Yes, tomorrow morning, Ken (my friend and bodyguard) and I will again head South, this time to spend a couple days in the Volunteer State to visit with some bloggers. I’m told that the other half of the Elderly Brothers will be on the case as well. I figure if we keep this up, AARP may well sign us up to do the Nursing Home Circuit — you know, playing during Bingo Game intermissions and shit.

This time we’ll be cruisin’ in the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car.

Play nice while I’m gone.

Once in a blue moon, I fire up my mind’s ear to actually “listen” to myself speak.

Look, I know that this will come as a shock to youse guys, but I believe I do have a bit of an accent – just a little one. Of course, anyone in the United States who doesn’t speak like Paul Harvey has an accent.

Here are a few examples:

Paul Harvey says “tomato” as toe-MAY-toe.
I say ta-MAY-ta.

Paul Harvey says “our” the same way he pronounces “hour.”
I pronounce “our” as “are.” I do, however, say “hour” like ol’ Paul Harvey does.

Paul Harvey says “chocolate” with all three syllables, as CHAK-o-lit.
I only use two syllables, as in CHOOWK-lit. I know a couple real hardcore Jersey peeps who pronounce it CHOO-wuk-lit.

Paul Harvey says “Monday” and “Tuesday” as MUN-day and TYOOS-day.
I say MUN-dee and TOOS-dee.

On second thought, maybe Paul Harvey is da one wit dee accent.

Check out the most excellent photo spread of vintage airplanes from the 2006 Thunder over Michigan Air Show. I was particularly taken by the photo of the P-38 Lightning, which was one badass plane. There are also several photos of Spitfires, perhaps the most beautiful plane ever designed, as well as a couple shots of the Skyhawk, the type of plane flown by John McCaine when he was shot down over North Vietnam.

Good stuff.

Thanks to my buddy, Gerry

I’d be willing to bet a dollar or two that says that The House by the Parkway is the only place north of the Mason-Dixon Line where there were fried green ‘maters served with dinner tonight. I ate ‘em in Jawja in 2005, and I loved ‘em. These babies were home-grown (in my “back 40”) Jersey ‘maters, finest kind.

Jersey ‘maters, Southern fried – a match made in heaven.

I didn’t, but Bryan of Hot Air did, when talking about Hillary’s apparent political invincibility:

Among the Democrats who have invested the past umpteen years defending all things Clinton, she could probably confess to eating live children and have an army of James Carvilles out defending her within a nanosecond.

Sad, that.

At the outset, let me make this clear. I wouldn’t walk from here to the bathroom to see Bon Jovi (Yeah, even though he’s a Jersey Guy). His music doesn’t move me, and his politics make me want to barf.

Having said that, I received the following comment to this 2004 post from a fellow in Scotland named Gary. Seems like a decent lad and his intentions are, as they say, honorable. If anyone out there (especially youse Jersey Peeps) has any information that might be helpful to Gary, please e-mail it directly to him at the address provided in the comment.

Hi there, no one made a comment in a while, so I hope people are still reading this. My girlfriend and myself are going to Bon Jovi’s concert in New Jersey next month. We are travelling from Scotland, we’ve been to a few concerts and they have all been fantastic but to hear him in New Jersey is my girlfriends dream, and to be honest Im looking forward to it. The thing is as this has been one of her life time ambitions and I managed to get tix on net I have decided to propose to her on the trip. Would love to be able to contact Jon himself to say. The song “summer time” off his new album really sums up our relationship and you would think he knew us when he wrote the words. Guess I just would like to say – if anyone has Jon’s address in New Jersey could they email me it please. No hoaxes or time wasters please. Would love to take her to see his house and propose there, or at the concert. But would love to send him a thank you card. Anyone? My email is gquayle_007@hotmail.com Thank you.

Tanks!

David Thompson has posted a video, which serves to remind me that, with capitalism, where there’s a will, there’s a way.

In a comment somewhere on Eric’s site a while back, I mistyped my name as “Mimbo.” Funny name, that, at least for an American human being. It might work for a cat or a dog, or it might be a perfectly acceptable name, as common as “John,” in some other countries.

The other day while pavement pounding, I got to thinking how many names could be made simply by mistyping the first letter in my name. I think it works for just about all the letters, with possible exception of “I” and “U”.

Wanna see?

Aimbo – Good name for a marksman.

Bimbo – ‘Nuf said.

Cimbo – Sounds a bit like the name one of Tarzan’s animal pals.

Dimbo – A name for a not-too-bright guy.

Eimbo – I can imagine a Nordic skier with that name.

Fimbo – Fat clown name.

Gimbo – A guy who walks with a limp.

Himbo – A guy who, before the surgery, was named “Herbo”

Iimbo – (ideas?)

Jimbo – Duh.

Kimbo – A guy who flails his arms around while dancing.

Limbo – A contortionist.

Mimbo – Some guy who comments on Eric’s blog.

Nimbo – A guy with his head in the clouds.

