I’m feeling tired and completely uncreative, so I figure that those of you who are relatively new to this place might wish to read my take on Halloween.

Farookin’ BOO!!

Next Tuesday, New Jersey will hold an election in which all the seats in the State Assembly and State Senate are up for grabs. In a rational world, one would think that in a state that is corrupt to the core, a state that has taxed its citizens to the breaking point, a state that has taxed and regulated businesses to the point where it makes sense for businesses to go elsewhere, a state that is mired in BILLIONS of dollars in unfunded liabilities, a state where the governor acts more like the president of the state workers’ labor unions than the chief executive, the incumbents would be shaking in their boots.

Well, I looked over my sample ballot, and it turns out that the Republican Party didn’t even nominate a candidate for the State Assembly (two seats) or the State Senate (one seat) in my district. I will be voting for the candidates “nominated by petition.” I have no idea who they are, but I will vote for them because, even if they come from the planet Mars, they would be preferable to the three lemons who currently hold office.

The election also contains four referenda, three of which are worded so that the lames who go to the polls won’t realize that all three are designed to pick their pockets even more. One is an “additional sales tax to fund property tax reform” (I kid you not). The other two are bond issues (putting the state further into debt is a swell idea).

The fourth referendum is interesting. It is a referendum to amend the State Constitution concerning the right to vote. Currently, the state constitution prevents an “idiot or insane person” from voting. The new language would deny suffrage to “a person who has been adjudicated by a court of competent jurisdiction to lack the capacity to understand the act of voting.”

Passage of the amendment will ensure that the idiots and crazy bastards who brought us the current crop of crooks and jackasses will have their right to vote constitutionally protected.

No wonder so many people have chosen to vote with their feet and get out of this state as if it were on fire.

I spent this weekend in East Tennessee at the home of Eric, the Straight White Guy and Mrs. SWG. I met lots of old friends and made some excellent new ones. I also learned lots of neat stuff.

Ken (my friend and bodyguard) and I headed out Thursday in the Big, Fat, Black, Capitalist Car, and we spent a good portion of the ride in some pretty nasty rain. Still, we were doing OK, that is until we found ourselves in a massive rain-soaked traffic jam caused by the zillion or so people who were on their way to the Virginia Tech – Boston College football game.

Damn, those peeps are hardcore. They were all are wearing variations of orange and maroon, and they have “Go Hokies” flags on their cars, which also bear magnetic Virginia Tech logos and turkeys. Hell, they even tend to drive maroon cars! One guy was driving a maroon motor coach that was roughly the size of Finland on which was painted a Virginia Tech football helmet. Like I said, hardcore.

When we finally stopped for the night in Bristol, VA, we ended up watching the Virginia Tech game in the hotel lobby with few “Tech” fans. Geographically speaking, I should have rooted for Boston, but I felt a strange kinship with the Hokies, having spent so much farookin’ time surrounded by them on the rainy highway. The hardcore Hokie fans sat in the pouring rain, only to watch Boston College take the game in the final two minutes. I actually felt sorry for the very same people I would have consigned to hell just a few hours earlier.

We resumed our ride the next morning in nice weather, and the learning continued:

I learned that Tennessee hosts the self-proclaimed, “Ultimate Beef Jerky Outlet.” The billboard boasts that the Ultimate Beef Jerky Outlet sells over 200 kinds of beef jerky. Two-hundred kinds of beef jerky? Who knew?

I learned that in Tennessee the supermarket named “Bi-Lo” is pronounced “Bah-Lo.” When the young lady at the motel suggested that the “Bah-Lo” would be a good place to buy beer, I said, “Excuse me, but was that BALL-o or BAL-o. I didn’t quite catch it.”

She responded, “No, it’s ‘Bah-Lo,’ B – ah – L – O. BAH –LO.”

We headed off to the Bah-Lo and loaded up the cart with beer. That’s when I learned something else about Tennessee. The very nice lady said, “Sir, I’ll have to see some ID.”

I busted out laughing and said, “You really want to see my ID?” Pointing at my face, I said, “Take a look at this mug.”

