See. This. Movie.


Chris and I went to see this movie, laughed ourselves silly, then took Reno and Tole to see it.

There is some gore — it is, after all, a zombie movie — but less than some others I’ve seen recently, and there’s quite a bit of cussing and swearing, but other than a brief shot of a set of pasties, there’s no nudity.

There are, however, guns galore, including some brief scenes of what I think might be an HK MP7; and you will gain a whole new appreciation for the fine art of the double-tap.



Tab ‘A’ goes bloody where?!

Dad inherited in full measure the Scottish instinct for engineering combined with the Mohawk flair for construction. An admirer of his once remarked that you could “Put Jim on a desert island with three monkeys and a hammer; come back in six months, and he’d have two ships in the water and a variant model on the production line.”

He never came across something he couldn’t build (or tear down). And what was happily referred to as “Ethnic Engineering” was a particular specialty of my father’s — I have fond memories of a white-faced MIT School of Engineering graduate having to sit down abruptly after coming face-to-face with what Dad had done to an oil-derrick with gaffer-tape, baling wire, and thirty feet of bamboo.

Anyhoo, any child of my father ought to be able to suss out a Made-In-China shelf kit in less than an hour.



Untitled Post

Barack Hussein Obama was sworn into the office of the President of the United States on January 20th of this year.

The Nobel Committee ceased taking nominations on February 1st. Same year.

Now, check my math, but I believe that is about eleven (11) days — more or less.

Prior to being President, Barack Obama had a fairly normal run as a Federal Senator — some more lustrous, some less so — and before that he was a State Senator and a “community organizor”.

*blink, blink*

Eleven days.



I was stunned today to discover that my good friend Peter, from Bayou Renaissance Man, went and had hisself a bit of a cardiac rodeo.

The good news is that — apparently — the incipient infarction was caught fast enough that no heart muscle died.

The bad news is that he’s about to become Good Friends with Mr. Triple Bypass — first thing tomorrow morning, apparently.

Folks, if you could take a brief moment out of your day to send good thought to a good man, I’d surely appreciate it.


Public Service Announcement

Ladies, if I can tell from the far side of the courtroom that your G-string is tuned to A — your outfit probably violates part, or all, of the “Acceptable Court Wear” memo posted at the courtroom door by the Judge.

Plus, District Court is not a place to wear that cute little number that you bought for the nightclub, the beach, or any place where the major architectural features are limited to a stage and a brass pole.

And — as we have learned — just because you aren’t the one on trial, doesn’t mean that you can’t catch Contempt of Court charges.

Now we know. And knowing is half the battle.


Of Advice, To A Stranger

Oh, I know what you’re thinking: What advice can I — a man comfortably in his fourth decade — offer to one such as yourself, not even twenty years on this little green dirtball, and thus vastly more knowledgeable in the ways of this wicked, wicked world?

Never-the-less, do allow me to try.

I shall not attempt to advise you that, when using expectorant as a condiment upon a customers hamburger, one really shouldn’t go for the Deep Lung Hork. While it is a loud enough — not to say distinctive enough — noise to elicit giggles from your co-workers, only persons of the late-teens/early twenties age-group are cunning enough to recognise that noise as an indication that Things May Be Afoot.

Likewise, far be it for me to point out to you the tactical — nay, strategic — difficulties involved in Saying It With Saliva at a cook station fully open to the view of the cash registers. And the people at said cash register. I bow to your Youthful Treachery, sir.

In the same vein, only a naif would fail to understand that it is only the most wonderful of coincidences that the customer whose food you are so sublimely spicing is the same middle-aged man to suddenly point out of the window and exclaim that person, or persons, unknown are — and I quote, “Messing with your car, man!”

How a complete and total stranger would know which conveyance is yours, or to even care that it is being “messed with”, is a testament to your cunning, Young Sir, but bless this most naive of your elders for bringing this to your notice and allowing you to rush outside to interrupt the “messing with”.

No, the advice I offer this fine fall afternoon involves the simple white cotton handkerchief.

If you were to get into the habit of carrying one of these items on your person at all times, you would find it of remarkable utility: one could dust off a seating place, hand it to a damsel to allow her to blot tears, or even to blow ones nose — although it appears that you have that process well in hand, so to speak.

Or you might even be able to use it to staunch that crimson gush spewing from your afore-mentioned snot-locker like the Devil’s own fire hose.

Just some advice.

By-the-by, I was truly inspired by the way you pounded that middle-aged man’s knuckles with your face. You brilliantly displayed The Stuff Of Which You Are Made. Bravo, sir. Bravo.

Nothing but love,