In a comment somewhere on Eric’s site a while back, I mistyped my name as “Mimbo.” Funny name, that, at least for an American human being. It might work for a cat or a dog, or it might be a perfectly acceptable name, as common as “John,” in some other countries.

The other day while pavement pounding, I got to thinking how many names could be made simply by mistyping the first letter in my name. I think it works for just about all the letters, with possible exception of “I” and “U”.

Wanna see?

Aimbo – Good name for a marksman.

Bimbo – ‘Nuf said.

Cimbo – Sounds a bit like the name one of Tarzan’s animal pals.

Dimbo – A name for a not-too-bright guy.

Eimbo – I can imagine a Nordic skier with that name.

Fimbo – Fat clown name.

Gimbo – A guy who walks with a limp.

Himbo – A guy who, before the surgery, was named “Herbo”

Iimbo – (ideas?)

Jimbo – Duh.

Kimbo – A guy who flails his arms around while dancing.

Limbo – A contortionist.

Mimbo – Some guy who comments on Eric’s blog.

Nimbo – A guy with his head in the clouds.

Oimbo – Joisey for “Ermbo.”

Pimbo – A procurer of ladies of the evening.

Qimbo (Quimbo?) – John Quincy Adams’ profligate son.

Rimbo – A guy who sleeps on bathroom floors.

Simbo – A guy who’s addicted to that lame game with the little peeps.

Timbo – A lumbojack.

Uimbo – (ideas?)

Vimbo – A guy who spends five hours per day at the gym.

Wimbo – A guy who is a constant whiner.

Ximbo – A guy who hates everyone else on this list.

Yimbo – Norwegian “Jimbo.”

Zimbo – A guy who thinks it’s cool to dress like Zorro.

THE ENDO.

Fire Hydrant: Yo, Shorty!

Kucinich: Excuse me, but are you talking to me?

Fire Hydrant: As a matter of fact, I am.

Kucinich: You’ve got some nerve. You’re pretty short yourself.

Fire Hydrant: Well, that makes two things we have in common.

Kucinich: Oh yeah? What’s the other thing?

Fire Hydrant: Neither of us will ever be President.

Here are a few observations and thoughts that popped into my cruller during the round trip drive between New Jersey and Georgia.

Over-the-Road Trucks and Truckers

There sure are a lot of them.

I see trucks on the highway every day, but I don’t see as many as I did between Jersey and Georgia. There’s probably a good reason for that, but I’m not sure what it is. Maybe because the New York-New Jersey metropolitan area is the starting point and ending point for so much stuff that we don’t notice the in-between? Maybe it’s because there are just so many more cars on the road around here that I don’t pay as much attention to the trucks. Deep thoughts.

It occurred to me that if every single truck driver in the country decided to stop driving his or her truck for a week or two, the country would be in very deep ca-ca.

I wondered what kind of life it must be to spend days or weeks at a time driving alone in a truck and essentially living in the sleeper portion of the tractor, no matter how elaborate some of the sleepers are.

I learned from spending a few minutes listening to the Trucker’s channel on Ken’s XM Radio that truckers spend a lot of money tinkering with their trucks to get a mileage increase from, say, 6.8 miles per gallon to 7.0 miles per gallon. So, a cross country trip at 6.8 miles per gallon would require 441 gallons of fuel, while the same trip at 7.0 miles per gallon would require 428 gallons. That tells me how much driving these peeps do in order for that to make a big difference.

Farms

Every time I see a farm, I am reminded of how many things there are in the world that I don’t know shit from Shinola about.

I assume that those big, spindly looking things in various places all over the field are comprised of hay. How the heck does one make those spindly things? Speaking of hay, what the hell is “hay?” Is it just tall grass? If my lawn went a month or so without being mowed, would that be hay?

I also assume that one can become so accustomed to the smell of cowshit that one no longer notices it. I used to live in a town where linoleum was manufactured. Visitors smelled it right away, but I couldn’t smell it. I figure it must be the same for cowshit.

I saw quite a few people wearing overalls. I don’t know anyone who even owns a pair. What’s the deal with them? Why are they better than a pair of jeans? Is it because one doesn’t need a belt?

I figure that Jerry has this shit wired.

Food

In Jersey we have a zillion diners, each with a menu that can weigh a couple pounds, and yet, I have never seen biscuits and gravy on a single one of them. Damned shame, that, but we do have Taylor Ham on all of ‘em. Oh, and I’ve never seen grits on a menu either, but that’s OK, because I still haven’t warmed up to grits. Reminds me of wallpaper paste mixed with birdshot.

