-hour wait.

Some had been told that a big, scary dinosaur had risen from the depths of Lake Erie and was rampaging through Detroit.

Others were assured that Osama "Blind Kibbeh" bin Laden had been seen brandishing a Semtex-laden Epiphone Sheraton in front of City Hall, screaming: "Where this 'Hastings Street' is? John Lee Hooker was no-talent, infidel kaffir! I playing you fucker-of-mother some badass blues. I playing real deal! Boo-yah! How you liking me now? And it going little something like this!"

Some were told that Goldman-Sachs had just purchased every square inch of Eight Mile Road, and their army of insurance assessors was too busy to be disturbed; and others that Elvis, Jim Morrison and the Lindbergh baby had come out of hiding and were discussing our nation's uncertain future with Eminem, Ted Nugent, the reanimated corpse of Les Bangs, and Lee Iaccoca's little-known twin brother, Binky.

Yes, that's a joke – but so is AirTran's idea of customer service.

Eventually, the victims concluded that AT had probably overbooked again, handled its customers on a first-come, first-served basis, and effected a quiet (and early) departure. As each customer was fed a different line of bullshit, though, we'll probably never know the truth.

What I do know is that Mags didn't reach Motown until 03:00, Central Time. I also know that the AirTran's CEO didn't exactly pull up in a limo, apologize for his underlings' incompetence and offer her a ride to Troy.

Needless to say, by 03:00, Budget Rent-A-Car was closed, so my wife was unable to obtain the vehicle she'd booked a full three weeks in advance. (I'll cover the matter of Budget billing her for a car she never received in another post, although that was irritating, as well.) Fortunately, Avis was open and had a car available. This solved one problem, but left her with another: driving through Detroit at zero-dark-thirty -- alone. Hell, I'm a guy and I can't say that I'd be eager to try my hand at that. The entire fucking city is exactly like the Bankhead Court Apartments during the late '80s and early '90s…

Luckily, everything worked out – no thanks to AirTran.

Now lest anyone think I'm completely down on the greedy, incompetent shit-weasels; I'll admit that I'm not. To be sure, I despise them, and they're beyond awful in many, many ways. To their credit, though, they offer the lowest fares in the business -- period. Bearing in mind that one gets what one pays for, I'll give 'em a thumbs-up for ticket prices. They also service a respectable number of major cities (always a plus) and even one airport each in Mexico and Puerto Rico. Oh! And many of the stewardesses are Grade-A eye candy.

Ultimately – for all the nasty things I've said about them – I'll probably still use them when I want to fly somewhere for next-to-nothing. Make no mistake, Gentle Reader – AirTran is a bad airline, and that's that. But even bad airlines have their uses. If, for example, you decide to pull up stakes; tell your boss, ex, etc. to pound sand; and start over again in another town, a one-way ticket on AirTran is just what the doctor ordered. If you live like I did during my late twenties and early thirties (work a few months, put a few shekels in the bank, then fuck around until the money runs out; or work part-time and take numerous weekend road-trips), AirTran is a great way to see the country. In short: As long as you have more time than money, AirTran is the way to go.

If, on the other hand, you're adhering to a strict timetable (a wedding, funeral, Christening, job interview, hit, heavy dope deal, etc.), stick to the real airlines.

G'night.

Note: Since I finished this piece, AirTran has done it again. When, last July, the swindlin' peckerwoods offered us free tickets in exchange for taking a later flight, its representatives failed to mention that certain dates were "blacked out." As it happens, we'd meant to use the free tickets to fly to the 2009 Animal List BBQ in Colorado. Unfortunately for us, (and yes, you've guessed it, Gentle Reader), those dates were (drumroll…) "blacked out." Apparently, the seats we were offered for our trouble were to be held for (in their rep's words) "paying customers." I suppose this means that AirTran intended to overbook its July flights to Denver, bilk a few more saps out of their hard-earned cash, "bump" them to later flights, and continue the scam indefinitely.

I also found the flunkie's choice of words insultingly amusing. Now let me get this straight: AirTran – once again – fails to provide service as promised. By way of making amends, they offer us yet another non-existent service. And yet they have the temerity to act as if we and not they were the ones trying to obtain something for nothing? Good Lord, folks! They sold our seats TWICE! They doubled (at the very least) their profits by failing to provide the service for which we paid -- and then acted as if they were the aggrieved party!  Moreover, they insulted our intelligence. As any frequent flyer knows, last-minute tickets are far more expensive than those reserved in advance. I don't consider the nabobs at Airtran very bright, but since they're on the board of directors (as opposed to humping baggage or handing out Band-Aid-sized bags of pretzels), they must have a few functioning brain-cells between them. As the "overbooking" bit happens so frequently, I can only assume that it's deliberate. They know as well as we that airline tickets aren't refundable. Therefore, they have nothing to lose when "bumping" a passenger with a less expensive ticket in favor of some gobshite who waits until the last minute to purchase his/hers.

As neither of us was satisfied with the arrangement (or AirTran's dishonest policies), we hounded them relentlessly. Finally, they made good on their promise and provided us with tickets. This meant we ended up flying into Denver more-or-less on schedule – after a layover in (and I shit thee not, Gentle Reader) Milwaukee, Wisconsin. This, as my late father would have said, was a case of "going 'round your elbow to get to your ass" if ever there was one.

And yet the story has a happy ending. Our "redeye" flight out of Denver wasn't overbooked, for once. additionally, the AirTran employee working the desk that night was one of the sweetest, most gracious ladies Mags and I have ever met. The flight attendants were likewise the salt of the earth; and the pilots managed to put us one the ground in "Da ATL" safe, sound – and slightly ahead of schedule.

Just when I resolve to give a poorly managed company the heave-ho for good, the "grunts" – through "mere" honesty and professionalism – save their bosses' arses once again…

Back in Black (or Red?)

Green Hell's third birthday has come and gone. Three years is a short time, whether measured in the lifespan of man or a blog. But my life has changed so much since the spring and summer of '06; my perception of time has actually become distorted. In some ways, that spring and summer seem as if they'd happened just yesterday. In others, though, they seem like they passed aeons ago.

How's that for a Grade-A mindfuck?

I haven't updated this blog or even checked my email in several months now, but I intend to change that. The reasons for my inattentiveness fall neatly under Thomas Mann's "…manifold exasperations of life" -- and I may or may not elaborate thereupon. That depends upon how my mood shifts (the joys of manic-depression….) during the course of the next few paragraphs. Suffice to say that the old bit of mimeographed 1980's office humor: "When you're up to your ass in alligators, it's hard to remember that your original goal was draining the swamp" handily sums up my situation.

I'll begin with the good news. Green Hell isn't the biggest, best or most popular weblog in the blogosphere, but it's garnered some loyal readers (many of whom have become damned good personal friends) in the three years since I began it. For that reason (among many), I've decided to resurrect it, as it were; to raise it from the primordial ooze into which it had sunk; to keep it from fossilizing, and to breathe new life into it. I've also decided to return to doing what I set out to do in the first place: writing for the sheer hell (and pleasure) of writing – when I'm allowed that pleasure.

The country we call the United States of America has oft been called "an experiment in self-government." Unfortunately, said experiment has failed -- and dismally at that. I add this only because as an associative thinker, I see certain parallels between the USA and this blog. Even as "Uncle Sugar" was an experiment in self-government, Green Hell was a cyclothymic, antisocial asshole's experiment in self-expression – and an equally dismal failure. Even as the US, in two centuries, degenerated from a vigorous, thriving republic into a "third way," fascist/socialist police-state, Green Hell, in two years, degenerated from a vigorous, well-intentioned project into a "purge valve" for my personal vendettas, petty grievances and longstanding grudges.

In short (and rather like the neocons I frequently lampoon), I'd unwittingly become what I hated -- which is ever the cost of sallying forth to slay dragons, or even to knock their fucking teeth out…

" 'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord."

But I usurped both office and function – with predictably disastrous results.

For having done so, I apologize to God, my wife, my mother, my kinsmen and my friends (all of whom – rightly or wrongly -- expected better of me). The bile and venom I spewed at my adversaries, though, was undoubtedly more toxic and corrosive to my loved ones than to my intended targets. "Where there's no sense, there's no pain," as the old adage runs…

I don't, however, apologize to my enemies. The things I said about them needed saying and I attended to the task as best I could. I've heard it said that "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery," so I've opted to make amends by sincerely flattering them via imitation. The worst of them once opined that one must betimes "forgive [one]self and move on," and I've done just that. The path of least resistance is, after all, always the easiest – as well they know.

Beyond the qualitative and quantitative deterioration of my writing, I found that my personal life (never an easy one, I'm afraid) required my undivided attention. Between 2007 and 2009, I buried two aunts, my father and my dog; got married (which has its own set of attendant headaches); and had to sever (albeit not without some regret and/or hesitation) some unprofitable (and in one case, downright counterproductive) personal ties.

