Party at SCOTUS

According to thishttp://www.scotusblog.com/2012/03/argument-recap-it-is-kennedys-call/#more-141900, Justice Kennedy is going to make the deciding call on the individual mandate portion of Obamacare, now being argued before them.  As per custom, the four reliable liberal judges are being reliably liberal while the conservative justices (with the exception of Justice Thomas who is busy sharpening pencils) are open minded about things--going this way and that.  Curious how that works out--the lefties being dogmatic while the knuckle draggers are thinking outside the box.

I sat through an hour long webinar about reform, the elections, the economy, and most particularly about some incredibly bureaucratic even by bureaucratic standards requirements that will be put in place for your friendly employer out there and am still sitting here stunned, open mouthed, and on the verge of wetting myself.  Ruinous stuff created by Mandy, and Simon, and Eleanor, and Zoe, et al--smart Ivy grads with a heightened sense of justice as it applies to you and me and the untold zillions of employees that are being chained and beaten and forced to accept wages and cable television and live in a society run by capitalist running dogs.  To date, Mandy and friends have written 12,260 pages of regulations for Obamacare--roughly more than two King James bibles and there is not a soul alive including those brave Dartmouth and Brown grads who know what in the flying f*** is in them.  Fact.  It's a bigger boondoggle than even the most pessimistic doubters of the law would have thought possible and far costlier.  To recognize that President Obama will be re-elected given the debacle is the most damning of indictments regarding the dazzling lack of appeal possessed by Mitt and Rick and Newt and the band of fools the Republicans have trotted out.  It's really best to just go off in the woods somewhere and drink for four or five years.

Saw "21 Jump Street."  Not impressed.

"Mad Men" is back in bidness and it looks like a season of some heavy "social justice" lifting ahead of us.  That will, of course, mean more of Peggy Olsen and her earnest righteousness and who I would prefer not to look at or listen to.  Instead, I would rather watch Don and Roger drink and smoke and make fun of people.  Call me old fashioned.

Less than 160 days to college football season.  As per custom, the NCAA rules committee is filling the void by coming up with inane rules changes.  One--if a player's helmet comes off during a play, he must be disqualified from participating during the remainder of the play and then also sit out the next down.  Personally, I think that if a helmet comes off, it should be deemed a live weapon that a player on either offense or defense may then use to bludgeon an opposing player or NCAA rules committee member.

Baseball is right around the corner and my team is facing a season of heightened ineptitude and record suck.  It makes tolerating Yankee, Red Sox, and Cubs fans even worse than usual.

Thinking about taking one of those European river cruises in the next few years.  Except, every time I look at the brochure, it shows a guy even older than I am in some kind of ridiculous embrace of a slightly younger female who in real life would never put up with that bullshit because she got tired of his lame act thirty years before.  Anyway, it looks semi-appealing until you consider that the boat will be filled with old guys wearing taupe colored shoes with Velcro straps.  I hate Velcro.  And, taupe.  I also don't like the French so maybe we'll just ride on a motorboat down the Colorado.

Peeps (especially the yellow bird ones) go surprisingly good with Modelo Especial.

"Madness! Madness!" and Other Holiday Musings

Ganaway runs wild.  Major Clifton would have been at home that night.

Made it through the "Holiday Season" which was once known as the "Christmas Season" prior to the onset of the reign of "No Hurt Feelings and Soccer Trophies for Everyone" in what passes for our national psyche.  Made it, in the sense that we had only one screaming, hair pulling, semi-wrestling match between Daughter No. 1 and Daughter No. 2 this festive time of year, over--a pair of jeans.  It was touch and go for a while, but neither employed the dreaded "Iron Claw" or scissors kick and it ended in a disqualification and a return to their neutral corners which fortunately reside on opposite ends of the house.  Yours truly was the hapless referee without a bow tie, treading lightly on a bum knee and a keen eye for getting caught in the scrum and a return to Dr. Happy Scapel and his band of mule skinners at Texas Orthopedic Group ( I had been scoped and lightly gutted only days before).

