When Tony and Carm retired, they, like most new Jerseysians sought a warmer climate. Florida was already too crowded and, besides, many, of Tony's less than friendly associates did business there. Not wanting to take on the challenge of a foreign language, Tony and Carm decided to head west. Tony had taken up golf quite seriously in his later years, so a place where there were lots of courses was a prerequisite. Phoenix, Arizona is where they finally touched down and began their new lives. Phoenix had dozens of golf courses within easy driving distance of their scaled down, but still impressive domicile.
A couple of quiet years went by and Tony, who had been a "mover-and-shaker" in his day, was feeling restless and decided he needed to get a piece of the local action. He called up a few of his old goombadas and proposed a plan. Several of these good fellas were also golfers, so they jumped at the chance to be part of Tony's latest brain-storm. They were somewhat hesitant about the risk of a start up plan involving for them, a fresh type of occupation; one they knew nothing about. Most of them had at one time or another been in the business of removing garbage and, uh, occasionally other things, so when Tony proposed that they merge their old knowledge with their new love of golf, they all quickly chipped in the monies necessary to make the deal happen.
And this is why... this very weekend, if you tune in your area's CBS station at the right time, you can watch "The Waste Management Phoenix Open Golf Tournament." Tony and Carmelo Soprano and friends are keeping a lower profile these days, so you probably won't catch them on camera. If, however, you are in the neighborhood, you can stop by the Bada Bing Hospitality Tent and have a glass of Chianti on the house. One word of advice though. Don't say anything negative about Tony's putting.
And the girls dancing with the tent poles? Leave them alone, they're working.
Scroll down.
Best line of the week: From RTGFKAR. In a discussion of right-to-life vs. choice, he said, "Life starts at deception."
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Out-Of-Shape
Listening to a lot of blues lately. To my mind, Buddy Guy is THE guy. (But of course all you people under the age of 100 are now going to send me the names of blues people I've never heard of. "Doc, haven't you listened to Fat Matt the Rat's latest CD, "If these Are Hard Times How Come My Baby Ain't Moved My Stimulation Package Fo Weeks?")
There is this expression "out-of-shape" which doesn't mean someone or something has morphed into a completely different configuration. Usually. There are those exceptions in nature like the caterpillar to butterfly, the lycanthrope or even the wife whose wedding anniversary has been forgotten and a demon takes her place, but generally out-of-shape means a familiar state of physical conditioning is lacking in a given individual. I am, I confess, that individual. I am dreadfully, morbidly, grotesquely out-of-shape. Even my shape is out-of-shape, although that has been in evidence for some years now and concerns me less than my lack of conditioning. I realize that four months of doing next to nothing and sometimes not even getting close enough to nothing to be called next to it, can lead to the aforesaid out-of-shape. The question I now pose, is what to do about it?
What I want to do is go to the Broncos Training Center and begin the two-a-days that jump start their pre-season routine. This works so well for them that they are actually able to play for a few games. What I would really like to do after that is to participate in their Pre-Playoffs routine, but apparently they don't have one. Unfortunately, it is the wrong time of year for football, so I need an alternative plan. The fact that typing that last sentence caused me to breathe hard and then grab a quick nap are the sort of things that hinder my recovery and have to be taken into consideration when devising my get into shape strategy. I need some really physically awesome personal trainer like Arnold or The Rock or Richard Simmons to motivate me into Dancing to the Oldies and not just with them. (I tried dancing to Buddy Guy but learned that most blues sound much better when sitting down and drinking than actually standing up and milling about, so that didn't work at all.) My only attempts thus far at actual physical activity is dog walking and driving to get a pizza. The dog walking has been useful in that the pups seem happier and more fit. Mostly though, I just get tired. The pizza drive has not been helpful so far, but I don't think I've tested the program long enough. I think a few more years at least are called for to give it an honest evaluation as a physical conditioner.
But not to worry readers, I am not the kind of guy to let a thing like this remain unattended to. In the next few days I am going to research every last bite of material regarding this out-of-shape phenomena on the Internet and then... read every bit of it. That, I think, should solve the problem. I might even read it every day for a while, but I'll want to be very careful with that. I mean, I wouldn't want to get too buff. Those lumpy guys are just out-of-shape in a different way. If you ask me, they need to get as dedicated to change as I am.
Anyway, whatever happens I'll let you know. Right now though, I'm going to put on some Fat Matt the Rat and get on down.
