"..that's like what I played in my garage when I was a kid, man.."--Eddie Van Halen’s opinion of punk music.
WARNING! The following internet post contains material that a truly free society would neither fear nor suppress.
Let’s get it on!
Anti-war activist Cindy Sheehan and REM frontman Michael Stipe will headline a New York concert to urge the withdrawal of U.S. troops from Iraq.
The concert, dubbed "Bring 'Em Home Now!" will be held at the Hammerstein Ballroom on March 20, the 3rd anniversary of the invasion of Iraq. Rufus Wainwright and Bright Eyes will also perform, it was announced Wednesday.
At a venue that seats 2,500??? I was thinking along the lines of Woodstock, or something. You know, like California Jam (’74). Or the U.S. Festival (‘83). The Hammerstein Ballroom? What in tarnation?
Sh*t, y’all. Don‘t that just beat all? I reckon they could’a packed a quarter million of them long-haired, drug-crazed, half-nekkid America haters onto Uncle Jiggy’s farm, and for a couple of cheap fixins’ to boot. Hell. If a bang-the-bongo-pass-the-pipe peace festival and the figured on ‘plosion of sexualized transported diseases is what they was fixin‘ on, I figure Uncle Jiggy could’a hooked ’em up for a couple a 55-gallon drums of Mad Dog real cheap like. Well, that, and a used distributor cap for the Rocket 88. Ain’t a goll danged distributor cap to be found in this here whole sh*tty county since those ATF fancy-pantsers shut down Williard’s junk yard since he took a likin’ to AKs and govmint surplus ‘plosives and suchlike. Fuggin’ commie tattletales! It’s enuf to make a fellar get to whoopin’ up on the ole’ lady. Where’s Opal?
This is frickin’ beautiful. From the “You are all girlie men!” department, if you will.
Chia Kev has a new post on his web page where he gets to ripping into Dubya again. Hey, at least he’s consistent. Consistently partisan, but consistent. If an elderly woman in, say, Idaho, stepped on a golf ball and hurtled head-over-heals down a flight of steps, Chia Kev would be on the ‘zircon-encrusted microphone of lunacy’ the next morning pointing to that incident as proof of Bush’s mishandling of the sporting goods departments in K-Marts from shore to shore. (?) If a meteor came within 333 billion miles of vaporizing Harveys Lake, Chia Kev would blame that on Bush’s decision to slash the Fedrule Govmint’s meteor eradication budget. (?) If any evidence of fall foliage emerges before January, well, Chia Kev will get to spewing on and on about how Bush the Big Dummy is killing us all by recognizing the Kyoto Attack for what it was: an attack on the U.S. economy.
Yo, Chia! As your hero once said to a fellow pony-tailed girlie man: “I feel your pain.”
Check this hogwash from the Grassy One:
When days went by after Katrina struck and the President didn’t respond, we were left to wonder whether he was too isolated, whether he didn’t care about us.
He didn’t care about us?
Boo...hoo…hoo. I need a Kleenex.
What the fu>k is that weenie-styled slop? The first installment of “Metrosexual Man meets The Socialist Manifesto?”
I haven’t been sleeping very well of late. Quite frankly, I’ve been sobbing uncontrollably for no apparent reason and the guys at work are starting to whisper behind my back. But I hear them and it cuts very deeply. It hurts more than they’ll ever know. Sure, I’ve got a wife and kid and a car and a house and teenaged daughter with a see-thru blouse (Zappa again), but I sometimes get the feeling that Bush doesn‘t care about me. Yeah, I’ve got the pool, the air conditioners, two refrigerators, the glitzy knick-knacks, the checking account, the money market account and retirement accounts stuffed full of untold dollars. But still, I just can’t shake the suspicion that George W. Bush doesn’t care about me. Does he really feel my pain? I’m not so sure.
