A Southern woman on the 'Net.

Saturday, March 27, 2004


Yay, an article on Laura

"I think her popularity stems from the way she's handled the office, the dignity she's brought to it without getting into controversial issues. She's handling the role of first lady the way people want it handled, unlike the previous occupant."


This is my first chance to scoop Dead Man Eating and I'm going for it.

Lawrence Colwell, executed in Nevada last night, dined on a last meal of pizza, a cheeseburger, french fries and ice cream. He said his murder of an elderly tourist "was like taking a walk in the park, taking a drive down the street.''

I understand that Brian Cherrix, lately executed in Virginia, refused to have the menu for his last meal revealed! He was rotten to the end, that guy.

Update: One day I will build a temple to DME's enunciation, much like Ed Leedskalnin built his Coral Castle for Sweet Sixteen.

Friday, March 26, 2004


Canadian students feel significant for brief moment

At a Canadian school's multicultural parade, they booed the little American girl carrying the Stars and Stripes. She started crying and left the stage.

Michael Cristofaro, the principal of Wagar High, says the Montreal school is a "model of tolerance", with no ethnic or racial problems and questions why this incident is being noted. They also booed the flag-bearer in last year's multicultural parade.

The principal later held an assembly and issued an apology to the girl.


I told you McAuliffe stole it from Saddam. They're brothers under the skin.


Dem Party Chairman swiped one of Saddam's old welcome mats

Entering McAuliffe's new corner office, which is equipped as a TV studio, visitors walk over a doormat bearing a likeness of President Bush and the words, "Give Bush the Boot".

(Via Drudge.)


Matt Margolis of Blogs for Bush gets into fisticuffs with anti-Bush demonstrators. I hope he smote them something fierce.


The story on Annie Liebowitz's Allman Brothers photo.
[Sorry for the length. This is part of the famous (and entertaining) Rolling Stone article that I'd typed up for some fellow Duane fans. Contributor James wanted to know the story of the pic. Be careful what you ask for.]

Early the next afternoon, enter the photographer, looking cheery. An easy-going zaftig lady, she's been promised a 2 o'clock shooting session with the band, but whatever else they're doing, the boys are *not* hitting the note today. Half of them, in fact, are still asleep at the appointed time, and to a man they resist being roused. "Aw, Duane and Greg'll do that, you know," Willie Perkins explains sheepishly. "They'll stay up for three, four days, and then crash like they'us dead."

Bunky Odum promises that he'll deliver both Allmans to the photographer's studio before the evening's concert at Winterland. "Gawddamn, honey," Odum booms, "you gonna have to come down to Macon and git laid back with us when this bid-ness is over. We'll take you ridin' on our motors and...uh...feed you some *down-home collard greens*."

But Odum fails to deliver on his promise that evening when both the Allman brothers balk at the notion of being photographed apart from the rest of the group. They seem, in fact, outraged by the notion. "Fuck, man, we ain't on no fuckin' *star trip*," Duane snarls. "Naw, man, we ain't on no fuckin' *star trip*," Greg echoes. Trying to smooth things over, Odum arranges for the photographer to join the group's swing back to Southern California the next day.

Exit the photographer, looking addled.

Exit the fellow traveler, looking for a movie far from the madding goons at Winterland.

Sleepy and hanging over, the group assembles in the hotel parking lot the next morning for the drive to airport and an early flight to Santa Barbara. Only Dicky Betts seems in high spriits; after last night's gig, he'd gotten a new tattoo at Lyle Tuttle's south-of-Market studio - a dove entwining the name "Sandy" on his right bicep. "Ever'body in the band got one a these, too," Dicky says proudly, pulling up his pantleg to show a tattoo of a mushroom on his calf. Willie Perkins nods shortly: "It's the band's emblem. We all got one, and we use the same design on all our litachoor, too."

