Fortunately, when I finished yesterday’s walk, I had the presence of mind to jot down a note or two before I became busy doing other things, such as reading, dozing off, and writing the Old Bourbon post, which for Mr. Techno-Stoooopid was a challenge what with the pop-up images that had to be resized, saved, uploaded and plugged into the text. For many of you, that would be child’s play, but for me, it was like digging out multiple splinters.

Anyway, here’s the particular bit of disgusting douchebaggery I observed yesterday morning, while doing the walking thing.

I was approaching a man who had stopped on the sidewalk, when all of a sudden, he let loose with a bone-shaking sneeze that actually startled me, and I was probably sixty feet away from him at the time. I continued to walk in his direction, and he sneezed again – the same way only louder. He actually screamed each time he sneezed. When I was perhaps thirty feet away from the guy, he shook the ground with sneeze number three.

That was the startling part, but here’s the gross part.

Each one of those sneezes, full of sound and fury, produced copious amounts of spit, snot, boogers and honkers, (I assume in varying ratios, depending on the order of the sneeze) all of which he mostly caught in his hand. What didn’t get caught in his hand was presumably his gift to the townsfolk.

So, after startling the shit out of me with his thunderous sneezes and grossing me out by causing me to imagine what kind of vile soup must be in his hand, he then did the bend-forward-at-the-waist-put-one-finger-over-nostril-and-BLOW thing. He repeated the process with nostril number two, each time producing an eighteen-inch snot stalactite (snotlactite?), each of which he pinched off with his fingers and shook to the ground.

Can I get an ewwwwwww?

The asshole then immediately wiped his hands on his pants, turned and walked into the produce store, where you just KNOW he would be touching all the fruits and vegetables.

Can I get another ewwwwww?

I figure this story has two morals:

1. Don’t walk with me in the mornings, for I fear I am an asshole magnet.

2. Wash your farookin’ produce.

Yes, this call is going out to all who come by here who may be any of the following:

Background
I received an e-mail from a reader who flatters me by thinking that I know a bit more about bourbon than the average guy. I probably drink more of that spirit than the average guy, but I am far from an expert.

Anyway, here is the story.

The reader came upon several five-gallon, glass bottles (carboys) of what appears to be bourbon that is more than 100 years old. (Here are photos of one of the carboys and a close-up of the seal.) By virtue of the bottle shown on the left (see below for text of label) and a note that was dictated by the former owner of the carboys, who is deceased, it is “Old Pugh” bourbon that was distilled by R.S. Strader & Sons and bottled specifically for the Phoenix Hotel in Lexington, Kentucky. Here is the dictated note describing the contents or the carboys. The best guess, based on the date of a newspaper found behind the carboys in the former owner’s basement, is that they have been in the basement since 1968.

Preliminary sniffing around has revealed that there was indeed a Phoenix Hotel in Lexington, Kentucky that was frequented by travelers in the nineteenth century and which closed in 1975. We also know from a press clipping (really more of an advertisement) that the R.S. Strader located its “warehouse, bottling and shipping departments” [no mention of the stills themselves] to 234 East Main Street in Louisville, Kentucky in approximately August 1911. The press clipping is here.

When the reader saw that one of the carboys seemed to be leaking, he poured the contents into smaller containers and actually tasted the contents and confirmed the contents to be bourbon, and very good bourbon at that.

The reader is interested in learning more about the distillery, the Phoenix Hotel, and, of course, the possible value of his find.

Anyone with any information about any of the foregoing, or suggestions about where to look for such info is invited to do any or all of the following:

1. Send an e-mail directly to the reader, who has given me permission to publish his e-mail address, billg4192-at-mail-dot-com>
2. Send me an e-mail – use Mr. Sidebar
3. Leave a comment here

I figure that with all the reprobates smart folks and heavy drinkers connoisseurs of fine spirits who frequent this place, someone will have some information.

Note: The text on the label reads:
Old Pugh
120 Proof
This Whiskey was never owned by anyone but the Distillers and
PHOENIX HOTEL COMPANY
Incorporated

My friend Eric has created this wonderous work of art, which, as you can see, depicts several Jawja Bloggers sitting around a table with JC, the Big Kahuna.

