This shrieking moonbat “journalist” makes my hair stand on end. The Clintons have never told a lie that she didn’t buy.

This punk is about as funny as a car accident and is about dumb as a box of rocks.

This unkempt, unwashed, walking unmade bed is, of course, the KING of annoying.

Thank you. I feel better now.

We were stoked. It was a beautiful, clear autumn day, and we had both brought notes into school the day before asking that we be excused by 11:00 a.m. on Friday. I was seventeen, and the ink on my brand-new driver’s license was still wet. My friend Greg [not his real name] and I would shortly be on our way to Atlantic City, courtesy of his dad and step-mom, who had arrived there the day before for some sort of convention. I had the family ’61 Bel-Air (I assume now that my dad must have taken Friday off) for the entire weekend, and the 125-mile drive to Atlantic City would be my first “long” driving trip.

Greg and I were to have our own room. His parents had other things to do, so we would be essentially on our own. We were young; we had “wheels” and big plans. We would walk the boardwalk, maybe even take a ride to nearby Wildwood, hang out, and, if we were lucky, we might even meet some girls. We had the world by the ass.

As we drove south on the Garden State Parkway, we talked the talk of teenagers. We had been friends for many years, and we even previously had girlfriends who were neighbors on the other side of town. We had the radio in the Bel-Air cranked up as we cruised down the Parkway. The world was perfect.

About 40 or 50 miles into the trip came the bulletin. A newsman broke into the middle of a song to say, “We have this word from Dallas Texas. The President’s motorcade has been fired upon. At this time, we do not know whether the President has been hit.”

As I recall, at the conclusion of the bulletin, the station actually resumed regular broadcasting. I believe that my reaction at that time was no more sophisticated than “Holy shit. Imagine that? Some jerk took a shot at the motorcade.”

Neither of us entertained the possibility that the President could have been shot. We convinced ourselves that the President escaped injury and that the cops would soon catch the jerk who fired the shot.

However, a moment or two later, there was another bulletin. “We can now confirm that the President has been shot and is being taken to a nearby hospital.”

From that point on, regular programming was suspended, and the radio reporters breathlessly repeated the same information, and asked each other the questions we were asking ourselves. “Was Mrs. Kennedy shot? What is the President’s condition?”

I continued to drive south, but now neither of us spoke. We just listened, worried, and clung to the hope that the President was just wounded. After all, that’s always the way in was in the movies. When the good guy got shot, he was always only wounded.

The action had now moved to Parkland hospital, and the on-the-scene radio reporters were interviewing people who identified themselves as eyewitnesses and others who were there simply there to express concern. Most everyone was crying.

We continued to listen in silence until we were fairly close to Atlantic City, at which time the word finally came.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we can now confirm that the President died at (the exact time was given). President Kennedy is dead.”

As I recall, my reaction was one of absolutely stunned disbelief. Greg’s was the same. We probably shared a couple, “Jesus Christs,” but not much more than that.

When we arrived at the hotel, the lobby was packed with guests and people from the street watching a single black and white television (there were no in-room televisions then) to follow the horrible story.

We found Greg’s parents. His dad was stoic, but his step-mom was crying. Lots of people were crying.

We checked into our room, and decided to take a walk. It was the first and only time in my life that I saw newsboys selling papers and shouting the headlines, much like one sees in the movies. “EXTRA, EXTRA, President Kennedy killed in Dallas.” I have since learned that newspapers all over the country had published “Extra” editions in an effort to keep up with the real-time news that was on the television and radio.

Believe it or not, one newsboy, apparently with a warped sense of humor, was shouting, “Extra, Extra, Kennedy dead. Jackie marries Lyndon.” Greg and I both hollered at the guy, calling him a “fucking asshole.” Others did the same.

The following day is lost to me now. I know that the “wheels” remained parked, and we stayed close to the hotel, keeping an eye on the news, including the stories about the Dallas Police having apprehended the alleged shooter – some rodent-like, little guy with three names. Our big plans seemed silly to us then, and, besides, Atlantic City was not “open” for fun that Saturday. The city was pretty much “closed.” Everyone was home watching television.

Sunday morning, it was time to go home. We loaded our stuff into the Bel-Air and headed north on the Garden State Parkway. We didn’t talk much, other than to speculate that there would be no school on the following day. We just listened to the radio.

About twenty miles from home, we were again stunned: The newsman said, “We have just learned that Lee Harvey Oswald has been shot, and that he is being taken to Parkland Hospital. I repeat. Lee Harvey Oswald has been shot.” This was followed by the recording of the actual shooting and the chaos that followed.

At this point, I just wanted to be home.

My first “long” driving trip had turned out to be the most memorable one I am likely ever to have, for on Friday, as we headed south on the Parkway, the President was killed, and on Sunday, as the northbound Parkway miles slid by, the man who was accused of killing the President was himself gunned down.

And I heard it all on the radio.

Holy Crap! Super G’s Hotel was One of those Rocketed.
Super G at Babel On! reports on the rockets that hit the Sheraton in Baghdad, the place where he has been hanging his hat these days. He’s also posted some interesting photos, including one of a donkey cart rocket-launching platform, obviously a weapon of ass destruction. (I couldn’t resist).

Start here with the donkey cart post and scroll down through the November 21 posts for others dealing with the attack and its aftermath and for a few laughs along the way.