There is this expression "out-of-shape" which doesn't mean someone or something has morphed into a completely different configuration. Usually. There are those exceptions in nature like the caterpillar to butterfly, the lycanthrope or even the wife whose wedding anniversary has been forgotten and a demon takes her place, but generally out-of-shape means a familiar state of physical conditioning is lacking in a given individual. I am, I confess, that individual. I am dreadfully, morbidly, grotesquely out-of-shape. Even my shape is out-of-shape, although that has been in evidence for some years now and concerns me less than my lack of conditioning. I realize that four months of doing next to nothing and sometimes not even getting close enough to nothing to be called next to it, can lead to the aforesaid out-of-shape. The question I now pose, is what to do about it?
What I want to do is go to the Broncos Training Center and begin the two-a-days that jump start their pre-season routine. This works so well for them that they are actually able to play for a few games. What I would really like to do after that is to participate in their Pre-Playoffs routine, but apparently they don't have one. Unfortunately, it is the wrong time of year for football, so I need an alternative plan. The fact that typing that last sentence caused me to breathe hard and then grab a quick nap are the sort of things that hinder my recovery and have to be taken into consideration when devising my get into shape strategy. I need some really physically awesome personal trainer like Arnold or The Rock or Richard Simmons to motivate me into Dancing to the Oldies and not just with them. (I tried dancing to Buddy Guy but learned that most blues sound much better when sitting down and drinking than actually standing up and milling about, so that didn't work at all.) My only attempts thus far at actual physical activity is dog walking and driving to get a pizza. The dog walking has been useful in that the pups seem happier and more fit. Mostly though, I just get tired. The pizza drive has not been helpful so far, but I don't think I've tested the program long enough. I think a few more years at least are called for to give it an honest evaluation as a physical conditioner.
But not to worry readers, I am not the kind of guy to let a thing like this remain unattended to. In the next few days I am going to research every last bite of material regarding this out-of-shape phenomena on the Internet and then... read every bit of it. That, I think, should solve the problem. I might even read it every day for a while, but I'll want to be very careful with that. I mean, I wouldn't want to get too buff. Those lumpy guys are just out-of-shape in a different way. If you ask me, they need to get as dedicated to change as I am.
Anyway, whatever happens I'll let you know. Right now though, I'm going to put on some Fat Matt the Rat and get on down.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Per Request
Special K has requested that I comment on the following two quotes for reasons known only to her and the physician who dispenses her drugs from the trunk of his car late at night. The first is a pithy thing from Ayn Rand - and yes, I do occassionally lisp. It reads as follows:
Tell me what a man finds sexually attractive and I will tell you his entire
philosophy of life. Show me the woman he sleeps with and I will tell you his valuation of himself.
Before I comment, I want to clear up a thing that has confused people for years. Ayn Rand's first name is pronounced Bob.
Most men I know, particularly those between the ages of twelve and death, find almost anything that walks upright and lacks a penis sexually attractive. A few don't even have those reservations. If from this, Ayn can tell us our entire philosophy of life she is a better man than I am. From what I've read and been told this better man thing is probably the case anyway. As far as telling her the woman we sleep with so she she can give us a grade or a gold star or whatever her idea of valuation is, well I say it's none of her business. Unless, of course, you are Elin Woods. I'm told she is going to get Tiger's entire list.
Andre Maurois, the French author of the other quote tormenting Special K's semi-consciousness - she meditates a lot and sometimes does it in mixed company - has a real name of Emile Solomon Wilhelm Herzog. He changed it because he traveled frequently and Emile Solomon Wilhelm Herzog took too long to sew in his underwear. What he said is this:
"A successful marriage is an edifice that must be rebuilt everyday."
An edifice, as we all know, well, those of us who looked it up anyway, is a large imposing building. I say, if you're married to a large imposing building you will most likely be found inside it, probably in restraints or a room with thickly padded walls. If you just think of your marriage as a large imposing building that needs rebuilding everyday, my question is, who keeps tearing it down? Is Emile alias Andre doing it himself? Is he a man who really digs make-up sex or just a guy who likes using his tool? Truth is, it doesn't really matter because he's wrong about the whole subject. A successful marriage is not an edifice, it's a traveling circus with a baffled, out-of-his-depth Ringmaster trying to make sense of the mayhem while small, young clowns run amok everywhere. Eventually the clowns slip off to start their own circuses and the Ringmaster retires with either the fat lady, the exotic dancer or the wily babe who reads palms and enjoys crystal balls. His in particular.