Gas Stations

In Jersey we don’t pump our own gas (same with Oregon), which is a really cool thing. However, the down side is that we don’t have (at least anywhere near me) convenience stores attached to gas stations at which one can buy damned near anything. Gas stations here consist of pumps and repair bays. I think, on balance, I would still rather not pump my own, thank you. I can always find a 7-11.

Rest Stops and Roads

After traveling through states south of Jersey where state-operated rest stops are common (and in North and South Carolina are downright nice looking), one enters New Jersey via Route 78 and the only rest stop one encounters is a pull off into the woods. Pissing is either done in a Porta-John or the woods. Classy.

In addition, one can immediately tell when we’re entering New Jersey on Route 78, because the road (repaired with regular strips of tar) shakes the shit out of the car.

This is what happens when the rat bastard politicians in this state raid the Transportation Fund to fatten their wallets and/or to buy votes.

By contrast, on New Jersey’s toll roads (the Garden State Parkway and the New Jersey Turnpike) there are elaborate facilities, which include fast-food eateries and lots of what-not, all of which are franchised out to private operators in exchange for a fee to the state. It’s all about money to the state politicians.

Peeps

In New Jersey, virtually everyone has an attitude, and we wear our attitudes proudly. However, I must confess that it is a pleasure to travel to places where peeps are a helluva lot nicer. It takes about five minutes for my Jersey attitude to evaporate when a total stranger passing you on the street says, “Good morning. How are you doing today?”

I’m turning into a real softie.

Yes, it’s true. I became one-year older today, and perhaps even a bit wiser largely as a result of having attended the non-stop partying symposia at this year’s drunken brawl that is the Jawja, Blown Eyed Blogmeet South Eastern Writers’ Conference. There is always much to learn at such a gathering of incurable blabbermouths who drink to gott-damned much highly talented and creative people.

Ken (my friend and bodyguard) and I touched on eight states to cover the 800+ miles between our home base in the Garden State and Helen, Georgia. We drove through some truly beautiful country, we spent an evening in downtown Gaffney, South Carolina (Home of the Giant Killer Peach that ate Cleveland), we saw lots of hoofed animals eating grass and even caught more than a couple whiffs of the natural product of the biologically processed grass. OOOOOOH-fah!

When we arrived in Helen, we learned that the only peeps who had gotten there before us were Zonker (with whom I share a boitday), Sam and Barbie, who had moseyed over to the Troll (that is the name of the place – no booshit) to wash down a few, apparently to tune up for the rest of the day.

Having sat in the car for umpteen hours, we decided to take a pass on the Troll. Instead we popped open the trunk of the Cadoo exposing the beer and chocolate vodka – filled cooler and decided to serve as the greeting party. Within an hour or so, reprobates began pouring in from all over the place resulting in a full-fledged parking lot party that would rival most of the pre-game tailgating craziness that one would find at Giants Stadium (which happens to be in New Jersey, not New York).

Such marked the beginning of the adventure, which, over the next two days, would move from the parking lot, to the river bank, to one of the hotel rooms, back to the river bank, then to one of the cabins. Industrial-sized batches of Chatham Artillery Punch (a seriously dangerous concoction) were made and were available at the ever-changing venues. Other spirits and beer (lots of beer) were available at all times as well. We made sure that we continued our mission of educating the world about the wonders of Three Olives Chocolate Vodka, one Southeastern Writer at a time.

An amazing cast of characters showed up.

Sam showed up with Barbie, and they had begun the party on Thursday night! Sam is like the Eveready Bunny at these things. He goes non-stop, which this year included an early Saturday morning drive with Zonker back to Atlanta to pick up a rather special surprise guest. I “swear by the Maker” I don’t know how they managed to make that trip on Saturday morning, because I know they were still up and washing them down until 3:30 the night before. (Don’t ask me how I know this.) Barbie took a gazillion pictures with a veddy, veddy fancy camera, so I would advise everyone to be veddy veddy nice to Barbie.

Zonker sported a set of horns on his head (no shit — check it out!) and kept the Chatham Artillery Punch Bowl filled. I met Zonker three years ago in Helen, and I’ve seen him at damned near every blogmeet I’ve attended. He gets just a bit wackier each time. I’m afraid that this is what happens when a Jersey Guy abandons the Garden State.

Elisson, the Belidded One, and SWMBO arrived after having picked up The Wiseass Jooette and Leslie at the Atlanta Airport. I believe they were the ones responsible for actually providing a genuine punch bowl for the punch, which heretofore was served from a five-gallon plastic pail (I booshit you not). Elisson SWMBO always brings class to these get-togethers, and I’m quite certain she has never worn a colander.

