Parrothead Ramblings

ZMan and Miss J went apartment hunting last weekend. It was kind of a surprise to me, but very cool since the two of them have been so great together. I mean, he's talked about it for a long time, I just didn't know they were doing it right now. He came home a couple of nights ago and told me they got the apartment they applied for last week over by the San Marcos, and they are moving in pretty much right away. They'll be living just off the oldest golf course in Arizona, but before you ask, I already did. No resident discounts. Damn! I've never been in any of those apartments, but I've drilled most of them with errant golf balls at one time or another.

Anyway, this will be the first time in close to ten years that TFMCD and I have our home to ourselves.

We've also been cat-sitting for the past several months. ZMan and Miss J are taking her cat, Monkey, with them. At least they better be, or the little bugger will be living out of a shopping cart under the Mill Avenue bridge. We've been keeping Bo's cat for a while as well, but she's promised to take her home in the next week or so as well. As for myself, I can promise this:

The next cat that tries to set foot in my house is going to get drop-kicked clean into my Husky-owning neighbor's yard. To a Husky, cats taste just like chicken.

Need a cat-sitter? Call somebody else.

No more nasty-ass food that smells like a decomposed carp, no more urine so potent you can smell it in Pinal County, no more boxes of cat shit in my house. Done. Finito. Don't get me wrong, they're friendly enough little critters. It's just that neither I nor TFMCD have the time or patience to keep up with them any more.

See, when Scully needs to pinch a loaf, I just open the back door for her. No problemo. Once they solidify a bit, I pick up the jakes with a shovel and catapult them into my non-Husky owning neighbor's pool to amuse myself. OK, OK, not really. I don't throw dog turds into his pool. Just on his lawn. That's not true, either. I explained back in March '05 what really happens to them. Dogs are downright entertaining, aren't they? And if they have a little accident, the cleanup doesn't usually include Haz Mat suits, breathers, ripping out 100 square feet of ruined carpeting and jack hammering the top inch of concrete slab to get rid of the odor.

Stay back, ye little furball demons from the netherworld!
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Ever come home after several hours in a bar, carrying a hula-hoop, a swimming noodle, and a shirt sleeve?

Didn't think so. It was a first for me as well.

Teakwood Wednesdays have become quite the attraction these days, with hula-hooping-beer-pouring servers, boob-flashing women (OK, woman. Just one), short stories and long laughs. But last night, thrown into this mix, was an interesting chap from "the north of England." B.O., Pirate Rick, and I were never quite certain just who we were hanging out with, but we loved the guy. We learned only his first name, but due to the discretion I witnessed on his part, I'll just call him "William," which wasn't it. He may or may not be famous, but he certainly works with some very famous musical artists who shall likewise remain unnamed. He's some sort of producer or songwriter. I guess what sold me on William's authenticity was the fact that he really wasn't into name dropping or talking in any specific terms about the people he works with, who are - trust me on this one - world famous. And he never mentioned them for the sake of mentioning them, but in the context of some funny story in which these guys played a role.

So, we were hanging out with him on the patio when the subject of hula-hooping-beer-pouring servers came up. William had no clue what a hula-hoop was. I guess that's an American thing, I don't know, but he was so intrigued by the idea that he leapt from his chair and struck out on foot for the store up the way so he could buy a hula-hoop. He came back minutes later with a big smile on his face and a swimming noodle in his hand. He seemed genuinely downcast at learning what he bought was decidedly not a hula-hoop. Anyway, I went back to the store myself, secured a hula-hoop, and it was showtime. Teakwooods servers, Miss L and Miss K, absolutely rocked, with virtually no beer spillage whatsoever. William thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

And that explains the hula-hoop and noodle in my hand when I arrived home.

I'm still not sure how I ended up with William's shirt sleeve. He was inside the bar, saying his goodbyes, and when he came out, his left shirt sleeve had been cut off and he was carrying it in his hand. Now, this was a very, very, nice shirt. We're talking expensive. The kind I never buy because I won't part with $200 for one shirt. William handed me the sleeve and headed home.

And that was that.

Whose sleeve do I now own? Hell if I know. But I'm going to hang on to it for a while, just in case.
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Our good phriends the Peanut Queen and King need your positive energy. Hey, it worked great for Wayners, so now let's send some towards central Florida! Stop in, check out her latest blog, and join in the flow. Let's move, people! We've got phriends to help!
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All this grill talk the past few days reminded me of yet another Crime Dog Family Classic grilling story, one heretofore untold. It has everything: humor, danger, suspense, empathy, you name it. And for once, just this once, I got to play the straight man.

It was when Ladybug was no more than two years old. Mateo had her over here on a Sunday, and he decided he wanted to grill up something for them to eat. At that time, I was in a charcoal phase and had a nice little smoker/charcoal grill. It was one of those shaped like a barrel. You take the barrel part off, fill the bottom with charcoal, start it, then put the barrel part back on and wait for your coals. Mateo looked high and low, but could find no charcoal starter in the house. Rather than take the time to go to the store an get some, he decided to use some Coleman fuel he found in the garage.

Now, I don't know if you have a full appreciation of the difference between Coleman fuel and charcoal starter. Coleman fuel is, shall we say, just a wee bit more potent. It's roughly like comparing a Black Cat firecracker to an ounce of C4. That difference apparently escaped Mateo, who dumped it liberally all over the coals and sat the can down on the ground at his feet. With the lid still off. I guess he also was unaware of the little trail of spilt fuel running from the grill back to the can. He stepped back, like guys always do, lit a match, and tossed it in.

Ever see the movie Backdraft? It was shot that afternoon in our backyard. The grill literally erupted in flames so high they were licking at my wooden patio roof. Of course, the little trail of fuel provided a superhighway for the flames right back to the can, which also burst into flames. I took note when I felt the heat two rooms away and saw the glow on the neighbor's house, and ran out to see just what the sheep dip was going on. All I could do for a second was stand there and take it all in with my mouth agape. I honestly thought it entirely possible that the Casa de Crime Dog was about to burn to the ground.

Mateo, seeing the fuel can burst into flames, took on the brave but foolhardy tactic of kicking the can to try and get it away from the flames. Remember that missing lid? The fuel blew out like a geyser, covering a large area, including that area occupied by Mateo's foot, which promptly burst into flames. The flames spread to a pressurized water line that supplied a mister system on the patio, causing the pipe to rupture and send high-pressure water streaming onto the flames. You don't have to be a firefighter to know that ain't good. It just spreads the fire even more.

