Anyone who reads this blog with any regularity at all knows that my dog’s name is Tina ~ Tina Turner. She was given that moniker by my wife (who is a huge Tina Turner fan) because we had seen the original Tina T. in concert not long before we got the dog.
That and the fact that both Tina’s have about the same color hair.
Regular readers also know that I walk, or drag, our Tina twice a day – every day.
On Christmas afternoon we were taking our second drag of the day down Hemlock Street. One of our neighbors was hosting a family gathering and several people who I didn’t recognize had come outside to have a smoke.
“Oh, what a pretty puppy,” a young woman said. What’s her name?”
“Tina,” I replied. “Tina Turner.”
The young woman’s jaw dropped almost down to the asphalt.
Pointing at her male companion she said, “Oh my God! His dog is named Phil Collins!”
I think we need to get them together for a duet.
Later,
obi
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Monday, October 27, 2008
Update
Just thought you might like to know:
Later,
obi
Time Smoke-Free: 83 days, 3 hours, 57 minutes and 17 seconds
Cigarettes NOT smoked: 2495
Lifetime Saved: 19 days, 1 hour
Money Saved: $435.75
Cigarettes NOT smoked: 2495
Lifetime Saved: 19 days, 1 hour
Money Saved: $435.75
Later,
obi
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Saturday, October 04, 2008
This Was The Week That Was (TW3)
So, Monday afternoon our water goes off. I know, they’re working on the water and sewer lines in the neighborhood, but still – I did get that letter from the water department last week saying our payment was late.
I knew the bill had been paid, so I went online and checked out my bank statement. Sure enough, the check for my water bill had cleared. So I called the water department to bitch.
“I’m sorry, sir, but your last payment was recorded in July, not September.”
“But I have the check I mailed to you clearing my bank last week. Lemme bring up the check image. Oh, SHIT. You’re right. You never got that check. Looks like it was stolen.”
I began exploring my online bank statement in depth. To date I’ve found three stolen checks, all of which were put in my mailbox for pickup on the same day. The total amount of money lost was a little over $300.
What I can’t understand is this: all three checks still had the original payee listed on the “Pay to the order of” line. The dip shits who stole them simply wrote over that and put in the name of our local supermarket chain. YOU CAN STILL SEE THE NAME OF THE ORIGINAL PAYEE! And the dildos at the supermarkets cashed them.
So anyway, my water, car insurance and cable bills are all late. No big problems, but it’s just a royal pain in the ass. Had to call the bank’s main office, go to the Sheriff’s Department, get an incident report, take that to my local bank branch and, of course call all the companies affected. The cable and insurance companies just doubled up my bills for this month, but I need to take a check into Asheville so they don’t cut off my water.
The bank says I’ll get my money back, but it may take up to 90 days.
I almost forgot: Monday morning there was a note taped to my front gate from Animal Control. A neighbor had complained that my dog was running loose in the streets. That’s my 9 year-old, overweight BLIND dog, that never leaves the house except for the daily drags up and down the street. We call them exercise walks and I administer them twice daily.
So, this has been one of the strangest weeks in recent memory. Since all this shit is now straightened out, I hope things are on the upswing.
Later,
obi
I knew the bill had been paid, so I went online and checked out my bank statement. Sure enough, the check for my water bill had cleared. So I called the water department to bitch.
“I’m sorry, sir, but your last payment was recorded in July, not September.”
“But I have the check I mailed to you clearing my bank last week. Lemme bring up the check image. Oh, SHIT. You’re right. You never got that check. Looks like it was stolen.”
I began exploring my online bank statement in depth. To date I’ve found three stolen checks, all of which were put in my mailbox for pickup on the same day. The total amount of money lost was a little over $300.
What I can’t understand is this: all three checks still had the original payee listed on the “Pay to the order of” line. The dip shits who stole them simply wrote over that and put in the name of our local supermarket chain. YOU CAN STILL SEE THE NAME OF THE ORIGINAL PAYEE! And the dildos at the supermarkets cashed them.
