By now, you have probably read about or heard about the little get together that Jon Bon Jovi hosted at his 17,600 square foot mansion humble abode in New Jersey to raise money for John Kerry. I thought I would share an e-mail I received today from a very good friend who lives, geographically, not very far from Bon Jovi’s house, but economically, light years away.

At Jon Bon Jovi’s Middletown mansion on the Navesink river at which 60 people paid $25K a couple to be in the house and 300 paid $1K to be in a tent on the patio, John Kerry said, “The middle class is going backward, working harder, two or three jobs…while people at the top are doing better….”

While he was sipping wine with his “middle class buds” I was stuck in traffic coming home from actually working all day and missing an appointment due to that traffic which was likely the result of all those middle class people taking off from their many jobs to attend his soiree.

Bon Jovi raised approximately $1 million for Kerry, bringing the total Kerry raised in New Jersey to about $4 million to add to his $120 million. Thank God, or Theresa might have had to dip into her $500 million.

John Heinz must be turning over in his grave.

I have to assume that my invitation was lost in the mail.

This morning, as I rounded a corner on my walk, I came upon a small shop that sells bridal gowns, bridesmaids’ dresses and things like that. In the window was a hand-lettered sign that said simply:

SHOE
ONLY
$10.00

Given that the mind tends to wander in direct proportion to amount of sweat one produces on such occasions, I thought, “Shoe only $10.00?” Interesting.

Three possibilities came to mind:

1. The owner of the store was selling one shoe. One shoe? Was it a left or a right shoe? What size is it? What happened to the other shoe? Was it lost? Stolen? Maybe there never was a second shoe, and the shopkeeper got a really great deal on this one. How many potential buyers can there be? Fortunately (although not for the shopkeeper), the market for a single shoe is, I assume, quite small.

2. The shopkeeper was really selling pairs of shoes, at the price of $10.00 per shoe, or $20.00 per pair. Maybe the shopkeeper thought this to be a particularly clever form of “bait and switch.” Lure the dopes into the store and, only then, spring the second shoe on them. The seller must have a son with a fresh MBA who suggested such a sophisticated marketing scheme.

3. The store was owned by the same family that owns the produce store at the other end of the block.

I’m going with number 3.

Maybe I should work on sweating less.

Last night I watched the season opener of Six Feet Under.

Some notes:

Note to Nate: Yo, Nate. She really was a manipulating Woodstock Wannabe, airhead. Get over it. And, oh yeah….In the future…birth control, Nate. Google it.

Note to Ruth (the mama): What the hell were you thinking? You married that guy George with less consideration than you would give to picking out a frozen dinner. The guy has con artist written all over him. Sheesh.

Note to Brenda: You and your nutbar brother should shop for a “twofer” with a shrink – preferably one who does not dispense medical advice from a hot tub.

Note to Joe (Brenda’s new neighbor who feeds the cats): RUN AWAY!!!!

Note to Claire: Lighten the f**k up. Have a beer. Buy a couple Beatles CDs, and while you’re listening, sit with Nate while he Googles “birth control.”

Note to Arthur Martin (the apprentice undertaker): If this gig craps out, please audition for a part in Deadwood. That show just lost an actor who managed to creep me out even more than you can, but you’re a close second. The town really needs an undertaker.

Note to Self: Have a Diet Dr. Pepper and chill, fer Chrisssake.

The quote that caught my attention on last night’s episode of Deadwood was Al’s observations on the value of life not much worth living because of a horrible terminal illness:

“A human being in his last extremity is a bag of shit.”

Don’t judge Al too harshly until you have seen the episode.

Friday evening several of the Usual Suspects attended a very nice wedding, which featured an extended cocktail hour and two open bars throughout the evening. Definitely right down our alley. Several of us enjoyed more than our fair share of potato squeezin’s (vodka) and spent a good deal of time raising hell on the dance floor.

The following day, just about everyone rallied for the first of a string of summer days on The Deck (courtesy of Ken the Anal and his wife, Kathy). Just about all the Usual Suspects came bearing something to eat and a large bottle of vodka. The drinking and bobbing about in the pool commenced in the afternoon and went well into the evening. I again heartily challenged my liver with libations, lots of libations.

Because of back to back bouts of revelry, this morning I felt like warmed over shit a bit under the weather. I forced myself to do my morning walk, albeit a bit shorter and slower than usual. I thought that, once I got started, I would feel better as the toxins worked their way out of my system. Wrong. I remained toxic and oxygen starved for the entire ordeal.

After the march of death, I decided to prove to myself that I would not let my self-induced toxicity keep me from doing something productive. Therefore, I headed out in the backyard to get down on all fours (not easy today) and pick weeds from the small patch of ground, filled with hundreds of dollars worth of topsoil in which nothing grows except farookin’ weeds garden. After a painful hour in the hot sun and dirt, I had made some progress, in that I was now too sore and exhausted to pay much attention to how shitty I still felt.

Finally, after a long, hot shower and a big lunch (hangovers must be fed), I am beginning to feel human again.

I plan on spending the rest of the day doing a bit of reading and wondering what will happen on Deadwood tonight. I will also give some thought as to whether I should be writing blogs as thoroughly uninteresting and un-funny as this one is.

The New York Times reported in a story about Mr. Kerry’s private moments during the campaign that, “Lately, in the private front cabin of his campaign plane, he has been learning a new (old) song, “This Land Is Your Land.”

“Learning ‘This Land is Your Land’?”

Sheesh. I guess the guitar thing is just more baloney.

Check out the Subservient Chicken, which I understand is part of a Burger King ad campaign.

It cracked me up.

Via the Lovely Emma at Miss Apropos.

Name change desperately needed!!

Via The Presurfer

This has been a tough month. Ray Charles, a musical giant, died today at age 73.

I have no words to describe the musical gear that this man packed. Nobody, noBODY could consistently and successfully put his unique stamp on so many different kinds of music. After having “invented” soul music and having been one of the preeminent singers of jazz, pop, and big band music, he decided that he wanted to try his hand at “Country and Western” music. Many people in the music business thought he had lost his mind, and yet, his foray into “Country and Western” brought us “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” and what is perhaps my favorite, “Born to Lose,” which just might be the best Cry-in-Your-Beer song ever.

He was the seminal singer of “soul” music, and no one could phrase a lyric better than Ray Charles. In addition, he was known in the music business as “One Take Ray,” because he was known to show up at a recording session and get it exactly right the first time. He was, however, according to an interview I heard of one of regular sidemen, tough as hell on drummers. His fellow musician said, “Ray would drive drummers crazy, because some of his songs are so slow.” Drummers never seemed to be able to play slow enough for Ray Charles. I can completely relate. Ray Charles never needed a drummer to keep the beat; he had an internal metronome that was flawless. A good drummer didn’t lead Ray Charles. A good drummer followed Ray Charles.

Man, he was great. What a loss.

Well, this gives me a case of the hot squirts.

Thanks (I think) to Roberto at DynamoBuzz.