I've never jumped out of a plane either. Honestly, I don't know if I'm scared neccesarily; but I'm just not too jazzed up about it.

Given blood. Now that's something that approaches fear. I hate going to the doctor, because I'm terrified that they're going to recommend I undergo some horrible procedure involving needles, narcotics, and a sledgehammer. The wife's a nurse, so she loves these gory-ass shows on DiscoveryHealth that show live operations and shit. Makes me want to ralph.

Joined the mile high club. But I don't think I'd really enjoy it all that much, because at 6'4 I have a hard enough time just pissing in the damn lavatory; let alone getting in there with someone else and dirtyin' them up.

Been so drunk that I pissed/shit the bed. I mean, who does that?

And since I missed Smut Thursday yesterday, here's an article on the social history of the blowjob. There's a Jenelle joke in there somewhere, but I just can't seem to put it together.

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ItÂ’s worth noting that during the American Revolution, many colonists remained loyal to the British. IÂ’m not talking about a few either, IÂ’m talking between twenty and thirty percent. In addition, when the war was over, at least 70,000 of those losers left the country, most to Canada, but some to British colonies in the Caribbean and the England.

Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Against the insidious wiles of foreign influence, (I conjure you to believe me fellow citizens) the jealousy of a free people ought to be constantly awake; since history and experience prove that foreign influence is one of the most baneful foes of Republican Government.

........... George Washington, Farewell Address, September 19, 1796

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I have never jumped out of a plane. My wife was big on it for a while, “You have to try it!” she said. “It’s incredible.” Sorry. Not going to happen. I’m ascared of that and I won’t change my mind no mater how many people try to convince me.

I have never ridden a horse. IÂ’m not afraid, on the contrary, I think it would be great, but somehow the opportunity never came about.

I have never eaten turnips or rhubarb. IÂ’m not sure theyÂ’re even real things.

On a somewhat related note, I eschew cream sauces.

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Today marks the tenth installment of Cultural Friday here at SBD. Every Friday up until now I had effortlessly found a topic to work with. This week I was beginning to struggle. IÂ’ve covered food, wine, etiquette, ballet, art and I think music and managed to keep the topics interesting. IÂ’ve managed to avoid the ambien-like topics of poetry and the like, but today I face the fact that much of the low-hanging fruit has been harvested.

I even found myself checking” High Culture” on wikipedia for ideas and here’s what I found (I have marked the topics already covered):

“High culture is traditionally the milieu of arts and sciences fostered under the European Renaissance. Its ideal is the Renaissance man, whose knowledge leads him to a broad and deep understanding of life.

The following fields of experience and study were considered parts of high culture:

* Appreciation for good design, whether decorative or minimalist
* Etiquette
* Fine arts and patronage of museums
* Government, especially public speaking and informed debate
* Haute cuisine and fine wine
* International travel, especially the Grand Tour of Europe
* Life sciences such as botany
* Literature, and the ability to write elegantly as learned from Classical literature and
poetry
* Military service (as an officer) was once a central part of high culture. As war has
become more impersonal and technology-driven since World War I, this aspect has
waned.
* The more financially expensive sports, such as equestrianism, fencing, sailing, and
sculling
* Musical discipline, especially in classical music such as grand opera
* Philosophy, especially of the European tradition
* Refined grooming and haute couture
* Religion, specifically the more early modern forms of Christianity
* Theatre, especially ballet”

That was a lot more interesting than I thought it would be. Apparently I have a lot more material to cover than I thought. I had thoughts of putting this to bed but then I read further and found the criticism of high culture. That incensed me enough to forget the idea.

“Critics of high culture see its focus on the European tradition as narrow and possibly even racist. In addition, the education and talent required for much of high culture is seen as elitist, with time wasted that could be spent on more practical improvements to material society. Many critics of high culture hold up popular culture as a more easily understood and enjoyable lifestyle.”

