I have said in the past that my four favorite places to shop are: bookstores, record stores, musical instrument stores, and, yes, liquor stores.

Each time I shop at my local mondo liquor store, it is an adventure – an expensive adventure, but an adventure nonetheless. In addition to trying to always keep my rather impressive stock (if I must say so myself) up to date, I always buy something new to try. Sometimes its goofy, and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it turns out to be a good move, and other times, it’s a stinker, but it’s always fun.

My most recent goofy choice that turned out to be quite a treat was a bottle of “99 Bananas”. It is banana-flavored schnapps. I take it directly from the freezer and fill a tall shooter glass. Throw that right back, and it’s like having a mouthful of icy cold, liquefied bananas. Like a banana, it is on the sweet side, but don’t let the fruity taste fool you into uttering the famous last words, ”Ooooh, this is delicious. I could drink these all night.” Try it, and you’ll be flat on your arse, because this stuff packs a 99 proof wallop.

I wound up tasting my way through the entire bottle (over several days) and never got around to trying some of the mixed drinks that one can make with the stuff, which are listed here. The three that caught my eye are: the “Screaming Banana,” the “Banana Cream Pie,” and, perhaps the most interesting and even a bit unsettling (at least in terms of its name), the “Flaming Cock Smack.” OUCH!!!

I’m definitely in for another bottle and a bit of experimentation. In fact, while I’m at the store, I will also pick up one bottle each of “99 Apples,” “99 Blackberries,” and “99 Oranges.”

I’m particularly pleased with these latest finds, because they contain absolutely no cholesterol, and, besides, Doctor Doctor said I should eat more fruit.

Developing …

I’ve seen this meme floating about the ‘sphere, and sho’ ‘nuff, I was tagged. There’s tagging, and then there’s tagging. I have been tagged by everyone’s favorite soldier, Sgt. Hook. I have spent enough time in the Army to know that when a Sgt. Major tags your ass, it’s time to get your sorry ass in gear.

It is, therefore, with great pleasure that I respond to the Sgt. Major.

As much as I would like to think that I have no habits, particularly quirky ones, it took me all of about ten seconds to think of five. I probably could list a dozen more, but five will do. Here we go.

1. Hair Twirling. When I am bored, deep in thought, or nervous, I twirl my hair. I have done this since childhood. Strangely enough, it is a neurological bi-hemispheric phenomenon. What that means is that when I’m bored or deep in thought, I twirl with my left hand, but when I am stressed or very nervous my dominant hand (the right hand) kicks in to execute the right-handed twirl. (Bad for poker playing) Daughter TJ also twirled her hair when she was a squirt, damned near to the point of giving herself a bald spot. Nature? Nurture? Damned if I know, but I had to explain it to her pediatrician, who thought it all quite interesting.

2. Pen Testing/Flicking. It seems that I can’t write anything with a ballpoint pen without first testing it on a piece of scrap paper to ensure that it writes without skipping. In addition, if I pause while writing something with a ballpoint pen, I fill the pauses with slight, but still perceptible, pen flicks as if I were shaking the ink down to the point. I am conscious of the test-writing thing, but the pen-flicking quirk was pointed out to me, much to my embarrassment.

3. Teeth Clicking. While walking, I will often click my back teeth in counterpoint to my footsteps. It’s some sort of a rhythm blessing/curse, methinks.

4. Table Drumming and More. This one is related to Number 3. While listening to music, I will quietly (unless zippered – then it’s not so quiet) tap out the drum part on whatever horizontal surface I might be near. I like to think that most people don’t notice. However, what I am sure that nobody notices is that I am also working an imaginary bass drum and hi-hat with my feet under the table. Again, it’s the rhythm blessing/curse.

5. Playing Chords on the Steering Wheel. While driving and listening to music, I will often “play” the chords to the tune on the steering wheel with my left hand. I have learned to play many a tune this way.

As you can see, I have absolutely no goofy habits, and I’m a Gott-damned pleasure to be with.

Now, I am supposed to “tag” five peeps to get them to share their habits. I think I will pass on the tagging, but rather I hereby invite anyone who reads this to partake (and I hope some of you do), either in the comments or on your own blog.

(I’ll be damned if I didn’t catch myself twirling my hair — left handed twirl — thinking about whether this was ready to post.)

Yesterday, the often mysterious Dogette mentioned that her even more mysterious friend “Q” loves PEZ.* I remember well when PEZ candy was first introduced (Yeah, I’m that old), and the stores could not stock enough of the candy or the dispensers. However, I don’t believe I have given two second’s worth of thought to PEZ candy (and the various types of PEZ dispensers) for decades, much less eaten a PEZ in all that time.

