Thursday, March 30, 2006
Oh, I don't know my own power, I get my thing in action"
I caught myself 'Verbing' the other day; you know using a word that's not a verb and using it like a verb. For example, Olympic Skiier Bodie Miller failed to 'medal', but the Snowboarder, Seth what's'is'name from Maine did 'podium'. Anyway, I generally hate when people verb, because it sounds so trendy, but there you go, I 'verbed'.
It think it happened for the same reason I sometimes say 'prostrate' instead of 'prostate', or sometimes talk like Snoop Dogg (beeyotch), and frequently call people 'dude'. I start out trying to be funny, or ironic, or sarcastic, but now I really do say 'prostrate' when referring to my ass area, and I constantly 'dude' people, which I would find exceedingly annoying, if someone 'duded' me. Either way, I guess it could come in handy. At work, for example, if I am having difficulty 'staffing' a shift, I could 'network', or 'conference', or if things got really heated, our team could 'process' about it. Keeping in touch with friends could also be easier. I could just 'text' them or 'instant-message' them. As long as that didn't 'wierd' them out.
So I guess I'll keep on 'verb'-ing...... Right, "uh, Jack, could you please light".... thank you.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Exile on Main Street- The Stones
Mushwell Hillbillies-The Kinks
White Album-The Beatles
Never Mind the Bollucks it’s the Sex Pistols
Colossal Head-Los Lobos
Naked City-John Zorn
Randy Newman Songbook, Vol #1-Randy Newman
Imperial Bedroom-Elvis Costello
Imput was pretty meager, so if your favs weren’t represented, shut your pudding hole and e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org with YOUR favorite records of all time. This list can easily change from week to week..
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Almost trimmed my beard
Happened just the other Day
It was getting Pretty plain
‘Coulda said it looked kinda’ Gay….
One of the deadly side-effects of getting into ’Sufferin’ Bastard Middle-Age’ is the unsavory propensity to grow or fuck around with one’s facial hair. You know what I’m talking about. Everybody’s grown a beard before, if not on purpose , then at least by attrition. But what I’m talking about is the intentional manipulation of your manly facial hair to look more young or hip or fashionable. We’ve all done it, or toyed with it, at least. But my advice to you is to say that it is a slippery slope my friend, a slippery slope.
Here are some examples:
When you start growing a ‘cookie duster’, it is so easy to over-groom, thus leading to ridiculous displays of facial anomalies, like, 1) Magnum P.I. Mustache, 2), Porn-Star Mustache, 3) the David Niven, or worst, of all, 3) Gay-Guy Mustache . If you’re trimming, you’re falling into one of these categories.
Unless you Want to look like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo (Rooover heeere, Raaaagy), don’t even fool with Goatee. It is NOT cool. It is, for the middle-aged guy, the facial hair equivelent of a ‘comb-over’. A goatee may look cool when you’re 25, but not when you’re 45. A double no-no is the old ’shaved head and a goatee’ look that seems to proliferate these days. Face it dude, if you’re bald, shaving your skull and growing a goatee is not going to change a thing. You’re just bald and lame. Uncle Sam you are not.
A desperate cry for help, the Van Dyke is neither mustache, nor beard, nor Goatee, but a bastardization of all three. It is personal grooming gone amock. If you are seriously considering a Van Dyke, consider buying a Corvette, because you, my friend, are having a mid-life crisis. The mere time it takes to maintain an effective Van Dyke would stop any sane man from considering it. The desire to grow a Van Dyke is directly proportionate to a man’s male pattern baldness. Again, don’t do it, my friend, don’t do it.
Beards are fine and Beards are beards, best kept for hunting camp and slothful days of Winter. But again, when you start ‘trimming’ your beard, you inevitably end up looking like either Abe Lincoln, or any Amish guy you might see in Pennsilvania. Grow a beard, but don’t start fooling around with it. It’s a slippery slope, Abe.
