I sat down in front of the computer hoping that the mush inside my cruller would magically congeal into something writeworthy and, more importantly, something readworthy. Just as I was about to surrender to the unyielding brain goop and step away from the computer, I glanced at my watch and the little date thingy on its face.

Well, I’ll be damned. It seems that, as of today, I have been at this blogging thing for five farookin’ years. It all started with this post, and here I am more than 2,100 posts and almost 11,000 comments later. Who’d a thunk it?

This exercise has provided me with countless hours of excellent reading, more laughs than a person has a right to have and a chance to have some fun tossing my written turds into the collective punchbowl. Most importantly, blogging has introduced me to a collection of truly amazing, talented, funny and thoughtful people both in the real world and in the cyber world.

I offer my heartfelt thanks to everyone who has found this place to be worth a piece of their valuable time. I am genuinely grateful.

Ironic that it is today that I found myself wondering if the number of writeworthy things is finite and, if so, whether I have hit the proverbial wall. The good news is that being reminded of this hardly noteworthy occasion provided me with something to write about today.

We’ll see what tomorrow brings.

Apparently, there is no end to the disgusting political rot that exists in this state. Here’s the latest bit of skullduggery, courtesy of our incumbent state lawmakers, as pointed out by Deborah Howlett of the Star Ledger.

These are some of the highlights. As they say, read it all for all the disgusting deets.

All Jersey’s lawmakers are given a budget of $110,000 for the purpose of hiring aides to perform various functions that come with holding public office. Some lawmakers use the budgeted funds to hire a few professionals, but others use some or all the funds to reward party hacks, and their family members, many of whom already hold a public office.

I know you’re thinking, Yo, Jimbo. Where’s the news there? All politicians reward their friends and loyal backers.

The kicker here is that the politicians hand out jobs with salaries just high enough to qualify the recipients for taxpayer-funded pensions and taxpayer funded benefits, which include medical, dental and prescription drug coverage.

Here are a couple of the more noteworthy gems cited by Ms. Howlett (paraphrased by Yours Truly):

One county administrator who earns $131,600 per year has a $4,000 gig (plus taxpayer-funded pension credits) as a part-time aid to a state senator. The purchasing director from the same county supplements his $104,880 county salary with a an additional $3,000 (plus taxpayer-funded pensions credits) to serve as an aide to the same state senator.

A Director of a County Improvement Authority (Whatever the hell that is) who earns $132,910 and who is also the chairperson of the County Democrat party socks away an additional $10,000 as an aide to a Democrat State Assemblyman. The $10K salary is high enough to qualify her for taxpayer-funded pension credits and taxpayer-funded medical and dental benefits.

The father of former governor Jim McGreevey has been an aide to a Democrat state senator since 1994 for $15,000 per year, entitling him to taxpayer-funded pension credits and taxpayer-funded medical and dental benefits. Who knew?

This one is downright comical. You might need to draw a diagram to follow the money: A county sheriff’s daughter served as an aide to a state assemblyman at the same time that the state assemblyman served as an “undersheriff” to her father, the county sheriff. This ended when the state assemblyman/“undersheriff” was arrested by federal agents this spring on corruption charges and resigned both offices.

You can’t make this shit up.

Here are the numbers, as reported by the Star Ledger:

Among the 705 people employed by the 120 members of the Senate and Assembly, more than a quarter are paid just enough to reach the threshold for pension credit or health benefits. Forty-four aides hold other government jobs, and 23 either hold elected or appointed office or are related to someone who does.

This crap crosses party lines, which is why the voters who returned all but one incumbent to the state legislature a few weeks ago deserve everything they get.

The problem is that the rest of us have to get it too.

A Scene from this Morning’s Walk.

As I was doing this morning’s ground pound, I was formulating a post in my cruller about politics and stuff, but the more I thought about it, the angrier I was becoming. It occurred to me that my anger was screwing up my walk on a beautiful, crisp autumn day.

I chose to let it go for today.

In fact, I think I just might try a blog-free weekend. I have a few chores to attend to and a book or two that needs reading.

We’ll see how it goes.

Rather than scouring the web for an appropriate Thanksgiving image, I thought that I would draw one myself.

The Joanster and John Cox ain’t got nuttin’ on me.

Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving to youse.

