Unexpected Blogging and Twitter Benefit

I was listening to “This American Life” last weekend, (yeah I’ve got a yellow-dog liberal streak down my back, screw you, righties!) and David Rakoff told the story about Vinny Ricardo, who was found dead in his New York apartment after mummifying for over a year. Tragically, with the television on.

It got me to thinking, I pay all my bills via electronic transfer. My doctor and my dentist know that I’m responsible enough to make my own appointments on a regular schedule. The folks where I work know that I’d just as soon disappear to my cabin in Sewanee some day forever anyway and catch up on forty years worth of reading and bird watching. After I finished negotiated the sale of the remaining assets from my father’s estate for the family I haven’t heard “boo” from my brothers, other than to hear through the grapevine that they are apparently doing well, which I’m happy about. (Love ya’, bros. Gimme a call sometime!)

So if RUABelle were to get fed up with my shit someday and add some Red Devil lye to my coffee instead of milk or cream, I wonder how long it would take for somebody to really notice I was missing. I mean, we’ve got enough pet carriers to pack up both dogs and both cats, and she does own an SUV and a set of keys to the cabin.

Then I thought of thedryspot.net and Twitter. Y’all might notice my absence after a couple of weeks. So if I take a hiatus, don’t assume it’s writer’s block. Poke me or nudge me or superpoke me or whatever the hell the latest technoterm is, but for God’s sake, don’t leave me dead in the recliner watching election coverage!

Bru-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-ce!

In yet another example of egosurfing, apparently Bruce Jenner has found a reference to himself on NewsComa’s blog and left a short comment. The only celebrities to grace the comment section here at thedryspot.net have been George Goldtrap and the children of Bob Lobertini. We’re certainly not talking A-listers here.

Being the suspicious mind that I am, (I’m caught in a trap. I can’t walk out.) I clicked through the link on Bruce’s comment to verify his identity at his website. That’s where I came across this:

Holy crap, Bruce! Botox much? Which part of that word doesn’t scare you? BOtulism or TOXin?

Happy Gotchaversary!

Not only is today the 2nd anniversary of the bodacious Jag and her beloved CookinBoy, but I can’t believe it’s been two years since this little bundle of neuroses came into our lives.

I hope we all celebrate both these auspicious occasions for many years to come.

The Artist Formerly Known as Big Brother

Well, it finally happened. I got my first “Cease and desist” request regarding my internet content. Yeah, I’m banned in China and apparently thedryspot.net is rated PG-13, but I never thought I would piss off his Royal Badness, Prince.

The YouTube video that I posted from our New Years Eve in Vegas has been taken down. Apparently, The Purple One has been on a rampage to protect the copyrights of all usage of his music and image in the intertubez. He’s taken it to the point where he’s gone after a short video of an 18 month old baby dancing while “Let’s Go Crazy” plays in the background. Scheming little pirate baby!

But the video I shot wasn’t of Prince. It was of Morris Day. And it actually wasn’t even Morris day. It was a Morris Day impersonator! And he wasn’t even singing any lyrics. He was dancing!

This whole thing brings to mind another little clip I found on YouTube.

Help I’m Being Repressed!

These Neighborhood Preservationists Can Be So Touchy

I was reading about the ongoing controversy roiling around the construction of country stupor-star John Rich’s massive McMansion which is currently being shat upon Love Circle.

Trying hard to get beyond the fact that to me Big and Rich represent the worst thing that can possibly happen to a couple of good songwriters whereupon they become caricatures of themselves (e.g. wearing a big floppy hat and wearing t-shirts with the name of your OWN band whenever you appear in public), I thought that the journalistically ethical thing to do before I commented on the project was to check out the designs at the builder’s website.

Here’s what I found.  (I’m not kidding.  Go here!)

Doesn’t look so bad to me.

I Guess I’m Not as Enlightened as I Thought I Was

It’s been three days since the Nashville City Paper went to a schedule of 2 days/print, 3 days/web-only edition.

I’ve already forgotten about it.

