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.

War in Hipstamatic

Photos of the Afghanistan War in Hipstamatic:http://www.foreignpolicy.com/articles/2011/07/25/the_war_in_hipstamatic. 

I'll resist going into another rant about the enormous suck that is the "nation" of Afghanistan.  I'll simply say bless all of our service personnel there.  Especially, our snipers.

Scattershooting About Jim Beam and Other Summer Fun

A sweet tune from Grantland, a great new site:http://www.grantland.com/story/_/id/6769890/on-whiskey-grease.  I don't think I've had a snort of Jim Beam since high school.  Back then, it was our killer spirit of choice--we were much too low class and broke to afford Jack Black and other premium juice at the ignorant redneck/black/Hispanic school I attended.  The drill was to pour out half a can of Coke and replace said volume with JB, enjoy, and repeat until properly medicated for erratic driving down dark, county roads until you met an onward vehicle piloted by a kindred spirit.  Or, a Harris County deputy, or both.  In those days, run ins with the law brought hellacious tongue lashings, swift violence at the first sign of back talk (there was none), threats of loss of family reputation and ruin (as if we'd be disinherited from an oil field), and always the rendering of the contents of the pint (or half pint if the dollars were real tight) onto the ground or pavement right in front of you.  Notice, that nowhere were we cuffed, or arrested or catapulted into the legal system--the shit got settled right then and there.  A better system?  Maybe, maybe not but reprobates these days have to play by the rules, and their proud moms and dads get to hire attorneys.  Give me a call if you need the name of a good one.

The author of the article waxes over the taste of that last bottle of Jim Beam as the final tangible remembrances of his old man--not sure if I would have shared the last drop with a fellow from South America or South Dallas or wherever but that's his bidness.  For me, I've got a fair amount of stuff from my old man--his Kabar knife from the Corps ("I guarantee that this knife never killed a Jap"), some badges and other items from his days in the fire department, some guns--that sort of thing.  But, when I really, really want to step back in time--and I don't do this but every so often, I go out to my storage shed, to the back of a middle row of items I'll mostly never use again and find his old, homemade tackle box.  I make sure it's quiet and I'm alone and lean down when I open it--not to better see the old lures and hooks and weights of days gone by but to get that smell of salt water and reel grease and the Demetria of a time and place that no longer exists--the smell of memories--of wading into mud flats at 5AM, of old Coleman lanterns, of minnow buckets, and pith helmets and khakis and Johnson Sprites and stringers of Specks.  The frequent reminder, "Don't horse him!" when you were tied on to a big one, the crushing disappointment when you lost one at the end of a spectacular fight, and how grand you felt when you were praised in the company of grown men.  Those memories; there's a thousand of them and they stay mostly hidden and locked away but it's nice to know that I have a box in a shed out back that I can open for them to fill the sky for a while.  Like that flight of Rosetta Spoonbills that I never got tired of seeing.

Other items:
Some recommended viewing this summer--
1. "Swamp People" on the History Channel.  Ripping entertainment featuring mostly authentic Cajuns during the 30 day alligator season in Louisiana.  Subtitles are provided but if, like me, you're a product of generations of white trash breeding you'll understand 'em just fine.
2. "Deadwood" on HBO On Demand.  Watch it to remind yourself how good a series can be and reflect on the spectacularly bad decision to cease its production.  David Milch should be drawn and quartered.
3. Saw "Bridesmaids."   Some genuinely funny scenes and overall tolerable.  Much better than "Hangover II."

Politics:
I'm calling the 2012 election for Obama right now.  Unless, of course, Romney renounces the Mass. health exchange, endorses polygamy, calls for the legalization of weed, and orders the carpet bombing of France.  Then, maybe we have a ballgame.

I've been watching my diet and starting to work out again after multiple sessions of "Fun with your Orthopedic Surgeon" over the last six months.  Fell off the wagon briefly one Saturday evening--ended up at DQ and ordered not only a large cone but also a large vanilla shake.  Yes, I did that.  The shame of it all.  Worse yet, that was pretty much the highlight of my weekend.  Oh, except for the episode I had with a fairly sizable band of wasps.  Seems I was wrapping up some yard work when I opened a storage door that conveniently had a large wasp nest on the inside.  Turned rapidly (or semi-rapidly, I'm 53), lunged, tripped, rolled, staggered, ran, limped--it was all there including terrific gashes on my foot--the only reason the horde of wasps did not sting the ever loving shit out of me was because they were laughing their collective wasp asses off at the sight of Mr. Lawn Doofus performing his odd brand of interpretive dance.  Great fun all around including limping around for ten or so days.

