Mickey Z

Cool Observer

Saturday, February 04, 2006

Our game plan was far from clever

Posted by Mickey Z on 02/04 at 07:54 AM

Sorry not to bring a story first up, maybe later. However, just been flipping through the TV and, oh this is rich.

UKTV “History” Channel is showing a two hour documentary about Lee Harvey Oswald ... still pushing the fiction about what surely most sane people must have questioned by now - I mean, how far does the lie have to go?

I could well imagine Bill Hicks snorting with laughter as it pompously reminded people of Oswald’s disturbances ... he liked guns! He was a loner! And ... he was unpleasant to his wife & child! And ... um ... actually I switched off. Only so much crap I can take in one sitting.

You guys in the United States of Assimilation must be either immunised by now or else avoiding this shit like the plague.

A story? Last night I found a close friend’s close friend, & a mate of mine as well, is back on heroin. This is someone I’ve leant valuable guitars to, & he & another musician buddy were hinting somewhat directly that this was not a good idea. Last time I leant him a guitar he pawned his own. They kept a close eye on his to make sure mine was ok ... I just thought (at the time) they were making sure he didn’t drag his tail about returning it. Very moreish things, guitars.

Smack ... how do you help? Especially when someone won’t / can’t be up front, but his evasiveness is telling plus he has told certain people, but not others. However, all those who work with him or rely on him now know.

This isn’t a request for advice, as he’s a rum soul & a list of his idiosyncracies would take a long while. But if anyone has any spare positive vibes to send out, please send c/o Ricky, Inspired Mancunian Way, England.

Posted by Chris Wood on from Manchester, England 02/04 at 09:06 AM

some people have an brush with the law when growing up . i had a brush with jazz. bob briden and his brother joey and me were hanging one summer day down in the recroom being bored so we decide to play with the trumpits in this big display case . it was taboo to do so . we knew that we couldn’t play them his mom would catch us .so we had to do something so we all take one and sneek out side to the back yard. joey gets an idea lets make dirt bombs and use the horns as molds. they worked great nice horn shaped dirt bombs .joey was a pro at it so me and bob let him build the arsenal we went on a raid . some new kids built a fort in our woods in back of our sub division . coming back for more bombs we see bobs mom draging joey by the hair and beating him . he didnt rat us out he was punished for the rest of the summer. i remeber thinking the trumpits most be very impotant for joeys mom to whip his ass like she did. it took years to find out why but it became very clear to bunny barrgians trumpits were never made to make dirt bombs

Posted by michael conner on from rockland 02/04 at 11:51 AM

Colombia stands out strong and true in my memories of travels undertaken some five years ago as a place of mystic grace and beauty. It also however endures as a land of mortal danger and moments of great trepidation. After some Four months spent in exploration of the Caribbean coast where one can sense the impulse that sparks in the magic realism of Garcia Marquez and the Andean heights of the madness of Bogotá a path was made to the south eastern town of San Augustine known for the statuary of the culture of that same name which stretches back some four thousand years. Indeed an entrancing spot with little tourism but great cultural wealth the hire of horses arranged through the facilitation of a fast talking local, Lucas, self thought English speaker and true wild horse man of the interior, a guide arranged and everything from coca to coffee plantations to be explored, we set of on a four day jaunt which left me ill disposed to sitting down or walking for quite a week afterward. The journeys on horse back may well be titled broke arse mountain, but the pain was a small price to pay. Of course, in the headlong manic madness of my youth I had made clear demands in my pigeon Spanish that the steed to be hired must have a dose of spirit worthy of the great horseman which I mistakenly considered myself to be. Lucas, mustachioed and serious only too happy to oblige equipped me with an animal which beyond having spirit can only be described as having a devil inside. A lasting memory of him with head thrown back in a grand rumble of Columbian laughter mustache waving in the breeze as I only just managing to maintain the purchase of my mount was sped with wild abandon from the sleepy town with absolutely no control is indelibly marked on my memory. Horse and horseman it can be said did eventually come to some sort of distrusting and mutually antipathetical regard although it must be said many ingenious attempts were made by the fiery beast to end my life and our contract such as running uncontrollably to the edge of a cliff and stopping with a suddenness that left me all but trembling perched on his snout begging for mercy.
Lucas had also deigned to supply us with a ridiculously large box of the local weed known as punto rojo which took the edge of the severity of trying to control a wild horse. I was never cruel to this majestic beast but I fear it was one that was never to be tamed and deserved great respect for his vivacity of spirit and I have a suspicion he enjoyed the tryst although I can of course not speak for him.
After this wondrous journey during which I had the pleasure of staying with a humble and impoverished Colombian Campesino who took me through several of the stakes of the production of pasta de coca, and saw an array of statues which to say the least in their age and gracious beauty were truly awe inspiring, it was time once again to board a bus and strike a path for the gloriously laid back colonial town of Popoyan with it’s white washed walls and lazy pace. The journey to be undertaken necessitated a trip through a cloud forest where as the term suggests the clouds and the forest coexist in a mellow hazy dream of heavenly lands. Now the road, the only road winding and rutted was known to be held and controlled by FARC rebels who were prone to stopping and searching the few transports that crossed the heights. In the blind oblivious joy of youthful years, and also in veneration to the mystical quality of the herb procured a bag of punto rojo sat comfortably oblivious to the dangers it incurred in my jean pocket. As we bumped along in the dance of Latin rut roads the inevitable group of twelve of so guerillereros melted from the bush as apparitions and waved a Commanding AK at the deliciously colourful bus and we ground to a panicky halt. As is often the case in these situations the mind was clear and the heart calm as, shoving the bag of dope down the