So here's the scene that greets me: My grill is completely consumed by fire, my patio is ready to ignite, my lawn is ablaze, there's a trail of fuel leading to a can burning at about 1000 degrees, water is spraying and feeding the whole mess, and Mateo is running around, shrieking and stomping his foot on the ground trying to put it out while Ladybug stands in the doorway scared witless and crying because her Dad is on fire. It was Dante's Inferno on crystal meth.

Thankfully, the fuel began to burn out a little and things calmed down somewhat. I grabbed a tarp and threw it over the whole mess, smothering it out without the necessity of dialing 911, thank God.

The barbecue was canceled. TFMCD ran Mateo over to the ER and got his foot fixed. That was nothing new. When Mateo was a teenager, he was pretty much on a first name basis with the ER staff. Cuts, broken bones, concussions, lacerations, you name it. Me? I stayed home and cleaned up the mess. There was a water line to repair, debris to haul out, and topsoil to be replaced. Ladybug got through it with no permanent emotional scarring. At least so far. If she starts plucking the arms and eyes out of her Barbie dolls, we might still have to get her some counseling.

But we got a great story out of the deal, dontcha think?
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By now, you already know about Crime Dog's Great Grilling Adventure this past weekend. The story kind of carries over......

You see, I went down to Lowe's, picked out my grill, paid the lady and promptly found it was so big it wouldn't even think about riding home in the trunk of my car. We have a Blazer, but some cursory measurements proved immediately that it wouldn't fit in that thing, either. So I called my buddy B.O., who has a Big Black Truck to rival Pirate Rick's Big Red Truck. You open the door, and a rope ladder rolls put. But alas, B.O. was not home. I didn't really want to bother anybody, so I just ran down to U-Haul and rented a pickup. Piece of cake. $19.95 plus mileage, which must be something like $10 per mile. "Just return it like you got it," Behind-The-Counter-Guy says, "With a half tank of gas." So I run over, get my grill, head home, download it, and start cooking steaks. Later, I went out and picked up some patio furniture, just to get my money's worth.

So this morning, I put five gallons of gas in it and took it back to U-Haul. Behind-The-Counter-Guy sends New Girl out to inspect the truck, and she comes back several minutes later.

"It doesn't have half a tank of gas, and I can't read the mileage."

Behind-The-Counter-Guy asks why.

"Dunno. All it says is DOOR AJAR."

OK, I'm no expert. I admit that. But I'm smart enough to know that if you close the freakin' door, then the DOOR AJAR light tends to go away. And that's what Behind-The-Counter-Guy told New Girl. She dutifully goes back out, closes the door, writes down the mileage, and comes back in with a big "mission accomplished" smile.

Behind-The-Counter-Guy clicks on the computer, then asks, "You sure about the mileage?"

"Yep," says New Girl, "Absolutely!"

"So, this guy drove 17,000 miles?"

Once again, I'm no expert. But I can do math in my head, and that comes out to about 800 miles per hour for the time I had it, provided I drove non-stop around the clock. Apparently, I very nearly managed to circumnavigate the planet at our latitude. Didn't see much at that speed, though.

I look over at the inspection form, which has "19325" entered as the mileage.

Yet again, I'm no expert. But I tell Behind-The-Counter-Guy, "You know, if you put a decimal point between the 2 and the 5, it makes a lot more sense."

He does so. A whole thirty-two miles I drove the thing. So now, we're just left with the issue of gasoline. Behind-The-Counter-Guy laments he might have to charge me for gasoline, since it's not at the half tank mark. I pull out the receipt I just got from the gas station, after putting five gallons in it, not ten minutes before.

Still again, I'm no expert. But I tell Behind-The-Counter-Guy, "You know, if I only drove it 32 miles, and put five gallons of gas in it, and it's still not up to the half tank mark, it was either low on gas when I got it, or it only gets like 5MPG in city driving."

He wrote it off. The Peter Principle is alive and well. Behind-The-Counter-Guy and New Girl have reached the zenith of their careers.
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I got a new gas grill this weekend. It's a real beauty - stainless steel, storage space, a large cooking surface, side burner. Yeah, I know: Big deal, Crime Dog. I admit it. The fact that I got a new gas grill is actually a bit boring. The entertaining part is why I got a new gas grill.

We decided to cook up some nice rib eye steaks for Sunday dinner and hang out around Crime Dog's Margaritaville West Tiki Bar and Cement Pond. Nothing like a few cold beers, cooked animals, and bullshit by the ton. Called up Wayners and Janners, and they were more than up for it. In fact, they have this marinade recipe that make will you jump up and slap the CEO of Heinz. So, I went out Sunday morning to prepare my grill for the feast. Hmmmm, looked a bit dirty and greasy. It needed a little cleaning before slapping the meat to it. So it was off to the garage to fetch my spray-on degreaser. There it was, right where I left it, amongst all the other car cleaning and servicing paraphernalia. Now, this stuff is great. You get the grill nice and hot, shut it down, spray degreaser all over it, and hose it off. It sparkles like the day you adopted it and brought it home in your loving arms.

So I heated it up for a minute, turned it back off, and went to spraying. I coated it good, too - the top, sides, legs, dials, a little more on the top, an extra-heavy dollop to the front and the handle, still some more on the top and......what the hell's wrong with this stuff? It's supposed to start loosening the grease and dirt, but instead, it's looking nasty, smells like shit, and is bubbling up in spots. No worries. It'll get the job done. I probably just need more. More is better. Let's go over it twice. About midway through the second dose, it's looking and smelling even funkier. So, I reached over and touched it. My finger stuck. What the.....? Confused, I quickly peeled my semi-stuck finger from the searing metal before it could burn through the first skin layer. I stared at my grill in total confusion. It now looked very much like a glazed donut in the shape of a grill. I turned over the can of degreaser to get a closer look at the label. It read:

3M Super 77 Spray Adhesive

I'd just completely coated my grill with industrial-strength airplane glue. Not just any airplane glue, but the kind that can attach a bumper to an Escalade and comes in a can remarkably similar to my degreaser. I tested the knobs. No good. Frozen into place. The side burner? Permanently sealed shut. The whole thing is a giant, gooey, cluster fuck. One that cost me $300 to overcome. That would be the going price at Lowe's for a Perfect Flame Superior Stainless Steel Gas Grille with Side Burner and Storage.

