Wow.  Quite a week.  And according to my hourglass, it ain’t over.

The highlight for me: my 126 year-old Phillies franchise evolved into their best incarnation ever.  Seems like only yesterday I was watching their very first game in an open field in Fairmount Park.  They lost.   But this week, the city and Phillyfan responded as only the City of Bodily Harm could:

The number of fans out Wednesday night has been nearly matched by the number of officers on patrol downtown after the Phillies’ 10-4 victory over the Los Angeles Dodgers. A dozen mounted police and dozens of officers in riot gear lined Broad Street downtown, and cross-street traffic has been closed on Broad Street.

Though last year’s celebrations following the National League Championship Series were mostly harmless, the city took extra precautions this year, going so far as to grease utility and light poles to dissuade would-be climbers.  The city also removed expensive new solar-powered trash cans from downtown sidewalks, and Mayor Michael Nutter urged fans to celebrate responsibly. The city asked some bars to serve drinks in plastic cups instead of glass.– philly.com

In South Philly, home to the ballpark and the birthplace of the cheese steak, there was no trouble obtaining ample supplies of grease.

So, you know, it is what it is, but Americans are totally annoyed by the use of “whatever” in conversations.  The popular slacker term of indifference was found “most annoying in conversation” by 47 percent of Americans surveyed in a Marist College poll released Wednesday.

“Whatever” easily beat out “you know,” which especially grated a quarter of respondents. The other annoying contenders were “anyway” (at 7 percent), “it is what it is” (11 percent) and “at the end of the day” (2 percent)  – Discovery News

My colleagues use these expressions, and worse.  Most of the time I misunderstand what in hell they think they’re saying.  Lots of time and energy are wasted as a result, but even when I point out that I (a) begged for clarification I never got, and (b) conducted affairs precisely in line with what was specifically stated, the caravan of miscommunication keeps rolling.  Management Speak.  Empty expressions, vacuous verbiage.

There’s no cure for this.  The plague will spread, and conditions will worsen.  “When it’s your time, it’s your time.”  “Work smarter, not harder.”  “Stay within yourself.”  Thanks, Wise Oracle.  How about “Big toe in first,” and “Shit first wipe last”?  At least they’re practical.

Back in the day this was known as “psychobabble.”  Entire textbooks were devoted to and composed of it, preparing a new generation of slippered academics and vapid professional counselors to pillage the pockets of a new class of gullible clients and patients.  It became as fashionable as it was infuriating, and suffering young men found themselves obliged to master its grammar, peeling if off glibly and sincerely if they wanted to get laid.  What a waste of tongue.  Damn I hated the 70s.

Set a good example to people whose  English is painful to your ears.

The Scotch and the Irish leave you close to tears.

There even are places where English completely  disappears.

In America, they haven’t used it for years! –(My Fair Lady)

I know whatcha mean.  Canya get into it?  Farm Out!  Powder to the People!  * Gag *

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Set a good example to people whose  English is painful to your ears.

The Scotch and the Irish leave you close to tears.

There even are places where English completely  disappears.

In America, they haven’t used it for years!

(This is an updated post from a previous blog.)

The first thing I notice when I awaken Sunday morning is  my suntan, which has cracked in 20 places and now rests in pieces next to me.  This happens every autumn when the temperature abruptly drops overnight.  It’s my body’s version of falling leaves.  I hate it.

Here’s a complete list of reasons to like cold weather:

Wanna see it again?

I hate cold weather. Passionately.

Inevitably, when the first cold snap strikes south Florida, people will beam with pleasure. “Isn’t this terrific?” they’ll say. “Finally, a break from the heat!”

I respectfully suggest they go the hell back where they came from and pound icicles up their asses. There’s weather like this all the time up north in New Wingland and Minneysoda and Walla Walla Washington. It’s called spring.

The #1 reason people cite for relocating to Florida is the weather. This is bullshit. They HATE Florida weather. They spend 10 months of the year huddled behind hermetically sealed windows and doors blasting their air conditioning. They keep their houses, offices, and cars so frigid they could hang meat. They hate the heat. They fear the sun. They hate to sweat.

My house doesn’t even have a single air conditioner. I LIKE heat and humidity. I LIKE it when my whole house is over 90 degrees. I LIKE to sweat in my sleep. Me, I LIKE Florida weather. You don’t, do you. You just say you do.

When everybody else in the region opens their windows, we’re cranking ours shut.  The blankets will come out tonight.   The tequila bottle will rest undisturbed  in the freezer, replaced by warming amber Jack Daniels.  The cold bitch winter has announced herself.

