I have been keeping up with the Blog Novella that was begun by Christina at Feisty Repartee. Five of the six planned chapters have been completed by the following amazing writers:

Chapter One — Christina at Feisty Repartee

Chapter Two – Eric at Straight White Guy

Chapter Three – Rob at Gut Rumbles

Chapter Four – Jack at Random Fate

Chapter Five – Velociman at Velociworld

This has developed into a helluva story, due completely to the creativity and obvious talent of those who have contributed. I salute them.

The Final Chapter will be written by Mr. Helpful. Very tough assignment you drew there, Mr. H.

So, get yourself a cup of coffee or something stronger, and read the first five chapters. You won’t be sorry, and, like me, you’ll be anxious to read the Final Chapter.

I had seen Indian Larry on television about a year or so ago on one of those Discovery Channel – type programs. I believe that the program involved Jesse James, another motorcycle guy who has hit it big with Monster Garage and similar programs. In this particular episode, Jesse James and Indian Larry were traveling on their custom choppers from point X to point Y for one reason or another. I recall that it was a long ride.

At one point, the camera cut to Indian Larry blasting down a straight stretch of road somewhere out west, and he was STANDING on the seat of the motorcycle, with his arms outstretched, and with his long hair blowing in the wind (i.e. no helmet). I remember thinking back then that “That is one crazy son-of-a-bitch.”

One day sometime after that, I was shooting the breeze with a guy at work, and I happened to mention Indian Larry and the stunt I had seen him do on television. The guy I was speaking with said, “He’s dead, you know. He recently died doing that stunt you just described.” At that time, I was too taken with the seeming coincidence of my mentioning Indian Larry’s stunt and learning that he had died to think very much about the man – Indian Larry.

I have since watched a couple episodes of “The Great Biker Build-Off” on television, filmed before Indian Larry’s death. The idea behind this program is that two custom chopper builders start from scratch to design and build a custom bike, and then the two of them ride together to the scene of the judging.

In the episode I watched, Indian Larry was competing against (I think) Billy Lane. Billy Lane could not get his bike started, no matter how hard he tried. Indian Larry showed up and broke his ass trying to help Billy Lane, his competitor, get his bike going. Once they managed to do a few carburetor changes and get the bike started, Lane and Indian Larry set off for Sturgis for the contest.

At Sturgis, the producer of the program announced that the winner of the contest (based on votes of the spectators in attendance) was Indian Larry. Much to the producer’s chagrin, Indian Larry came to the stage and said that neither he nor Billy Lane deserved to win, and neither of them deserved to lose, and that the contest was a draw. Using his metalworking skills, he cut the trophy in pieces, giving Billy Lane a piece, keeping a piece, and tossing pieces out to the audience.

Covered with tattoos as he was, and being the kind of guy one doesn’t find in the typical corporate boardroom, he was, nevertheless, a class act. He was devoted to his unique form of art, and he lived large until his death on August 30th of this year while doing his trademark standing-on-the-seat stunt without a helmet. Larry Desmedt was 55 at the time of his death.

I wish I could have met the crazy son-of-a-bitch.

TJ has finally gotten around to posting something.

If she hadn’t sprung from my loins, I would have removed her from the blogroll due to inactivity. I’m kidding, of course, as I know that she and her husband have had lots of things to keep them busy, including new jobs and a new house.

I’m glad to see that she is back, particularly today when, other than this post, I cannot think of a damned thing to write about. I figure that my three-mile walk this morning, when the temperature was eleven degrees and the wind was gusting to 30 mph, may have frozen the “creative” neurons in my cruller.

Maybe something worth writing will occur to me later.

At one of the many Christmas, holiday, almost winter, end-of-year, seasonal get together parties I have recently attended, I had the good fortune to do a couple tunes with this most excellent musician, singer and performer. Some of the people at the shindig who had previously seen me do the guitar thing twisted my arm requested that I sing with Dee Cannizzaro. Being an exceedingly shy guy a ham extraordinaire, with a couple cocktails in me, I gladly did so. It would not be an understatement to say that singing with Dee’s piano work was like rolling off a log. She’s excellent.

