For Your Information

Yesterday I was informed by a co-worker who enlightened me to the fact that I said "fuck" 34 times in a ten minute period.

Predictable story coupled with equally cliche picture

BBC is currently running this story right now with the header of "McGuinness: 'I would have killed'". The full quote being,

"If I have had the opportunity to kill every single British soldier that was on the streets of Derry I would have killed every single one of them without any difficulty whatsoever."

Though of course what he meant to say of course was,

"Given the opportunity I did kill or at least attempt to kill every single British Soldier, RUC, RUCR, UDR and RIR member that I could get my hands on without any difficulty whatsoever."

I'm sure that a correction will be posted on the SF website shortly.

The DUP responded by accusing McGuiness of playing to the gallery ahead of the Ard Fheis. Thereby once again demonstrating that although there are signs of freshness in the air NI still retains that hallmark of irony that we all have come to love so much.

Posting note: Whenever I try to post this the computer lumps the entire post together instead of leaving the proper spacing, fuckers!

Working Man Blues

Okay lets just get this straight. If you're going to do laminate counter tops because you're a cheap bastard then do it right. Don't fucking waste all of our time by using 3/4" plywood that hasn't all been ripped to the same width on the table saw. It's called fucking Medium Density Fiberboard (MDF) and its made for jobs like this and that way we're not all wasting time by bondoing and sanding the irregularities out of regular plywood. Plywood by the way that should of been joined together and then run through the table saw to ensure even edges. Failing to do so will result in me burning the face of the laminate when I go to router off the top piece thereby leaving a nice 1'-0" long burn along the edge. Now I don't mind if I just fuck up (I do it often enough) but what I don't like is when I do my job right and it still turns out fucked then I get pissed. Secondly take two minutes of time to layout your crew. Seriously taking two minutes every day will save you two hours of time when it comes to getting the job done. I mean does anyone really think that bridge hands who have a limited knowledge of the English language are just going to be able to "jump in" and build you a quality counter top that you can be proud of? Also don't rip you're laminate too skinny so that you can't a have a nice wide berth to put your factory edges together because your framing was out of square. I mean Jesus fucking Christ! You always talk about how long you've been doing it. Then you would've thought by now that you'd have a fucking clue, but apparently not and you know, that's probably why you're a boss now!!



Rant over

UPDATE:

The owners want the counter top ripped out and done over. Right this time.

Lenten Reflections

Well its been a long week and there's nothing better than kicking back on a Friday night by kicking off the coveralls, finishing one's stogie and cracking open a nice, cold, frosty, non-alcoholic beer. Yes, for Lent I decided to give up drinking. And while I'm far more productive as a teetotaler, I'm far less witty. Or least I think I'm clever and funny when I've been drinking. Now as hard as this is for some to stomach, my wife has it even worse as she decided to attend mass every week for Lent (admittedly its low mass). Something which I wouldn't do no matter what. I mean come on, just because I'm Catholic doesn't mean that I'm religious. But being that its Lent I thought I would reflect on what religion means to me. So without further ado (I think I'm mispelling that word) I present some reflections on religion during this Lenten period.









And I'm putting this one in just because I've always found that it made me laugh after a long week at work.

The Lord Knows I've Been Drinking

I must confess that I'm not that great of a blogger. Many ideas for good neigh, great blogs come into my head every day. By the time that I can get to a computer about nine hours later they've slipped away like so witty lines I've thought up before and have forgotten before they could be uttered. Why the introspection you ask? Well it has officially been one year since I launched my own official blog and attempted to excise from myself all of the thoughts that plague me all day long.

To be honest this blog has served its purpose. Although not every thought that plagues me has been excised I've been able to none the less express some of them and more importantly I've been able to share ideas and express myself or at least make the attempt, with others. This in and of itself has made it all worth the while. For its true that I've never much cared to make the effort until receiving some sort of reply from the abyss by way of Redfellow hovel, for which I'm grateful (regardless of logrolling and other whatabouteries).