In 2008, my oldest friend moved down to Douglas County, and thence to Alabama. While not exactly catastrophic, it wasn't exactly joy go leor, either. I'll also add that my extended family has experienced additional travails, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. In a nutshell, life has been a double-decker shit sandwich served on stale, moldy Wonder Bread – and I'm completely out of fucking mustard.

Moving right along, the entire "struggling writer" bit is anything but a cliché. The last two years have been a constant struggle. Trying to keep the wolf away from the door, as it were, while working fewer hours in order to have more writing time is anything but easy. Then there's the writing itself. I've been hitting the keyboard every day, but little of it has been fit for public consumption. I'm still subject to spells of writer's block, and have experienced several unusually severe hypomanic, minor depressive, and mixed episodes, all of which have made life "interesting," in the Chinese proverbial sense of the word. I suppose it's simply a resumption of my usual cycle, perhaps exacerbated by my having gone emotionally numb after my father's death. Whatever the cause, it's a pain in the ass, and hasn't improved my overall mood or my relationships with friends and family.

So much for that.

A few months ago, Typepad caved in to "planned obsolescence," so I decided to cease blogging altogether -- for a while, at least. Having more time than money, I thought it best to hibernate, and (to steal a worn-out hippie phrase) to "get my head together."

I haven't been an utter recluse since then, mind you. Mags and I have taken quite a few road-trips (including one to Florida, to talk shop and chill out with Immortal Bonds author Dawn Scovill), and have been in semi-regular contact with Sluggo, Marc MacYoung, John Wilkinson and GH reader/commenter/occasional contributor, Aaron, among others.

We've also recently joined a local writers' group (I despise organizations on principle, so Maggie had to drag me in, kicking and screaming), and are currently co-writing novel. If we don't kill each other before finishing it – a very real possibility – it should be finished soon. Unfortunately, our differences in style and approach are quite marked, and reaching any kind of middle ground has proven very difficult.

The cookbook is nearing completion (the tough part will be chopping it up into digestible chunks and then smoothing out the finished project), and I suppose that'll be my next big project -- although given the state of the economy, I should probably change both concept and working title.

Ramen and Roadkill: Recipes For The Second Great Depression has a nice ring, don't you think?

Getting back to novels, I'm ten thousand words into the "McVann" book I began nearly two years ago, but I probably won't post any of it on the website – if I finish it at all. At present, I've soured on novels, and would rather read them than try writing them. I have a few new "Bill and Dave" short stories/novelettes in the works (including the conclusions to "Fine Dining" and "Gibbous Moon Over Dreamland"), and will almost certainly continue to post their adventures in Green Hell's fiction section.

The Bill & Dave stories have the least commercial potential of anything I've ever written, and I suppose that's why I enjoy composing them as much as I do. It's not that I'm anti-capitalist (like many hidebound Hillbillies, I've grown to loathe capitalism, fascism, socialism and communism equally), but I've recently discovered that I'm decidedly anti-materialist. The "big four" blend into one another so smoothly; it's difficult to distinguish them from one another at times, as all are blatantly materialist systems of "thought" (in quotes for a damned good reason), and I've become sick of materialism. However seemingly different their tribal uniforms and/or shibboleths du jour ("Say the secret word; you get a free duck," as the only Marx I find even remotely interesting once said…) their underlying assumptions are identical. Which makes them prime specimens of "economic man" at his worst.

I won't dispute for a second that the fulfillment of materialist urges has lengthened the human lifespan, increased the sum of human knowledge, and (for much of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, at any rate) and improved the standard of living for some – if not most – of the world. But the quest to satisfy the same desires has led to considerable misery, as well. (The House of Saud, for example, fulfills its collective materialist urges whenever it pleases, but Saudi Arabia as a whole is – and not coincidentally, I might add -- a Wahhabist civil war waiting to happen…) Moreover, the "casino" nature of modern economics actually undermines any given individual's chances of surviving a "meltdown."

I could go on forever about this, but I'll keep it short and sweet. Modern man has reached a near-irresolvable paradox. Those of us who don't live in Africa, South America, Southeast Asia and a few Mid-eastern pestholes live longer, are healthier, better informed (assuming that what we think we "know" isn't utter bullshit) – than ever, and yet completely incapable of dealing with the universe on its own terms. Give primitive man modern technology (just the technology, mind you -- not the know-how); and the result is the Third World. Saddle modern man with primitive technology, though, and he'd starve to death in a fortnight.

Bill and Dave, however, wouldn't. The polar opposites of "economic man," They milk the system when they can (just as it milks them when it can), and disregard it completely when they can't. But they neither need nor respect it. To them, it's an inconvenience and nothing else; even as, contrariwise, the technology it produces is a convenience – and nothing else. Which is exactly the way I see things. "Better a lean wolf than a fat dog," as Aesop wrote.

Moreover, writing about them is fun. No deadlines, no agents or publishers to please -- just a chance to run hog wild and enjoy myself. I can't stand Oscar Wilde, for the record (had I known him in high school, I'd have given him wedgies, peed in his thermos, and possibly even mocked his hairstyle in front of the chicks), but his espousal of the French Decadents' credo – art for art's sake – was spot on. As it happens, though, I loathe "art" nearly as much as I loathe Wilde, meter maids and three-piece suits. For this reason, I prefer to think of the B/D stories as exercises in writing for writing's sake and mockery for mockery's sake.

I've also completed a few pieces of nonfiction – rambles, rants and observations on everything from wargames and bad jobs to tornadoes, schools, street rats, loonies and gardening. Most need some tweaking, but I'll try to post one per week.

This brings us the matter of current events. In '06 and '07, I spent entirely too much time on the two most useless topics imaginable: politics and economics. As – in my estimation, at any rate – the country has reached the point of no return, I've decided to limit myself to one such rant a week if even that. I regard politicians with the same contempt I do actors and usurers, and at this point, nothing I say will change anything in any way (as if ever it could…). I'm tired of wasting my breath and pissing in the wind, so I'll content myself with shouting, pointing and laughing as the bus careens towards the cliff.

When I do wax political, I'll be writing about local issues for the most part, as neither I nor any other swinging dick voter in this country matters a whit above that level. However much I hate to admit it, Claire Wolfe and other anarcho-libertarians of her ilk fucked up by the numbers when they opined, "It's too late to work within the system, but too early to start shooting the bastards." Ten or so years ago, it wasn't too late to start shooting, but we missed our chance -- and now it's too late to do either.

Beyond the fact charging windmills and chasing shadows have lost their appeal, my loathing and contempt for all politicians, think tanks and financial institutions (public and private) have become nearly pathological. I've therefore chosen not to discuss them, in the interest of preserving what remains of my sanity (and because I can only afford so many bottles of Maalox a week…)

Beyond writing, I've been dealing with being flat, busted broke.

At any rate, Green Hell is back in business – for the time being. I've no doubt that it'll be shut down eventually, but I'll continue to write and post until then – and until said pastimes no longer amuse me. Stay tuned.

G'night and God Bless.

Thoughts for the Day (10/13/08)

Consider the Source…

 

Several months ago, I was perusing the content of a thoroughly unpleasant website (one of the many to which I refuse to link). Most of what I read indicated that the author had drunk deeply of a toxic cocktail of ideological Kool-Aid, media mythology and political propaganda. Most of his claims (this “gent” listed heavily to the left, incidentally – surprise, surprise!) were easily refuted. Most of his logic was anything but logical. And most of his arguments consisted of setting up and knocking down straw men.

 

Even worse, nothing I read indicated that the “puir bit crathur” could actually do anything but bitch about economics and politics. Tragic, as his understanding of both was disturbingly limited, and seemed to derive from public high school textbooks. Bluntly put, he was no more conversant with Marx or Machiavelli than with Locke or Lao Tzu. Not that I suppose it bothers him: a typical, anonymous “Internet creep,” he doesn’t allow comments and doesn’t provide contact information.

 

“Where do they find them – and why do they send them here?” as was often said on You Can’t Do That on Television…

 

(His “essays,” incidentally, reminded me of my college days, during the mid- and late-1980s. At the time, I commuted daily from Roswell to the GSU campus in Atlanta. As it happened, the most convenient way of doing so was to drive to the Lenox or Brookhaven MARTA stations and ride the subway to Five Points. When taking any form of mass transit, needless to say, one meets some “colorful” characters -- and in this respect, MARTA was no exception to the rule.

 

One of the more memorable specimens in this menagerie of misfits was a shabby young man, perhaps five years older than myself; best described as one of nature’s crueler jokes upon itself. He was of medium height and somewhat paunchy, with a shock of greasy, straw-blond hair; unfocused blue eyes behind smudged, coke bottle lenses; and a perpetual five o’ clock shadow. His molasses-drawl – low, but with a permanent, whining undertone – hinted at congenital retardation, while his obliviousness to even the simplest social graces left the mark of bad breeding writ large upon his sweaty brow.

