I went shopping over the weekend. ThatÂ’s not something I say with pride. Fact of the matter is I needed something and was forced to go get it. We walked into the place and my wife and I split up, her, naturally, to womenÂ’s shoes and I to menswear.

My mission was accomplished quickly enough and having no desire to hang around the womenÂ’s shoe department so I got to looking around. I saw it all. A pair of menÂ’s jeans that cost $180. WTF? IÂ’m not cheap and I was appalled. I canÂ’t imagine the idiot that spends $180 on jeans but IÂ’d like to meet him.

Next I went to sport coats which IÂ’m always in the market for. I love me my sport coats. ItÂ’s amazing what will catch your eye when youÂ’re not looking for something specific. And thatÂ’s just what happened because I glanced up and sitting there before my eyes was a seersucker suit. It was a thing of beauty. I reached up and touched the fabric and smiled.

The first thing that occurred to me was I would need a straw hat to go with it. The next thing that occurred to me was what a perfect ass I would look like wearing that thing. I stood there lost in thought for a few moments; it was as if my whole life was flashing before my eyes. Yes, if I wore that suit I would look like a pompous ass. The perfect ass. I immediately started looking for my size when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“What do you think you’re doing?” It was my wife.

“I’m buying this fine suit of clothes.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“On the contrary—“

“Stop. You realize that you’ll have to wear white shoes with this? Are you prepared to wear white shoes?”

I wasnÂ’t. That was a show stopper for me. And gingerly, I put the suit back on the shelf. When I turned she was already walking away and I had to trot to catch up. She had already forgotten the suit.

Four days later, I have not. And this morning I found out that itÂ’s permissible, even fashionable, to wear tan loafers with a seersucker. IÂ’d been had.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:56 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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I donÂ’t see the point of criticizing others unless itÂ’s done it jest or the person really deserves some grief, but there are a shitload of bloggers I canÂ’t stand. Some of them are popular but most of the people on the list arenÂ’t especially high traffic sites.

The Great Pretender
I have a lot of pet peeves and a lot of things annoy me. One of those things is when people pretend to be experts on things or talk about things as if they had a great deal of knowledge, experience or insight when in fact theyÂ’re completely off base or just plain wrong. IÂ’m not talking about opinions, which are subjective, IÂ’m talking about facts. ThereÂ’s an old sayingÂ…A Chinaman can say anything about kung-fu and be believed, no matter how ridiculous. The same is true for the Internet.

The One Trick Pony
Yawn.

A Dollar Short
Some bloggers become obsessed with a post they write or a topic that amuses them. Temporarily. They then try and milk it for a week before they decide no one gives a shit but them. Shampoo, rinse, repeat. These people have more false starts than the 400 meter event at a school for the hearing impaired.

The Shockblogger
Self explanatory. This sleight of hand technique is used to misdirect you from the absence of actual writing.

The Tin Men
Here we go round the mulberry bush. Some people would shoot their mother for a hundred more hits a day. Trying too hard reeks of desperation and is terribly sad. I recommend a drive in the country or perhaps a good prescription drug.

I donÂ’t think I need to point out that these are not mutually exclusive.

Feel free to add your own in the comments or take a shot at me. IÂ’m thick skinned.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:46 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Hnheiunhuioehiuhihoiruqmtvu5903mvjilmvjhigowjgiojrmviojmv
Imvig9w[mv90w9unu9yrwbxhumczakeojfhf74ht9gjgkdp[]tjf[wgagqiodhfu85hgt8gjf
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Erjvnejioenjhep95kfjgjgmvjgroiutmvpowuiorpmcjiowpiurvnu583958uymjkfsjnvjhrw;n
Woijnvjgwinovu53005iuy,jginksnjiomcjiorjmxopejtbvyh9uwhmxiurhwoitn chi

ThatÂ’s what I see when I visit some blogs. ItÂ’s not browser trouble.

The paragraph above is actually more interesting than most of the stuff IÂ’ve read in the past few days. Sorry.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:24 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Someone keeps searching this site for the words “throat yogurt.” Another big search here seems to be “urination stories”.

I guess we all have to make decisions about what to do with our spare time on the Internet.

I can just picture these people too, sitting in some mold infested, filthy apartment with Jerry Springer on in the background.