So I’m miserable today and tomorrow; in fact, I’m miserable all damn winter. Whenever it drops below 80, I’m cold. And I fucking hate being cold. The next person who asks me how I like this terrific refreshing weather gets a lunger in the face. “Have a nice day,” I’ll say, cordially.

Global warming? Bring it on. It can’t happen soon enough.

LOS ANGELES – Residents of a Southern California apartment complex say they saw a lifeless body slumped on a neighbor’s patio, but didn’t call police because they thought it was part of a Halloween display.

Mostafa Mahmoud Zayed had apparently been dead since Monday.

Cameraman Austin Raishbrook, owner of RMG News, told the Los Angeles Times he was at the scene in Marina del Rey Thursday when authorities arrived. The 75-year-old Zayed was slumped over a chair on the third-floor balcony of his apartment with a single gunshot wound to the eye.

A Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department investigator says the case is an “apparent suicide.”

Raishbrook says neighbors told him they noticed the body Monday “but didn’t bother calling authorities because it looked like a Halloween dummy.”  — philly.com

Great costume — dressed as a dirt nap.  Wonder what he was planning to give out in the way of trick or treats.

Appears as though I stirred up some some trouble over at Rick’s American Bar and Grill, but hey — that’s what brogs are all about, light?

Anyway, if we’re talking about the dregs of the entertainment world like Flush Limbo and the NFL (Neanderthal Football League), maybe we need to raise the bar and note the passing of a Truly Class Act, bigger than life and three times as ugly.  Not to mention LOUD.

“Thank YOU, Mr. Acovado!”

Damn.  I miss him already.

Tired of the Roman Polanski soap opera yet?  The way culture warriors have spun it is fascinatingly macabre, a testament to the lengths desperate ideologues will go to  reinforce a point.  Suddenly a 30-year old sex crime is historic (and living) proof that the French are decadent; the film industry is perverted; intellectuals are snobby, insensitive louts devoid of decency and common sense; and whatever else you name the liberals are at fault and Obama is probably responsible somehow.

Roll the tape.

Polanski, now 76, was accused of raping a 13-year-old girl in 1977 while photographing her during a modeling session. She said Polanski performed oral sex, intercourse and sodomy on her after giving her champagne and part of a Quaalude pill at Jack Nicholson’s house while the actor was away. Polanski has called the girl a sophisticated teen who willingly had sex with him, but she said he forced himself on her. His victim, Samantha Geimer, who long ago identified herself publicly, sued Polanski and reached an undisclosed settlement. She said she wants the case to be over.  — WTOP.com

He feeds this 13 year old champagne and a ‘lude, laps her lint, and then, learning she’s not on the pill, rolls her over and invokes the Great Cornholio.  She tells him NO the whole time, but she’s too small and too scared to stop him.  And then always the gentleman, he drives her home.

There are legal terms for these activities even when the unwilling participant is of legal age.  But don’t overlook the fact that now, in 2009, the victim wants no part of this prosecution.  “She wants the case to be over.”  So on whose behalf does it continue?  Why rape the victim a second time?

But with friends like this Hollywood sophisticate, who needs hangmen?

“I know it wasn’t rape-rape. It was something else but I don’t believe it was rape-rape. He went to jail and when they let him out he was like ‘You know what this guy’s going to give me a hundred years in jail I’m not staying,’ so that’s why he left.”  — Whoopie Goldberg

I hope and pray she pronounced it “Wape-Wape,” don’t you?  Repeat aloud with me: I know it wasn’t wape-wape. It was something else but I don’t believe it was wape-wape. Reminds me of redneck foreplay: “This gone, hurt, bitch!  Roll over!”  A commentary on sexual assault as stupid as ever uttered, right up there with, “Oh, they really like it,” and Dr. Henry Aldridge, Republican Congressman,  on record as saying, Women don’t get pregnant when raped “because the juices don’t flow.”

I propose abandoning the case against Polanski (and his victim), and delivering Whoopie Goldberg to the Iranians for a public caning.   Forget wape-wape.  She needs whap-whap, if not across her fat ass, then upside her fool head. And what a great diplomatic maneuver at the same time.

As for Polanski, he needs to stay holed up, out of sight, Roamin’ no more.

When I saw the news about Ardi, it was like déjà vu all over again.