Bottom line: grow facial hair for only one reason: because you are too Fucking lazy to shave and you don’t care what you look like. Anything else probably means you are a ’Poofta’ (Nooooooo Poooooftaaaas!).
Hey, I'm just sayin'
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Friday, March 17, 2006
I just realized that I've been doing this blog for a while now, and I haven't even mentioned my beloved Red Sox. It occurs to me my Grandfather, Pa Hennessy, must be turning over in his urn by now. To wit, here is a republished account, originally penned into 'Tales from East Mosquitoville...and Beyond', on October 27, 2004:
For the first time in 86 years, for the first time since the Wright Bros. took to the sky in Kitty Hawk, for the first time since Doughboys fought Facism in the muddy battlefields of Europe, after the Great Depression, after the advent of the Nuclear Age, after three generations of Americans watched with painful anticipation, the Boston Red Sox have won the World Series and are champions of the baseball world. I repeat...the Red Sox win the World Series.
Now take a deep breath and look around...the earth is still rotating on its axis. Fields of locusts aren't ravaging the Midwest. There seem to be no signs of the Apocolypse on the horizon. So let's think about this for a minute. In 1918, the Boston Red sox beat the Cubs in the World Series, their fifth at the time. The Star Spangled banner, which wasn't even our National Anthem yet, was sung for the first time at a baseball game. The Sox were the most formidable force in th American League.
The next year, the Sox owner, needing money for a lame Broadway show he was producing ('No No Nanette, I think it was), sold the contract for his star pitcher Babe Ruth to the Yankees of New York. Since then, the so-called 'Curse of the Bambino', coined by lame sportswriter Dan Shaunessy, has vexed the loyal fans of the Olde Towne Team. Many years the Sox were so close to winning it all with Hall of Fame players like Speaker, Williams, Raditz, Pesky, Yaz, Pudge, Freedy Lynn, Buckner, El Tiante, Spaceman Lee among the littany of memorable names. Always so close, but always snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.
Each time Sox fans were brought to the brink. Each time they vowed that next year would be their year. Like Syssaphus, in the Greek myth, cursed to forever roll a boulder up a hill only to have it roll back down to the bottom at near climax, the fans had snatched from them the joy of a championship, like Santa had snatched back the G.I. Joe with the Kung-Fu Grip, just as you openned it Christmas morning. Even in my lifetime, witness the tragedy: 1967, Captain Carl almost singlehandedly brought the Red Sox to the big dance, only to have Bob Gibson annihilate them in the end. In 1975, the Red Sox on the brink, were saved in the 12th inning, early one October Boston morning, by a homer of the left foul pole by by Carlton Fisk, in the most highly watched baseball game in baseball history to date. The next, and deciding game, of course, they lost. In 1978, a schedule anomily forced a 1-game play-off to decide the American League East. The Sox had a 14 -1/2 game lead in August, but let it slip and slip, until, a diminuitive 2nd baseman named Bucky Fuckin' Dent homered off Mike Torres and dashe our hopes again.
In 1986, on the pitching arms of Ratchet Roger Clemens and Oil Can Boyd, we were one out from a World Series clinch when an injured and hobbling Bill Buckner, who was, in my opinion, a fine a player as there was, and in NO position to be in the game as injured as he was, could not come up with the play at first and Mookie Fuckin' Wilson scampered home. The rest is misery.
In 2003, the Bean-eaters brought the Yankees, the Fuckin' Yankees, to the brink, into extra innings, when again a dolt from no-where named Aaron Fuckin' Boone took a Ttim Wakefield knuckleball deep into the Bronx stink-pit and the Yankees go on and lose in the World Series to a most infinitely beatable Florida Marlins team, usurping our hopes again.
But THIS year, something happened. Down 3-0 to the same evil and dreaded Yanks, the Sox, visited by some sort of miracle, beat the Bronx Boners in 4-straight games. Talk about your Heimlich Maneuver. Took it to them, right in the Bronx. The American League Championship was ours. At this point, even with the World Seies yet to play, I knew the curse was lifted. Destiny was about to be revealed.
