This has to be a quickie, because I am using Ken’s (my bodyguard’s) computer. Why, you ask? It is because I again have no internet access. I spent about 45 minutes on the phone with a Comcast support person, who couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t get online, because, according to her, my modem is fine. I think all the noodling around at her direction may have made things worse. The wind up is that Comcast will come to The House by the Parkway on Wednesday and I will be offline until then.

As it happens, Wednesday is OK, because I am heading off to the Left Coast tomorrow (business) and will return Tuesday evening.

The Young lady at Comcast was very nice, and I assured her that I understood that my connectivity problems were not her fault I did ask her to remind her management that, for me, Verizon FIOS is one phone call away.

Anyway, I have to get ready for an early morning flight.

Play nice.

April 22, 2009
(Note: Around here, we are not permitted to say “2009;” we must say, “0001, in the Year of The One”)

Dear Friends,

I’ve been here for about a week now. Communication of any type with the outside is forbidden, but I managed to give this note to a sympathetic produce delivery man. I didn’t think I could print so small.

Here’s the story.

When I heard the knock on the door, I peeked through the window and saw the same two young, twenty-somethings outside my door. They call themselves “The Messiah’s Witnesses.” They had been coming to my house about every two weeks since the election last year and even more often since January, each time wanting to discuss my “aberrant” politics and to explain to me the wisdom of The Change.

The first few times they showed up I politely told them I was not interested in talking with them, but more recently, I had become more adamant in my refusal. Since their most recent visit, I had resolved that the next time they came knocking, I was going to tell them for once and for all to stay the hell off my property.

I opened the door, prepared to tell them to get lost, but before I could say a word, two men, each the size of an NFL lineman, leaped from the bushes on either side of the door, pinning my arms behind me and placing me in handcuffs. Once I was cuffed, another man, well-dressed and appearing to be in his forties, appeared from behind one of the bushes.

“Who the hell are you, and what the hell is going on here?” I screamed.

“My name is not important. My purpose is to advise you that, by order of Secretary of Education, William Ayers, effective immediately, you are directed to report to the Education Center in your Sector. We are here to transport you there.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I believe I spoke clearly. We are here to transport you to the Education Center in your Sector.”

“And what if I refuse?”

“Refusal is not an option.”

“Precisely, what have I done wrong?”

“You have done much wrong, starting with your failure to vote for The One, and, worse yet, your writing and saying things that question the wisdom of The One, not to mention your obvious resistance to The Change.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“I assure you that my mind is sound. It is your mind that needs work. You are to come with us now, and I mean right now. There is no need to gather any belongings, as The One will provide everything you need.”

“What about my family?” I asked. “Do you plan on kidnapping them too?”

“Your family will be permitted to remain in place, provided you cooperate with those who will guide you through your Learning Program. And, I must say that your use of the term ‘kidnapping’ is not a good start.”

“Well then, how about ‘Kiss my ass’ for a start.”

“Your attitude will not serve you or your family well. Let’s get moving.”

With that, I was hustled across my lawn to a school bus that seemed to appear from nowhere. The only thing that distinguished it from a regular school bus was the blackened windows. Upon being shoved into the bus, I saw other people I recognized, several of whom I knew to be veterans. When I tried to speak to them, the driver shouted that talking was not permitted. Everyone looked as dazed and confused as I felt.

The trip took a bit longer than an hour, but because of the blackened windows and my generally bad sense of direction, I had no idea where we were headed. Only when the bus arrived at its destination and we were herded off, did I recognize where I was. I remembered the place from 1968. It was the Fort Dix Reception Center, only now there was a sign over the entrance that said, “Camp Alinsky,” under which was written, “Embrace The Change.” Yes, this is the very same Fort Dix that Secretary of Education Ayers conspired to bomb in 1970, only now it was surrounded by razor wire and guard towers every two-hundred yards.

After our names were checked, we were led into a large auditorium for our “Initial Orientation.” In each corner of the large room stood men who were built like the goons who handcuffed me at my home. I later learned that they were called “Order Keepers” or “Ordners.” They looked menacing as they glared at the audience with their muscled arms folded over their massive chests. One of them broke his silence long enough to admonish the audience that speaking was not permitted.