This blog is a reflection of me. I don't have the discipline or the time to consciously craft an image for this vehicle. Though to be honest I'm glad its worked out like this. I've never been able to lie or produce falsehoods very well. I would like to think of my writings & inspirations as a mix of Pushkin's Charskii and Elsa Morante's Giuseppe Ramundo. Into this equation mix the last stanza of Bob McDill's song, Good Ole Boys Like Me:

When I was in school I ran with the kid down the street

And I watched him burn himself up on bourbon and speed

But I was smarter than most and I could choose

Learned to talk like the man on the six o'clock news

Though to be honest I don't even own a pair of cowboy boots and can't ride a horse that well (why would I want to?). Although it was poignant at my wedding that all the men were wearing them and my brother kicked me and said, "I told you so". Well life's a learning experience isn't it? On the recollection of my wedding I would like digress a little form the main narrative which has yet to be worked out and do a stream of consciousness flow here. I did have a Catholic wedding mass and though it wasn't two minutes in before I messed it up, the priest played along and things were going well with the exception of the redness on the back of my neck (it looked like I had a rash, but oh well). Then came communion and I remembered with stark clarity the message that my grandmother had imparted to me as I kneeled before the priest, which ran along the lines of, "Do not under under any circumstances chew the body of Christ" (for we believe in transubstantiation in lieu of consubstantiationn or the sacramental union of Luther). One must let the body of Christ dissolve on the tongue. Well that's fine, I could do that. That was until the priest gave me the blood of Christ. Christ! It was horrid and this coming from someone whose had moonshine & Hungarian plum brandy (which is actually rougher than the moonshine I partook in) amongst other less than smooth drinks. I broke the undissolved wafer in two and swallowed the body and blood of Christ. Scratch that, I attempted to swallow and found myself choking on the body of Christ, kneeling at the alter on my wedding day. My face turned red and I resolved that regardless of whether or not I choked and passed out I would not turn around let my family and friends see me choking. My face turned as red as my neck though I was eventually able to swallow. Happy Days are here again.

Once again as is a regular habit of this blog I find that once I've let my mind roam in search of a truthful tract it fails to return to me. That's okay, I've got no particular place to be I and rather enjoy just shooting from the hip so to speak.

But as to why I blog? That is the question of the post. It really comes down to Orwell and Why I Write.

Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen -- in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all -- and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.

Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic considerations.

Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.

Political purpose -- using the word "political" in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples' idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.

I see no reason to try and reinvent the wheel and explain myself when he did it better than I could ever hope to. Though I would change the quote from Milton, myself preferring:

"free, and to none accountable, preferring hard liberty before the easy yoke of servile pomp"

I set that quote as my watchword some years ago. Not sure how well I've lived up to it, but I like it none the less for my transgressions (which have been numerous). Rights, which are as inalienable to us as the very air we breathe must also be accompanied with inalienable responsibilities from which we must never seperate ourselves lest we find our rights follow them out the door. When a force wants to take our rights the first thing they do is start with responsibility, "Let us handle that for you" they demur. And who amongst their busy lives will argue with someone wanting to lighten their load a bit? But that topic is another blog. Along with one that I've decided to entitle, "So you want a revolution? then learn how to fucking type, file a report on time, have the stamina to see a campaign through to the end and realize that you're no working class hero you sorry sack of shit".

Though I don't have the discipline to post often, rest assured, my misanthropy remains unabated and in fact grows more virulent every day.

A small footnote on my one post that intruded upon any hope of a cyber bubble reputation. The idea that international law could be used in NI to help sort out the issues was brought up and expounded upon. I let it go and eventually tapped out of the bout. For Christmas I got a book entitled Crimes of War 2.0. While reading it I came upon a few interesting points (as international humanitarian laws previously held little interest for me).

"International humanitarian law...does not address the causes or origins of a particular war, or which side was right or wrong, only the method by which it is fought [my emphasis]. So it is entirely possible, for example, for an aggressor to stage a war of conquest in accordance with the Geneva Conventions or for a defender to commit war crimes in a legitimate war of self defense."

And from the section entitled "Act of War" which has to do with declaring a conflict a "war".

"An example of modern State practice is porvided by the United Kingdom, which during the Suez War (1956) and Falkland Islands War (1982)strenously denied that it was at war with respectively, Egypt and Argentina."