So anyway, my water, car insurance and cable bills are all late. No big problems, but it’s just a royal pain in the ass. Had to call the bank’s main office, go to the Sheriff’s Department, get an incident report, take that to my local bank branch and, of course call all the companies affected. The cable and insurance companies just doubled up my bills for this month, but I need to take a check into Asheville so they don’t cut off my water.
The bank says I’ll get my money back, but it may take up to 90 days.
I almost forgot: Monday morning there was a note taped to my front gate from Animal Control. A neighbor had complained that my dog was running loose in the streets. That’s my 9 year-old, overweight BLIND dog, that never leaves the house except for the daily drags up and down the street. We call them exercise walks and I administer them twice daily.
So, this has been one of the strangest weeks in recent memory. Since all this shit is now straightened out, I hope things are on the upswing.
Later,
obi
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Blahhh
My life has been pretty much blahhhh lately, but two things stand out from all the other crap. I was reminded of the first of them last night as I watched the beginning of Saturday Night Live.
I don’t think I’ve enjoyed that program for about 25 years, but the opening skit with Tina Fey as Sarah Palin was hilarious.
That skit reminded me that I had a dream about Sarah Palin earlier in the week. I don’t normally remember my dreams, and in a million years I’d never imagine that I’d have a dream with her in it. She scares me. I wouldn’t want her anywhere near “the button” if she was having a bad day.
But here’s the dream ~ I’d gone back to work at McDonald’s in Jersey after being out sick for an extended period of time. I had been guaranteed my manager’s job back by the head of HR. But, when I returned to work, my new supervisor was Palin and she made me a grill person.
She smelled good, but shit was she a bitch.
The second not-so-bright spot in the last week was on one of my credit card statements. When I got it Friday morning, it had a notation that I had not made my last payment and that all my interest rates (some of which were as low as 4.99%) had all been jacked up to 18.99%.
Was I pissed? What do you think?
Called customer service and after about an hour had the situation resolved. Thank God for online bank statements. I printed out the cancelled check with the date that it had cleared, gave her the information and we were good to go. She’s sending me some forms to fill out and that will finish it.
But Saturday morning at 8:15 I got a call from their collections department. Righty doesn’t know what lefty is doing. Another 30 minutes on the phone with that jack-ass and I think we’re straight.
Oh, well. It might have been a pain in the ass, but it sure gets the blood pumping.
Later,
obi
I don’t think I’ve enjoyed that program for about 25 years, but the opening skit with Tina Fey as Sarah Palin was hilarious.
That skit reminded me that I had a dream about Sarah Palin earlier in the week. I don’t normally remember my dreams, and in a million years I’d never imagine that I’d have a dream with her in it. She scares me. I wouldn’t want her anywhere near “the button” if she was having a bad day.
But here’s the dream ~ I’d gone back to work at McDonald’s in Jersey after being out sick for an extended period of time. I had been guaranteed my manager’s job back by the head of HR. But, when I returned to work, my new supervisor was Palin and she made me a grill person.
She smelled good, but shit was she a bitch.
The second not-so-bright spot in the last week was on one of my credit card statements. When I got it Friday morning, it had a notation that I had not made my last payment and that all my interest rates (some of which were as low as 4.99%) had all been jacked up to 18.99%.
Was I pissed? What do you think?
Called customer service and after about an hour had the situation resolved. Thank God for online bank statements. I printed out the cancelled check with the date that it had cleared, gave her the information and we were good to go. She’s sending me some forms to fill out and that will finish it.
But Saturday morning at 8:15 I got a call from their collections department. Righty doesn’t know what lefty is doing. Another 30 minutes on the phone with that jack-ass and I think we’re straight.
Oh, well. It might have been a pain in the ass, but it sure gets the blood pumping.
Later,
obi
Monday, September 01, 2008
Smoke 'em if Ya Gottem
I’ve been a cigarette smoker since you could buy smokes in a machine for .25 a pack. If you bought regulars, not the new “king” sized killers, you even got three pennies back in change. They were under the cellophane on the side of the pack.
My first brand of choice was Camel unfiltered. I wandered through Lucky Strikes and Pall Mall before taking a mini hint and switching to filters a long time ago.