If a weird wind kicked up and leveled the adobe, would Bush swoop in here and replace everything three times over, or would I be left to fend for myself? If an airliner went off-course and tried to have sexual intercourse with the back yard, would he bail me out, or would he expect me to replace all of that cheesy fencing out of my own pocket? If a national disaster the likes of which was heretofore unseen in these parts floods the whole shebang, should I climb onto my roof and cry like a baby because the swollen Fedrule teat is too slow in coming? If I’m forced to live in a camper with a Coleman stove and a couple of deranged in-laws, will Bush care about me? Would a grown man worry about whether the president cared about him if he was anything other than a big fu>king pussy looking to the Fedrule Govmint’s teat every time life takes a turn for the worse he didn’t count on, or didn’t properly prepare for?
Sorry Chia, but when the EMA says to head for the hills, then you head for the fargin’ hills. You grab the wife, the Dale Jr. beer mug, and the Chipper Jones rookie card, but not necessarily in that particular order. And spare us the poverty bit, okay? When the dikes broke back in’72, the folks in charge said to get out of harm’s way, and that’s what we did, save for a few who were of the born-here-gonna-die-here variety. My Uncle Bill’s brood had no car. My Mom had no wheels. And my grandparents never even wanted to own a car. So, save us the tired ‘lack of transportation’ angle. Not a one of us as much as got wet.
You’re once again suggesting that Bush was slow to respond because he didn’t care about the poor. A more apt explanation would be he was shocked by how many of those poor could be so fu>king completely stupid by deciding to remain in a bowl as a massive hurricane approached. Thing is, all the disaster planning in the world won’t make up for abject stupidity, so what’s with the effeminate-sounding partisan attack?
Get out of town by landfall?
Well, how in the hell are we supposed to carry all of that Heineken with us?
Bush doesn’t care about me?
Oh, woe is me. I’m gonna call my doctor and get some of those extra-strength sedatives the drag queens absolutely swear by. The heel came off of my loafer. The chick who does my pedicures moved away without warning. My therapist says I have a lot of pent-up anger because my Boy Scout patrol leader once compared my penis to angel hair pasta. It was 2-degrees below zero. Why did he say that? I’ll try not to break down. My bisexual girlfriend beat me at arm-wrestling, but I had a really bad chest cold at the time. It proves nothing. I just can’t deal with that ignorant cashier at Starbucks anymore. Way too many negative vibes, baby. Peace out already. She interferes with my aura. It’s upsetting.
I threw a party at my bungalow and some low-life made off with my new neoprene butt-plug. And free-basing is so, so, like, ‘80s ghetto, you know? Trevor told me those Mod guys were ultra-cool, and Dirk vouched for them likewise. But, like, they showed up here wearing,, I shudder to say it--official NASCAR clothing. Like, yuk. Freaking Neanderthal Nation, toots. Probably even republicans. Ooh, where’s my can of jasmine-scented Lysol? They touched my sculptures and everything They‘ll never get close to touching this prostrate. Dream on. I need a gallon of Manhattans, some magic dust and a total body massage. I even cut myself shaving and my scrotum just refuses to stop bleeding. I can’t take much more. My dominatrix is gonna walk the fu>k out when she sees that. Only she is allowed to make me bleed. Her rules.
I don’t know how much more I can take. It’d sure get me through another trying day if I thought that my president cared about me. But I suspect that he doesn’t care about me. So let it be known that if alcohol poisoning suddenly fells me, it’s not my fault. It’s his fault. He doesn’t care about me.
I gotta go part my chest hairs.
The race to replace Kevin Blaum continues to heat up.
The latest is that Sally Healey, Wilkes-Barre’s former Neighborhood Impact Team coordinator is mulling over the possibility of throwing her hat into the local political ring. While I have gone on the record as dismissing the neighborhood impact team’s impact on this city, there is no denying that Sally Healey is well-respected in this community of ours. Hey, the more, the merrier.
I’ll apologize now: Sorry I gave you such a bad time of it, Sally. The thing was, your boss was definitely pissing me off with his useless press releases.
But I want more than well-coordinated campaigns. I want to see some very lively debates. Like, as in plural--debates. Get the League of Women Voters on the blower. Let’s rock!
From The Times Leader:
At the very tail end of that news blurb was the following:
Also, Wilkes-Barre City Administrator J.J. Murphy, a Democrat, said Wednesday that he will seek Blaum’s seat.
Snuck that in there, didn’t they?
