We learn from Sarpy Sam, who blogs from the Middle of Nowhere, and who is my favorite cattle rancher (although he doesn’t exactly face stiff competition in that category), that Ohio is hosting a Duct Tape Festival. I’ll bet that these guys will make an appearance.

I wonder if it is too late to kick the Nobel Prize Committee in their collective pants to get them to award the Prize to the inventor of possibly the most useful product ever made.

The temperature here is in the teens, and there is snow and ice everywhere — lots of ice. On many sidewalks, the ice looks like a snapshot of whitecaps on the bay during a strong wind. This happens when people walk through the slush and it freezes rock-solid that way. Walking on that stuff is horrible.

In many places on the streets (particularly on corners), the ice is several inches thick and it’s gray and ugly. I have had it with ice.

Having said that, I just returned from a slippery ride to the local convenience store, and what was the only item I purchased? Yep. A bag of ice.

Making cocktails with anything other than clear ice is, well, … uncivilized.

Call me Nanook.

“I like to watch the streetcar go by when I’m downtown. I get to wave at my money.”
Cousin Jack complaining about a privately owned streetcar in Portland, which, in large part, is paid for by taxpayers.

“I just can’t watch a woman who is such a tight-ass that if she farts, dogs three counties away go deaf. You make Queen Victoria look like Paris Hilton.”
LeeAnn, of “The Cheese…” commenting on the woman on “My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance” who doesn’t seem to get the gag.

I have always used Zildjian cymbals, except for hi-hats. For those, I prefer the 14″ medium Paistes.

Discuss.

You’re up to your neck in shit, and someone throws a bag of snot at your head. What do you do?

I like Two Nervous Dogs, and after reading this post, I think the author and I may have been separated at birth.

Having been busy with her new gig, TJ has found a bit of time to fire up her blog again. The subject — “Coffee Mugs.”

Eric, the Straight White Guy, tells a great story about his First Robert Burns Night in Scotland. A bit of single malt, a fine dinner, and the next thing you know, you’re drawing your sword and leading a charge to take the Bridge at Rose Hill.

Good scotch whiskey can bring out the Robert William (duh) Wallace in a guy, especially a Marine.

Yesterday I wrote about cowboy hats, boots and riding horses. I learned today that, even if I sported the hat and the boots and climbed on a horse, there is no way I could ever relate to being a Montana Rancher. Sarpy Sam (a real Montana Rancher) at Thoughts from the Middle of Nowhere, points to an article that says, “You know you’re a Montana Rancher if…” Here is a sample (along with some Garden State observations):

You know you’re a Montana rancher IF…

you know how to spell heifer, Hereford and Charolais.
Hell, many folks in Jersey have trouble spelling, “Yo!”

you know someone who’s lost a digit to a rope, a chain saw or a skinning knife.
Here one loses a digit (usually the middle one) by displaying it to the wrong guy.

you put old tires on top of haystacks, shingled roofs and the outhouse.
Haystacks? Outhouses? We do have shingled roofs, but … putting tires on them? WTF? We generally keep the tires on our cars.

You think a traffic jam is waiting to pass a tractor on the county road.
Wow! Talk about a cultural divide!

you measure distance in miles, not minutes.
Miles don’t mean doodly squat in Jersey. We always talk time, because a three-mile drive can often take an hour depending on the road and the time of day.

you’ve been to tractor rallies or draft-horse shows or mule log-pulling events.
I’ve never been to any of the above events nor did I know that there are such things. In fact, I’ve never seen a live mule, or a dead one, for that matter. I somehow think that if I were to attend one of these events, the spectators might sense that I am not “from there.”

you’ve seen people wear bib overalls at funerals, weddings and the annual Christmas pageant at the church.
If someone were to show up at a wedding or funeral in bib overalls, everyone would assume that he came directly from work on Broadway where he had a gig in the chorus of a show like “Shenandoah.”

you see pickups, with no one in them and with engines running, parked in front of stores and bars no matter what time of year.
They’d last about three minutes here.

you get a kick out of explaining what’s a Testicle Festival to dudes.
Is this a Greenwich Village-type event?

taking your drink in a “go cup” from the local bar is a time-saver.
This would be a great way to meet and greet a Jersey State Trooper, most of whom have the sense of humor of Ivan the Terrible.

your blood pressure rises when you have to drive in a city of more than 8,000.
For us, that’s a trip to the “country.”

Driver’s Education was a joke for you and your classmates since you’d all been driving since the age of 10.
Around here, the only people who drive that young are apprentice car thieves.

I’d like to add one to the list, if I may.

You know you’re a Montana rancher…IF,

you’ve never had a decent slice of pizza.

1. I’d like to wear a cowboy hat.
But, I won’t because:
(a) there aren’t any cows around here;
(b) one doesn’t wear cowboy hats around here;
(c) as my Uncle Bill used to say, “If you wear a hat like that around here, ya gotta know how to fight,” and at this stage in my life, I can’t see myself losing a couple teeth over headgear. and
(d) every time I ever tried on a cowboy hat, I looked like a Jewish dentist named “Mel” pretending to be a cowboy, which is nuts, because I am neither Jewish nor a dentist.

2. I’d like to wear cowboy boots.
But, I won’t because:
(a) there aren’t any cows around here;
(b) one does not wear cowboy boots around here;
(c) I assume that the Uncle Bill’s “Hat Rule” applies to cowboy boots, and at this stage in my life, I can’t see myself losing a couple teeth over footwear, and
(d) my five-inch wide feet, which look like those of the offspring of Fred Flintstone and Daisy Duck, just don’t fit well into cowboy boots.

3. I’d like to ride a horse.
But, I won’t because:
(a) there aren’t any horses around here;
(b) therefore, one does not ride horses around here (at least, in this part of the state);
(c) those animals are way bigger than they look on television, and they kick and bite too, and
(d) I don’t think it’s fair to disaccommodate a horse by making it carry my ass around for the fun of it.

Damn.