I’ve gone through many bouts of pneumonia, bronchitis, shortness of breath and chest colds. I even collapsed a lung back in ’74. But I continued to light ‘em up at every opportunity.
Until four weeks ago.
I’d been waking up every morning at about 4 a.m. unable to breathe. If I sat up, I could get more air, but it was still scary. One night I even slept in my recliner because it put less pressure on my lungs.
That decided it for me. The following morning I bought nicotine patches and have been wearing them ever since. I still have a nagging cough, but I can breathe!
Hopefully, this time it will take. I’ve tried and failed many times before, but I need to quit. Hell, I should have quit countless years ago.
Shit ~ I should have never started.
Later,
obi
My first brand of choice was Camel unfiltered. I wandered through Lucky Strikes and Pall Mall before taking a mini hint and switching to filters a long time ago.
I’ve gone through many bouts of pneumonia, bronchitis, shortness of breath and chest colds. I even collapsed a lung back in ’74. But I continued to light ‘em up at every opportunity.
Until four weeks ago.
I’d been waking up every morning at about 4 a.m. unable to breathe. If I sat up, I could get more air, but it was still scary. One night I even slept in my recliner because it put less pressure on my lungs.
That decided it for me. The following morning I bought nicotine patches and have been wearing them ever since. I still have a nagging cough, but I can breathe!
Hopefully, this time it will take. I’ve tried and failed many times before, but I need to quit. Hell, I should have quit countless years ago.
Shit ~ I should have never started.
Later,
obi
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Dick Cheney: Comedian
Our esteemed vice-president, Dick Cheney, is not known for his raucous sense of humor. Shooting people while hunting, maybe – but not telling jokes.
This past week he not only told a joke, but he managed to piss off the entire state of West (by God) Virginia. It was something about his wife researching the family tree and discovering that she had forbearers named Cheney. Dick’s response was something to the effect that they weren’t even from West Virginia.
Not bad for ol’ straight-laced Cheney. But we need to delve deeper into the mystique of the “Wild and Wonderful” state. I grew up in Western Pennsylvania – Pittsburgh to be exact. Since it’s only about 60 miles from there to the West (by God) Virginia border, we had no love for the ridge runners to our south. I was appalled, in fact, that my cousin would lower her standards and attend the University of West Virginia.
But I digress.
On the West Virginia Turnpike there is an attraction at exit 45 called “Tamarac – The Very Best of West Virginia.” It’s a collection of crafts made in that state – and it’s all very loosely packed into one small building.
Some other interesting facts about West (by God) Virginia:
Where was the toothbrush invented?
West Virginia. If it had been invented anywhere else it would have been called the teethbrush.
What’s the best thing to ever come out of West Virginia?
I-77.
Enough – enough – enough.
Gotta go.
Later,
obi
This past week he not only told a joke, but he managed to piss off the entire state of West (by God) Virginia. It was something about his wife researching the family tree and discovering that she had forbearers named Cheney. Dick’s response was something to the effect that they weren’t even from West Virginia.
Not bad for ol’ straight-laced Cheney. But we need to delve deeper into the mystique of the “Wild and Wonderful” state. I grew up in Western Pennsylvania – Pittsburgh to be exact. Since it’s only about 60 miles from there to the West (by God) Virginia border, we had no love for the ridge runners to our south. I was appalled, in fact, that my cousin would lower her standards and attend the University of West Virginia.
But I digress.
On the West Virginia Turnpike there is an attraction at exit 45 called “Tamarac – The Very Best of West Virginia.” It’s a collection of crafts made in that state – and it’s all very loosely packed into one small building.
Some other interesting facts about West (by God) Virginia:
Where was the toothbrush invented?
West Virginia. If it had been invented anywhere else it would have been called the teethbrush.
What’s the best thing to ever come out of West Virginia?
I-77.
Enough – enough – enough.
Gotta go.
Later,
obi
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
A Message From God
Sunday was Barbara’s birthday and as usual I had no idea what kind of present to give her. So I asked her what she wanted. “Just take me out to dinner,” she said.
Cool. That took me off the hook and I knew she’d be happy.
“Where do you wanna go?” I asked. Believe it or not there are a number of very good restaurants in and around Asheville, NC.