So there you have my thoughts on the quotes Special K. I hope they've been of help.
Clarification is, as you know, one of my fortes. When drinking tequila I can even give you fivetes or sixtes.
Tell me what a man finds sexually attractive and I will tell you his entire
philosophy of life. Show me the woman he sleeps with and I will tell you his valuation of himself.
Before I comment, I want to clear up a thing that has confused people for years. Ayn Rand's first name is pronounced Bob.
Most men I know, particularly those between the ages of twelve and death, find almost anything that walks upright and lacks a penis sexually attractive. A few don't even have those reservations. If from this, Ayn can tell us our entire philosophy of life she is a better man than I am. From what I've read and been told this better man thing is probably the case anyway. As far as telling her the woman we sleep with so she she can give us a grade or a gold star or whatever her idea of valuation is, well I say it's none of her business. Unless, of course, you are Elin Woods. I'm told she is going to get Tiger's entire list.
Andre Maurois, the French author of the other quote tormenting Special K's semi-consciousness - she meditates a lot and sometimes does it in mixed company - has a real name of Emile Solomon Wilhelm Herzog. He changed it because he traveled frequently and Emile Solomon Wilhelm Herzog took too long to sew in his underwear. What he said is this:
"A successful marriage is an edifice that must be rebuilt everyday."
An edifice, as we all know, well, those of us who looked it up anyway, is a large imposing building. I say, if you're married to a large imposing building you will most likely be found inside it, probably in restraints or a room with thickly padded walls. If you just think of your marriage as a large imposing building that needs rebuilding everyday, my question is, who keeps tearing it down? Is Emile alias Andre doing it himself? Is he a man who really digs make-up sex or just a guy who likes using his tool? Truth is, it doesn't really matter because he's wrong about the whole subject. A successful marriage is not an edifice, it's a traveling circus with a baffled, out-of-his-depth Ringmaster trying to make sense of the mayhem while small, young clowns run amok everywhere. Eventually the clowns slip off to start their own circuses and the Ringmaster retires with either the fat lady, the exotic dancer or the wily babe who reads palms and enjoys crystal balls. His in particular.
So there you have my thoughts on the quotes Special K. I hope they've been of help.
Clarification is, as you know, one of my fortes. When drinking tequila I can even give you fivetes or sixtes.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Seagal and Zombies.
The meek may inherit the earth, but in the meantime I have noticed that people cut in front of them in lines.
I saw another Steven The House That Walks Seagal movie the other day. I can't seem to resist them. This one had production costs ranging in the dozens of dollars and concerned a post-apocalyptic world where zombies roamed the streets because, I suppose, cars didn't work anymore so why bother with sidewalks. A goodly number of the life-challenged creatures had also made their way into a hospital where they periodically leaped upon unsuspecting living people who were hiding out there. The people either fled or died but in both cases they screamed a lot to swelling horror movie music. Fortunately, I am a Ninja quality remote control user and I was able to instantly lower the volume to less than blood curdling levels. Curdled blood looks like cherry yogurt gone south in case you didn't know. They'll be none of that in my house. Outside the hospital, amidst the roaming zombies, was a group of people who called themselves "The Hunters." This group included the mandatory black guy and woman, The Great Wall of Seagal and a couple of other guys thrown in to be done in. Armed with guns and swords, they felt it was their role in life to rid the world of people who were already dead but hadn't yet noticed. We the rapt and completely attentive, apart from getting up to get more wine, snacks, surf the web and check our email, viewers also learn that there is a military compound where plans are being made to bomb the zombie infested area. A civilian - who was either a scientist or a Liberal - begs the commander for more time. Time that is, for the Hunters to rescue the people in the hospital. He doesn't get it, the planes are dispatched and everything gets blown to hell. Well, not quite everything. A few people, women and children of course - it's good to be one of them in this kind of flick, but risky in slasher movies - are saved at the cost of all the Hunter's lives except Seagal. At picture's end he even refuses to leave with the truck sent to pick up the post bombing survivors. Instead he says something manly like, I'm a hunter, I've got a job to do, and then walks off into the darkness, alone, one man against the world...of zombies. I tell ya, Dudes and Dudettes, there was a tear in my eye as he did so. I choked down the urge to holler "Shane. Shane. Come back Shane." but it was too late. He was gone. And besides that, his name wasn't Shane.
