Your Career Type: Artistic

You are expressive, original, and independent. Your talents lie in your artistic abilities: creative writing, drama, crafts, music, or art. You would make an excellent: Actor – Art Teacher – Book Editor Clothes Designer – Comedian – Composer Dancer – DJ – Graphic Designer Illustrator – Musician – Sculptor The worst career options for your are conventional careers, like bank teller or secretary.

Via Tammi

As I was walking this morning, I considered the New Jersey Governor’s race, marked now by polls, which, I assume, are not what many democrats expected. I got to wondering how many Jersey democrats are quietly wishing that their party leaders would have nominated Acting Governor Dick Codey for governor rather than Jon Corzine. Might they privately feel that their party leaders were brought along by Corzine money and the then-conventional wisdom that Corzine would steamroll Doug Forrester?

Might they think, as do I, that Dick Codey would have come off as a real person, who, if he were to promise to deal with Jersey corruption, might actually be believed by virtually all democrats, many independents and even some republicans who might not be completely sold on Doug Forrester?

Instead, their party leaders delivered unto them an empty suit, gazillionaire bachelor, who appears to be running because he is bored with all his old toys and whose prior relationships with Torricelli, McGreevey and a host of democrat bosses and at least one convicted felon make his corruption fighting promises downright laughable.

Just thinking out loud here.

Our Mostly Cajun friend was amused at my freaking out over someone spotting a three-foot alligator wandering around in New Jersey. He tells us Northern Ladies and Gentlemen how such a thing would be handled in Cajun country.

I wonder if he has a recipe for clown sauce piquant.

I came across this meme at A Secular Franciscan Life. I had fun with it. All you need do is run a google search for “[Your first name] needs”. The results are quite comical, and, as a bonus, they constitute passable blog fodder. Here’s what I found:

Jimbo needs a house.
Well, one by the ocean would be swell.

Jimbo needs a new outfit for his new role, something involving one of those there corsets he’s so keen on.
I think I’d look good in something lacey — in shocking pink, of course.

Jimbo needs some kind of Lynn Peak patch for his pack.
That would be a six pack, I presume.

Jimbo needs to be placed in a home with some one who would be willing to spend some time with him.
Tough selling job there.

Jimbo needs a shrink.
You must be out of your mind.

Jimbo needs more than one!
Cocktails, I presume.

Jimbo needs a hug.
Awwwwwww

Jimbo needs a new mukluk hat.
No thanks. Those mukluk things are hell on great farookin’ hair.

Jimbo needs to get laid.
Oh, my!

Jimbo needs to calm down and be a peaceable community member.
It’s tough, when you live in a Blue State.

Jimbo needs to take himself and his “lust in his heart” back home to the peanut farm.
Yo! Definitely got the wrong Jimbo there.

Jimbo needs to go crawl back into his slimy little crowded GOP Hole.
See what I mean about living in a Blue State?

Jimbo needs help.
Someone who knows HTML and Style Sheet Stuff might be nice.

Jimbo needs to see the dentist.
I go regularly, thank you, for the care of my many crowns.

Jimbo needs to find a backer for this project toot-sweet!
No, maybe he needs to see a dentist, after all, for that sweet toot. What?

Jimbo needs a roomie.
Got one already, thanks.

Jimbo needs to “get liberated”.
Perhaps I shall burn my bra.

Jimbo needs to mow the lawn.
Jimbo has a Lawn Guy.

Jimbo needs to relax a little.
But what about my blog?

Jimbo needs a nap.
But what about my blog?

Jimbo needs a donut!
Like a hole in the head.

Jimbo needs her to give him a spanky!
”Spankies” really don’t do it for me. Got any boozy?

Jimbo needs to get his facts straight.
So does the New York Times.

Jimbo needs to calm down and apologise to Worthy.
Worthy, old chap, I’m sorry. Happy now?

Jimbo needs to stop listening to his dog.
He’s boring, anyway. He only wants to talk about calculus.

As if the torrential rains, floods, a leaky roof and a flaming socket were not enough, it seems that an alligator was found walking around in someone’s back yard in Piscataway, New Jersey. That’s right; I said an ALLI-FAROOKIN’-GATOR was walking around in someone’s yard. In. New. Jersey!!

Police were summoned to the scene, and they, in turn, called the Town’s Animal Control Officer, who ultimately took the three-foot long creature to a local animal shelter. The Animal Control Officer reported that, in 28 years on the job, he had never received an alligator call.

Now, I know that my southern friends like Catfish (who wades into ponds where thirteen foot alligators are known to be lurking) will think that I’m a chicken shit for getting freaked out over a three-foot alligator. I disagree for the following reasons.