She explained that it is a state law in Tennessee that everyone must show ID to buy beer, so I showed her my New Jersey driver’s license (I don’t think she gets many of those at the Bah-Lo) and told her that being asked for my ID was a genuine treat. Sure enough, my birth date appeared on the receipt.

Not too long after arriving at Eric’s with beer and chocolate vodka in tow, I got to meet Eric’s brother Josh, a nice guy who can shoot some serious pool. Johnny Oh, arrived a bit later hauling a teeny trailer that he would use for his backyard accommodations. When opened, the damned thing it contained a bed, table and chair. Amazing. I had met Johnny Oh twice before, and it was good to see him again.

Denny arrived in his Small, Sleek, Blue, Capitalist car with his guitar and some Shiner Bock. Friday night, he put his guitar to good use while serving as the younger half (by nine farookin’ days) of the Elderly Brothers.

At some point, Tommy (of Big Stupid Tommy) arrived, who is indeed big, but decidedly not stupid. I had met Tommy last year as well, but for all too short a time. This year, he got to hang on Friday and Saturday, which was a good thing. He’ll be working on a novel. Good on him.

As the gathering mob began to get hungry, Bou (wearing overalls just for me – bless her Celtic heart), Morrigan (Bou’s sister) and Sissy (a former blogger) arrived like the Marine Corps with a shitload of baked pasta, salad and garlic bread, which was attacked by the waiting jackals with gusto. It was most thoughtful and quite excellent.

After having spent way too much time caught in Atlanta traffic, Teresa and the Wiseass Jooette finally arrived in time for some of the excellent pasta. Teresa, as always, comported herself with style, unlike the Wiseass Jooette who, within moments of her arrival had already threatened to kick a few asses blah, blah, blah.

Eric’s friends Gary (a Jersey native!) and his wife, Connie (from Switzerland), showed up and instantly made lots of friends. Real good folks, them.

Also on the case, was Eric’s and Josh’s buddy Charlie, from whom I learned about Tennessee Walking Horses, yet another thing I didn’t know shit from Shinola about.

The serious consumption of adult beverages literary discussions commenced, with the Wiseass Jooette drinking nasty green shit and others learning the wonders of drinking chocolate vodka. The conversations grew louder and crazier by the moment.

Jerry arrived later, and on the following day slipped away just long enough to return dressed in overalls and a “Tractor Supply Company” ball cap. He was carrying a bale of hay in one hand and a bale of straw in the other, just so I could finally learn the difference. He also gifted me with a genuine home-grown ear of corn. It was funny as hell, but I did finally learn the hay-straw distinction. There is no substitute for visual aids, particularly for the farm-challenged. I promised that next year I would show up in overalls. I must have been drunk at the time.

On Saturday, Rick and Georgia, two peeps I’ve known since the 2004 Helen Blogtoberfest, arrived. They (mostly Georgia – Georgia does most of the talking, while Rick just shakes his head and sighs) told us all about driving to places like Belize and Costa Rica. Later, by the camp fire (yes, there was one, and it was great), Georgia treated us to a Girl Scout song or two, although they sounded more like Janis Joplin numbers to me.

Let me get the following out of the way, as I know it will be a matter of some dispute. On Friday evening, after many adult beverages, the Wiseass Jooette managed to beat me in a game of pool, but the only reason she won was that I had a hard time remembering if I was supposed to sink the low balls or the high balls. And, my supposed friend Ken bullshat me about which ones I was supposed to sink, so I went about sinking Erica’s. The following day, there was a rematch, which she was winning (I was a little ragged around the edges from the night before), but I rallied and was kicking her way-too-close-to-the-ground ass until I managed to scratch out by sinking the eight ball, thereby giving her a poor excuse for a victory. And, that’s the troot, no matter what type of baloney she will doubtless try to sell.

I also learned a shitload of stuff about cows, the milk kind and the eatin’ kind. Eric also told me all about the armed uprising that took place in Athens, Tennessee after WWII. I’m all about learning stuff.

Finally, on Saturday it was time to say good night, as Ken and I would have to skip the Sunday breakfast, opting to get an early start on the ride back home.

I hated having to say good bye to these excellent peeps, but the good news is that I know I’ll get to see them again.

