Jon Corzine, currently serving his first term as one of New Jersey’s US Senators, today made his intentions to run for New Jersey Governor official. Given the news of the past several months, this announcement came as a surprise to no one, with possible exception of those few Garden Staters who may have awakened today from a sustained, deep coma.

The announcement came at a time when Richard Codey has been in the Governor’s job for just slightly more than two weeks, after having succeeded Jim McGreevey (everyone knows about him) on November 15th. Dick Codey, who has never officially stated his intentions of running for the office in 2005, nevertheless has been busy acting like a guy who wants to keep the job.

A couple of Republicans have announced their candidacy as well. There is Bret Schundler, former Mayor of Jersey City, and former unsuccessful gubernatorial candidate against Jim McGreevey. Also running is Doug Forrester, a conservative businessman, who ran for Senate against Robert Torricelli, but who lost his election bid when former US Senator Frank (the Cadaver) Lautenberg parachuted into the race with the blessing of the New Jersey Supreme Court, after it was clear that Robert Torricelli was too much of a crook to be elected even in Jersey. Doug Forrester has already bought a brain-numbing amount of radio time pitching himself as the “Reform Candidate.”

In my view, the republicans are pissing in the wind. Bret Schundler, who would probably be an excellent Governor, has no shot in this state. The last time he ran, he was tarred by democrats for being pro-life (as if any Governor could somehow overturn Roe v. Wade) and for being soft on gun control. (In the Garden State, it’s a well-established rule that only the criminals carry guns.) By contrast, Doug Forrester’s problem is that he is about as interesting as a dial tone.

Therefore, the Governor’s gig is Corzine’s for the asking, despite his completely lackluster performance as a US Senator, unless, of course, this year Dick Codey comes off as a Super-Governor and really make a palpable difference in the politics-as-usual in this state. Although I wish Mr. Codey well, I’ve lived in Jersey long enough to know better.

In announcing his candidacy today at a news conference held at Newark’s Gateway Center, Jon Corzine said,

As governor, I hope to make New Jersey one of the best places to live, to work, to go to school, to start a business, to grow old with dignity, to set a new standard of excellence.

I cannot help but wonder whether, before announcing such optimistic plans, Mr. Corzine, the multi-millionaire, bothered to walk a few hundred steps outside the front door of the Gateway Center to look at the real Newark. It’s more of the same old crap.

I say, why even bother with the sound and fury of political campaigns that will ultimately signify nothing in this state. It would be simpler, more cost-efficient and easier on the ears just to coronate Corzine next November and go on about our business in this state, which has become a national joke.

Updated to correct a screaming typo in the title that went completely unnoticed. Damned rum medicine.

It seems that we have lots of Carnivals in the Blogosphere: Carnival of the Vanities, Carnival of Capitalists, Carnival of Cats, and Carnival of Recipes, and there may be others that I am not aware of. Given that I am surrounded with hackers and wheezers in the real world and also in the blogosphere (e.g. moos has one and Buffy is on the brink), perhaps we should consider a Carnival of Colds?

We could share riveting stories about sneezes, wheezes, braaaaccks, hacks, and phlegm in varying quantities and degrees of opacity. We could compare notes about shills, pills, rubs, potions and various cures.

We could take turns hosting…..

”STOP THIS!! STOP THIS DUMBASS SHIT RIGHT NOW!!! This is Belle, Jimbo’s Muse, speaking, and I must apologize for his sorry assed post. I cannot believe that it has come to this. Yesterday he blogged about his cold (how verrrrrrrrry interesting, Jimbo), but he got away with it then by tagging a bit of content to the end of that serious waste of words. But, this is just ridiculous, and I won’t permit it. I have standards, you know.”

Jimbo: “Hey Belle, who the hell asked you? Take a hike.”

Belle: “Don’t give me that crap. You came to me today looking for some content, didn’t you. Admit it!”

Jimbo: “OK, already. I admit it. I was looking for some help here because I have this damned cold….”

Belle: “That’s correct, and what did I tell you?”

Jimbo: “You told me that you couldn’t help me today.”

Belle: “And precisely what did I say about WHY I couldn’t help you?”

Jimbo: “You told me that you couldn’t help because you felt like shit.”

Belle: “And I told you why I felt like shit, didn’t I? What did I tell you?”

Jimbo: “You said that you felt lousy, because you had a cold.”

Belle: “Exactly, Peanut Brain. I told you that I planned to take a couple days off to recover, and that I had absolutely no intention of writing about having a damned cold, because that is about as interesting as watching rust form. But, noooooooo. Ol’ Jimbo decides to go it alone. And, now look at the silly shit you wrote. ‘Carnival of the Colds,’ indeed. I don’t have to tolerate this kind of crap from you. It’s not part of our deal.”