I wanted to bury this whole thing with a shovel, then bury the shovel. But that was impossible with Wayners coming over for steaks at about the time I got back with the new grill. The old grill was still sitting there, like a silent indictment of Crime Dog malfeasance. So instead, I'm playing the mea culpa card in hopes of obtaining mercy. Unlikely. I'm guessing I'll be joke fodder all the way through Phins To The West.

Anybody want to buy a used gas grill? Cheap?
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I hope she's registered for Phins To The West, so she can get her ice-cold Corona, delivered poolside by The Crime Dog. That little gem I'm holding is in fact Jimmy's playlist from the Tuesday show here in Phoenix, peeled from the floor next to his mike stand (That's my story and I'm sticking to it) by a friend of Joe E, who just happened to have stage access right after the show.

The friend gave it to Joe E, who is decidedly not a Parrothead, and he passed it on to me.

And it's suitable for framing.
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Just another day in Paradise, which in this case is Crime Dog's Margaritaville West Tiki Bar And Cement Pond. But just what the hell is that he's holding up for all the world to see? I have two ice cold Coronas served poolside at Phins To The West to the first person to answer correctly! Not so fast, Wayners! You're ineligible.
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Two guys are walking in the woods when they come across a clearing with a big hole in the middle. First guy tosses in a rock, but they never hear it hit bottom. "Man, that's a deep hole!" he says. Second guy throws in an even bigger rock. Still nothing. "Geez," he says, "that hole must go all the way the China!" So the two guys grab a big log, drag it to the edge, and drop it in. They wait and wait, but hear nothing. Suddenly, The Goat runs out of the woods at breakneck speed, streaks buy them, and leaps headlong into the hole. The two guys are astonished and just stand there for a few minutes, staring into the hole. After a while, an old farmer comes out of the woods and asks, "Have you guys seen The Goat?" One of them says, "It's the damndest thing I've ever seen, but The Goat just ran out of the woods and jumped right into this hole!
Farmer says, "Nope. Couldn't have been The Goat. I had him chained to a big log."
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Lazy Saturday.......

Guy walks into a bar with a set of jumper cables and asks for a beer. The bartender says, "Fine. I'll serve you a drink. But don't start anything."

Mushroom walks into a bar and asks for a beer. Bartender says, "We don't serve mushrooms in here." The Mushroom says, "Why not? I'm a fun guy."

Yeah. I know. Save the criticism.
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What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs who can play a banjo, drums, and harmonica all at once?

"Stump The Band"
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In a great international moment, President Bush welcomed Chinese President Hu Jintao the the White House yesterday. It seems to have gone off well, but I'd love to see a transcript of the conversations between Mr. Bush and his handlers leading up to the visit:

Scene: The Oval Office. The President is busy in front of his computer. There's a knock at the door.

"Mr. President?"

Just a second there, Condy. One more level, and I get the high score on "Chicken Invaders".

"I understand, Mr. President. But Hu is here to see you."

You tell me. You're the one who knocked on my door.

"No, sir. Hu is actually in the waiting room for you."

Hell if I know. Ask them Secret Service fellers.

"You don't understand, sir. Hu has been waiting for an hour."

Awright. I give up, Condy. Who's been waitin' for an hour?

"Exactly. Shall I show him in?"

Show who in?

"Yes, sir."

Dadgum it Condy! Talk some sense, why dontcha?

"Mr. President, I'm trying to tell you Hu is waiting for you."

Then just tell me, who is waiting for me?

"That's right."

WHAT'S right?!?

"OK, let's try it this way. sir: Knock, knock."

Who's there?

"Hu."

That's what I said.

"No sir. Hu's here."

Sheesh, Condy. This is yore game, not mine.

"I give up...."

Good! I win!
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Finalists in the Miss Afghanistan Pageant. Any questions?

I just read in the paper that the people of Austria are the most sexually satisfied folks on the planet. We 'Mericans are up there in the polls, along with Spain, Canada, and Belgium, but we all lag behind those feisty Austrians. Did you know that in the German language, citizens of Vienna are "Wieners"? I guess now we know why.......

Frankly, I'm surprised. What happened to the historically romantic French? Hell, they even named tongue wrestling after themselves. It probably has something to do with armpit hair and BO. Or perhaps when a bunch of kids from the University of Chicago showed up to do the poll, the French surrendered to them.

And then there's the Italians. The US ranked higher in sexual satisfaction than our Italian friends? Hell, when I was over there in 1979, you could watch soft-core porn on broadcast TV. You'd think they have their shit together when it comes to gettin' their freak on. Maybe the problem is that they never seem to shut up long enough to get laid.

Another one that really surprised me for not being ranked highly is Australia. I mean, think about it......the whole idea of going "down under" all the time......

Oh, sorry. Where was I? Got lost for a minute there. Oh, yeah.

This poll says the lowest ranked nation in sexual satsfaction is Japan. Big freakin' surprise, huh? They take great pride in their ability to work 18 hours a day every day, but when do they have the time and energy to get jiggy? Take a day off for a change, get your ass out of the Pachinko Parlor, and get horizontal for a while, Japan. Make the monster with two backs. You might just like it.

Notably missing from the poll results were nations like Iran and Afghanistan. That's probably because the poll was conducted mostly by phone. Had they conducted it by shouting from a minaret, they might have gotten better results. I hear they're headed in the right direction. Some women over there are actually doing full-facial nudity now, but usually only in private gatherings. Baby steps, but progress, nonetheless. Poll findings suggest that sexual satisfaction is highest in nations where men and women are considered equals. It's not so high in places where speaking in public or showing your calf could get you stoned. No, I mean really, really stoned.

OK, America, let this be your call to action! We can catch the Austrians if we just put forth the effort! Let's declare Friday "Get Laid In America Day"! Step it up, get those libidos into high gear! Or, for even better results, when someone calls you to conduct a sexual satisfaction poll, just do what you always do:

Lie!
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Wayners in action and back in form. No spleen = no worry!

