[U]nion thugs join together in creating a pigsty -- and we know that they create pigsties, especially compared to Tea Party rallies. You look at any public grounds where these people have been: The trash is littered everywhere, trash cans are overturned, beer cans, bong pipes. Hell, it's all over there. The Tea Party people, you don't find anything. Not even a discarded tissue....
The Democrats and the media want you to think it's just a bunch of average, hardworking out of working, valiant teachers, firefighters and so forth, and it's a bunch of slobs. Maggot-infested, dope-smoking, damn it, hell, longhaired, the whole nine yards. You got longhaired, maggot-infested, dope-smoking FM rock 'n' roller types, exactly who they are. Bong pipes, you name it.
Now, that's just ridiculous. I've lived in Madison, Wisconsin for 25 years — and I've gone over to the protests nearly every day — and I've never seen a used Kotex anywhere. I put up a post showing trash on one of the first days of protest, but ever since then, I've been impressed that they are picking up trash. They care about the impression they leave and are making a big effort about that. They are putting up signs, taping them up and sticking them in little snowmen outdoors. And there are piles of belongings, such as bedding that are piled up in a way that isn't aesthetically pleasing. But that's not trash. And I haven't seen any beer drinking or beer cans or pot smoking or pot paraphernalia anywhere. The last time I was in the building, I didn't think it smelled, but Meade was there more recently (for the Governor's Budget Address), and he says it smelled. People are living in there, the human body is what it is.
"... in a final tailgate to cap a magical season that ended in Super Bowl victory. At $5 each, the 50,000 tickets for Tuesday's 'Return to Titletown' celebration at the stadium sold out in a matter of hours Monday... Tuesday's cold didn't bother Ken Hampp, 23, of Appleton, as he sipped a Budweiser. 'The weather's fine. I can barely feel it,' he said. 'That's my favorite thing about winter. You can just stick your beer in the snow.'"
The first was Governor Nelson, but I didn't take a picture. We stopped at Steve's Liquor Store on the way home, not because we needed anything, but because we knew they were having a pre-Super Bowl tailgate party, which is to say, free brats. So we bought some beer and Nueske's bacon and grabbed a free brat to share as we drove home.
"... with grotesque double-patty pile-ups and surreal towers of lettuce leaves variously signing repulsion and signifying obsession. In this month's Shape, a male model is jamming one sloppy sandwich into himself whole, without chewing or even swallowing, for the sake of promoting a story titled 'Sex, Beer, and Burgers: Why Guys Are Healthier Than You Think.' This is one of those numbers about embracing male desires: Eat a bigger lunch. Drink bottled beer as a matter of portion control. Masturbate more frequently in order to release "feel-good hormones including endorphins and oxytocin," they quote an Ivy League gynecologist, the science classing up the matter."
"The primary story here is not that interesting... People lie and cheat and steal all the time. That’s a fact of life. But rarely does a national news organization give them an unverified megaphone to whitewash it."
[Bob Ennis, former husband of TV reporter Carol Anne Riddell], now head of the digital media practice at the investment bank Petsky Prunier, did not have a high opinion of the Times even before this incident. “I’m happy if they spell all the headlines on the front page correctly,” he says. “The idea that they’d fact-check a style story — I don’t think that’s incumbent on them. But there’s a difference between that and publishing a choreographed, self-serving piece of revisionist history for two people who are both members of the media industry.”
Oh! I love how this is turning into a Forbes vs. NYT journalism showdown — with the help of the jilted husband, who's got the help of Forbes now, getting his side of the marriage breakdown into the national press.
Although his ex-wife said she and her new husband volunteered to tell their story to the “Vows” column partly “for our kids’ sakes,” Ennis says he is angry primarily because of the effect he sees this episode having on those same kids.
Right. Don't forget the kids. Everyone is premising his/her self-serving statements on the kids now.
“These folks are well within their rights to tell whatever version of reality they want to tell, and if The New York Times is gullible enough to print it, that mostly reflects poorly on the Times,” he says. “The picture of my daughter is another matter. I sure as hell would have objected if they had told me they were going to print it.”