A note for the few people who will understand it: Large parts of the movie and even the personalities of some of the characters seemed taken from the DC Comics series, "The Walking Dead."
I saw another Steven The House That Walks Seagal movie the other day. I can't seem to resist them. This one had production costs ranging in the dozens of dollars and concerned a post-apocalyptic world where zombies roamed the streets because, I suppose, cars didn't work anymore so why bother with sidewalks. A goodly number of the life-challenged creatures had also made their way into a hospital where they periodically leaped upon unsuspecting living people who were hiding out there. The people either fled or died but in both cases they screamed a lot to swelling horror movie music. Fortunately, I am a Ninja quality remote control user and I was able to instantly lower the volume to less than blood curdling levels. Curdled blood looks like cherry yogurt gone south in case you didn't know. They'll be none of that in my house. Outside the hospital, amidst the roaming zombies, was a group of people who called themselves "The Hunters." This group included the mandatory black guy and woman, The Great Wall of Seagal and a couple of other guys thrown in to be done in. Armed with guns and swords, they felt it was their role in life to rid the world of people who were already dead but hadn't yet noticed. We the rapt and completely attentive, apart from getting up to get more wine, snacks, surf the web and check our email, viewers also learn that there is a military compound where plans are being made to bomb the zombie infested area. A civilian - who was either a scientist or a Liberal - begs the commander for more time. Time that is, for the Hunters to rescue the people in the hospital. He doesn't get it, the planes are dispatched and everything gets blown to hell. Well, not quite everything. A few people, women and children of course - it's good to be one of them in this kind of flick, but risky in slasher movies - are saved at the cost of all the Hunter's lives except Seagal. At picture's end he even refuses to leave with the truck sent to pick up the post bombing survivors. Instead he says something manly like, I'm a hunter, I've got a job to do, and then walks off into the darkness, alone, one man against the world...of zombies. I tell ya, Dudes and Dudettes, there was a tear in my eye as he did so. I choked down the urge to holler "Shane. Shane. Come back Shane." but it was too late. He was gone. And besides that, his name wasn't Shane.
A note for the few people who will understand it: Large parts of the movie and even the personalities of some of the characters seemed taken from the DC Comics series, "The Walking Dead."
Monday, February 01, 2010
Turkeys Galore
Countdown to the Super Bowl begins now. I estimate four hours. I'm talking about the bowl of gravy that will be placed next to the turkey that Woowoo Charly will be roasting today for the simple reason that you can never have too much of that big bird. Unless, of course, as my mother once told me, provoking a sleepless night as I pondered its meaning, "your eyes are too big for your stomach."
I would hope that the other Super Bowl, the one pitting a bunch of baby horses against people canonized by the church, this coming Sunday (Sunday? Shouldn't playing on that "holy" day give the Saints an unfair edge?) turns out to be as good as our roast bird and not just another, well, turkey.
Interjections: Our dogs have decided that barking is a form of exercise. Each one, not wanting the other to get in better shape, barks along with whichever one starts the cacaphony. Swell.
The founder of my Writer's Group has changed our name to The Writer's Guild. I told him my dick felt bigger already. He wrote back and said the name change gave him a "guildy pleasure."
Back to the text.
Woowoo Charly is a Grammy a few times over, so she stayed up last night to watch other Grammys get some kind of awards. A few Grampys were honored as well. I joined her for a little while to see what the fuss was all about, but had to leave after watching a group called the Black Eyed Peas do something on stage that was incomprehensible to me. If they were supposed to be dancing they weren't very good, jumping around as they were to the only noticeable musical instruments, the drums and if they were singing, well, that would be silly as they mostly just shouted and pointed at the audience a lot. I guess they did something, though, that I missed, because they did get one of the awards. Earlier in the show a very attractive woman named Pink, who wasn't, came on stage in a nice white dress and began to warble what I thought was an actual song. She was doing pretty well I thought and even when the heat of the stage lights must have gotten too much for her and she felt compelled to take off all of her clothes, I didn't mind a bit. It was when she got trapped in a lacy net of some sort, the modern equivalent of the old fashioned hook from the wings I suppose, that I became concerned for her safety. But not to worry, she trooper-ed on and continued singing while she fought to be released. I don't know if she won an award or not, but she certainly deserved one for the effort.