Or a balding guy in a suit overlooking central park, typing away at Google, searching for the mother load. He probably had a sandwich for lunch. IÂ’m thinking pastrami on a rye, brown mustard, a fountain drink with too much ice. HasnÂ’t bought his own underwear since college. His wife, who settled, probably still buys three packs of Hanes when theyÂ’re on sale. What a fucking momo.

My imagination is really too active for my own good.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:37 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Happy with it?

IÂ’m a big believer in the fact that we control our own destiny. Cause and effect. If you drink too much, youÂ’ll get drunk. Run in into traffic, get hit by a car. Yet every day IÂ’m amazed at people when they declare they donÂ’t know why XYZ happened to them.

I fucking know why—you need to pay your bills before you start boozing it up or flying to Jamaica on a credit card. I know I’ve said this before, but if you can’t afford to pay cash for something, you really can’t afford it 19%. It’s almost like going to a shy for the money.

However I’m no longer stunned when I hear people say, “It must have been God’s will.” I’m not a believer, but many people are. I’m genuinely happy for them because psychologically it’s probably very healthy in the right doses. Yet some people use God as an excuse. They fuck something up, either through stupidity, laziness or otherwise through their own volition and then they tell you it was God’s will.

Some of these people are assholes; some of them are not. A lot of folks are just plain stupid, regardless of religion or lack of it and we shouldnÂ’t confuse the two. Some truly believe that God has laid out a plan for their life, right up to what theyÂ’re having for dinner every night. They are having meatloaf tonight because God has willed it. Pee on the toilet seat? No need to clean that up, thatÂ’s GodÂ’s will.

Before that vein in your neck bursts let me say that IÂ’m not anti religion. I grew up going to church and so did almost everyone else I know and nobody was leaving pee droplets on the toilet seat. Normal, intelligent people. Using God as an excuse would never occur to them. I was never really into it personally. My family faked it pretty good except for the old man, who refused to go to church. By the time I was fourteen or fifteen they felt like they did their best and finally relaxed and said fuck it, the jig is up.

I have a lot of respect for religious folks so long as they arenÂ’t selling or telling me how I should live my life. IÂ’m glad they found something, because a lot of people are looking and the alternatives are sometimes scarier than we like to think.

Some people believe in both God and luck. Somehow I canÂ’t reconcile that one. Some people pick and choose which aspects of a religion appeal to them and ignore others. Some people are only religious when itÂ’s convenient for them. And some people are genuinely pious, humble folks. I donÂ’t wish to offend the latter.

This post was inspired by an incident this morning where a guy told me it was GodÂ’s will that something work-based happened, which has pushed me over the edge.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:42 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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I knew it was going to be trouble the day before. Somebody in my neighborhood was lighting fireworks. No big deal, right? Except it was almost one in the morning and the shit was loud. My kid was sick and every time she fell asleep…”Kaboom!”

Finally I had enough. I got out of bed in a fit of rage and started pulling on clothes.

“What are you doing?” my wife said.

“I think you know exactly what I’m doing.”

She intervened and there was a brief but tense altercation before I acquiesced and got back in bed, under the condition of if I hear one more, and I mean one more, nobodyÂ’s going to stop me.

Thankfully it was quiet after that.

On the actual 4th of July I expected all hell to break to break loose with fireworks so IÂ’m not too unhappy when the entire neighborhood starts shooting shit off around seven in the evening. By eight oÂ’clock it was intense. I was trying to watch Platoon and I swear the sound from outside was louder than my home theater system.

Still, it was no big deal. ItÂ’s the 4th and everything so who am I to complain.

10:00 PM: It now sounds as though my house is under siege. I was getting jumpy. I had looked around outside to see if they were good fireworks or just noisemakers and I couldnÂ’t see anything, but they sounded close.

10:30 PM: My discerning ear tells me that someone a few houses down has gotten hold of at least a few hundred dollars worth of M-80s. They were tossing them into the street one at a time, nonstop. I start to ponder how bad it would be if I lived in a shitty neighborhood. I canÂ’t imagine.

10:45 PM: The barrage of shells going off from every quadrant is astounding. I canÂ’t fully describe the sound. This shit is LOUD and IÂ’m experienced in fireworks. I canÂ’t imagine what theyÂ’ve gotten their hands on. Fearing my perimeter has been breached I go outside for a look. I canÂ’t see who is lighting shit off, but itÂ’s coming from every direction. There were so many rounds going off at once, and for such a long duration, that I cannot fathom the thousands of dollars spent. It sounded as if twenty families had each spent a weekÂ’s paycheck on fireworks and decided to shoot them off simultaneously, with no breaks whatsoever, for as long as they would last.