A Visit from Coronado...

This photo has nothing to do with the blog entry other than as a late reminder to bin Laden that there is nothing like this young lady in Hell

...no, not the Spaniard, but the boys from the Naval base in Coronado aka "Seal Team Six" aka "We're Such Badasses We Cannot Be Named" paid an early morning house call on Bin Laden with a refreshing double tap to the head and body of our current dirt bag of the century.  The President announced the news an hour or two after everybody knew it, forfeiting the opportunity of a thrilling thunderbolt in order for his handlers/speech makers/men in waiting to craft a message fit for the 2012 campaign.  But, as Brett Stephens points outhttp://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704436004576298743812732446.html?mod=ITP_opinion_0, that's quibbling, and I like his take more than anyone else I've read on the subject, which includes giving Obama his due--he didn't micromanage the deal into the dirt ala President Jimmy--and he stuck with his guns on eschewing a surgical drone strike on Hacienda Usama in order to have a real live swinging dick American perform last rites.  I also like Stephens' riff on the concept of "justice" versus "vengeance."  Good stuff.  Whatever you think it was, the fact that bin Laden is taking a water nap is good news all around, and particularly rejoiced by boys and livestock of Pakistan and every other stan.

Don't expect this to make a significant difference in Afghanistan--al Queda isn't a big player there and since the Seals allegedly walked away from the bin Laden raid with a trove of info on that band of shitbirds, they're all probably diving for the nearest cave with all due speed--the president won't need a person to person encounter to prove their demise--a missile up the rectal cavity will do just fine.  So, that leaves the Taliban to cast their special brand of love around that lovely latrine pit of a country combined with the current ridiculous rules of engagement that the big thinkers have in place--our guys can't fire at a known terrorist unless he's holding a gun.  What a way to run a war--we never learn.  In that spirit, all you need to know about Afghanistan can be found in Fraser's first installment of the "Flashman" series--the "nation" is and has been a shithole of historic proportions, solidly resisting moving into the 8th through 20th centuries and into this one in favor of a steady policy of boy and goat rape and keeping their women tied to a plow.  Great folks, the Afghans, Pashtans, Dicktans, what have you.  Proudly ignorant and secure in the premise that the measure of a man is which hand he wipes his ass with.  We can throw every dollar that China lends us into the joint and they'll turn it all into a dung heap within hours of our departure.  Not. Worth. A. Single. American. Life.  In fact, they are not worthy to clean the cesspools of our military men and women "lucky" enough to draw duty there.  Rant over.  Think I've included enough scatological references?  Probably not.

I'm not sure which is worse--if you're a Democrat having to react to what comes out of Republican Senator Lindsay Graham's mouth, or if you're a Republican having to react to what comes out of Republican Senator Lindsay Graham's mouth.  Talk about a loose cannon--his entire staff is probably being treated for irritable bowel syndrome.   Also, I like the 19th century term for hemorrhoids--"piles."  Also, "consumption" for tuberculosis.  I guess dying of consumption with a stiff case of the piles wouldn't be pleasant.  Robert E. Lee allegedly had piles and a heart attack at Gettysburg which was bad enough for him but fairly serious for the boys making the ill-fated charge he ordered up Cemetery Ridge on the third day of the battle.  Next time I go to the doctor (that seems to be an increasing event) I'm going to indicate "piles" as the complaint when asked by the perky receptionist and just enjoy the reaction.  It's the small things that make life worth living.

We have an owl box in our backyard and a screech owl is in there sitting on her nest.  She tends to stick her head out and look at me when I'm doing some chore or just sitting on the patio with a drink.  She doesn't seem to mind me--I make far fewer sudden movements now than when I was in my twenties (or thirties or forties) unless of course I'm engaged in some violent act related to an appliance.  She also watches our dog with a mixture of amusement and contempt, no doubt wishing she was part of a larger owl species or an eagle or something.  Then, she would be eying dinner.