 

Despite the fact that he had trouble forming complete sentences, he lectured all within earshot on the virtues of socialism  -- a subject he obviously didn’t understand. Occasionally, he handed out mimeographed leaflets – in this case, probably not of his own authorship – until someone actually expressed interest. When this happened, he apparently became convinced that They were “out to get him,” as he’d stuff his pamphlets into his grungy overcoat, clutching them to his un-bathed breast as if they were original copies of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

 

I suppose the associative connection between this creature and the blogger is obvious: both wave their antennae furiously – until someone actually pays attention to them. When the light of inquiry is shone in their direction, they scuttle pell-mell for the comforting darkness beneath the metaphoric refrigerator.)

 

A few of the blogger’s passages, though, merited further investigation. Something – intuition, perhaps – moved me to conduct a bit of additional research. Upon doing so, I found that of the lunatic’s many claims and allegations (most of them absurd), these few were factually correct.

 

The moral of the story: Even lunatics and idiots can speak the truth. Discernment consists of the ability to separate truth from bullshit, and to assess not only the credibility of the messenger, but the content of the message, as well. (The inability to do so, by the way, is why the gullible are easily misled by “experts.”) Yes, I know it’s a lot of work – but then again, no one ever claimed that critical thought was easy…

 

“A wise man will learn more from a fool than a fool will ever learn from a wise man.”

 

-- Japanese proverb.

 

Remarkable Men

 

Whenever someone whines about “Eurocentric” history, I usually roll my eyes and reach for the antacids. Nine times out of ten, the aggrieved party is either a confused weenie, fresh out of public school and with a head full of half-baked notions about life beyond the pale of Christendom; or the same sort of half-educated, agenda-driven fuckwit who can y chirp (merrily and ad nauseam) about Constantine and the Council of Nicea – but who goes completely “blank” when the term “canonic authority” is tossed into the (usually one-sided) conversation.

 

Occasionally, though, the complaint rings true. As most of what we consider “history” in this modern Dark Age adheres to the ideologically driven “deify/demonize” model, much of what has transpired beyond the Urals for the last few centuries is either swept under the rug, or inflated beyond its actual historical significance. (Exactly which depends upon whether the “historian” loves or hates the West. Most, as nearly as I can tell, fall into the latter category, these days.) The few who dare “oppose” either camp usually do so by treating history as a mysterious set of “processes” and “forces,” and portray the world as a chessboard, upon which human beings are mere pawns.

 

This is tragic, as history – minus humans – is mere paleontology. True history is a record of the actions and interactions of various individuals and groups. Some, it’s true, leave larger “ripples” than others, but establishing a meaningful perspective entails taking the whole “pond” (or such of it as we can see, at any rate) into account. Nowhere is the failure to do so more evident than in the history of the Eurasia. As students of Eurasian history generally adhere to one of two equally silly schools of thought: the Ex Oriens, Lux school; and the Drang nach Osten school the situation is unlikely to improve in the near future.

 

While pro-Eastern lotus-eaters dreamily prate of the “ancient” civilizations of Southeast Asia (perennial favorites of theirs, it seems), blissfully unaware that Thais, Vietnamese and Burmese – for example -- migrated to their current stomping grounds well within the Christian era, displacing the native Malay and Mon-Khmer people in the process; pro-Western beef-eaters try to prove that fair-haired, fair-skinned Scythians and Tocharians single-handedly civilized Asia, until their light was cruelly snuffed by the native barbarians.    

 

Both camps seek demigods and demons, villains and victims within history’s pages – and both are completely full of shit. Neither is willing to weigh and measure any given culture against another – honestly noting its’ virtues as well as its vices, its strengths as well as its weaknesses. Lest anyone think I’m espousing relativism; I assure you that nothing could be farther from the truth – as modern “relativism” isn’t relative at all. When compared relatively, some cultures, civilizations, and even individuals can indeed be considered superior to others. Some nations are happy, peaceful, prosperous, and long-lived. Others are brutal, war-torn, poverty stricken and ephemeral. Whether the purpose of a nation is: 1.) Self-perpetuation or; 2.) Protecting its citizens’ rights and freedoms, the former are unquestionably superior to the latter -- relatively speaking. Modern “relativism,” though, scrupulously avoids such comparisons, stating categorically that all things are equal. (Except Western civilization, which is thoroughly wicked. Isn’t it neat how “relativists” think in absolute terms, betimes?)

 

Modern relativism, alas, will be with us until the last relativist discovers -- preferably through firsthand experience -- that pork and plutonium are not equally nourishing. As for the EOL and DNA schools: I’d suggest gladiatorial combat, but it’s probably better (and more moral) to pity -- and ignore -- the benighted souls. Fortunately for those of us who are interested in piecing together what really happened, rather than feeding our own prejudices, a few brave souls have taken great pains to disperse the artificial mist dividing East and West. Giving the lie to Kipling’s bold assertion, they’ve demonstrated that the twain have oft met, and under interesting circumstances, as often as not.

 

The most recent of these is British historian David Nicolle, Ph.D. Whereas Dr. Nicolle’s name is hardly a household word; the quality of his work speaks for itself. Most of it, to the best of my knowledge, is confined to a few excellent volumes in Osprey’s Men at Arms and Elite series – a shame, as he deserves a broader audience. Being exhaustively researched (many of the photos were taken by the author in situ, during his travels, and the bibliographies are guaranteed to occupy the curious for months) and beautifully illustrated by Angus McBride, Nicolle’s “no-frills” military histories are a feast for minds and eyes alike. My only criticism is that he leans a little too far in the EOL direction (excusable in a scholar whose interest in his subject is both passionate and genuine, mind you), but ours is not a perfect world, after all.

 

I first became aware of his work during the mid-‘80s, when I purchased and read Arthur and the Anglo-Saxon Wars, The Age of Charlemagne, and The Vikings.

 

To say that I was deeply and favorably impressed would be a gross understatement. Here was a man –a respectable and legitimate scholar, at that -- who was neither a dismayed classicist, apologizing for the Dark Ages as if they were an embarrassing stain on the fabric of European history; nor a “Gothomaniac,” yearning for some mythical “Golden Age” of heroic barbarism. Here was a man who studied – objectively and rationally – the rise and fall of various tribes and nations, their strengths and weaknesses, their influence upon their neighbors, and their neighbors’ influence upon them. Having suffered the “slings and arrows” of SCA stupidity for years, I came to think of Dr. Nicolle an oasis of truth in an intellectual/historical desert: a man who wrote of the Middle Ages as they were; not “as they should have been.”  

 

A few years later, I obtained Hungary and the Fall of Eastern Europe, The Normans, and Attila and the Nomad Hordes. At the time, I was an avid student of Asian martial arts; albeit one whose previous and ongoing study of history, archaeology, linguistics, genetics and cultural anthropology (at times, academic; at others, independent) led him to question not only the wisdom of his putative teachers, but that of the recognized “authorities” in the field, as well. At best, most of the aforementioned “authorities” were bigots. At worst, they were fools, liars, intellectual cowards, or completely impervious to facts.

 

Nicolle to the rescue, once again!

 

Here was a man who, to the best of my knowledge, had never taken a marital arts course in his life. He had, however, studied archaeology and history, as a result of which – contrary to Draeger and Smith’s assertions – he noted that the “barbarians” of the steppes “gave as good as they got,” exercising an equal (if not opposite) influence on Chinese culture and technology in the process.

 

Smith eventually conceded  -- however grudgingly -- that the Manchu were “warriors, in their own right.”

 

Right charitable (if slightly condescending) of him, that...

Nicolle, on the other hand, pointed out that Turco-Mongol strategy, military technology, and martial acumen usually eclipsed those of their “civilized” subjects; and that acculturation and absorption (both civil, rather than martial processes, incidentally) did more to liberate the Chinese from foreign oppression than any number of renegade Shao-lin monks or shady “triads.”

With all due respect to the self-styled lo han and the spiritual descendants of the lin kuei, I’ll note that in the absence of popular discontent (ultimately, the Yuan and Ch’ing dynasties owed their respective collapses to the selfsame, unruly critter), neither group could have succeeded as it did – for better or worse.

The very notion of “waves” of this sort flowing in one direction or another is, sadly, every bit as alien to the deracinated, modern “post-American American” as the notion of objective reality. Like a millennial Byzantine, he envies the barbarians at the gates, but has neither the balls to join them, nor the intellect to recognize the threat they present.

 

This bring us to Rene Grousset’s Empire of the Steppes, a sadly – and perhaps fatally -- neglected book

Grousset, being a modern Frenchman – and closet commie; one suspects; it “goes with the territory,” after all -- decided that the flux of Eurasian history was irreparably disrupted by Euro-colonialism, and that “prehistory” ended with the founding of the late, unlamented USSR, and with Mao’s de facto ascent to the throne of the “Middle Kingdom.”

Como se dice, “Fumbling on the one-yard line?”

For all that Grousset never foresaw the collapse of the USSR; the PRC’s gradual shift from communism to fascism; or the pan-Islamic resurgence, Empire of the Steppes is mandatory reading for anyone with a genuine interest in bypassing the East/West rockpile  -- not to mention “grokking” the dichotomy between mutually beneficial interaction and irreconcilable differences.