Well, today is that day when Parrotheads feel just the least little bit blue. The party was fantastic, the crowd was electric, and the show was simply off the hook. But today it's back to reality and to the grind of earning a living. Our ships all set sail away from the Island of Margaritaville about 11:00PM last night, and we're left to wonder when - or even if - we'll sail there again. Our ships might be listing a bit today, but we'll stay on course. The great thing about being a member of a Parrothead Club is you learn quickly that the good times and escapism have less to do with Jimmy Buffett than with good Parrothead phriends. And we had them in abundance last night!

The pre-concert party was everything we hoped and more! A couple of members showed up with RVs, so restroom hikes and long lines were someone else's problem. That alone was worth its weight in gold - trust me on that. The Club's sound system was soon up and running, which saved battery power for almost everyone, because our tunes could be heard in Glendale. I say "almost" everyone, because Cultural Infidel still managed to run his battery down somehow. No worries. I had a jumper box available for just such a contingency. Dead battery response is in yet another chapter of the Crime Dog Parrothead Concert Preparation Handbook (now available for 1/2 price at Barnes and Noble).


TFMCD under attack from a land shark. Didn't you see him circling, honey?

The Top Parking Lot highlights:

A guy next to Cheap Bastard had a Margarita blender with a gas engine. It looked like he made it from a roto tiller or something. It even had handlebars, and one of the grips was the accelerator, just like a motorcycle. I thought that was just too cool until......

Another guy rolls up on a Segway, decorated like a Tiki Bar and towing a generator. He had some kind of super-industrial high performance turbocharged blender on the front of that thing that looked like it could turn rocks into sand. Mateo had a bucket of Margaritas on the rocks that he dumped in there, and it turned it into frozen Margaritas in about a millisecond.

Not far from us was a shot luge, but it was just a one tracker. Don't these guys know a luge is a race? You can't race against yourself.

The Fetching Mrs. Crime Dog, Janners, The Jello Shot Queen, and I all sang a decidedly off-key, off beat rendition of Margaritaville for News Channel 3. The nice news lady asked me just what the hell this insanity was all about, and I spoke with great profundity about escapism and states of mind. Whether it made the tube, I haven't got a clue.

There was an anorexic looking young woman who was....how can I put this tactfully.....oh well, screw tact. This woman's tits looked like mosquito bites, and her top consisted of band-aids that covered only about 3/4ths of each nipple. Interesting perhaps, but far from titillating.

I met a Utah couple ("Utanians", they call themselves. It rhymes with Ukrainians") down for the show. We chatted for while until it dawned on us that we both work for the same large corporation. We swore one another to secrecy, since we were both "at work" at the time.

At one point, a whirlwind hit a couple of canopies nearby and shot them both, fully intact, about 50' into the air. It was an awesome sight, a sort of "Canopies Gone Wild" show that was well worth the price of admission. They swirled around each other up there and headed east about 200' or so, when the larger of the two homed in on the top of Mister Lizard's Tahoe and nailed it. The smaller one hit a Honda about another 50' down, thus winning the distance competition. The larger one picked up a few style points, because it just looked so cool to see 100 square feet of canopy, legs and all, sailing through the sky like that. All it needed was Dorothy and Toto hanging on for dear life to complete the image.

The show was a little different than what we've seen in the past, lacking the lavish production and big horn section. It's almost as though Jimmy is headed back to his roots. Remember when Saxophone ("If I had a saxophone....") didn't actually have a saxophone in it? He might be headed back there to some extent, and being a 30-year Parrothead, that idea has great appeal to me. When Jimmy opened with Peanut Butter Conspiracy, I knew it was going to be my kind of show. Now if we could just get a reunion show together with Marvin Gardens, Al Vacado, Kitty Litter, and Kay Pasa, the ship will have sailed full circle.

The Whole Gang. What could be better? Miss J, Z-Man, Wayners, Janners, Rocky, Steve-O, The Crime Dog, The Fetching Mrs. Crime Dog, Bo, and Mateo. Just Wait Till Phins.

And speaking again of ships, I hope you've set a course for Phins To The West. It takes a little off the edge off the first-day-post-concert blues. See you there!

P.S. To the people who scattered trash everywhere: You're assholes. If I knew where your worthless asses lived, I'd have picked it all up for you and dropped it off in your front yard so you could dispose of it properly. Dickwads.
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We're now down to less than one day, a mere 24 hours until the pre-concert party celebration begins, capped off by Jimmy's "Party At The End Of The World" concert tomorrow night! Time to rest up, hydrate, polish your car-top shark fins, dust off the ol' grass skirt and coconut bra, iron out the Conch Republic or Margaritaville flags and prepare to party. And REMEMBER: It's a marathon, not a sprint.

If you've ever witnessed the fun and debauchery that is a Buffett concert, you probably noticed that the intermission is often marked by "Parrotvision" parking lot videos. That is, if you weren't still standing in line to take a leak. Everybody wants to be on Parrotvision, so we all look for ourselves on the big screen until, alas, we realize the video was probably filmed weeks before in someone else's parking lot. A number of times, I've attended concerts in different cities during the same tour. Invariably, I've seen the exact same Parrotvision videos in both cities.

Could this be our moment? Is this the year everybody else across the nation has to watch us Phoenix Pholks partying on Parrotvision? We are the first stop on the tour, after all, so they either video our happy asses or they just don't do Parrotvision during our intermission. That would just be, well......wrong!

So, anybody sees the Parrotvision camera crew, call the rest of us and we'll hustle on over and horn in.

By the way, if you want to avoid those ridiculously long restroom lines, just take a page from the Crime Dog Parrothead Concert Preparation Handbook (1988, Random House, $12.95, available in all fine bookstores). Get hammered before 7:30, then stop drinking completely and coast through the show. There's a fine line in the intoxication process, however, that you must be careful to avoid crossing. It's that point of "critical mass" we all have in us that so greatly effects the decision-making function of the brain that you (a) Have no clue what time it is and (b) Don't give a shit what time it is, and (c) Scream "BEER ME" as soon as you drain the last drop from the previous drink.