100%ALCOHOLIC

Jeez, I prefer to think of myself simply as one who enjoys an occasional libation.

Found it at Curmudgeonisms

You know who Suzanne Malveaux is, don’t you? Sure you do. She’s the CNN news person who introduced Wolf Blitzer to the “undecided” voters during the most recent democrat debate.

I have to admit that it grates on my nerves every time I hear her and others pronounce her first name as “Su-ZAHN.” DoucheBAHG thing, if you ask me.

Then again, I suppose anyone can pronounce his or her name any way he or she wants. I am reminded of this.

I know damned well that whenever youse peeps visit your local liquor emporium you stare at the ever increasing array of booze. You invariably focus on a particular bottle and think to yourself, “Damn, I’d sure like to try that, but I’m not too thrilled about forking over twenty bucks for something that might taste like shit.” You move on, picking up one of your tried and true favorites knowing … just KNOWING that “Ol’ Jimbo will get around to trying that stuff and letting us know whether it’s worth a double sawbuck.”

Well, if you recently found yourself staring at a bottle of Three Olives Pomegranate Vodka (presumably while you were there to pick up a bottle of Three Olives Chocolate Vodka, the magic elixir) and you wondered whether it is worth a shit, worry no more.

Yes, I picked up a bottle yesterday and placed in the freezer for today’s tasting. I poured myself a generous helping directly from the freezer. I gave it a whiff, then a generous “sip.” I liked it. The taste of the fruit is not overpowering, but rather it remains in the background just enough so that the vodka comes through sufficiently to serve as a pre-dinner belt. At the same time, there is enough fruit in the taste to enjoy it as an after dinner drink, if one wishes to avoid the often too syrupy after dinner cordials. It would also stand up well to ice (of course, only clear ice will do).

Then again, it would kick ass right out of the bottle. The brown paper bag is optional.

Note: I have no connection with any entity that makes, sells or promotes the stuff, nor has any entity paid me anything to write this (not that it’s worth a dime). In fact, it cost me twenty bucks to write this post. Just so’s ya know. The things I do for youse peeps.

PRS Operatives have learned that Hillary has a dog. This struck us as strange, because Mrs. Clinton just never struck us as much of a “dog person” any more than she is a “people person,” despite her best campaigning efforts to appear to be the latter.

True to form, PRS Operatives have managed to gain access to the Hillary Pooch and even got the chance to get an interview. Interview? Absolutely. We used a variant of Wooftalk translation software, which we believe has been extensively used here.

PRS: Thanks so much for taking the time to talk with us today.

Dog: You’re welcome.

PRS: So, I see that you’re a Dalmatian.

Dog: Yeah. What tipped you off? Must have been the spots.

PRS: I’m sorry; I was just trying to be friendly. Of course, you’re a Dalmatian.

Dog: No need to apologize. Maybe I should apologize. I get cranky sometimes.

PRS: Do you know how is it that Hillary happened to choose a Dalmatian?

Dog: Well, her campaign handlers said that it would be a good idea, PR-wise, for her to have a dog. You know, make her more human and all that crap. So, the question of what kind of dog she should get was put before a focus group.

PRS: That question was put before a focus group? Seems like a strange thing to ask a focus group.

Dog: Are you kidding me? That woman doesn’t do a goddamned thing in public that isn’t first tested in a focus group. Remember that bullshit southern accent? Focus group, and they sure screwed that one up, didn’t they! OK, so anyway, the “What kind of dog should Hillary have?” question was put to a focus group. The results showed that a white dog was unacceptable, as was a black one. Some kind of a race thing. They concluded that the dog should be both black and white, and they suggested a Dalmatian.

PRS: Interesting. How is it that you, in particular, were chosen? Were you purchased from a breeder, because to my untrained eye, you appear to be a pure breed?

Dog: Nope. Her handlers found me locked up at a local pound (the focus group insisted that Hillary’s dog must come from a pound, not from a breeder and definitely not from a pet store).

PRS: How did you end up in a pound?

Dog: Sad story. I was a firehouse dog for a couple years. Man, what a great gig that was. Terrific food and plenty of it. I had lots of human companionship. It was super.

PRS: What happened?

