Nashville Scene Can Kiss My White Trash
A small piece ran in the Scene earlier in the year about trash. I was a bit annoyed at the time, but since it hardly seemed like news to me, I just let it go. Well the folks there decided that it was newsworthy enough to run in their year-end issue. Here we go.
From the Scene: "A bunch of spoiled Nashville consumers—about 8,000 of them—who can’t fit a week’s worth of trash into their 96-gallon containers (!) are complaining and asking for more of the giant, tan-colored bins. Solid Waste director Anderson responded to this astonishing insight into just how much crap people generate, then throw away, by advising that these residents stomp on their trash and—shocking, we know—perhaps even consume less and recycle more. Seems logical to us."
My knuckleheaded translation: "A holier-than-thou alternative newsweekly reporter--and at least one editor--have taken it upon themselves to pass judgement on the trash generating habits of about 8,000 Nashville taxpayers. Apparently this reporter finds it to be "astonishing" that some people could generate enough "crap" to fill their 96-gallon containers "(!)" before pick-up day. This reporter traveled to all 8,000 homes and, with his crack investigative team, found that none of these "spoiled Nashvillians" knew how to stomp on their trash, or--shocking, we know--recycle."
I generally like the Scene, but on this brash, uninformend generalization, I must respond thusly: Fuck off. A couple of months after I got my beautiful new, tan dumpster, I managed to fill it up before trash day. My neighbor has two, so I called the nice government worker-lady down at Metro who informed me that I was entitled to a second one. In fact, on Metro's website it says:
"After all trash carts have been delivered, you can request a second cart or a smaller cart at no charge by calling 880-1000 or at www.nashville.gov/trash. A third cart will cost approximately $40."
In other words, it is my God-given right as a Metro taxpayer to have two of those carts!!!
So, Mr./Ms. hip, alternative newsweekly reporter, I know that you have taken a vow of poverty by working at the Scene, and I applaud you. I know you feel that anyone who consumes more than you is just wrong. I know you only drink organic wheatgrass juice culled from your west-facing windowbox and you carve your own Christmas ornaments from antlers that have been shed by the elk population of Yellowstone, using a recycled Indian arrowhead you unearthed while digging your compost pit. It is great that on your way home from the Scene world headquarters, you stop at the farmers market with your hemp bag and buy staples, then go home and watch documentaries and foreign films on a TV powered by pedaling your stationary bike in your hip, East Nashville duplex (fabricated completely from old "See Rock City" barns) with your two cats. However, not everyone lives like you. And just because I don't live like you, doesn't automatically make me "selfish."
I own a business and often find myself with lots of trash from work in my vehicle when I get home. I also sometimes have large, unweildy items that cannot be "stomped on" or--shocking, I know-- recycled. And since I am no longer allowed to place them next to my trash, I have to devote an entire dumpster to one or two objects. Sometimes I like to make improvements to my property. Have you ever tried to tackle even a small home improvement project with just one of those 96-gallon (!) carts? And don't get me started on Metro giving me one day for brush and leaf collection in the fall, a full month before the 15 trees on my 1/3 acre lot have finished dropping their leaves.
I recycle. I care about the environment. However, since Metro eliminated my option of putting occasional oversized loads or odd shaped items at the curb, I occasionally need two dumpsters. I have been to some really filthy places all over the world. I can assure you that me "selfishly" using two carts, six or seven times a year, is not an environmental hazard.
Perhaps you interviewed 7,999 of the Nashvillians who requested a second cart. Maybe all of them are tree-hating, baby-seal killing, motor-oil-dumping assholes who go out of their way to consume more stuff than you so they can generate more trash than you, just to piss you off. However, that isn't the case with me. I know the Scene is not a traditional media outlet. However, I think there is a rule that still applies: Generalizations bad. Facts good.
Dear Condi and friends at the NSA,
I know that protecting our country from the evil-doers is a full-time job, and that it was a mandate given to you by the commander in chief. I applaud you for trying to tackle what must be an overwhelming task. I know that I have written several comments in my recent posts like "firing a shoulder mounted missile at a commercial airliner" and "death to imperialist pigs" that are bound to be flagged by your secret super computer in Langley. However, they are just jokes. Figures of speech. Colorful uses of language used to get a point across in a unique and humorous fashion. I know that you have elaborate and sophisticated tracking methods (we all know that the "cookies" are just a red herring to throw out to the press) to make sure that we simple every-day Americans aren't tempted to cross over to the dark side. I understand that there isn't much room for humor when it comes to the war on terror, and I apologize for those remarks.