Interesting thoughts and definitely a reccommended read, if not for the faint of heart. So althought its far too late to do me any good I still thought it was worth mentioning since I was getting nostalgic for posts past. Also, on a more personal note. I wrote that post in the middle of a pretty good bender during which I burnt out two other guys (seperately) and kept drinking well into the night (much to my wifes chagrin).

All in all its been fun and I look forward to continuing this blog however irregular the posting may be. Thanks for coming in.

The Early caucus results

Obama called his victory in Iowa "historic". Hillary thinks that tearing up when she doesn't win shows that she's ready to lead our Country. I've been following the ups and downs of the early caucuses as Hillary pulled out a three point lead to take N.H. and see Edwards once again relegated to the V.P. bin (who let him out of it anyway?)



But the only thing that really sticks in my mind is that...

No matters who's in front or behind it's just a couple of asses fucking around.

And just in case any Democrats are out there wondering why I'm not lampooning the Republicans I am including the following. Please insert wry comments as you feel appropriate.

A small footnote if I may. Though this seems to be a small and immature post I would to take a moment to state that this post was one of the hardest posts to put together. Seriously, try typing "donkey sex" into a search engine and see what you come up with. Not pretty, and I'm pretty sure illegal in most states.

Off The Wagon

Okay so it finally happened. I've been trying to stay away and live a clean life. But sometimes it's just all around you and you find yourself saying, "well just once won't hurt me any". And from there, there's no turning back. So it is with a great sense of shame that I admit that I'm plugging back into American politics. For my starting point I've put politico.com on my homepage and would recommend that any readers interested in the upcoming election do the same. Still, it's hard not to feel dirty about the whole thing. Malcolm doesn't seem to have the same trepidations that I do but then again he's a Labour man (more in a good sense than bad, but still).

While East coast liberals like to view themselves as true defenders of the blue flame it has commonly been the sons of the plains and mountains that have bled in two World Wars (although no bets on which side we took in the first one), Korea, and Vietnam. Not to mention Bush's folly which I won't even touch for fear of sparking an aneurysm which leaves my wife to find my body slumped over a keyboard when Hillary is the best alternative we've got.

Though a few notes real quick on things. Certainly Ron Paul has the mantle in terms of guerrilla campaigning in this election. Former commanders of this force have been Ralph Nader and Ross Perot. While they certainly add an entertainment value to the race they're really only that. Though the fact my grandma's neighbor who is a member of the John Birch Society and drags a UN flag from his truck has a Ron Paul sign in his yard means that I will not be joining that carnival.

Interesting note in regards to funding for the Dems and Republicans. After playing the social conservative card to get into office, the lack of action on immigration (a major issue for both parties), moral judgements, and fiscal conservatism has finally come back to bite the administration and his heirs in the ass. Corporate donations to both Hillary and Obama from the likes of Warren Buffett have been forthcoming and I've already mentioned how Hillary is the darling of Wall Street. While this is good news for the two Democratic front runners it does become a bit problematic when the big three attempt to play the populist card. Even Hillary has been playing up how during her husband's tenure the economy was peachy keen. Maybe we don't want to look too closely at how NAFTA and free trade agreements with China hit the rust belt.

In other news, the Latino vote has come under scrutiny. Of interest to yours truly was this little tidbit from the upcoming primaries in Nevada in which Paul Lopez of previous fame was noted as a "rising star".

Canvassers are generally told never to enter a home. But with this program, the canvassers try to get inside and talk at length with the voter to develop a deeper level of engagement.

Paul Lopez, a 29-year-old Denver City Council member and a
rising star in politics there, was in town recently for a weekend of this
intimate canvassing. Asked about the best way to reach Hispanic voters, he pointed to his shoes. Door-to-door and face-to-face.

In other words, winning among Latinos is like winning with everyone else.

So yeah, all in all I'm not getting all giddy over any of the selection just yet. I'm glad some people can get more excited about getting rid of Bush than me. But then again I don't think that getting rid of bush should mean getting frigid, but what the hell do I know?