I've been watching various HBO series on the Time Warner "On Demand" channel.  Fun to watch them back to back.  Lately, it's been "Entourage" which fairly skewers Hollywood types and the place as a whole.  Jeremy Pivin as "Ari Gold" is gold, Jerry, gold!  Also, watched a couple of excellent documentaries on mega-producers, Jerry Weintraub and Robert Evans.

Spent the Easter weekend at South Padre, along with the entire state of Nuevo Leon--Monterrey owns most of the island and they were there in force during Semana Santa--the weeks before and after Easter Sunday.  We were there late Thursday night ahead of the rush; Friday and Saturday afternoon trips from Port Isabel across the causeway took two and three hours.  The shrewd minds running the road crews down there thought it would be a smashing idea to conduct routine painting along the guardrails DURING THE BUSIEST THREE DAYS OF THE YEAR, reducing the trip across to the island to one lane.  Outstanding, Red Team, outstanding!  It was a real cluster which meant it kept my sorry ass from visiting the Wal-Mart in Port Isabel or buying a kite or something.  Wade fished the Laguna Madre with my ace fishing brother in law and daughter No. 2 and was delighted to watch her skunk both of us.  It sort of hit home--I immediately recalled the thrill my old man would get when I would hook on to something big and wondered then why he didn't seem to get the same sense of enjoyment when he, himself caught something.  She had that same look of wonder and amusement of why I was more excited netting her fish than she was catching them.   Now, I know.  Life marches on.

All Hell Breaks Loose on Avenida Zacateros

It had been fairly quiet until then, that is, our second visit to San Miguel de Allende, a haven for Americanos who like the colonial Mexico that comes without too many flies.  I drove here back in December of 2004, but that was before the cartels took ownership of la fronterra and made the stretch between Nuevo Laredo and Monterrey a little dicey.  Great drive--mostly on the cuota with spectacular scenery--you can make it from the border to San Miguel in nine hours and I hope to do it again once either the Gulf Cartel or the Zetas take sole possession and things quieten down.  This time, we flew to Leon where the hotel picked us up for the approximate 90 minute drive through some really drought stricken country--think Texas times two.
We stayed at a new joint that is run by the Rosewood people--hoity toity types who think they're a cut above everyone else.  It was certainly nice and new and the people were swell but you miss a little of San Miguel when your plumbing and a/c work perfectly and you never trip over that step that's a couple of inches different than the one before.  That said, the hotel had a men's toilet facility just down the stairs from our room which was quickly identified and pointed out to me by Mrs. Bulba for my use and enjoyment during the length of our stay.  I suppose this is a mostly universal occurrence; that whenever possible women will do whatever it takes to avoid any restroom facility recently visited by the male of the species.  Yes, Virginia, men are pigs.  Otherwise, like the rest of the hotels and restaurants in one of the premier destinations in Mexico, it was about a quarter occupied during the week (the uber-rich chilangos from Mexico City sort of fill up the place on weekends).  Yep, a sour economy and fear of multiple gunshot wounds can do that.
The chief attraction of the place is the fascinating architecture as you meander along the winding streets--the Mexicans were way ahead of the curve and recognized the uniqueness of the city way back in the 1920s, preventing any substantial change that would detract from what was and is there.  The gringos took to it after American GIs after WWII, found that they could get an art degree at an accredited school there, living cheaply and being generally unkempt and drunk and pleased with not having a bomb dropped on them.  Anyway, lots of art types, art galleries, artistes, art-a-ramas in San Miguel, along with chingas of shops dedicated to separating pesos from your wallet.  That's what we were doing on yet another day when just up ahead a few blocks, the proverbial shit hit the fan.  People running, sirens blasting, screams, the whole shooting match.  Essentially, at the juncture of Zacateros and and Codo, some kind of circus outfit that was in the process of trolling through town to advertise their arrival ran into a bit of unexpected trouble--it seems the truck pulling the two open barred cars containing three tigers and a lone jaguar became disconnected, an event apparently unknown to the driver who continued on happily, while the cat cars slid to a halt with the doors open to the urban wilds of Greater San Miguel.  The possible impending doom of this event did not escape the nearby food vendors who packed up with a speed not seen since the insurgentes rolled into town during the last revolution.  What saved a tragic (but also what would have been a spectacularly entertaining) event was that the unseasonably high temps (if you want a record heat wave, just ask Mrs. Bulba and I to book a flight to your city) that had the tigers and jaguar in a funk--they were sapped and pretty much decided to pass on the local fare and go with the regularly scheduled menu--running down food vendors on a hot day is an uncertain thing; some of them can turn out stringy and they go bad quickly.  As you might expect, sorting out the carnage took a while--the police on the scene had a helluva time making sense of it, but eventually the animal cars were re-hitched, the cages closed, and the the Greatest Show on El Mundo rolled on.
Notable in San Miguel are the far fewer touristas since the prior visit and a shocking scarcity of Texans--I counted three Texas plates the entire time I was there--apparently, I'm not the only one a little shy about motoring south through Nuevo Leon.  No, most of the Americans seem to be from recently arrived flights out of San Francisco or somewhere up north.  And, most all of them are in the 40+ range--San Miguel is not exactly a party destination.  Many of the women are wearing some sort of eco based fabric made out of hemp or cardboard or something.  A lot of them appear to be attempting to recreate a hippie phase that either once did or did not exist prior to marrying (and divorcing) a fairly successful patent attorney.  I'd overhear snippets of their conversations while sitting at some outdoor cafe on El Jardin (the central plaza) and the air would be pierced by a lot of terms like "empowerment" or other lame Oprahisms--the kind of stuff that instantly drives me bat shit crazy.  The men are mostly like Larry David, being generally unfriendly towards any other American face but fawning over an authentic local, obliviously tone deaf to their reverse racism.  Maybe that's too strong for it--let's just say they reflect the civility of where they're from.  Speaking of which, the hotel would deliver the condensed version of the New York Times, designed for cruise and resort passengers worldwide and I'd eye it every morning while having breakfast at the dive I discovered one day (40 pesos and damn good bacon).  If you read the Times every day, you may be immune to it, but if you're part of the great unwashed and prone to reading lesser publications, it can be an entertaining diversion.  The reporting carries just a tad bit of shade and the editorials read like instructional posts for their subscribers.  The best of the Times, in my humble opinion, are the quirky pieces on some obscure sport or pastime, or place.   The crossword puzzle is nice, too.