Jimbo: “That’s the thing, Belle. I think that you’re just trying to pull some shit on me. I happen to know that Muses can’t catch cold. You wanna talk about our deal? Well, your malingering is damned well not part of our deal.”

Belle: “Oh, so you’re sure that Muses can’t catch colds? All of a sudden, you’re some kind of Muse malady expert? You are soooooo full of shit. You wanna see some cosmic phlegm? As for the malingering business, you can just kiss my fine ass. Our deal includes sick days. And, on those days I don’t expect to be embarrassed by the shit like you started to post here today. ‘Carnival of the Colds?’ Gimme a damned break”

Jimbo: “Jeez, Belle. I didn’t think it was that bad.”

Belle: “You’re hopeless, and I’ve about had it with you. Now you listen to me. If you have no content of your own and I am unable to help, for whatever goddamned reason, don’t try to wing it, because you just don’t pack the gear. And, if you do it again, I’m outta here.”

Jimbo:

Oh, about the Carnival of the Colds thing? Never mind.

At the moment, I am saddled with a most annoying and uncomfortable cold. I Zicam swapped the inside of my nose, I’m taking way more than usual amounts of Vitamin C (probably just creating vitamin-loaded urine in the process), drinking copious amounts of fluids, and taking Robitussin in order to take a deep breath without having it followed by hacking and coughing.

It is at times like this, when one is capable of doing little more than vegging out and waiting for this to pass, when I find myself thinking of things I would “some day” like to do. Admittedly, many of the things fall into the realm of pure fantasy, but there are some others that are, at least, possible, if not likely.

Although compiling such a list merits a good deal of consideration, I’ve decided to simply jot down a few things that pop into my cruller while I sit here trying not to cough.

Here they are, in no particular order of preference or likelihood of ever happening:

Some day, I’d like to:

1. Take a ride in a B-17

2. Spend six months to a year just traveling around the country, going wherever I please and staying as long in one place as I please.

3. Travel to Australia

4. Get plastered in a real Irish Pub in Ireland with a bunch of folks who like to drink and sing.

5. Own and ride a motorcycle again.

6. See and touch one of the Budweiser Clydesdales.

7. Play drums in whatever band Eric Clapton felt like putting together.

8. Play drums in a big-assed band with lots of brass.

9. Own an oceanfront house.

10. Spend a good deal of time alone with a piano. (It’s a Zen thing.)

11. Wear a cowboy hat without looking like a complete asshole.

12. Sail on a destroyer.

13. Watch flight operations from the deck of an aircraft carrier.

14. Ride in the second seat of a fighter plane.

15. Toss a pie at Michael Moore’s face.

16. Do a radio program.

17. Hang with the President for a couple days.

18. Write a book worth reading.

19. Paint a picture of an apple that actually looks like an apple.

20. Take a ride on an ocean-going racing boat.

That’ll do for now.

I’m going to make myself a cup of tea with honey, lemon, and a generous slug of dark rum. Tastes a helluva lot better than Robitussin.

Memo to New York Drivers
Yo! Move over, gottdammit! In this state, we actually have a law that requires that you stay to the right, except when passing. Unlike some laws, this one is grounded in common sense. It’s simple. If you Empire Staters are driving on a multilane road and you notice that people are passing you on the right (and quite possibly are glaring at you, or worse), MOVE OVER TO THE RIGHT. The Garden State Parkway is NOT 42nd Street.

Memo to Pennsylvania Drivers
In this state, when you wish to turn left at an intersection, you proceed to the center of the intersection to wait for a break in the oncoming traffic. I have seen that in your state you sit at the damned traffic light waiting to turn left, and I have heard that you refer to moving to the center of the intersection to wait as “pulling a Jersey.” Very clever, however when you are in this state, learn to do it the right way.

Oh, and, while you’re at it, pull this!

Memo to Ohio Drivers
WTF???? I find myself wondering whether you folks drink the ritual saki before you embark on your “carmikaze” missions. Listen to me. Entering a highway demands that you pay at least a little bit of attention to the traffic that is already driving on the farookin’ road. I’m not talking here about the niceties of who has the right-of-way under state law. No, I’m talking about your apparent desire to self-destruct on our highways and take a few Garden Staters with you.

For a time, I thought that there was something about New Jersey that caused Ohio drivers to be a complete menace on our roads. But then, I had occasion to drive in Ohio. Holy shit! It’s a statewide demolition derby.