Obviously this section will be updated at my leisure, or should I say, as my neurosis impels me.

Almost didn't do this post as I was feeling very un-Christmasy this year. But alas, shovelling my grandma's driveway on a white Christmas grew my heart two whole sizes. So Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

Kurt Vonnegut

1922-2007

When Kurt Vonnegut died people wrote, said, and quoted many things about him. These were all very fitting, but the above picture (which I couldn't locate at the time) summed it up best for me. Let this serve as a belated though heart felt tribute to a great man and author.

In Crossmaglen...

It has been brought up that the devolution of policing and justice may be held up until the Army Council dissolves. Certainly pertinent in this debate is the murder of Paul Quinn (okay maybe not the best link but one that came to mind quickly). The brutal death of this young man has sparked a McCartneyesque like movement which has professionalized and streamlined rather quickly.

To be honest there were a couple things that came to my mind when I've read of this but the one that has kept coming back, kept nagging at me and finally made me reach for a novel I'd read. Not a bad book if you have nothing else going but one which has since stayed on the shelf and collected dust, until now. The oldest son of a widowed school teacher in WWII Italy Nino who served with the partisans in the war explains,

"The war was a joke, Ma!...but the joke isn't over...These characters think they can start all over again, like before: Don't you see that? Well, Ma, they're wrong! They put real guns in our hands, when we were kids! And now we're having fun making peace!"

Maybe I'm just missing the boat on this one but I don't really believe that the AC funds all (or a majority) of SF's electoral activity. It was made very clear when Friends of Sinn Fein (note the address for donations) was set up that all money donated was clearly marked to go to "legitimate" political activity. This was indeed a snub to the long term supporters from NORAID. Some of which openly crossed over to support Gerry McGeough in his failed electorial bid for a seat at Stormont as an anti-PSNI/pro-Immaculate Heart of Mary candidate. Something tells that real estate investments in Bulgaria have very little to do with getting Grizzly Adams elected president in the Free State.

The cost of operating the AC independent of actual operations of has been estimated to be anywhere from 7-11 million euro a year (as noted by the Gardai in 2005). It is also believed that by the late ninteties that over 2/3 of petrol stations in the North were selling laundered diesel. I would imagine this number has dropped some as the ARA has stepped up its activities and people start to realize the environmental hazards that smuggling diesel actually presents to the localities. Slab, as we all know was listed as the richest smuggler in Britain by the BBC in 2004. And while he's currently awaiting trial on tax evasion charges even Willie Frazer admits that he still drives an old beat up van and lives on his family farm. IE he's not exactly buying holiday homes in Donegal like GA or taking holidays to Portugal like Gerry Kelly. Their incomes come from an even shadier source, the British Government. That money goes to the Provisional AC. Continuity may hold blessing of the first Dail, but the Provos hold the purse strings when it comes to funding. Lord knows that RIRA haven't able to make a go of it and the INLA are stuck in some sort of Soviet cubist mode while trying to comes to grips with the economics of Perestroika.




Ah, but once again I've veered off the track I had wanted to go down. I'm sorry, but I'm not particularly interested in whether or not Paul Quinn ever drove smuggled fuel. The hard men in Crossmaglen will continue to operate as they have regardless of whether the AC stays on or disbands. Certainly this episode illustrates the down and dirty nature of the black market economy which is prevelant in NI. If anything comes of this I would say it would be a further move away from this type of operation to the more refined real estate deals such the kind exposed in Manchester and Bulgaria.

As for the devolution of Policing and Justice. Well I think the Assembly and Executive should show that they can make their existing portfolios work for the people of NI before they take on one more thing to hose up. Though to be honest, could do they do any worse than these guys?

It Was On A Dreary New Years Eve...

I previously noted in passing that I happened upon the 50th anniversary of Sean South. Not the commemoration, by any means but the one in Limerick, which while not bad was certainly not not up to par with having replica weapons and trucks in tow. Never the less it was interesting and enjoyable. If only for the fact that it was the only time in Ireland that we were able to sit and have a drink with someone on a normal basis (after the fact of course). Martin was there of course, as was Martin Ferris. We saw the signs and because of my neurotic nature showed up over half an hour early.