“Let’s go to Hooters,” was her reply.
After I picked myself up off the floor I asked, “Why?”
“They have steamed clams,” she said.
We may have good restaurants here, but being 400 miles from the coast means that the fresh seafood joints are practically non-existent. We do have a Red Lobster, but I’ve never really enjoyed a meal there.
So, Sunday night at about 7 we headed into Asheville to find the local Hooters. After only two wrong turns, and nearly hitting a young black man who was walking up the road with a white towel over his head, we were safely ensconced in their nearly empty parking lot.
We found a table in their smoking section and perused the menu. Not only did they have steamed clams, but they also offered oysters-on-the-half-shell. I was in heaven – until I checked their beer selections. I won’t drink Bud or any of its derivatives – that shot half the menu – likewise with Coors and Corona.
When our surprisingly small hootered waitress finally arrived I ordered an MGD. “A what?” she said. “A Miller Genuine Draft,” I answered. I should have been warned. Barbara ordered a mixed drink and we scanned the menus for a main course selection.
Ten minutes later, our distinctly non-Hooters type waitress returned with Barbara’s drink and a message for me. “We don’t sell MGD anymore,” she said.
Grab the beverage menu one more time. “OK, I’ll have a Killian’s Red.” It was the only other beer on their mostly domestic menu that I would drink.
After another 10-minute wait for the bartender to open a beer bottle, “Little Miss Push-up” sheepishly returned. “You’re not gonna believe this,” she said. “We’re out of Killian’s.”
Barbara and I just looked at each other, dumbfounded.
“OK, just bring me a Jack on-the-rocks.”
As she walked away she said, “You want Coke in that?”
“No, just Jack and ice. That’s all. No Coke, no Sprite, no water! Jack on-the-rocks.”
We’re getting on 30 minutes now, and I still didn’t have a fucking drink. This was not gonna be my night. But that’s OK. It was Barb’s birthday, not mine.
As I waited, parched, for something to drink, the young black man who had been walking up the road came in, with the towel still draped over his head, sat down at a table next to the wall and promptly fell asleep on the table.
Another 10 minutes passed before our red-faced waitress returned. “OK. This is getting weird. Our liquor shipment didn’t come in on Friday – we’re out of Jack Daniels.”
I looked up at her and smiled. “Just bring me an ice-water,” I said. “I know you can’t be out of that.”
Then I realized that this was God’s way of telling me – “Don’t drink and drive.”
Later,
obi
Cool. That took me off the hook and I knew she’d be happy.
“Where do you wanna go?” I asked. Believe it or not there are a number of very good restaurants in and around Asheville, NC.
“Let’s go to Hooters,” was her reply.
After I picked myself up off the floor I asked, “Why?”
“They have steamed clams,” she said.
We may have good restaurants here, but being 400 miles from the coast means that the fresh seafood joints are practically non-existent. We do have a Red Lobster, but I’ve never really enjoyed a meal there.
So, Sunday night at about 7 we headed into Asheville to find the local Hooters. After only two wrong turns, and nearly hitting a young black man who was walking up the road with a white towel over his head, we were safely ensconced in their nearly empty parking lot.
We found a table in their smoking section and perused the menu. Not only did they have steamed clams, but they also offered oysters-on-the-half-shell. I was in heaven – until I checked their beer selections. I won’t drink Bud or any of its derivatives – that shot half the menu – likewise with Coors and Corona.
When our surprisingly small hootered waitress finally arrived I ordered an MGD. “A what?” she said. “A Miller Genuine Draft,” I answered. I should have been warned. Barbara ordered a mixed drink and we scanned the menus for a main course selection.
Ten minutes later, our distinctly non-Hooters type waitress returned with Barbara’s drink and a message for me. “We don’t sell MGD anymore,” she said.
Grab the beverage menu one more time. “OK, I’ll have a Killian’s Red.” It was the only other beer on their mostly domestic menu that I would drink.
After another 10-minute wait for the bartender to open a beer bottle, “Little Miss Push-up” sheepishly returned. “You’re not gonna believe this,” she said. “We’re out of Killian’s.”
