I found this over at RSM’s place. Of course, the question posed (“Where should your Inner New Yorker live?”) presumes that legions of people harbor an “Inner New Yorker.” I know for shit sure that I don’t have an Inner New Yorker, because I have no desire to live anywhere in New York City, especially in one of the four lesser boroughs (the ones that are not Manhattan — this, of course, includes the borough that the Wiseass Jooette calls home).

But I took the little quiz for shits and giggles, and here’s what it showed.

You Belong in Soho

Although you may not be a professional artist, you do dabble in one form of art or another. And you indie culture of all kinds – from little botiques to art house films.

Where Should Your Inner New Yorker Live?

I immediately knew it was a quality test when it confirmed that I “indie” culture of all kinds, including “botiques”. For the record, I also “indie” pizzo and penut butter, and long wolks on the beech, but I do not “indie” alligatars, clownz and krabs.

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.

Really, I’ve got nuttin’, except for boundless comtempt for legislators, democrat and republican, who place their own agendas before what I believe is the will of the American People. If you need links to know what I am talking about, then please move on.

If this doesn’t frost your stindeens, I don’t know what will.

Here we have an article and the actual video of a law firm advising its clients and potential clients about the ways to pretend they’re interested in hiring an American when their real goal (as stated plainly in the video) is to make it appear that they are interested in hiring an American, while, at the same time, ensuring that any Americans are who are qualified for and interested in the position are rejected and that a non-American gets hired and gets a coveted Green Card.

The process involves purposefully placing ads in newspapers where the employer knows full well that the readers are not likely to have the requisite qualifications and proceeds to advocating managers to interview those Americans who are qualified and interested in the job in order to manufacture reasons for rejection.

This video has caught the attention of members of Congress, (check the above link).

I applaud them for asking the law firm to explain how this practice does not constitute unlawful discriminitation based on national origin**.

You can make up your own mind.

** Just imagine how this practice would be received if its stated goal were to take active measures to reject people for jobs based on their race.

I don’t know why I do this to myself, but I, all too often, do.

It’s not good for my mental or physical health.

In fact, it’s truly self-destructive.

My day is shot.

Yes, I watched Meet the Press.

I must go outside for some cleansing breaths.

Well, it’s Friday, and I’m all thunk out and too tired to write much of anything. So, this seems to be a good time to share a video that PastaKeith (a/k/a Pastor Keith a genuine clergy guy and a sometimes reader of this blog – go figure) mentioned a while back in a comment to a post.

The video answers the question, “What if the Beatles were Irish?”

Funny stuff, that.

Well, New Jersey has kicked off yet another Fireworks Crackdown. Since I was kid, it has been unlawful to even possess fireworks in New Jersey. If we were caught with firecrackers, cherry bombs or the like, the local police would confiscate them on the spot, which, of course, meant that the cops’ kids always had the best fireworks.

When one grows up in a state where fireworks, by law, are contraband (i.e. something the mere possession of which is unlawful), it is easy to forget that other states have different rules. So, when Ken, my friend and bodyguard, and I were in Tennessee last October, we could not resist taking a side trip to a fireworks store (I believe it was this one, or one just like it).

I remembered as a boy traveling with my parents by car to Florida seeing grubby looking fireworks stands, but this was different. The experience was much like that of a life-long junkie visiting a Heroin Superstore. We walked around the large, neon-lit, spotless store marveling at the things that one could buy in Tennessee, the mere possession of which in the Garden State could put you in deep shit. There were fireworks of every description, all nicely displayed. It was farookin’ amazing!

At one point, the clerk ambled up to us as we were wide-eyed checking out a “Super Pack,” which included mortars and God knows what else. He fired up a video of the contents of the kit in all their explosive glory. He said, “If you boys are interested in this, you really need to check this out,” at which point, he directed us to the MONDO COLLECTION of fireworks that contained an array of colorfully blasting, banging, flying, poofing, “ooooooh” and “aaahhhhhh” provoking explosive know to man.

I think Ken would have been game to fill up his SUV with a shitload of fireworks, including the MONDO COLLECTION, but out of respect for my desire to not be arrested as a “fireworks smuggler” and thereby jeopardizing Mr. Law License, he didn’t press the issue.