I was alone for New Year's Eve as Mrs. Bulba and Daugher No. 1 were visiting her family in the Valley and Daughter No. 2 was at a friend's ranch along with fellow collegiates, happy to be away from law enforcement personnel and close to all of the Budweiser contraband they could smuggle.  It's never a good thing when I'm on my own as I rapidly descend into a state much akin to a family dog left alone in the house--pretty soon, there's trash strewn about and I've eaten something poisonous and the couch is stained and torn.  This time, due to said crippled knee I had ample time to view three seasons of "Mad Men," some random stuff about Germans and firearms on The Military Channel, and a couple of episodes of the "Game of Thrones" series on HBO which is as far as I can tell is designed to appeal to the mastubatory needs of the science fiction/fantasy game community at large.  Mad Men is pretty good stuff--really, it's a 60's version of "Deadwood" set on Madison Avenue instead of the Dakotas Gold Rush.  For me, it's a little easier to be sympathetic with the flawed characters of Deadwood since they at least had the excuse of living on the edge and close to a bullet or stab to the gullett.  Don Draper in Mad Men does a lot of stabbing, himself but with a different kind of sword.  Though well played, I don't care for the Peggy Olson character played by Elisabeth Moss.  She has all of the joy of someone late for a civil rights meeting or a kale and radish soup recipe exchange.  Entertaining, though and worth watching.  I did so in the spirit of the proceedings, killling a bottle of Laphroig (neat) in the process.  No Lucky Stikes, though.

Attended the Alamo Bowl in SA last week, capping off an epic season of viewing collegiate football in person and living to tell about it--if you are or were a Baylor graduate or student or unfortunately married to one like the long suffering Mrs. Bulba, you witnessed more excitement and on field drama than watching the combined editorial and "reporting" staff of the New York Times figuring out how to pour piss out of a boot.  An opening game of aerial bombardment with TCU, a nail biter with Missouri, a miraculous victory over Oklahoma, a decisive win over their overlords of Mighty Texas all culminating in a spectacle of something resembling football but which was really a descent into madness, MADNESS in The House that Henry Cisneros Built in San Antonio last Thursday night (this guy captures it in all of its insane glory:http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/2011/12/30/2669863/and-in-san-antonio-we-were-all-departed-for-four-hours).  Essentially, two weapon enhanced high octane offenses came into contact with a like number of "defenses" bereft of talent and/or still hungover and the result was a frenzy of scoring and blood letting not known or seen before outside of a Cormac McCarthy novel.  Record number of points, yards, dead cornerbacks, flattened linebackers, pancaked defensive tackles, and cardiac arrests--the lady sitting behind died a couple of times along the way.  If you're a defensive asthetic and concerned with the bad taste of excitement in a game, you were surely disappointed.  If you were there that fateful night, you did your best to simply hang on and live as the roller coaster plunged downward and off the tracks only to be hurled upward into the sky, and to be rinsed and repeated over and over until the thing ended with gnashed teeth and garbled wailing and finally balloons descending from the roof and everyone on both sides staggering out into the night, doing their best not to wonder too hard about what they witnessed--one somehow lived through the shelling and turned their thoughts to a quite meadow and a brook (or, a cactus flat and an arroyo seco if you're from Texas) and maybe watching "Antiques Roadshow" or vomiting or something.  Never saw anything like it.  Not sure I ever want to again.  But, damn, it was something.

Didn't get any golf shit for Christmas and I'm thankful for that.

Bill Shakespeare, Gangsta

"I'll bust a cap in Ben Johnson's ass"

So says this better than usual piece on what Shakespeare might or might not have been:http://blogs.smithsonianmag.com/history/2011/11/william-shakespeare-gangster/.  I always wonder what Mrs. Kahla, my not-put-up-with-any-bullshit English teacher in high school would say about something like this, or Professor Moore, my English Lit prof in college who sonnetized us repeatedly.  Anyway, a good piece.

Today's random thoughts:
1. Major League Baseball agrees to the sale of the Astros with the condition that the franchise moves to the American League.  A case of blatant thuggery on the part of a commissioner well known for being a no talent ass clown hack.  Add that to your legacy, Bud Selig.  You'll die one day and with any luck, your grave will be watered frequently.

2. The low life who fired shots at the White House was (surprise) a part of the Occupy movement or whatever they call themselves, though you'll have to dig through news stories for that fact to be officially revealed.  I would like to ask those who hold strongly to the belief that there is no bias in news reporting to contrast what would have occurred had the shooter been identified as part of the Tea Party gang?  If you need help answering that question, I'll only say that they would be building guillotines at the offices at the New York Times for each and every member of the Republican congressional delegation by now.

3. The Republican primary field, debates, campaigns, et al is just an awful assemblage of horribleness.  Romney is their best hope and he has all the appeal of a sickly fence post.  Obama can step all over his dick each and every day and still hit the sack at night giggling over the freak show the R's are running out, safe in the knowledge he'll be reelected by default.

4. If you're 18 and serving in the armed forces, you should be able to drink and smoke anything you want.  If you're 18 and whining about corporate greed and the plight de jour of the day, you should be sent to a work camp and made to perform actual physical labor and read the Halliburton annual report.