Tiger siesta on Zacateros.  Note the spiffy policia motorcycle.

 Made it back despite the best efforts of Continental Airlines--flying is a contact sport.

White Trash

Not bad on Elvis.  Manson looks like a guy who works in a bicycle repair shop

I've got to see this: http://bighollywood.breitbart.com/lstranahan/2011/04/07/review-the-wild-and-wonderful-whites-of-west-virginia-a-good-film-about-bad-people/.  It's probable that I'm related to these people.  Explains a lot.

Gandhi and Jane Eyre in the Light of Day

A pretty interesting look at Gandhi the man, not Gandhi the demi-god:http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748703529004576160371482469358.html.  Everybody, probably especially great people deserve some slack, but Gandhi was a seriously weird dude.  He'd be right at home in the 21st century.
Other weird and random thoughts:
Saw the latest version of "Jane Eyre" with Mrs. Bulba last weekend.  Probably the most faithful to the Bronte story and certainly the most realistic in terms of light and setting but it's still Jane Eyre and was overwrought when it was written and simply turgid by today's standards.  Also, English chicks need a lot of makeup and the stuff is wholly missing in this film, with the obvious horrific results.  Lots of cruelty aimed toward young Jane and I've figured out that women like seeing that mean stuff--it bothers me to see it depicted but I've observed that it really doesn't bother females--they sort of like it.  Mars and Venus.

There are a pair of screech owls nesting in the owl box we put up in an oak tree in our backyard, with its opening facing our kitchen's bay window.  The female stares at me a lot when I'm sitting at the table, with that owl look of examination and focus, no doubt settling on the exact spot to pierce the soft underbelly once I keel over while moving some pot or other large object that Mrs Bulba thinks should be somewhere else.  Like Jane Eyre, nature is also very cruel.

While Betty is fine, I still think that Veronica is really hot.  Also, I've noticed that Wendy has been tarted up in the Wendy's commercials I've seen over the past few years.  She definitely has that knowing look that just wasn't there when the old man was still alive.  I predict cleavage for her in the next series of commercials and maybe a tie in with Sketchers.

Wagons West

Great photos of the Dakotas around 1890http://blogs.denverpost.com/captured/2011/02/23/from-the-archive-frontier-life-in-the-west/2713/.