So, anyway, I was at a Holiday Christmas Party last night, and as the party was winding down, a guy I know reached into his pocket and pulled out a Santa Claus PEZ dispenser and said, “PEZ anyone?”

There it was – an offer of a PEZ from a Santa PEZ dispenser (pull Santa’s head back and out pops a PEZ from what would have been Santa’s neck) on the same day that I read Dogette’s post and had spent several moments thinking back to my PEZ days as a small boy.

I blurted out to the group I was with, “Holy shit! I can’t believe you’ve offered me a PEZ. Wow! I know this woman, Dogette … Well, I don’t really know her; I read her blog … Well, maybe I really do know her, sort of, I guess. So, Dogette has this post today and mentions that her really mysterious friend “Q” really loves PEZ!!! Blah, blah … “Q” … Dogette … blog.” etc.

I think you get the picture. I sounded like a nut — someone whose meds had just worn off. Everyone smiled and tried to be polite as I rambled on about blogs and people with names like Dogette and “Q”.

But, dammit, I ask you. Was the PEZ post and later that same day an offer of a PEZ (after several Non-PEZ decades) a mere co-inkydink? Or, do the two events suggest the existence of some order in the cosmos, or cosmic connections among humans that we can never hope to understand?

All I know is that I am going to buy myself a PEZ dispenser and some neat flavors (cola flavored PEZ is now available) and properly align myself with the stars. This is some deep shit.

* Dogette elaborated today on Q’s PEZ expertise, which doubtless is world-class. I’m beginning to think that “Q” has special powers and is not be trifled with.

** After reading this (I’ve you’ve stayed with me this far), how could you not visit the Official PEZ Website, where, among other things, you can learn the history of PEZ and view the PEZ dispenser collections of some cosmically connected PEZ-oids.

Dear Shithead Who Owns Rita’s Italian Ices:

There is a vexing irony in your operating a business that sells flavored ices to residents of this town and visitors during the warm weather, and your failing to remove the ice and snow (or arranging for the removal of same) from the sidewalk in front of your establishment once you close, in October, for the winter.

Sure, we sorry asses who buy your products in the warm weather can always step off the sidewalk and walk in the street to avoid the broken bones that may well result from trying to navigate the ice you failed to remove. However, that means choosing between falling on the ice or being clobbered by a car or truck on the heavily trafficked street – the traffic you so heavily count on in order to do business.

I hope this finds its way to you, although I am virtually certain that, once having made your bundle by selling ice to the people around here in the warm weather, your ass is soaking up the sun somewhere in Florida in your oceanfront home, while we are left to do our best not to break our asses trying to walk on the ice on your uncleared sidewalk.

Here’s the deal, Dorkbreath.

If I slip and injure myself as a result of your negligence, it is I who will be hiring people to sell flavored ice in what used to be your business, and, come October, it will be I who be enjoying the warm Florida weather in what used to be your house.

The only difference is that I will arrange to have someone make sure that the sidewalk is cleared after a snowstorm.

Jackass.

Very truly yours,

Jimbo
The Guy Who Walks Past Your Store Just About Every Morning – Even in the Winter

Does anybody really like that crap?

It’s farookin’ fish eggs, fer Chrissake. More specifically, the “good stuff” comes from a big-ass fish called a sturgeon. I wanna know who the guy was who first looked at this ugly beast and said, “Hey Vlad, I wonder what its eggs taste like?”

Apparently some people like it enough (or want to pretend to like it enough) to pay $150 for an ounce of disgusting, little black fish eggs. They are, however, cheaper by the pound, which come to you for a mere $2,399.

I’ll take peanut butter on a Ritz any day.

Fausta, one of the Garden State’s premier bloggers, has changed the name of her blog from “The Bad Hair Blog” to “Fausta’s Blog”. She became tired of explaining that the blog’s name was never intended to refer to the quality of her hair, but rather to the effect that New Jersey’s taxes can have on one’s badself, including one’s hair. (Frankly, New Jersey’s taxes make my great farookin’ hair hurt like hell.) She also points out that the new name seems like a natural, because “Fausta” isn’t a name one hears every day.

Fausta keeps tabs on the international scene as well as the goings-on in the Political Swamp that is New Jersey. If you have never read her stuff, take a look. You won’t be disappointed.

This really happened. I bullshit you not.