Dicky catches sight of Duane and guffaws: "Hey, brother you got coke all over in your muss-tache." Peeved, Duane rakes the white grains out the hair on his lip and glares steadily at the photographer, who's snapping individual candids of the band members. When she moves in toward him, he turns his back with a growl.

On the drive to the airport, Berry Oakley is literally holding his head with both hands. "I run into this ol' girl last night who had a whole purseful of tequila," he groans. "Then when that run out, we got into some Red Ripple. *Jesus*."

On the flight south, Butch Trucks reads the opening chapter of D.T. Suzuki's "Zen Buddhism". "You read this un?" he asks Dicky Betts. Betts' eyes flick over the title. "Yeah, good, ain't it," he grunts. An hour later, one of the stewardesses remonstrates repeatedly with Duane to return his seat to the upright postion for landing. Irritably, he complies, but when the stewardess moves on, he reclines the chair again, muttering balefully under his breath. "The boys are gettin' pretty tahrd," Willie Perkins sighs.

The band puts up for the night at the Santa Barbara Inn, a plush beach resort for the middle-aged rich, where, once again, Duane refuses to show up for a picture session with the photographer. Looking positively shell-shocked by now, she pleads her case to Bunky Odum. "Goddamn, honey, he booms, "you're gonna have to come down to Macon and git laid back with us when this bid-ness is over. We'll take you ridin' on our motors and feed you some *down-home collard greens.*"

That night's concert is held in Robertson's Gym at the University of California, Santa Barbara. The band plays a tight subdued set that sets a gaggle of bra-less nymphets near the stage to jiggling like fertilized eggs frying in the ninth circle of hell, but the general ambience in the hall - high humidity, surly security guards, a surfeit of bum acid - gives the evening a jagged unpleasant edge, and streams of people begin leaving before the set is done.

Duane and Dicky lope backstage afterward to "do some sniff," as Dicky terms it. Duane grabs a towel and mops his streaming face while Dicky spoons out the coke. "Goddamn, I'm *sopped*, brother," Duane complains. Dicky snorts the powder and bobs his head in pleasure. "Sheeit, my man, I druther sniff this ol' stuff than a girl's bicycle seat." Jo Baker, a black singer with the Elvin Bishop Group, hovers nearby, eyeing the coke. Duane fixes her with a cold stare. "Look-a-here, sister," he says loudly, "I'm sorry, but I got just a little bit of this shit left, so I can't give you none." "Oh, that's all right," Jo says, looking embarrassed. "Sure, as a musician, I understand."

Early the next morning, "Frown" - Jai Johanny Johnson - is living up to his nickname in the hotel restaurant. Slurping a triple Gold Cadillac, which is a positively depraved concoction of liquor and liqueurs, he growls, "Bullshit, my man. I'm into playin' *music*, not this sittin-around-bullshit. Seems like when we was unknown, all we did was play. Now all we do is get publicity...Ten years from now, if I be livin' I expect to be playin' music...Naw, not with this same band...I got my nickname, the full thing of which is 'Jaymo King Norton Frown,' from drinkin' Robitussin H-C, that cough syrup. It makes you nod and frown. All the cats in the band used to drink that shit, so they finally got me to drink it too...Shit, I don't know what my attitude is towards dope....I don't guess they ever gonna stop it comin' in the country and all that shit. Sure has caused a lot of hang-ups, if you can dig what I mean...Hittin' the note is - well, that don't be nothing' but a phrase. What the cats in the band mean by it is...gettin' out of it whatever you're lookin' for..."

Bunky Odum has again promised the photographer that he'll line up the boys for some shots when the group checks out of the hotel, so she stations herself near the parking garage and nervously waits for them to show up. Soon, Butch Trucks and his wife join her, and Butch apologizes to her for the runaround she's been getting. "Aw ol' Greg and Duane don't mean no harm, I reckon, but they still ortn't to act that-a way," he mutters, looking pained. "We been on the road too long, I guess. It's been five weeks now, and you get awful tahrd and wore out bein' out that long, playin' the same tunes every night and all. It gets to where sometimes it ain't any fun. And this definitely ain't the kind of business to be in if you ain't havin' no fun."