Now that’s the kind of bullshit that makes my head spin. Suddenly I’m a racist for supporting the arts. Apparently I’m also an elitist because I’d rather read a book than say…watch an episode of America’s Funniest Home Videos. Well, you know what? Then I guess I am a fucking elitist—and a proud one. I’m also not a big fan of “dumbing things down” so that the lazy bastards we all seem to be producing these days can tag along for the ride without contributing a single worthwhile thought to society. I’m tired of people who want to make everything easier. These are the same people who give trophies to every single kid at the end of baseball season instead of just giving them to the champions. Everybody expects everything to be easy in life and I’ve had enough of it.

In the next few Cultural Fridays will cover literature, grooming and international travel. I will also do a piece on self-defense, which replaced dueling/rapiers some time ago.

I will be ignoring religion and government because frankly, I find them both offensive.

If you would like to contribute a Cultural Friday article I would welcome them. Topics available: military (I would think honor and or basic field strategies), philosophy, equestrianism, sailing, sculling, life sciences, debate or more specific topics under the umbrella of those listed.

Submissions not guaranteed publication and editorial rights remain with me. What that really means is I wonÂ’t post complete shit, but almost anything else, and that IÂ’d like to be able to spell check it and if need be work with the author on basic editorial changes, i.e., punch it up, if need be.

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Every once in a while I come across something that makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. It's usually at someone else's expense, but hey, at least I'm honest.

Allow me to introduce you to Mariah, a young girl terrified of pickles. This chick fears pickles like little kids fear the bogey man. I love when she runs screaming from the pickle factory.

Somehow I think there are deeper issues here.

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I donÂ’t know if I believe in luck or not, but this week has been full of bad juju for me.

Yesterday after work I noticed my mailbox is falling down from wood rot and I can’t abide shit like that—another thing to fix. Then there was a power outage. Last night I was awaked from my slumber first by thunder, then a siren and finally a scared child. When I don’t sleep well I’m cranky. I’ll leave out the rest of the list but trust me; this is the work of the evil eye. Too many little things going wrong.

Today I began to take precautions. I donÂ’t wear jewelry except for the wedding band and a watch, but I found what I was looking for in the safe at the back of my closet. An old family heirloom. IÂ’m wearing it today, well hidden under my shirt so as not to arouse suspicion. The evil doer shall be repaid in the same coin, seven fold.

Of course all this can probably be chalked up to my obsessive compulsive tendencies, paranoia and a host of yet undiagnosed mental illnesses that IÂ’m sure I harbor. IÂ’m one of those people that locks a door, drives 300 miles and then starts to question whether or not I locked the door.

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What many Blog War n00bs don't understand, is that a good strategist doesn't confine a blog war to the blogoshpere; just like a good general doesn't confine his battles to the cities and towns. No, we must seek out our opponent in their element, rattle them.

So as my first strike, I drunk-dialed the crap out of Jenelle last Friday. Now, I don't remember every single word that was said (as is the nature of the drunk dial); but I do remember having a good time. Which probably means it was torture for her; making the manuever an outstanding success. At some point she had to bail, I think she had to go to a History QuizBowl Challenge of the Champions or something like that, I don't know.

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Whether you liked him or not, you probably read him at one time or another.

Acidman is gone.

I'm pretty much speechless.

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I just read this article about how people have fewer friends now than they did twenty years ago.

“Nearly a quarter of people surveyed said they had "zero" close friends with whom to discuss personal matters.”

I don’t discuss “personal matters” with friends. That’s why I have friends. I suspect that if I started calling them up and bellyaching all the time I would be a royal pain in the ass.

Yes, part of that is me being facetious, but there’s a lot of truth to it. I really don’t have many friends. I have, perhaps, six, close friends. Most of them I have known for over twenty years. I have a close friend that I met in kindergarten that I still talk to a lot—a guy that can be depended on in case of nuclear winter or other highly dramatic events where it’s kill or be killed.

I’ve had a lot of acquaintances over the years. I guess I still do, but it’s not really the same. I was one of those people who knew “everybody” but I was never foolish enough to think most people were my friends. And once you leave high school and start working your way through the world you have a tendency to cut people loose.