Elisson delivered Leslie of Omnibus Fame and The Wiseass Jooette to Helen, having picked them up at the dreaded Atlanta Airport. Unlike most of the Blown-Eyes, Leslie is more of a listener than a blabbermouth. But, be not fooled, because talking with Leslie makes one feel as comfortable as lounging in a warm bath. By contrast, the Wiseass Jooette never missed a single opportunity to toss some of her unique Brooklyn Bullshit my way. But, that’s a Yankee thing, so I’m used to it. (Please remind her that Jackie Robinson was OUT when he stole home on Yogi in the ’55 Series, long before her sorry, built-too-low-to-the-ground ass was born.)

Denny, the other half of the Elderly Brothers, as usual, came with a big smile and guitar in hand. He bills himself as “Grouchy,” but he really isn’t. He even managed to crack us up when the peeps helping him down a set of stairs almost managed to break yet another chunk of his back. “Now, I feel realllllll confident about having you guys get me down the stairs!” They just don’t get any better’n Denny.

Catfish was there with his new “doo.” Damn, I think the guy is trying to play me with the hair thing. I could listen to Catfish talk all damned day long. The voice, the cadence, the inflections … It’s all beautiful music – even when he’s talking about “big, ol’ titties.” We spent some quality time reminiscing about Rob Smith, his friend of many years. He also insisted that I visit his place to behold the white alligator living in his pond. I’ll be doing that real soon, NOT.

Eric and the lovely Mrs. SWG popped in on Saturday, but they lost no time catching up with the lunacy. Eric did one of his trademark Robert Service recitations, which captivated the audience (See? We are a literary bunch). After that he was soliciting peeps (mostly women) to read Robert Service aloud. I guess that works better than “What’s your sign?” or “What’s your major?”

V-Man was there with Key. He stopped the show on Friday when he donned the dirndl gifted to him by Zonker and then dropped trou! Sam and Key have the pictures. Memo to Key Monroe: There is still time! Call your shrink!

Dax breezed in complete with leather lid and a Mexican serape, probably scaring some random children along the way. He looked like a Mexican Viking. He also brought his axe and put it to good use on Friday and Saturday.

GuyK and Sweetthing dropped by for an all-too-short visit. They tried to make it back on Saturday, but the traffic getting into Helen turned them around. They also introduced us to Sweetthing’s bro – a real nice guy.

Recondo 32 and Georgia were also there. Old friends of Rob’s, it wouldn’t be a proper blogmeet without them. Recondo 32 is about as soft-spoken as Gary Cooper (but way more funny), while Georgia is a verbal hurricane. I sat next to Georgia for dinner at an outside place on Saturday night, and she damned near blew out my right ear. At one point, cows were being walked down the main street in Helen as part of the Oktoberfest theme, and without any warning, she screamed, “MOOOOOOOO!” (with a Southern drawl), which was probably heard in Pittsburgh. I damned near shit, as did the people at the next ten or twelve tables away. Georgia is one of a kind.

RSM, recently having completed basic training, made two brief appearances looking for all the world like a kickass drill sergeant. I wish he would have hung out for a while longer.

I also got to meet some new peeps.

Shadowscope, also bedecked with a leather lid, was there with Holder, who amidst all the craziness, demonstrated a Mr. Wizard Science Experiment using a volatile gas. PFOOOOOOOF! It was really cool. Special props to them for permitting the herd to lay waste to their cabin on Saturday night. Shadowscope looked like a hurtin’ cowboy on Sunday morning. Nice peeps. Oh, and lest I forget, their friend Michelle was a genuine pisser. Quiet as a church mouse until the ethanol kicked in, then she morphed into a genuine party animal. She was one of “those people” who were up until the wee hours of the morning on Friday. Reprobates!

Kelly and the Senior Chief came in sorta late-ish on Saturday night, and I have rarely seen two people laugh as often and as heartily as those two. Definitely hope to see them again.

Special props to the Joanster of Primordial Slack and Jolly Roger. Joan is a Renaissance Woman – a painter, a sculptor, a wonderful writer, a story-teller, a singer and a guitar picker. What’s not to like? She also was responsible for the screeching monkeys that flew through the air as well as other blogmeet gifties, including genuine, ersatz Spanish doubloons, one of which now sits proudly on my bookshelf. Roger discovered how cool blogmeets can be when he found himself all jolly in a crowded guitar-playing filled room in a bed surrounded by women and one inflatable barnyard animal. He now knows that you can’t make this shit up.

