“Gilbert Neal turned his horse at the end of the long row of corn on the red hill-side, and thrust his glistening plough-share deep into the soil as he started back, now headed toward the green line of canebrake and willows which marked the sinuous course of a small creek in the distance.”

Sounds about right.

This fucking freaks me out.

I went back to have another one done, and this time there was literally no pain.

So today I’m at the ball-cupper, ass-reamer guy’s office (we will refer to him as “general practitioner”) for no other reason than that I needed to re-up my prescriptions, and Duke Health will not allow infinite refills unless you go to see someone once a year at least. He seemed irritated today. He asked me how I was, and I said he seemed really busy…I think i might have said “just endless, from one scrotum to another…” to which he replied as you did in your mind: “What do you mean?” and I really didn’t know. All those old people in the waiting room, the incompetent intake associate, the fact I had to go there…it was all summed up in that one phrase. Maybe I was talking to myself instead of him. I think he was pissed when I told him he looked tired.

When the girl weighed me i asked that she not read the number out loud, and she nicely obliged. The doc told me that I had put on weight. I told him it was my combination of sausages and lethargy. I opted to have blood-work done to see how high the cholesterol was. But as I sat there with the number 17 card, the dude next to me started coughing. That pushed me over the edge. I turned to the 5 or so people waiting with me for blood-work in the cramped lobby and asked, as if in a butcher shop, “Who has number 18?…here ya go…”

Having done my good deed, I left.

Now I gotta lose weight for realsies. It sucks.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 3,700 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 3 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

So I explained to them that Reggie, even though a grade A …er…meanie….was also a great musician, who played guitar and sang with ease, making the band so much better with his talent. The band, Archie , mainly, had to weigh the benefits of having such a player with having to worry about that skeevy bastard with the indescribable haircut bird-doggin’ his chick(s). So Archie decided that having Reggie on  short leash was better than making him an enemy.

A few seconds of silence, and one of them asks, ” Daddy, who was Reggie in your band?”

Sigh.  It was usually me, kids.

One of those people was Kathy. She lived on Boynton Street off Clinton. She and her friends met me at what was then the Valu Cinema on Clinton and S Rossler Ave. I think that’s what it was called. I would go there to meet all these nice people, but I really went to see Kathy, her sweet face reminding me of Meredith Baxter-Birney. Her cabal of pals seemed innocuous enough, but it was nice to be with her. I rode my bike to her house a few times. I remember that. Being at her front door. Calling her now and then to see what the gang was doing.

Nancy and I rarely occupied the same space, even living in the same house. As you know, I would go to school, get picked on mercilessly, come home, play my Beatles records with my headphones on, and read liner notes like they were scripture. Then to bed. However, for some reason, Nancy and I attended the same “break” once. This once. And Kathy was there! How did Nancy know Kathy? Anyhow, sitting next to Kathy was a very beautiful, thin, blonde fellow, terribly nice. Dave? Rob?

I remember trying really hard to make Kathy laugh. Doing my “routine” as it were. She seemed to be enjoying it. Still, something wasn’t right. There was some sort of silent….understanding…for lack of a better word, between her and Dave. As if, instinctively, it was known or to be known, that the two were together. An undeclared energy that they gave off. Do you know what I’m talking about? They couldn’t have been older than 12 or 13. 14 tops.

I dropped my fork.  I leaned down to pick it up. I made the mistake of looking up for a second. And it looked exactly like this:

Well, that broke my heart. And it was the last time I saw any of them.

I tell you this story because I remember the song that was playing on the jukebox at that moment, and every time I hear it, I think of Kathy and Dave and wonder if they stayed together or if he turned out to be an asshole and if she dropped him. Then maybe she went on a wild, frenzied search for my phone number to rekindle our young, sweet, unfulfilled love, only to live out her days in regret and eternal celibacy. Her dry, dry cooter a constant reminder of the genuine needy love she could have had with the kid with the plaid pants.

The song was this, and it came up on the Pandora just now, which is why I’m really, really sad all the sudden. I’ll get over it.

2. He lucked into the greatest music/marketing tie-in in history, so he should have known better than to even say the word “Hitler”. Even in 2011, the word, used in comparison with anyone, still stings, and especially when coupled with Barack Obama. I’m an independent but I’ll be dipped in used chew-juice before I vote for any republican not named Tim Johnson. Having said that, ol’ Hank was comparing the unusual golf pairing of Obama and Boehner as unusual on the order of Hitler and Netanyahu, and made no allusion to the politics of either.

In a political discussion, Williams voluntarily brought up President Barack Obama’s golf game with Speaker of the House John Boehner during this summer’s debt ceiling negotiations, calling it “one of the biggest political mistakes ever” and invoking Adolf Hitler.

“That would be like Hitler playing golf with (Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin) Netanyahu,” Williams said, via the Huffington Post. “Not hardly. In the shape this country is in?” ….

What if he had reversed the names? Thereby, comparing Boehner with Hitler? Maybe Fox would have been upset for a while but he surely would not have lost his deal because of it.

3. He’s right about the sickening image of the two playing golf while America literally shivers with fear as the winter comes, the bills come due, and our expectations and dreams begin to whither into a nice package of resignation and compromise. 

When people say “I am terrible with email/phone calls”, to me that’s them saying “You’re not important enough to me to merit responses in a timely, polite manner.” Why not just say THAT?

Here she is being produced with Phil Spector:

Here she is singing “Mr Soul”, produced by Jimmy Webb.

How fucked up did Greg Allman have to be in the 70′s to think that Cher as a wife was a good idea? This fucked up:

I always thought that the fact that she allowed their duet to be billed as “Allman and Woman” spoke to her willingness to do anything at all to stay relevant, even at the cost of her integrity.  To glom onto any trend or personality or style, no matter how vacant and tired. Occasionally she struck gold. But anyone who’s been chasing trends as long as she has will catch up to one now and again.

Anyhow, here’s some more shit. No one reads these so it doesn’t matter. I think they’re funny.

Of course all this is permitted in our society because white men are the only thing in the world people are allowed to mock openly. If we as a race weren’t so good-natured, we’d bring the fucking hammer down. Don’t test us. In beer commercials black people can be DJ’s spinning tunes on a NYC roof, bystanders, friends of friends. Designated drivers. You don’t think ALL black people drink, do you? Have you ever seen an openly Hispanic man or woman as the main character in a commercial for booze? Or a bumbling husband at a WalMart or talking to Flo the insurance nymph?

In summary, let me say I hate the Patriots.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/44591677/ns/technology_and_science-tech_and_gadgets/#.TnjWHNRlgrM