Ardi lived 4.4 million years ago in the woodlands of East Africa. She spent most of her time in the trees. She stood about 4 feet tall, weighed 110 pounds, and had long arms, short legs, and a grasping big toe that was perfect for clambering branch to branch. She ate in the trees, raised her offspring in the trees, slept in the trees.  But sometimes she came down to the ground, and stood upright. She could walk on two legs. She was, in a sense, taking baby steps on a journey that would change the world. –  Washington Post

I swear this is the girl I took to my junior prom.  But how can this be?  She’s 4.4 million years old.  As ancient as I am, I can’t claim to be more than half her age at most.

Nevertheless, the resemblance is uncanny. I think that’s what she wore, too.  I remember I had a helluva time talking her out of it, and once I did, I wished I hadn’t.   She had more hair on her back than the metal shop teacher, known as “Mr. Sweater.”  She had a better vocabulary, though.  Not that I cared.

The Creationists are surprisingly low-key on this discovery.  Evidently it’s just one of those annoying facts that interfere with their beliefs about the way god created the world a few decades back, si they ignore it.  Besides, they’re somewhat irritated that the former president, who remains solidly in their ideological camp, never got a Nobel Prize  for his faith, and the current occupant of the White House, who seems to favor science and Darwin and reading to oneself without moving one’s lips, found one tossed his way simply for not being his predecessor.

Besides, any Creationist worth his salt doesn’t see anything significant about Ardi’s discovery.  They see no link between whatsoever her and us human creatures.  It’s a shame I can’t produce as proof the banana peel from the gift she gave me on prom night.  I solemnly pinned an orchid on her furry breast, and she gravely handed me a ripe Chiquita in return.   “Grungh,” she said.  “Let’s dance,” I answered.

Very moving ‘way back then.  But we were young.  So very, very young.  * sigh *

I didn’t set out to avoid the blog-o-sphere for 10 days or a fortnight or whatever it’s been.  I figured a few days to complete some grim family business, then it’s back in the saddle again.  Turns out (for me, anyway) that blogging is similar to exercise: one gets into the habit, enjoys it while engaged, but if an interruption to the routine leads to other habits — like NOT exercising (or blogging), other activities take its place.

1.  Here’s a partial list of achievements I managed while NOT blogging:

2.  Completed my tax return.

3.  Kept two overdue appointments with medical professionals, including the dentist, whom I’ve not seen for over a year.  And I never floss.

4.  Finished three books and start ed a fourth.  (Reading, not writing!)

5.  Reduced my tequila intake.  Aah, well, not all outcomes can be positive.

6.  Increased sexual activity.  Yes, wiseass, with Guido, not alone.

7.  Caught up on months of NY Times Book Reviews after lagging behind for over a year.

8.  Slept better and longer.  See (6).

9.   Reintroduced myself to some of the cats, whom I’ve been ignoring.  Not that they give a damn.

10.    Did about 4 months’ worth of filing and cleaning out.

11. Worked on every plant in the house, under the carport, and on the back patio  — that’s a forest-full — as well as a the usual ton of landscaping.

12.  Picked up the bass guitar again.

So it becomes obvious that I need to strike a better balance between staying current on this irrelevant distraction I call a blog and the intrusive Real World in which survival takes place.  I think this is called “gaining perspective.”

Besides, there are some real physical changes going on.  My place of employment has switched over to a 4-day / 10-hour work week, which leaves less time during the week to focus on creative writing (I do not blog at work.  That was part of the deal when I donned the yoke and assumed the position).  I’m up too early in the morning, and I retire too early at night to generate the workload I was producing.

Also, I’m growing dissatisfied with both the content of my posts and the quality of their composition.  To me they sound tired and played, and the prose isn’t as sharp and edgy as I know I’m capable of writing, especially when I look back and compare it to previous efforts. This is particularly painful when I glance back at the old abandoned blog (which still gets angry comments, over 2 years later — and not just from the eternally embittered High Bris).

This isn’t the end, but it is an adjustment.  As Yogi counseled, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”   Who’s still with me?

Just in time for my emergency trip to the Jersey shore!  Two animal tales:

During a bizarre hearing yesterday, a Superior Court judge dismissed animal-cruelty charges against a Moorestown [NJ]police officer accused of sticking his penis into the mouths of five calves in rural Southampton in 2006, claiming a grand jury couldn’t infer whether the cows had been “tormented” or “puzzled” by the situation or even irritated that they’d been duped out of a meal.

“If the cow had the cognitive ability to form thought and speak, would it say, ‘Where’s the milk? I’m not getting any milk,’ ” Judge James J. Morley asked.