So anyway, you're not fooling anyone. Nobody in my working-class neighborhood gets flowers delivered, especially on New Year's Eve day. You can move the van with the extra dark tinted windows now. You might send it down to Lawrenceburg. I've met some pretty crazy folks down there.
A comfortable buzz
I came across Knitting Nyxxie's blog
. It was about knitting. Who knew knitting was so popular? I scrolled through it quickly, looking for some sign that "knitting" was really code for "death to imperialist pigs." Could I have uncovered an Al Qeada bomb-building instructional site?
No. It's really about knitting.
So I was about to leave and I noticed a list of completed, nearly completed and future-planned knitting projects. The list was typical: Ugg Baby Booties for Co-Worker, Blue Fun Fur scarf for bosses Wife, Blue Fun Fur scarf for bosses daughter, Drop Stitch Scarf for the Scarf Swap, etc. etc.
My Space, Your Space, Outer Space
A friend send an email asking whether anyone had any experience with My Space. He was told about it by a friend, and wanted to check it out.
I have had experience with My Space. A 40-something man, suddenly and unexpectedly divorced who seldom goes out will try anything to meet women. That includes computer "networking" sites. I have already chronicled my experiences with match.com. About a year after trying that, I came across My Space. This is what I told my friend.
"I was intrigued by the "networking" aspect of My Space, vs. the meat-market vibe of match. That made it so much different than match.com, right? Well, that's like saying I'm drinking martinis, I would never drink straight gin. It is first and foremost a dating site. Except they have the added possible humiliation of requesting someone to be your "friend" only to have them reject you. Yes, it is a site where people can actually reject
your request to be their friend. How cruel is that? A lot of people seem to be on a mission to "collect" friends, as if it makes them more popular, like in high school. I never added any friends, not a single one. I didn't understand the purpose, and thought it was silly, adding someone I had never met to my "friends" list. I had one woman email me every day berating, begging, scolding and demanding that I add her as a friend. I remember thinking, "Can you not see that I have not added ANYONE as a friend, you needy, clingy, unstable crackpot of a hosebeast?" Those brief, drunken, 2 a.m. feelings of superiority momentarily put my lonliness aside and kept me from firing my shoulder mounted missile at one of the commercial airliners that passes over my house every morning. Then, after I trolled for all the hot, single, athletic, bi-curious, financially independent, beer-loving, steak-eating, educated, non-pierced, spiritual, nymphomaniac 30-year-old women within 50 miles of my house, I would expand it to 100 miles. That would kill another two hours."
So now I just have a weblog. And I got a girl the old fashioned way, I met her in a bar and charmed the pants off her. However, if there are any hot, single, spiritual nymphomaniacs out there reading this, I've got this friend . . .
My new love affair with Sara
I stumbled across the end of an interview with Sara Evans last night. I was aware of her, but had never seen her interviewed before. Not only is she beautiful and has a wonderful voice, she is engaging, funny, charming, down-to-earth, sweet, delightful and completely booty-licious. I was immediately smitten. I couldn't stop watching. I started to devise my plan to get rid of her husband, adopt her kids, grab Kiddo and we could all live happily everafter on her farm in Oregon. I kept watching as they put her outtakes in a little box in the corner of the screen while the credits rolled by.
Then something caught my eye in the credits.
My girlfriend's name.
Sorry, honey. Forgot you worked that show.
The Nun Bun and Miracle Grits
The Nun Bun was stolen
. Crime of the century here in Nashville. What kind of evil-doer would want to destroy that world-famous miracle food? I think it was someone on the Metro Council! Somebody call O'Reilly! Another attempt by our Government officials to destroy Christmas!
The Nun Bun was truly a miracle, because Mother Theresa was alive at the time it was miraculously created and we had pictures of her. And it miraculously looked just like her. Really. A miracle, a miracle, a miracle, I say.