I left the Grammys to Grammy and retired to our guest room where I searched the TV there for something else to watch. My on-screen guide offered among other things a movie entitled, "Crepuscular." I liked the way that Spanish word sounded, so I clicked it on to see if I could determine its meaning without looking it up in the dictionary or on Funk and Google. The movie was "Twilight." As words go, I like them both. Every English speaker knows that at a certain hour of the day the light gets twi, hence the name for that time of day. It also sounds like something Elmer Fudd might say if you said to him that the beer was too heavy. Crepuscular, on the other hand, sounds like a description of someone with open sores. (One reason for me tuning in.) "His body grew increasingly crepuscular from the vicious zombie bites." I remember falling asleep to the movie back in New York last September having tried to watch it after a multi-margarita lunch. I fell asleep to it again last night, but promised my self another viewing attempt should it pass my way again. The movie, as almost everyone knows, is a teenage vampires in love saga that has, to hear all the talk, apparently moistened the panties of teenage girls and young women throughout the known universe. Having some vampire in my DNA - I don't like garlic, crosses don't repel me, but they don't mean anything either, and my image in the mirror is fading more everyday (although this may have something to do with my eyeglass prescription) - I need to catch up on all the new moves in case I come back as a blood sucker in my next incarnation. I do, of late, find myself liking the color red more and more.
Especially when it's my cranberry sauce.
I would hope that the other Super Bowl, the one pitting a bunch of baby horses against people canonized by the church, this coming Sunday (Sunday? Shouldn't playing on that "holy" day give the Saints an unfair edge?) turns out to be as good as our roast bird and not just another, well, turkey.
Interjections: Our dogs have decided that barking is a form of exercise. Each one, not wanting the other to get in better shape, barks along with whichever one starts the cacaphony. Swell.
The founder of my Writer's Group has changed our name to The Writer's Guild. I told him my dick felt bigger already. He wrote back and said the name change gave him a "guildy pleasure."
Back to the text.
Woowoo Charly is a Grammy a few times over, so she stayed up last night to watch other Grammys get some kind of awards. A few Grampys were honored as well. I joined her for a little while to see what the fuss was all about, but had to leave after watching a group called the Black Eyed Peas do something on stage that was incomprehensible to me. If they were supposed to be dancing they weren't very good, jumping around as they were to the only noticeable musical instruments, the drums and if they were singing, well, that would be silly as they mostly just shouted and pointed at the audience a lot. I guess they did something, though, that I missed, because they did get one of the awards. Earlier in the show a very attractive woman named Pink, who wasn't, came on stage in a nice white dress and began to warble what I thought was an actual song. She was doing pretty well I thought and even when the heat of the stage lights must have gotten too much for her and she felt compelled to take off all of her clothes, I didn't mind a bit. It was when she got trapped in a lacy net of some sort, the modern equivalent of the old fashioned hook from the wings I suppose, that I became concerned for her safety. But not to worry, she trooper-ed on and continued singing while she fought to be released. I don't know if she won an award or not, but she certainly deserved one for the effort.
I left the Grammys to Grammy and retired to our guest room where I searched the TV there for something else to watch. My on-screen guide offered among other things a movie entitled, "Crepuscular." I liked the way that Spanish word sounded, so I clicked it on to see if I could determine its meaning without looking it up in the dictionary or on Funk and Google. The movie was "Twilight." As words go, I like them both. Every English speaker knows that at a certain hour of the day the light gets twi, hence the name for that time of day. It also sounds like something Elmer Fudd might say if you said to him that the beer was too heavy. Crepuscular, on the other hand, sounds like a description of someone with open sores. (One reason for me tuning in.) "His body grew increasingly crepuscular from the vicious zombie bites." I remember falling asleep to the movie back in New York last September having tried to watch it after a multi-margarita lunch. I fell asleep to it again last night, but promised my self another viewing attempt should it pass my way again. The movie, as almost everyone knows, is a teenage vampires in love saga that has, to hear all the talk, apparently moistened the panties of teenage girls and young women throughout the known universe. Having some vampire in my DNA - I don't like garlic, crosses don't repel me, but they don't mean anything either, and my image in the mirror is fading more everyday (although this may have something to do with my eyeglass prescription) - I need to catch up on all the new moves in case I come back as a blood sucker in my next incarnation. I do, of late, find myself liking the color red more and more.
Especially when it's my cranberry sauce.
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