Random Thoughts

Overheard on the Internet

wow…how’d you link to Tiny Cat Pants? Do you know [B.] or just found it through internet randomness? (I don’t actually know [B.], but I’ve met the butcher on several occasions) [emphasis mine]

Okay, god damn it. Is there anyone the Butcher doesn’t know? Now he’s meeting my readers and his fame is spreading to LiveJournal?!

I ask you all to think very carefully and answer me honestly. Do I have even one reader who has not met the Butcher? He’s the guy in the “Hugs, Not Drugs” t-shirt befriending everyone in Middle Tennessee, apparently.

Also Overheard on the Internet

Pandagon is reporting that Radar is reporting (It’s like Telephone, but on the Internet) that Karl Rove’s mistress is dumping him for someone named Rhett Hard.

The only thing that could be better than the mere existence of Rhett Hard is if ole Kleinheider got him to guest blog over at Hard Right.

Okay, maybe that’s only funny to me.

Regrets, I’ve Had a Few

Yes, it’s true. A bunch of folks felt that my accusation of fucktardary was directed specifically at them.

And yes, it’s true, I’m going to eat dinner this very evening with some of those folks.

And the folks who aren’t looking to kick my ass? I promised them I’d whisper naughty words in their ears.

If everyone holds me to my overblown rhetoric, it’s going to be an interesting evening.

Short Notes to Various Folks

Dear White Sox,

Congratulations. That was awesome. Because of my continuing war with the Cubs, I’m extra delighted.

B.

****

Dear Butcher,

There’s no gas in my car and the front passenger seat is covered in grocery bags. I’m sure there’s some rational explanation for both of those things. But I can’t imagine what.

Also, your My Morning Jacket CD sounds like elevator music. Sorry, but there it is.

B.

****

Dear Bob Krumm,

Yes, I would be pissed off if my obstetrician waited until I needed an abortion to spring that crap on me. I agree with Ivy. I think and will continue to think that it’s strange that people would get into lines of work where they might be regularly called on to do things that offend their moral principles, but that’s their choice and, if there’s some kind of work-around, fine.

But what offends me about every single one of these stories that I’ve heard is the kind of “gotcha” factor. It’s not until the woman gets to the window to get prescription filled that she suddenly discovers in humiliating fashion that, because she’s doing something the pharmacist finds immoral, she’s not going to get her medicine. That, for me, is the real problem.

It’s not that the pharmacist doesn’t feel comfortable filling the prescription that pisses me off. It’s that there’s no way for a woman in a crisis situation to know that without testing every individual pharmacist. Like Ivy suggests, can’t there be something posted?

B.

****

Dear Salon.com,

I hate your new look.

B.

****

Dear South Park,

I love you. Poor Butters in the basement, though. That makes me sad.

B.

****

Dear Mrs. Wigglebottom,

It takes real skills to get yourself stuck to a Dead End sign. Sorry it took me so long to untangle you, because I was laughing so hard.

B.

The Oxford American Music Issue

Every year the Oxford American puts out its annual music issue. Well, except when they aren’t publishing at all, which is frequently, but what can you do? This year’s has been out for a while, but I finally got my hands on it.

It’s worth buying, if you see it, for three reasons.

One and two–The CD. Every year they include a great CD of Southern music. This year’s is not their best. (Last year’s was amazing–Esther Phillips, you are my queen.) But every year there’s something that makes you stop dead in your tracks.

This year I’d say there are two moments. One is Buddy Holly’s “Dearest,” which has to be the sweetest little song ever. The other comes in the middle of Sammi Smith’s “This Room for Rent,” when Smith delivers “There’s the door that he walked through when he finally found the nerve to say all the things she would have sworn he’d never say” that makes you just want to curl up and cry for that girl.

(There’s also an awesome version of “Piece of My Heart” by Aretha Franklin’s sister, Erma, which has to be heard to be believed.)

And you should get it for Tom Piazza’s amazing obituary of Jimmy Martin. I’ll admit right up front that I’m biased. Tom Piazza is one of my favorite people on the planet–an amazing writer and a kindhearted man with a voracious curiosity (my favorite trait in just about anyone).

But biases aside, he really gets Jimmy Martin in a way I think few people do. Tom says about Martin, “He was incapable of the kinds of dissembling, duplicity, politeness, and homogenization that make for a smooth careeer in today’s Gentleman’s Business of country music, where every outlaw has his own hairdresser. He did everything to the hilt, whether it was telling a joke, hunting, eating, feeling sorry for himself, or playing music. Above all, playing music. He had a kind of contempt for half-measures and timid souls, and his first project would be to try to find out how steady you were on your feet.”

The rest of it is just as good.