One of our ever-vigilant PRS Operatives, while on another assignment, happened to spot Cindy Sheehan while she and her Road Show stopped at one of the Garden State Parkway Rest Stops.

The encounter went as follows:

PRS: “Excuse me, ma’am, aren’t you Cindy Sheehan?”

Cindy: (singing) “When the moon is in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligns with Mars…then peace will guide our plannnn-et ….”

PRS: “Pardon me for interrupting, but aren’t you Cindy Sheehan?”

Cindy: “Yeah, that’s right.” (singing) “The Eastern World, it is explodin’ … violence flarin’ bullets loadin’ …You’re old enough to kill, but not for votin’…”

PRS: “Ms. Sheehan, may I just have a moment of your time to ask you some questions?”

Cindy: “What?”

PRS: “I’m with PRS and I only need a minute or two of your time, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Cindy: “Have you spoken with my people?”

PRS: “Your people?”

Cindy: “Yeah, Sonny Boy. I’m a big goddamn deal. Besides, I never heard of this PRS thing you speak of. You’re talking to someone who has done interviews with Time, Newsweek, the New York Times, CBS and CNN. You have to talk with my agent. Maybe I can fit you in some time in the Spring.”

PRS: “The Spring? I had the sense that your notoriety was waning, and that’s what I wanted to talk with you about.”

Cindy: (singing) “How many roads must a man walk down, before you call him a man … and how many seas must a white dove sail …”

PRS:

Cindy: “Did you say ‘waning?’ I’ll have you know that I’m bigger than Elvis and John Lennon put together. You got any weed?”

PRS: “Sorry, no weed. How about a Tic Tac?”

Cindy: “Coke? How about some Coke? I could use a little pick-me-up, if ya know what I mean.”

PRS: “Would that be Diet or Classic?”

Cindy: “My God, you are, like, sooooo, L-7”

PRS: “L-7? I’m sorry; I don’t get that.”

Cindy: “Like square, man. Like, really ungroovy.” (singing) “How many times must the cannonballs fly, before they’re forever banned….”

PRS: “Ms. Sheehan, I have to ask you, what was the deal with that picture of you lying on your son’s grave?”

Cindy: “Did you like it? My people told me that the focus group said that I needed to do more horizontal grieving. I thought my hair looked damned good too.”

PRS: “And, what about that photo with you resting your head on Jesse Jackson’s back? Did your people tell you that you also needed to do more bi-racial grieving?”

Cindy: “No. I thought that up myself. Jesse is so, like, … dreamy. He also had some primo weed. He knows all the words to Purple Haze. I’ll bet you didn’t know that.”

PRS: “No, Ma’am I didn’t know that. How do you respond to those who are sympathetic to your loss, but who question whether you are being manipulated by various left-wing organizations?”

Cindy: “Acid? You got any acid? I feel like doin’ a tab.”

PRS: “Sorry, no acid.”

Cindy: “Mushrooms? They’d be good too. Got any of those? You like doin’ shrooms?”

PRS: “Thank you for your time, Ms. Sheehan.”

Cindy: (singing) “Picture yourself in a boat on a river, with tangerine seas and marmalade skies ….”

There is nothing like a walk in the chilly rain to spawn some troubling thoughts. Here are a few of them:

1. These days, all my grammar school teachers are either very old or very dead.

2. Daytime television may even be worse now than it was when my grammar school teachers were in their prime.

3. I can’t imagine how many millions of kids don’t know what coal is. “Coal in my stocking? Is that a video game?”

4. I wonder how many people under 40 know what the term “church key” refers to.

5. People actually watch the Jerry Springer Show.

6. Jon Corzine will soon be sworn in as Governor of the State of New Jersey.

7. Bob Menendez, selected by New Jersey’s political bosses Jon Corzine, will become one of my U.S. Senators.

8. My other U.S. Senator is still the cadaverous Frank Lautenberg, who, as you will recall, parachuted into the race for Senate when Bob “the Torch” Torricelli bailed out amidst charges of him being waist-deep in corruption.

9. Hillary is laying in wait.

10. Some peple have been divulging classified information to the New York Times, which when published, increased the danger to me, my family, my friends and all of us who live in or near “the most dangerous two miles in America.”

h/t to Mr. Snitch for the Post Article

Fortunately, when I finished yesterday’s walk, I had the presence of mind to jot down a note or two before I became busy doing other things, such as reading, dozing off, and writing the Old Bourbon post, which for Mr. Techno-Stoooopid was a challenge what with the pop-up images that had to be resized, saved, uploaded and plugged into the text. For many of you, that would be child’s play, but for me, it was like digging out multiple splinters.