Dog: Stupid me. I managed to get a sassy little Irish Setter in trouble. No one was the wiser until the puppies came out looking really strange and all spotty and shit. Off to the pound I went. I spent a few weeks there, and then Hillary’s people came to the pound looking for a Dalmatian. They were cooing about the seriously important and seriously smart woman I would be living with. Damn, I figured that I had hit the lottery! I was happy as hell when they brought me to her place.

PRS: By the way, how long have you been living with Hillary?

Dog: Three or four months; I’ve lost track.

PRS: How is it working out for you? Living with Hillary.

Dog: Man, this gig really stinks – big time! You have no idea.

PRS: How so? You look healthy, so I assume she is feeding you well.

Dog: Hardly. All I ever get from her is fast food wrappers. And, man, she sure generates a shitload of them. I’m supposed to survive by licking the damned wrappers. Like a dog can survive on a smattering of ketchup and a slather of melted cheese. If it wasn’t for one of the guys on her Secret Service detail who brings me good stuff to eat every day, I’d look like one of those pitiful dogs on the ASPCA posters that you see in convenience stores.

PRS: That’s awful. Maybe she is just very busy and forgets to feed you.

Dog: Bullshit. She’s made it clear that she doesn’t want to bother with me and that I’m here strictly for public relations purposes. I tried to make friends with her a couple times. You know, running up to her all happy face and bouncing around as she walks in the door, but each time I tried, she kicked me and said, “Will SOMEBODY get this goddamned mutt away from me.” Also, whenever she is in a bad mood, I can count on her throwing stuff at me. Hit me with a lamp once. I hear she has a pattern of doing that.

PRS: She kicks you and throws stuff at you? How many times will you let her do that before you take a bite out of her?

Dog: Dude, you gotta be kidding me. You never heard of Arkancide? Remember the dog that she and her husband had in Chappaqua? They said he was run over by a car? You think I believe that shit?

PRS: Can you recall a time when she treated you the worst?

Dog: Hell, yeah. It was a couple weeks ago during that debate when she screwed up the question about the drivers licenses. She had left the TV on at home, so I watched it. When she screwed up those questions, I laughed so hard I shit. I mean I really shit. Messed up the living room floor real bad. I couldn’t help myself.

PRS: So, what happened?

Dog: When she finally arrived home, half in the bag, and saw the mess, she really kicked hell out of me. All the while she was kicking me, she was screaming something about “that sonofabitch Russert.” It went on for at least an hour. I was sore for days.

PRS: That’s horrible.

Dog: Dude, “Horrible” is an understatement. Believe you, me.

PRS: Does she ever have guests over, and, if so, how does she treat you on those occasions?

Dog: Yeah, she has guests from time to time, and she pretends to like me. She pets me in front of them and says shit like, “Meet Spot. Isn’t he cute?”

PRS: “Spot?” Not very original is it?

Dog: Focus Group; what can I tell you? When I was at the firehouse my name was Rex – an ass kicking name, no? The focus group hated it. Too aggressive.

PRS: Sorry. I interrupted you. You were talking about her guests.

Dog: Yeah, her guests. Things sometimes get really wild when she has certain guests over. Lots of booze and smoking, and it ain’t tobacco, if you catch my drift. Lots of government types and an occasional visit by well-built man named Sven. On each occasion, I’ve seen her give him money as he is leaving. Some weird shit goes on with Sven, let me tell you.

PRS: Does anyone other than Sven stand out in your mind?

Dog: Absolutely, it’s her friend – the one she calls “Pearl,” who is always going about being the SPEAKER in the House or some shit. When she shows up, things get really crazy. You just never know what to expect.

PRS: Such as?

Dog: OK, the last time that “Pearl” was here, the two of them must have drunk a case of Cristal and smoked what looked like a half a pound of what they described as “some really kickass herb.” They were laughing and dancing around half-naked to Pearl’s Grateful Dead albums. It was quite disgusting to see. But, it got worse.

PRS: Worse? How so?

Dog: Well, after they danced all over the place saying shit like, “Power to the People!” The watched a couple midget wrestling DVD’s. I think Pearl brought them over too. Then it got even worse.

PRS: Really? What happened?

Dog: After the midget wrestling thing, they both put on dog costumes.

PRS: You’re shitting me.

