Bush? Why, Thank You...

Yes – we DO live in a crazy world. Well – it’s pretty crazy in these parts – it’s absolute bedlam over there. When I mean over there, I’m talking about Islamofascist country again. Yet again, just a few news headlines to get me bloggin’ about how lucky we are to live where we do, in a land governed by us, the people. Well, maybe not by the people but by elected representatives of the people. Well, let’s just say that our electoral system is pretty good, and it’s better than living moment by moment in the shadow of fear of a bloodthirsty tyrant.

Okay – maybe I like ‘ol Dubya. Okay – there’s no maybe about it. Damn straight I do. It kills me that I live in one of those ‘Dem’ states that will undoubtedly give its precious electoral vote to the left, like chaff in the wind. Debacle!
My mind cries for diversion of my dear Ottawa Senators FAILING again in the Cup Playoffs, unable to prove superior to the dreaded Maple Leafs (die!) and as a result we have let Mr. Martin go, undoubtedly to aid another of our rivals to levels unmatched. I seek revenge for such a travesty as I have seen on the ice; a team, nay, a collection of ‘professionals’, that has gone so far to give up so fast. And where, gentle reader, would you expect this blogger to find solace? Why, in no place other than the creation of a New World Order, led by the conservative right, and stomping out all that oppose us! Kids – jump on board, there’s plenty of room here on the right bandwagon! What’s that? Mom and Dad won’t let you? Ha! We have agencies on call to set that straight!
Well – maybe I’ll just have another beer and hope there’s a 2004-2005 NHL season…
That – and America wakes up and realizes that Bush rules. Don’t forget it.

Breathe Deep...

Breathe deep the gathering gloom,
Watch lights fade from every room.
Bedsitter people look back and lament
Another day's useless energy is spent.
Impassioned lovers wrestle as one;
Lonely man cries for love and has none;
New mother picks up and suckles her son;
Senior citizens wish they were young.
Cold-hearted orb that rules the night
Removes the colours from our sight,
Red is grey and yellow white
But we decide which is right
And which is an illusion.

Kids – you just don’t get this kind of thing from your RIAAnazi cd mills these days. Your bubble headed pop “stars” have as much artistic value as a Guadalajaran basement cock fight. I heard the MB’s “Nights in White Satin” on the trek to the office today, and the good radio folk decided to play out the last vocals (above) as well as treat me to the happy gong ending. Which proves my point about music these days – if you can’t successfully use a gong – why bother trying in the first place. I mean – you gotta branch out the percussion to REAL instruments. Timpani, glockenspiel, triangle, castanets, cymbals, bongos! Damn – even Christopher Walken in an appearance on SNL can be quoted as saying “I need more cowbell!”

Baby, Light my Fire

It’s springtime, folks. I spent all weekend outside, whittling away at the massive Honey-Do list in hopes of making darling Wife^TM happy with yours truly. I would have to say I was successful, and the Herculean efforts towards the beautification of our domicile’s outdoor area were not in vain. But all that time I spent digging, cutting, pulling, etc. my mind wandered to its happy little place – cooking with fire.
Amen and Hallelujah, I’m talking about grillin’ and chillin’, smokin’ and pokin’, drinkin’ and stinkin’ in the glorious warm weather months that are upon us all. Forget the oven, y’all – fire up the grill. Ya got all day? Stoke the coals, fill the water basin and spread the wood chips in the smoker. Let’s all go out right now and buy the biggest slab of brisket and marinate that bad boy in the most favorite blends of herbs and juices.
Sear and fear, true believers! Put me in charge of that flame! Our Creator put the beasts on Earth for the prime purpose of feeding us with the ultimate gift of their flesh. Luckily, He also put herb gardens about for seasonings. As we might know from experience – He didn’t put any of those herbs in South America – all they do is salt the meats before grilling. But who’s complaining about that? That’s why He gave us lisinopril!
My question is this: Why are you reading this when you can be outside right now cooking up a snack on the open flame? Never mind a snack – how about a feast? A festival of flame! Work the finishing sauces! Perfect the marinade! Revel in the rub!
Check back next week – I guar-an-tee a grill/smoker story…

Ouch!