The guy who always drank too much in college and was “a blast to hang out with” sometimes turns out to be a pain in the ass alcoholic in later years. There comes a time between high school and age thirty where people are forced to become responsible adults, earn a wage and stop playing quarters every night. And it has been my experience that a certain percentage of these guys never make the cut. They are failures as men. They either cannot or will not provide for their young families or stay locked in a time warp forever and expect you to do the same.

I had a very close friend that never grew up. First it was funny. Then it was a pain in the ass. Before long it was sad and eventually it became dangerous. I was forced to set him adrift with a hard kick in the ass. Many people are faced with betrayal from friends, be it in the form of girlfriend stealing or cash theft. Some people make the transition from friend to giant sponge.

I have never slept with a girl that friend was dating, though I was accused of it constantly. I did sleep with a girl who had a serious boyfriend but I didnÂ’t know the guy except to maybe nod at if I saw him at a party. ItÂ’s an interesting story actually because she took advantage of me when I was buzzed and then started making appointments with me to have sex and itÂ’s a long story but she would get off on me going into the bar she and her boyfriend worked at and talking dirty to me while the boyfriend was close by. Both she and the boyfriend were annoying and stupid and I extracted myself from the whole sordid affair when she attempted to give me a hand job while I was sitting at the bar and her boyfriend was across bartending two feet away.

But IÂ’ve gotten off topic if there ever was one.

I read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil yesterday. ItÂ’s one of those books everyone has read but me. I liked it a lot, probably due to the setting. IÂ’m a sucker for Savannah. Definitely a city with feel all itÂ’s own.

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Cool Hand Luke is the History Channel!

Yeah, I dunno why either, but who cares; it's fucking Cool Hand Luke.

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I bend myself back into reality as the ebb of my past tugs at my knees, shins, ankles, and away. I can practically feel the salt on my lips, the seabreeze on my face and the sand between my toes as the memory tsunami pulls back into the ocean.

Then I'm shoved ahead by the throngs trying to cross the street. A mass of corporate assholes so involved in their own career paths that they wouldn't even recognize their own suite-mate if they shouldered them out of the way in the crosswalk. God, I hate the city; but it's the only place I can be myself without having to 'fess up to being myself. My shoes are getting scuffed now, as I'm frog-marched across the street by an army of salesmen, brokers, traders, and other human diseases.

I'm practically shoved into the pretzel cart on the opposing corner as a tide of business people rush past. Literally, I can hardly move amongst the force of the several hundred brushed wool trench coats and Totes umbrellas that whisk past me.

I begin to suffocate. I'm going to be trampled to death here on this pretzel cart. I fold over and my chest presses against the corrugated aluminum surface as the pretzeleer(?) runs to escape the swelling rush-hour storm surge of Wall Street dicks making their Friday escape. The reek of steamed pork leavings fills my nostrils as my face is shoved into the piping hot water of the chafing dish that holds the weiners. Both hands grapple frantically for leverage but only find themselves in condiment trays or against the slick aluminum of the cart.

I'm drowning in the most disgusting sea of processed meat and sauerkraut one could imagine. It burns. And as much as I try, I can do nothing to improve the situation.

My lungs begin to burn, I can hardly feel my hands.

I'm passing out.

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In an effort to infer that my intentions of blog warfare are simply a product of some sort of ailing social life (sorry, I don't know how she drew that conclusion either) the evil 'She Who Would Be Queen of the Mundane' (as I could only surmise from her posts as of late that exemplify the trivial) has asserted that I married the wrong woman.

In reality, what we're seeing here is a last ditch attempt to legitimize the hurt that she must feel; knowing that the one she held for herself during those private times really belongs to another.

I'm totally normal with it though, because I'm so used to being coveted by all my internet biatches.