One by one, the boys straggle out ot the cars, again looking sleepy and hungover. When they've assembled in a loose semi-circle, the photographer explains that she'd like to get a group shot showing the tattooed mushrooms on the calves on their legs. Then Duane shakes his head angrily and stomps out of camera range. "This is jive bullshit, man," he rasps, it's *silly*." "Yeah, *silly*," Greg echoes, and follows suit. "Jive bullshit," Dicky Betts agrees, stuffing his pant leg back into his boot. At the fellow traveler's teasing suggestion that it's no sillier to shoot a picture of everyone's tattoos than it is to have them put on in the first place, Duane coldly offers to punch him on the spot. Well, what the fuck, hare krishna; Duane is, after all, the walrus.

The entourage crowds into two rented cars for a tensely silent ride down the coastal highway to L.A. Along the way, Duane gruffly agrees to stop for a last try at the photos on a beach road. When the photographer tries to position the group around the cars so all their faces will be visible, Duane goes out to lunch entirely. "Fuck it," he bellows at her, "either take the fuckin' picture of don't take the fuckin' picture. I'm not gonna do any of that phony posin' shit for you or nobody else."

He's still grumbling and snuffling when the cars swing back onto the highway. "I don't lke any of that contrived shit, man. We're just plain ol' fuckin' Southern cats, man. Not ashamed of it or proud of it, neither one. Ain't no superstars here, man." When he finally shuts up and falls asleep, his fellow traveler gladly crouches down toward the floorboard so the photographer can shoot both the Allmans with their mouths agape in the rear seat. It's uncomfortable for a few miles, but it beats the hell out of getting punched.

Quartered once again atthe Continental Hyatt House on the Karmic Strip in L.A., the Allman group whiles away the afternoon snorting coke, reading comics, mounting a seek-out-and-buy raid on Tower Records, and watching "The Thief of Baghdad" on color TV. When it's time for the evening's gig, Willie Perkins rounds them up and herds them toward Artie's black Cadillac limo for the half-mile ride down Sunset Boulevard to the Whisky-a-Go-Go. "C'mon, brothers," Michael Callahan, the sound man, calls out as the band mills about the driveway, "they gonna eat you *alive* at the Whuskey-a-Dildo."

In the upstairs dressing room at the Whisky, amid the usual groupie babble and turmoil, the photographer determinedly tries to shoot some final pictures. Politely, she asks a busboy to replace some burnt-out light bulbs in the ceiling. When the busboy fetches a ladder and the bulbs, Greg Allman saunters up and mumbles, "Don't screw that bulb in, my man. I like it in here the way it is." "Please screw the bulb in," the photographer entreats. "Don't screw the bulb in, man," Greg says to the busboy stonily. This happens a few times. "Oh, screw it," the photographer says finally in exasperation, and leaves.

When the band's set gets underway downstairs, the usually-comatose Strip crowd yells its lusty approval from the first chorus of "Statesboro Blues." By the time Dicky Betts thunderballs into his solo jam on "Elizabeth Reed," people are standing on their chairs yodeling cheers. As the band jam-drives to a sexy and demonic close, sounding not unlike tight early Coltrane, a flaxen-haired waitress is passing out draughts of beer to the screaming patrons in the second-story gallery. The beer is streaming amber and glistening down her bare arms, and the Allman Brothers Band from Macon, Gawgia, is - what else- Hitting the Note.


Arafat's asking for us to protect him, but we have to see a man about a dog.

Thursday, March 25, 2004


Larry and Jean Elliott's funeral was today up in North Carolina. Hundreds of people attended, and it sounds like it was really nice. They were a blessing to other people's lives.


If you want the story, get it from the horse's mouth.

I love modern communications. An LA Times reporter writes about the Green Zone, and Firas of Iraq and Iraqis gets to fact-check his butt.