We in the Garden State should petition our legislators require that Ohio drivers display a brightly colored flag or similar identification widget on their vehicles so that we can give them wide berth.

Really. If you need to come to Jersey, please consider a bus.

Happy motoring.

It was another memorable road trip, and like those before it, it was a full frontal assault on one’s liver, digestive system, and ability to laugh often and hard without pissing in one’s pants.

Upon our arrival to Mile Marker “0” on the Parkway and checking in to our digs, we offloaded the luggage and a very large box full of booze and wine, and immediately headed for the Ugly Mug for apple knockers (hot cider, spices, and Laird’s Apple Jack), beer, and chow light fare.

That was followed by a couple hours of cutesy store shopping, once again confirming that there is no shortage of scented candles in the world. As the sunlight began to fade, it was time for to head back to home base (our room again served as “Party Central”) for – you guess it – cocktails.

It was during this extended pre-dinner drinkfest cocktail party, that we had our first of a few very pleasant surprises. It seems that Kathy, the Deckmistress, has a first cousin who owns a vacation home in Cape May, and he happened to be in town for the weekend. She placed a call to invite him to stop by Party Central to join the Usual Suspects for a drink or three. The Deckmistress had described her cousin, the Stardust Shrink, as a fellow who regularly goes for the gusto, but her descriptions did not do him justice.

He breezed into the place clad in bicycling attire (he had been riding earlier), armed with a platter of brie, nuts, chips and dip, complete with little cheese spreaders that had multi-colored fish for handles, a little something he had whipped up. Most impressive, indeed. Of course, he already knew his two cousins, Kathy the Deckmistress and Kathy’s sister, Jeannie (the Good Sister), and Ken, my bodyguard, and the always hilarious Artie, their respective spouses, but he had never met the rest of us, including Bill the Ham, and his wife, Blue-eyed Laura. That didn’t matter at all, because he immediately caught the vibe and fit right in with the group of traveling loonies.

After an hour or so, he had to leave to meet his houseguests who had just arrived. However, before leaving, he invited us all to his home for cocktails (I told you he fit right in) the following evening before dinner at a restaurant of his choosing.

We then took a one-hour alcohol-free break to get ready for dinner at Cucina Rosa. The waiter in this BYOB place was caught a bit flatfooted when he saw the array of wines, including champagne that we placed on the table. After he poured the champagne, he damned near wore out his corkscrew opening the balance of the wine, all of which was consumed. Oh yeah, the dinner was excellent. I recommend the spaghetti carbonara.

After dinner, we staggered walked across the street to our digs for some post-dinner Gentleman Jack on the rocks and cigars. Some time around midnight, when everyone ceased making any damned sense, we called it quits.

Saturday morning, after a walk along the ocean, to clear the cobwebs from my cruller, we went to a local pancake house for some morning grazing, which included a gallon or two of coffee. We were surprised to see that the Stardust Shrink showed up on his bicycle to join us for coffee. Apparently, we had not managed to scare the dogshit out of him the night before. After getting a bit of a kick out of watching us all try to sop up the previous day’s libations with pancakes, he disappeared on his bike to be with his guests and to work on a restaurant selection for that evening.

Saturday was marked by a visit to a local craft fair (lots of stuffed, hand-painted and fairly useless things), more cutesy store shopping and a walk on the beach. Having finally had it with cutesy store shopping three of us went to this place for – ahem – a few cocktails until it was time to return to Party Central for a few cocktails before we had to get ready to go to the Stardust Shrink’s house for – ahem – cocktails.

The house, which the Stardust Shrink had described to us as being “really just a plain house” turned out to be a magnificent, well appointed item with an ocean view to die for. In short order, the cocktails were made and distributed and the dining room table was covered with an array of fresh crab, shrimp, assorted cheeses and other goodies. The guy is amazing.

At that point, we were introduced to the Stardust Shrink’s houseguests. We all silently hoped that they had been suitably warned that this can be a pretty rough crowd. Lane, the fashion photographer (who could be a stand-in for Mick Jagger) and his attractive companion Fran, a research scientist, at first appeared to be a bit apprehensive, probably never having expected that a portion of their quiet weekend in Cape May would be spent with this collection of well-oiled misfits.

Any visible apprehension faded as we began exchanging side-splitting stories, and it was at this time that we learned that the soft-spoken Fran regularly interrogated her daughter’s suitors with the thoroughness of Sgt. Joe Friday, while taking down all the important information (including vehicle type and license plate number) on 3×5 cards. By the end of the evening, in keeping with the Usual Suspects’ tradition, Fran the research scientist, was given a nickname, which she seemed to wear with pride. Henceforth, she will be known as “Legs Cornell,” for reasons which, I trust, are obvious.