In four straight games against the St. Louis Cardinals, the most formidable line-up in the majors, so they said, came up, and four straight games they sat back down. T-Bone and I got out the special expensive hootch and poured a couple of glasses. We got out the 'more than $2' cigars we had prepred for the unlikely occasion. I thought of my old Paba, who would have loved to see this, and took a healthy swig of some really good Polish Vodka.
"Ground ball to Faulke, he stabs it, he has it, underhands to first, and the Boston Red Sox have won baseball's World Chamionship. For the first time in 86 years the Boston Red Sox have won the World Series. Can you believe it"?!
Ahem,...my cigar please.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
On the other hand, I'm thinking, I have been married, and with kids, for going on 15 years. There isn't too much I do that someone doesn't already know about. I don't think I've experienced an uninterrupted shower or bowel movement since my long ago bachelor days. And as far as provocative and controversial use of the internet, any married guy could tell you, sneaking porn on the internet is about as likely to be a success as sneaking a ham sandwich into a Jenny Craig meeting. And since I still haven't figured out that God-Damned History button, I'm not going to 'Google' anything I'm not prepared to explain later. Retribution from the Feds I can take; angry scorn from my lovely spouse would be far more swift and punitive. What the federal government would actually find on any of my internet searches would be about as ribald as a PBS documentary on Abe Lincoln (there he is again).
It's just the idea, I guess.
It also got me thinking, as I pulled into Jackman, just about to pick up my last-minute groceries and beer before the long trek in on the Tote road to camp. I remember, years ago, when I first started going up there, you used to be able to get these really great flaky pastries, made by a bakery in Quebec. This old French-Canadian dude from up there had a delivery route that only briefly brought him into the States to deliver to this one grocery store, then zip back into Canadia. These pastries were so friggin' good, and you couldn't get them anywhere in Maine except up there. It became a tradition. Every time we came to camp, we'd buy as many as they had. Then, after the tragic NYC airplane attacks in September of 2001, border security became very tight. Homeland Security not only doubled up guards at the crossings, but put in their own guys. These guys did not know ol' Gaston, who had a sweetheart deal with the old border guys. Anyhow, evidentally ol' Gaston had had an OUI, or something, back about 25 years ago, and presumably, according to Homeland Security, presented a risk. He could no longer regularly cross the border with his van full of Joy. Thus, no more Flakey Pastries.
Now, I can live without flakey pastries from Quebec and I can probably live with the fact that the Feds are laughing their asses off about me visiting www.HallandOates.com for the 20th time. But I shouldn't. It's the little people who again are inconvenienced: the Pastry-Lovers and the guys that want to look up that 'Paris Hilton' video (what a Gyp, by the way). I'm not saying I'm siding-up with the Terrorists; I'm just sayin'...
Monday, March 13, 2006
There is a certain Rock snobbery that has dogged Rhett Miller every time he has tried to step out of the role as leader of the Old 97's and make a play for greener pastures. The inevitable eye-rolling at his pretty-boy good looks. The slicker production value somehow means he sold his soul to "the man." Listening to his latest, The Believer I can't help but hear the same guy that has been fronting The Old 97's, hell, this could pass as an Old 97's disc. The opening track
"My Valentine" features great back up from The Jayhawks, Gary Louris and more hooks than a French whorehouse.
Hey, I love lo-fi sensibilities as much as the next guy, but let's give the kid a break. Since when did dressing-up deserve such a dressing-down?
I have been toying with Google Translate, the online translation program.
What I did was, I took the Gettysburg Address, translated it into Korean, then back into English. Then I took that text, translated it into German, from German to French, and from French back into English.
The result is as follows-- with line breaks added, and a few edits. (I'd like to say I edited "for sense", but I don't think that's the right word.) We call it "The Poem of the LIncoln Robot." It goes like this:
THE POEM OF THE LINCOLN ROBOT
by Jennifer Finney Boylan
Then all the males who are equal
transform the heel of the dog.