Posted by declan on from dublin 02/04 at 12:28 PM

seat, I dismounted, a gringo among locals. Each of our freedom fighting friends was well attired in quite fetching combats, a compliment I deigned not to pay as staying stum and imagining invisibility seemed the wiser course. To my despair one of our well attired friends dismounted the bus and made a beeline for me the offending bag in one hand, the AK slung casually below. Just as enquiries were being made as to the proprietorship of the innocuous herb another dashing rebel dismounted with what must have been a half a kilo of crystallized cocaine powder in a plastic bag taken from the bolsa of a Colombian woman. This distracting the attention of my inquisitor had the twelve apostles of light huddled together in examining this pernicious product. Of course the nature of the plentiful powder had to be established so the finder dipped what I noted to be quite a delicate soft hand into the product and took a teeny taste immediately affirming the suspicions of all onlookers that it was indeed the white lady. To my surprise the bag then went from revolutionary to revolutionary as each in turn affirmed the nature of the contents, not once but twice. Now much as I was enjoying this the thought clung sickly to the back of my mind that the issue of my fine herb had yet to be resolved and my inquisitor was becoming more how shall we say bravura by the moment. Invisibility occurred to be the best course so scrunching up my 6’4” frame I concentrated on inconsequence when despite my best efforts the inevitable happened and the judge jury and possible executioner recalled our unfinished business and approached the invisible gringo with slightly more of a swagger in his deportment. Holding the baggy up in an accusatory fashion he to my stunned amazement told me with authority that this was “bad for your health” and as I stood there considering the most tactful response I thought to glance meekly to his face and noted an excess of powder about his nasal openings. Without a though I immediately let him know of this and thanking me with the AK swinging recklessly at my midriff he proceeded to clean his happy proboscis. With some further words of warning as to the prejudicial health effects of marijuana, and with no argument from me he decided my life should be spared and after a cursory search of my mochilla which thankfully missed the main bag of grass! We all reboarded and departed to continue down from the forest of clouds to the salsa streets of Popoyan.

Declan Mcgauran 4/02/06
Sorry, I have a tendency to overwrite things at the moment which leads to there being far more language than necessary, but it has been a pleasure drawing up these memories for any who choose to imbibe them and a lesson in that once one starts the memory throws up an extraordinary amount of buried treasures.

Posted by declan on from dublin 02/04 at 12:30 PM

Sorry mz, got carried away. Hope your well, unpost this baloney. regards from dublin, and hi everybody (in the voice of the doctor on the simpsons)

Posted by declan on from dublin 02/04 at 12:32 PM

>>>With some further words of warning as to the prejudicial health effects of marijuana, and with no argument from me he decided my life should be spared and after a cursory search of my mochilla which thankfully missed the main bag of grass!<<<

Truly a crap-yourself moment, Declan! In my more misspent youth, I wasn’t as adventurous as you and MZ appear to have been.

I didn’t steal for the thrill of it. I took a twenty out of my mother’s wallet, when that was real money, and bought Christmas gifts with it. I never shoplifted because I’m completely unable to lie convincingly unless I think I’m right. Funny thing, that. I never once saw underhanded things go right in my life, so I just didn’t do it. Consequences have always been a big part of my world, since I saw my parents as nasty models of consequences.