Earlier this week, I was in the “Bay Area” of California. Coming from the East Coast, my body clocks woke me up at 4:30 a.m. Knowing that I had to begin the adjustment process, I forced myself to remain horizontal for another hour or so.

By about six o’clock in the morning (Pacific Time), I decided that I couldn’t take it any more, so I got my sorry ass out of bed to do my morning walk. The temperature was in the mid to high thirties, which is downright balmy as far as I am concerned.

As such, I put on a pair of shorts, a tee shirt and a nylon windbreaker and headed for the main drag in town to strut my shit. It was quite nice, albeit a tad unusual. I am not used to traffic lights that permit the walker/runner/regular pedestrian to push a button, which will eventually alert drivers to stop (as if they would in Jersey). I am also not accustomed to seeing the triple lines carved into the sidewalk, which presumably tell a blind person that he or she is approaching in intersection. (In Jersey, blind people are fair game).

The walk provided me with a cornucopia of interesting sights, including a large restaurant (which I presume is a chain) called “Sweet Tomatoes” — a buffet restaurant that only serves salads. At the time, I wondered to myself how long it would take for such a restaurant to go out of business in North Newark. But I digress.

So, I was walking along and working on a serious sweat, when the following happened. I swear that this is exactly how it went ……….

As I was walking, a bus going in the same direction stopped and discharged a woman who appeared to be roughly my age, perhaps bit older. Judging by the hour, I assume that she was on her way to work. She was dressed in a long wool coat, and she was wearing a hat, scarf and gloves. I would wear that much clothing for an Arctic expedition, but I figured, Hey, it’s California and then I didn’t think anything more of it as I approached her on the sidewalk.

However, this Nanook-of-the-North woman stood her ground and waited for me to walk past her, at which time she glared at me and angrily said, “What’s the matter with you? How can you wear shorts when the temperature is in the thirties?” This woman was clearly pissed.

My initial thought was, My, that is not a terribly progressive way to behave.

I stopped and said, “I’m from Jersey,” thinking that would explain things.

She immediately responded, “I don’t give a damn; I’m from New York…” blah, blah, blah.

Upon hearing that, I responded, “New York? Yo! Fuggetaboutit!!”

She glared once more and continued muttering as she walked away.

It figures – An obnoxious New York asshole, who moved to California and who can no longer take the cold weather.

I can only assume that that when the genetic cards were dealt, I wound up with the “Attract-the-Douche-Bag” gene.

Some random notes on the flight to California.

Wake up early on Sunday morning (For openers, Sunday business travel for an early Monday morning meeting is the pits) to get ride to airport.

Holy crap! It’s snowing!! Throw on snow blowing clothes to try to clear sidewalk and driveway and sidewalks and driveways of neighbors before my ride to airport shows up.

Finished snow blowing, put on dry clothes.

Ride to airport on slippery highway.

Discover at check-in that I somehow have been bumped out of my “Premium Seat,” and now I’m in a window seat way, way back in the plane. The Check-In guy doesn’t know what I’m talking about when I explain that I had changed my seat assignment a week ago online. I’m forced to conclude that there must be things about “Premium Seats” that I do not understand, nor, would it appear that am I supposed to understand.

Board plane and, of course, it appears that every farookin’ body is brining “carry-ons,” some of which are roughly the size of Pittsburgh. Not surprisingly, there is not enough room to “stow” (bonus airline lingo) them in the cursed overhead bins. (If I were King, there would be no carry-ons). Once the “stowing” frenzy is complete, I get to my designated torture chamber seat. I remove my book from my briefcase and “stow” my briefcase under the seat in front of me.

My heart sinks when we are told that EVERY SEAT on the plane will be occupied. The flight attendant refers to this as a “full flight,” when it really ought to be called a “Cruel Flight.”

The flight is scheduled to last six hours and one minute. I try to concentrate on my book and ignore the discomfort. We “push back” (more airline lingo) at precisely the right time, and I foolishly believe that this torture will be over is just over six hours.

Wrong.

Pilot: “Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be delayed for just a few minutes while we head over to the concrete pad over there for a ‘quick shot of de-icing,’ and we’ll be on our way. It should only take a few minutes.”

Wrong.

It took two hours. The pilot failed to mention that every plane trying to take off would be headed over to the concrete pad over there for a “quick shot of de-icing.”

We finally made it to the concrete pad for our “quick shot if de-icing,” which is really a major high-volume spritz of what looks like hot water.

OK, so now it’s TWO HOURS later, we’ve been de-iced, and we’re ready to boogie. In fact, the pilot had said that there was only one plane ahead of us on the runway, so it will be “wheels up” (more bonus airline lingo) in no time.