Morley said it was questionable whether Melia’s alleged crimes against cows, although “disgusting,” fit the definitions in the animal-cruelty statute.  — philly.com

If the cow had the ability to form thoughts, I suspect it would probably wonder why the hell anything as obtuse as this learned Hizzoner isn’t in a high chair when he presides over the court.   A man throat-fucks calves for thrills (yes, there are photos, and he’s also got vids and pics of himself and his girlfriend with juveniles), and the judge can’t see this as animal cruelty?  What part of “Moo” doesn’t he understand?

The police force suspended the officer, but that’s about it.  “There’s no use crying over spilt milk,” observed a spokesman.

Meanwhile, across the mighty Delaware in the City of Bodily Harm……

The news that a cat was found body-wrapped in duct tape spurred an outpouring of public support to the Pennsylvania SPCA yesterday.  The calls and emails brought clues about the culprit, claims of ownership, financial contributions, and offers of adoption, said spokeswoman Liz Williamson this morning.  Thanks to donations, the reward has been doubled to $2,000 for information leading to a conviction, she said.

Several people phoned yesterday claiming to be the owner of “Sticky,” as workers at the North Philadelphia shelter nicknamed her. — philly.com

“Sticky.”

Well, maybe I’m just cynical (and there are currently 7 cats lounging in or around this house as I write this), but maybe some suffering cat owner just had enough with her infernal shedding and figured out a way to stop it.   Lord knows duct tape is goof for fixing everything else, including broken bones.  (For deep bleeding, though, it is advisable to apply Windex first.)

What the hell is wrong with people?

Anyway, I’m heading North on a grim mission: for the second time in two years I have a funeral to attend.  Last October it was my mother, and, while I was up there, my uncle (her brother) slid out a day later.  Two for one.  Back to back ceremonies out at the cemetery, got to see the family in mourning mode two straight days.   This time it’s a cousin and lifelong friend, who died swimming in the ocean while on vacation.  ‘Way too young, ‘way too fast, ‘way too soon.  Especially heartbreaking for his widow, and it can’t be fixed with duct tape.   Or anything else.

Shit.  Goddammit.  Fuck.

Just hours before he was arrested for fraud, Broward Commissioner Josephus Eggelletion Jr joined with six of his eight colleagues in a vote to adopt a budget that scissors $1.1 Million from the county’s arts budget, reducing the allocation by about 25%.

This vote was taken after a long evening of testimony from members of the public, who beseeched commissioners not to decimate a successful, nationally-recognized program that over the last decade has help transform Broward cities to cultural destinations, generated considerable revenue for the county, positively impacted both formal and informal education for residents, and nurtured an arts community that has attracted artists and students from around the world.

“Tough shit,” sayeth the commission.  “No new taxes, and no more arts.”

I was one of the 130 speakers who offered two minutes of input for commissioners to ignore.  Here’s what I said:

Commissioners, Citizens, Artists:

My name is [Squathole].  I’m a Broward County resident since 1985, and a home owner in eastern Hollywood since 1988.

I’ll be brief.

You know all the arguments about how beneficial the arts are.  I don’t think that’s what all this pivots on.  It comes down to revenue, or the shortage of it, and it appears that the only way to generate more is to raise taxes.  But raising taxes is usually political suicide, especially when times are tough.

Given all that, here’s my modest proposal:  Raise taxes and blame the artists.  Tax for Art.  Call it the “Arts Tax.”

When you hear the howls of protest, as you most assuredly will, blame us, the artists.  Let us handle it.  We’ve done a poor job of making our case for the arts with the very people who are most impacted, not the government or the funding sources or the ever-shrinking supply of private investors and sponsors or artists and aficionados themselves, but the man in the street, the 2.5 person household, the paycheck to paycheck American worker.

Give us the chance to show them where their money goes, and the difference it makes to their everyday existence.   After all, we are them, and they are us.  Artists are laborers, too, the same as AFSCME  but without the pension and the health care.   Put the pressure on us to forge this link.

Remember, art is supposed to inspire, to alter perspectives, to provoke.  An Art Tax will do this in spades.  Art will become the talk of the town, maybe the nation.  Headline:  “Raising Hopes, Courageous Broward County Commissioners Embrace the Arts, Raise Taxes!”

You know what the arts have done for Broward County, and what they need to keep on doing..   Don’t pull the plug, we’re all go down the drain.

Finally, remember, with Tax for Art, we’re not behind you on this, we’re out in front of you, advocating this cause and singing your praises.  We’re your partners in this.  We — the arts — give you a good deal.  And a good deal more.

Thank you.

Sure hope the commissioner was wearing clean underwear when he was taken away.