Here's the correct formula for the average body mass adult male to make it from 3:00PM to show's end at 11:00PM:

Beer, beer, water (or soda), beer, water, beer, water, beer, water, beer. By now, you should have a little bit of a buzz. It's about 6:00. Hit one more water, then eat a cheeseburger, large, with a big kosher pickle and french-fried potato. Chase that with a beer, water, then beer again. Now it's approaching 7:00PM. One hour to go. You're buzzed, but it'll be gone by showtime. More beer puts you in the restroom line before the opening number is over. Time for a shot of tequila. Then, water, shot, water, shot. Don't worry, your body's dehydration will absorb the water, and the tequila should float you to about the encore. It's 7:30PM. Head on into the show. Voila! You can thank me tomorrow.
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I saw in the paper today that Neil Young has a new album coming out, which he describes as a "metal folk protest." In it, he apparently calls George Bush a liar and calls for his impeachment. Not exactly new ground you're breaking here, Neil. Good luck with that.

I was around for some of the great Dylan, Baez, Ochs, and Guthrie folk protests. Those were some cool times. It seemed then, in my youth, that the protests were edgy, cool, and motivated only by the sincere beliefs of those wonderful musicians. It seems now in the 21st Century that politics motivates everything, regardless of which side you are on. Does it seem that way because it's true, or because I have become more cynical as I put the half-century mark astern? I don't really know.

I'm not a big fan of George Bush. The only reason he got my vote in 2004 was because John Kerry was the best the Democrats could muster up, and he was a walking, talking disaster. But I find it hard to believe that anyone with any intellectual honesty whatsoever could really, truly believe that Bush deserves impeachment. Think he's a lousy excuse for a president? Fine. I got no problem with that. So how about grabbing a big heaping bowl of shut the fuck up about impeachment, and just wait a couple of years? He'll be gone for good. I think a lot of these cats must still be hashed out about the 2000 election. Get over it already, will you?

Now, I'm a big fan of Neil Young, going all the way back to my high-school days with Buffalo Springfield and CSN&Y, For What It's Worth and Deja Vu. What a world-class musical talent!

But here's the truth of the current matter: On Friday, I had an air conditioner repairman over to do some repairs to my cooling system, and later a a plumber to do some other work. Either or both of those guys could have serious political leanings and opinions to express, but they didn't bother me with them. Their job was to repair something, and that's what they were being paid for. Why should I give any more of a shit about what some entertainer thinks than what my plumber or A/C repairman thinks? I just want to be entertained. It's one thing to sing from the heart about societal woes, as in Rockin In The Free World, but quite another to sling political attacks when most of us would rather eat glass than hear it again.

Hit me up again some time when you have something cool, like Heart of Gold. This time around, I'll keep my money in my pocket.
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WOW!

What a beautiful day in The Valley of The Sun! These are the types of days that cause people to pack up and leave wherever they reside to make their home in central Arizona. A little piece of paradise.

I spent most of the day landscaping the pool area, in between beers and quick dips in the pool. When I say quick, I mean quick. The water temperature has just reached the outer edges of tolerable temperature. It went pretty quickly from "Freeze The Balls Off A Brass Monkey" to "Colder Than A Witch's Tit In A Brass Bra," making it all the way up to "Welldigger's Ass," where it stayed for a couple of weeks. Right now, it's hovering right around "Maximum Shrinkage," but it ain't too bad after the fourth beer.

Of course, Ladybug had to come over this afternoon and shame me by leaping into the pool and staying there for several minutes before surrendering. I pulled the thermometer right after she got out, and it was sitting on about 75, which is that grey area between "Maximum Shrinkage" and "Diamond Cutter Nipples" range.

Give it a few weeks, it'll be pool party time. Hmmmmm.....anybody up for a Pre-Phins Warmup Party?
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OK, for those of you give a rat's ass about it, here's the answers to the Wednesday quiz. Only the first four received correct answers, you slackers!

Who can eat up her weight in crabmeat?
My Lovely Lady.

All you'll do is sing the blues, but where?
Dallas.

Where were all the pennants flying on J.D. Buffet’s first birthday?
Havana Harbor. (False Echoes)

What flowed around Jimmy’s Grandmother's Sunday table?
Happiness and smiles. (Creola)

He'd rather be home rolling with you than doing what?
Watching Tom Snyder on TV. (Big Rig)

You might have a heart of stone, but where's a good place to melt it?
On a Slow Boat To China.

Where are your pretty eyes that he's dreaming of?
They’re up in South Carolina. (Honey Do)

Who is the best friend of our planet's closest neighbor?
Magnus. Our planet's closest neighbor? Mr. Moon! (Chanson Pour Les Petits Enfants)

When it comes to excuses, he's royalty. But whom couldn’t he trick?
Sister Mary Mojo. (That’s My Story)

What won't happen if he's out in the very center of the storm?
The phone won’t ring. (If The Phone Doesn’t Ring, It’s Me)
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Thanks to the efforts of our Cheesehead phriend, Mrs. Robinson, The Fetching Mrs. Crime Dog and I, along with Wayners, Janners, and a smattering of club members were treated yesterday evening to a special screening of "Hoot," a new film produced by Jimmy Buffet and based upon the Carl Hiaasen novel of the same name. There were a few theater glitches - it was a little hot in there, and the movie crapped out a couple of times - but it was a great value at a cost of.....nothing!

We first went in and got some seats, then TFMCD and I went out for some refreshments. When we got back to the theater door, there was a woman and a very large man with a badge of some sort there. The woman asked if I had a cell phone. I told her it was turned off and just walked on through. TFMCD, however, must have been on a "watch list," because she got shaken down and had to open her purse for inspection. That's a first in my experience for a movie, but I suppose they were trying to avoid someone filming and selling it. I never really though of TFMCD as "suspicious looking," I have to admit. Of course, that was our second trip into the theater. We could have hauled in a shoulder-mount video camera and a couple of boom mikes the first time.

The movie was good - terrific family entertainment with a message - but the real fun was afterwards, as we were treated first to a question and answer session with the movie's producers, Carl Hiaasen, and two of the actors, and then later to a short live concert. Jimmy, Mac, and Ralph performed Good Guys Win (the movie theme), Volcano, and Margaritaville, all acoustically. Very cool!

Now, if anyone sees TFMCD on the post office wall or maybe America's Most Wanted, can you give us a heads up?
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What do you get when you mix the finest bourbon in Kentucky with mint from Morocco and sugar from the South Pacific, pour it over ice from the Arctic, and serve the concoction in a gold plated cup with a silver straw?