I have gained five minutes per day of productivity by not doing the sudoku.

I thought I would keep reading it online, especially since they claimed they would have their comics on the website. Nope. It’s two new crappy comics and a link to a site where you can pay to view old B.C. strips.

What I really miss is the copy that would invariably be folded up and stuffed between the wall and the bathroom stall door.  The articles were edited to be exactly one dump long.  I’m not gonna carry a laptop into the shitter with me.

Chalk me up as a reader who apparently wasn’t ready to make the leap away from the print edition.

We Got a Surprise from the Groomers Yesterday

There’s poodles under all that rastafarian fur!

I hope they don’t staring all snooty and, well, y’know…French.

It’s Not Easy Being Green

Those of you who know me well are aware that there is a bit of a “smug alert” going on around me as I attempt to buy my way into heaven by trying to be more socially responsible.

I joined a CSA and buy organics whenever possible. I traded my gas-guzzling Tahoe in on a hybrid. I’ve swapped most of my incandescent bulbs for compact fluorescents. Our recycling bins are now twice as full as our trash cans, and not just with beer cans and wine bottles. I’ve been riding the bus to work a few times per week for about a year and a half, and now I’ve even started riding my bicycle at a high rate of speed through the `hood dodging hookers and junkies on my commute to the office.

Now you can join in, dear readers.

May 16th is officially “Ride Your Bike to Work Day.” Unfortunately for most folks, May 19th is officially “Finally Arrive at Work Day.” Wear a helmet.

Crappy Birthday to You!

If you’re gonna mess up my desk by putting sprinkles on top of your cupcakes, they should at least taste like something. Paper confetti icing. Feh.

And don’t get me started about those people that put mylar confetti balloons and palm trees and 40’s and dollar signs in the envelope with their party invitations to shower your cubicle when you rip it open. Unless you’re coming behind with a Dyson to clean that crap up, don’t even bother!

/curmudgeonish rant

Burnin’ For You

Our erstwhile Blog Lady, Brittney is in the midst of the frenzy that is the Olympic Torch Run/Protestathon in Babylon by the Bay.

It brought to mind a happier time in 2002 when the torch passed a block from my house as part of the festivities surrounding the Salt Lake Games.

Look at RUABelle.  Doesn’t she look happy and at one with the universe?  And with her free Coca-Cola pennant, I feel as if she could break into song at any moment.

“I’d like to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony. [Perfect Harmoneeeee]

I’d like to buy the world a Coke, and keep it company. [It's the real thing.]“

Ahh, can’t we all just get along?

Free Tibetan Refugees?  I’ll take two, please.

They’re Funny Little Bastards

My online Bank of America tries to automatically categorize my credit card expenses for year-end reporting purposes.  I used my Visa to buy tickets to the Kids in the Hall show at the Ryman in May.

They showed up on my statement as “Child/Dependent Expenses.”  Heh, I never knew I had five cross-dressing comedian sons.

I love my little cabbage-head, chicken-lady, head-crushing Lopez boys.  29 out of 30 Helens agree.

Mathematical Elimination Fever-Catch It!

No matter who wins the NCAA Basketball Championship tonight, it looks like I won two of the four pools I entered brackets in.

The names of the groups that I am the champion of?

“Nashville Geeks” and “Bourbon-Swilling Losers.”

I rule. My mother would be so proud.

Like the Swallows to Capistrano

After a long winter’s nap, my trusty Murray lawnmower started right up on the first pull of the starter rope.

Damn, there goes that excuse.

And Now…The R-r-r-rest of the Story

Longtime readers of The Dry Spot will know that I have a strange obsession with Paul Harvey.  Uncle Paul has been absent from the airwaves for weeks now, “temporarily” replaced by a seemingly endless stream of substitutes/auditioners.  There is some scuttlebutt that Paul is very sick, but I don’t believe it.

I think he’s dead.

As a matter of fact, I think he’s been dead for a long time.

I mean, look at this picture of him from years ago.

Check it out.  They didn’t even have color back then.

Now look at this ostensibly recent photograph.