Due to my ignorance of Irish politics I had no idea that the RSF commemoration was due to assemble shortly before (ie 2:15 RSF v 2:30 PSF). So we showed up at 2:00 when we saw the piper started to assemble. At the beginning I was a little a startled by the lack of support of support that PSF was able to pull this event. Now I knew that Sean South was no Bobby Sands but I figured that the 50th anniversary would be able to draw more than some pensioners, a few Fianna and some rather thuggish looking individuals in army sweaters who turned out to be the color guard (A personal note If I may, if you must be dressed in paramilitary get up of green sweater then please ensure that you're in decent shape. Man boobs are quite unbecoming regardless of your politics).

We chatted for awhile with a younger fellow who was looking a but rough from a broken nose ('tis the drink you know). We were chatting with him when Special Branch came upon us after hassling the Fianna kids got boring and approached to question us. As our companion was local it was the usual name and address. They seemed shocked when asked for my hometown and I replied "Denver, Colorado". I didn't see fit to explain that I really hadn't flown all this way just to attend a RSF event as I generally dislike authority and political policing especially.

What I was struck by in regards to Martin's speech was the disconnect between talking about the past and talking about the future of Stormont. It wasn't that I felt he was insincere, just that when it came to talking about the North and the political situation he was in his element and he was able to develop a rhythm n

Zero Hour

Well not quite, that's in another five hours but you all know what I mean. So then I'm off. I'll be back Tuesday. Hopefully I'll fill out the Limerick episode (by the way, it was the Sean South commemoration) and have some thoughts on the American campaign trail.

I was looking for the Edentubber Martyr's post as a segway into my time in stab city (which I enjoyed immensely BTW) during which I got caught up in a RSF demo, got questioned by Special Branch*, and then marched with the Provos because really, after shopping for hours in the rain I thought, why not?

On the way, I noticed that a thread on an earlier posting from El Blogador. At 91 comments at the time of my reading its doing fairly decently at stirring some debate.

But lets be honest. There's really no need for all this commotion if we could only appreciate for a minute the concept of contextualization. Now, now, I know that it was brought up and summarily dismissed by the third post. But lets be honest that has more to do with party hackery than anything else.

El Blogador while an honest sort, has occasionally (As I've pointed out before) been known to descend into party hackery. Now I'm not at all cynical at the fact that an SDLP blogger is playing up being a Republican Party shortly after certain happenings (And yes I do know that self linking is a totally Pete Baker kind of move, but fuck all).

*I would've sworn that the lead detective was Micheal McDowell out on a weekend jaunt to harass "Republicans". The quotes will remain until we figure out who's really a Republican and who's just a communalist/nationalist/fascist/bigoted/defender.

Burn Down The Mission

I've already been over this once and have no real desire to beat a dead horse but this story caught my eye. For some reason, it seems popular to compare NI with Spain in terms of conflict resolution (maybe its the vacation homes). I don't quite think this is the right way to go. Spain was a case in which one side came out on top only to find that while fascism won the battle it had definitely lost the war. And while the CNT (much to my chagrin) was never able to quite re-establish itself, the Republican narrative reigned supreme. Except in Spain. It is only recently that the Spanish government even came forward to formally condemn the Fascist regime. This in and of itself has not gone unopposed. Slugger has noted the Spanish attempt to come to terms with the past as has Malcolm. Interesting thoughts here on remembrance in general, especially in terms of victory versus tradegy in how events are remembered (or not).

I remember reading books such as Requiem for a German Past which essentially sought to answer the question thrown at so many Germans by their children during the post war years, "Where were you during that time?". More recently books like The Himmler Brothers have come out to explore those roots deeper. What I am struck by is not the success or failure of these books to come up with the answers, but the deeply personal nature of that search for truth and meaning.

Tim O'Brien's best book on Vietnam is easily The Things They Carried. Its been years since I picked it up but a particular chapter has always stuck with me. Its about How To Tell a True War Story. Truth, meaning, and memory are shown for what they are, which is woefully inadequate.