Cheyenne chiefs about 15 years after reading Custer the riot act

 Deadwood appears to be in full bloom, much advanced from the "camp" days as depicted in the HBO dramatic series which takes place in the late 1870s.  What a great three season run--the creators pulled the plug for their own reasons and should be shot for doing so--I'd like to see Al Swearingen once again greet a new day.

Station Wagons

This guy says that station wagons are done and semi-laments their passing:http://www.thesmartset.com/article/article03091101.aspx.  Great article.
Most every familia Americanas has had at one time or another a station wagon.  As a kid, I recall a '62 or '63 or 60 something Ford Fairlane station wagon, mostly because my dad seemed to cuss at it a lot, which was saying something because he was always mostly unhappy and using a lot of cuss words which I dutifully studied and admired for their nearly always perfect inflection and execution.  The station wagon was later largely replaced by his take on the SUV which was his mounting a real ugly ass camper in the bed of a straight six '67 Chevy pickup truck.  We took one of those Western vacations in it one summer, going to Yellowstone and all that and I rode 99% of the way in the camper, seeing actual hills and mountains as opposed to the flatness of H-town.  Only threw up once in it.  Later, at the urging (constant whining) of Mrs. Bulba, I succumbed to the lure of station wagon chic by buying a used '93 (I think) Volvo station wagon which was fine when it was running but it seemed to always have some sort of Euro engine tweek thing going and it longed for frequent labor stoppages and a correct chablis.  Then, like most of my fellow Red State trash, I opted for the pure SUV route, riding high on the road and making frequent trips to Home Depot.  That was about all she wrote for the station wagon era. 

Go ahead and Drive that Mercury Cruiser right up to the pool--the chicks dig it

The best thing about station wagons were the outstanding ad campaigns devised to extol their virtues--essentially that station wagons meant that anything was possible.  You could live in them, cook in them, sleep (notice I'm being polite here) in them, and haul all sorts of sporting equipment, animals (both living and recently shot), and loads of children large and small and their accouterments while seeing America and searching for clean restrooms.  By the way, please note for the record that we made annual trips to Alabama from Texas to see my mom's family and the restrooms in Louisiana from around 1960 through most of the '70s were about as horrific as I've seen and that includes the toilet scene in "Trainspotters."  But, I digress and Geaux Tigers and it's still a good policy not to have to take a dump in the Pelican State--wait 'til you make it to Hattiesburg.  Anyway, great photos of people experiencing the outdoors, courtesy of their Chevy land yacht, or in this photo, a guy in a suit driving up to his swimming pool--no better way to score babes than that.

NPR Stuff

Things are a little exciting these days over at NPR.  They've lost two Schillers thus far, though Ira Glass and Terri Gross are hanging tight.http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2011/03/09/134388981/npr-ceo-vivian-schiller-resigns.  Nefarious Republican operatives (are there any other kind?) sort of made things unpleasant for the virtuous types running public radio, stinging Ron Schiller into running smack against the knuckle draggers in flyover country--this happening on Vivian Schiller's watch, who was also instrumental in the ham handed firing of ANALYST Juan Williams.  You may recall that Williams was run by Vivian after expressing concern of flying with Muslims dressed in their "traditional garb" (he did not share any sentiments regarding having to fly with Yankee or Red Sox fans in their traditional garb which is highly distressing to most Americans but that is another story).  Apparently, Schiller and the kind and gentle souls at NPR don't know or don't distinguish between being a REPORTER versus being an ANALYST.  I can believe this because I've frequently heard stuff during a news "report" that was more in the realm of "analyzing" or "commentating," another term that gets a little play now and then.  Anyway, the R's in Congress are having a blast and throwing their weight around about this maybe being the time to finally defund NPR due to a perceived lack of objective reporting and the fact that the United States of America is broke as hell and doesn't need to be shelling out dollars for guys and gals dressed in corduroy and birkenstocks to "report" news items and say nasty things about fat cat Republicans.  A few random thoughts:
1. Ron Schiller had his pants all the way down to his ankles during the sting, not only revealing his disposition toward obviously unenlightened conservatives, but as well as his candid view that NPR did not need government funding.  I agree with his sentiment.  In fact, I think that NPR would thrive without it--it would eliminate the silly pretense that NPR is some kind of objective source of news which it is not and please don't be so tone deaf to believe that it is.  NPR appeals to an audience that is left or center left at best and they would be a lot happier if NPR went whole hog in that direction and more dollars would pour in if they became what Air America never was--an established far flung network with a news mantra somewhere between The New York Times and Mother Jones and with the latest in alternative and world music and ruminations from entertainment scolds like Garrison Keillor.  Dare to be bold, NPR--those neanderthals over at Fox are making a shitload of coin and think of that nice loft you could buy next to that free trade coffee shop and down the block from that guy named "Evan" who wears a beret and has a cat and a Prius and takes a shower every other day to save the planet.
2. Ever listen to "Fresh Air" with Terri Gross?  She's had some great guests over the years and fun every now and then to catch one of her shows.  The funny thing is, that regardless of who she's interviewing it seems like you're bound to hear the question, "So, what was it like growing up in the South as a black man?"  I can swear she asked Vladimir Putin that one time.  Maybe not, but Terri can get a little predictable.