Barbara and I just looked at each other, dumbfounded.
“OK, just bring me a Jack on-the-rocks.”
As she walked away she said, “You want Coke in that?”
“No, just Jack and ice. That’s all. No Coke, no Sprite, no water! Jack on-the-rocks.”
We’re getting on 30 minutes now, and I still didn’t have a fucking drink. This was not gonna be my night. But that’s OK. It was Barb’s birthday, not mine.
As I waited, parched, for something to drink, the young black man who had been walking up the road came in, with the towel still draped over his head, sat down at a table next to the wall and promptly fell asleep on the table.
Another 10 minutes passed before our red-faced waitress returned. “OK. This is getting weird. Our liquor shipment didn’t come in on Friday – we’re out of Jack Daniels.”
I looked up at her and smiled. “Just bring me an ice-water,” I said. “I know you can’t be out of that.”
Then I realized that this was God’s way of telling me – “Don’t drink and drive.”
Later,
obi
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Texas
Here’s a news flash – Texas is a very big state. I know that sounds idiotic, but let me explain what I mean. You can look at a map of the US and say, “Gee, Texas is a big state.” But you cannot grasp its enormity until you drive across it.
While I was driving a big truck, I spent a lot of time in the Lone Star State. Much of that time was spent sitting in a drop-yard waiting for my next load, but most of it was spent traversing the Interstates and two-lane highways that slice through the state.
At our allowable speed limit (60 mph) and the maximum number of hours we could drive per shift (10) I could cross most states in eight hours or less.
If I were to drive across Texas, through Beaumont, Houston, San Antonio and El Paso following I-10, I would virtually cut the state in half, north to south. It would also take me fifteen hours to drive that distance.
That’s not saying that there’s a lot in Texas, besides land. Everything is just very spread out. You could probably take everything else in Texas, including the people and put it in an area about the size of South Carolina.
You would not lose anything important.
Later,
obi
While I was driving a big truck, I spent a lot of time in the Lone Star State. Much of that time was spent sitting in a drop-yard waiting for my next load, but most of it was spent traversing the Interstates and two-lane highways that slice through the state.
At our allowable speed limit (60 mph) and the maximum number of hours we could drive per shift (10) I could cross most states in eight hours or less.
If I were to drive across Texas, through Beaumont, Houston, San Antonio and El Paso following I-10, I would virtually cut the state in half, north to south. It would also take me fifteen hours to drive that distance.
That’s not saying that there’s a lot in Texas, besides land. Everything is just very spread out. You could probably take everything else in Texas, including the people and put it in an area about the size of South Carolina.
You would not lose anything important.
Later,
obi
Monday, April 28, 2008
I Can Die Happy
My life is now complete. Barb & I saw Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band live last night at Bobcats Arena in Charlotte.
I've seen a number of concerts in my life (beginning with the Beatles in 1965) but never one as great as this one. He started at 7:30 and went through to about 11 or later (I don't wear a watch) without a break! Not only was there no intermission, but most of his songs went straight into the next one with only a "1-2-3-4" screamed by Springsteen.
He sang shit from his first album all the way through his latest.
And the Band - oh my God - the E Street Band. Clarence wailed on sax; Little Steven and Nils rocked on guitars; the female he has touring in place of his wife Patty played a magnificent electric violin; the keyboard player and the pianist who sat in because Danny Federici died last week were phenomenal and Max Weinberg must have lost 15 pounds pounding those damned drums.
Federici had been with the band since the beginning. He just passed away about 7 days before the concert and they started the show with a song Springsteen had written about him. The stage was completely dark and photos of Federici ranging from the earliest days through his final ones with the band flashed on the big screens.
I knew this would be a great show, but it surpassed anything I could have imagined.
WOW!
Later,
obi
I've seen a number of concerts in my life (beginning with the Beatles in 1965) but never one as great as this one. He started at 7:30 and went through to about 11 or later (I don't wear a watch) without a break! Not only was there no intermission, but most of his songs went straight into the next one with only a "1-2-3-4" screamed by Springsteen.
He sang shit from his first album all the way through his latest.