I’m ready. I’m ready for a grass roots, guerilla-styled campaign. You already know my theory. I can’t change geopolitics. I can’t affect the outcome of national politics. I cannot determine the future of statewide politics. But I can work to see to it that only the best and brightest get elected in my backyard. And if they get themselves elected in my backyard, they might one day gravitate upwards and change the outcome of those battles at the higher rungs of the political food chain.
Make checks payable to: Committee to Elect J.J. Murphy.
An official mailing address is forthcoming.
Still more candidates for Blaum‘s seat. At least to me, this one came out of nowhere, but it immediately launched me back to those bygone days at both Franklin’s Family Restaurants and good ole’ Sandy Beach, Harveys Lake.
When I was but a sprat of 10 playing beachcomber at Sandy Beach each and every summer, he was Eddy Day. Years later at Franklin’s, he became Ed Pashinski. During those Sandy Beach days, he and the Nighttimers would show up in their retired Cadillac ambulance, set-up in the second floor dancehall and let loose with the big hits of the day. And I loved every minute of it.
How much are the time machines currently going for on eBay?
Five or so years later, he and TNT were jamming Edgar Winter’s Frankenstein at Coal Street Park, back when wifey and I were first taking notice of each other. Approximately ten years or so later, wifey and I took in his appearances with Joe Nardone & The All-Stars at the Hansen’s park dance hall. To take in those shows at Hansen‘s, we needed a babysitter. When I was 10, I idolized Eddy Day. When I was 15, I was still taking in his appearances. And when I was a twenty-something, I was still drawn to his shows. Geez, it’s sure been a while since I’ve had me a White Mountain cooler.
During those Franklin’s days that began in the late ‘70s and encompassed all of the ‘80s, Eddy Day, for me, had become Ed Pashinski because his brother worked for that outfit just as I had. Fact is, his brother was my immediate superior. My boss. When I was a lowly short-order cook, his bro’ was my boss. When I became a kitchen manager, his bro’ was my boss. When I made the jump to assistant manager, his bro’ was my boss. When I made the ultimate leap to general manager--you guessed it--his bro’ was my boss. Just to make sure we’ve got this straight, his bro’ was my boss.
Fact is, his brother was my boss longer than my father bothered to be my father. His brother was my boss longer than my first step-dad was my pretend father figure. And his brother was my boss longer than step-dad #2 stuck around before I started responding to his mind games by punching him from room to room to room. If ever there was a man who could save me from myself, it was Ed’s brother. The only thing was, he came along way too late to change someone so set in their scattershot and knuckleheaded ways. A father figure? Certainly not. A very, very positive influence whether he knows it or not? We have ourselves a winner.
Anywho, Ed Pashinski was always a kind, good-natured saint of a man. While very many of the other relatives of Franklin’s higher-ups came into our stores expecting extra-special treatment based solely on bloodlines, Ed was one of the rare exceptions. He treated the employees very well, he tipped very well and he went out of his way not to be a bother simply because he had a connection to the place. While many others were arrogant and condescending, he was always gracious and outgoing. He was always a class act, as were his wife and four children.
His parents also made a habit of visiting our Kidder Street store, and the old adage that ‘the fruit doesn’t fall too far from the tree’ was definitely on display in many very positive respects.
While I will not vote for Ed Pashinski, I will always respect him and wish him well in whatever endeavors he chooses to embark upon. He’s a good man.
And every time I hear a Turtles tune, he will be in my thoughts.
Imagine me and you, I do…
Yeah, I know.
Walter is to urban planning what Adolf Hitler was to world peace. Walter is to responsible governance what Paris Hilton is to beauty. Walter is to forward-thinking leadership what Rock Hudson was to heterosexuality.
Walter’s persistent verbal flatulence is exactly the reason I wouldn’t waste my time by attending a council meeting. Why should I? To hear the same tired gibberish recited in exactly the same manner as it was at the last meeting? It’s childish. It’s petty. It’s sour grapes after being rejected at the polls by the voters of this city. Walter never once raised his voice in public until he found himself snubbed at the polls. We was silent while Tom McGroarty destroyed the city, but now he’s the self-appointed voice of the downtrodden while Leighton attempts to put the city back together? Spare me. I’m not that fu>king stupid. He needs to take his still-open wounds and lick them somewhere else.