But what about all the Jesus and Mary miracle foods? Are they also true miracles? I don't think so. The problem is, we don't really know what either one of those people actually looked like, do we? I'm not completely sure of all the details, but I know that the images we accept of Jesus and Mary today came about like this: Somewhere around 623 A. D. (give or take a couple centuries) the Roman Artist Union Local XXI got together and declared Jesus to have shoulder length brown hair and a beard, and that the Virgin Mary looked like, well, you know, that chick in all the paintings. Turns out that the local union president had long brown hair and a beard, and he wanted Jesus to look like him, because he was a dandy and a narcissist. And the Mary he shoved through commitee, well let's just say that he didn't want his wife to find out about that one. And we know from the movies that even though he was Roman, he spoke with a proper English accent. But I digress.
So is a fishstick with that guy's mug on it really a Miracle? That's debatable. For all we know, Jesus really looked like Dolph Lundgren. Or Jackie Mason. Or James Earl Jones. Or Paul Sr. on American Chopper. Or Big. Or Rich.
But a miracle could happen to you and your food! And I can help! Next Sunday, when you pull your cheese grits casserole out of the oven and you see the guy with the long hair and the beard miraculously singed into the crust on the top, call it a Jesus Miracle if you want. I don't think it will get you too far, maybe the local paper or the lowest rated late night news, but the national media has tired of miracle food stories. So, if you want a true (as in "money making") miracle, call it the Johnny Damon Miracle Cheese Grits Casserole. You would start a bidding war between the Sox fans who would want to destroy it in a "wicked bad" fashion, and the Yankee fans, who would want to display it in a glass case in Yankee Stadium. At least until he goes into a hitting slump next June. And think about it, all those yankees (lower case - - the people from the northeast, not the team) would be in a bidding war over grits
. Larry King, Tucker Carlson, Donny Deutch, here you come! Yes, friends, that would truly be a miracle.
On a related note, Kiddo got a Hello Kitty toaster for Christmas yesterday. For those of you who are unaware of this miracle-food-creation machine, you put plain bread that you can buy in any supermarket into the slot, depress the miracle lever, and minutes later that bread is miraculously transformed into toast that has an image of Hello Kitty singed into one side. A miracle, a miracle, a miracle, I say!
Warning: It was reported in Japan that some people may experience spontanious seizures if they look at the Hello Kitty Miracle Toast for extended periods of time.
I hear live people
I can read minds. It is both a blessing and a curse, a skill that comes with a great responsibility. (Much like my ability to see through clothes and bend spoons with my thoughts.) This is what I channeled from the father of a five-year-old boy in a restaurant the other day.
"I see you staring at me. If only you knew how brilliant and important my son is, you might avert your judgemental gaze. He taught himself Latin in utero. Upon being swatted on the backside by the obstetrician, he calmly replied 'Et tu, Brutus?' At two weeks of age, he taught our Cairn Terrier, Cardinal Puff, how to type. At three months, he became a pen-pal of Jose Feliciano, often sending him lyrics in Spanish Braille. At nine months he replaced the master cylinder and brake pads on my '95 Tahoe. By the age of one, he had done every crossword ever published in both English and Dutch, so he took to solving differential equations. On his second birthday I gave him a guitar and he immediately played Jeff 'Skunk' Baxter's solo from Steely Dan's Bodhisattva
, despite never having heard the song before. At three, he was elected Mayor of France. Two months later he scored a perfect 1600 when he took the SAT on a whim. At four, his involvement with Arabian Horses led to a Director's appointment to FEMA, where he now foils Al Qaeda plots by using his uncanny ability to 'smell' dirty bomb radiation in shipping containers. He has averted dozens of attacks and saved millions of lives. He commutes from his playhouse by piloting the supersonic hovercraft he built from a Dyson vacuum and spare MiG 29 parts he bought on Ebay. He just returned from Langley, where he was the keynote speaker at an anti-evil-doer symposium with W, Dick, Condie and Rummy. He has a patent pending on an automobile engine that runs on tap water and compliments. He built his own holographic iPod. He makes beautiful blankets on his antique loom, which he donates to retired greyhounds. He ages his own Worcestershire sauce. He shot 65 at Augusta twice in one day. He modified an old DVD remote to perform Lasik on our neighbor's ferret. He is a master calligrapher and an international kite-boarding champion. Tom Hanks is on his speed dial. He does his own dental work. He clones fish. He invented brown sugar.