I saw this link the other day on Ace of Spades and wanted to share it.
Carolyn Scott is a professional dog trainer who heads the Musical Dog Sport Association. If you want to see how smart a dog is and how much PURE FUN he can have, watch Carolyn and her dog Rookie doing the dance number for "You're the One That I Want" from Grease.


Busted! Irate citizen with cellphone camera snaps pics of breakfast bunch deputies.
These bad boys were feeling peckish.

Bagel break broke rules

When five Parkland deputies were photographed hunched over coffee and bagels at a Coral Springs deli two Saturdays ago, it gave their employer, the Broward Sheriff's Office, a spot of indigestion.

BSO acknowledged Wednesday that the city of 18,312 was briefly without a patrol presence while the entire day shift, including a sergeant, went noshing together in another town.


I know how you feel, Richard - here's some Motrin.

(A) man "made the off-hand comment, 'Hey everybody. It's Richard Simmons. Let's drop our bags and rock to the '50s,'" said Phoenix police Sgt. Tom Osborne. "Mr. Simmons took exception to it and walked over to the other passenger and apparently slapped him in the face."

Wednesday, March 24, 2004


"I think [Kerry] has to buy some cowboy boots and get his hands dirty."

-Clotaire Rapaille, French-born marketing consultant, on what John Kerry needs to do to appeal to more Americans.


Police want Romanian village to knock it off with the vampire slaying

Before Toma Petre's relatives pulled his body from the grave, ripped out his heart, burned it to ashes, mixed it with water and drank it, he hadn't been in the news much.

That's often the way here with vampires. Quiet lives, active deaths.

Villagers here aren't up in arms about the undead - they're pretty common - but they are outraged that the police are involved in a simple vampire slaying. After all, vampire slaying is an accepted, though hidden, bit of national heritage, even if illegal.

"What did we do?" pleaded Flora Marinescu, Petre's sister and the wife of the man accused of re-killing him. "If they're right, he was already dead. If we're right, we killed a vampire and saved three lives. ... Is that so wrong?"

For some reason, Romanian vampires only kill family members:

"That's the problem with vampires," said Doru Morinescu, a 30-year-old shepherd who, like many in the village, has a family connection to the current case. "They'd be all right if you could set them after your enemies. But they only kill loved ones. I can understand why, but they have to be stopped."


If it's Wednesday, it must be Duane Allman. The pic Annie Liebowitz went through hell to get.
Wail on, Skydog!


This is typical. Miami hogs all the Homeland Security money because it thinks it's the center of the universe. The Broward County paper refers to four counties in SE Florida as "South Florida" because it thinks it's the center of the universe. It's all the same mentality.

County and city leaders in Miami-Dade County are keeping virtually all of $13.2 million in federal aid meant to prevent terrorism throughout South Florida, despite the objections of Broward County and local members of Congress.

The U.S. Department of Homeland Security put the city of Miami in charge of dividing the money earmarked to help areas viewed as at highest risk for attack. Miami officials decided to split $10.3 million with Miami-Dade County and give Broward the remaining $2.9 million and nothing to Palm Beach and Monroe counties.

At my brother's request, I called in twice about Port Everglades, which is in Broward. He'd been there on a job and was concerned about the security there.
Dade County is such a banana republic that people fling bunches of bananas on the courthouse steps there. It's so fiscally irresponsible that the state threatened to take over the management of the county entirely, and even now has an overseer in place.

Tuesday, March 23, 2004


Michael Jackson wanted to play car ridden by boy in film

It's an odd idea for a movie, even for Michael Jackson. "Jersey Girl" director Kevin Smith says he once got an offer to direct the pop singer in a movie about a man who turns into a car that gets ridden around by a boy.

Smith tells Playboy magazine that Jackson wanted to play the car/man role. The proposed title of the film, and Smith says this is no lie, was "Hot Rod."

Smith calls it the "weirdest" script he was ever asked to direct.