First, remember that this is New Goddamned Jersey, not Florida or Georgia.

Second, remember that, before one of these horrible beasts can be thirteen feet long, it has to be three feet long.

Third, I am scared shitless of alligators; I don’t care how goddamned big or small they are.

How did the damned thing get here? I have no idea, but my guess is that some knucklehead thought that it would be “fun” to bring an alligator into the Garden State and turn it loose during the rain. If so, I wish eternal festering carbuncles on the guilty party’s sorry ass.

What’s next? Locusts?

Note: The link to this story, which appeared in the online version of Newsday, was sent to me this morning by That One Guy, who obviously takes great joy in loosening my bowels. When I tried posting the link, the story had been taken down. So, you’ll either have to pay Newsday to be able to read the story, or you can take my word for it. You should know that I would not bullshit about anything as serious and horrible as an alligator walking around the Garden State.

Yes, it’s true. On this date, I made my grand entrance (feet first, I have been told – It figures) onto the planet. I’m pretty sure that it must have been around the same time as the invention of the wheel, because I have vague auditory recollections of people all around me saying, “WTF?? What is that?”

I am pleased to say that I share this boitdate with Zonker of Thunder and Roses, the man who is doing his damdest to make the mullet respectable. Happy Boitday, Zonk!

As a Libran, I am in excellent blogger company. That would include, Eric, the Lovely Rita, Pammy, the Amazin’ Denny (on the cusp, anyway), and Silk. According to the people who read the stars and planets, that makes all of us:

Diplomaitic and urbane
Romantic and charming
Easygoing and sociable
Idealistic and peaceable

That sounds just about right.

Last night TJ and Mr. Surly stopped by with wonderful gifties, which consisted of several bottles of top-shelf bourbon. I also received the Complete DVD Set of Black Adder. (Eric turned me on to this when he was in Jersey.) After that, we went out to a local restaurant that specializes in Northern Italian cuisine to stuff our faces. This was followed a return trip home for coffee and TJ’s homemade apple tart and homemade brownies, loaded with Ghirardelli chocolate chips. As I always have said, calories don’t count at a birthday party.

So, what’s up for today – the actual boitday?

Turns out that it is my turn to tend bar at the Post, so I will be pretty busy. The bad news is that I will be doing a fair amount of hustling around. The good news is that The Usual Suspects will be on the case, and they’re sure as shit great peeps to spend one’s boitday wit.

h/t Just Us Chickens.

It seems that a couple spots on the roof of The House by the Parkway could not handle eight or nine days of straight rain and consequently leaked. What a thrill. Time to call the Roof Guy, whose dance card is doubtless full this week.

As if the leak were not bad enough, it found its way to an electric socket upstairs and smoked it. Thankfully, the short triggered the circuit breaker. By some miracle, the curtains had been taken down the day before. Otherwise, I would be referring to the place as “The Pile of Smouldering Ruins by the Parkway.” Of course, this means that there are no lights upstairs.

For the hell of it, I went downstairs a few minutes ago and gave the circuit breaker a flip, thinking that perhaps the socket dried out and we could at least have lights upstairs. BAD IDEA! Mrs. Parkway freaked when a flame shot out of the socket. Time for Mr. Electrician. So, until Monday, it’s flashlights upstairs.

As annoying as all this is, I know that other people in Jersey are having much bigger problems as a result of the recent deluge.

There is, however, some good news. The farookin’ SUN appeared today. I was beginning to think that it was on a poimanent vacation.

Sgt. Hook is back!

I, for one, have sorely missed having this outstanding soldier, great American and master wordsmith around.

Welcome back, Sarge.

Teresa of Technicalities shares her problem with a new washing machine, which appears to be leaking. Her post reminds me of something that proves, beyond peradventure, my utter dumbshittery when it comes to things mechanical, like washing machines.

Being an accomplished Laundry Guy, I spend a good deal of time with the washing machine in the basement of the House by the Parkway. I know the correct water temperature for each of the wash and rinse cycles for everything from dainties to grubby whites. I can look at a pile of stuff and know whether I need the low, medium, high or mondo high water level. Extra rinse? I have that wired too. Normal or ass-kicking wash cycle? No problem. However, just because I can operate the washing machine with the ease of playing my set of Ludwigs or my beloved Gibson, it doesn’t mean that I have a clue as to how the damned thing works.

A few years ago, I was in the basement working on the piles of dirty (or deemed, by convention, to be dirty) laundry (properly sorted, of course), when I noticed that there was a puddle near the washing machine. Behaving, as the mechanically feckless must, I ignored the puddle on the floor, hoping that the puddle was some kind of a weird aberration – perhaps Maytag’s version of a water fart. It was a case of Broken Appliance Denial.