There has also been a very heated string of posts by WBS over Cedar Lounge over the shootings at Coolacrease. Well worth the read if you get a chance. Certainly blogging at its best. The latest post queries an interesting point,

"We could believe those [views] presented by the British Army correspondance, or the IRA inquiry, or alternatively the written testimony of one or other of the sisters. Or we could believe Muldowney, or we can believe Sammon or Harris. But that’s all we can do. We can have no degree of certainty. We cannot know"

My family tells the story of a small inn we used to own on the outskirts of Budapest where travellers could stop and rest and store livestock before going to sell them in the capitol. When the Russians came in they attempted to "requisition" the pigs for themselves. One of my family members attempted to protest that those were their pigs. He was summarily beaten unconscious and thrown into the sty where he was then trampled to death by his own pigs. My family is very proud of the fact that they "went out" in '56. When I was younger I had the audacity to ask,

"Well what did we do against the Nazi's?"

I was given a look that was clearly meant to shame me and informed,

"Why, nothing of course".

My family weren't members of the Arrow Cross Party or anything like it but were simply ordinary people who were all too fallible and probably too busy staying alive. I suspect something similar in Spain (and many other parts of the world).

I guess that most Spaniards won't be fawning over Carmen Polo or her father but neither will they all be lining up to lynch her either. Why? Because very few of them have probably ever been asked or able to answer, Where were you when...? But then again if things were different, could any of us?

Happy Thanksgiving

From all of us here at Misanthropy Abroad* I would like to wish everyone a happy holiday.

*Me, the mouse in my pocket and whoever is responsible for my new found desire to use the asterix after all this time.

Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out

Awhile ago with cash in hand (a fairly substantial sum) I walked into the store and came home with my new Playstation 3. I am if there was a doubt, an occasional video game junkie. Not like some of my fiance's coworkers who read up on the latest updates and swap stories from the techie side of it. But simply a guy, who every couple of months will spend a week solid frittering away every moment of free time trying to beat a new game. In and of itself it not that big of a thing but it was enough that I included in my marriage disclaimer.

Marriage Disclaimer

To be honest I hadn't planned on going to France nor did I really want to. I was going to Ireland, not Frog land. But when it became apparent that I couldn't not* invite her and she said she wanted to go to France we compromised, and went to France. We arrived after taking an over night ferry from Portsmouth to St. Malo just before New Year's Eve. Having arrived six hours early for the departure we decided that once we had checked our bags to grab a pint and dinner. Having approached two establishments that both had large colorful signs that proudly proclaimed "we serve food" we were looked at like we were speaking a foreign language when we asked for food. So to console myself I spent the next five hours drinking English Budweiser. Not nearly as good as our own but then again what does one expect from the English?

The seas that night were exceptionally rough, and the ship was locked down. The Fish and Chips (yes I really did order it everywhere I could) I ate at a white trash motel restaurant suddenly didn't seem like the best thing in the world. The Budweiser of course had nothing to do with it as "the King" is a benevolent ruler who bestows upon his loyal subjects great wit and insight whenever they are in his presence. In the middle of the night my soon to be fiance gets an anxiety attack and we decide to search the ship for help. Aside from my lack of sea legs, the drink had finally set and I was left wanting for resourcefulness. We waylaid one stranger and my fiance tried bad French for direction to the ship's hospital (she does have a flare for the dramatic at times). To which he laughed and replied, "How should I know? I'm English" after which he returned to the bar. So here we are at 1:00 in the morning walking all over the ship with my fiance swearing that, "she's going to die" while I try to reassure her, occasionally stopping to turn and projectile vomit in multiple locations (yes vacations are lovely). When we finally came upon the help which was incidentally very close to our room the French found our predicament hilarious. I sincerely hoped they kept that sense of humor the next morning when they were able to appreciate the many finer points of English cuisine.