Oimbo – Joisey for “Ermbo.”

Pimbo – A procurer of ladies of the evening.

Qimbo (Quimbo?) – John Quincy Adams’ profligate son.

Rimbo – A guy who sleeps on bathroom floors.

Simbo – A guy who’s addicted to that lame game with the little peeps.

Timbo – A lumbojack.

Uimbo – (ideas?)

Vimbo – A guy who spends five hours per day at the gym.

Wimbo – A guy who is a constant whiner.

Ximbo – A guy who hates everyone else on this list.

Yimbo – Norwegian “Jimbo.”

Zimbo – A guy who thinks it’s cool to dress like Zorro.

THE ENDO.

Fire Hydrant: Yo, Shorty!

Kucinich: Excuse me, but are you talking to me?

Fire Hydrant: As a matter of fact, I am.

Kucinich: You’ve got some nerve. You’re pretty short yourself.

Fire Hydrant: Well, that makes two things we have in common.

Kucinich: Oh yeah? What’s the other thing?

Fire Hydrant: Neither of us will ever be President.

Here are a few observations and thoughts that popped into my cruller during the round trip drive between New Jersey and Georgia.

Over-the-Road Trucks and Truckers

There sure are a lot of them.

I see trucks on the highway every day, but I don’t see as many as I did between Jersey and Georgia. There’s probably a good reason for that, but I’m not sure what it is. Maybe because the New York-New Jersey metropolitan area is the starting point and ending point for so much stuff that we don’t notice the in-between? Maybe it’s because there are just so many more cars on the road around here that I don’t pay as much attention to the trucks. Deep thoughts.

It occurred to me that if every single truck driver in the country decided to stop driving his or her truck for a week or two, the country would be in very deep ca-ca.

I wondered what kind of life it must be to spend days or weeks at a time driving alone in a truck and essentially living in the sleeper portion of the tractor, no matter how elaborate some of the sleepers are.

I learned from spending a few minutes listening to the Trucker’s channel on Ken’s XM Radio that truckers spend a lot of money tinkering with their trucks to get a mileage increase from, say, 6.8 miles per gallon to 7.0 miles per gallon. So, a cross country trip at 6.8 miles per gallon would require 441 gallons of fuel, while the same trip at 7.0 miles per gallon would require 428 gallons. That tells me how much driving these peeps do in order for that to make a big difference.

Farms

Every time I see a farm, I am reminded of how many things there are in the world that I don’t know shit from Shinola about.

I assume that those big, spindly looking things in various places all over the field are comprised of hay. How the heck does one make those spindly things? Speaking of hay, what the hell is “hay?” Is it just tall grass? If my lawn went a month or so without being mowed, would that be hay?

I also assume that one can become so accustomed to the smell of cowshit that one no longer notices it. I used to live in a town where linoleum was manufactured. Visitors smelled it right away, but I couldn’t smell it. I figure it must be the same for cowshit.

I saw quite a few people wearing overalls. I don’t know anyone who even owns a pair. What’s the deal with them? Why are they better than a pair of jeans? Is it because one doesn’t need a belt?

I figure that Jerry has this shit wired.

Food

In Jersey we have a zillion diners, each with a menu that can weigh a couple pounds, and yet, I have never seen biscuits and gravy on a single one of them. Damned shame, that, but we do have Taylor Ham on all of ‘em. Oh, and I’ve never seen grits on a menu either, but that’s OK, because I still haven’t warmed up to grits. Reminds me of wallpaper paste mixed with birdshot.

Gas Stations

In Jersey we don’t pump our own gas (same with Oregon), which is a really cool thing. However, the down side is that we don’t have (at least anywhere near me) convenience stores attached to gas stations at which one can buy damned near anything. Gas stations here consist of pumps and repair bays. I think, on balance, I would still rather not pump my own, thank you. I can always find a 7-11.

Rest Stops and Roads

After traveling through states south of Jersey where state-operated rest stops are common (and in North and South Carolina are downright nice looking), one enters New Jersey via Route 78 and the only rest stop one encounters is a pull off into the woods. Pissing is either done in a Porta-John or the woods. Classy.

In addition, one can immediately tell when we’re entering New Jersey on Route 78, because the road (repaired with regular strips of tar) shakes the shit out of the car.

This is what happens when the rat bastard politicians in this state raid the Transportation Fund to fatten their wallets and/or to buy votes.

By contrast, on New Jersey’s toll roads (the Garden State Parkway and the New Jersey Turnpike) there are elaborate facilities, which include fast-food eateries and lots of what-not, all of which are franchised out to private operators in exchange for a fee to the state. It’s all about money to the state politicians.

Peeps

In New Jersey, virtually everyone has an attitude, and we wear our attitudes proudly. However, I must confess that it is a pleasure to travel to places where peeps are a helluva lot nicer. It takes about five minutes for my Jersey attitude to evaporate when a total stranger passing you on the street says, “Good morning. How are you doing today?”

I’m turning into a real softie.