Unfortunately, with each passing load, the puddle re-appeared. I had to face the truth. Mr. Washing Machine was sick and possibly dying.

I looked, but I was unable to find the source of the leak, which led me to conclude that the leak must be coming from somewhere in the bowels of the machine, a mysterious place where I dare not go.

The conclusion was inescapable. The machine was too old to spend the money that would surely be necessary to have it fixed. It was time for a new washing machine.

We went out to Big Store on Route 22 and picked out a new Maytag.

“No thanks, Jitendra, I don’t need the one with the electric ass-wipes. I just wanna wash dirty clothes is all.

“Do I want the ‘Super Guarantee’ – The one where you if you ever, EVER have a problem, just call Big Store, and Big Store will immediately make it right? And, I don’t have to deal with the manufacturer?

“Sounds good.” I said. “Sign me up.”

The next day, two burly guys came to the house and delivered the brand-new Maytag. Pursuant to the terms of my Agreement, they dragged the old washer up the cellar stairs and loaded it onto their truck, presumably, to be deposited in some place where old, leaky washing machines go.

I eagerly read the instructions for the new washer, and I was ready to rock. For the machine’s maiden voyage, I tossed in a load of cold-water colors and pushed all the right buttons. Sweet.

Forty minutes later, I returned to the cellar to remove the clothes.

ACK!!

There was a puddle on the floor! This can’t be.

I was seriously pissed. I immediately called the Super Guarantee number provided by Big Store and reported the problem. The person on the other end of the line gave me the Maytag “800” number, explaining that the Super Guarantee didn’t kick in for ninety days. So much for Big Store’s bullshit Super Guarantee.

I called the Maytag “800” number, and the person must have thought she was dealing with Charles Manson. Of course, she didn’t know anything about the Super Guarantee I purchased at Big Store. Rather, she suggested that I try to locate exactly where the leak was coming from and call her back.

By this time, I was pissed beyond description.

Still, I decided that I would play along and do my best to locate the source of the leak. I also planned to take pictures, because I wanted to carefully preserve the evidence that I would use to sue the shit out of Maytag for making a shitty product (breach of warranty) and Big Store for its bullshit Super Guarantee (breach of warranty, consumer fraud and anything else I could think of). The crowning glory of my lawsuit against Maytag and Big Store was to be a photo of the exact place from which the brand-new machine was leaking.

I told myself, “These sons-a-bitches screwed with the wrong guy. They have no idea that they are messing with a Laundry Guy, who also happens to be a Lawyer Guy.

I loaded up the machine and fired her up. I pulled the machine away from the wall and armed myself with a serious flashlight and camera. I fixed my eyes on the machine while it ran through the cycles, just waiting for the first sign of water.

No leak WTF??

I took my eyes off the machine and looked slightly left. There was a new puddle on the floor, which was wending its way toward the machine.

Oh shit.

Once the puddle reached the machine, it looked just like the puddle I saw with old machine.

Turns out that what was leaking was the tub into which the washer drained.

The tub???

Yes, the tub, asshole – not the machine.

Bottom line: I had thrown away a perfectly good washing machine and spent a couple hundred bucks on a washing machine I did not need.

As for the tub, a bit of duct tape did the trick.

Laundry Guy? Yes.

Lawyer Guy? Yes.

Sometimes Seriously Stooopid Guy? Unfortunately, yes.

Several years ago, my cousin and I stopped in an Italian Deli in an Italian section of Bloomfield. Neither of us had ever been there before. Like most Italian Delis, this one was jam-packed with great things to eat, which collectively produced an aroma that would make an anorexic patient hungry.

We were wandering among the salamis, pepperonis, and dried peppers hanging from hooks and surveying the other items in the aisle close to the front door of the store. The two guys in white aprons behind the counter at the far end of the store were having a loud, rapid fire discussion in pure Jerseyspeak. (I don’t think it is an unfair or an unkind generalization to note that Italians often speak loudly, particularly when they are animated.) Even though their conversation was loud, I had tuned it out, being more interested in shopping.

I felt certain that neither of the men was paying any attention to us, given the distance between us and them and our doing nothing more at that moment other than “browsing.” All of a sudden, one of the men yelled, “Yo! Either o’ you guys married?”

We looked around to see if perhaps there was someone other than us in the store, and when we didn’t see anyone else, I said, “Yeah. I’m married.”

He hollered back, “Ain’t it hard?”

I love Italian Delis.