Once the room was silent, a man in his fifties took the stage to address us. He said, “My name is Kwame Ondinga, and I am the Principal of Camp Alinsky. I would like to welcome you to your Education Program. I trust that you’ll find your initial orientation to be helpful.

“Each of you has been identified by Secretary of Education William Ayers as persons requiring education in order for you to fully embrace The Change.”

A few people, myself included, grumbled at such a notion, but the Ordners lowered their arms from their chests, signaling that grumbling was unacceptable.

“Your course of studies here is eight weeks long, and we encourage your active and enthusiastic participation.”

At that point, Ondinga instructed us in the proper method of recognition and and greeting. “You are to hold your arms chest-high, parallel to the ground, make two fists and press your knuckles together. You then separate your hands, thrust them forward and then bring them smartly to your sides. The proper and only acceptable form of greeting while executing this movement is to say, ‘Praise The One.’”

A few of us snickered, only to result in the Ordners screaming, “Silence!”

Ondinga continued, “I know that you all are anxious to know what is in store for you here, so let me briefly hit some of the high points. First, we will be spending a lot of time teaching you to deal with your racism.”

The room erupted in objections that even glares from the Orders couldn’t quell. Cries of “You’re crazy!” and “Bullshit!” filled the room.

One guy who was wearing a Marine Corps tee shirt stood and said to Ondinga, “I’ve about had it with this shit! I fought and bled with Marines who are black, and your claiming that just because I didn’t vote for, as you call him, ‘The One’ makes me a racist is pure bullshit, and I’m not about to sit here and put up with it.” The Ordners sprung into action and removed the guy from the room. I haven’t seen him since.

Another voice from the audience shouted, “What about the African Americans who also didn’t vote for ‘The One?’ Are they racists too?”

Ondinga, clearly annoyed by the question, replied, “We deal with them in a separate section of the camp.”

That remark dispelled any lingering doubt I might have had about how this was all going to work.

Ondinga continued, “Once you have come to terms with your racism, we will educate you in the wisdom of The Change. You will learn that we constantly strive to achieve what is best for the Common Good. Most of you will also be instructed on the subject of Global Warming and why it is counter to The Change to continue to be Deniers. That is basically the Core Curriculum here an Camp Alinsky. I’ll take some questions now, but, rest assured, most of your questions will be addressed in the next few days.”

One man stood up, and began to ask a question.

Ondinga cut him off saying, “I thought I just instructed you on the subject of the proper greeting.”

The man sat down, but Ondinga commanded him to stand and preface his question with the proper greeting. The man remained seated. Ondinga gave a signal to two of the Ordners, who ran to the man’s seat and dragged him to his feet.

“You will execute the proper greeting!” Ondinga said.

The room was silent, as everyone stared at the questioner, who was staring at the floor. Finally, the man looked up, raised his arms, placed his knuckles together and said, ‘Praise The One.’”

Ondinga returned the greeting. “Very good. Now, ask your question.”

“I was told when I was arrested that my family would be left alone. Can you confirm that?”

Ondinga replied, “First, we don’t use the term ‘arrested’ for helping you with transportation to the Education Center. As for your question, the answer is yes, as long as you successfully complete your Education Program, your family will be left alone.”

“What happens if at the end of the eight weeks you don’t think I successfully completed your Education Program?”

“In such cases, we give everyone a chance to repeat the program.”

“And what happens if, at the end of the repeat program, you still don’t think I’ve been successful.”

Ondinga answered, “We are confident that you will be successful.”

After a few more questions, about letters and telephone calls to the outside (None permitted), food (You’ll get what you need) and healthcare (We have a State Clinic on the premises), we were lead to another room to be issued our uniforms.

Each person was issued underwear, three grey shirts, three pairs of grey trousers, socks and black shoes. The shirts bore a name tag and the “O’ logo on the left sleeve. I noticed that my shirts all had a one-inch red “B” sewn on the front in the region of my chest.

I asked the person issuing the shirts why mine bore the letter “B.” He responded, “You must have been a Blogger.”

I said that I was indeed a blogger.

He smiled and said, “Bloggers get special attention.”

I knew I was in deep shit.

I’ll write again when I can.

J

I don’t know about you, but I feel better knowing that the New York Times has managed to track down Governor Palin’s hairdresser and wring the truth out of her.

Would someone please point these coconuts in the direction of Chicago.

My mind is still on vacation, as it were, even though today I returned to truckloads of work to do.