Nothing’s changed.  The dude is supposed to be five years older than baseball.  He farts dust.

My theory is that years ago, prior to his embalming, some syndicator just had Paul record any possible permutation and combination of any conceivable news event and the expected reactionary comment to these events.  Along with 10,000 third grade bogus history lessons disguised as”The Rest of the Story.”  Hell, he only worked 15 minutes a day.  He had time.

But now his puppet masters have run into a jam.  World events are too unprecedented for them to cut and paste a newscast out of his prerecorded sound bites, and they’ve had to seek out live replacements to read the wire copy.  The franchise is in jeopardy.

But who can blame them?  Who really would’ve expected that a black man and a white cuckolded woman would be vying for the office of president?

At least there’s one thing Paul could always depend on.  He never wavered from the fact that Republicans have always been the most intelligent, competent and compassionate leaders of the free world.

Paging Madame Tussaud’s…

It’s Aliiiiive!

My Sista wrote today about wanting to get a set of those grandma glasses if she gets her eyes dilated during her exam today.

It reminded me of a picture of me in Hawaii in 1985 that I encountered while cleaning off an old hard drive yesterday:

Joe Cool? You be the judge.

There’s No Accounting for Taste

A year ago I wrote my most viewed post ever.  By a factor of ten, this post still dominates my stat counter.

What could it be, oh gentle reader, that has so captivated the small but deranged loyal following of The Dry Spot?

Was it my first, and probably worst “embarassing stuff about myself” story?

Or could it have been one of my harrowing tales of near death experiences?

Did the blogiverse favor one of my travleogues?

Maybe it was one of my tales of misspent youth.

It probably wasn’t one of my navel gazing moments or odes to my pets.

Nope, I’ll end the suspense (such that it is…)

My most viewed piece of writing ever was my bourbon and allergy medicine inspired “Ode to a Bradford Pear” from last spring before the late hard freeze killed most of the pretty foliage in a hundred mile blast radius around my backyard.

Apparently, the poem got picked up by a group of invasive horticultural species botanists who flooded it with link love and started a heated debate among that extremely passionate geeky community.  They reposted it to dozens of websites that had hundreds of comments about whether Bradfords were truly a parasite or not.  Next to nobody actually commented on the poem itself, except to point out that I was obviously not a professional scientist.

No shit, Sherlock.  I’m just a homeowner with allergies and an ear for the turn of a phrase who thinks it’s stupid to plant trees that explode at the first gust of a March wind.

A Prufrockian Moment

I woke up this morning in a dark place.  No, not my bedroom.  A dismal vortex of despair.

I wasn’t hung over.  I got to bed early. Things have generally been going fairly well in my personal and professional life.  Sure, RUABelle and the animals have been in our Sewanee cabin for Spring Break this week, but I’ve been talking to her a couple of times a day and have kind of been enjoying the bachelor lifestyle since Tuesday.

Then it hit me.  She always made the coffee in the morning.  I’m not officially checked out on the coffeemaker, so it is a no fly zone for me.  If I try, it’ll be awful.  If I break it, she’ll kill me.  I guess I’m trapped.

Why go on…?

Well, That Didn’t Last Long

It only took one car trip to Sewanee for my brand spankin’ new Camry Hybrid to go from “that new car smell” to “that gassy, wet dog with a side order of Arby’s curly fries smell.”

It was nice while it lasted.

Do You Know This Guy?

Because I sure don’t. Yet for some reason he has decided to send me 25 unsolicited text messages (probably from prison) over the past couple of days.

It doesn’t really bug me much since I have unlimited texts anyway. But I thought I’d post about him here in case I turn up missing over the next few days. If that does happen, no matter what he says in his testimony, I most certainly did not agree to go for a moonlit walk in a secluded part of a state park somewhere…

More Grafitti Fun from Over the Sportsman’s Urinal

Correct me if I’m wrong…

But if I buy that top on the right for my Jeep, won’t it be a little difficult to see out?

To quote ZZ Top, “you been arrested for drivin’ while blind.”