Which one is his daughter? Is it the sad-faced girl with the bow in her hair in profile at the right-hand side of the photograph? Look at her and think about how she might feel as she gazes at the brown wedding-cake about to be put asunder by the gleaming knife gripped by her outreaching mother whose hand is overclasped by the (diamond?) ring-wearing paw of her new husband, the erst-while friend of her parents, whom she's long known as the dad of her kid-friends, who are now strangely intruded into the confusing, ever-changing zone that bears the label "family."
Or is his daughter the sweet little child in the husband's arms? Imagine how her father's heart aches to see that man with one hand grasping his daughter's rear and the other hand grasping his ex-wife's hand and, inside that, a knife. The new husband and wife are performing wedding theater for the NYT photographer, and they don't know that the frame the Times will select is the one where their smiles look like predatory grimaces and everyone else in the photograph looks like they belong at a funeral.
“Maybe The New York Times has forgotten, but New York can still be a dangerous town for children of wealthy people. I want to find out from the Times how that occurred and I will expect some sort of response and if I don’t get one I’ll take further measures to achieve one.”
Ugh, the stink of a threatened lawsuit drifts into the room. But don't worry: It's for the children.
***
And don't miss the extra photograph at the original NYT story. The woman's long-clawed hand drapes over the shoulder of her conquered beast, who seems drained of life force. His ring-wearing hand lies limply on the table next to a drained bottle of beer. In the original story, when he told her he loved her, she knocked a beer "into his lap" — that is, onto his genitals. The liquids have all spilled out, and the phallic symbols are empty.
It was a perfect day for biking, clear, low 60s. We biked around the Capital City Trail and turned right instead of left as we came across Monona Bay, under Monona Terrace, where we locked up our bikes so we could scarf down some burgers and frites at Sardine:
Well-fed and well-rested, we pedaled over to the square and then down State Street and over to the Memorial Union Terrace, where we got some Babcock Hall ice cream and went to sit outside and soak up the pre-game atmosphere:
It was a bit of a wreck. I blame the Buckeyes!
What the hell! Did they bring their own beer — in bottles! — Miller Lite and Coors Lite?! Come on! It's pitchers and plastic cups on the Terrace. And what's this?
Look closely! They drink beer and guzzle 5-Hour Energy in berry and grape flavors. Run yourself down with alcohol and then pep yourself up again with that awful glop?
That was more than an hour before game time. I hope whatever energy is left is on the Badger side. So far, it looks good, but we're not there yet.
Arriving as we did around 5, we couldn't get into the restricted area that people had lined up all day to get into. First, we went to Bascom Hill, which was well wired for sound, and there were hundreds of people sitting or standing on the grass:
This photo shows the attitude of the crowd before the speech:
It was nice to see some students studying:
We made our way over to the Union Terrace, about a block away from the live event, to hang in a mellower crowd by the lake. There was good audio and video over here, and some folks had their beer, while others, like me, had Babcock Hall ice cream cones.
These people were relaxed and listening. It was hard to tell what they were thinking. But they didn't chant along with "Yes we can." There were a couple clowns protesting, like this:
That all makes sense to me. Except the part about ice!
I ran across that by accident after searching — unsuccessfully — for the old Clairol ad with the tagline "If I have only one life, let me live it as a blonde." While it made being blonde seem awfully important, I always thought it was bizarre to remind us that we're all going to die. How much compensation for that calamity could we get out of blondeness?
Another commercial from the same era tried to encourage us to use the product (Schlitz) with: "You only go 'round once, and you've gotta grab for all the gusto you can."
Wow. They really rub it in with the sharks that ate the guys in the shipwreck. Must drink beer! I guess it takes a heavier hand to use death as leverage against guys.
Anyway, what's this post about? Freedom, commerce, death as an incentive to live, an icy brew and... for the adventurous: icy breasts!