With that in mind, I thought I would share something, which, for me, is quite a rarity – namely a celebrity sighting.

As I was walking toward the gate at Fort Myers – Sanibel Airport, I noticed a tall man walking in my direction. He was wearing a blue blazer, tan pants and dress shoes, which is no big deal. But, he was also wearing a close-fitting baseball cap. As we passed each other, it still hadn’t registered. Once he was a dozen paces past me, it came together. It was James Patterson, the gazillion selling author of the “Alex Cross” series and several other page turners.

I said to The Original Bill who was already seated at the gate, “Yo, I think I just walked past James Patterson.”

Bill looked at the people walking away from the direction of the gate and said, “I know who you mean. The blue blazer guy. James Patterson does live in Florida, you know.” (I didn’t know that, or, at least, I didn’t recall that.)

He looked, to me, like his photos on the back of each of his books (with the baseball cap), except he was a big guy. Yeah, I know. Stoopid, to gauge someone’s height and mass based upon a head shot on the back cover of a book.

That’s where this exciting story ends. I am not a person who would chase the guy down and say stuff like, “Yo! You’re James Patterson, right? I’m a big fan. blah, blah, blah, so I never got around until a couple days later even mentioning to Mrs. Parkway (also a Patterson fan) that I believed that I had seen the guy.

The only other airport celebrity sighting I can claim was the time I saw Al *spit* Sharpton at the San Francisco Airport waiting to board the flight to Newark. Unlike, James Patterson (at least, I think it was James Patterson), Sharpton was prancing around the gate area, obviously hoping to be noticed. I noticed him all right, but I wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire.

Did I mention that the “Reverend” Al was flying first-class? I was flying coach, so I had to wait while the “Reverend” lumbered his fat ass on the plane. I couldn’t help but wonder who paid for his ticket.

That’s about it, except to note that I was a bit disappointed that James Patterson (at least, I think it was him) didn’t stop dead in his tracks and say, “Yo, are you Jimbo from Parkway Rest Stop? I’m a big fan blah, blah blah …”

Maybe next year.

Update: I just remembered that I was on a flight to Jacksonville with this guy and blogged about it here. He didn’t recognize me either, but I have better hair.

I have been feeling antsy as a result of about eight or nine days without a ground pound. So, this morning, I looked out the window and satisfied myself that there would be a sufficiently long rainless window (rained like a bitch last night) for me to hit the street. I suited up with sweat pants, a long-sleeved tee-shirt and a nylon, “water resistant” windbreaker. I topped off my outfit with a baseball cap. Out I went.

About a quarter mile from home, came the drizzle. I forged ahead. About another quarter mile from home, the skies opened and positively gushed drenching, COLD rain. I turned in the direction of home, and by the time I got there, I looked and felt like a drowned rat.

Mrs. Parkway: You’re back already?

Me: Are you shitting me? It’s pouring, I’m soaked, and I’m cold as hell.

Mrs. Parkway: Pansy.

After I emerged from the hot shower and got dressed, I walked a couple times into different rooms, each time forgetting why I went there in the first place.

Mrs. Parkway: Doof.

Promises to be a long day.

No ground pound this morning, as I have a sore left instep (too much ground pounding?). Ergo, my blog thinking time was zip. As a result, you’ll get the direct connection between my cruller and my fingers as I sit here:

1. Right about now, I think the best gig in the world is to be a democrat party super delegate. I figure that if I were a super delegate, I could open the bidding between Barack and Hillary and end up with that house on the ocean I always wanted.

2. A word to the Chief Munuvian: I am really, really losing my patience. It’s happened a zillion times where, once having crafted a perfectly wonderful, literate, witty comment, I see it disappear to be replaced by an unreadable error message, or a message stating that comments are closed due to spammer activity.

3. I miss Acidman. The ‘sphere just ain’t the same without him.

4. I heard today on the radio that there is a pizza place in NY (Brooklyn, I think – feh!) that is charging four bucks for a slice. Four bucks? GMAFB!

5. I got lost yesterday on my way to a wake, despite using Google Maps and Mr. Tom Tom. I need a meeting. “My name is Jimbo, and I have the sense of direction of a piece of soft coal.”

6. I should not be surprised that virtually all national politicians are scum. After all, they are the same lemons who start out locally and work their way up through state politics.