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I leave the bar and, stepping into the tea-colored cascade of evening sunlight that's spilling over the highrises across the street, adjust my sunglasses and begin walking the block south. I notice how my neatly polished shoes seem to leave ripples in the cracked and creased concrete sidewalk upon which they tread. Shiny black, almost wet-looking, breaking up the hard textured surface of the grey sidewalk. The more I concentrate on them, the more I fall into myself. It's happening; the memory tsunami.
---
I'm 13 years old again; full of energy and ready to expend it all as quick as possible. Surrounded by tall pines and a gently glowing fire, Luke asks me if I want to "Be a part of the group, man!" Yeah, hell yeah; I nod and follow him into the dark beyond the shed. Just as I pass the shadow cast by the structure I'm set upon by fists, kneecaps, and elbows that seemed to spring from the darkness itself. An unidentifiable force pushes me into the dampening grass, and I feel the weight of several people on my chest as punches and boot heels rain down on my shoulders, back, and buttocks. Then silence.

I lay for a second, just trying to put myself in a place where I can sleep through whatever comes next. Then Gary thrusts an open palm in mine "Get up dude, you're in!" I'm confused, In? In what? I brush off the pine needles and grass stuck to my shirt and jeans. Luke and the guys are standing around, smiling, laughing; Hahahaha, you did good man. You're in!

Heh. Yeah, cool. Sup fellas, yeah.

Alright dude, now it's your turn.

"My turn?"

Yeah, you have to go find someone now. Bring 'em back.

I'm not proud that it didn't occur to me that I'd been almost instantly co-opted by greed. I was happy to be part of the power elite. Who wouldn't be right? Hell yeah I'll go get someone. We'll jump 'em in; and they'll get it too, just like I did. And they'll be grateful.

I picked the wrong kid.

My face contorts in regret as the tsunami tide rushes back out to sea and leaves a trail of scattered flash memories stacked on top of each other. These horrible things are left to roast in the harsh, noon sun that is hindsight. I drag myself out of the detritus that is my past and convince myself that 1994 doesn't exist anymore.

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So, Jenelle addmitedly wouldn't introduce me to her friends.

Well, I say fine. Oh and Paul, I wouldn't long so deeply for a photoblog issue of her swimsuit shopping. Let's just say I've got my confidential sources and it's not pretty.

And to think, all this time I was proudly showing her blog to all my friends. Well I bet she just saves my posts for late at night, when no one's around, and she can keep me all to herself. Either way she's a naughty, naughty little Spinster; and she's gonna get spanked.

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The reason that a lot of Europeans think little of Americans isnÂ’t always based on politics. Sometimes the truth hurts a little. When you consider the fact that most Americans who travel to Europe are stupid fat people expecting everyone to speak English and have early bird specials at all the restaurants itÂ’s really no wonder at all. Go to the mall and look around this weekend. Then imagine shipping them off to represent you in Europe or anywhere else and tell me youÂ’re not a little apprehensive. Sorry, folks, donÂ’t shoot the messenger.

Take a look at this jackass.

He checked into a hotel in Germany for the WC and after the game he couldnÂ’t find his hotel. He wandered around for six hours aimlessly with no hope. He didnÂ’t know the name of his hotel or anything else except it was near a park and a Mercedes dealership. Do you know how many Mercedes dealerships are in Germany?

By three in the morning he went to the cops and pleaded for help and they drove him around like a child for two hours looking for his hotel in city of 500,000.

Idiot.

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This week weÂ’re discussing cuisine. I have a great love of haute cuisine when done properly and I loathe it when itÂ’s a sham. Gastronomically speaking the French rule the world, whether you care to admit it or not. Over the years the French have truly made an art of fine cooking, sauces and pastry.

Some people are enamored with nouvelle cuisine. A lot of people talk about California cuisine and new names for cooking styles spring up every week. ThereÂ’s an entire TV channel devoted to food, though most of the time they cater to the mundane. In case you donÂ’t know, Rachael Ray is not a chef. Sometimes IÂ’ll tune in so I can picture her naked in a tub of cling peaches in heavy syrup, but she may as well be an army cook as far as cuisine goes.

A lot of people don’t know good food from bad. I know plenty of people who go to expensive restaurants and pay $35 for an entrée and think it’s wonderful, when it’s really slop. I know an over-rested steak when I get one. I generally don’t send food back because I know what happens when you do that. Nor do I blame the servers for dry meat or shitty food in general. I take it in stride. That’s why I go to the same places a lot. When a great chef is running a kitchen you get consistency.