Suffice to say that my arrival into France was not the graceful entry of a seasoned world traveller, or even innocence abroad, but a rather dehydrated, hungover, hungry and tired American who despite my unwillingness to boycott France was still leary of the French. But the next two days were spent recuperating in Mont St. Michel, shopping in St. Malo and climbing around the outlying forts when the tide was out. It has been noted before that I am not adventurous when it comes to eating, but I'm also not the kind of American that goes to other countries just to stand in line at McDonalds. So for the duration of my stay in France (who make terrible coffee by the way) choking down numerous dishes that my palette found less than desirable and a number of cheeses that reminded me of how my socks smelled at the end of a work day. The creme de la creme of it all though was the New Year's Eve dinner (50 euro a head) that served little pigs in a blanket as a course. I mean come on, pigs in a fucking blanket. What does this have to do with a marriage disclaimer you ask? Excellent question, nothing really really except as a maybe a prologue. Though this trip was the basis for this blog title.

Having decided some time previously to propose marriage I decided that I would do it in France at Mont St. Michel on New Years Eve blah, blah, blah. But being the analytical sort of person that I am I decided to take a long view of things and be logical. Here I was whisking my girlfriend off to Europe. Taking her shopping, buying French lingerie while we holed up in a castle (well at least down the street from one) and going down on one knee on New Year's Eve. If I had picked up a chick on the way to the airport I'm pretty sure that I could've gotten her to say yes (not that I would've, but I could've). This being the case I decided to forgo the usual speech about my undying love and devotion and all of the wonderful things we could if we spent our lives together. No, instead I spent a solid half hour before my proposal walking the walls of Mont St. Michel outlining all of my faults, shortcomings and defects. A few key points were as follows:

• I'll never be anything other than a construction worker
• I'll never get any better at putting the toilet seat down
• I'll never be in any better shape than I am right now
• I will continue to go on an "occasional" beer binge and get fall down drunk at inoppurtune times and "possibly" vomit on the front lawn where all of the neighbors can see me
• I'll never outgrow playing video games
• I will continue to think porn is great no matter how often I get laid

Now admittedly, I don't do all of these things all the time but I wanted the record to be straight just in case any of these things ever came up as an issue of contention.

* Yes, I'm aware that I used a double negative. I felt that writing, "I had to invite her" was missing the point of the sentence to begin with as it suggested a sense of coercion which is most certainly not the case.

Eighteen Days to go...

Okay eighteen days, two roasted pigs, one deck and five doors (side jobs) until I get married. This is my third post about being busy, so I feel like misc. excuses are wearing thin so It thought I'd be specific about things. I'd never imagined men could get to be as involved in weddings as women, but I'd be proven wrong.

To set the record straight, the list of things that will allow me to have a good wedding day are as follows:

• She says "yes"
• I get Budweiser in a can at the reception (I'll probably have to sneak it in but that's okay, I've been doing it for so long that my wedding shouldn't be any different)
• I hear songs that I like at the reception

That's it. I don't really care if the food is good. I could care less if the flower boy or my father aren't wearing the same suit as the wedding party (sorry no tuxedos for me). I don't care if I trip walking out of the church and split my head open, well maybe that one might suck but you get the idea.

The bachelor party is this Saturday (hence the pigs) so we'll see what comes of it. Suffice to say that I'm burnt out, bled dry and ready to be done with weddings. Though I'm looking quite forward to marriage.

Misanthropy Loves Company

Just west of Gypsum Colorado and north of a dot on the map called Dotsero there are a series of switch backs that will take one up to 11,000 feet (plus) passing Basque sheep herders in their caravans along the way. The Flat Tops wilderness is like no other place in Colorado (or in the world, but my experience in that is limited). Further back there are literally no roads, just game trails in the dark timber, further down, the roads exist but can still be blocked by snow drifts in June. The dark timber eventually gives way aspens which give way themselves to scrub oak and arctic/subarctic plains until the entire land mass drops off the limestone cliffs.