My family almost moved to Vegas when I was extremely small, because my father was an electronics executive who had developed voice-activated switches. The Vegas casino owners were, you might imagine, veeeery interested in the idea of switches that only a particular voice could activate, for oh say safes, cash drawers, etc.

The whole family came to Vegas with Dad, so he could show off the wares, and so he could show off his glamourous wife and three lovely children. The people he dealt with asked him to come to Vegas and work for them.

My mother, a lady of iron whim and durable ire, Put Her Foot Down and said she would not live in the middle of a tacky desert tourist trap, no no no. My father waved the offered $30K (in 1961, a Chevy Impala cost $3500 loaded) before her trust-fund $24K-havin’ nose, offering the chance to be financially secure forever.

No no no.

The men my father was to work for saw her stubborn side and quietly advised him to obey or else. They, quite rightly, saw the presence of a whistle-blower as they watched my mother act sullen at their lavish entertainments. I’d say my family began a quickening disintegration that day, culminating in the Flight from Egypt my mother took me on in 1966, Cali to Texas.

As she grew old and crazy, my mother’s lucid moments were dedicated to making sure she beat herself up for everything she’d ever done. I learned this story as her advancing craziness led her to mourn the money she’d tossed away with her scrupled, manicured hands.

I was floored...what might have been...and refrained from smacking her a juicy one only because there were nurses who’d’ve noticed the bruise.

Morals are a comfort.

Posted by Mudge on from Austin 02/04 at 01:02 PM

Take comfort in chaos theory mudge, and presume the worst for that path not trodden. a moral justified stance is regally dignified in disdaining the petty material path, which of course is cold comfort in the austere and cold cave of the ascetic. Yes an art i have made of eschewing reason and saying to hell with consequences but it is one i am trying to steer away from. regards to the lone star state

Posted by declan on from dubalin 02/04 at 01:23 PM

Hello Expendables. Been hectic today. We’re going to look at some apartments (both to buy and rent) and we spent half the day throwing out paperwork...four recycle bags worth. Mudge, it was cool to find a letter (remember those?) you wrote me in 1998 about my first book, Sander, etc.

Love the stories, etc. Chris, I’ve known many junkies but never have come up with anything more useful than support. Mike C., I was always a big fan of dirt bombs. Declan, I love “Broke Arse Mountain.” Mudge, it’s never too late to go to Vegas. I think you’d knock ‘em dead five nights a week...and twice on Saturday.

At any “rate,” I’ll check back in later.

Posted by Mickey Z. on from Astoria 02/04 at 01:55 PM

Mudge, from yesterday-- my ‘voyage will be smooth and warm and deliciously moist’-- hm, remarkably apt description of my travels. I just returned from Lithuania, and you guessed it, boy are my arms tired. But for a reason vastly inappropriate to describe here, not from flying back. So anyway, I guess you could describe the weather in Lithuania as being initially, with a gradual, yet ultimately successful, thaw. With plenty of fogginess throughout, as tends to accumulate in these sort of travels.

As for Broke Arse Mountain, etc., check this out:
http://www.mightymcpilgrim.com/films/brokemac/

Posted by James on from Hell's Kitchen 02/04 at 04:57 PM

Evening All,

Thanks for sharing your stories; I’m afraid that as usual I cannot think up a story to share, although there’s sure to be one in my head it’s also sure not to make it to my fingers until another day.

Declan your added typing makes for a full figured read - I enjoyed it.

Mudge - our mothers seem to be of similar ilk in some respects...All piss & vinegar and sure of their righteousness in youth (mine anyway); only to wallow in self pity in later years. It’s sad to witness. Made a family trip to Vegas in my youth too, no plans of riches & success, just a long road trip that had us passing through Nevada. I remember hearing reports of Elvis’ death coming throught the radio on the way into town.

MZ I hope yours and Michele’s home hunting comes to happy fruition soon, the hunting is the worst part of the entire foray.

Speaking of forays...James I’m glad to hear your trip was a pleasant one.

Posted by Amelopsis on from Canada 02/04 at 06:34 PM

Hi Mickey, Mr. Mudge, Amelopsis, James, Michael, Chris, Declan,

Thanks to all of you for your wonderful tales.
It’s good to be back, however briefly.