And the Band - oh my God - the E Street Band. Clarence wailed on sax; Little Steven and Nils rocked on guitars; the female he has touring in place of his wife Patty played a magnificent electric violin; the keyboard player and the pianist who sat in because Danny Federici died last week were phenomenal and Max Weinberg must have lost 15 pounds pounding those damned drums.
Federici had been with the band since the beginning. He just passed away about 7 days before the concert and they started the show with a song Springsteen had written about him. The stage was completely dark and photos of Federici ranging from the earliest days through his final ones with the band flashed on the big screens.
I knew this would be a great show, but it surpassed anything I could have imagined.
WOW!
Later,
obi
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Words to Live By
Too often we lose sight of life’s simple pleasures.
Remember, when someone annoys you –
It takes 42 muscles in your face to frown.
But it only takes 4 muscles to extend your arm and
bitch-slap the motherfucker upside the head.
from "Mr. Paradise" by Elmore Leonard
Later,
obi
Remember, when someone annoys you –
It takes 42 muscles in your face to frown.
But it only takes 4 muscles to extend your arm and
bitch-slap the motherfucker upside the head.
from "Mr. Paradise" by Elmore Leonard
Later,
obi
Friday, March 28, 2008
Lickalotta Update
OK guys - you ready for this?
The lesbian couple that planned to open the gay friendly campground named “Camp Lickalotta” was also in the planning stages for an annual music festival to be held at the site.
They had originally explained away the nasty name for their campground as referring to “lickalotta prejudice’ and “lickalotta misconceptions.”
So how will they rationalize the music fest named -
“Bushstock?”
Later,
obi
The lesbian couple that planned to open the gay friendly campground named “Camp Lickalotta” was also in the planning stages for an annual music festival to be held at the site.
They had originally explained away the nasty name for their campground as referring to “lickalotta prejudice’ and “lickalotta misconceptions.”
So how will they rationalize the music fest named -
“Bushstock?”
Later,
obi
Thursday, March 13, 2008
T-shirt of the Year
Without a doubt, the T-shirt of the year so far was shown on CNN Headline News this afternoon. I was laughing so hard I thought I’d pee my drawers.
I can’t reproduce the picture here, but the shirt read:
Spitzer spent $80,000
On hookers
And all I got was
This lousy T-shirt
I can’t add anything to that.
Later,
obi
I can’t reproduce the picture here, but the shirt read:
Spitzer spent $80,000
On hookers
And all I got was
This lousy T-shirt
I can’t add anything to that.
Later,
obi
Friday, March 07, 2008
Camp WHAT?
As most of you regular readers probably know, I live in western North Carolina just south of Asheville. If you’re not familiar with the area you can think what you will, but Asheville - and Buncombe County in which it lies - for the most part, is a relatively progressive area.
Southeast of Buncombe County is Rutherford County, which makes Asheville look like New York City or San Francisco by comparison. Rutherford is mainly rural.
Our local TV station – WLOS – ran a story last night concerning a new campground tentatively planned for Rutherford County. No biggie – right? WRONG!
The camp will be operated by an openly lesbian couple and will be “gay friendly.” The people of Rutherford County are flabbergasted! “Gays – in our county?”
But I’ve not yet related the biggest part of the story. The topper of all toppers is the camp’s proposed name.
Ready?
You sure?
Are you really, really sure?
OK.
Here it is –
The camp will be named………………………………..
Camp Lickalotta
Honest to God! One woman interviewed last night said, “My son’s only 12 and even he knows what that means. That’s all their talkin’ about at his school.
For those of you who think I'm fulla shit - here's the link to Channel 13 news -
http://www.wlos.com/newsroom/nc/topstory/topstory3.shtml
My job is merely to inform.
My work here is done.
Later,
obi
Southeast of Buncombe County is Rutherford County, which makes Asheville look like New York City or San Francisco by comparison. Rutherford is mainly rural.
Our local TV station – WLOS – ran a story last night concerning a new campground tentatively planned for Rutherford County. No biggie – right? WRONG!
The camp will be operated by an openly lesbian couple and will be “gay friendly.” The people of Rutherford County are flabbergasted! “Gays – in our county?”