For seven years our fathers
understood the continent.
Under the inauguration
it developed the inner freedom.
Us with the gold have the parts from inside
of the great north and the making war
on the south and we go, like this.
The sense of the battlefield where we are large
it relieves us, it works. It is over
respecting the meat
that is given to the peel here,
for the writing from the field that is firm.
Under the new percentage of the star
-- we are not the possibility. Here
the males who fought good have asked
that he remove the defective energy. The
nose about the wave is forgotten but, is here not all?
It was gorgeous to be left over like this.
For being leaves this nation
a new providence. The person who
governs a boring army song
shall bay with a lump and
it is not to be useless any more, any more,
and orders ticket like acid.
But to the inner method
this devotion is sufficient.
We shall augment the small flag lion
that gives honor, within, without,
it repairs here before the rest.
Enough we have it from here.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Four score and seven years ago, Big Foot Chester set out upon Red Sox Nation to create a new Blog, conceived in drunkenness, and dedicated to the proposition that all babes should be buns-up kneelin'! Now we are engaged in a great Civil War, testing whether that Big Foot Chester, or ANY Chester so conceived and drunken, can survive. We are met upon a great barfield of that war. They will not long remember what we blog here. But they will long remember what He drank here. Rather it is for us to be drunken, to rededicate ourselves to the proposition that all Heads are created Large, and that Drunkenness, Mendacity, and Lustiness -- of the Chester, for the Chester, and by the Chester, shall not perish from the earth.
And so on.
Surviving fans of the band "Strange Brew" may find wistful recollections of playing with the band in the "There from Here" column on the front page of the C section of today's (Sunday, March 12) Morning Sentinel and Kennebec Journal. There is in this tear-jerking piece, in fact, a fleeting reference to one "Big Head Jack" who resembles Big Head Chester in all things except name.
If you are very good I will try to remember to post the very column in this very space in upcoming moments.
For now, a big tip of the STOVEPIPE to Honest Chester, who is SEVEN YEARS OLD TODAY! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LITTLE FELLA!
Jenny the Giant
Thursday, March 09, 2006
I guess I still owe you a gift . . . anyhoo follow the link.
click on Highlights on the left of screen
click on video moments and the NBC Screening Room launches. Over to the right of this window you will see some choices for video highlights of the Conan O'Brien variety hour. Scroll to the bottom of these choices and there will be a list of pages for archives.
Click on 7
Click on and watch "Hotdogs For Homophobes"
Laugh your ass off.
Have a great birthday buddy!
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Anyhow, Frankme and us boys used to have a penchant for pulling practical jokes on the job-site. It got us through those long tedious hours standing between us and 'beer-time'. One of our favorite gags was the old 'Mongoose' routine. The old mongoose routine went a little like this: Frank had bulit this contraption that resembled a rabbit hutch, with one end open with a bed of straw, and one end closed off with a little door leading to a little hidden compartment. On top of the 'hutch' was a large door. Simple enough, right? However, we also had a large spring attached to the door and a large fake racoon tail, secretly attached to the door, sticking out of the 'den'. Set up complete, the gag went like this. Word would get around that the boys from ZVI had a pet Mongoose on the job. "A Mongoose"?..".Holy shit, yes, a vicious mongoose, it'll tear ya' limb from limb", etc. Meanwhile, a few of us would all stand around the hutch that held our vicious 'mongoose'. We'd poke the cage with a stick, bang the top, and make a general commotion. "Watch out, it'll bite, keep your hands back", etc. Sooner or later, a small crowd would gather 'round the 'dangerous mongoose' we had caged up on the job. "How novel"!