The only story that comes to mind:
( Warning, long 2-parter ahead )

My friend Walt and I met for coffee one morning in 1969, at the local diner. Walt wanted to know if I had a few days to spare. I said I did. He said he’d just gotten back from Quebec City, where he’d met the latest love of his life, done some of the weirdest, most powerful drugs imaginable, and totaled his incredibly fast 1967, 327, Hurst 4-on-the-floor Camaro. He wanted to go back and try to find this lovely, mysterious, “French Girl.” He only knew her first name but he was certain we could find her.
Soon we were on the road to Canada in his new, old, beat up MG. We spent some time smoking pot and wandering around in Montreal. I really liked the place, but Walt was anxious to head northward toward his new darling. Though it was a bit chilly, we drove much of the way with the top down, stoned out of our minds. We had fun switching from the driver’s seat to the passenger’s seat, while going 70 mph down the Canadian highways. People in the cars we passed, as we climbed over and around each other, struggling to keep the car on the road, stared at us in horror. Some beeped their horns or rolled down the windows to yell at us in French. We yelled back with the only French words we knew: “Yvette Mimieux!, Chevrolet! Yvette Mimieux! Chevrolet!”

At some point, we found that we were unable to locate any English speaking radio stations. We grumbled and argued about alternatives, for a while, then, after a slow tour of the entire dial, agreed upon a French station which offered a mix of rock and French songs. Just before we entered Quebec, we heard an apparent news broadcast. One of the stories used the word “Woodstock,” several times. Walt said: “Hey, Sweet Baby James (James Taylor) lives there. Hope he didn’t OD or something. Everybody OD’s.”

We wandered throughout Quebec for two days. We kept hoping to find someone who was fluent in English, until a young woman told us: “We don’t like to speak Eng - Lish here! We speak French! You are in our house, not yours! You need English? Go home!” Ah… we finally got it… So, we babbled back and forth with folks we didn’t quite understand and who didn’t seem to understand us. We stopped in places Walt recognized, and he’d ask people about this young woman. The locals were very friendly and helpful and, miraculously, someone finally nodded: “Yes, I know this mademoiselle …” And we hopped into the car toward our new destination and our first clue.

When we did, the radio sputtered to life, even before the MG started up, and soon we were again hearing French phrases containing the word “Woodstock.” Now, however, the stations seemed to have correspondents reporting from Woodstock, judging from the changing voices and background noises in the stories.
Between clues, we heard more and more about Woodstock - but always in French. We concluded that James Taylor must be dead, and we mourned. Then, we heard the name “Jimi Hendrix,” and we couldn’t decide if we were wrong, or if BOTH Jimi and James were now dead. We smoked several doobies in their honor, and the search became blurry and much more complicated.
We “slept” in the car, that night, and heard more about Woodstock. Walt added that he thought Dylan lived there, too. We smoked a lot more weed, and wondered if a bunch of rednecks had murdered our greatest musicians in some sort of ritual bloodbath. We were bumbed, and our elusive beauty was still unfound.

Next day, we heard Grace Slick and Arlo Guthrie mentioned, and we were beside ourselves with anxiety…

Posted by joe on from Oregon 02/04 at 06:48 PM

Then, we found her.
I was stunned that such a completely impossible task could have been accomplished. She was beautiful… almost frighteningly beautiful. I understood Walt’s urgency. However, she was mumbling about some guy… Soon, a huge lumberjack sort of guy, good-looking but goofy, somehow, entered the scene and embraced our heroine. I wandered across the street to a café, hoping that coffee was called coffee in this place, too. It was.
Soon, Walt came in wondering if he should challenge the guy to a fight. I suggested that, though Walt was one of the toughest guys in the neighborhood, this guy had to have 80 or 90 pounds on him, and he looked to be in superb condition. Walt grumbled but finally agreed, and we went out to the car to smoke a joint and decide what to do next.

As the sun set, we found ourselves just outside of Plattsburg, New York. We learned that we’d just missed the biggest, most awesome rock concert in the history of the world. Walt dug a pipe out of the back storage bin and we smoked a bowl in honor of our stupidity. Woodstock was less than 2 hours south of where we lived. Quebec City was almost a full day’s drive north. Walt smiled: “Uhhh… we went the wrong way, Joe!”
Years later, I told my first wife, Maria, this story. I’d told the story dozens of times in the intervening years - each time to indicate that we “just missed it.” But, Maria said:
“Joseph, you wouldn’t have gone, anyway. You hate crowds.”

(She was probably right, but I’m not going to tell anyone…)

Posted by joe on from Oregon 02/04 at 06:49 PM

Hello Expendables. I’m not sure what the take-home message of our nesting forays today is...so I will refrain from guessing until I know more. As for James, I wish he’d stop beating around the <i>bush</i>...I mean, he should offer a more penetrating description...uh, what I’m saying is that his story lacks a <i>climax</i>.