I proudly count myself among this collection of miscreants. For an explanation of who’s who, head over to Eric’s site, enlarge the picture and get the roadmap. I will, however, give you one hint. Catfish is the only guy who looks as if he belongs in the original painting.

Yes, Christmas at the House by the Parkway was quite an adventure. TJ and Mr. Surly arrived in the morning to exchange gifties and to help with the final preparations for the onslaught on folks who would be appearing in the upcoming hours.

I was happy and most grateful to receive good things to read and a couple excellent things to drink. I was, however, completely bowled over by the gift of a PEZ dispenser that looks like a soldier, along with grape, orange and lemon refills! Bless us, everyone.

The house went from quiet to bedlam in the space of five minutes, when everyone arrived exactly on time. My friend and bodyguard Ken helped me for hours on end in the kitchen doing scullery duty and making, oh, about a zillion drinks. The big drinks of the day were pomegranate martinis and apple martinis, all served in the nifty new ball-based martini glasses, courtesy of The Original Bill and The Quietly Sinister Linda. For most the day/night it was like tending bar at T.G.I. Friday’s during Happy Hour.

Then, out came enough food to feed a Company of hungry paratroopers just back from a week in the bush.

When it was all over, between the booze and exhaustion, I could barely remain vertical. I believe I slept for eleven hours, only to awaken to something that looked like post-Katrina New Orleans. It took a few hours of very slow moving to clear away most of the rubble.

It was, of course, wonderful.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

I would like to thank all those who found this place worthy of a few minutes of your time and wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy and Healthy New Year.

The House by the Parkway has been a sniffer’s delight over the past several days, as we prepare the Christmas Feed. Each year, we make way too much food and swear that we won’t do that any more. That vow has been regularly broken for as long as I can remember.

A week or so ago, it was the aroma of the makings of what will be, when popped into the oven tomorrow, baked ziti. A day or so after that, it was the distinctive aroma of gwumpkies. I suspect that there are some (particularly those of you with no relatives who came from Poland) who might not like the smell of gwumpkies cooking. I do have some Polish blood in my veins, and I grew up with the aroma. I love it.

Today, while the homemade potato salad was being put together, the place smelled like the Seaside Heights (NJ) Boardwalk. That’s because we cooked up the peppers, onions, and sausage (pronounced in Jerseyspeak either as “SAH-sidge” or “sah-ZEECH, but not “SAW-sage”).

The special sauerkraut has already been made and frozen, and tomorrow morning the kielbasa will be made and added to the kraut, and the spiral ham will go in the oven.

Add to that, Italian rolls, ass-kicking Jewish rye bread, Russian rye bread, cheese, deviled eggs, and The Original Bill’s homemade baked mushrooms and, quite possibly, pepperoni bread, and you’ve got a boatload of Jersey Eats.

Oh, and there will be a table full of homemade cookies (some made here and some brought by nieces) and a TJ-baked kransekake, which is a traditional Norwegian cake that looks something like this. (Mr. Surly’s mom’s family is Norwegian.)

Dieting is not permitted.

A Shitload of Cocktails, wine and beer will also be available, which should come as a surprise to absolutely no one.

New Jersey State Assemblywoman Evelyn Williams, who was recently appointed to fill the seat vacated by the death of Donald Tucker, was caught and arrested for trying to switch price tags on sheets and bedding in a discount store. More specifically, she was caught on camera trying to put $14.99 price tags on $59.99 bed sheets and a $49.99 comforter.

She must have been low on cash, because earlier in the week she had been fired from her $70,000 job as an Essex County Corrections Officer for collecting $11,000 in retirement benefits while continuing to work.

Described by the Newark Star Ledger as a “confidante” of Newark Mayor Sharpe James (and a former Deupty-Mayor), Ms. Williams also has quite a spotty driving record. According to the Star Ledger:

Her license was suspended 13 times between June 1995 and December 2004, mostly for unpaid parking tickets. Her last suspension, for failing to appear in Newark court, was in effect until Dec. 9, four days before she took the oath of office for her Assembly seat.

Essex County Democratic Chairman Phillip Thigpen, presumably one of the “Democratic Leaders” who voted for her appointment, was quoted as saying, “I express my confidence in Evelyn. There is some misunderstanding along the way.”

Yeah, that’s the ticket! It must all have been some sort of a … uh …misunderstanding.