11:00 PM: If anything itÂ’s intensifying. IÂ’m praying the kid doesnÂ’t wake up and start coughing again. I put my shoes on go outside for a look and my wife gets that look on her face.

“Where are you going?”

“I just want to make sure I know who is doing it.”

“Why?”

“Retribution. Not anytime soon, but I’m gonna be egging some houses in the future.”

12:30 PM: IÂ’m in bed reading a book, as is the wife. All is quiet except for one asshole. Every once in a while he lights an M-80. Kaboom! I look over at the wife.

“You realize what this is, don’t you?” she asks.

I shrug.

“Karma. Do you know how many times you’ve been on the other end of this? And the worst part is I’m always included in your karmak paybacks…by proximity.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:10 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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I got an emailed question regarding food in bars. Oh man, this is a tough one, because it's highly subject to some very nebulous criteria. Firstly, when I go to a bar I'm not chasing down a meal. The bar at Outback Steakhouse is not a real bar - it's a way for them to cram more people into their restraunt. Bar food is limited to something one can eat while in a bar - a bar being a place where people converse, shoot pool, play darts, watch TV, or punch each other in the nuts. My bar doesn't have a menu; they've got potato chips and pork rinds, slim jims, hot pockets, and microwaveable corn dogs. It's a bar people, let's remember that. I wouldn't be averse to a plate of cheese fries or maybe some quesadillas; but here we skirt the line. A bar shouldn't offer a whole host of finger foods, prepared side items, and salads. I'm sorry, that's just not what bars do. Bars serve drinks, good times, and that's it.

Off the topic of 'good' bars, Paul hit on something that I'm a strict believer in. A bar, for me, has to have a story. As commercial as Sloppy Joes has become, I'll always spend at least one night there every time I'm in Key West because I like the history. And dive bars go a long way with a guy like me. The Wife and I had our late-night after party at a local beach dive that most people don't even know exists. The best part is they've built a refrigerated big-rig trailer into the bar itself that acts as the beer room. You walk in, pick a beer from easily 150 bottled brews (domestic, international, micro, etc) and bring it to the bartender. The place is decorated with swap meet furniture, 4x6 prints of past summer parties, and items from ships that sunk off the Cape Fear river in the last hundred years or so. The floor, where there is one, is brick laid right down on the sandy ground. There's a backyard with a big steeldrum barbecue and what must be the world's largest black lab.

These are just my opinions of what a good bar is, and many times I'm in different types of bars; as Paul mentioned he does. Understand here that a good bar isn't defined by myself, but by the people who make it their joint and how well you gel with those people. I guess what I'm trying to say is that if you think either of us are wrong on what a 'good bar' consists of; that's okay.

Even though you wear a striped shirt and your favorite drink is a jello shot. You toolbag.

Posted by: shank at 03:00 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Much to the dismay of my wife, I have recently come into a family heirloom. ItÂ’s an oil painting of me done when I was about ten years old. It was painted by an artist of some note and itÂ’s top quality work.

In the painting I look quite handsome and athletic. Once when I was in high school some friends came over and saw it hanging over the fireplace. One of them, a guy with a large bag of weed in his sock, stepped closer and studied it for a while before stating, “You know, it looks like you could have turned out to be a real asshole.” It was a memorable moment in my life.

This particular painting has been the cause of much controversy since itÂ’s first showing. My sister was not a big fan of it.

“Why the hell is his picture on the goddamned mantle?”

Good question actually. I was certainly not the favored child in my opinion, but who knows. I guess it is pretty obnoxious to hang an oil painting of one of your children in a prominent place while the other looks on.

Now the picture is in my possession and causing problems again. This time with my wife.

“So now we’re going to start hanging large pictures of ourselves?” she said, clearly appalled.

“It’s not a snapshot from Six Flags, it’s a fucking portrait in oil!”

“What difference does it make? You can’t hang portraits of yourself in your own house!”

“I rather like it and I can’t see stuffing the only real piece of art we have into a closet.”

“The only real piece of art we have? What about—“

“The only real oil painting we have.”