An trust me, jealousy and pettiness is behind much of what goes on in this city, only, the public will never know about it, or how it tends to keep generating negative headlines.
Consider the recent actions of I.A.F.F. Local 104, the union that represents our dedicated and professional firefighters. We all know the deal. When Leighton took over, he inherited over $10 million in unpaid debts and an infrastructure nightmare.
We had three firehouses that were either ancient, or in a state of serious disrepair. The North station is an aged, glorified dog coop at best. The Northeast station has shot and was closed. The East Station in the Heights made the shuttered Northeast station look great by comparison, but was closed after the electrical outlets made like water faucets.
When the East station was locked, the activist crazies saw an opportunity to curry favor with the voters and pounced on it. But, the mayor stuck to his guns, the place remained out of commission, so the usual activist suspects prayed for another issue to exploit for personal gain. All except for a Heights resident named Denise Carey. She would not be denied no matter what the mayor, or the engineering reports had to say and now she’s got herself saddled with hefty court fines and many court dates still in the offing. True to form, once Mrs. Carey found herself in a bit of a pickle with the local judge, the activist crazies ran from her screaming with their hair on fire.
Meanwhile, the mayor budgeted $50 million over a five year period to upgrade both the neglected physical plants and the aged apparatus of the fire department. Both Headquarters and South Station received what they needed: new overhead doors, new roofs and new HVAC systems. Plus, the funding was put in place to build a brand new firehouse in the shadow of the Nord End teener field’s clubhouse. A new firehouse, by the way, which is very close to being open for business. If that’s not enough, Ladder 1 replaced Truck 6, which was older than dirt and held together by plenty of welds and duct tape. Plus, the department will take receipt of two new engines during the next couple of years. No administration in memory has made such a significant monetary commitment to the fire department, yet, somehow, all we ever hear about is how Tom Leighton is closing our neighborhood firehouses.
Come to think of it, Leighton was criticized by the “Save Our Firehouse” folks in the Heights for acquiring Ladder 1, when, according to them, what the city really needed was Quints rather than gargantuan ladder trucks. The only problem being that the union contract would demand that 5 firefighters would have to man the Quints rather than the normal compliment of three for an engine. Or two men for a ladder truck. In fact, the McGroarty administration had ordered a Quint, but the new fire chief cancelled that order as soon as he got the keys to his office.
Now, despite the fact that the mayor has done all that he could to significantly upgrade the operational facilities and apparatus of the department, the staffing issue continues to be a major source of friction between the union higher-ups and the administration. I’ve had it explained to me so many which ways, I don’t even understand it anymore. He wants 15, they want 17. Something like that. Sometimes there’s 16, and other times there’s 14. Some days there’s 17, but not for very long. It depends on whom you talk to and on which end of the valley the Sun is setting on most days. Whatever. I chalk that up to we can’t always get what we want in a city with limited resources.
Call me what you will, but I think this mayor has done well by the fire department. They backed him during the last mayoral election, but somehow, they feel betrayed ever since then, and that’s entirely due to the staffing issues. But this is where the pettiness manifests itself once again. It’s kind of repugnant. It’s childish. It’s beneath them.
Every year as the year draws to a close, the fire department holds a retirement party for the retiring hose dudes at a club here in the Nord End. And as is tradition, the mayor, the city administrator and the members of city council are invited to partake of said retirement parties. But not this past year. Nope. In very late 2005, the city’s leaders were snubbed in favor of some activists who took up the ridiculous cause of investing a quarter of a million dollars into a 100-year-old firehouse that has no business to be still standing. Yup. Despite a $50 million investment in the fire department, the Carey’s are more in demand with the union brass than the city’s elected folks.
If that’s not petty, I fail to understand the meaning of the word.
Fact is, the stuff that never makes it to the pages of our local newspapers goes a long way in explaining why some folks do what they do, say what they do, or why they act the way they do. It’s all fun and games until somebody doesn’t get what they want.
That post ought to get my name removed from many a guest list. Whatever. Whichever. Who cares?