You get a $1,000 mint julep at this year's Kentucky Derby. That's not a typo. It's $1,000. A "one" with three "zeroes." They're going to serve them to the first fifty willing customers. I'm sure they'll find them, even though the $1,000 they'll pay for one julep could probably buy the entire Moroccan mint farm. I hope that whoever buys one gets bumped from behind just as he's taking a sip. I'd love to see what $300 or so worth of cocktail looks like running down the front of some rich idiot's shirt.

A couple of people are in jail in Ohio today for extorting cash from an Amish widower who solicited a prositute. They threatened to put pictures of him cavorting with said lady of the evening on the Internet, and he paid up. Now, that brings to mind a couple of things....First, how does an Amish guy solicit a prostitute? It's not exactly normal to cruise the strip in a horse-drawn buggy wearing a black suit and one of those big hats, is it? You'd think people would notice. And secondly, why would he give a flying cow cookie whether his picture showed up on the Internet? It's not like his family and friends spend a lot of time surfing for porn in between barn raising and bringing in the sheaves. Hell, they don't even have electricity, do they? The extorter can't exactly pick up the phone and call the guy to demand.....I don't know, what?

OK, Stoltzfus, if you don't want these pictures to end up nailed to Fisher's barn wall for everybody to see, you'd better put four unmarked chickens into a plain brown wrapper, and leave them by the village well at midnight. And don't even THINK about notifying the English policemen.

I wonder which is the bigger sin among the Amish, to have your picture taken or to get a badly-needed hummer from a snuff queen? Put 'em both together, and the poor guy will probably have to move to Utah.
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Well, we're inside one week till Bubba hits town once again for the "Party At The End of the World Tour." I'll be hitting the parking lot at Cricket Pavilion around 3:00PM next Tuesday with around 200 of my best friends, tryin' to do the ol' man proud. How 'bout that? I made a song reference, and I wasn't even trying! Let's see how you do with some more. Some of these are pretty tough, but can you name that tune?

By the way - the questions are specifically designed to make it difficult to Google them, but you can try. Good luck!

Who can eat up her weight in crab meat?

All you'll do is sing the blues, but where?

Where were all the pennants flying on J.D. Buffet’s first birthday?

What flowed around Jimmy’s Grandmother's Sunday table?

He'd rather be home rolling with you than doing what?

You might have a heart of stone, but where's a good place to melt it?

Where are your pretty eyes that he's dreamin' of?

Who is the best friend of our planet's closest neighbor?

When it comes to excuses, he's royalty. But whom couldn’t he trick?

What won't happen if he's out in the very center of the storm?
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You ever read something, then you're not sure you read what you just read? So you go back, and read it a second time, and maybe even a third time, just to make sure you're not hallucinating, or maybe having a little flashback from the 70's. That happened to me with an article I read in the bird cage liner yesterday.

It seems there is actually a world championship competition for "Rock, Paper, Scissors." There's even a federation, "The World Rock Paper Scissors Society (WPRSS)."

Be still my heart.

I used to believe the last hope for professional stardom for fat old guys was bowling, golf, or maybe pitching in Major League Baseball. Now I might just have a shot at breaking in as the next big WPRSS phenom. Of course, first I need to make my mark in the world-class ranks by winning the USARPS championship in Las Vegas. The purse there is $50,000, and the tournament is - believe it or not - sponsored by Bud Light. I wonder when we'll see the first Bud Light - Official Sponsors of the United States Rock Paper Scissors Tournament commercials. They probably wouldn't reach their target audience if they showed them during football or baseball games, so where can they put those spots? The first place that comes to mind for me is maybe a televised Spelling Bee Championship. Some ad executive had to get fired over this.

This whole competitive rock, scissors, paper thing could really catch on. Maybe next we can form some leagues to play that game where you each alternatively grab a bat handle to see whose fist catches the end. Then we can move on to "odd-even" tournaments, maybe the first round just with fingers, then the next with golf tees. Better yet, how about that one where you just yank a handful of hair from your opponent's leg, and he has to guess odd or even? Then throw in a grueling coin-toss competition, and we got ourselves a regular "Dork Olympics."

Guess I'd better get busy with my training regimen. Maybe some weights, run a little bit, get in some cardio. I don't want to wear down in the final rounds, after all. I could lose concentration for just a split second, throw out paper when I meant rock, and allow some guy to take me deep with scissors. Mental errors like that can get a guy banished to the minor leagues. I could end up playing professional Dungeons and Dragons or Monopoly until retirement.

To help get in fighting shape for the big event, I've entered a team in the "International Pin the Tail On the Donkey Tournament" this weekend at Glendale Arena. I need a teammate. Any volunteers?
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Oh yeah, and one other thing. To the asswipes who created this conspiratorial bullshit:

You're an idiot. Find something else to do with your time. Go back to your video games, or back to looking up Internet porn in your Mom's basement.

My good friend DCBlues had the misfortune to be in Washington on business with the military that day. He had the good fortune to be across the street from the Pentagon rather than inside it. He and his associates watched helplessly as Flight 77 flew right into the bulding before their eyes. Proof enough for me. I'm guessing a fully loaded 757 with a bazillion gallons of fuel on board flying into the world's largest office building at a couple hundred miles per hour would pretty much vaporize the aircraft.

Oh well, conspiracy theorists are just part of the mix, I suppose. Part of what makes us so colorful. I used to give some credence to the JFK multiple assassin theory. You know, the one where Oswald could not have made the shots with such accuracy with that weapon from that distance, blah blah yada yada. Then I actually visited Dealey Plaza and the Texas School Book Depository a few years back, and looked out that window up there. Hell, I could have made that shot with a slingshot, or maybe even a spud gun. Piece of cake.

So, let's just categorize this one in the "entertainment" category, shall we?
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All I've heard about the past few days from the TV and radio talking heads is this stupid march in downtown Phoenix. They're saying there will be something like 100,000 people down there, protesting immigration policies. I've got work to do in that area that I'm postponing until tomorrow out of concern I'll get stuck in traffic all day. It's hard enough navigating down there when there aren't 100,000 airheads chanting and flying Mexican flags.

ZMan asked me this morning why INS doesn't just go down there with a bunch of buses and haul all their illegal asses back across the border. Not a bad idea, but they would probably just be back tomorrow anyway.