We left the Stardust Shrink’s outrageously beautiful oceanfront home plain house for dinner at the Black Duck. It was an extraordinary dining experience, again marked by the waitress asking, “where shall I begin?” when the veritable shitload of wine bottles were placed on the table. The Stardust Shrink, a wizard at restaurant selection, had arranged for us to be seated in a separate little room, which was undoubtedly prompted by his now, first-hand knowledge of the vigor with which the Usual Suspects raise hell engage in interesting repartee.

At the conclusion of the dinner, the task of figuring out the bill was left to Lane (who had been previously been “Fast Lane” by the Stardust Shrink). It was then that we learned that, while “Fast Lane” may be a whiz with a camera, he has trouble counting past ten.

When the calculations weren’t working out, he explained that he took the total amount of the bill (including the gratuity) and divided by 10. Multiple people immediately advised him (with the subtlety of a battery of sledgehammers) that there were 11 people at the table. “Fast Lane” responded by counting heads aloud. He briskly pointed at each person around the table in turn, “one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine ten.” There was a pregnant pause while “Fast Lane” stared into his own index finger identifying him as number 11. Following a few minutes of sustained laughter and ridicule, he was given his very own nickname. Forever more, he shall be known as “Half-Fast Lane.”

After dinner, the group of eleven returned to Party Central for – guess what? – more cocktails, laughter and general hell raising until about one in the morning, by which time everyone’s liver enzymes most certainly had entered the red zone.

This morning, everyone looked like warmed-over shit and was visibly trying to take in copious amounts of oxygen, while making valiant efforts to swallow their own spit. There was universal agreement that we would all give up drinking, at least for today.

There was also universal agreement that it was one hell of great road trip, made even better by having the pleasure of hanging with the Stardust Shrink, Half-Fast Lane, and the lovely “Legs Cornell.”

We’ll be back next year.

Eight of the Usual Suspects will be leaving soon for what is becoming an annual road trip. A couple suitcases and a very large box full of drinkables and we’re good to go. I expect much drinking, eating, bullshitting, cigar smoking, salooning, and the requisite amount of shopping in cutesy stores.

If you find yourself in the area, there is a good chance you’ll find us here. We’ll be the noisy bunch in the corner.

A Note With Respect to Comments: Seeing as how I won’t be on guard to battle the never-ending hoard of satanic comment spammers, Craig (The Nicest Guy in the Blogosphere), has kindly offered to render my comments inoperable until our return. I hate to do that, but you all know how it is when you give these vermin a two-day free pass.

See you in a couple.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

I don’t know how I missed this at the time, but back in September my congressman, Donald Payne, led a congressional delegation on a trip to Iraq “to express solidarity with the troops and to assess the situation on the ground.”

The delegation shared meals with troops from their districts both days they spent in Iraq. “We wanted to let them know that they are in our minds, our hearts, and our prayers,” Payne said.

What a load of hot, steaming horseshit.

As I previously noted, this is the same guy who, in 2003, was among the twenty-two congressmen who voted “Present” on House Congressional Resolution No. 104, Expressing the Support and Appreciation of the Nation for the President and the Members of the Armed Forces Who are Participating in Operation Iraqi Freedom (emphasis mine). (392 representatives voted “yes” and eleven voted “no”).

I should note that Mr. Payne won 97% of the vote in this past election. That makes him almost as successful a candidate as Saddam. Part of that may have to do with the Republicans not even having bothered to run a candidate against him in his gerrymandered district.

Sheesh! I thought my congressman was a lemon until I read about the dipshit that Jeff at Beautiful Atrocities is saddled with. See also here.

Via SondraK

I’ve always liked to listen to people speak with a British accent (I know. There are several varieties, but I’m talking about the Tony Blair type accent.). That said, it has always struck me that one can be the dumbest bastard in the world and still sound intelligent simply by speaking with a British accent. “Of course, the earth is flat, old boy. Pass me a scone, please.” Go figure.

However, I don’t get some of the British thing. For example, our British friends refer to Buckingham Palace as, “BUCKING-um” Palace, while we colonists prefer to say it as it is spelled, “BUCKING-HAM” Palace.

If a Brit were to go to a deli for lunch would he order a “um and cheese” sandwich?

The foregoing shows what one night of forced internet abstinence will do. I fear that a portion of my brain has turned into Styrofoam.