Defining “irreconcilable differences,” though, is a challenge in and of itself.

In the absence of physical and philosophical inquiry, it’s damn-near impossible, as a matter of fact.

As nearly as I can tell, Jonathan D. Spence chases neither rabbit. His magnum opus – a translation of the autobiography of the Chinese emperor, Kiang-Hsi – leaves Gurdjieff’s Meetings With Remarkable Men “sucking wind,” insofar as it paints a portrait of a truly remarkable man; a man who -- on the surface -- was one of the most powerful men on earth, but understood his own mortality and limits, all the same.

Emperor of China: A Self Portrait of Kiang Hsi is an edited collection of the journals, letters, and edicts of Kiang Hsi; as genuine a “renaissance man” as Washington, Franklin or Jefferson – especially when his “barbarian” origins are taken into account.

Kiang Hsi, the son of a nomadic, steppe/taiga conqueror, refused to disarm his newly acquired subjects – especially the non-Han Miao and Yi : “Without their bows, how will they feed their children?” in his own words. He likewise refused to disarm the Han-proper, noting that all of his subjects (he was no republican, admittedly) had the right to defend themselves against the depredations of bandits and rebels.

Aside from noting that a lomg-dead Eastern despot trusted his conquered subjects more than the US government trusts the “governed,” from whose consent it purports to derive its powers, I’ll shut up and leave the Gentle Reader to do his own reading and draw his own conclusions.             

 

Religion and Politics, or: “Silly Season” is Ycumen In

 

Well -- almost. In a few days, it’ll be time for the “sheeple” to traipse off, baaing and bleating, to the political slaughterhouse. Depending upon my mood, I may or may not be among them. Mags plans to resort to write-ins, as a protest of sorts. I’ll accompany her to the precinct, but unless Baldwin makes it onto the ballot in Georgia, I won’t be voting for president.

 

We both refuse to vote for Barr – politically speaking, his support for the patriot act is “the sin that will not be forgiven, in this world or the next,” as far as Maggie and I are concerned. Assuming that the “Islamo-fascists” really do want to “take our freedom,” the patriot act is sheer – if bitterly ironic – absurdity.

 

“Envy thou not the oppressor, and choose none of his ways.” (Proverbs 3:31)

 

Nor will we vote for McCain or Obama. Neither represents our concerns, our moral values, or our political convictions, and we’d rather not vote at all – or even “waste” our votes -- than share in the responsibility for electing either.

 

I’ve heard all the boring, panicky arguments (all of them from Republicans) against doing either – and dismissed them.

 

I made my choice during the primary. That choice was Ron Paul. Unfortunately for Mr. Paul, the Republicans’ dominant, neocon wing ignored him, then maligned him, misrepresented his positions, and finally resorted to insulting his “followers,” while referring to the rest of the scabby, diseased, ersatz-conservative herd as “supporters.”

 

This, by the way, was an interesting choice of words, and indicative of unbelievable degrees of denial and projection. It was propagandistic wordplay worthy of a Clinton-era Democrat, and a sterling example of the neocons’ penchant for attributing their own negative traits to their perceived “enemies.”

 

Well congratulations, boys. You’ve just turned your perceived enemies into real ones.

 

“Devise not evil against thy neighbor, seeing he dwelleth securely beside thee. Strive not with a man without cause, if he hath done thee no harm. (Proverbs 3:29-30)

 

“Followers?” Interesting. Ron Paul’s campaign (while severely hampered by McCain-Feingold) was largely a grass-roots effort. Freedom-lovers –whether conservative or libertarian – aren’t known for being “followers.” We aren’t the ones who constantly squeal about the need for “leadership” – you neocons are.

 

Worse still, after 2003, anyone who deviated from the party line in any way was simply dismissed as a “turncoat,” a “traitor,” “unpatriotic,” or worse. It goes without saying that these are unforgivable insults, all more so because they’re lies. No true patriot – no man with any backbone at all, for that matter – will ever vote for anyone who’s blackened his name in this way.

 

Neocons, though, being neither true patriots, nor men (except in the physiological sense; and this includes their women, as well), simply don’t understand this. But without offering even a hint of an apology, they now demand our votes. I’m not sure which is more disgusting: the sheer audacity or the implied sense of entitlement.

 

To hell with both. I respect neither. To steal a pet phrase from one of their sillier pundits, I’m going to be a “rugged individualist” and say, “Get bent. You need me far more than I need you – all the more so, because I don’t need you at all.”

 

So much for the “Well, those are your choices” argument. Once again: Get bent. I made my choice. Now be men enough to accept the consequences of your choices – even if said consequences include losing a few votes.

 

To those who whine, “But the Democrats will win”: yet another “Get bent.” You should have taken that possibility into account, and picked a less repulsive candidate. One who opposes gun control, open borders, tax-funded abortion, and rampant government growth might have been a good idea, as your support base is ostensibly conservative. Unfortunately, you neocons aren’t exactly renowned for the quality of your ideas. Well, stupidity carries a heavy price, babydolls. Study deeply upon this.

 

“But what about the war on terror?” is the lamest plea I’ve yet heard. “Terror” is a tactic, boys and girls. Like fuckwit Obama’s pet shibboleth, “change,” it’s a fucking process. Treating abstractions as concretes, and processes as objects has always led to failure and will always lead to failure, as it seeks to deny the nature of reality.

 

“Terror” exists, it has always existed, and it will always exist (the Assyrians were masters of the art, as were the Romans, Huns, Avars, Vikings, Pechenegs, Magyars, Mongols, medieval Scots, feudal Japanese, and Timurids, just to name a few), as all but the most ignorant know very well. Like war, poverty, and intoxicants (upon all of which the US has declared “war” at one time or another – with a 0-3 record, I might add) “terror” is simply a fact of life. It is no more preventable or eradicable than death itself, and the best we can do is hold it at bay.

 

“Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” (Matthew 6:34)

 

Call me “Mr. Skeptic,” but I don’t think complete dependency upon Mid-East oil for energy and Chinese goods for life’s essentials serve the purpose of attending to the evil of the day very well. Nor do I consider open borders and unlimited immigration the marks of wisdom or strategic genius. “War on Terror?” Yeah, right. You lot couldn’t win a barroom brawl, for the love of God…

 

Next, we come the “But there’s no perfect candidate!” ploy, so beloved of Herman “Not all Muslims are terrorists, but all terrorists are Muslims” Cain.

 

Ignoring the impossibility of taking a man who actually believes that the IRA, UDA, ETA, Tamil Tigers, Sendero Luminoso and FARC are Muslims, seriously (either he’s monumentally ignorant, he’s a liar, or he thinks you’re stupid – Hmmm. That sounds vaguely familiar…), I’ll call bullshit on his assertion. It’s utterly false. What he’s attempting, in essence, is to persuade his audience to abandon their own standards and adopt his: in other words, to settle for far less than second best.

 

Before my wife and I made up our minds to support Ron Paul, we thoroughly investigated his voting record and his political platform. The only thing either of us could hold against him (besides his hairstyle) were a few minor matters of application – not of principle. In short, he was our “perfect” candidate. Sorry, Herman.

 

“When sinners entice thee, consent thou not.” (Proverbs 1:10)

 

I’ll conclude with the “wasted vote” non-issue. Just bear with me: I’m one of those ever-pesky Christians – so pesky, in fact, that unlike certain ostensibly “Christian” talk-show hosts, I’m not squeamish about mentioning the name Jesus -- so this will take some explaining. I’m not a very good Christian, and I’ll be the first to admit it. I do, however, recognize the ultimate authority of God – even above the ultimate authority of the US government, the UN, the Republican Party, AIPAC, and the latest winner of American Idolator.

 

“Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.” (Exodus 20:3)

 

‘Nuff said?

 

Scripture often refers to the necessity of social order, and the importance of cooperating with temporal authorities in the interest of justice and stability. No Christian, least of all myself, objects to just and limited government. Rendering unto Caesar what is Caesar’s is second nature to us. Unfortunately, “Caesar” has become increasingly demanding of late. Not content with his lot, he covets God’s more and more – even to the point of demanding that we hold his law above God’s. For the first hundred-and-forty years of our nation’s existence, his law and God’s were seldom, if ever, at odds.

 

Welcome to the wonderful world of change. Where once “Caesar” sought only to prevent the establishment of a state-sponsored religion, he now demands that we abandon the free exercise and expression of our own in public. Where once “Caesar” taxed us to keep the government running, he now taxes us and uses our money to support unconscionable causes. Where once Caesar asked only that we defend our country, he demanded, during three of the last four major wars; that we take up arms and strive without cause against those who had done us no harm.

 

Even Caesar’s current war, in shifting away from Afghanistan (home of the Taliban, and hidey-hole of Osama bin Laden), to Iraq, and thence to remaking the Middle East in our own image is only a hair’s breadth away from demanding that we put aside God’s law in favor of his. There’s no draft – yet, thank God.