But I’ve not yet related the biggest part of the story. The topper of all toppers is the camp’s proposed name.
Ready?
You sure?
Are you really, really sure?
OK.
Here it is –
The camp will be named………………………………..
Camp Lickalotta
Honest to God! One woman interviewed last night said, “My son’s only 12 and even he knows what that means. That’s all their talkin’ about at his school.
For those of you who think I'm fulla shit - here's the link to Channel 13 news -
http://www.wlos.com/newsroom/nc/topstory/topstory3.shtml
My job is merely to inform.
My work here is done.
Later,
obi
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Mistaken Identity
Why do so many people email me thinking I’m Reinaldo Victorio, that I live at 998 Sueirro Street, and I want to sell my home?
Later,
obi
Later,
obi
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Malcolm Holcombe - Malcolm Holcombe
I was reading one of our local Asheville blogs today and ran across a video featuring Malcolm Holcombe, a singer-songwriter from this area. I checked out YouTube and discovered quite a few more by this local legend. It brought back memories.
Back in the mid-80’s, a partner and I opened a small restaurant called the Jersey Shore Deli just north of Asheville. When I say small, I mean small! We had a seating capacity of 40 people.
Our lunch business was great, but our dinner traffic left a lot to be desired – even with our beer and wine licenses. We needed something to draw people in on weekends so they’d see the place, taste our food, and come back during the week. The answer was live music and our first performer was Malcolm Holcombe, probably the most well-known and well liked singer in the area. He had a huge following, and our weekend business exploded. Eventually, we had a rotating stable of about 5 or 6 performers, but our biggest draw was always Malcolm. Check out the link below to see why.
(could not get link to embed – sorry. Just go to You Tube and search for Malcolm Holcomb – you’ll get the idea)
Malcolm was still pretty much a local phenom back then, even though he had performed in Nashville and gotten good reviews there. Somehow we managed to book him for New Year’s Eve, 1985 and we threw a huge, sold-out private party.
Back then, Malcolm loved his beer and we made sure that all our performers had as much of that free lubricant as they wanted. New Year’s eve, being what it is, Malcolm imbibed far more than was his norm and by midnight he was RIGHT – hammering that guitar and belting out some great music.
Our stage was small and on it we had a stool for the singer and a large potted plant (a ficus tree if I remember correctly.) Malcolm was sitting on the stool belting out his rendition of James Taylor’s “Steamroller” and just rockin’ back and forth. Next thing we knew, Malcolm went ass over tin cups backward into the plant – but he never missed a lick. When he finished the song a couple of people went up on the stage and picked him up out of the plant, sat him back on the stool, and he went right into his next song. What a fucking show!
Here’s another link to Malcolm. I don’t know how much he’d been drinking the night this was recorded, but you’ll get the idea. He’s rockin’ the shit out of that chair.
(Again – would not embed. Check out the song where he starts off talking about how good the potato salad is)
Enough of this memory lane crap. Malcolm – if you’re out there – cheers. I’ll have a beer or 6 for you tonight.
Later,
obi
Back in the mid-80’s, a partner and I opened a small restaurant called the Jersey Shore Deli just north of Asheville. When I say small, I mean small! We had a seating capacity of 40 people.
Our lunch business was great, but our dinner traffic left a lot to be desired – even with our beer and wine licenses. We needed something to draw people in on weekends so they’d see the place, taste our food, and come back during the week. The answer was live music and our first performer was Malcolm Holcombe, probably the most well-known and well liked singer in the area. He had a huge following, and our weekend business exploded. Eventually, we had a rotating stable of about 5 or 6 performers, but our biggest draw was always Malcolm. Check out the link below to see why.
(could not get link to embed – sorry. Just go to You Tube and search for Malcolm Holcomb – you’ll get the idea)
Malcolm was still pretty much a local phenom back then, even though he had performed in Nashville and gotten good reviews there. Somehow we managed to book him for New Year’s Eve, 1985 and we threw a huge, sold-out private party.