Posted by Mickey Z. on from Astoria 02/04 at 06:51 PM

Hey Joe, my story was kind of a long two-parter two. Or a ten-parter, I kinda lost track. It might even be continued tomorrow; will I get frequent flyer miles? Well I’ve really just been doing my best to improve international east-west relations.

Mickey, last night Roddy was glaring at everone here up in that same perch as at my party… you can guess how that was a bit creepy for some. Roddy’s 8 years old-- not sure of the cat/human years conversion, but it still seems kinda wrong.

Posted by James on from Hell's Kitchen 02/04 at 06:57 PM

Mickey - I hope you’ve found the perfect place at an absurdly low, permanently low, price… We’re all sending you a double whammy of good hope, my friend.

About the book choices:
I’ll not have much time, but I’m willing to read most of what you folks might select. Don’t want to read about cruelty and torture and torment of animals, tho… I can’t deal with the images in my mind - images which stay and stay and hurt like hell and leave me breathless with rage and an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. I’m still trying to run away from some of the images of dogs and cats, stranded on rooftops in NOLA, as the filmcrews apparantly continued on their way, leaving the poor beings behind.

I can’t take it. Simple as that.

I can read about all sorts of horrors among humans and make it through, however haltingly, but the critter stuff tears me apart. The most horrific images I’ve ever seen have been of what we’re doing to animals… I don’t want any new ones, as the old ones never leave me.

Posted by joe on from Oregon 02/04 at 06:59 PM

Sorry, Joe, I was typing as you told your story. Excellent stuff (and I hate crowds, too). Being a little younger than you, if I heard similar radio broadcasts, I would’ve been worried for Snoopy’s bird pal.

So, James, Roddy’s a dirty old man?

Seems like Camus might be next for the Expednables, huh? If so, Empress, I promise Mowat will follow.

Posted by Mickey Z. on from Astoria 02/04 at 07:07 PM

Hey all,
this story has a strong confessional ring to it, apologies, it just really upset me for a long time afterwards. This is maybe 5-6 years ago.
My sister lived down on the Isle of Wight, find a map of the UK, in the middle at the bottom, there it is. Just under Southampton. I’d stopped down there for a week, and was on my way home to Jo’s from the Big Town (Newport, depressingly identical to every other homogenised British Midsize Town).

Got on the top deck of a double-decker bus, with about 20-25 other people, fairly busy. Right at the front, an old geezer was on one side, a youngish bloke and his son on the other. Between them and me is the stairwell.
Once the bus pulled out of the station, God knows why, the youngish guy starts having a go at the old bloke. I mean, really bullying, calling him a paedophile, a lonely shit, general mockery of the guys age...I shit you not, he proudly announced himself a Sun reader and a Blairite - “he’s for the common man”, you see. No political pointscoring here - this was illuminating comment under fifty feet of really nasty shit. The older chap was visibly upset, and obviously unsure how to react.

This guy, I don’t know, had psychological problems if not medical ones. The thing is - this went on for ten-fifteen minutes before the driver actually pulled over and threw the guy off the bus (it turned out he was on the wrong one anyway). There were, like I said, 20-odd of us - everyone fuming and visibly upset at this arsewipes behaviour - and no-one, me included, did a thing. There was this really eerie silence.

This bloke did threaten physical violence (I assume this was the reason for the driver removing him), and he fitted every stereotype of a hooligan (shaved head, popping eyes, working class gasp); but y’know, even back then I was 6’ 4”, and there was maybe half a dozen fit young men who in retrospect it seems to me were perfectly willing to beat this arsehole senseless. So fear just doesn’t seem a good reason...I don’t know, I’m aware of the “bystander effect” from my psychology studies, its just a different thing entirely hearing about studies and being inseide one.

Sorry if this seems a dull or pointless story, its just that it motivates me (in a very negative way) not to be so timid in future. Nothing like that has actually happened around me since; I really hope that if it did, I’d be far more sure of myself and able to intervene as really any social person should…

Posted by mew on from not london, thank fuck 02/04 at 08:25 PM

Wonderful tale, Mew. There have been a few such periods of “strange inaction” in my life, as well. I regret them, too.

