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.