Bert Parks must look like a Roto-Rooter in the grave.

The Miss American Pageant is leaving New Jersey, where the event has been held in Convention Hall in Atlantic City since 1921. The Atlantic City Convention Center & Visitors Authority, which provides the Pageant with an annual $720,000 subsidy, released the Miss American from its contract in order to “ensure the pageant’s continued vitality and growth.” The pageant organization claims that high production costs and sagging TV ratings have left it in $500,000 worth of red ink each year for the last few years.

So far, it appears that Nashville or Orlando is the best bet for the pageant’s new long-term home, assuming there is a long-term for the annual event.

I don’t think I have watched the Miss America Pageant since I was a little boy, which was a long, long time ago. I think that, even then, I realized that watching Betty Lou twirling batons and Mary Sue doing dramatic readings was too much to bear, the bathing suit portion of the event notwithstanding.

The clincher was, of course, the part when the finalists were asked questions so that the judges could pass on their poise.

Bert Parks: “Miss ______ (fill in the state), what do you think is one of the biggest problems in the world today and what do you think should be done about it?”

Miss _____ (fill in the state): “I think hunger is the biggest problem. I’m seriously against hunger, and I would, like, give everybody a sandwich.”

The fact is that people flock to Atlantic City on trains, planes, cars and buses (lots and lots of buses) to try to make the big score in the casinos. For better or worse, Atlantic City no longer needs the pageant.

“Poise” don’t mean shit.

Not surprisingly, thinking about my nose got me to thinking about things I like the smell of. (Should I have said, “…thinking about the things, the smell of which I like”? Nah …. too cumbersome.)

Anyway, here is the list, which is in no particular order of preference

1. Apple Pie in the oven

2. Freshly ground coffee

3. Cookies in the oven

4. Freshly bathed and powdered baby

5. Pizza

6. Gardenias

7. Sausage, peppers and onions cooking on the boardwalk

8. Roasting peanuts

9. The seashore

10. Wet dog (just checking to see if you read all the way to the bottom of the list)

Admittedly, this entry is not long on serious content, but I trust that it doesn’t “stink.”

Me too. Sorry.

I believe it is a “host” thing.

I think that my nose may be growing another nose. This second schnozzola is growing by the hour on the left side of my nose, just south of where my eyeglasses rest. And it hurts.

A mondo zit? Could be, I suppose, but I figure that I’m waaay to old to be getting zits. Hell, I don’t even know whether one can still buy Clearasil.

I cannot help but worry that, when its gestation period is complete, my secondary nose will emerge with a vengeance, looking like that sharona with teeth that popped out of the guy’s abdomen in the movie “Alien”.

If that happens, I shall simply name it Emil and try to go about my business.

OK, so I’m driving to work this morning, and I see a guy standing in the middle of the street. As I get closer, I can see that the guy is talking on a cellphone. He’s standing in a spot where he could be clobbered by a car going in either direction. Yet, he’s not looking in either direction for traffic, but rather is staring at the ground while he has what must be a very important phone conversation.

I pulled to within fifteen feet of the dope and stopped to see how long it would take him to notice a 4,000 pound, Big Fat Capitalist Car. I purposely did not blow the Big Fat Capitalist Horn, lest I give the idiot a heart attack.

After about ten seconds, he “noticed” the car.

Did he give me a courtesy wave and quickly step out of the way? Nope. Instead, he gave me a dirty look, resumed his conversation and slowly walked to the opposite curb.

It’s a shame that there’s a law against intentionally hitting idiots with a Big Fat Capitalist Car.

ACK!!!!!

Just what I need — a picture of a big-ass gator that was shot when it was found to be walking around in someone’s back yard in West Columbia, Texas.

If I ever saw a thing like that in my back yard, the emergency guys would be putting the paddles on my chest for shit sure.

Oy!!!!!

Thanks, I think, to my friend Brian, the Air Force Vet.