It is to this area that we've gone elk hunting for years. At last count we've lost one trailer, and one outfitter's tent to the weather. We about added a 4-Runner this year, but more on that on later. I must confess that when it comes to elk hunting I lack what many would call a "killer instinct". Yeah I get up before dawn and go push and post and the game trails but my heart's not always in it. For starters, the land itself is surely enough to make even the most devout atheist believe in God as you watch a sea of clouds come below you and fill the numerous ravines as you sit on a limestone outcropping above . Secondly, for some reason when I find myself totally without distractions I am unable to quash the desire to read. Many a year has gone by (and possibly many an elk) with me sitting on a game trail, ridge or any other place with my nose stuck in a book. A good portion of the Brothers Karamazov was digested in a bush in the middle of clearing into which I had crawled before dawn one year. Finally, Elk are truly majestic creatures and though members of my party have had the opportunity to get elk, they like myself are simply awe struck at the sight of such elegance and grace. So it was again this year as once more we headed up.

I was fairly sick on Saturday and didn't get out until well after the alarm went off at 4:45am but still headed out early enough to catch the snow storm move in while overlooking the steep draws of French Creek while having lunch. By the time we returned in the evening it had started to accumulate on the tents and getting the fire going was a bit of a challenge. But still, it's always a pleasure to spend time with family in what surely must count as a paradise of sorts.

Sunday morning my brother and I were both up fairly quickly and out to investigate. As we drank coffee and ate our breakfast we looked back at our tent which had partially collapsed due to the snow storm. When we hollared to the other tent about going hunting they enquired about the snow. We informed them that it was indeed still snowing and were annoyed (though not surprised) to hear that they would not be going out. We quickly came came to an unspoken understanding that with a partially collapsed tent, an unabating snowstorm and two older companions with a string of bad luck in regards to losing things up here in bad weather that discretion was indeed the better part of valor and that a hasty retreat from the area was in order.

As we finished loading up the truck to leave I opened up the cab door and surveyed the scene. On the bench seat between my brother and myself lay two pistols, additional clips for said pistols, rifle ammo, knives, cigarettes, cigars, cans of beer, some other smokable entity of a more questionable legal nature and Waylon Jennings belting out Bob Wills Is Still the King, and "if that ain't country I'll kiss your ass". Now admittedly we're very gonzo, but still.

We progressed up out of camp towards the main road with my dad in the lead until we came to one of the steeper hills and the 4-Runner first stalled in its advance and on a second attempt actually slid sideways off of the side of the hill. We were last up the hill and once I topped out my brother told me that I'd better go back and see what I could do. So cigar in mouth (I left the beer behind) I ran down the hill to find my dad trying to get out his chains. Surveying the situation I quickly came to the conclusion that chains at this point would be unnecessary and could be counter productive. Articulating this in my usual graceful vernacular I said, "fuck that". I hopped in the 4-Runner, donned the alpine hat my uncle had brought home from the service. I proceeded to get the truck up and out. I happily return to my truck, put in Jerry Jeff and lit another stogie knowing that we would all get down from the flat tops in one piece.

Decent Teamster? Possibly. Great White Hunter? Definitely not.

Meet The New Boss Redux

In my last real post I noted that as long the mud slinging was restricted to politicians themselves or at least to "respectable" pundits then things will remain on a somewhat even keel. It appears that things are heating up in that arena as a new video has shot to number one on Youtube for the past two weeks. Interesting point from the article,

Paul's anti-Clinton effort is getting help from two technical producers who set up the Web site for Swift Boat Veterans for Truth, the 2004 campaign that went after Democratic presidential nominee John Kerry by raising questions about his decorated military service in Vietnam.

Now I have little time for Hillary but she she deserves to be damned on her own merits, not slanderous accusations. I remember her spat with Obama in which she came out the "victor" because Obama was supposed to be playing up the "audacity of hope" while Clinton and her groupies were veterans of numerous capital hill brawls. This is where it comes back around. The problem with being ruthless in ones pursuit of power, is that you will indeed crush anyone who gets in the way and that they tend to remember things like that. I don't think that this kind of thing will be able to stop her from getting elected but should be interesting never the less.

Sorry, I'm about to head out of town tomorrow for a wedding on Saturday and so won't be able to get off any of the three posts I'm currently working on. So stay tuned in and expect a glut in early November. Not that they're anything spectacular, just guns, politics, alcohol, David Allen Coe and alpine hats. Now if only I could get my posts to publish out of order so that old drafts can be posted up top instead on the date they were started, but we still peresevere.