Former NPR Prez, Vivian Schiller

 3. There's not a lot of gals named, "Vivian Schiller" in flyover country.  Reminds me of former head NOW-gal, Eleanor Schmeal.  Not sure that a very large conference room of talented screenwriters could come up with names that perfect to head these organizations--it might not hurt the folks at NPR and NOW and a few other groups to maybe get out a little more often.   Eat some barbecue.  Hire a guy named, "Randy" or "Sonny" from Lubbock or Fort Smith.  Go all day without once having "angst." Shoot a gun.  Learn to throw not like a girl.  Couldn't hurt.
Update: http://dailycaller.com/2011/03/09/surprise-new-npr-interim-ceo-a-democratic-political-contributor/#ixzz1G8bt2qaA

Kennedy and the 109

An interesting and (I thought) balanced piece on President Kennedy's service aboard the PT-109http://www.historynet.com/pt-109-disaster.htm/print/.  Essentially, Kennedy could have avoided combat via his old man's connections but he wanted (and got) something in the Pacific Theater.  As a commanding officer, he was a loose cannon and the 109 was cut in two by a Japanese destroyer and Kennedy and his men were left adrift in dangerous waters.  Then, to his credit, he successfully and bravely looked out for them until they were rescued.  I thought the article summed it all up pretty well--both the blemishes and the bright spots.  Then, you read the follow up letters and you'd think what was written was either a puff piece or on the other hand, evil muckracking yellow journalism.  Do people read anymore?  I wonder.

Legendary cocksman and future President Kennedy aboard the PT-109

Saw "Cedar Rapids" this weekend.  Generally okay--some laughs but wait for it on HBO or Cinemax or whatever when you're not surfing for something less idiotic than was on the previous station.  It's hard, but give it a try.  Did watch "A Serious Man," an effort by the Coen Brothers that I had completely missed.  It's a heavily Jewcentric effort and not for everyone but I found it fascinating.  I'm thinking it was probably the Coens dredging up some memories and characters from childhood to go with a story about a wound too tight college physics professor and his family in the mid sixties.  They nailed the period pretty good--the houses, cars, etc. are dead on.  Also, "F Troop" on the television.  In black and white, of course.  We had black and white at my house then--the old man was convinced that color TV was a passing fad.  He missed on that one.  He also had a dismal record in buying cars--each was more awful than the last--and had certifiably rotten luck when it came to hunting and fishing and we did a lot of it together, so I know.  But, like President Kennedy, he made it back from the Pacific War alive, and that was saying something.  Lots of young guys with piss and vinegar and cut out to be future presidents did not.

Oscars, etc.