She stared at me for a long time before laughing quietly and dismissing me with her hand. Her show was back from commercial.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:51 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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I canÂ’t fully explain my hatred for them. I canÂ’t complain about the way they maintain their house or their landscaping, itÂ’s almost perfect. They donÂ’t have parties, theyÂ’re not too noisy and they pressure clean the sidewalks. But they are indeed strange people.

IÂ’ve been in this house about five years now and up until last month weÂ’ve never really spoken. Almost every time IÂ’m coming or going I see one of them skulking over there. I always wave and smile, just in case, because thatÂ’s the kind of guy I am. If they happen to glance up they will return a wave but you can tell itÂ’s taxing them. Some people just donÂ’t exude warmth.

IÂ’ve always suspected theyÂ’re up to no good. For one thing theyÂ’re always pacing up and down the sidewalk in front of theyÂ’re house on the phone. ItÂ’s not a cell phone either; itÂ’s just the cordless phone from the house. And though IÂ’ve heard them speak English they also mumble in a tongue that I canÂ’t identify, though I suspect itÂ’s Greek.

In the last week I noticed an addition to the family. An old man in a wife-beater that sits in a lawn chair out front all day. ItÂ’s very classy. Of course thereÂ’s nothing anyone can do about it. ThereÂ’s no bi-law in the HOA rules that says an old man canÂ’t sit out front in his undershirt all day like a fucking Turkish coppersmith or something. And now that the long summer evenings have arrived the new ritual is for the whole clan to bring their lawn chairs out back every night, face them towards my house, and watch me barbeque. They simply stare at me. The first time I go out there IÂ’ll give a quick wave and one of them will return it, but thatÂ’s the extent of our communication. I canÂ’t begin to tell you how uncomfortable it is.

One night about two years ago I overheard an argument while I was taking out the trash. It was one of the few times I actually heard anything from that direction. It was the younger one and he seemed to be dressing down the rest of them. The one clear statement I heard, repeated twice, was, “That’s worshipping false idols!” He was screaming it at the top of his voice.

On that note I retreated to the relative safety of my couch and wondered if I should fire a couple of warning shots through their front bay window. Kind of a preemptive strike on whatever brand of insanity may have brewing been over there. My wife reasoned against it as sheÂ’s wont to do on those infrequent occasions when I become agitated.

Since then I have suspected they are some type of Christian crazies. Whenever I hear a family argument about “worshipping false idols” I suspect the worst. One of them probably bought a garden gnome or something and it set off the crazy factor.

I remain vigilant.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:19 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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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.

Posted by: shank at 02:07 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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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

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 12:24 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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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.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 12:02 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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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.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 03:44 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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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.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:39 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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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.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:40 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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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.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 12:14 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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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

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:06 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Whenever the Germans accumulate in large numbers you have to be careful. It must be something in the blood.

HereÂ’s the interesting part:

“Cologne’s police chief confirmed that the incidents had been sparked by a group of known German football hooligans who were drinking in the Kulisse bar on the Café Alter Markt. Klaus Steffenhagen told The Times: “Our spotters recognised 30 category C football hooligans, some from Cologne and some from other parts of Germany.”

Spotters recognized thirty “category C” hooligans? Have they so many hooligans that they have them categorized? And not only do they have a shitload of hooligans, obviously of varying degrees, but they can recognize thirty of them in a crowd!

Do these people list “Hooligan” as their occupation on tax returns and whatnot? Yeah, I do like to use the word hooligan, so sue me. It’s because I’m fascinated. I wonder where the “category A” hooligans hang out?

***Shank's Update***

An explanation of the hoologan rating system.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:41 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Jennifer Aniston has been on my list for about ten years. This morning I finally got a look at her ass. Scroll down past the Ryan Seacrest gay debate and you canÂ’t miss it. ItÂ’s a clip from The Break-up.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:03 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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The other day I posted my feelings about New Orleans, which can be found here. A guy named Jaime from New Orleans took issue with what I had to say and left a comment, more of a post actually, about the situation down there.