I'm all for dissent and protest. Hell, that's how we got where we are in the good ol' US of A, right? It's called "free speech," baby, and we 'Mericans love it. Our citizens have even fought and died for it. But if you aren't a citizen of this here beloved country of ours, and you want to protest our laws, and fly your flag above our own, then you also have the absolute right to just shut the fuck up and get your ass back across the border before somebody bitch-slaps you back into reality.

And no, I don't want to make illegal entry a felony, and I think it's stupid to try to build a wall from Tijuana to Matamoros. I don't think we need any new legislation, I just think we need to enforce the laws we already have. How about we bring our troops home, let those crazy bastards in the middle east keep killing each other instead of us, and put our troops on our own border for a change? Let's drill our own oil for a while and take a chance on pissing off a few reindeer or moose or whatever the hell it is up there that's got the tree-huggers in an uproar. Let's buy some oil from Canada and tell that jerk down in Venezuela to put his where the sun don't shine. Build a few more nuke plants, and cut back the demand even more. Hell, the way I understand it, more people have died in Ted Kennedy's car then in every nuclear accident in this country's history combined.

Oh well, what do I know? Maybe I'm just a simple ol' Crime Dog, but that seems to make sense to me.
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Just in case you've ever wondered: This is what a freakin' emu looks like just before it tries to emasculate you with a sucker punch to the groin through a chain link fence. Found out the hard way at easily the most bizarre vehicle theft scene I've ever visited. All I wanted was a cute photo.
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Working from home is great, but it does often have a downside. I have a neighbor whose Yorky easily qualifies for consideration in the "Most Annoying Dog In Maricopa County" competition. This little furbag incessantly howls and barks All. Day. Long. when he's home alone. It's the kind of "plaintive wail" attributed to Nicole Brown Simpson's Akita just after his mistress was turned into a human Pez dispenser by....well....somebody. I had no idea so much volume could come out of a dog that can't weigh three pounds soaking wet. He's inside a well-insulated home across the cul-de-sac, but sounds like he's right underneath my open window.

I know I could easily pick the little bastard off with my Ruger 10/22, open sights and all, at this distance when he sticks his face up in the window to get a bit better projection. One shot, instantly brain dead. But now, that wouldn't be neighborly, would it? I'll just drown him out with a little Radio Margaritaville. That's the ticket.
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People who know what business I'm in ask me all the time, "Hey, Crime Dog, how do I keep my car from getting stolen by some asshole?" There just ain't a simple answer to that question. Oh, you'll get all sorts of advice about alarms, kill switches, immobilizers, Clubs, brake locks, Lojacks, GPS systems, transponder systems, yada yada yada. There's no end to folks who are willing to separate you from your cash for whatever the latest, trendiest, coolest anti-theft device happens to be. But here's a little piece of unwaivering, undeniable, universal truth for you:

If some shit heel wants your vehicle badly enough, he'll get it.

Period.

So, using deductive reasoning, one can conclude that the most effective method of preventing theft is really quite simple: Own a car so repulsive that no one will steal it.

Yeah, I know, you love those big, beautiful, gas guzzlin' full size Tahoes, Suburbans, Silverados and F250s. King of the road, baby! But here's another bit of ugly truth for you: Ford and GM make a weak-ass lock system, easily defeated in seconds. That's why by the time you wake up in the morning, they've already crossed the border six times hauling in dope and illegals, and dumped what's left of your pretty truck out on the desert south of Gila Bend.

So, Crime Dog, what do I do?

Trade the damn thing for a Volvo, or a Plymouth Sundance, or some rolling turd of an old beater. Only a complete idiot would risk a felony arrest for that shit, and we usually end up catching the complete idiots.

But Crime Dog! I love my Escalade! Can't I use a Club, or maybe an alarm?

Sure. These might just prevent a thief from taking your vehicle from the thief who took it from you. Want a real ant-theft device? Here's what you do:

Take a shit on the back seat. See, car thieves have this unwritten rule that says "never steal a car with a pile of steaming turds in it." You'll have plenty of time to get used to the smell, but they won't bother. It's simple, and it works. Better yet, it's free.

Of course, layered protection is even safer. Two anti-theft systems are always better than just one. For the added cost of a can of spray paint, you can assure yourself that your car will always be right where you left it. Simply spray paint a catchy phrase on the sides and hood of your car. Maybe something like "I dig anal sex" or "Pedophile and Proud." One of the most effective is "Cops are nazi assholes. This means YOU!" Now, THAT one is guaranteed!

Litigation being what it is today, it's tough to get away with rigging a loaded shotgun to blast anybody who opens the door, or wiring your car up to the 220 volt outlet by your clothes dryer. Don't get me wrong - those work really well. But then you have to dispose of the body and clean off your driveway, which can become a real pain in the ass and bite into your beer drinking time.

There IS a system that can detect and interdict thieves, effectively stop them, and even return your vehicle to you. It's not cheap by any stretch of the imagination, but it's worth every penny to not have to take a shit in your car. You'll find it here, and I wish you luck.
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A couple weeks ago I was soaking up some cold suds with a buddy at my favorite local watering hole: Teakwoods in Gilbert. Our server, a lovely young woman we've known for several years, happened to mention in the course of normal conversation (normal Parrothead-type conversation, that is) that she could simultaneously hula-hoop and pour a cold beer from a pitcher without spilling a drop. Yet another good example of one's mouth writing checks that one's ass cannot cash. You shouldn't say shit like that in the presence of the Crime Dog.

I showed up there last night with a hula hoop. I hid it under the table until she brought our pitcher, then whipped it out on her. She turned redder'n a preacher in a whorehouse and declined, saying she needs some practice before attempting such a superhuman feat. She's a wonderful young lady and a helluva server, so we didn't hold her to her claim. But she ultimately agreed to perform the feat next Wednesday, when she isn't working.

Cool with me! So, if you happen to be in the vicinity of Teakwood's at Williams Field Road and Gilbert Road next Wednesday around 5:30ish, it's showtime!
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What is with Radio Margaritaville's insistence on playing Little Willie tunes like every ten minutes? And how the hell did they come up with that name? Where I come from, it ain't exactly complimentary. I don't know how you ask for it at the record store.

Hi. Do you have little willies?

Why, yes, we do. Would like to see our little willies?

Of course! I just ADORE little willies! Whip 'em out!