It’s cool to be a musician. Musicians get to play in bands, hang out with other musicians, drink copious amounts of booze, and meet groupies. Musicians get invited to lots of parties, and they are always the center of attention.

You probably have always wanted to a musician. Admit it.

The problem is that some people just don’t seem to pack the gear to play musical instruments. When it comes to playing string instruments, they are all thumbs, and trying to play wind instruments produces sounds that attract various forms of wildlife in heat.

Are you completely out of luck?

Hell no. Buy a theremin.

The theremin (a representative picture appears above), possibly the first electronic instrument, was invented in 1919 by a Russian physicist named Lev Termen, who later changed his name to Leon Theremin.

Besides looking like no other instrument, the theremin is unique in that it is played without being touched. Two antennas protrude from the theremin – one controlling pitch, and the other controlling volume. As a hand approaches the vertical antenna, the pitch gets higher. Approaching the horizontal antenna makes the volume softer. Because there is no physical contact with the instrument, playing the theremin requires precise skill and perfect pitch. Link

Don’t let that “precise skill” and “perfect pitch” stuff dissuade you. All you have to do is wave your arms around the theremin and you’re a damned musician. Within five minutes, you’ll be playing spooky music – the wooooo wooooo wooooo stuff that you heard in the outer space movies from the 1950’s. Let see some guy with a Fender Strat match that!

Theremins come in all shapes and sizes, as can be seen in the theremin photo gallery, and you’ll look way cool playing it, as you can see in this video clip of a theremin guy gettin’ down and getting’ funky.

Still not convinced? Take a listen to Clara Rockmore, universally considered to be the best theremin player of all time, make that baby sing. You can also hear more here.

How can you learn more about theremins? No problemo. There is a wealth of information about theremins here, here and here.

So, if you’re sick of always being in the audience and not on the stage, get yourself a theremin, and join the Theremin Enthusiasts Club International. Be sure to bring your “axe” to the next house party you attend, and drop a few subtle hints like, “”Hi, Tom. I didn’t realize that my theremin was in the car. I’m afraid someone might steal it. Would it be OK if I brought it inside, just for safekeeping?” Or, “Yeah, that global warming thing is really a bitch. Hey, speaking of the earth, did you ever see that movie, ‘The Day the Earth Stood Still?’ As it happens my theremin is in the next room!”

Rock on, Dude.

Who’s the sickest son of a bitch fairest of them all?

Better Living Through Blogging needs help from someone who knows MT. It looks like he needs much more than duct tape, so I can’t help him. Hopefully, someone can come to his aid.

Thanks.

New Jersey’s lame duck legislature is talking about raising New Jersey’s gasoline tax an additional fifteen cents per gallon. DynamoBuzz has the story. This comes on the heels of our having recently been treated to an increase in cigarette taxes and a shitload of additional hidden tax increases fees to the tune of $600 million.

New Jersey and Spendocrats – perfect together.

Bada-BING!

Will someone please wake me when her fifteen minutes is up.

This one is dedicated to Sgt. Hook, who once did a stint as an Army recruiter.

While talking to a potential recruit, the military recruiter said, “Exactly what kind of job are you looking for in the military?”

The high school kid said, “I’m looking for something with an enlistment bonus of about $20,000, where I won’t have to work too hard, and won’t have to deploy overseas.

The recruiter said, “Well, what if I could hook you up with a skill that allowed you to come straight in as an E-7, where you’ll only work weekdays, and you can have the base of your choice and stay there as long as you want?”

The young recruit sat up straight and said, “Wow! Are you kidding?”

The recruiter replied, “Yeah, but you started it.”

Thanks to my friend Brian, the Air Force Vet.

Back when I was in high school, I always found myself in the “accelerated” English classes. Seeing as how I was surrounded with all the “smart” kids, I have to assume that the school employed some rational basis to select students for these classes. In my case, it had to be my standardized test scores that landed me in this academically high-powered group, for I was the ultimate underachiever in high school. I was way too busy playing in a band, being a fraternity president (we had them in high school), hanging out, and thinking of goofy stuff to be bothered with things like homework.

I recall one occasion when the teacher, apparently seeking to tap into the well of creativity that she believed the class to have, gave us an assignment to write a poem and to be prepared to read it to the class the following day. I treated this much like I treated the assignments from my other classes. I simply did not do it, figuring that luck, or divine inspiration would carry me through the next day.

When the next day rolled around, I showed up for class wondering how I would finesse not having done my homework. The teacher (a wonderful woman, I might add) began to call names of students to read their poems. And, read them they did.

It was apparent that all the other students had spent a considerable amount of time on the assignment. Most wrote poems about love, relationships and nature. Some wrote poems that rhymed, while others wrote meandering free verse, the meaning of which eluded me then, and often eludes me now.

The teacher was working her way through the seating chart, and there were only two or three more poems to be read before I would be called on. What to do?

Not being able to dream up a credible excuse for not having done the asignment (I pretty much had used them all up), I took pen in hand and composed a poem, then and there. I finished it at the very second that the teacher called my name. I seem to recall that the student who recited just before me had read a long poem about a springtime walk through the woods, which the teacher loved. Damn!

I took a deep breath and strode to the front of the classroom. I put my sheet of three-hole-punched loose leaf paper on the lectern, and recited the following:

There once was a girl named Sue
who resembled a moth-eaten gnu.
She had a long nose
that hung twixt her toes,
and varicose veins made it blue.

The teacher was not amused.

I like to think that she lacked a keen eye for literary genius.