So, as you can imagine, he sometimes gets overly tired. That is why I am letting him have this ear-piercing screaming fit on the floor of this restaurant. I don't really care if he is bothering you, I am going to just let it play itself out, because I don't want to damage such a special boy with any so-called 'discipline.'
So quit staring at me."
Power, Politics and 100 Oaks
I've got to make a last minute shopping run to CompUSA in 100 Oaks. This comes from the "I read it somewhere so it must be true" file.
Apparently, when I-65 was built, Mayor Fulton had a financial stake in the construction and ownership of Rivergate Mall, and he managed to sucessfully block the building of an exit from the Interstate to Thompson Lane so that it would be a pain in the ass to get to 100 Oaks.
Congratulations, Mr. Mayor, it worked! Here it is, 35 years later, and the whole Berry Hill/Thompson Lane/100 Oaks/I-65/Franklin Road situation is certainly a pain in the ass.
I don't really know anything about Mayor Fulton. If you know that this information is false, please let me know. Meanwhile, I'll continue to cuss him everytime I'm stuck in that traffic mess over there.
Pornification of CSPAN2
One last bourbon away from bedtime the other night, I noticed that CSPAN2 was running something called the Pornification of America. Oh, yeah, I had to stop at that one. Well, I dropped in on the middle of a roundtable discussion at New York University featuring four women, age 35ish to 55ish, most (all) of them Jewish, and a black guy who was there because he is a "hip hop expert." One of the women has written a book called "The Pornification of America." She did lots of research. She begins many sentences with this line: "Every man I talked to who uses porn . . ." and would then follow it up with things like, "starts out with still pictures, but eventually needs films of more deviant behavior." or "ends up neglecting his relationship by spending hours alone with his porn." or "follows the destructive path of porn to its eventual, ultimate end, which is ending up in prison as a baby raper."
OK, I am paraphrasing all of that and I made the last one up. As I mentioned, there was bourbon ingested by the viewer.
Then, and I remember this clearly, she was making a point about how every woman she talked to who was in a relationship with a man who uses porn felt demeaned and objectified, trying to live up to the impossible standards set by these magazines and websites, blah, blah, blah. And then she flat-out said said that Maxim magazine was porn.
Way to perpetuate the frigid uptight New York Jewish woman stereotype, sweetie.
Give me a fucking break.
First off, as a card-carrying subscriber to Maxim (I know, 42 is kind of old, but I like it) let me point out that Maxim is funny. Every line of every issue is written with tounge planted firmly in cheek. It is a humor magazine for men. And they make no apologies that men like to look at impossibly beautiful women in tiny bathing suits,with come-hither stares and all flaws airbrushed away. There is never any nudity. Porn, my ass.
Also, when she says "Every man I talked to who uses porn" she is implying that there are men who don't "use porn." Any man who makes that claim is lying. I'm quite sure that 90% of the men that "use porn" don't let it escalate into S&M and Beastiality.
As far as the poor gals who are the victims of porn: if your boyfriend or husband is pointing to a picture of Jenny McCarthy and telling you that you would be a better woman if you had boobs like hers, or is locked in his office jerking off while you are lying in bed, longing for an intimate encounter, then you are living with with an ass. Lots of men are assholes. Women point that out to us all the time. Leave him! Don't blame Playboy magazine or NakedFatties.com. Pack your shit and find someone with a sense of decency.
What struck me the most was that these highly offended, hyper-scholarly women ignored the whole reason porn exists -- the prostate gland. Much like men will never understand PMS, women will never really understand the male sex drive. See, we have this sperm factory, the prostate, that runs 24/7 and there is nothing we can do about it. It keeps pumping those little fuckers out by the millions, mixes them with a little money-shot juice, and sends them on down the line. So it starts getting full down there, and Testicles say, "Yo, Penis, let Brain know we're starting to fill up down here." Penis does so, and Brain responds with, "I'm sorry, Penis, but I am in a loving, committed relationship with a woman I respect for her mind and personality as much as her body, and she is not interested in having sex right now, so I'm going to have to ignore your request." This process continues and the stuff keeps backing up until finally Testicles and Penis are screaming, "Listen here, you fucking dipshit of a Brain, we are backed up like the Long Island Expressway at 5 on a Friday, Prostate won't back off, and if you don't do something about it WE ARE LITERALLY GOING TO EXPLODE LEAVING A GAPING HOLE IN THE MIDDLE OF YOUR BODY!!!!!" That is when we go into the bathroom and lock the door.