I lot of people see lamb on a menu and order it not even thinking to ask if itÂ’s domestic. Most of time itÂ’s not. How do you think it was preserved on itÂ’s trip from Australia? A lot of people still order Swordfish in restaurants, even though itÂ’s been known to harbor foot long worms. Have you ever seen a chef order Swordfish? Somewhere along the line Chilean sea bass became a big deal. I donÂ’t particularly care for it, but the bigger question is why would someone in a coastal city order a most likely frozen fish when theyÂ’re sitting on the fucking water in Palm Beach? Local produce and especially fish are better bets in almost all cases.

I once traveled in the Midwest for business and I guy I was with kept ordering clams and fish in every restaurant we went in. And while fresh seafood is available away from the coast you really have to think about the individual restaurant and how many times a week they order fish. Don’t even get me going about ‘the specials’.

But back to haute cuisine. It can be decadent. I’ll probably die of a heart attack from eating Foie gras, but it will have been worth it. If you’re not familiar with Foie gras, it is a pâte made from the grossly enlarged liver of a force fed goose. Those livers can weigh three or four pounds. It’s very expensive, the texture is smooth as silk, and it’s quite rich. Also, animal rights people go ape shit whenever they hear the word. For me it’s like heroin; a dangerous addiction that will probably kill me, or least give me the gout.

ItÂ’s also used in a lot of very complicated dishes, like Wellington. Haute cuisine is a complicated affair in general. A lot of dishes take a great deal of time to prepare. Demi-glace is a perfect example of a classic French sauce thatÂ’s so time consuming to prepare that few restaurants do it from scratch anymore. It entails roasting veal bones in an oven for hours, preparing an Espagnole sauce, making a roux, adding wine and reducing the shit out of it until youÂ’ve got liquid gold. IÂ’m a sucker for a good demi-glace.

Traditional French meals, as well as some Italian, serve the salad at the end of the meal where it belongs. Then comes the cheese course, another favorite of mine. A good cheese menu is rare these days and in America youÂ’re stuck with pasteurized cheeses only, which is a terrible shame.

ThereÂ’s no reason to be intimidated by fine food. ThereÂ’s nothing I enjoy more than fine food, good service and a selection of great wines and cognacs. The ride home will entail a good deal of flatulence, but itÂ’s a small price to pay.

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So The Wife and I are in the store this evening, doing some grocery shopping. We're picking through the produce, roma tomatoes to be exact, and we caught an interesting little peice of info:

"Dollar seventy-four!?" The Wife and I turn around to this woman, mid fifties maybe. "Is that a dollar seventy-four each, or just per pound?"
"Mmm, per pound," says The Wife.
"Well, one day they'll be a dollar seventy four each," asserts the weird lady.
The Wife and I exchange a momentary glance, "Yeah, I try not to think about that day," says The Wife.
"Well, you should be. Because the Lord is coming."
I'm staring at my wife, wondering what the price of roma tomatoes has to do with the second coming of Christ, the End of Days, and how exactly I'm supposed to be preparing for that. The Wife's staring back at me, and the batshit crazy woman is staring at the both of us; I'm assuming she wants a response. I have no earthly idea how to follow that kind of lunacy so I lean in close to her, squint my eyes and whisper "Not if I can help it," and stalk off into the frozen section.

I mean really, what the hell was I supposed to say? What would you have said? I thought I was on some fucking hidden camera show, for fuck's sake. They're letting anyone into the grocery store these days.

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I found myself sitting alone at the bar in a dimly lit dive off the alley between 41st and Washington. It was one of those places shoe-horned amongst taller, more modern buildings; and I got the distinct impression that there were sections of the place that hadn't seen sunlight since the Roosevelt administration. It must've been early evening, because the only light coming through the front windows was that odd orange color, and it fell at a steep enough angle that I could watch the cigarrette smoke twirl and billow in the air. I looked down at my empty highball glass, my hands, examined the bleach white cuffs, pressed and starchy, poking out underneath the grey herringbone wool of my jacket sleeves. My cologne was beginning to fade, and I could feel my skin abrsorbing the smells of the bar. Smoke, stale beer, spilled whiskey, that stagnant moist tinge that hangs in still places.