5. The Marriott Hill Country Resort in far north San Antonio, is big, fairly impressive, and a glorified high priced clip joint.  Stay someplace else.

6. Will not be flying this Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's (note that I did not say "Holiday Season"--it's "Merry Christmas, goddammit").  I'm thankful for that and will say a prayer for everyone who will endure the airport misery this time of year.

7. Played golf last week and hit the flag stick TWICE on par three holes.  Both times, the ball bounced off the stick and into the crap off the green.  I loathe the sport.

8. Heading to Lajitas in a few weeks.  No intention at this point of running guns to the Zetas when I'm down there.

9. My life would be happier if Joy Behar and others like her went to heaven or someplace other than earth.

10. College football season is mostly done.  You wait all year for it to get here and it seems like the schedule's over before you know it.  Sigh.

11.  The Christmas season officially kicks off after Thanksgiving and that begins with Mrs. Bulba ordering me into the attic to fetch all of the seasonal accouterments, otherwise known by Mr. Bulba as "The Christmas Shit" (CS).  Shortly afterwards, the tree will arrive which hastens the annual argument over the stringing of lights, ornaments, and other parts of the aforementioned CS.  I already need several drinks just thinking about it.  The tree stands in the room that I seldom go in for fear of sitting on the furniture or displacing some random decorative item that Mrs. Bulba has stationed where I would think a tumbler of scotch would go.  Lots of people have these rooms--when I was a kid, some of the brats from better homes had them; with nice furniture and couches and chairs covered in that tightly wrapped plastic material designed to keep mechanic's grease and dog shit stains at bay.  Alas, no plastic on our furniture in this room in our house now but it's only a matter of time before I track something in there.

Inside the Lines

Eduardo "El Gato" Romero in happier times

Played in the pro-am portion of the just completed Insperity Senior PGA Championship at the TPC Woodlands outside of Houston.  For anyone wondering about what it's like or is thinking of playing in one themselves, here are some points to consider:
1. When you walk up to the range, remember pros to the right, amateurs to the left.  I tried to station myself to the farthest left possible in order to minimize the chance of shanking one into Curtis Strange and him spontaneously combusting due to his well known red ass factor.  I think I actually saw steam coming off his head while he was talking to his caddie; probably about some infraction involving an improperly cleaned five iron.
2. On the putting green, I found myself next to one of the greatest putters of all time, the "Boss of the Moss," Loren Roberts.  All I could think of was to not strike a misguided, idiotic putt into his line.  I then struck a misguided, idiotic putt straight into Mark O'Meara's line and...into his ball.    I thought about going off and sitting under a tree somewhere for the next six hours away from good and decent people, something the B60 putter I was "using" wouldn't have minded a bit.
3. On the number one tee box, it's advisable not to snap hook your drive into the pines on a dogleg right par four.  Outstanding start, Red Team, outstanding.  I did, however avoid vomiting, so I had that going for me.
4. Not sure hitting approximately 37,000 chips the week before worked out all that well as my first attempt at such in the tournament skipped merrily across the green and into the rough on the other side.  Fortunately, the professional we were with (Eduardo "El Gato" Romero) knew to avert his eyes whenever I engaged in anything resembling a chip or putt.  Smart man, El Gato.
5. You're playing in front of fans who are there to see the pros but are also forced to endure amateurs hacking their way around the course.  It's awful for everyone involved no matter how much you imagine yourself as invisible after clanking some grotesque shot off yet another random conifer.  The good ones all seem to come when everyone is at the concession stand or scratching themselves or something. 
6. I did shoot better than the pro on a couple of holes which meant I wouldn't later have to shoot myself in the parking lot.  It's the small things...

Neither the B60, nor I could look at one another after the round

7. Romero ended up coming in third in the rain shortened tournament that was called on Sunday.  Must have been due to all of those great swing thoughts he got from watching me.  Not.

Senna

Go see it: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1424432/.  Even if you don't care a damn about the world of Formula One racing, it's a riveting documentary that plays like a well written novel.  Heroes and villains--Ayrton Senna, the brilliant Brazilian driver who overcomes the blatant treachery of the French driver, Alain Prost and fellow conspirator and outright rat bastard president of the Formula One organization, Jean-Marie Balestare.  A much better movie experience than most of what we've sat through this summer.

Other weekend stuff:
Superb weather in Austin.  111 on Saturday and 112 on Sunday.  Outstanding, Red Team, outstanding!  Only supposed to be 109 the next two days.  A cool front arrives and we'll be down to the high 90's by this next weekend.  Allegedly.  Maybe we can then wear sweater vests and admire Fall colors.