Wrong.

Pilot: “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your patience, but we’ll have to wait for just a few minutes while they plow the runway.”

“A few minutes?” Try 45 minutes.

I’ve now been in my tiger cage for almost three hours, and we’re still in Newark.

Finally, we take off.

I needn’t tell you that, with a window seat, a trip to the bathroom requires a several apologies and major troop movement.

About four and a half hours into the flight, the pilot speaks again.

Pilot: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about 170 miles east of Salt Lake City.”

I’m thinking, Good, a status report! We’re damned near there.”

Wrong.

Pilot: “Because we’ve run into some unexpected headwinds [How about sitting on the runway for damned near three hours with the motor running?], we’re a bit low on fuel, and I don’t want to chance it. We will be landing in Salt Lake City to pick up some fuel. This shouldn’t take long, and, again, I thank you for your patience.”

Wrong.

It took about another 45 minutes.

By this time, I had to consciously play mental games to keep from losing my marbles. OK, Jimbo. Imagine you’re on a beach on a beautiful day just staring out at the surf. Hmmm, how many different kinds of fruit can you name in German? How about state capitals? Can I name the kids in my sixth grade class?

After about ninety more minutes of flying, we arrived in San Francisco.

I figure that we spent damned near eleven hours stuffed into that farookin’ plane.

The good news is that everyone was … well … patient.

So, I got this call from Glenn Frey of the Eagles.

He said, “Yo, Jimbo. We’re out here on the coast and Don has come up with a case of the epizoodic. He’s sick as hell and can’t play. Problem is we have a couple gigs we’ve committed to do out here this coming week and, with Don out of the picture, we really need a guy who can play drums and guitar and maybe do some singing as well. Joe Walsh, our guitar player, a Jersey guy, suggested that I give you a call to see if you can help us out. No need to bring anything other than your sticks. You can use Don’s axe and drum set. Waddya say? Can you make it? ”

I said, “I’ll hop on a plane today!”

OK, OK, OK, already. The foregoing is a Fig Newton of my imagination, and it’s all a big, fat lie. Except for the Left Coast part. The truth is (Can you handle the TRUTH?) I will be heading off to the Left Coast today, and I will be there until Wednesday. Based on past painful experiences, I will NOT be bringing my electronic cinder block laptop with me.

As such, I will see y’all again on Wednesday or Thursday.

Play nice.

NOTE REGARDING COMMENTS: As much as I hate to do it, I disabled the Comment Feature. I don’t want to return to a gazillion pieces of comment spam. I hope you understand.

You’ve Got Questions? I’ve got Answers.
Because I’m Very Smart, and You’re … Very Not.

Dear Senator Clinton:

I am a single mom, struggling to make ends meet. I know that you once made a great deal of money investing in cattle futures. According to what I’ve read, you invested $1,000, and ten months later your investment was worth $100,000. I have been saving what I can for the last four years, and now I finally have reached my goal of $1,000, which I would like to invest and make $100,000 just like you did.

The problem is that I have read that buying and selling those things (I believe they call them commodities) is very risky and requires more expertise than I possess. I, therefore, was hoping that you might be able to give me the advice I need to turn my savings into $100,000, a sum that would make my life much easier, what with the boys’ doctor bills and all.

Your friend and loyal supporter,
Mary McWilliams

Dear Mary,

Always glad to be of help.

Dear Senator Clinton:

Many of your detractors (I can’t believe that there actually are people who don’t worship you. LOL) said that you weren’t telling the truth when you said that the Rose Law Firm Billing records, which had been the subject of several subpoenas for two years, “mysteriously” (to use the right-wing’s snot-nosey word) showed up in the residence of the White House.

I was hoping that you could clear that up once and for all so I can straighten out those wing nuts I work with in the FBI.

Sincerely,
Agent Beverly Dial

Dear Bev,

Thanks for asking!

Dear Senator Clinton:

I know that you have repeatedly said that you are not running for President in 2008, but if you do decide to run, how will you deal with the whiney criticism from those who say that you don’t like the military and that you are not qualified to be the Commander in Chief?

BTW, I sooooooo hope you run. I think you are seriously smart and very cool.

Love and hugs,
Ellen Green

Dear Ellen,

See? There’s really nothing to it.

Dear Senator Clinton:

I know how hard you work in Washington, and it looks so very serious all the time. I was wondering if you ever get a chance to have some fun with your colleagues.

Ta ta for now,
Grace Williams

Dear Grace,

What a hoot!! ROTFLMAO!!!!!