Yesterday it seemed that I had just gotten off the train from New York City after the Neil Diamond Concert, when I found myself boarding the same train for the trip back to New York City for a bit of a mini-blogmeet. It seems that Zonker was in town to attend a bachelor party on Friday night, so I arranged to meet him near his hotel in New York for some interesting and thoughtful conversation semi-drunken carrying-on.

Mr. Surly and I went into the City together and did the steamy and fragrant (sometimes good, sometimes bad) walk from Penn Station to Desmond’s Tavern, which was right next door to Zonker’s hotel. This was a good thing on several levels. First, it was a good thing for Zonker, who, the night before, had found himself drawn into the beer-tequila, beer-tequila, beer-tequila maelstrom and really needed a nearby bloody mary joint. Second, it was an extremely comfortable and friendly saloon that served excellent draft beer in pints (I recommend the Brooklyn Lager in mass quantities).

Also in attendance were Kate of Katespot, Mary of Bookblog and one of Mary’s excellent friends, who, understandably, sometimes seemed a bit bemused by the non-stop blabbing and laughing that invariably characterizes one of these gatherings. Bemused or not, he fit right in.

After several rounds of refreshments, we headed off to find a place to eat, which should never, ever be a problem in Manhattan. However, after about ten city blocks of strolling about, I began to think that we might be the only knuckleheads in Manhattan who couldn’t find a suitable place for victuals. We finally settled in on a Thai restaurant and wolfed down some terrific food. We were, of course, loud.

After chow, it was back to Desmond’s (Did I mention that it is a friendly place?) for a parting drink or four and yet more blabbing and laughing.

By about 8 o’clock, it was time to saddle up. Turns out that we had been talking for about seven hours!

That’s easy to do at a blogmeet.

Note: Zonker’s version of his excellent adventure are here, as is acknowledgement of the grassroots campaign to make him the next Governor of New Jersey!

SloppyDawg is hosting this week’s carnival, and this one comes with some excellent satellite images of the Garden State. Naturally, I was particularly taken with the image of a genuine Parkway Rest Stop. However, I also liked the final image, which serves to remind us that we’re all in this together.

Go read.

Over the years, I have probably listened to Neil Diamond’s “Hot August Night” album hundreds of times. The Prologue, which leads into “Crunchy Granola Suite” has always struck me as one great piece of music. I had wondered if in 2005 he would sound anything like he did in 1972 when he recorded “Hot August Night” with that absolutely gorilla stompin’ band.

He does.

True to his fans, he opened with the “Prologue – Crunchy Granola Suite” and was backed by a killer band, some its members having been with him for thirty years. The band consisted of two guitars (seriously good players), bass, drums, piano, synthesizer, Latin percussion (this guy played his ass off), and a four-piece ass-kickin’ brass section (and three women backup singers).

From there, it was one great song after another. He played just about all the songs anyone familiar with his music would want to hear. (I did, however, miss “Solitary Man” and “I Got a Feelin’). It would be difficult to pick any single tune that I liked the best (maybe “Sweet Caroline” or “I Am … I Said), but “Play Me” and, of course, “America” were definite crowd pleasers.

Speaking of the audience, this was definitely not a “puke in the bathroom” crowd. There was lots of gray hair to be seen, which matched quite well with my salt and pepper (becoming saltier by the day) great farookin’ hair. Notably, it appeared that everyone in the audience had either given up “herbs” or left them at home stashed among their tie-dyed shirts and Sgt. Pepper albums. Then again, maybe the absence of the typical “medicinal” plume that one usually experiences at concerts was because one can’t light up anything indoors in New York City these days – even in bars (one has to go to Jersey to smoke).

If you ever were a Neil Diamond fan, and his world tour** will be anywhere near you, I recommend that you get yourself a ticket. However, a word to the Forty-Somethings and older – Go light on the pre-concert beer, as there is no intermission.

Oh, and one more thing. There was no politics — just good music. Thank you, Mr. Diamond.

**Tour information can be found here. In addition, for the very serious Neil Diamond fans, this site is a must. (Thanks, Eric)

Tonight I’ll be going here to hear this guy in concert.

I don’t expect a crush of “twenty-somethings,” or even too many “thirty-somethings,” for that matter.