Thus, when we had a sufficient number of suckers gathered, on of us would trip a lever attached to the spring, that was attached to the string, that was attached to the raccon tail. The racoon tail would shoot like a rocket out of the cage at about 60 miles per, and even though it was only a fake tail, our acting was so sublime and the power of persuasion so great, that it actually seemed to them that a bloodthirsty mongoose was shooting out its cage to take a big bite out of their collective asses. Grown men squealed like little girls, young women peed their pants, and one time this electrician ran, backwards, up an 11 foot ladder. Worked every time! What a show! Frank's Rolling Thunder Revue strikes again.
To think, I could have been working.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Monday, March 06, 2006
to take a long look at yourself to make you a better you.
Having said that, her's the JOTW:
A man goes into a church and settles in the Confessional. The Priest asks him what his sins are and the guy says, "Father forgive me, for I have sinned. Last night I had sex with six women". The Priest says, "my heavens, six women, are you married, my son"? The guy says, "married,... Jeez Louise Padre, I'm not even Catholic, I just HAD to tell SOMEBODY".
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Saturday, March 04, 2006
27", 10 pound Togue caught
by Jack Hennessy of Orono Me.
(not actual fish, computer enhancement)
Friday, March 03, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
"Low Budget" . . . "Misfits" and "Sleepwalker" fair better with 75 percent great material.
Ray Davies (long overdue) solo LP "Other People's Lives" arrives with little fanfair and mostly
decent reviews. There are no surprises here. No one will be converted who doesn't already love Uncle Ray's English Dancehall sensibilities. The one thing I can't help notice here (90 percent great by the way, all killer save for the title track which could have been called "Give The People What They wwwant.com" and one other stinker) I can't help but hear all the bands that have been charmed by this English gentlemen and influenced by him . . . from Frank Black to Blurr, Franz Ferdinand to The Shins. Ray Davies may (Hopefully) live to see the day when rock's most under rated genius gets his due.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
"Fox Confessor Brings The Flood" sounds exactly like old tyme country played at some kind of Lynchian road house. Guitars "heavy" with atmosphere-alternate tuning and enough reverb to give Chris Isaak a run for his money. Thanks to her band(s) for hire, alternately The Sadies and Calexico, both schooled in the Leonne school of guitar method. Fox Confessor should place respectably high on Daddy's year ender.
some samples http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000CS4L1E/102-2167424-6598516?v=glance&n=5174
It hit me today as I was in the DMV getting my driver's license renewed: I'm an old bastard... I kind of knew all along, but there are some watershed moments when it's pretty clear that you're there. Like when I looked at my renewed license picture today and said to the lady.. "no, no there must be some mistake, you accidentally took Keith Richard's picture. I don't look like this". She gives me that 'DMV lady' look, and was totally not impressed. Shit, I remember, like last week, hoping like hell my first driver's license, that I doctored to make me 20, not 17, would get me beer without a hassle. Now I've been able to buy beer legally for as many years as not. I'm legal to buy beer to the 2nd power.Speaking of buying beer (we were weren't we?),I go into my favorite Packy the other day (you know, package store, smart shop, pharmacy, liquor store, etc.) , to pick up my daily 40 oz. of Old Milwaukee's Best, and the dude behind the counter 'Sirs' me. He's like...'there you go sir, have a good night'...Dude,... Since when did I become a fucking Sir? Now don't get me wrong. I don't like getting 'duded' any more than you. In fact, I loathe being called 'dude'. But to drop the sir on me; that was cold. He might as well have said, 'here you go, you decreped old drunk, here's you 40 oz., so you can go home and watch the Golden Girls, pathetic old bastard, you're not in the dude club anymore'.And speaking of young girls (we were weren't we?), that's even worse. Sheeit, if I was like going up to some nice, nubile college girl (not that I've noticed any up here in Orono), and was like...'hey,who's your Daddy', they'd be like, 'well, you're old enough to be my Daddy, if that's what you mean'. Not that I'm interested, in case my wife may be reading this. It's just the idea.Well, at least I have my health... except the right knee, and the left hip,... and the... oh heck, you get the idea. Anyway, Happy fuckin' Birthday to me... where the hell did I leave that 40?