I’d be willing to bet that some Jersey cop’s kid has the MONDO COLLECTION ready to go on the Fourth of July.

Knowing that I like music and that I hate alligators, Dave of A Different Lemming sent me this article, which deals with the curious effect that a B flat note played two octaves below a middle C (i.e. a really LOW note) has on alligators.

While I found the notion that a particular man-made tone could trigger instinctive responses in reptiles that have been on the planet for roughly 30 million years, I could not help but think how much I would like to visit that place with a high-powered rifle and with a master tuba player in tow.

Read it, and you’ll catch my drift

It will be faster than a speeding bullet and more powerful than a locomotive.

It took me long enough, but I finally ordered a new computer. As we speak, the custom doodads are being placed under its hood. It is a kickass 17” notebook that contains the memory of a 100 herds of elephants and will be as fast as an F22 Raptor. It’s bad to the bone. The mondo unit will be WiFi’d so that I can create these pearls of wisdom from anywhere in the House by the Parkway and its immediate surroundings.

When I don’t feel like blogging from the Deck or from Mr. Recliner, I will be able to place it into its docking station and use a regular keyboard and mouse and check shit out on a new 19” flat screen. Screw something up? No problem. I’ll have an external drive that backs everything up. Hell, it’s even got a webcam in it, which will come in handy if I ever feel like mooning the ‘sphere.

Fortunately, a colleague and friend of mine, who is a serious computer guy, has graciously volunteered to come to the House by the Parkway and wire it all up and make sure it’s battle ready.

Of course, once he leaves, I’ll have to figure out how to make all of it work. I may have a question or two.

Can a digital camera be far behind?

Stay tuned.

I finally got around to buying a DVD Player.

Although finally buying something in 2007 that has been available since 1996 is pretty lame, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. We have a laptop DVD player and another one built in to the upstairs TV, but the built-in DVD player was on the fritz. What makes this a big deal is that I never had a DVD player hooked up to the TV in the room where Mr. Recliner resides. Don’t ask. It’s a long, boring story starring Yours Truly as the Techno-Doofus.

Anyway, a week or so ago when I tried to fire up the VCR (I had one of those, but I hadn’t used it in a couple years) to tape the final episode of the Sopranos for a friend of mine, the damned thing was obviously kaput. As a result, I had to move the TV (and the cabinet housing it) away from the wall to unplug the stuff that married the VCR to the digital cable box and the TV.

While I was behind the TV, I took the time to see what kind of inputs the TV has. I had always thought that because it is a very old TV (Don’t ask. Another long story), it lacked the necessary inputs to permit the hookup of a DVD Player. To my surprise, it looked to me (based on some recently acquired information about DVD Player hookupage) that hooking up a DVD player might not be out of the question. Visions of actually watching DVDs while sitting in Mr. Recliner began to dance in my head.

As it happens, Ken, my friend and bodyguard, was at the House by the Parkway to do me a huge favor (more on that at a later date), so he took a look and confirmed that a DVD player could be hooked up. Seeing as how he was headed out to Best Buy to look at some speakers, I decided to go along to buy TWO DVD Players – one for the upstairs TV and one for the room where Mr. Recliner resides.

I managed to find exactly what I was looking for, namely two DVD Players that do absolutely nothing more than – you guessed it — play DVDs. I don’t want to record TV programs, I don’t want to program the thing to come on and go off at specified times (as if I could if I wanted to), and I don’t want programmable electric asswipes. I wanted two widgets that PLAY DVDs – nothing more. They were on sale for $29.95 each!

Ken, being anal and all, and also knowing that I would wring my hands for months over actually plugging the units in, insisted we return immediately to the House by the Parkway to install them. He managed to do just that on both sets without reading any instructions, but rather by plugging and unplugging wires and pressing a shitload of buttons until it was right. I need to learn how to proceed with such reckless techno-abandon.

So, yesterday, I happily planted my ass in Mr. Recliner and actually watched a DVD, one that the Wiseass Brooklyn Jooette gave me in Kerrville, suggesting at the time that it was something that a Jersey Guy would like. I did — a lot. Perhaps more on that later.

Oh yeah. There is probably one benefit to waiting so long to get around to buying a DVD Player. I’ll bet you couldn’t buy one for $29.95 in 1996.