 

Non-existent “yellow-cake” uranium. Non-existent weapons of mass destruction. Non-existent ties between Iraq and September 11. Even the feeble “Yeah, but Hussein was a monster” excuse rings false. He was always a monster, and we knew it from day one –even when we supported him against Iran, during the ‘80s.

 

“Enter not into the path of the wicked, and go not in the way of evil men.” (Proverbs 4:14)

 

And yet the new “war” widens and continues, and American boys – some of them Christian – will eventually be pressed into service to continue it.

 

“These six things doth the LORD hate; yea, seven are an abomination unto him: A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood. An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, A false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren.” (Proverbs 6:16-19)

 

Taking all of this into account, I refuse to vote Rebublican, as it means more of the same. The same party that abandoned a just war and duped us into an unjust one. The same party that erases our boundaries and culture, while “nation building” abroad. The same hubristic party that slandered and marginalized the only candidate who might have made a difference – because he wasn’t “with the program.” To vote for them is to condone their actions; just another way of helping Caesar usurp God, and I refuse to do that.

 

“He that justifieth the wicked, and he that condemneth the just, even they both are abomination to the Lord.” (Proverbs 17:15)

 

  As for Mr. “Change”?

 

Not on your life. Anyone (and I do mean anyone, not just Republicans) who treats a process as an object is an utter moron and beneath contempt; the more so if he treats it as an object of worship. For this reason alone, I’d never even consider voting for the Democrats’ would-be messiah. Add the facts that the Democratic Party has long been rotten to the core; that their “Golden Boy’s” “clinging to guns and religion” crack was a display of arrogance and ignorance worthy of Bush himself, and draw your own conclusions, Gentle Reader.

 

Obama symbolizes the very culture of self-worship and unaccountability that has rotted the country from within. Moreover, I’m none too fond of puffed-up, substance-free, semi-retarded megalomaniacs. Suffice to say that I’m no more impressed with the “leadership” qualities of a cliché-spouting simpleton than I am with those of a man best known for being captured by an enemy; and for voting to disarm his countrymen, abolish his nation’s borders, and silence dissent. Both represent the new, secular, statist god – to whom I refuse to bow, as I much prefer the real God.

 

See you at the polls. I’ll be the one shaking his head sadly and laughing out loud, by turns.

The Boor at a BBQ, '08 (P.8)

When last we saw our boy, he had just gotten married, was three sheets to the wind, and was making an ass of himself with a borrowed electric guitar – which, by now, the crowd probably wished he had shoved up his ass.

Most of the post-ceremony festivities have been covered elsewhere. The only things I forgot to mention were: 1.) My friend, Sam Walker, was the one who gave me the CD of bagpipe music (I should remember that, as I balked like hell at taking it); 2.) A few minutes after the conclusion of the ceremony, Bro Tristan Sutrisno called to wish us well, and; 3.) At some point during dinner, I removed my Fruit of the Looms and hoisted them skyward on the business end of my faux-claymore, as my cousin reminded me.

Another thing I suppose I neglected to mention was the dance. Yes, you read that correctly. The dance.  Shortly after mangling Rosie and the Originals’ “Angel Baby,” (using language that definitely would have gotten us kicked off the Ed Sullivan Show…) I actually danced for the first time in living memory. Mags had requested “If There Hadn’t Been You,” by Billy Dean, and my cronies in Our Band Can Kick Your Band’s Ass (hereinafter abbreviated OBCKYBA, and probably soon to be known as Our Band Will Kick Our Former Lead Guitarist’s Ass) dutifully learned and performed it.

(I don’t listen to that stuff, mind you. My taste in Country Music is restricted to the classics: Waylon, Willie, Hank Sr. & Jr., Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Johnny Horton, Bobby Bare, Don Williams, Ray Stevens, Jerry Reed, Boxcar Willie, Grandpa Jones, Roy Acuff, etc. In short: if they ain’t dead or ain’t appeared on Hee Haw, I probably have no use for ‘em.)

I’d love to craft many an elegant (and possibly “purple”) passage in which the evening and the events thereof were immortalized (and romanticized) for all time. Sure and I’d love nothing more. The plain truth, though, is that I was completely shitfaced by the time we left. Christ! I was so hammered; I was running around in a pair of ripped jeans and a red velvet Jacobean-era vest. At that point, I looked like a Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie who’d robbed the “Gold Key” tent at an SCA event…

Being a stubborn bastard, though, I was determined to walk back to the hotel. This would have been a very bad idea, owing to my condition, which was essentially “code red (eyed).” Had I made it even a quarter of the way, I’d probably still be in the Douglas Country drunk tank -- if not picking up garbage along I-25 in one of those ever-fashionable orange jumpsuits. Luckily, I’d only made it to the corner of 5^th Street when my entire central nervous system said, “Uh-uh. Chuck you, Farley. We ain’t goin’ any further," and pulled the plug on my muscles.
 

Actually, it wasn’t quite that dramatic. By the time I reached the corner, I realized that there were entirely too many streetlights. Blinking a few times, I noticed that this wasn’t a typical case of double vision. Au contraire, this was a case of – and I shit thee not, Gentle Reader – quadruple vision. Revolving quadruple vision, at that. It was so bad that for a moment, I fancied I was back in high school, watching one of those “safety” films like Angel Dust and Asphalt Don’t Mix. I mean; we’re talking Pink Elephants Meet Pink Floyd.

Diggest thou, Gentle Hipster?

Luckily, Tim “Bulletman” Brown and his wife offered us a lift. Tim, by the way, is the gent in the photo gallery who’s wearing the armor and allowing trained martial artists to land full-power blows upon him in order to test the effectiveness of their techniques.

Now that is dedication to one’s craft, by God! I know that said armor is essentially state-of-the-art, and very protective, but damn me if I’d want to be inside it. Back in the good ol’ days, when FIST gear (which wasn’t at all bad, protection-wise – just ridiculously expensive) was the big thing, I was, on more than one occasion, blown completely off my feet by a well-executed kick whilst playing the “mugger” role. It never “hurt” in the strict sense of the word, but the impact was often very jarring.

The very protectiveness of the cuirass was, I suppose, a contributing factor. The old FIST chest/rib protector was so resilient and shock-absorbent (the wearer – and I’m speaking from firsthand experience -- could take a full-power blow from a police baton and not feel a thing); one was tempted to rely upon the device rather than breathing properly, “shedding,” etc. when struck. With the modern gear, I’d imagine that the temptation to rely upon it instead of allowing it to “cover your mistakes,” as MacYoung says, is nearly irresistible. If so, its strength actually increases the risk of certain injuries, ironically enough.

“It ain't me, Bubbie!” as a certain syndicated columnist was known to remark…

For this reason, my hat’s off to the MA/SD world’s “crash test dummies” – the guys like Tim -- who risk personal injury whilst training, in order to keep the rest of us from sustaining said in real life.

Noting that none of Tim’s four identical, revolving vehicles sported half a foot or so of silvery padding, I assumed that he held a different attitude towards driving, and that it was therefore safe to accept the ride.

 

The Browns got us back to our hotel in short order (and in four pieces each), at which point we thanked them profusely, opened the doors, and fell out of their vehicle. The pavement seemed as comfortable a place as any to catch a few winks – Colorado concrete being smoother and more neatly poured than Georgia concrete, an’ all – but the wife (alas…) had other ideas. Without her aid, I wouldn’t have known which of the four, revolving Holiday Inns to enter, so I suppose I owe her a debt of gratitude, after a fashion.

 

Once within the safety of our room, Mags announced that she had to powder her nose.

“Now just stay right there!” said the four of her, each pointing at different and ever-chaning spatial coordinates, as they orbited their common center of gravity. “And don’t get into trouble!”

Grunting and nodding my assent, I did as I was told, to the best of my ability.

Now when a woman enters a bathroom, the “Rip van Winkle Effect” kicks in with a vengeance. Once the door closes, the space-time continuum is irreparably disrupted on the woman’s side of the barrier. Beyond it, times passes normally. Within the space it both defines and isolates, though, all hell breaks loose. This is mere speculation on my part, but I sometimes wonder if the entire female populations of Atlantis, Gomorrah, Pompeii, Dresden and Hiroshima might not have saved themselves by going to the john, only to emerge centuries after the cataclysms that destroyed the five had passed. 

Suffice to say that I was in for a long wait, and knew it very well. I hummed a tune. I whistled another. I tapped my foot upon the floor until sheer fatigue forced me to stop. I smoked a cigarette. I smoked a pipe-bowl of Captain Black. I smoked a 12” novelty cigar a friend had given me some time ago. I smoked a few dozen Salmon – after walking to Alaska, catching them, and then returning to the hotel.

Granted, I’m exaggerating a tad. The wait was, however, of sufficient duration to move a normal (read: sober) man to call for an ambulance and possibly a SWAT team. As I bore easily, I found it altogether unendurable. Then, I noticed the refrigerators– all four of them – and remembered that they still held a few beers.

“Aha! Now them’s the tickets to Unknown Kadath!” I roared, leaping up and down for sheer delight. 

Oh! But what to do? How to get them?

Then it struck me (as did an old shoe -- apparently intended for the yowling tomcat on the fence between our hotel and the adjacent lot. Why the hurler would scream, “Shut up, you barking moonbat!” at a cat is, I fear, still beyond me -- that missed its mark and flew through our window): I’d simply close one eye, thereby halving the number of choices!

My plan worked like a charm. Once I’d narrowed it down to two, it was child’s play to remove one of the twenty assorted cans and bottles from the cubic foot of ‘fridge. As I cracked it open, the nagging voice of conscience, cooing accusingly in a mix of tones -- “lace curtain” Irish pretense, Cavalier propriety, and primordial, Catholic guilt -- assailed me at once.

“For shame, young Master Bean! For shame! What would your poor, dear mother think?”

“Well, I dunno what she’d think, but I got a damn good idea of what she’d say,” I replied.

“You know that the fruit of the barley is the parent of wickedness, woe and--”

“Billions of dollars for Anheuser-Busch, Coors, Miller an’ that bunch?” I asked.

“That’s not funny!”

“Damn right it ain’t! Those ‘licensed’ assholes (and whom, by the way, do you reckon spends the time and money lobbying to restrict home brewers?) are a government-supported oligopoly! ‘Free enterprise,’ my ass!”

“Uh, well, that’s a good point, but…”

“But what? If I drink their swill, I’m sinning like Cain himself -- but if I brew my own, or – Heaven and hell both forefend! – go teetotaler, I’m depriving some slob of his livelihood and sabotaging the economy (which, I note, was quite robust until a few weeks ago, at which point the wretched state of the ‘sheeple’s’ ‘personal economies’ necessitated their pouring less into the local and national economies, which suffered in turn…) is that it? Sounds to me like I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t!”

“Forget economics and propaganda! The malevolent shadow of Demon Alcohol falls across both prison and workhouse, young Master Bean!”

“So why are you busting my balls, and in a Holiday Inn, no less? Go to the prisons and workhouses and give those poor, fermented-Kool-Aid-drinking bastards the speech. And ask the folks at the service desk if they have a bottle opener while you’re at it. I’m tired of using my fucking lighter.”

“You’re hopeless!” wailed the voice as it faded away – for all that I heard only: “I’m melllll-ting!”

A moment of welcome silence passed, during which I contemplated the bottle in my hand – and tugged at the inch of beard I’d grown since Maggie’d entered the bathroom. I contemplated its shape, its smoothness, its coolness (the bottle’s -- not the beard’s, mind you). I meditated upon its clarity, the perfection of its black-and-gold label, and the fact that it was still full of beer.

“Oh, what’s the worst that can happen?” I asked myself. “I’m already pickled to the gills, as-is.” Returning my attention to the bottle, I thought of a Taoist maxim: “It is the empty space within that renders it useful.”

“Damn skippy!” I said, kicking off my shoes, making my way to the bed, and finishing the beer in three or four gulps. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

In time, a splinter of light formed on the opposite wall, expanding into a vertical bar, then a rectangle, by turns. Maggie emerged.

“Well good evenin’ ladies,” slurs I, shooting for ‘suave and seductive’ (but managing only ‘lewd, lascivious, and lecherous,’ I’m afraid). “So which o’ the eight o’ ye’ wants to be first?”

(To be continued)

 

 

Yet More Photos

We've added a few more shots of the wedding. As uploading them is a time-consuming and laborious process, it'll be a while until they're all posted to the gallery. They're damned nice pics, though. Jessica Lueken (blatant plug) really knows her stuff.  

Wild, Wild West Revisited

The last of our Colorado photos are finally up. For an arid, semi-desert wasteland, Colorado's a pretty place. We didn't see any cowboys or Indians (I did see a Pakistani and two Iranians, though), and there were no buffalo roaming or deer and antelope playing, but we did encounter a few horses' asses on the highway.  

"Fuck You!" Has No Place in De-escalation

Well, they're finally up: The last of the 2008 Animal List BBQ photos.  

The Boor at a BBQ '08 Continued

When last we saw our boy, he was standin’ at the altar, biddin’ nearly forty-one years of bachelorhood “Git tae fuck!” -- with no clear avenue of escape.

 

And of course, I’m being sarcastic. The ceremony was beautiful -- simple, direct and “no-frills.” We exchanged rings and vows in the company of our loved ones -- family and friends, old and new. Being the first Bean who’s seen fit to marry in traditional garb in quite some time, I wished my late father and brother had been there for the ceremony. But then again, I suspect that in a sense, they were -- probably shaking their ectoplasmic heads and muttering: “Will you look at that? The crazy bastard actually did it…”

 

Before I knew it, Reverend Ron had pronounced us man and wife, at which point; Jon placed Marc’s sword on the ground.  Maggie and I then leapt over it hand-in-hand, thereby symbolically severing our ties to the past.

 

Would only that severing our ties to the fucking government were half as simple…

 

Then, in one of the wedding’s funnier moments, Maggie and I headed straight for the reception area, leaving the bridesmaids and groomsmen several yards behind us in a billowing cloud of dust. At least they caught us before we could start screwing in the CAT tent… Next came the matter of greeting the guests. For Mags, this was relatively simple. All she had to do was hug each well-wisher. In mine, it was nightmarishly difficult, as I had to decide whether to shake hands (like a complete numbnuts, I’d left my Johnson-Smith joy buzzer at home) or hug. Leave it to me to worry about such things, but I didn’t want to come across as either too forward or too stand-offish. It was a delicate balancing act, one in which I weighed the propriety of each greeting (How long have I known this person? How close are we? How likely is it that he/she will perceive me as a closet case/horndog if I hug, or as an uptight, elitist nutsack if I opt only to shake hands?) against the pragmatic concerns of picking the men’s pockets and/or copping the odd feel off the women.

 

Just kidding. I wouldn’t dare pull anything of the sort in that crowd. (And I’m going to insert bit of “pat-yourself-on-the-back” here: I actually had the chance to shake hands with the legendary Peyton Quinn. Now how cool is that?)

 

Honestly, though -- a reception line is a manic-depressive’s hell. I won’t presume to speak for all bipolars and cyclothymes out there, but many of us have rather unusual senses of humor. Moreover, the tension/release of a high-stress situation  -- a wedding, f’r’instance -- can actually trigger a mild manic (or even a “mixed”) episode, “racing” thoughts and all. Not a good combination, that… As I’m not yet (no longer?) a full-blown psychotic – those fuckers have it easy, lemme tell ya! Their condition provides a ready-made excuse for damned near any manner of stunt they care to pull – I found it necessary to manage the episode (read: keep my shit squared away).

 

So here’s yer boy, grinning like Al fucking Goldstein in the laundry room of a women’s prison, shaking hands, giving hugs, etc. – and trying not to lose it. This, by the way, is why mixed episodes suck – very loudly and with entirely too much “tooth action” for my liking. Just read on… I was deeply moved by the presence of so many dear friends. Mere words can’t possibly convey how proud, how happy, and how honored I felt by their willingness to host and be part of the most important day of my life. But damn me if I didn’t have to keep a few “mind imps” in their cages.

 

The 1970’s and 80’s were my “formative years” (God! How I hate that term! – Not to mention the fucking ‘70s and ‘80s…), and like many of “Generation X,” I drank deeply of the media pollution that poured into the cultural mainstream via the television pipeline. Unfortunately, much of this toxic swill still bubbles and oozes through the culverts and drainage ditches of my subconscious mind. I mention this only because the cage-rattling imps that so plagued me on my wedding day were egging me on with lines from old television and radio commercials.

 

Whilst hugging one female attendee, I was seized by the nearly uncontrollable urge to say, “Gee, your hair smells terrific!” Shaking the hand of another lady, I was tempted to exclaim, “Wow! Soft hands, Madge!” – expecting a knowing wink and: “Of course! I wash my dishes with Palmolive – and you’re soaking in it!” by way of a reply.

 

“Oh, and I thought the dog had pissed on my shoe again! Damn these nerves!” I exclaimed, upon which we toasted one another with steaming cups of decaffeinated Sanka and chortled heartily.

 

Nightmarishly enough, I could even imagine still another lass, sheepishly avoiding my gaze for a moment or two, before saying (honest, imploring desperation writ large upon her pretty face all the while): “Dave, sometimes I just don’t feel -- fresh.”

 

Hell, I was halfway expecting my own wife to grab me by the lapels and begin singing (for all that I’m more often inclined to associate Mexicans with the “Crossbar Hotel” than with the twelve-bar blues – C’mon, Morris! That one’s just gotta land me on the “hate watch” list…) the words: “I can bring home the bacon/ Fry it up the pan/ An’ never, never let you/ Forget you’re a man/ ‘Cause I’m a wooooo-man…”  -- before spraying faux-French perfume into my face as if it were oleoresin capsicum.

 

The nightmare only became deeper and more labyrinthine in the cases of the male attendees. With a sense of mounting horror, I envisioned myself whisked backwards through time and space, to the altar itself.

 

“With this ring, I thee wed,” I could hear myself saying to Maggie. I then imagined Reverend Ron himself tapping me on the shoulder and saying: “That’s not all, Dave. You’ve got ring around the collar.”

 

“Having trouble with jock itch, buddyroo?” I heard my best man roar; “Well, I use Gold Bond medicated powder, and so should you!” As I spun in seemingly ever-accelerating circles, my gaze next fell upon MacYoung, who – giving me the thumbs-up and a blindingly white smile – his clan badge having somehow “morphed” into the Colgate logo -- said: “And it works for athlete’s foot, too!”

 

Next, I envisioned Aaron leaving some poor critter in the dust -- a bruised and bleeding mass of near-lifeless flesh; whilst scrubbing his own hands clean with Boraxo and drawling: “Goodrich doesn’t have a blimp, fucknut.” I then heard Ed “Duh Godfathuh” implore, in perfect Chicago-ese: “So my ‘rhoids are fuckin’ killin’ me! Whaddaya do about that?” At this point, some anonymous smartass tittered: “That’ll teach you to cross-train with those Goju Ryu guys!” and Aaron – the chevrons on his sleeves having transformed into Chevron logos of their own accord – snapped to attention and saluted – with a tube of Anusol in his hand.

 

Time and space flip, twist, and intertwine again, like a cliff swallow’s barfed-up, half-digested seaweed nest (the likes of which gobshites like yours truly have actually coughed up – the colloquialism being particularly appropriate and ironic in this case -- good money to eat).

 

“You can do sanchin ‘til your entire alimentary canal prolapses down to your knees, sir!” Aaron snaps. “But Anusol’ll set you right! Unlike the leading national brand, it’s clinically proven to reduce both itching and swelling!”

 

“But I like it, too!” tweets a transvestite I’ve never met in all my days, holding up a bar of Irish Spring and munching lasciviously upon a Taco Bell “gordita” (which doesn’t even remotely resemble a genuine Mexican gordita, for the record.)

 

“Piss off!” Says Johnny-O, kicking him/her/it in the crotch. “That stuff never got us laid before, and I don’t suppose it’ll do the trick now. That’s why I wear Old Spice!”

 

Even as he says so, printed kirin spring to life from the labels of a twelver of  Krirn Roundeye Extra Dry Gaijin Draft Ice Export and bear the entire company skyward – every man jack of ‘em whistling the Irish Spring jingle all the while. But the kirins’ legs don’t move properly! No! Not in my near-hallucinatory state, by God! Rather than galloping, cantering, or trotting like proper quadrupeds, the little monsters opt to move their fore- and hind limbs in completely opposite directions (without even bending their fucking knees!) like the cutesy, irritating reindeer puppets in those animated Rankin-Bass Christmas specials!

 

As the mounted company ascends the firmament, a voice (it sounds suspiciously like my cousin’s) hollers: “Check this out, y’all!” and a well-aimed beer bottle breaks upside my head.

 

Bringing me back to “consensus reality”…

 

Mags and I had worked our way down the line, and had narrowed it down to the bridesmaids and groomsmen when the evening took a turn for the “Beanish.” My “little brother,” Aaron isn’t what you’d call huge. He is, however, as strong as an ox and very solidly built. I have a few inches on him height-wise, but our bodyweights are very nearly the same – 165, give or take a few pounds. When we “locked up,” he kinda forgot that this was a wedding reception, and not a catch-as-catch-can wrestling match. The next thing I knew, he’d nearly lifted me off the ground in quite a powerful bearhug.

 

Now the ribcage, Gentle Reader, is a preferred target among martial artists and other disreputable types because ribs are easily broken, unlike certain other bones. Unless one routinely conditions one’s hands, it’s entirely possible to fracture a knuckle on some skel’s bowling ball of a skull (don’t even ask how I know). This is why ducking one’s forehead into an oncoming punch often serves to discourage further aggression, and one of the reasons many styles – especially Chinese -- favor blows to the body rather than the head. A person with even a few months of training can easily generate enough force break his own hand when striking a hard target, which is why I’ve seen so many cases of boxer’s fracture in my forty misspent years of life. (Hell, I’ve had my own share of fractured knuckles, especially back in the mid-90’s, when I had a hard-on for breaking boards). I’ve never, in all my life, though, heard of anyone breaking anything when striking another in the ribs – except the aforesaid.

 

Yep, you’ve guessed it, by the way. Crack!

 

Now I understand why all those Bruce Tegner books include defenses against bearhugs. (And here I thought Tegner & Co. simply liked mugging for the camera and showing off their stylish haircuts and attire…)

 

As I’ve had broken ribs in the past, it wasn’t the end of the world, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to scuttle off to the nearest ER and whine about it. To be sure, broken ribs suck, but unless they penetrate the lungs, liver, etc., they’re seldom -- if ever -- fatal. Besides, being the testosterone-fueled Scots-Irish hayseed I am, I’m of the opinion that a man who seeks medical treatment for anything less than a compound fracture is a sissy who throws like a girl, watches soap operas, and probably plays with dolls – and I don’t mean the inflatable kind.

 

Having practiced karate and other so-called “combat sports” for some years now (and contrary to what the Gentle Reader may have heard, injuries sustained during said training are usually far less severe than those sustained whilst playing football or other “safe” sports), I’ve had quite a few sprains, strains, pulls and fractures.

 

As I’m PIT certified through both OSHA and my current employer, I’ve also had ample opportunity to fuck around with heavy equipment whilst unloading trucks and otherwise humping freight from point A to point B with mechanical assistance. Even with the safety training one receives (most of which consists of such no-brainer “gems” as: “Don’t drive your powerjack off the loading dock” and “Don’t run your forklift into the wall” – frighteningly enough, though, I have known mo-tards who somehow managed to do both), accidents occasionally happen.

 

Said accidents occasionally result in injury. As I’ve worked in some real shitmines in the past, the words “medical coverage” haven’t been part of my normal vocabulary for quite a while. This being the case, it occurred to me that learning a bit about “alternative” medicine wasn’t a bad idea. Beginning in ’95 or thereabout, I took an interest in everything from herbalism to qigong, and did the unthinkable, the unspeakable (and probably illegal): using myself as a guinea pig, I served as my own doctor. In my defense, I’ll fall back on the slogan so beloved of the pro-infanticide crowd: “It’s my body, damn it!”

 

Admittedly, I’d have been fucked eight ways to Sunday, if I’d sustained a compound fracture or had a limb lopped off. The human body, though, is far more resilient than most of us give it credit for being. Many of the injuries and illnesses that send the typical “citizen”-type squealing and pissing into the nearest clinic can be treated at home – and inexpensively, at that. I’m not recommending that anyone try removing Uncle Obadiah’s brain tumor with Auntie Hortense’s sewing kit and a Black and Decker drill, nor am I suggesting that anyone give little Mortimer a raw-honey I.V. in an attempt to cure him of his wheat/soy/peanut/tree nut/milk/shellfish allergy. Let’s get that out of the way immediately.

 

(Besides, little Mortimer and the other brats like him are genetic freaks, destined for the merciless ass-end of natural selection’s culling process. Their only other reason for existing, as nearly as I can tell, is to compromise my ability to compose a menu. Ever try planning a meal around these fucking “bubble boys” and their allergies? Jesus! When I was a kid, people were allergic to normal things like dog slobber, cat hair, ragweed, smelly foreigners, and breaking a sweat for a living. These days, they’re allergic to everything except oxygen and water…) 

 

“I think you guys are gonna like this: Tom Yam Gung, salad rolls with nuoc cham, and tofu in Szechuan sauce.”

“Oh, no! Mortimer is allergic to shrimp, soy, and peanuts!”

“Uh, OK. We’ll do Indian, then. Chapattis, chachumber, a nice walnut/coriander raita and tandoori-style chicken.”

“Oh, no! Percival is allergic to dairy products, tree nuts, wheat, latex and chlorophyll! Hey, what’s this?”

“It’s a can of Spam and a box of Rice Krispies, shit-for-brains. Bon- fuckin’- apetit. Now get the fuck outta my house, and see if I ever invite your sorry, mutant asses to dinner again. Oh! Now what the fuck is this? Don’t you even dare look at me that way, Mortimer. You ain’t no fuckin ‘X-Man’ yet, by God. Oh, now, will you look at that? Aint’ that jes’ too fuckin’ sweet for words? Well, you jes’ wait ‘til you turn eighteen, you li’l freak. I sure as hell will. Try not to eat any fuckin’ edamame ‘twixt now an’ then… ”

 

Uh, pardon the digression. Now where was I? Oh yeah! Self-medicating, alternative medicine and whatnot. The bottom line is: many of the things we consider life threatening are merely inconvenient and/or uncomfortable. Even certain, more serious conditions can often be treated – and more effectively, at that – by means other than Western allopathic medicine. I hold traditional Chinese medicine in very high regard (not that I’d resort to it if I needed a limb reattached, mind you), for reasons I’ll make clear in the future. For now, let’s just say that it works and get back to the wedding.

 

After the ceremony and reception, we proceed to the upper lot, where Jessica Lueken took the wonderful photos Mags and I are currently posting to our sites. (If ever you’re in Colorado and need a professional photographer, Gentle Reader, I’d recommend Jessica without hesitation or regret. Her work is fantastic.) The wedding party was seated in a pavilion, the champagne was opened, and the roast commenced. Our friends, Page and Jesse (who have real jobs, therefore I won’t use their surnames), had procured several floral arrangements, all of which were simply lovely. Maggie and I are both very fond of lilies (although I have no idea how they knew – I can’t remember ever having mentioned it), and the arrangements were chock full of them. We’re not sure who bought the champagne, but we think Maggie’s best friend, Gina, and Dr. Anderson might have been the culprits. Whoever provided it, it was good stuff – nicely and naturally carbonated, with a faint yeast aftertaste -- and I went through mine in record time. Spent the rest of the evening going through booze in record time, actually, but that’s yet to come. 

 

Next came the roast. Yes, the roast. No, I’m not talking about food. Ed “Duh Godfathuh,” – a true “unsung hero,” and the driving force behind the success of the BBQ – had set it (and Yours Truly) up. I don’t suppose roasting the groom at a wedding is normal, but then again, this was no normal wedding. And it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. The semi-legendary “green fairy” episode was related, as were a few more-or-less “PG-13” anecdotes. If nothing else, no one got drunk, staggered forward, and credited us with having kidnapped the Lindbergh baby, having shot Kennedy or having been the Zodiac Killer “back in the good ol’ days.”

 

In a way, I was glad that none of the “Sunday Night Regulars” or the guys with whom I worked on the Ingle’s night crew was present. The vast majority of “Listies” have only known me for seven or eight years, and the newer members hardly know me at all. This means that there are relatively few episodes they can hold over my head and keep me from ever living down. (Heh heh heh)

 

Not so J.R., Walt, the J-Dawg, “Genghis Khan,” an’ them other sons o’ bitches…

 

In all honesty, I was wee smidgen bummed out over their inability to attend -- but shit happens, right? Having them there would have been a blast, but my wife probably would have divorced me the minute the plane touched down at Hartsfield. (((Snicker.)))

 

“So this Hillbilly asshole gets drunker than the last lords of creation, right? Next thing we know, he’s sleepwalkin’ – nekkid as a jaybird! – in the motel parkin’ lot!”

 

“So Bean likes all kinds of weird food, OK? Curry an’ seaweed an’ raw meat an’ rotten fish an’ God-only-knows what else, OK? Well, one night, he comes out of the john and says, ‘Dude! I think the sink’s overflowin’.’ So I go to check it out, and he shoves me inside, yanks the door shut, an’ jams a mop through the door handle, so I had to knock out a ceiling panel to get out. Turns out he just took a dump, and the whole room’s like the fuckin’ gas chamber at San Quentin. I’m still gonna kill him for that.”

 

“So this guy’s givin’ him the redeye, right? Well, he pays his tab and leaves, but the goofy fucker follows him into the parking lot. Next thing you know, he’s standin’ there with a knife in his hand, like he thinks he’s in a fuckin’ kung fu movie or somethin’…”

 

“So we leave the building at the end of our shift, and the lowlife sits down in front of the place and holds up a sign that says, ‘Will work for pussy.’ No shit. I got the pictures to prove it.”

 

“So we’re at this 99X promotional thing, right? Well, Bean gets a few beers under his belt and decides to enter the swimming race with all his clothes on. Somehow, the fucker didn’t drown. I guess this means there really is no God. An hour or two later, I’m driving him and J___ home, when we pass this golf course, right? So Bean starts yelling, ‘Honk the horn! Honk the horn!’ and him and J___ drop their pants, stick their asses out the windows and moon the golfers. Thirty-six fuckin’ years old, and he’s still mooning people. You can’t make this shit up. Oh, he actually mooned us at Taco Mac, believe it or not.”

 

“So it’s New Year’s Eve, right? Most of the bars are closing early, and Bean gets bored. We go back to his house, and he breaks out the fireworks. It’s winter, it’s colder than a witch’s tit, and this asshole wants to shoot off fireworks. Oh yeah -- he’s also had something like fifteen beers since sundown. Just thought I should mention that. So anyway; first, he starts shooting Roman candles and bottle rockets at everybody, and wants to split up into teams and have a battle. When we tell him to go fuck himself, he grabs the ghetto blaster and plays AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” something like a hundred times in a row, ‘til we were hopin he’d get struck by thunder or lightning or a meteor or something. I mean; we had to threaten to kill him to get him to knock that shit off. Then he starts getting double vision and can’t light the fuses anymore, right? So he dumps all the fireworks on the ground, turns to one of the guys and says, ‘Dude! Go get the gas can outta the garage!’ I don’t wanna badmouth the guy, but ‘Tick, tick, tick,’ if you know what I mean…”

 

As my wife’s already well aware of most of this shit – courtesy of my buddies, natch – I’ll plead guilty to exaggerating a smidge. She wouldn’t actually have divorced me, but she’d have enjoyed my discomfiture entirely too much for my liking.

 

After the roast and during the dinner, numerous toasts were made. I suppose it goes without saying that we Celtic-descended critters love nothing more than toasting. Said custom provides a ready-made excuse to swill booze and break glasses (which is why one should always wear contact lenses -- and be on good terms with one’s plastic surgeon -- when drinking with specimens of the Irish, Scottish and Welsh diaspora).

 

Now toasts are to be expected at weddings and wakes. This is the way of the world. It has ever been so, and will be so for as long as the world is still a fit place in which to live. At any gathering of good friends, the toast is so commonplace as to be more conspicuous by its absence than by its presence. (I could belabor that point, but I’m on my third beer, have to pee, and will almost certainly have lost my train of thought by the time I resume typing.)

 

So expected is the toast; so much a presumed part of the natural order of things; that a truly unexpected tip of the glass becomes a thing of genuine wonder -- one of G.K. Chesterton’s “tremendous trifles,” as it were.

 

For a forty-year-old, I’m a jaded, cynical bastard, and I make no bones about it. The very sight of my “Generation-X” peers and our degenerate “Boomer” predecessors gesticulating and howling like hyperactive monkeys or starved dogs over mere promises -- fighting to scoop up and devour whatever bile- and mucous-slimed hairball-platitudes/shibboleths their political messiahs opt to vomit forth as it suits them; hollow puke chunks of faux-hope -- fills me with inexpressible loathing and contempt.

 

May God forgive me for saying so, but it is so.

 

Admittedly, age and cynicism have taken their toll on me -- as I suppose they eventually do on everyone – except the delusional, perpetual children to whom I’ve just referred. But when “Crazy John” -- a man I’d never met before – approached the table and wished us his best, I was moved nearly to tears. Being one of the “unstable,” I can’t say that others of my kind interest me by sole virtue of our shared condition, and I won’t pretend otherwise. Had “Crazy John” been the Southwestern counterpart of “Crazy Leroy” and plied me with tall tales of the “UFO-CIA” dosing yuppie sperm banks with LSD – the better to create a Master Race of stormtroopers capable of conquering “da hood” (as if the mere adjustment of a few state and federal budgets couldn’t accomplish the same, and less expensively) – I’d probably have stuck a finger down my throat and projectile-puked on him.    

 

Como se dice: “Take a number an’ get in line”?

 

But he didn’t – ergo, no need for either of us to take either course of action. Instead, “Crazy John,” with the rarest and most genuine manner of social awkwardness; that which, paradoxically, makes for the best and sincerest form of propriety, came forward of his own accord and wished two complete strangers his heartfelt best.

 

May God Almighty reduce my heavenly reward or increase my suffering in hell, if ever I forget this.

When the roast ended, dinner began – and one hell of dinner it was, to be sure. The CAT team had really outdone themselves this time. Steaks done more ways than I can recall, grilled asparagus, you name it. I’d been dying for vegetables since we arrived (to the point of eating tossed salads with my breakfasts, believe it or not), so the asparagus (one of my all-time favorite veggies, and considered a kidney tonic by both Eastern and Western herbalists) really hit the spot. And speaking of kidney tonics: It’s a good thing I ate it, as I put my kidneys, liver and brain cells through the wringer for the rest of the evening.

 

I suppose the “highlights” of the party were: 1.) Yanking my skivvies from beneath my kilt, putting ‘em on the table, and “rolling commando” for the rest of the night and; 2.) Being entirely too hammered to remember the lyrics to “Angel Baby” or carry a tune in a bucket – or even a hog trough. I also shouldered an axe (by this time, I’d retired the kilt but was still wearing the red velvet jerkin) and attempted to play a solo during “House of the Rising Sun.”  I reckon I did tolerably well, my condition notwithstanding, as I didn’t wake up in a ditch or emergency clinic.

 

As for the rest? Well, We’ll get to it, by and by…

A Few More Shots

Assuming that anyone gives a rat's ass,the Wedding gallery has been updated.