Joe Queenan wrote this piece prior to the annual Oscars shindig where acting types congratulate each other for careers spent playing pretend for a living.http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704409004576146331571019642.html  Well, that's not entirely fair, but I liked Queenan's piece when he wrote it, probably because I pretty much agreed with everything he said which establishes me as some type of lackey or something.  Anyway, Queenan thought/thinks that last night's big winner, "The King's Speech" is a swell "Masterpiece Theater" caliber vehicle suitable for Sunday night viewing on your local PBS pledge drive station but it doesn't stack up to the entertainment offered in either "The Fighter" or "True Grit."  Agreed--saw all of them and the thought that occurred to me was that this is going to play out in the same way that it did when "Shakespeare in Love" won best picture over a field that included "Saving Private Ryan."  I've seen the former exactly once--in the theater--and it was nice and English and all but nothing compared to the latter which I've probably watched a dozen times and I'm guessing I'm not the only one in that category.  I've read that the Academy voters are compelled through guilt or feelings of inferiority or something to do with Ambien or whatever to give greater consideration to British productions--we're talking about idiots here--and maybe that's right but nevertheless disappointing when they miss the boat on outstanding stuff that's sitting right in front of them. 
In the meantime, can't wait to see "True Grit" again.
What else?  Let's see--took in "The Chieftains" this past Friday night.  Was prepared to be thoroughly underwhelmed and early indications that evening seemed to confirm that prediction.  The venue was the Riverbend Center which is an auditorium constucted on the grounds of Riverbend Church to host secular events and such--essentially a damn good idea by the Baptists to churn bucks out of the heathen community.  Problem is that the strongest thing you can buy at the goddamn Riverbend Center is coffee and bottled water and I had not properly pre-gamed for that reality when Mrs. Bulba and I showed up at the door.  Interesting crowd we soon discovered, heavily nerd-centric with lots of guys and gals who probably still own their first slide rule.  Dreadful opening "act" featuring a young songstress who moaned out navel gazing lyrics highly suitable for sipping free trade coffee while handing out "Hands Off Cuba!" leaflets.  Five (5) songs of this and it was mercifully time for The Chieftains, or what is left of them (I think they're down to two of the original Chieftains) as they are accompanied by four or five other demi-Chiefs.  I thought maybe they'd dutifully hammer out an hour of some of their new stuff with a few old standards mixed in and call it an evening--these boys are getting up there in age, after all.  No, instead it was a damn fine evening of entertainment which included some fine Irish dancing, great, great side musicians from Nashville, etc., a fine looking Irish babe who could really sing, and even a 30 piece drum and bagpipe corps.  In other words, an effort that Garrison Keilor could only wish he could produce.  A good time was had by all and we were out of there by 10:30 and I was drinking Laphroig by 10:45.

Top Talk

Hope they play forever: http://tracesoftexas.com/myblog/?p=142.

Bias in Academia?

You're shittin' me, right? http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/08/science/08tier.html?_r=4&src=me&ref=homepage.  Apparently, the NYT discovers something.  Pigs fly.

Just returned from the annual all male, though still largely heterosexual ski conclave, with this year's version in Park City, Utah.  No one was maimed or killed which was a success in itself.  Yours truly did get clipped not by an idiot snowboarder but by some fellow geriatric type which resulted in the privilege of eating about fifty yards of snow on one of the endless runs off of the King Con lift line.  Always interesting to note the various fleeting thoughts as you're sliding down the mountain--mine were largely in the areas of "this doesn't feel all that terrible" and "maybe drinking all that scotch wasn't such a bad idea after all." 
It's a trip that the wives are ecstatic that they're not included on and that's saying something in that they are usually highly pissed when we're having fun with them not around.  No, they much enjoy not being around men bent on eating as much bacon as possible, skiing up and down the mountain on a continuous loop between 9am and 4pm, and afterwards eating mounds of animal protein and throwing down single malt scotch products and then screaming curse words at one another over cards.  Noteworthy, is that I have not yet mentioned the other principal pursuits of the trip which include manufacturing a poisonous amount of natural gas and the ensuing strain on both the internal plumbing of the unfortunate owners of the rented condominium and the public works department of Park City, itself.  They're glad we're out of town.
We'll do it again next year. 

Missing Olbermann

I really don't, but Bret Stephens has a great piece on Olbermann and the larger story of the media yesterday and today: http://online.wsj.com/article/global_view.html.  Several nails hit squarely on the head.  Anyway, it wouldn't be a shocker to see Olbermann not only return quickly but return with a vengeance in a new and improved role somewhere else--despite his awfulness, he's one smart SOB and has a lemming like following of true believers.

I read what O'Reilly said (or didn't say)--he refused to mention Olbermann by name in discussing the MSNBC shake up, though I'm sure one or two 825 year old bottles of scotch were consumed after the news hit.  Don't know what Limbaugh said but I have watched some of the new Golf Channel's "Haney Project" where Hank Haney is now charged with the task of making Rush a new and improved golfer.  Verdict: didn't enjoy it.  Limbaugh is a talented radio performer but for whatever reason, he just doesn't come off well on television.  The most interesting thing about the show is the inclusion of Haney's hot trophy wife--I'm guessing a spin off or maybe "Housewives of the Golf Channel" will be up next. 