Dog: No way. They really did. They put on dog costumes and started barking and growling and wrestling with each other on the floor. Then, after they both looked real tired, they stayed on the floor on all fours, and they each turned their heads toward me, batted their eyes and gave me that “come hither” look.

PRS: Holy crap! Are you saying that they wanted you to …?

Dog: Look, I’m not sure what they wanted, but all I know is that I was scared shitless, just thinking about it.

PRS: So, what did you do?

Dog: I pretended to have a seizure. I think I scared them. They took off their dog costumes and called a Secret Service guy in to take me to a vet, where I was shot full of drugs that sent me into doggie La-La Land. I was shuffling around here half stupid for days.

PRS: Christ, that’s horrible. Is there something I can do to get you out of here?

Dog: I doubt it.

PRS: Waddya say I call PETA?

Dog: Are you shitting me? Those crazy bastards are big supporters of hers.

PRS: Hell, I’ll just write her telling her that I know about the way she has abused you.

Dog: I wouldn’t do that, Bro.

PRS: Why not?

Dog: Arkancide. Listen, I gotta go. She’s due back, and if she learns about this, she’ll make that Michael Vick guy look like goddamned Mister Rogers.

PRS: OK. I’ll stay in touch.

Dog: Yeah, you do that, Bro.

This for peeps who lived in Newark, or in its immediate environs, as they say, “back in the day.” I was born in Newark (“Down Neck”) and grew up in a town that was a walk or bike ride away. It was often the center of family activities, as my grandmother (“Granny”), grandfather, aunts, uncles and several cousins (including Cousin Jack) continued to live “Down Neck.”

It was lifted (with a tweak or two) from the “Newark Memories” website, specifically from a piece called “You might be from Newark, if you …” by Barbara Vitale Bihus, which was sent to me by my pal, PITA. There is a treasure trove of information and memories at “Newark Memories,” including an excellent remembrance of the 1967 Newark riots, written by Cousin Jack.

Anyway, on with the show. My comments are in parentheses.

You might be from Newark, if you …

1. Have eaten at Jimmy Buff’s and loved it. (We were partial to the Italian hot dogs from a place on Ferry Street, near Jackson Street, a place with perpetually greasy windows.)

2. Shopped at Bamberger’s, Klein’s, Orbach’s, Kresge’s and Hahne’s. (Yep)

3. Went “down the shore” on your summer vacation. (Everyone did.)

4. Went “up the lake” on Sunday afternoons. (Yep, with several coolers and lots of charcoal.)

5. Have to the “feast” at least once in your childhood. (No, but do trips to the Polish Falcons Polanka count?)

6. Know where Olympic Park was. (For a time, it was my most favorite place on earth.)

7. Went to Rye Beach, or Palisades Park or Bear Mountain on your grammar school class trip. (Rye Beach and Palisades, yes, but not on class trips. I recall having been dragged to the United Nations building and herded to the Newark Museum for class trips.)

8. Wanted to be a Rockette (if you’re a girl). (My legs are too short, and, anyway, I would not have passed the physical.)

9. Wanted to be an outfielder for the New York Yankees (if you’re a boy). (Absolutely, Mickey Mantle, unless you were a Giants or *gasp* a Brooklyn Dodgers fan, in which case you wanted to be Willie Mays or Duke Snider, respectively.)

10. Knew at least one person who knew Connie Francis. (Yep. Mrs. Parkway’s uncle used to bounce Connie on his knee when she was a wee one.)

11. Knew at least one person who knew one member of the Four Seasons. (Yep)

12. Knew at least one person who knew Frank Sinatra. (No, but I know legions of peeps who worship him.)

13. Knew at least one person that didn’t know Jerry Lewis. (I don’t know anyone who knew him.)

14. Thought South Orange was in the mountains. (Yep, until I saw the Rockies and the Alps.)

15. Know what a “Ting-A-Ling” hot dog was. (Ya got me with that one.)

16. Never went through a summer without real lemon ice. (Absolutely. Adams Street, Down Neck – the real item.)

17. Were never allowed to go to the City Pools because you might get polio. (I remember it well. My friend two houses away contracted polio.)

18. Always went shopping downtown. (Yes, unless you lived Down Neck, in which case you went “uptown.”)

19. Knew where to find fresh mozzarella and home-made raviolis and sausage. (Yep)

20. Think Branch Brook Park and Sacred Heart Cathedral are the eighth and ninth Wonders of the World. (Sacred Heart – home of the mondo carillon.)