My first-born is a hero. She probably displayed more strength and courage today than I have in the past decade. But how, noble web writer?
This little kid sucked it up and let the doctor give her four (count ‘em – FOUR) booster shots today.
And when I say ‘little kid’ I ain’t kidding. This peanut weighed in before inoculation central at a hefty 34 pounds, and 42 inches tall. That’s 15.5 kilos to you metric-minded chaps. With that weight in mind, I don’t have to be too descript of what her arms must look like. Yeah – my golf clubs are thicker. Each of those pencils with hands took two for the home team.
I don’t know how she stayed put long enough for the doc to administer the last three. I mean, after you get jabbed with a stick of metal relatively as long as your spine you work like a junkyard dog to get away from the next one coming your way.
Her courage did not go without reward. Soldiers receive medals and commendations, kids get cool stuff like in this case – Happy Meals. After that torture, I would set her up all week with nuggets and fries, and I wouldn’t worry about her getting sick – she’s got enough anti-disease juice coursing through her tiny veins to fend off the most wicked viral permutation. She doesn’t even know it, but she stands like a tiny Amazon, brazenly challenging the invading bacteria to mortal battle. Ok, maybe her arms just hurt enough to make climbing the ladder to the top bunk difficult. Bottom line – she’s tough, loves hockey because Daddy does, and isn’t afraid to root for the visiting team. As a matter of fact – she always does.
Next angle, same topic – I wonder how the Wife^TM handled it? I have this feeling that there will be a few more gray hairs on her head by the time I get home today… You hear that? That hum is the stress on those apron strings…

Die, Maple Leafs, Die!

weak weak WEAK WEAK WEAK Glove Hand!
It’s amazing – but you know you have it bad when you can’t watch your team play and they lose – you blame yourself for the loss.
Thus my pain. O-Ottawa lost their second straight last night to the freakin’ Maple Leafs (Die, Sundin…) and the salt in the wound is that this marks the second game in a row that the Sens couldn’t get anything by Ed “the Elbow” Belfour.
Rather than go into one of my spastic rants about how badly I need the Sens to beat these chumps, I just need to remind all those out there that this match up has that taste of a little history repeating.

Passion

There are just a few things out there that get my ire up. Let’s start off with some of the obvious ones. Anything – I mean anything in the sense that includes all under God – that dangers my family (especially my kids), idiots at the Shop-Rite, Islamofascists (and right here – I have finally crossed to the point where I don’t believe in that Islam is at all a religion but one big hate group. Those placid Islamites are such a minority I would almost attest that one under that guise were really a part of a terrorist cell, waiting for the orders to poison my water supply. But – I digress, as I am swayed by the political mood of such Mid-Eastern idiocy where my moral fibers are strained.), mung beer, and rolling gutter balls and the ilk.
But let’s get into some brain ringing emotion action here. Welcome to the right side, readers, because we’re back on the topic of religion.
I can’t escape the fact that in RC world (and in a lot of ‘other’ Christian sects) it’s Holy Thursday. The whole world has recently received a nice dose of the next few days thanks to Mr. Gibson and his flick. I’m sure this was his interpretation of what transpired a couple of thousand years ago but what we have to keep in mind is that THIS HAPPENED.
Go ahead you leftist self-righteous atheist – tell me it didn’t. I need a good pick-me-up by proving you wrong. I’m reeeeeeeeaaal touchy around this time of year – because we as a people are just as (or give me the strength) MORE ignorant than the folks who were there to witness the ultimate sacrifice. And that’s enough to irk even the most stoic of folks.
Let’s recap. A couple of thousand years ago, a man was going to have dinner with his friends, only to have one of them betray him. The next day this man would be ruthlessly beaten and humiliated, finally to be nailed to a tree and left to die – which he did. Imagine now – this man was your friend. Your brother. Your son.
Good news – he came back three days later.
Better news – he’ll be back again. Get ready.