Golf, Kim's Way

Chairman Kim, World's Greatest Golfer

Thanks to Kevin Robbins of the AAS for spotting this:http://www.northkoreanopen.com/course1.html.  I really, really hope that someone with a P.J. O'Rourke sense of humor signs up for this thing--golfing in North Korea has all the makings of something you want to read about under the influence of distilled spirits or whatever you have on hand.   The most miserable game ever concocted by sheep loving Scotsmen now open for bidness in the most miserable country in the world, and that's saying something. 

Collar Bomb Caper

Great story on the infamous collar bomb heist: http://www.wired.com/magazine/2010/12/ff_collarbomb/all/1.

Ordering Koala Venison, Etc.

Ordering stuff off of the internets can be confusing: http://theoatmeal.com/comics/shopping_cart.  It reminds me of when a cousin of mine was catching a pitching phenom named Curly Ray Jones.  Jones had two pitches: a fastball and a curve.  My cousin dutifully reviewed the signals with Curly Ray, indicating that one finger would be for a fastball and two fingers would be for a curve.  After signalling "one" for a fastball and being de-nutted with a sinking curve and then signalling "two" for a curve and having his windpipe dislodged by a rising fastball, Cousin Charles trotted/stumbled to the mound.  Indicating a desire to go over the complex signals again, Curly Ray quickly cut him off, indicating, "All these numbas is confusing--I'll pitch it and you catch it."

I hate math, too, so I've always sort of related to Curly Ray.  There endeth the lesson.

Getting Darnell to Work

An interesting piece that asserts that Black America and America as a whole would be best served by the legalization of drugs:http://www.tnr.com/blogs/john-mcwhorter.  Probably not going to happen but the drug problem is one that has to have some out of the box thinking or we're just going to continue flushing dollars and lives down the drain.  Would legalization be perfect?  Hell no, but look at what we've got going on now.  Anyway, not a bad read.

Life Was Tough Back Then

A tasty, wonderful piece on medieval warfare, especially if you're fascinated with archeologist types in how they interpret and recreate what went down:http://www.economist.com/node/17722650.  Essentially, you just didn't want to wind up on the losing side in the Wonderful War of the Roses.

True Grit Redux

I largely agree with this guy on the three True Grits--the book, the original movie starring John Wayne, and the Coen remake: http://bighollywood.breitbart.com/lgrin/2011/01/04/a-tale-of-three-true-grits/?utm_source=twitterfeed&utm_medium=facebook&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+BigHollywood+%28Big+Hollywood%29&utm_content=FaceBook.  I watched the Wayne movie again about two days before viewing the Coen vehicle and several things struck me:
1. The strength of the dialogue from the Portis book--the guy is one of the most underrated wordsmiths of 20th century American writing and how particularly well that Wayne and the new Hattie Ross actress pulled off the tricky dialogue.
2. Both Wayne and Bridges are excellent and very different in their approaches.  Wayne's was intentionally over the top and full of bravado while Bridges was more understated but very believable. 
3. The young actress that plays Hattie in the Coen movie is light years better than the hideous Kim Darby.  In fact, she's remarkable and worth the price of admission alone.
4. Damon is obviously better than Glenn Campbell as the Ranger La Bouf(sp).  Shaking my head about this though, as the one actor who was born to play this role was Matthew McConnnaaggggghyy(sp).  Damn shame he didn't get it.
5. Barry Pepper plays Ned Pepper in the Coen version and does it well.  He even sounds a lot like Robert Duvall did in the same role.  He ain't Duvall, though.  Josh Brolin, on loan from the commie stooge directors he usually works for, is good, too as the murderous dumb ass Cheney.
6. The Coen Brothers Grit is an outstanding movie.  It's one of those rare films that comes along that you will watch multiple times over the years--every time it comes on TV--and you will buy the DVD in the same sense as "Saving Private Ryan" and others.  Like "Ryan," it will lose out in the Academy Award nomination to something of a more artsy nature ("Shakespeare in Love") that you'll never, ever see again after shelling out twelve bucks or so at your local movie house.

Go see it.  Solid effort.