Finally, a most special surprise was a visit by John Cox, the serious artist and the Cox half of Cox and Forkum. John was picked up on Saturday morning by Sam and Zonker, and when he arrived he didn’t know a soul. In less than ten minutes he knew everyone, and he fit right in. He came armed with a sketch pad and even caught a few of us off guard. He is an exceedingly friendly guy who sports a goatee that looks not unlike the nether regions (i.e the “Landing Strip”) on some of the unclad women who appear in many of the e-mails we all seem to receive from Catfish. Damn, if I could draw, I’d get even. Kidding aside, go to John’s site and check out, not only his huge body of Cox and Forkum work and other cartoons, but his fine art as well. It was kinda like meeting a rock star.

I still am exhausted, but I would happily do it all again tomorrow.

There is nothing quite like a surviving blogmeet to remind one of one’s mortality. Ken and I logged in something like 1,650 miles. Needless to say the trip back from Georgia was a tad more difficult than the trip to Georgia.

I’m too beat at the moment to say anything other than it was one great gathering.

Gotta get some rest. I think I’ll sit in Mr. Recliner and pretend to read.

Later.

My bag is packed, and Mr. Guitar is in its travelin’ case.

Bright and early tomorrow morning my friend and bodyguard Ken will pick me up in da Caddy and we’ll set off on our trip to the Alpine Village of Helen, Georgia, where we will meet some old friends and make some new ones. We’ll bask in the Gemuetlichkeit (said with a Southern drawl) and maybe even have a few adult beverages. I suspect that I’ll even do a bit of pickin’ with the other half of the Elderly Brothers and with anyone else who shows up with a guitar, including the Joanster.

Play nice while we’re on the road, and we’ll see youse guys on Friday.

The electrician didn’t make it yesterday, but after having had a couple three vodkas while waiting, it was time for Mr. Recliner.

He is here now, so I am going to shut the Raptor down, lest it be surprised by a sudden power loss. I am very careful when it comes to the Raptor. Besides, I may decide to change guitar strings instead of blogging.

At this moment, I am waiting for an electrician I know to come to the House by the Parkway to do some stuff, which will require shutting off circuit breakers that power up the Raptor and its many dazzling accessories. Hence, while I have a vodka or two whilst waiting, I figure that alone will result in a fair chance that I won’t spend much time at the keys this evening.

Later……..maybe.

As I was doing my almost-daily pavement pound, I got to thinking about writing an imaginary conversation, which comes close to many I actually have had. Here ‘tis:

X: Yo, haya doin?

Y: Aaaaaay, you know; same ol’ shit.

X: No shit?

Y: Yeah, no shit. You know, that neighbor a mine. He’s fulla shit.

X: Oh yeah, that shithead. You told me about some of the bad shit he’s pulled.

Y: Yeah, no shit. I’m tired a his shit.

X: Yeah, he really turned dat place into a real shithouse.

Y: Be great if the shitball would move.

X: Yeah, dat would be some good shit.

Y: Yo, so how yoo doin’?

X: Holy shit! Did I tell you I won 10 G’s in A.C.?

Y: Ten large? Are you shittin’ me?

X: No shit. I was down to my last hunnit, so I trew it all on eight the hard way. Bam! Out comes two fours on da first roll. I damned near shit.

Y: No shit?

X: Yeah, no shit. From den on it was like I stepped in shit. I couldn’t lose for shit.

Y: That is some awesome shit.

X: Yo, great bullshittin’ wit ya, but I gotta run.

Y: Yeah, me too. I gotta lotta shit to deal with today.

X: No shit. Me to. But, first, I gotta run home to take a shit.

As I was walking this morning, nothing particularly blogworthy popped into my cruller, perhaps because the “Dixie Flyer” (What a great name) kept banging around inside my head. When I returned home, I was happy as a clam to find it on YouTube, and even happier to see that Mark Knopfler made one of his unannounced appearances in the clip. (I saw Mark Knopfler stand in the background with the band and play for an hour with Eric Clapton in concert before he was announced to the audience.)

I’ve been a Randy Newman fan for years. His tunes quite often are not toe-tappers; hell, some of them are downright dark, or dripping with sarcasm. They are most definitely not background music, rather they require active listening.

My favorite part of the song describes the greeting by his family that Randy Newman (apparently as a small boy) and his mama received upon their arrival in New Orleans aboard the Dixie Flyer in 1943.

Dixie Flyer: Enjoy.