Finally, a special word about my friend Ken, just one of the Excellent Usual Suspects. Between the Helen Blogmeet a couple weeks ago and the gathering at Eric’s place, we logged in about 3,500 miles in the car and had a few mini-adventures and tons of laughs along the way. He is definitely da bomb.

Yes, tomorrow morning, Ken (my friend and bodyguard) and I will again head South, this time to spend a couple days in the Volunteer State to visit with some bloggers. I’m told that the other half of the Elderly Brothers will be on the case as well. I figure if we keep this up, AARP may well sign us up to do the Nursing Home Circuit — you know, playing during Bingo Game intermissions and shit.

This time we’ll be cruisin’ in the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car.

Play nice while I’m gone.

Once in a blue moon, I fire up my mind’s ear to actually “listen” to myself speak.

Look, I know that this will come as a shock to youse guys, but I believe I do have a bit of an accent – just a little one. Of course, anyone in the United States who doesn’t speak like Paul Harvey has an accent.

Here are a few examples:

Paul Harvey says “tomato” as toe-MAY-toe.
I say ta-MAY-ta.

Paul Harvey says “our” the same way he pronounces “hour.”
I pronounce “our” as “are.” I do, however, say “hour” like ol’ Paul Harvey does.

Paul Harvey says “chocolate” with all three syllables, as CHAK-o-lit.
I only use two syllables, as in CHOOWK-lit. I know a couple real hardcore Jersey peeps who pronounce it CHOO-wuk-lit.

Paul Harvey says “Monday” and “Tuesday” as MUN-day and TYOOS-day.
I say MUN-dee and TOOS-dee.

On second thought, maybe Paul Harvey is da one wit dee accent.

Check out the most excellent photo spread of vintage airplanes from the 2006 Thunder over Michigan Air Show. I was particularly taken by the photo of the P-38 Lightning, which was one badass plane. There are also several photos of Spitfires, perhaps the most beautiful plane ever designed, as well as a couple shots of the Skyhawk, the type of plane flown by John McCaine when he was shot down over North Vietnam.

Good stuff.

Thanks to my buddy, Gerry

I’d be willing to bet a dollar or two that says that The House by the Parkway is the only place north of the Mason-Dixon Line where there were fried green ‘maters served with dinner tonight. I ate ‘em in Jawja in 2005, and I loved ‘em. These babies were home-grown (in my “back 40”) Jersey ‘maters, finest kind.

Jersey ‘maters, Southern fried – a match made in heaven.

I didn’t, but Bryan of Hot Air did, when talking about Hillary’s apparent political invincibility:

Among the Democrats who have invested the past umpteen years defending all things Clinton, she could probably confess to eating live children and have an army of James Carvilles out defending her within a nanosecond.

Sad, that.

At the outset, let me make this clear. I wouldn’t walk from here to the bathroom to see Bon Jovi (Yeah, even though he’s a Jersey Guy). His music doesn’t move me, and his politics make me want to barf.

Having said that, I received the following comment to this 2004 post from a fellow in Scotland named Gary. Seems like a decent lad and his intentions are, as they say, honorable. If anyone out there (especially youse Jersey Peeps) has any information that might be helpful to Gary, please e-mail it directly to him at the address provided in the comment.

Hi there, no one made a comment in a while, so I hope people are still reading this. My girlfriend and myself are going to Bon Jovi’s concert in New Jersey next month. We are travelling from Scotland, we’ve been to a few concerts and they have all been fantastic but to hear him in New Jersey is my girlfriends dream, and to be honest Im looking forward to it. The thing is as this has been one of her life time ambitions and I managed to get tix on net I have decided to propose to her on the trip. Would love to be able to contact Jon himself to say. The song “summer time” off his new album really sums up our relationship and you would think he knew us when he wrote the words. Guess I just would like to say – if anyone has Jon’s address in New Jersey could they email me it please. No hoaxes or time wasters please. Would love to take her to see his house and propose there, or at the concert. But would love to send him a thank you card. Anyone? My email is gquayle_007@hotmail.com Thank you.

Tanks!

David Thompson has posted a video, which serves to remind me that, with capitalism, where there’s a will, there’s a way.