Thanks to Dave of A Different Lemming for the heads up..

How did I miss this one?

OK, so you bought yourself the 24 oz. coffee for the trip down the Parkway. Maybe the 24 oz. coffee followed a large orange juice and perhaps a glass of water. Maybe there was more traffic than you anticipated, and partway through your trip, you realize that you have to empty your screaming bladder.

No problemo, as there is a rest stop up ahead.

You pull into the rest stop and walk briskly to the men’s room, and you take a position at one of the urinals to begin the process of relieving yourself. Of course, you are strictly following the “Stare-Absolutely-Straight-Ahead-While-Peeing” Rule. Everything is going just fine, when …

CRASH!!!!

You reflexively violate the “Stare- Absolutely-Straight-Ahead-While-Peeing” Rule and turn your head to find that one of Jersey’s little old ladies who drives a really big car (in this case, a Buick) just crashed through the men’s room wall, creating a twelve foot by twelve foot hole in the wall.

All of a sudden, you feel the immediate and pressing need to use one of the stalls.

And, you resolve never, ever to get the 24 oz. coffee again.

No, this did not happen to me, but I suspect that it happened to one or more poor bastards who were in the men’s room when the little old lady and her Buick barged in.

Via Down the Shore

Front

Back

Da Story:
In the post entitled, “Buggsy’s Onions,” I described the softball game that preceded the cookout, which, in turn, involved Buggsy’s Onions. I described how, at the outset of the game, Uncle Buggsy’s team members all whipped out shirts that said “Buggsy’s All Stars” on them.

Well, late last night, I received an e-mail from Cousin Jack (Uncle Buggsy’s son and a participant in the game), who forwarded me the above images. He reminded me that it was I who sent him the shirt several years ago. He’s right about that.

As best as I can recall, I came across this shirt in the dusty attic of my parents’ home when they were relocating to a different home in Jersey. That would have been roughly in 1986. The shirt sat in a dusty box in my basement for many years, until several years ago (perhaps ten years or so — I’m not sure), I came across it and decided to send it to Jack, because, as you can see, it was the shirt he wore (He was “Jackie” back then and, to some, he still is).

It is clear that no one of dared wash the thing, as I doubt the lettering or even the shirt itself would hold up. We estimate the shirt to be somewhere between forty and forty-two years old.

I can’t figure out whether this is a Christmas present to or from Uncle Buggsy. Either way, I figure he’d be’d have a big grin on his face. I just know it was great remembering it all and getting another look at the shirt.

Thanks, Jackie.

I give you Mr. Helpful on the subject of Sportsmanship:

The father who stands up at his eight year old kid’s Little League baseball game and screams at the umpires, screams at the coach and screams at his own kid is not a “bad sport”. He’s an asshole. Which means he isnt just like that at the game…he’s like that no matter where he goes. He’s the guy who cuts into line at the grocery store. He’s the guy that gets into a fistfight over a goddamn pack of cigarettes. He’s the guy who knocks over anyone in his path on his way to grab the last $19 DVD player at Walmart on “Black Friday”. No well intentioned, feel good study is going to change this guy’s behavior. About the only thing that might work is to give the silly bastard a swift kick to the nuts twenty times a day for the next ten years. Then, and only then, he might soften his behavior and treat the rest of the world with even a semblance of respect. (Read the whole thing)

Years ago, my band was playing weekends at a local saloon and, for one reason or another, I had packed up my drums and left them locked up in a storeroom at the place so that I could pick them up later in the week,

When I arrived at the saloon, there was a meeting being held in the large room where the band played on the weekends. It was a meeting of about eight or nine men sitting around a long table. When I arrived (they couldn’t see me by the nearby storeroom), they were in the middle of a huge screaming match. They were pounding on tables, accusing one another of bad faith and downright cheating. There was lots of finger pointing and cursing. It appeared to me that, at any minute, a brawl was about to break out.

My initial assumption was that this was perhaps a union meeting of some kind, or perhaps even a political or business meeting, where tempers can sometimes flare up.

Wrong.

It turned out that these guys were the local Little League Coaches and what they were fighting about in a most unpleasant way was that year’s player draft. Who would get which players for his team was the issue about which they were carrying on like lunatics and appeared to be close to fisticuffs.

Mr. Helpful is right. Assholes.