Because of my years of banging around the music business, I am often asked by friends and associates for recommendations for hiring musicians to play at affairs in the New Jersey area. After having heard her play and sing, I can easily and confidently recommend Dee. She is an accomplished pianist and vocalist, who is comfortable performing a wide variety of music.

You might want to check out Dee’s website, where you can hear samples of her work. She also performs with a band, and you can hear that on her site as well.

On top of it all, she’s a very nice person, and I hope to catch her act again some time.

By buddy Eric, the Staight White Guy, revisits the Billy Joel classic, Piano Man, from a new vantage point. As usual, he scores a bullseye.

As many of you know, I am A Laundry Guy. Indeed, I am downright proud of my laundry acumen, which took years to acquire. However, occasionally even an expert runs into an unanticipated problem.

It seems that a week or so ago I accidentally tossed a medium-brown, Gold-Toe sock in with the whites (which means exposing a normally cold-water item to hot water and bleach). When I discovered my mistake, I compared the mustard-colored result of my screw up with its mate, and they looked nothing alike. The mustard color wasn’t bad looking, and, besides, I like the feel of these socks, so I didn’t want to throw them away (and be forced to admit to myself that the Laundry Guy made a mistake). Therefore, I decided to toss the mate in with an upcoming load of whites to produce another mustard-colored sock, thereby creating a pair of “new” socks.

So, the next time I did whites, in went the medium-brown sock, as I congratulated myself on being a seriously sharp Laundry Guy. Well, as you may have guessed, now I have one mustard-colored sock, and one medium-brownish – mustard-coloredish sock. They still don’t farookin’match. Not enough bleach? Most annoying.

However, I have not given up. I have just now tossed the medium-brownish – mustard-coloredish sock into yet a new load of whites, and I am anxiously awaiting the result of this bit laundry derring-do.

A Laundry Guy appreciates an occasional challenge.

Update: Success!! I now have a pair of mustard colored socks. I am a Gorilla-Stompin’ Laundry Guy.

At one of the many Christmas, holiday, almost winter, end-of-year parties I have recently attended, I had occasion to eat some white asparagus (It could just as well have been green). Because I also had been taking in copious amounts of vodka fluids, fifteen minutes after eating the asparagus I had occasion to visit the men’s room.

It only took that long for the asparagus to work its evil magic and cause the olfactory assault commonly known as “asparagus pee.” Oooofah!!!!

So I got to thinking a bit about asparagus pee and some of the facts and theories that surround this interesting, albeit most unpleasant phenomenon. It turns out that I am not the only one who thinks about this stuff. Indeed, I found a blog that contains, as part of its title “Asparagus Pee.” That blog contains a link to a site entitled, “The Skinny on Why Asparagus Makes Your Pee Stink,” which is an excellent summary of information on other sites.

The “Skinny” discusses a good deal of brain-numbing chemistry to identify exactly which compounds the body creates when it digests asparagus that cause this major stinkola. However, most interesting was the discussion of the genetics of the matter, because not everyone produces stinky pee after eating asparagus (estimates of the numbers of stinky pissers range from about 20% to 50%). It was, therefore, thought that certain people carry a gene that creates stinky pee. However, as the “Skinny” states:

Early investigators thought genetics had divided the world into stinkers and nonstinkers. That was until 1980, when three researchers had the presence of mind to wave pee from the nonstinkers under the noses of the stinkers.
Lo and behold, the problem proved to be one not of producing the stinky pee but of being able to sniff it out.

So, it may not be the case that some of us have been cursed with a stinky pee gene, while others have not. Rather, those who claim not to create asparagus pee might well carry a gene for a shitty sense of smell.

Being a man of science in a prior life and, therefore curious and empirical, I propose a simple experiment. I hereby invite one of you who claim to be able to eat asparagus and piss lilacs to join me for an asparagus dinner and a trip to the john about a half hour later. If I can smell yours, and you can’t smell mine, we will have answered this most important question without the benefit of a million dollar government grant.