At the time, I almost felt as if I was watching a movie, or was somehow present in a dream - someone else’s dream.
Oddly, much of my past now seems dreamlike, movie-like, as if I wasn’t so much participating, as playing a part, reading lines, taking direction from something unseen.
Things happen as they happen. Later, the mind enters the fray, and places the possibility of choice, the possibility of “other possibilities” into the original scene. We generally believe the mind’s take on the situation, though I’m not sure the mind is correct…

Oh, hey, Mickey & Amelopsis -
You guyz should read the Whale Story if that’s what you want to do. I can hang back for this one - especially since I’m an “in & outer” for a while, anyway. Sounds like a very powerful piece of work. I’d be interested in reading your take on it, without having to be bombarded with the horror of the great creature’s torment and demise.

Posted by joe on from Oregon 02/04 at 08:59 PM

Hey Mew, I agree with Joe about your tale. It will resonate with each of us because no one is immune to that bystander effect. We might all imagine precisely what we’d have done in your shoes, but it rarely pans out that way. Thanks for sharing.

Joe, you say you’re an in-and-outer. I think that was the point of James’ trip to Lithuania, right?

Posted by Mickey Z. on from Astoria 02/04 at 09:30 PM

Mickey, it sounds like at least I am, if not lots of us here, are what asked if Roddy is. At least Frank hid himself in the bathroom, which was kinda inconvenient a few times.

I"m too jetlagged to read through these longer posts here, but I guess the Rebel sounds good so far. Should we follow it up with some Sartre for balance? A quick run through of Being and Nothingness? I’ve heard that about half of it is awesome and a real page-turner. Or should we settle for Existentialism is Humanism? Right now the back of a cereal box is enough for me, I should get more rest.

Posted by James on from Hell's Kitchen 02/04 at 09:34 PM

MZ, we were just simultyping… yeah, great use of a term from Clockwork Orange. Just when did this cease to be a family blog?

Look, all I’m trying to do is spread the message of the vegan diet to those who need to hear it any way I can. And I did so by spreading, um never mind.

Posted by James on from Hell's Kitchen 02/04 at 09:37 PM

WOW, JOE story, fierce on the height. on my player: sufjan stevens, “greetings from mighigan” check it out. much love from the emerald isle. MZ, you’ll always find the best pad. Mew, the observer also counts in the recounting. night all d

Posted by declan on from dubalin 02/04 at 09:43 PM

Sad news, even at 95--

http://tinyurl.com/c9c6x

What’s the Green Party to do? Maybe they’ll call on Grandpa Z someday?

Posted by James on from Hell's Kitchen 02/04 at 09:53 PM

Yeah, I’m planning to mention Grandpa at the end of tomorrow’s post. Quite a life he lived. We should all strive for such variety, passion, and fire.

“Feeling” sad.

Posted by Mickey Z. on from Astoria 02/04 at 09:59 PM

That is a shame, I used to love the munsters when I was small, and reading a little about him I realise its a bigger loss than that.
And on the same page as grandpa, I notice Betty Friedan has also passed away. Its been a bad week for losing people.

Posted by mew on from not london, thank fuck 02/04 at 10:08 PM

Thanks for the head’s up on Betty Friedan, Mew. I did a chapter on her in 50AR and will send that around as an article now...to help share a little about someone pretty much ignored these days.

Good night, all.

Posted by Mickey Z. on from Astoria 02/04 at 10:30 PM

Chris! - I neglected to say “Hello,” earlier. Sorry, my friend. Good to see you.

G’Night, Mickey Z., and all you splendid expendables. Thanx for these new memories.

Hey, when I lived in NYC, I saw “Grandpa” several times, in Manhattan. He was always surrounded by several people, and he was always discoursing passionately, about something or other.
It was impossible not to like him… He’s been missed, and will be. Thanks for the link, Mew.

Posted by joe on from Oregon 02/04 at 11:01 PM

Hey Joe-- it was me that posted the Al Lewis link, not Mew. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but I need the credit for posting an actual newslink rather than just semi-cryptic references to last night’s exploits…

But glad you like the article. Sure we’ll hear more about him tomorrow. And seriously-- only a matter of time before our host runs for office. I think we all know this. Except maybe him.

Posted by James on from Hell's Kitchen 02/05 at 01:44 AM

James -
I apologize, my friend.
I’ve ALWAYS thought of you as a very “hard-news-link” kind of guy, so I’m not at all surprised.

Welcome home, by the way.

- joe

Posted by joe on from Oregon 02/05 at 03:16 PM

Just a brief visit to this post, and I HAVE to say it again: LOVE those graphics, Mickey!
And hi to all you ‘expendables’.

Now I really have got to do some work ..

Posted by Helga Fremlin on from Daylesford, Australia 02/05 at 06:23 PM