v e n u e c r a s h

Shamefully belated Memorial day thing.

To ask is a sin.

Watching The Caine Mutiny this afternoon got me thinking about how you deal with human competency in the military. Not everyone can be an Eisenhower or Henry V. 

In my hometown, population 13, 000 and falling, there lived a Rear Admiral. WW II, Pacific Theatre. I used to see him quite alot at the country club ( no big deal, it was a small town and not very difficult to join...if you had some money and were white same today). It was well known that he reall y got pissed if you didn't introduce him as Rear Admiral X, or even say, "good evening, X" instead of "good evening, Rear Admiral"

I always wondered about it. Why Rear Admiral? What happened? Why didn't he make Admiral? Did he miss his quota of Zeros one week? Did it come down to something as simple as math? Numbers? Or something else, something about character? Is that why he was so fucking touchy about the rank thing?

It was intriging, and sad somehow, and later in life I recognised the same sadness when someone would tell me, with pride edged with resentment, that they were assistant art director, or assistant coach for 25 years now, or playing second string.

But this is what I've come to believe: Head art directors, very reverends, head coaches, presidents, are at the end of thier game. All they have are lateral moves. On top, they may relax. They are boring, and prolly always have been.

The second tier, however, is far more interesting. Ther are always the questions, internal and from others: do i need the top? (no jokes please) do i want it? these people are often wrestling with the same unsolvable questions thier whole lives. I still find Melville vastly more intriging than Hawthorne.

A person juggling marbles under stress. an opaque Rear Admiral who insists on protocal in a small southern town, 40 years after the war's end: those arethe stories, to me, that matter.    

Major League Baseball. As American as whatever Tom Friedman tells us American is, in his next collection of charlie rose transcripts book, which, listen, will be deadly serious, people.

My head is exploding with waaaaay too much. MLB just makes me smile, esp as the sun goes down. and i must say, camden yards affords a great late day thru dusk to night view of the skyline. in the middle of teeth-grating physical therapy and a move and no vacation unless you count 3 weeks in NYC in recovery, this makes me smile. a coolish night with the husband and some peanuts and the O's and whoever's not in white seems very sweet and simple.

Of course, if the GOP holds onto both the House and Senate, just forget I said anything and enjoy the summer.

Fuzzy yellow coaster.

The fucking home inspection team that has to go thru your house before you can sell it spent 4 fucking hours here yesterday finding stupid things. but worst of all, some asshole found the opened box of body of song and decided the sweet little yellow fuzzy was just dandy as a FUCKING COASTER!!! IT'S STAINED!!! so they're coming back tomorrow and i'm cuing both discs to shuffle continuously for 4 hours at big love loud level. i should probably think twice about this but husband guy is in San Diego at our old haunts and eat places so it's my decision. Fuck.

Minds together, legs apart.

i have been trying to find if this model is still being produced for some time now. so far, no luck.

i see it many times in un-renovated public bathrooms we've been called in to renovate, or in buildings about to be demolished. usually these are WPA era schools. usually there are no screens. i loathe screens.

these are best configured thus: 10 or so to a bank; an opposing bank so there could conceivably be 10 guys with their backs to another 10 guys

these work best with guys in suits and fedoras

they also work best when mounted on a small step up ledge of 7" or so. stepping up to them seems correct.

look at them. you must spread your legs and straddle them, almost  gripping them with the inside face of your soles

this allows you several options: the stand and hold; the one hand on hip and one palm on wall or at side, allowing flow wherever (it's a big, accommodating catcher)

or, for as it was ultimately designed: legs apart, palms on the wall above you, your hips bend and your pelvis leaning into it. no contact between any bare body parts. step up to the stage. it's yours.   

WWACD?

so what would coulter et al do with this one if he was part of a dem admin? i had to take a walk to pick up something at the little store, and i thot about it. and it's a tough one but this is what i think:

1. who the fuck lobbed this softball? is gannon still around?

2. i didnt know Snow had a serious bout with cancer. or his mother died of cancer. i guess if i watched fox i would have known. i'm truly sorry. but you know what?

3.we all have horrible medical stories about ourselves or our families and/or friends, and there is a private time and place to share these highly wrenching stories and

4. this was neither the time or place.

absolute torch and Tang.

At my trusty nastygrimy Giant with brown foodproduct: a tranny with a sparkle tee reading "i'm a whore", John Waters trying to figure how to work the self check-out, constant craving background music. i dunno, i thot it an HBO teaser moment.

And then i remembered why.....

Surgeries, doping, whining, lies, greed, lousy home team, watching Raffy cryin' an testifyin'.........i had really put MLB way back in the corner of my mind, along with the b/w nyt. then i came across this. And remember, boys, just like the  7th stretch, it happens at least once every game.

The Truck Driver and His Mate.