7. Sharon Stone, the well-known expert on foreign policy, is a big hit in the Arab Press. Useful idiot.

8. Have you ever seen an episode of Project Runway? It is a freak show without the physical deformities. I must admit that I laughed out loud at the episode I saw. The best part is when a male designer-contestant cries when he loses. Second best is when the grey-haired Ueberflit sashays into the sewing room to tell the designers they only have five minutes left, and the designers freak out. Looked at another way, the show leaves no doubt that we are doomed.

That is all.

A week or so ago, I attended a party at a fancy catering place. The evening included cocktails, dinner and music being played by a local group that obviously plays these kinds of parties regularly. I listened. They were quite good.

Some of the licks the bass player was playing caught my attention, so I focused on him a bit. The first thing I noticed was that he was a lefty. That’s not all that unusual; Paul McCartney, a pretty famous bass player, was a lefty.

The next thing I noticed was that that the bass player wasn’t playing a bass made for lefties, but rather he was playing a right-hand bass, but turned upside down. Although I didn’t recall ever having seen a bass guitar player do that, I have seen left handed guitar players do that quite often. They simply flip the guitar over and restring it (i.e. reverse the strings) for left-hand playing, as can be seen in the case of Jimi Hendrix here.

OK, so I was thinking that this bass player was doing a Jimi Hendrix thing with the bass, but the problem was that his fingers were in the wrong places to be making the sounds I was hearing. WTF?

I looked closer, and I’ll be damned. He was playing the bass upside down, with the STRINGS upside down too. He simply flipped a righty bass upside down and played it that way as a lefty.

Watching him play (and he was damned good) was twisting my mind in all sorts of directions.

I felt I had to share this amazing thing with someone. I saw a colleague standing at the bar, and here’s about how it went:

Me: Hey, did you check out that bass player?

Him: (looks at bass player) Yeah, what about him?

Me: Well, for openers, he’s a lefty.

Him:

Me:

Him: How about those Giants?

Undaunted, I sought out another person with whom to share my amazement at what I was seeing and hearing.

Me: Hey, did you check out that bass player?

Him: Which one is he?

Me: He’s the guy on the left.

Him: (looks at bass player) Yeah, do you know him or something?

Me: No, I don’t know him, but did you notice that he’s a lefty?

Him: How can you tell?

Me: (Trying to think of way to answer the question without using words like “fret board” or “headstock”). Well, look at the guitar player next to him.

Him: The guy playing the red guitar?

Me: Yeah, that guy — the guy on the right. You see how his guitar is pointing to the left?

Him: Oh, yeah. So he’s a lefty?

Me: No. He’s a righty. Look at the bass player — the guy on the left. His guitar is pointing to the right.

Him: So, the guy on the left is a righty?

Me: No, he’s a lefty.

Him: His guitar is pointing to the right and he’s a lefty? I don’t get it.

Me:

Him:

Me: How about those Giants?

This kind of shit happens to me a lot.

As I suspect many of you already know, today the F.B.I. arrested 11 state and local politicians (and one non-politician who was the bagman for a politician) for various charges, all centering on bribery in exchange for granting government contracts.

The twelve were arrested as a result of an F.B.I. undercover operation, which began in June 2006 when it appeared that things were really rotten in the Pleasantville School District, which is east of Atlantic City and is one of the poorest districts in the state. Indeed, it was so rotten that in July a state monitor was assigned to keep an eye on its finances.

Posing as insurance brokers, undercover agents, with the help of cooperating witnesses one of whom had been in the roofing business, offered cash bribes in exchange for steering municipal contracts in their direction. The Jersey pols eagerly scarfed up the cash, which was often delivered in parked cars. Wanting their fellow politico-cruds to take advantage of the ready cash, the South Jersey crooks pointed federal agents north.

That resulted in the snaring of Samuel Rivera, the Mayor of Passaic, who is also a former cop and professional wrestler (I kid you not). In addition, Mims Hackett Jr., the mayor of Orange and Assemblyman Alfred Steele, who is the Deputy Speaker of the State Assembly, a Baptist Minister and the undersheriff of Passaic County were also arrested, as was Keith Reid, the chief of staff to Newark City Council President Mildred Crump, and Marcellus Jackson, a councilman from Passaic.