And finally, for those of you who may consider yourselves to be asparagus pee connoisseurs (There’s no accounting for taste.), here’s a place where you can buy fashion items that permit you to share your passion with the world. (This link is also via the “Asparagus Pee” blog noted above.)

I know what you’re thinking. “Yo, Jimbo, with all this talk about disgusting stuff like stinky asparagus pee, can boogers be far behind?” – to which I reply, “hmmmm.”

Update: I had forgotten to post the link to the site where one can buy Asparagus Pee tee-shirts. I have since corrected my omission. There are still seven shopping days before Christmas Holiday. Get right on it.

I had arranged to meet the infamous Velociman for dinner and drinks yesterday. I was stoked at the prospect of an evening of revelry with this well-spoken southern gentlemen who, after a couple Maker’s Marks, morphs into an evil, bullwhip wielding space mutant.

Unfortunately, as sometimes happens, fate intervened in the form of the death of my friend’s mother. I’ve known him and his mom for forty or so years, so attending her wake was a given.

This causes me to look forward with even greater anticipation to his next trip to the Garden State. My reasons for wanting to dine and drink with the V-Man are not entirely selfish. You see, I worry that he may need me to coach him during the Maker’s Marking process lest he run afoul of Garden State etiquette with some of the wrong folks (e.g. the pinky ring guys), which in these parts could mean a one-way ticket to a landfill.

There was nothing yesterday here, and there is not likely to be anything more here today. It is a question of too many Christmas, holiday, almost-winter parties to attend.

This past Sunday, a couple of the Usual Suspects and I were surfing the channels at the Post during a timeout in a Jets game, and we came upon ESPN’s coverage of a bull riding competition. It struck me that, as compared to the well-padded behemoths on the football field, the almost uniformly slight men whose job it is to ride 1,800 pounds worth of pissed-off bull, made the guys squabbling over the pigskin look like pansies.

Christ only knows what motivates these men to try to remain for eight seconds astride a twisting, turning, leaping bull, complete with a set of menacing horns. I’m quite sure that, with the possible exception of a handful of bull riders, the lure is not the mega-money that professional football players typically earn.

Here’s what’s involved. The bull rider climbs onto a bull in the chute, and effectively lashes one hand to a rope that is tied around the bull. The rider finds himself in the curious position of hoping that the bull will be particularly nasty on that day, as points are given by the judges based on the performance of the rider and the bull. Once the rider has effectively tethered himself to the bull, the chute is opened and the rider’s job is to somehow complete a one-handed, eight second ride. (The rider’s free hand must remain free for the duration of the ride.)

If the rider is extremely lucky and skilled, he will be able to hop off the raging animal after eight seconds and land on his feet. If he is less lucky, he will be tossed from the bull but will not land on any body part the breaking of which will render him unable to walk, or worse. If he is even less lucky, he will be tossed from the bull and perhaps stomped or gored, or both by an animal that is damned near the size of a Volkswagen.

Of course, the most unlucky riders are those who are thrown from the bull, but whose hand remains tied to the animal. These poor bastards are dragged around like rag dolls until they work themselves loose, only then to risk being trampled or gored to death. It is said that, for bull riders, it is not a question of if you will become injured, but rather when you will be injured and how badly you will be hurt in what has been called “The World’s Most Dangerous Sport.”

These guys are some tough sons of bitches. If they can do this for a living, I cannot imagine what would frighten them. I want these guys on my side in a barroom brawl.

Oh, and a word or two about the “rodeo clowns.” Those of you who have been coming here for a while know that I farookin’ hate clowns. However, my clown animus doesn’t extend to rodeo clowns, as they are not the screw-around-with-your-tie type clowns. Rather, these guys are on what can only be described as a suicide mission. It is their job to purposely attract the attention of an already pissed-off bull so as to draw the bull’s attention away from the recently thrown rider, who sometimes is lying in a lifeless heap in the dirt. These guys may even be tougher (or crazier) than the bull riders themselves.

There are lots of things that I would like to try in my lifetime, but bull-riding is definitely NOT one of them.