Ahh, you get the drift. Look, I know Norah Jones is their lead singer, and she's won like ever Grammy in the universe. Whoop-di-fuckin'-do. That does not keep her from being arguably the most boring entertainer in America, wedged somewhere in between Jack Johnson and Barbra Streisand. And The Little Willies are no different. I recognize their skill and artistry, don't get me wrong. But their stuff sounds like 1930's hillbilly music. I've never seen them perform, but I fully expect to see some dude with an upturned wash tub and broom handle strumming away, while another plays a washboard, and yet another blows into a moonshine jug.

Look, all the folks I just ripped are extremely talented. Hell, I own some of their music. I listen to it with my coffee and newspaper on a Sunday morning when I want to chill out, or when I lay down for a nap. But c'mon Margaritaville! Stop boring me with this stuff and the 50's American Graffiti shit when I'm trying to drive. OK?
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CONCERT TIME IS NEARLY HERE!! Man, everybody loves to sing along and have a great time with all the concert classics, but what if Bubba sneaks in a few lesser-knowns, eh?? He always does......Now, if you're Cultural Infidel, no problemo. He seems to know pretty much every freakin' song by heart. I thought I was good till I met him.

The Crime Dog, as always, is here to help. Take a walk with me through a few lesser know but equally cool tunes, won't you? No fair looking them up on the Internet. The Crime Dog will know. When you accessed my blog to read this stupid post, my evil minions installed a black box on your computer that will report back to me, and.....and.....ahhh screw it. That's a lie. The Crime Dog can barely turn on his own computer. I think we'll all feel comfortable within the confines of the honor system:

This is the easy version. Just post your answers in a comment. I'm sure no one will peek before doing their own, right? Sheesh, Parrotheads.......Good luck!


1: Who has "skin as white as paste"?

2: What song does Jimmy have in common with Sean Penn?

3: Who's Dan? Who's Marie?

4: Where was Jimmy headed on a "mighty long airplane ride"?

5: Where was Jimmy looking when he saw someone in a gorilla disguise?

6: His girlfriend ran off with his car. What did she tell her Ma and Pa?

7: The girl who snorkeled by, and raised her head up high, was __________.

8: How does the shaman wearing a diaper manage to stay warm in the Himalayas?

9: Who killed Shrimper Dan?

10: Who grew old on steak and bacon?
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Our good phriend and Parrothead from Oregon, EMS Haiku, has turned me on to a blog full of prank letters written by one S. William Kost over the years to various entities. You'll find him right here. Geez, this is some funny stuff!
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I saw on the news this morning a story about a kid who became a porn star when he was 13 by hacking his carrot on the Internet for cash. It kinda creeped me out and I stopped watching it, so I didn't get all the details. The kid must have been pretty freakin' bright at age 13 to be able to set up his own paying web site and take in money for that kind of thing, and I would assume this all took place right under the nose(s) of his own parent(s).

What kind of sick, twisted shit heel is into watching that type of thing? Whoever you are, if you come around The Crime Dog, you can just prepare to talk to my lawyerly friends, Springfield, Remington, Smith and Wesson, whichever one happens to be handiest at the moment. Now that would be a public service. And if you're reading this, STOP it. Go the fuck away, and do not come back, you sick bastard. If we catch these shitheads, we should label them with brightly colored and permanent pedophilic (is that even a word?) and anti-Mohammed tatoos, then airdrop their asses into Fallujah.

This has been a public service announcement of The Crime Dog and Parrothead Ramblings.
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Poor kid wasn't possessed after all. She just had the same shit I had this weekend.
What is up with this evil, twisted, nightmarish virus working its way around? Holy moosecock! Wayners got it in the krankhaus last week, which is the very last thing you want when you have a gut full of twine holding you together. He had to take shots to kill the nausea or he would have probably horked up his own shoes. From there, Janners took it full force and ended up in the ER, then I got a healthy dose of it this weekend. My stomach muscles feel like I just finished last in a fat old guy sit-up contest. This particular virus provides for playful activity at each terminus of the human gastrointestinal system. It's tough hustling off to the bathroom chanting Please God, Please GOD! Just not both at ONCE!. Throw in a fever with shivering that registers on seismometers in San Jose and muscle aches like you just finished a fucking rugby tournament, and it's just a party waitin' to happen.

Joe E took one look at me at the onset of this mess and said "If I were you, I'd sleep on the bathroom floor."

He was right.

But all's well that ends well. It pretty much passed away late Sunday and left me feeling a like a wet, moldy rag that was just used to clean the floor in a men's room. It's back to solid food and I even nursed a beer last night.

Wayners looks good, relaxing on his patio, enjoying the weather, and rebuilding his strength. Came through like a champion. The game ain't over, but he's wa-a-a-ay ahead and it's all downhill from here.

Man, could we use a little concert action, and maybe some Phins To The West, or WHAT?
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OK, OK, I'll let you all off the hook.

You're all wrong:

1) The Crime Dog was actually born in Richmond VA, though he left immediately and has been back only once, passing through on a business trip when he was 46.

2) The Crime Dog and The Fetching Mrs. Dog actually met in high school in 1972, and have been together ever since.

3) Wastnawa was right - The Crime Dog's degree is in history. For what that's worth.

4) Nope. The Crime Dog's youngest child, The Z-Man, was born in Italy in 1980.

5) The Crime Dog did rise to the lofty rank of Staff Sergeant in the USAF, but it was while keeping a wary eye on the Evil Empire as a radio relay technician.

6) And there we have it. The only true statement in a whole line of bullshit and semi-bullshit. The Crime Dog was accepted for admisson to the Fall 1973 freshman class at Brigham Young University. My Mom thought it was a great idea, that it would straighten my youthful ass out. I joined the Air Force instead.

7) Close. The Crime Dog had an off day at the range in combat shooting, and finished .04 points (that's four one-hundredths of a stinking point) overall behind - get this - a park ranger.

8) Nope. It was in the barracks. What a dumbass. I got an Article 15 for it.

9) The Crime Dog did indeed get fined once for farting in little GI bar on an American military site in Turkey. Cost him $5.00 on the bar.

10) The closest the Crime Dog has ever come to the Caribbean was Key West last year. I'll get there. Someday I will.
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Joe E got the closest in the Truth or Bullshit game when he said it was all bullshit. Actually, all but one of those is bullshit. OK, maybe bullshit is too harsh....more like semi-true, as Wastnawa says. But only one of them is absolutely 100% true......Now, which one might that be?
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