Played golf yesterday, walking the course carrying my golf bag.  Great decision making in action there--apparently lost every mineral in my body during that stunt and had massive cramping later that afternoon.  Solution: pickle juice.  Not that bad, either.  Next time, I'll add vodka to it.  And, maybe forget the golf.

College tackle football kicks off this weekend, and Mrs. Bulba and I will officially be in attendance.  I'll let you know if I get arrested.  Boola-boola.

Dove hunting begins on Thursday.  I'll be there with shotgun and shells but can pretty much guarantee that no animals will be harmed during the production of that event.  However, many beers will surely die that day.  I'll let you know if I get shot and arrested.

Kinky on Perry

This may catch some people by surprise:http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2011/08/24/kinky-friedman-rick-perry-s-got-my-vote.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+thedailybeast%2Farticles+%28The+Daily+Beast+-+Latest+Articles%29.

In other news, it's Friday and I'm damn ready for a drink.

Jerry!

Great, great interview with Jerry Lewis:http://www.gq.com/entertainment/humor/201108/jerry-lewis-interview-gq-august-2011?printable=true&currentPage=1.  I disagree with the French--I liked him best not in "The Nutty Professor," but in Scorcese's underrated, "King of Comedy."  See it sometime--Lewis is outstanding, playing a New York nighttime TV host and the subject of a muddleheaded kidnapping.

Odds and ends:

It's hot.  Damn hot.  Most of the plant and animal world has pretty much said, "F*** it, I'm tired of living" and has decided to just haul off and die.  I decided to use an asterisk in that sentence less someone think I was typing "fuck" or some other bad word.  Just wanted to clarify that.

College football gets here in three weeks and our long national nightmare will end.  Most importantly, college football tailgating gets here.  I'll do a fair amount of it this "fall" (we don't really have fall here--instead we go into "more summer") though Mrs. Bulba has expressed an interest in no longer using a Port-a-Can unless she's in a forced labor camp, so I'll be dropping her off with Daughter #2 who is also attending my Alma mater.  They'll spend that time doing the ritual coloring of nails and other stuff that's outside my field of qualifications and I'll do my best to not be caught ogling eye candy, screaming, or vomiting beside the truck when they both show up before the game.  Probably should of thought about that when she was picking out colleges--will have to behave.

We're getting more and more into the presidential campaign swing--the R's just got through having a debate.  I think it's time when everyone should learn to get along and be friends with people of opposite political persuasions, even though that person is obviously dumb as a goddamn shovel.  I'm friends with lots of people who I'm sure think that of me and vice versa.  Well maybe vice and not versa, but you get the drift.  Yes, let's all be Americans and hold hands and be friends, etc.  Except, some things are just unpardonable.  So:

We can't be friends if you like Kenny Chesney.  People have to listen to Kenny Chesney in Hell, so if you listen to Kenny Chesney it proves that you're nothing but a goddamned Satan worshipper bent on spreading the dominion of evil in God's country.  In Europe, Kenny Chesney partners with ABBA, so the same applies there. 

We can't be friends if you like "The Princess Diaries" and Ann(e) Hathaway.  I don't want to get into all of it, but I had to go to that movie when it came out and it stole roughly two of the best hours out of my life and expanded them to twenty years.  I would have paid good money to have been beaten with a board or repeatedly kicked in the groin in lieu of that experience or at least been able to smoke Camel non-filters for all of these years.  Hathaway should be cloistered in a convent somewhere in Albania, making wart balm and brooms and listening to ABBA for the rest of her days.

We can't be friends if you say, "Amazing" in every other sentence, especially if you are someone over thirty.  Under that age, it's a points system deal based on other levels of obnoxiousness and personal grooming.  Speaking of personal grooming--note to the twenty something generation and I'm talking about white twenty somethings--please accept the concept of showering and hygiene.  It seems that black people and Hispanics are on board with washing their ass on a daily basis but Kevin and Kristen on their way to the co-op are a little less so, preferring to spend that time syncing their iPhone and listening to instructions from Jon Stewart.   Anyway, learn a new word every now and then.  I first noticed this about ten years ago and it's become a national disgrace--no one can conjure up an adjective to describe anything ranging from a notable event to a bowel movement other than the A word. 

We can't be friends if you are a pod builder--the person who does not comprehend the concept of the left lane is for passing, instead creating a traffic pod for the twenty or so cars behind him or her.  If we were truly a successful nation, we would have cargo helicopters patrolling our highways, snatching slow vehicles in the left lane and depositing them in large lots where their drivers would then be herded into re-education camps to be instructed on driving etiquette and not being a jackass.

We can be friends if you're the guy who invented DQ soft serve ice cream, served in a cone.  Tastes good with a Shiner.

Happy Motoring.