I found it to be an eye-opener in many ways. ItÂ’s so well executed that IÂ’m posting it here because I think it needs to be read. IÂ’m not going to put it italics as itÂ’s too distracting for a long a piece, but here it is verbatim:

"I would venture a guess that you never left the French Quarter? You are talking a 10 X 10 block area give or take. I lived in Chicago for 3 years. I know all about Downtown and Michigan Ave. but I can’t tell you a thing about Evanston or most of the rest of the area. People from all over the world come here to “party”. It has been a few years now but I have had my own late nights in the French Quarter. I have seen what you are talking about. If you were here for Mardi Gras, Superbowl, Jazz Fest or southern decadence it was most likely a bit worse than normal. For the most part – that is not us…. It’s tourists. They come here and think of the French Quarter as some kind of adult Disneyland – they do things they would never do at home. I used to work in the convention industry and one time I had dinner with a production team from out of town and was walking them back to their hotel. On Bourbon St. there were some girls up on a balcony lifting their shirts for beads and drawing quite a crowd. On of the head honchos said “you people are just crazy down here”. I gave him a look and said “It’s August, those girls are from Michigan or Virginia or some other place like that – they are not from New Orleans.” We made a bet; I asked and won $10 bucks – easy money. The answer was Georgia. It is not fair to look at the quarter and think of us that way. It’s like visiting Graceland and thinking you know all about Memphis.

The other problem with your thinking is that right now we are not an American city. We are a shell of what used to be a city in what is evidently, by many, not actually considered to be part of America (I don’t understand that but it comes off that way too many times). Most of the houses are still unoccupied – many people have never returned and most of the residents that have come back live someplace other than where they were a year ago. We have what amounts to 120 square miles of urban ghost town the likes of which have never been seen before, anywhere. I saw Colin Powell make a speech this month at the dedication of the National WWII museum / awards ceremony for some standout 1st responders. During his keynote he said that he had seen many types of distruction before. He has been through a lot of war zones and has seen several major disaster sites (his last official visit overseas was Indonesia after the tsunami’s). Just like every one else he had closely followed the coverage of Katrina on television. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for what he had just seen while touring the devistation within his own country. That was a few weeks ago, more than 9 months after the levee’s broke. To get back to my point – this is a little different than dealing with crime in an American city for a number of reasons.

You say “we’re not talking about stealing anymore…” but we are. Looting is called burglary again but it is still looting. One of my in-law’s neighbors in Lakeview has been killing himself trying to get his house into shape so his wife and kids could return home once the school year ended. He had finally finished and the day before the move he discovered there was no water. A quick inspection revealed that his entire plumbing system had been stolen for the copper pipes. That’s another deduction from insurance and at least another month without his family and who’s to say it won’t happen again. As fast as people can get appliances delivered they are being stolen. Another big thing is stealing the architectural details that make New Orleans unique. Shutters, pocket doors, mantles, crown molding, decorative ironwork, gingerbread details and other such things are vanishing right before our eyes. You can’t sell the shutters for much but they cost over $300 each to replace. Vultures (many from out of town) are picking us to pieces and it has to stop so we can move on.

There is no one to see suspicious activity and report it so it continues. That takes a lot of patrolling – much more than could ever be done by a police force under normal circumstances. That is what the guard has been called in to do. To help safeguard our personal reconstruction - Thank God!

Now, on to violent crime. Along with the many, many good people that have come back we also have the scum. Some are home grown and some are imports but they are here fighting for turf and power in the ever-popular drug trade. Most of the murders are gang bangers killing each other off for an edge in what basically amounts to an open market. All of the lines that had been drawn between gangs were washed away and the age old game has started from scratch. You are right when you say it is tombstone. No city has ever faced 5 or 10 or maybe even 20 rival gangs all in a rebuilding mode at once. Picture what it would be like if all the mafia bosses had to start their “family buisnesses” again from scratch. It would not mean a hit or two – it would be scores of them. That is what we are going through. The members just need an empty house to set up shop (we have plenty of those) and then they just start fighting. . Our police need to concentrate hard on this so it can be stopped before it gathers more momentum.

You say that things are picking back up. It depends on what corner you are talking about. My in-laws live in their trailer about 50% of the time. There is one other person living on their entire block. Another is there most days working on his house – that’s it. No one lives on the block behind them at all. At my mothers the street is empty as well - it still does not have power. We could not store everything we recovered from her house at our place so we have moved some of it back into the gutted part of the house. I will be glad to have the National Guard in the area. It makes me very nervous that my in-law’s live in a ghost town. If someone showed up and tried to hurt them there would be no one around to hear a thing. I will feel better knowing that the guard will be pass by their house a few times a day as well."

Thanks, Jaime. Very well done and point taken. Hats off to you.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:41 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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