DAMMIT!!!

It freakin’ figures. The damn Pens go out and suck up the NHL so badly that even Barry Melrose feels bad for them, and what do they do? Lose the damn draft lottery and let the LeonsisMonster get the best thing the draft has seen since Super Mario. Anybody but the Caps… DAMMIT!!!

Trivia?

Just don’t call me Cliff. Mr. Clavin was the Keeper of All Things Unimportant, and we’ll let him keep that title. I just love trivia, and for some reason, useless knowledge comes to me more easily than mostly everything else. It would also seem that tidbits of info seem to stick with a greater part of all my acquaintances. Maybe it’s one of those subconscious things that help people ‘click’ and form friendships and such. Maybe it’s the fact that I tend to hang out with geeks. Let’s move on.
Lots going on these days – and not at all trivial things at that. On a posting about useless knowledge, I have to sway the opposite and say that there must be something in the water. Now I’ve posted about springtime and gettin’ twitterpated and all that - but I think a bunch of my friends really took it to heart, or loin. Seems that everybody’s making babies.
I’m up to four expectant couples as of this time. Actually – five if you count some at work. That’s some serious production.
Also – I’m pretty happy with my current domestic situation, and the Hotel Cz’ski isn’t posting any vacancies. What bothers me is the conversations that Wife^TM has been initiating, and I’ll give you three guesses as to the topic. First two guesses don’t count. Luckily – yours truly has been able to keep the faith if you will in terms of the happy status quo. Somehow – I know that there is somebody out there taking odds on when we’ll see the next installment in the Clan Cz’ski.

I am...

So it’s been suggested on many an occasion that I am crazy. I won’t go into the Catch-22 of the situation by the inability of my own to self-diagnosed mental illness, as it would discredit the original analysis on the terms of not being insane and be able to make the determination in the first place. Follow me here? Good. Let’s move on.
No, I won’t dissertate on the particulars of the voices in my head and how sometimes they come out, but I will touch on how, sometimes, I fool them all by being someone else for a while.
Y’all see, I’ve had a bit of an identity crisis for a while, maybe just short of all my life. Yeah, I’m sure we’ve all put on a cape and flew around as our favorite superhero, but I took it to levels higher than Calvin. I can probably blame the comics I read and adored and committed to the far recesses of my memory. I watch Smallville these days and can pick it apart for the abusive creative license they use. But talk about deep fascination with the comics – I still have recurring dreams that I AM Batman and literally wake myself lashing out at criminals. Gotta feel for the wife here. Let’s just say the sides of the bed have been defined as danger zones come dreamtime.
And then there’s that alias thing. Not the show – I’m talkin’ about the myriad of names I go by, depending on what crowd I’m with. I owe this to dear ‘ol Dad. He might have me beat in terms of names and identities. Daniel, Dan , Danny, Chuck, Bone, Porquead, Porq, Johnny, Johnny Bupilini, JHON (spelled just like that, for emphasis of course), are some of the aliases that mi padre goes by. Me? Over time I’ve had a few for various reasons as well. Bone, Son of Chuck, D, Big D, D-Man, Johnny Bandman, Man-Kai, and Rosetta. Rosetta? Yeah – I was abusing this kind of Live-Aid donation scam. Rosetta needed help. I needed help. Help came in terms of your donations. Let’s move on.
Why am I thinking about this? Because it’s the Big Bone’s birthday today. Go figure – April 1st. Just more proof that my God has got the best sense of humor going.
So heads up folks – my old man might have notched one more orbit around that medium-sized star called the Sun, but he’s still my number one partner in crime. And that means no one is safe. The voices told me so.