So this whole deal is like talking about the "Alcoholication of America" because beer is prevalently displayed in nearly every store across our country. There are certain adult activities that are pleasurable, but require self-control and responsibility. These are usually the activities that the government feels compelled to regulate, like drinking, sex, gambling and driving fast.
Fortuately, these women at the porn symposium are really doing nothing more than scaring the shit out of all the grandparents who stay up late watching CSPAN2. While my relationship history may not be a statisically significant sample of the entire female population, I will say that I have experienced the pleasures of the flesh with more than a handful of women in my 27 years of activity. And I am happy to report that in my experience, most women really, really, really, really like having sex. Even the Jewish ones (oh, yeah, Cindy the Dancer, around 1986. She was a screamer. She used to have this way of putting her legs . . .) So ladies, I respect you, I admire you and in some cases, I really want to have sex with you. Now I gotta head to the bathroom. The new Maxim is here.
All right, I'm a sports fan. I have taken kiddo to see the Sounds half a dozen times since she was three. I want to see the stadium complex built downtown.
What is this Briley guy doing? As I understand it, a study was done, presented to the council and the Sounds stadium deal was determined to be the best proposed use of the land. Now Briley says it is not? He said in a radio interview that the stadium is not currently "water cooler talk." Are you kidding me? This thing has been dragging out for two years. I know that my friends and I talk about it on occasion. Are we supposed to discuss it every day. And what with the alternative? Is a mixed use development with a Banana Republic and a P.F. Changs on the bottom floor going to provide more chatter? He also says that Nashville is now a major league city and a minor league park somehow sends the wrong message about the mighty city of Nashville. Mr. Briley, have you ever been to New York or Philadelphia or Los Angeles or Dallas or Chicago? I hate to break it to you, buddy, but we are a small city. A mid-level market. I don't think anyone is going to drive through downtown, look at the Coliseum, GEC and then look over at the Sounds park and say, "Boy, I thought I was in a major city until I saw that minor league ballpark. Let's get out of here.
The Titans and Predator deals were not good for the city, businesswise. Get over it, this is a completely different deal, one that is being funded by the Sounds. The city just has to let them have the land. Are we really supposed to think that selling the land to the highest bidder and letting a developer build an office building on this piece of riverfront property is better than a privately funded project that will bring several thousand people downtown 40 nights per summer? And something else tends to get overlooked: This is
a mixed use project. It involves condos and offices and stores and parking lots and all that good stuff other than the stadium. My thought: Mr. Briley is covering his ass in case, ten years from now, something goes wrong. That is chickenshit politics. Was there a big pissing contest about whether to give the symphony hall their land? Of course not. I like the symphony. I like baseball, too. Build it, dammit.
Kiddo's first NFL game
The Titans are so bad, that tickets were being given away for the last home game against the Sea Hawks. Free and plentiful tickets are a good combination to justify taking a four-year-old little girl, knowing full-well she'd be ready to leave at halftime, if not sooner. We were three rows up on the 12 yard line, conveniently close to the cheerleaders. Kiddo was fascinated by them. "I like the one with the blonde hair and the one on the end with the curly hair!" she would exclaim in her best outside voice. "I do too, "I would reply, admittedly with a slight lustful lilt in my voice. This elicited a smirk and a nod from all the surrounding women. I wanted to announce that I was indeed single, and not a lecherous husband out for the game (lecherous old man, maybe), but I let it go. Kiddo had to pee a just the right time to miss the first Titans touchdown. Letting her go in the ladies room by herself in the Coliseum was a bit nerve racking, but she insisted. She ate a hot dog and cotton candy and drank a whole sprite. I had a big diet coke, instead of the usual 9 beers I usually get down on "grown-up" game day. We left at halftime. She isn't exposed to sports much at her mom's. That's my job. She requests to watch football and golf and hockey with me. If she ends up being a fan, she can say, "my dad started taking me to games when I was four." Moms may not get it. Dads know it pretty cool.
God Bless America.