"Another?"

I'm reeled out of my daze by the bartender. "Mm-ph," I barely mumble with a nod of my head. She pulls the Dalwhinnie down off the shelf and pours me two thick fingers. Twenty-nine years of peat, spring water, and oak barrel aging begin wafting around me. I pick up the small, gently sweating pitcher of ice water to my right and tenderly introduce a few drops, watching the alcohol and water dance around each other in the highball glass. Raising the drink to my lips, I savor the experience with my eyes closed as layer after layer washes over me. Mmm, quittin' time never tasted so good.

I spend about thirty minutes sitting in this empty dark dugout that passes for a bar, taking in the tired parade of commuters walking, riding, driving or biking down the street outside. The regular sounds of city transit buses push through the front wall of the bar in a muffled cadence, the occasional frustrated peal of a car horn, fragments of conversations held waiting for the 'WALK' light; and keeping time for them all is the rhythmic chorus of a homeless man begging for change.

Silently, my mind wanders. Seeing, hearing, wondering; but never interacting. Simply absorbing and coallating, organizing these shards of the human experience in an effort to...to do who knows what. Make a collage I guess. I swallow the last stringent dram from my glass, fish a few spare dollars from my coat pocket and place them on the bar. It's time to get going.

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I canÂ’t believe companies are actually doing this.

One in five companies let's you take your pet to work?

LetÂ’s face it; most people canÂ’t take care of themselves let alone their pets. I love animals but I donÂ’t need a petting zoo down at the office. I donÂ’t want to smell dog while IÂ’m negotiating and I donÂ’t want to hear barking when IÂ’m on the phone. I may not want to pet someoneÂ’s dog that hasnÂ’t had a bath in weeks.

Just because you know how to train and care for animals doesnÂ’t mean everyone does. HowÂ’d you like to walk into the building and have some dog start humping your leg? What if the animals donÂ’t get along well with others? What happens when your dog jumps on me and starts scratching at my expensive suit?

The problems are endless and people have allergies and all kinds of shit can go wrong. And I'm not even addressing people bringing howler monkies and gibbons.

The policy has drawbacks, she conceded. "I'm talking to you in the bathroom because I don't want my dogs to start barking and interrupting our conversation," she said from her home office in Cape Coral, Florida. "They can get a little loud."

Yeah. IÂ’ll start making my calls from the shitter. I canÂ’t spend enough time in a small room while people are taking dumps. Maybe IÂ’ll move my desk in there full time, huh?

Idiots.

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How hard can it be to cancel an AOL account?

One man's frustrating call, caught on tape, resounds in the blogosphere

This is absolutely incredible. IÂ’m not surprised at all, but it still leaves me incensed. A guy tries to cancel his AOL but it plays out like heÂ’s trying to leave the Church of Scientology. Unfortunately for AO-hell, the guy recorded the conversation.

You really need to read the transcript of the call because itÂ’s priceless.

“I think I could've put up with everything, but at the point when he asked to speak to my father, I came very close to losing it at that point,” said 30-year-old Ferrari.

Actually, I think the call itself is out there somewhere but IÂ’m way too lazy.

Meanwhile, AOL goes crazy when the guy posts this and sends him an apology telling him how sorry they are and how that should never happen. You know what happens next:

To put this claim to the test, CNBC reporter Matt Lefkowitz called again. Here is a rough transcript:

CNBC: I want to cancel my AOL account.

He was promptly disconnected.

He tried again.

CNBC: I need to cancel my AOL account. I never really use it. ... Well, if I can cancel it anytime, why can't I cancel it now? Can I just cancel my account?

It took him 45 minutes to finally get his account canceled.

Maybe they share a building with the scientologists.

Update

Here's a better transcript

***Update***

Here's the blog, which has a clip from him on the today show.

***Update***

Here's the audio

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