Anyway, here’s the particular bit of disgusting douchebaggery I observed yesterday morning, while doing the walking thing.

I was approaching a man who had stopped on the sidewalk, when all of a sudden, he let loose with a bone-shaking sneeze that actually startled me, and I was probably sixty feet away from him at the time. I continued to walk in his direction, and he sneezed again – the same way only louder. He actually screamed each time he sneezed. When I was perhaps thirty feet away from the guy, he shook the ground with sneeze number three.

That was the startling part, but here’s the gross part.

Each one of those sneezes, full of sound and fury, produced copious amounts of spit, snot, boogers and honkers, (I assume in varying ratios, depending on the order of the sneeze) all of which he mostly caught in his hand. What didn’t get caught in his hand was presumably his gift to the townsfolk.

So, after startling the shit out of me with his thunderous sneezes and grossing me out by causing me to imagine what kind of vile soup must be in his hand, he then did the bend-forward-at-the-waist-put-one-finger-over-nostril-and-BLOW thing. He repeated the process with nostril number two, each time producing an eighteen-inch snot stalactite (snotlactite?), each of which he pinched off with his fingers and shook to the ground.

Can I get an ewwwwwww?

The asshole then immediately wiped his hands on his pants, turned and walked into the produce store, where you just KNOW he would be touching all the fruits and vegetables.

Can I get another ewwwwww?

I figure this story has two morals:

1. Don’t walk with me in the mornings, for I fear I am an asshole magnet.

2. Wash your farookin’ produce.

Yes, this call is going out to all who come by here who may be any of the following:

Background
I received an e-mail from a reader who flatters me by thinking that I know a bit more about bourbon than the average guy. I probably drink more of that spirit than the average guy, but I am far from an expert.

Anyway, here is the story.

The reader came upon several five-gallon, glass bottles (carboys) of what appears to be bourbon that is more than 100 years old. (Here are photos of one of the carboys and a close-up of the seal.) By virtue of the bottle shown on the left (see below for text of label) and a note that was dictated by the former owner of the carboys, who is deceased, it is “Old Pugh” bourbon that was distilled by R.S. Strader & Sons and bottled specifically for the Phoenix Hotel in Lexington, Kentucky. Here is the dictated note describing the contents or the carboys. The best guess, based on the date of a newspaper found behind the carboys in the former owner’s basement, is that they have been in the basement since 1968.

Preliminary sniffing around has revealed that there was indeed a Phoenix Hotel in Lexington, Kentucky that was frequented by travelers in the nineteenth century and which closed in 1975. We also know from a press clipping (really more of an advertisement) that the R.S. Strader located its “warehouse, bottling and shipping departments” [no mention of the stills themselves] to 234 East Main Street in Louisville, Kentucky in approximately August 1911. The press clipping is here.

When the reader saw that one of the carboys seemed to be leaking, he poured the contents into smaller containers and actually tasted the contents and confirmed the contents to be bourbon, and very good bourbon at that.

The reader is interested in learning more about the distillery, the Phoenix Hotel, and, of course, the possible value of his find.

Anyone with any information about any of the foregoing, or suggestions about where to look for such info is invited to do any or all of the following:

1. Send an e-mail directly to the reader, who has given me permission to publish his e-mail address, billg4192-at-mail-dot-com>
2. Send me an e-mail – use Mr. Sidebar
3. Leave a comment here

I figure that with all the reprobates smart folks and heavy drinkers connoisseurs of fine spirits who frequent this place, someone will have some information.

Note: The text on the label reads:
Old Pugh
120 Proof
This Whiskey was never owned by anyone but the Distillers and
PHOENIX HOTEL COMPANY
Incorporated

My friend Eric has created this wonderous work of art, which, as you can see, depicts several Jawja Bloggers sitting around a table with JC, the Big Kahuna.

I proudly count myself among this collection of miscreants. For an explanation of who’s who, head over to Eric’s site, enlarge the picture and get the roadmap. I will, however, give you one hint. Catfish is the only guy who looks as if he belongs in the original painting.

Yes, Christmas at the House by the Parkway was quite an adventure. TJ and Mr. Surly arrived in the morning to exchange gifties and to help with the final preparations for the onslaught on folks who would be appearing in the upcoming hours.

I was happy and most grateful to receive good things to read and a couple excellent things to drink. I was, however, completely bowled over by the gift of a PEZ dispenser that looks like a soldier, along with grape, orange and lemon refills! Bless us, everyone.

The house went from quiet to bedlam in the space of five minutes, when everyone arrived exactly on time. My friend and bodyguard Ken helped me for hours on end in the kitchen doing scullery duty and making, oh, about a zillion drinks. The big drinks of the day were pomegranate martinis and apple martinis, all served in the nifty new ball-based martini glasses, courtesy of The Original Bill and The Quietly Sinister Linda. For most the day/night it was like tending bar at T.G.I. Friday’s during Happy Hour.