Rivera allegedly said, when offered the cash in exchange for contracts with the Passaic Valley Sewerage Commission, “We can get you that, easy, easy.”

Marcellus Jackson, the Passaic Councilman, allegedly was grateful and optimistic as he took the cash from undercover agents, when he reportedly said, “I appreciate it, baby. … Good things is gonna happen.”

Perhaps the “Dumb as a Bag of Rocks” award goes to former Pleasantville Board of Education member Maurice “Pete” Callaway, who is the brother of former Atlantic City Councilman Craig Callaway. “Pete” allegedly took the bribes all the while knowing that his brother Craig is currently in prison for taking bribes from an undercover FBI agent.

As it happens, all but one of those arrested is a democrat. Now, before we republicans get all self righteous, remember that most politicians in Jersey are democrats, which means that, simply playing the odds will net more crooked democrats than republicans.

I do not give the state’s republican politicians a pass on this. They are part of the rotten system that has allowed this national embarrassment to continue. When was the last time you heard of a republican turning in a fellow politician for being on the take? Let me answer that for you — never.

Still, the Sheeple in New Jersey continue to elect these rogues and thieves. It boggles the mind.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Here is a simple rule for the next election:

If a candidate for any state, county or municipal office is currently in office, vote him or her out, regardless of party affiliation. Our only hope is a goddamned clean sweep.

Of course, it is more likely that I will stick a feather in my ass and fly to Pittsburgh than it is that New Jersey voters will wake the hell up.

Note: Links relating to the foregoing are here, here and here.

It is one year ago today that I learned that my friend Rob died.

I know there are many who would like the world to think that they knew Rob. That’s cool, because if Rob knew that you felt that way by virtue of reading his blog, he would have hoisted a beer or three in your direction.

I had the very good fortune of actually getting to hang with the good brother and, better yet, having the chance to do a bunch of tunes with him and his brother Dave..

Rob, for all his shit-stirring abilities, quite simply, was a gott-damned genius.

He spoke as he wrote, which meant that if you were lucky enough to hear hin speak, you damned well paid attention.

He died way too early and, to my eternal agony, he died before we (the pickers) could all assemble at the Crackerbox to record some excelllent music.

I miss him. Really bad.

The Truism
As many of you know, I have spoken and sung into microphones for the better part of my life. One of the things that comes from having done so is my recognition of the following truism:

If you want to see a perfectly normal person make a complete ass of himself, just hand him (or her) a microphone.

Typically, they examine it by turning it in all sorts of directions (usually while wearing a silly grin), as if they are not quite sure which end to speak into. They then give it a tap or two tap, tap; they sometimes blow into it, and they almost always end up saying, “Is this thing on?” Problem is that while asking that question they inevitably cover the microphone with one of their hands (presumably so the audience cannot hear), which results in the inevitable blast of feedback sufficiently loud and shrill to sterilize everyone in the room and cause dogs a half mile away to howl.

Once you assure them that it is “on” and ask them not to cover the microphone with their hands, they will often again confirm that the microphone is indeed on, only this time so the audience can hear, “OK, this thing is on now.”

Satisfied that the microphone is indeed live, they begin to speak. The audience complains that the speaker cannot be heard. The speaker turns around and gives you the “You-said-this-thing-was-on” look. You explain that one must actually speak into the microphone in order to be heard and that holding it just slightly north of the navel will not get it done.

They resume speaking, but insist on holding the microphone a foot from their mouth, so you adjust the gain in an attempt to pick up the voice. That’s usually when they finally get around to bringing the microphone the proper distance from their mouth, which causes another blast of feedback and yet another dirty look from the speaker.

Naturally, the audience assumes that the speaker is doing just fine and reason for the ear-splitting squeals and speaker’s inaudibility is the incompetence of the boob turning the knobs.

I harbor fantasies handing such a person a flashlight instead of a microphone. Wanna bet they’d tap it, tap, tap and say, “Is this thing on?”

The Flip Side
The opposite of the type of person described above is the one who stands before a group of several hundred people and pushes an available microphone aside proudly saying, “I hate microphones. Never use ‘em. Can everybody hear me?”

Hearing no objections (It is rare that anyone will shout “No!”), he begins speaking, only after a minute or two to be completely drowned out by those in the audience who begin talking, because they cannot hear him.

At that point, he his handed the microphone, and the inevitable fun begins.