It didn't make him call a cop, though.
Money talks, even for child molesters.


Don't you hate it when you're having a picnic and a man-eating tiger shows up? I'm glad he didn't have a tower and a rifle- this tiger was trying to wipe out as many people as possible.

Five Picnickers Killed By Royal Bengal Tiger

Five people ranging in age from 22 to 40 have been killed by a Royal Bengal Tiger while picnicking south of Kathmandu, Nepal.
"Five picnickers were killed yesterday after being attacked by a man-eating tiger believed to have been on the prowl for humans in the Chitwan district for the past couple of months," an official said.
One man managed to survive by climbing a tree. "Even while I was up in the tree, the tiger waited for a couple of hours lying beneath the tree," a police report quoted Rajendra Nyeupane, the surviving man.

The tiger's suspected of having killed eight other people as well.


From hate crime hoax campus:

On Walker Wall, a free speech area on the Pomona College campus, the slogan "Hate Free Campus" was painted two weeks ago in 4-foot-high letters. On Monday, that was partly changed to proclaim: "Hoax Free Campuses." A phrase on the wall that once said "Discover the other within" was altered to say "Discover the liar within."

Monday, March 22, 2004


(Via James and Fark.)


Bertie's like a little hot potato anymore

Nigeria has agreed to a request by Caribbean leaders to grant former Haitian President Jean-Bertrand Aristide temporary asylum, the nation's presidency said Monday.

The request came from the 15-nation Caribbean Community, known as Caricom, Nigerian presidential spokeswoman Remi Oyo said in a statement late Monday.

The statement did not say whether Aristide had requested — or even agreed to — asylum in Nigeria.

The honeymoon must be over between him and Patterson of Jamaica. Will Bertie take Caricom up on the offer to go live in a lodge in Nigeria, or will he fly off into the arms of bad-boy true love Hugo Chavez?


Making a false report to a federal officer is a felony. I do hope they charge hoaxstering nutty professor Kerri Dunn with that one.

What's worse, now the students won't get their annual holiday!

Additionally, a small group of students confronted college administrators with the possibility of starting an annual holiday to commemorate the incident and the way the students marched and protested for their beliefs. Students now say the likelihood of such a holiday is slim.

I'd say so.

Sunday, March 21, 2004


Saruman killed, Shirefolk relieved


John Kerry testimony

There was no external analysis offered on the C-SPAN program other than a Marvin Kalb intro wherein he said that he'd been there at the time and found the testimony to be lead-story-worthy.

For the call-ins, three people expressed approval of him, and eight disapproved.

The three people who expressed approval were all female. I don't know what that means.

Loved the bit where Kerry mentioned his Indian friend living "on the Indian nation of Alcatraz." Anarchy and squalor. Good times!


Set your dials:

According to Country Store:
C-SPAN, as part of its "Road to the White House," is broadcasting Sen. Kerry's 1971 testimony before Sen. Fulbright this Sunday night (6:30 & 9:30).

Be there or be a warmongerer in need of assassination.


Correlation is not causation. This type of cancer is more prevalent in men worldwide.

Muslim Veil Could Cut Cancer Risk?

RIYADH (Reuters) - Veiled women are protecting more than their modesty -- they are also less prone to nose and throat cancers because their veils screen out viruses, a Canadian doctor was quoted Friday as saying.

Professor Kamal Malaker said women in Saudi Arabia, many of whom wear a full face-covering veil, suffered a low rate of the Epstein Barr Virus which causes nasopharyngeal cancer.

"The hijab (veil) is a protection against upper respiratory tract infection," the Saudi Gazette quoted Malaker as saying. "In the kingdom, nasopharyngeal throat cancer ailment is very low among women as compared to men."

"It is interesting how a very simple social custom can have a profound effect on a human's life," said Malaker, head of radiation oncology at King Abdul Aziz hospital in the conservative Muslim kingdom.

Get your veil, Professor. It's not right for you to deprive yourself of these supposed health benefits.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?