Then, out came enough food to feed a Company of hungry paratroopers just back from a week in the bush.

When it was all over, between the booze and exhaustion, I could barely remain vertical. I believe I slept for eleven hours, only to awaken to something that looked like post-Katrina New Orleans. It took a few hours of very slow moving to clear away most of the rubble.

It was, of course, wonderful.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

I would like to thank all those who found this place worthy of a few minutes of your time and wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy and Healthy New Year.

The House by the Parkway has been a sniffer’s delight over the past several days, as we prepare the Christmas Feed. Each year, we make way too much food and swear that we won’t do that any more. That vow has been regularly broken for as long as I can remember.

A week or so ago, it was the aroma of the makings of what will be, when popped into the oven tomorrow, baked ziti. A day or so after that, it was the distinctive aroma of gwumpkies. I suspect that there are some (particularly those of you with no relatives who came from Poland) who might not like the smell of gwumpkies cooking. I do have some Polish blood in my veins, and I grew up with the aroma. I love it.

Today, while the homemade potato salad was being put together, the place smelled like the Seaside Heights (NJ) Boardwalk. That’s because we cooked up the peppers, onions, and sausage (pronounced in Jerseyspeak either as “SAH-sidge” or “sah-ZEECH, but not “SAW-sage”).

The special sauerkraut has already been made and frozen, and tomorrow morning the kielbasa will be made and added to the kraut, and the spiral ham will go in the oven.

Add to that, Italian rolls, ass-kicking Jewish rye bread, Russian rye bread, cheese, deviled eggs, and The Original Bill’s homemade baked mushrooms and, quite possibly, pepperoni bread, and you’ve got a boatload of Jersey Eats.

Oh, and there will be a table full of homemade cookies (some made here and some brought by nieces) and a TJ-baked kransekake, which is a traditional Norwegian cake that looks something like this. (Mr. Surly’s mom’s family is Norwegian.)

Dieting is not permitted.

A Shitload of Cocktails, wine and beer will also be available, which should come as a surprise to absolutely no one.

New Jersey State Assemblywoman Evelyn Williams, who was recently appointed to fill the seat vacated by the death of Donald Tucker, was caught and arrested for trying to switch price tags on sheets and bedding in a discount store. More specifically, she was caught on camera trying to put $14.99 price tags on $59.99 bed sheets and a $49.99 comforter.

She must have been low on cash, because earlier in the week she had been fired from her $70,000 job as an Essex County Corrections Officer for collecting $11,000 in retirement benefits while continuing to work.

Described by the Newark Star Ledger as a “confidante” of Newark Mayor Sharpe James (and a former Deupty-Mayor), Ms. Williams also has quite a spotty driving record. According to the Star Ledger:

Her license was suspended 13 times between June 1995 and December 2004, mostly for unpaid parking tickets. Her last suspension, for failing to appear in Newark court, was in effect until Dec. 9, four days before she took the oath of office for her Assembly seat.

Essex County Democratic Chairman Phillip Thigpen, presumably one of the “Democratic Leaders” who voted for her appointment, was quoted as saying, “I express my confidence in Evelyn. There is some misunderstanding along the way.”

Yeah, that’s the ticket! It must all have been some sort of a … uh …misunderstanding.

Thanks to Dave of A Different Lemming for the heads up..

How did I miss this one?

OK, so you bought yourself the 24 oz. coffee for the trip down the Parkway. Maybe the 24 oz. coffee followed a large orange juice and perhaps a glass of water. Maybe there was more traffic than you anticipated, and partway through your trip, you realize that you have to empty your screaming bladder.

No problemo, as there is a rest stop up ahead.

You pull into the rest stop and walk briskly to the men’s room, and you take a position at one of the urinals to begin the process of relieving yourself. Of course, you are strictly following the “Stare-Absolutely-Straight-Ahead-While-Peeing” Rule. Everything is going just fine, when …

CRASH!!!!

You reflexively violate the “Stare- Absolutely-Straight-Ahead-While-Peeing” Rule and turn your head to find that one of Jersey’s little old ladies who drives a really big car (in this case, a Buick) just crashed through the men’s room wall, creating a twelve foot by twelve foot hole in the wall.

All of a sudden, you feel the immediate and pressing need to use one of the stalls.

And, you resolve never, ever to get the 24 oz. coffee again.

No, this did not happen to me, but I suspect that it happened to one or more poor bastards who were in the men’s room when the little old lady and her Buick barged in.

Via Down the Shore