21. Realize that it takes good water to make great beer. (There were lots of breweries; most gone now.)

22. Consider anything east of Route 1; south of the airport; north of Bloomfield Avenue and west of the Parkway are not really in New Jersey. (Yep)

23. Remember the Ragman, the Iceman, The Bleachman, The Tripeman, the Beerman and the Good Humor Man. (I remember the Ragman, the Iceman and the Good Humor Man, and I know people who speak of the Bleachman. Never heard of the Tripeman, but if he was hawking tripe, I probably didn’t pay much attention.)

24. Still wish you could shop in the dime store on Springfield Avenue. (Ha! Nothing costs a dime now, and a flak jacket is recommended shopping on Springfield Avenue.)

25. Know that Breyer’s made the best ice-cream. (My mother worked there for a while. She actually hand-dunked the vanilla ice cream on a stick to make “chocolate-covereds.”)

26. Know that Ballantine made the best beer. (The best ale, for sure.)

27. Know that Tastee made the best bread. (For peanut butter and jelly, anyway.)

28. Know that Hoffman made the best soda. (Cream was my favorite.)

29. Know that Prudential made the best insurance. (Provided lots of jobs for peeps I knew.)

30. Know that the Italians lived in the North Ward; if you were Jewish, you lived in the Weequahic section; the Polish lived “down neck” and the Irish lived in Vailsburg. (Yep)

31. Can remember the finest hotels in the world were on Broad Street; the Robert Treat and the Military Park Hotel. (Yep. Park Records and the Dingleman – greatest donuts ever – were near the Military Park Hotel.)

32. Know that the poor people lived in Stephen Crane Village. (We knew those kinds of places as “The Projects.”)

33. Knew that only people on welfare went to City Hospital; everyone else went to Saint Michael’s; Saint Barnabus, and Presbyterian. (Born in St. Michael’s)

34. Are aware that there was a reservoir on South Orange Avenue. (Yep, and some peeps called it the “REZ-ah-voy.”)

35. Know what a “stoop” is. (Absolutely, and we also knew what “stoop ball” is.)

36. Think that the Adams Theater on Branford Place is bigger and better than Radio City Music Hall. (I saw the “Rolling Stones” live in, I believe, 1963 at the Adams.)

37. Think The Newark News was the world’s greatest newspaper. (We were always Newark Star Ledger peeps.)

38. Remember the Thanksgiving Day rivalries between Irvington and West Side, and Barringer And East Orange. (By the time I was old enough to pay attention to football, it was Kearny vs. Nutley – Kearny usually lost.)

39. Know that the building with Abe Lincoln sitting outside is really the Hall of Records. (Yep, not the courthouse.)

40. Don’t think of citrus when people mention “the Oranges”. (Yep, and they included the plain as well as the East, West and South variaties.)

41. Ordered a hard roll with butter for breakfast. (Still do.)

42. Remember that the “Two Guys” were from Harrison. (Yep. My mother knew one of them. His name was “Herb.” They started out in a trailer outside of the RCA plant in Harrison. My mother always called “Two Guys” “Herb’s” even when they wound up having gigantic department stores.)

43. Know what a jug handle is. (Absolutely – Get in the right lane if one is coming up.)

44. Know that ours is the only “New” State that doesn’t require the “New” (like try…Mexico, York, Hampshire; it doesn’t work.) (Yep)

45. Consider a corned beef sandwich with lettuce and mayo a sacrilege. (Or eaten on anything other than kickass rye should be a crime.)

46. Eaten a boardwalk cheese steak with vinegar fries. (Yep, and I’d include a “sausage, pepper and onion” [sandwich] as well.)

47. Never pumped your own gas. (New Jersey’s one undeniably good thing.)

48. Know where “Down Neck” is. (Born there.)

49. Know where the Bath House on Clifton Ave. is. (No, but I know where the Wilson Ave. Bath House used to be.)

AND FINALLY

50. Can actually remember when Newark was….GREAT!!!

This sure screwed up Friday night rush hour traffic around these parts.

Escaped mental patient, knife, baseball bat, SWAT guys and flash-bangs … oh my.