Back then, Malcolm loved his beer and we made sure that all our performers had as much of that free lubricant as they wanted. New Year’s eve, being what it is, Malcolm imbibed far more than was his norm and by midnight he was RIGHT – hammering that guitar and belting out some great music.
Our stage was small and on it we had a stool for the singer and a large potted plant (a ficus tree if I remember correctly.) Malcolm was sitting on the stool belting out his rendition of James Taylor’s “Steamroller” and just rockin’ back and forth. Next thing we knew, Malcolm went ass over tin cups backward into the plant – but he never missed a lick. When he finished the song a couple of people went up on the stage and picked him up out of the plant, sat him back on the stool, and he went right into his next song. What a fucking show!
Here’s another link to Malcolm. I don’t know how much he’d been drinking the night this was recorded, but you’ll get the idea. He’s rockin’ the shit out of that chair.
(Again – would not embed. Check out the song where he starts off talking about how good the potato salad is)
Enough of this memory lane crap. Malcolm – if you’re out there – cheers. I’ll have a beer or 6 for you tonight.
Later,
obi
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Three-fingered Henry and the Windsor Canadian
I stopped by the local ABC store today (just to see if it was still there, you understand) and spotted a brand of liquor I haven’t had since I was in college – Windsor Canadian.
Back in the day – the early to mid-60’s – we had a bar just off campus called Frank & Wally’s. Their clientele was comprised mostly of students from Duquesne, but it drew a fair share of business people from the downtown area too.
It was a family run business owned by Frank and his wife Wally (Walenda to be accurate) and the daytime bartender was their son, three-fingered Henry. I never did find out how Henry lost all those digits, but it didn’t slow him down behind the bar.
Besides pouring beer and liquor, Frank & Wally’s served sandwiches and burgers complimented by homemade French-fries. None of that frozen shit that passes for fries today. This was the place to go for lunch.
And go we did. At least three days of the week found our usual cast of characters lined up at the bar drinking draught Budweiser and chowing down on Wally’s great food.
One day after we had eaten our fill, it was firmly decided that this was a drinkin’ day not a classroom day. In those days draught beer was .25 cents, but liquor was still expensive – at least .50 cents a shot – and, being college students, we never had much money.
Enter good ol’ Henry.
“Y’know guys, we just got a new brand of whiskey in called Windsor Canadian,” said Henry, “and the liquor rep gave us a few bottles to use as samples. Anybody want to try a shot?” What a stupid fucking question. All our hands shot skyward.
After the sample shot Henry asked how we liked it. The consensus was that it was good – very smooth. “We got a special price on it too. Only .25 cents a shot.”
Thus began a story that lasted about two years. Now we could afford to buy that good St. Louis Bud (the bottles with the blue caps) and top them off with a shot of Windsor.
And people wonder why I went to college for 4 ½ years and never graduated.
Later,
obi
Back in the day – the early to mid-60’s – we had a bar just off campus called Frank & Wally’s. Their clientele was comprised mostly of students from Duquesne, but it drew a fair share of business people from the downtown area too.
It was a family run business owned by Frank and his wife Wally (Walenda to be accurate) and the daytime bartender was their son, three-fingered Henry. I never did find out how Henry lost all those digits, but it didn’t slow him down behind the bar.
Besides pouring beer and liquor, Frank & Wally’s served sandwiches and burgers complimented by homemade French-fries. None of that frozen shit that passes for fries today. This was the place to go for lunch.
And go we did. At least three days of the week found our usual cast of characters lined up at the bar drinking draught Budweiser and chowing down on Wally’s great food.
One day after we had eaten our fill, it was firmly decided that this was a drinkin’ day not a classroom day. In those days draught beer was .25 cents, but liquor was still expensive – at least .50 cents a shot – and, being college students, we never had much money.
Enter good ol’ Henry.
“Y’know guys, we just got a new brand of whiskey in called Windsor Canadian,” said Henry, “and the liquor rep gave us a few bottles to use as samples. Anybody want to try a shot?” What a stupid fucking question. All our hands shot skyward.
After the sample shot Henry asked how we liked it. The consensus was that it was good – very smooth. “We got a special price on it too. Only .25 cents a shot.”
Thus began a story that lasted about two years. