In Today's Mail

This, from SN1:

Hey dad…

Just a quick story for you that goes with this pic:

Apparently this shirt isn't allowed to be worn by the forensics team now…

It seems one of the mothers on the team was shocked when she saw the back…she thought it said: fornicate.

So…because one woman can't read and has a dirty mind (not that that's a bad thing!), the kids can't wear what I think is a really cool shirt that Sean says is extremely comfortable.

Don't you just hate it when that happens?

Thought you'd appreciate this...

Isn't that SPECIAL?

Update:  Frickin' Blogger.  You'd THINK Blogger and g-mail, both bein' horses from the same stable, would be able to talk to each other.  But noooo...

300 Channels and Nothing On

WTF?

How Thick Is Your Bubble?

A nifty lil quiz via a tweet from Taranto...  "How Thick Is Your Bubble?"

This quiz is inspired by American Enterprise Institute scholar Charles Murray's new book, "Coming Apart: The State of White America, 1960-2010," which explores the unprecedented, class-based cultural gap in America. How culturally isolated are you? Answer these 20 questions to find out.

Taranto scored 7, I scored 13.  And 13 means...

On a scale from 0 to 20 points, where 20 signifies full engagement with mainstream American culture and 0 signifies deep cultural isolation within the new upper class bubble, you scored between 13 and 16.

In other words, you don't even have a bubble.

Well, that's nice to know.  I think.  And I did it without having seen a movie (in a theatre) in the last year, not having gone fishing or hunting in the past five years, and bein' unable to ID a pictured NASCAR hero.  They must give bonus points for bein' in the military.

How did you do, Gentle Reader?

One Thing I Meant to Post but Didn't

Joe Queenan in this past Saturday's WSJ:

Devotees insist that yoga would help me deal with the herniated discs in my neck, would ease pressure on my spine, would lower my blood pressure. They say—thereby providing false hope to my family—that yoga would make me more mellow, more accepting, perhaps even induce me to stop and smell the roses.

But I do not want to stop and smell the roses. I don't even want to smell the roses if it were possible to smell them without stopping. For years, I have told those of the yoga ilk: I can't practice yoga or tai chi or therapeutic jujitsu or dien bien phu because I'm too working class, I'm from Philly, it's just not my style. If my hard-drinking, heavily tattooed Dad ever caught me doing yoga he would come back from the dead and strangle me. Then my neck would really hurt.

Joe... he speaks for me.  The rest of the piece... "Assuming the Pose of 'Guy Saying No'" is worth your time (subscription may be required).  And when it comes to yoga there's this and we NEVER pass up an opportunity to be self-promoting. 

Actually, there's a plethora of New Age crap that should be rejected out of hand.  Like crystals (what's so mystical about a clear rock?), "organic-fucking-anything/everything" (I was raised before "organic" took over whole aisles of our food stores and I seem to have turned out alright), feminism (of the strident sort -  real men have ALWAYS respected women and women have always known their worth), and left-wing politics (you really need a parenthetical expansionary comment?).  Among other things.

Yamaste.  (My Bad.  I meant Namaste.  Thanks, Skip.).

Twilight Landing...

... in El-Eh.

While watching this vid it occurred to me that about the ONLY thang I miss about air travel... which I did a lot of back in Former Happy Days... is the spectacular nighttime city views one gets during a night landing.  My favorite night landing was always Dee-troit but that was more a function of coming home than the view itself.  The view was pretty good, however, given that Dee-troit is essentially flatter than flat and spread out over a VERY large area, compared to other cities.  And then there's Noo Yawk, of course, and London, and a plethora of other cities.  They are all spectacular from the air on a clear night.

But the most amazing night landing I ever experienced was at the old Kai Tak airport in Hong Kong (at right)... and it was ALL about the terror, mainly because one gets the feeling your pilot is setting you down on some boulevard rather than an actual airport.  You could actually SEE people walking around inside their high-rise apartments as you were on final into Kai Tak.  THAT, Gentle Reader, is a most unnerving feeling.  I can only imagine how the residents of those apartments felt about having a 747 whistle... or roar... by their windows every two minutes or so.  I'm thinkin' those people were sure glad when Kai Tak shut down.  Me?  I was glad to have survived the landing, which was a close encounter of the disconcerting sort.

I Think I'll Pass

I saw this on the Shoebox blog...

A whole bunch of artists are doing brand new, totally different renditions of Bob Dylan songs. Kind of like Dylan does every time he plays them.

And then I trotted off to investigate.  The first few paragraphs of the review... and it IS a review... had me thinkin' "no frickin' way."  No way in HELL, to be frank.  I detest hip-hop or rap or Urban Whatever and the very thought of one of those asshat "artists" desecrating what is dear to me makes my skin crawl.  Then I had a "waitaminnit" moment as I read on.  A couple of 'em, actually... like these:

The savviest musicians here flip Dylan's messages for their own aims, just as Dylan reappropriated protest songs by civil rights heroes. Celtic-rock stalwarts Flogging Molly take on ''The Times They Are A-Changin' '' -- which itself was inspired by Irish drinking songs -- and reclaim it for Dublin. Sinéad O'Connor recasts 1981's born-again ''Property of Jesus'' as a fiery church-reform anthem. And Carly Simon smartly plays ''Just Like a Woman'' as a feminist ballad. When she sings ''You break just like a little girl,'' it sounds like she's telling Dylan to man up.

[...]

By contrast, Kronos Quartet and Philip Glass sound almost revolutionary on their gorgeous, avant-classical ''Don't Think Twice, It's All Right,'' the only song that appears twice here. It takes major innovation (and some musical-saw interludes) to create a wholly original take on an artist who reinvents his own songs every time he plays live.

Interesting... yet those artists still ain't enough to make me pay the freight.  There's simply too much possibility for too much disappointment.  Make MY Dylan Dylan, please... straight up, no ice, no mixer.

I'm Gonna Sue

I open up the mailbox this morning and see this item from NatGeo... the one that's checked near the bottom:

So I'm thinkin' "Cool! This is RIGHT up my alley!"  The actual copy:

Texas Showgirls One photographer is on a mission to photograph as many animal species as possible. Browse his gallery of beautiful creatures, including these Silkie showgirl chickens at the Fort Worth Zoo in Texas. Photos: Butterflies > How to Build a Dog > The Chimp Incident > Life on the Serengeti >

It's just WRONG to get a man's hopes up like that first thang in the morning.  Time to call The Hammer!

Heh.

NOT Racist

But most definitely sport-ist:

If you saw this pic standing alone (and you ARE, Gentle Reader), you'd be forgiven for thinkin' it came from the pages o' NatGeo in some sorta article about South African ritual dances.  But no, it's from a CBS News slideshow titled "The NFL's Most Rabid Fans."  Or sumthin' like that.  My first thought was rabid is rabid and there isn't such a thang as "most rabid."  You just shoot 'em... those poor animals so afflicted... period, end o' report.

My second thought?  You RARELY see these sorts o' thangs at hockey games.  Yeah, there IS some occasional weirdness, but it's weirdness I can really get behind.  Or in front of, as the case might be.  Example:

I rest my case.

Yet More Thievery

From a link at the Shoebox Blog...

Them Fanbois... they don't remember what happened AFTER Snow White bit the Apple.

Update, 1100 hrs:  There are a TON of similar images out there.

I'm an Idiot

Sooo... Hockey Night In Portales didn't happen last evening, mainly because the Beloved Wings played an afternoon game yesterday... beginning at 1230 EST, which was a solid hour before I rolled outta bed (the first time).  The weird thing is neither SN1 nor I checked the schedule and we BOTH missed the early start time... a classic case of dysfunctional synchronicity.  But that was alright; we went out and had prime rib and made a night out o' that.  But watching the game together would've been better; I can't recall the last time we did that and neither can Buck.

―:☺:―

In the "Confession is good for the soul" department (it IS Sunday)... I watched this last night:

I'm gonna have to quit sayin' I'm not a movie guy, coz I find myself watching at least two or three of the damned things a week now.  What's doubly embarrassing is a couple o' few of the movies I've watched are Chick Flicks... there's no OTHER way to describe them.  "It's Complicated" really rattled me, though, because of the similarities in timing and circumstance... chiefly because of the fact the protagonists had a 20-year marriage, were ten years divorced, and it all ended in 1999.  That's just freakin' eerie because MY little passion-play had those exact same circumstances but it wasn't as beautiful nor as funny as this movie.  Ms. Streep (I HAVE to see her in "The Iron Lady") and company held me from the beginning to the end and there were many, many "I can relate" moments in the movie.  The moral of the story... you can never go home again, in so many words... is something I should take to heart.

―:☺:―

This is good...

Except for the freakin' wind, which is gusting to 37 mph.  We may or may not sit outside on the verandah this afternoon, because that wind has the potential to ruin what would otherwise be a VERY nice day.

The Deity At Hand

Longtime readers here at EIP know the post title is my way of referring to the Supreme Being, whose existence I acknowledge with the express caveat that I'm not sure what his or her name is.  I'm also fond o' sayin' that I hope the Supreme Being is a goddess and her name is Phoebe or Athena or something like that.  And I'm only half-joking... I'm pretty partial to the old gods and goddesses.  Thor would be in the running, too, for that matter.

But we digress.  I'm adding another candidate to the Deity Pool... this guy:

The 'toon came to me by way of a "special edition" of  Cigar Journal that was bundled along with this month's cigar re-supply.  Ya gotta like this deity's style.

No Purée Today

We'll raise our first beer today in honor of New Mexico's centennial.  New Mexico was the 47th state admitted to the union... which happened on this day back in 1912.  So, we're (ahem) 100 years young... today!  I shall drink a Santa Fe Nut Brown Ale (or two), which only seems right and proper, no? 

Fun fact:  did you know the lowest point in New Mexico is 2817 feet (859 m) above sea level?  S' true, that.  I do believe we're the only state in the union that's officially bi-lingual, too.  More fun NM stuff here.

―:☺:―

Note the highlighted bits above.  Apparently the NHL LIES, coz I trundled off to take the survey and was told "nevermind, Geezers may NOT respond" after the survey asked me my age and gender.  Or words to that effect.  Well, F*ck you too, NHL.

―:☺:―

Beer me!  On the verandah!

Po Poury

We're just in from runnin' the day's errands and I almost put the top down for today's journey about town.  Almost, but not quite.  It was 57 degrees outside when I set out and my threshold for al fresco motoring is 65 degrees.  Close, but no cigar...

―:☺:―

Part o' the day's errands was to stop by the Super-Save for to re-stock the larder.  I noticed the in-house tortilla factory was in full swing when I arrived and politely inquired of the tortilla ladies if I might could snap their picture?  "Why certainly!" was the reply, after a semi-suspicious inquiry as to what I was gonna do with the photos.  I told the ladies they were gonna be blog fodder and then had to explain exactly what a blog is.  (sigh) The Younger Generation is supposed to be "with it," except when they're not.  But... herewith the Tortilla Girls:

It turned out that one photo wasn't enough, the young lady on the left insisted I take another pic of her and her co-worker... so, bein' the cooperative sort I AM... I obliged.  They wanted to see the results and exclaimed "¡Oh! ¡Qué bonita!"

Verdad.

―:☺:―

I've never served on a jury.  But that doesn't mean I haven't been summoned to serve and I received another such summons from the Good People of Polk County, Texas in yesterday's mail.  I made a phone call this morning to the county clerk to politely inform her I was no longer a resident of her fair county but before I could get the words out of my mouth she said to just ignore the summons seein' as how I was an Escapee.  Which is par for the course.  I've received three such summons during the past ten years and was always excused, given the fact that Escapees (the name of my RV club, headquartered in Livingston, Texas) are almost always somewhere other than Livingston.  I was somewhat wistful during our conversation when I realized this particular phone call was prolly the last item on my relocation agenda and the last remaining tie to the RV life.  Once again: sigh.

―:☺:―

And now I think it's time to crack a beer, head out to the verandah, and finish the cigar I lit when I set out on my errands.  It might have been too cold for top-down motoring but  it ain't too cold for beer drinkin' on the verandah.  In proper attire, of course.

And Now For Sumthin' Completely Different

Heh.  Yeah... what DID happen to The History Channel?

I'm Fallin' Down On the Job

Sunny's had a new video out for three days and I just now watched it.

I blame the winter blahs for my oversight.  I promise to do better in future.

Kinda Sorta Like New Year's Eve

That would be this year's winter solstice, which happens at 2230 hrs MST tonight.  I'll be sure to have a drink to celebrate and think winter thoughts when that time rolls around this evening.  Actually, that's not quite right... what I'll really be celebrating is the fact the days will get incrementally longer after today, and that's a Good Thing.  We always celebrate the solstice in these parts; here's what we said (in part) a couple o' years ago:

Celebrating the Solstice

The sun, nearing winter solstice, travels low across the sky in a multiple-exposure picture made in Maine in 2002.  (photo: NatGeo)

Cool pic, eh?  So, yesterday was the Winter Solstice and it's official: we're all in winter now.  Yays, and all that.  I suppose most people in the eastern half of the country don't need an announcement to confirm winter's arrived... all that white stuff piled up in your driveways and beside the road should be enough, eh?   

So... we gave some thought Sunday about an impromptu trip to Stonehenge to celebrate the solstice, knowing as we do it's a right good time and big party occasion.  The Second Mrs. Pennington and I DID think about driving down that way on the solstice (both winter and summer) when we lived in Ol' Blighty but we somehow never got around to it... and we were MUCH closer then than I am now.  And then there's the somewhat inconvenient fact my passport expired five years ago.  So:  the trip was a non-starter from the git-go.  There are home-grown alternatives to the original, like Carhenge up in Nebraska or the Cadillac Ranch... a mere two hours from where I sit.  I don't think either locations are big party sites, what with being a lil short on Druids and/or other types of pantheists, and I wasn't all that fired up for a drive... even one of only two hours duration... so we threw those alternatives to the wayside as well.  

Yeah, I'll stay at home today/tonight as well.  And just for the record: my passport expired seven or mebbe even eight years ago.  We strive for accuracy in reporting here at EIP.

I'm Not Gonna Go There

Or mebbe I will.  Those of us "of a certain age" are entirely capable of being "just friends" with the opposite sex, and the great majority of my friends are women... speakin' on a personal and therefore purely anecdotal basis.  That said, those of us "of a certain age" are much more likely to recognize and honor moral boundaries, such as marriage or other serious commitments (read between the lines here).  Further, I'm tryin' to think of a single example of a current woman friend that isn't in some sorta relationship and no one comes to mind.  We're not counting casual acquaintances, like one of my single female neighbors whom I'd do in a heartbeat, as if THAT would ever happen.  I could tell ya a funny story in this space, but that well and truly would be TMI (aside to SN1: no comments, please).

There was a point in time... before I hit that "certain age"... when I slept with most of my female friends (those that were willing, anyhoo) and I don't think I was all that unusual in that regard.  I'd further submit the young guys in this video are seriously missing the point.  I mean after all... what are friends FOR?

Cool!

Seen this yet (from Time)?

Google, maker of such hit Easter eggs as “Do a Barrel Roll” and “Tilt,” has apparently gotten into the holiday spirit: Open up Google (it’s a search engine, very popular with the kids these days) and enter “Let it snow” into the search box.

Soon you’ll be privy to gentle snowfall filling up your browser along with links to Rat Pack renditions of “Let it Snow” on YouTube. Wait long enough and your screen will completely frost over.

You can even write your name in the snow (with your mouse, sicko).

A couple o' screen-shots from my desktop:

Written with my mouse, of course.  Pervert.

Update:  More here, including the fact this Easter Egg won't work for everyone.  To wit:

Just don't try to use it on older browsers, such as the popular Internet Explorer 6, 7, or 8 -- or old versions of Safari of Firefox, for that matter. 

"Let it snow" works only in browsers that support "Canvas," part of the relatively new HTML 5 code that many developers use to create new webpages, a spokeswoman said (including the newest version of Microsoft's browser, IE 9).

Yet another argument for upgrading.

Oh So Briefly

I just now poured my first cup and I really, rilly hate it when I do stuff like this.  Half the day: gone.  It's a matter of guilt and the vestiges of Type-A behavior that refuse to go away completely, I suppose... no matter that I didn't go to bed until 0500 this morning.  But it is what it is.

I spent a great deal o' time yesterday, measured in hours and hours, reading Christopher Hitchens obituaries and there are MANY.  The most interesting thang, to me, was that it seemed like everyone had a favorite Hitch story to relate, no matter if the person writing the obituary was American, British, Irish, or some other nationality.  It didn't seem to matter if the obit writer agreed with Hitch's many, and often contradicting, views on political or philosophical matters.  The man was genuinely liked and respected by a wide range of people great and small.  There were also a few stories about the way Hitchens handled the death sentence that is cancer and the dignity he maintained in his final days.  I hope I have the same sort of intestinal fortitude when my time comes.

And now it's off to make the rounds.  BTW... The image above?  It's a button, and I just might buy one.

RIP, Christopher Hitchens

I just now learned one of my heroes passed yesterday... Christopher Hitchens, dead at 62.  From the link:

But if one needed any proof of Hitchens’ impact and far-reaching respect, the Atlantic’s Nicholas Jackson has it: The New York Times changed its front page well into the night to put Hitchens’ obituary on it.

“That is, the most influential newspaper in the world has put its work and printing process on hold to make room on the front page for the obituary of a single man. If that isn't a testament to his work, I don't know what is.”

I'll remember Mr. Hitchens for the innumerable times I was thankful to the man for his immaculate prose that both entertained and enlightened.  I have way too many favorite pieces of his to name just one, but this will do as an example.  From "Hitch 22," his recent memoir:

“Care to meet the new Leader?” Who could refuse? 

Within moments, Margaret Thatcher and I were face to face. Within moments, too, I had turned away and was showing her my buttocks. I suppose that I must give some sort of explanation for this. Almost as soon as we shook hands on immediate introduction, I felt that she knew my name and had perhaps connected it to the socialist weekly that had recently called her rather sexy. While she struggled adorably with this moment of pretty confusion, I felt obliged to seek controversy and picked a fight with her on a detail of Rhodesia/Zimbabwe policy. 

She took me up on it. I was (as it chances) right on the small point of fact, and she was wrong. But she maintained her wrongness with such adamantine strength that I eventually conceded the point and even bowed slightly to emphasize my acknowledgment.

“No,” she said. “Bow lower!” Smiling agreeably, I bent forward a bit farther. “No, no,” she trilled. “Much lower!” By this time, a little group of interested bystanders was gathering. I again bent forward, this time much more self-consciously. Stepping around behind me, she unmasked her batteries and smote me on the rear with the parliamentary order-paper that she had been rolling into a cylinder behind her back. I regained the vertical with some awkwardness.  As she walked away, she looked back over her shoulder and gave an almost imperceptibly slight roll of the hip while mouthing the words: “Naughty boy!” 

I had and have eyewitnesses to this. At the time, though, I hardly believed it myself. It is only from a later perspective, looking back on the manner in which she slaughtered and cowed all the former male leadership of her party and replaced them with pliant tools, that I appreciate the premonitory glimpse—of what someone in another context once called “the smack of firm government”—that I had been afforded. 

Even at the time, as I left that party, I knew I had met someone rather impressive. And the worst of “Thatcherism,” as I was beginning by degrees to discover, was the rodent slowly stirring in my viscera: the uneasy but unbanishable feeling that on some essential matters she might be right.

RIP, Hitch.  Thank you.