... where the nice lady kept the place open for an extra 15 minutes so that Meade could have a smoothie and I could have a peppermint tea with a shot of internet. We were the only customers, and Meade said you must do very well in wintertime, and she said that's what she, a transplanted San Diegan, thought when she moved up here and opened the place. But the truth is, no one comes in the winter. The customers come on the sunny warm days (which are few, up north).
In winter, where does everyone go? Don't they want to be somewhere cozy? We drove quite a ways in the Chequamegon Forest. And what we saw were bars, bars, bars. Bars and bowling alleys. The culture up north isn't so much about coffee and WiFi. It's more about beer and bowling. That was my observation, as I drove by....
... with my vision admittedly blurred... by speed, not beer. I was on peppermint tea...
... and to-go chocolate cake, leftover from lunch.
I tasted blind. Meade, having set up the test, was non-blind. Meade picked the St. Bernardus. I favored the Trappistes Rochefort, for its fascinating extra dimension of flavor. It's been made by monks at he Abbey of Notre-Dame de Saint-Rémy since 1595. "There are approximately 15 monks resident at the monastery. The monks are very secretive about the brewing process, and the brewery is not open to the public...." Good work, secretive monks! "[T]he beer is only sold in order to financially support the monastery and some other good causes." Well, then! I feel like a real humanitarian.
I woke up one fine day as blind as Fortune. Sometimes I wonder if I'm not still asleep.
And when was that?
I don't know.
But no later than yesterday—
Don't question me! The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.
Well, just fancy that! I could have sworn it was just the opposite....
Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time! It's abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we'll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
I know how that cigarette came to be in that hole by the door at The Haze. I saw the man who was smoking it stow it there. I think he planned to come back out for more.
Does a flamingo tablecloth clip, a plastic strawberry, a beer, and a hairy arm require an explanation?
Is this turkey even right? This was a decal with marker-graffiti on the side of an old trailer parked on the street on the East Side. I imagine the turkey is belatedly making his argument for why the turkey and not the eagle should have been the U.S. national bird. In fact, bald eagles are scavengers, and as Ben Franklin wrote:
I wish that the bald eagle had not been chosen as the representative of our country, he is a bird of bad moral character, he does not get his living honestly, you may have seen him perched on some dead tree, where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the labor of the fishing-hawk, and when that diligent bird has at length taken a fish, and is bearing it to its nest for the support of his mate and young ones, the bald eagle pursues him and takes it from him.... Besides he is a rank coward; the little kingbird, not bigger than a sparrow attacks him boldly and drives him out of the district. He is therefore by no means a proper emblem for the brave and honest. . . of America.. . . For a truth, the turkey is in comparison a much more respectable bird, and withal a true original native of America . . . a bird of courage, and would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards, who should presume to invade his farmyard with a red coat on.
The turkey has personality and energy. He is devoted to our planet and to doing things right.
But we're not drinking Maudite, the Canadian ale with a tap handle that blinks like a damned Christmas decoration. We're sharing a glass of our favorite St. Bernardus Abt 12 — and splitting a cheeseburger.
Still, to show my support for our President, I went out to the Downtown Grill & Brewery last night and hoisted a couple — moderately, of course — in his honor. Kinda like when some Obama fans changed their middle names to Hussein to show support, only more delicious . . . .
Ha ha. So, then, this is me, the other day at Brasserie V:
Ah, but look at the prudes — the killjoys — who freak out about drinking, who think that lifting one glass depicts degeneracy. These people call themselves "liberals," but they are not liberal at all. They despise your pleasure and revelry and want only to clamp down on any fun. Don't trust them with power, my friend!
... as we had an order of frites and a glass of our favorite brew...
Now, checking in on the Gmail, I see that Hazy Dave has sent me a clip of something I happened to say somewhere on an old podcast. It seems appropriate or inappropriate:
Ha ha. It's all out of context. I'm reading something — probably something written in the 18th century. But we didn't drink 6/7/8 pints — not to be weak or strong. We shared one glass and easily walked home in the pre-Spring sunset:
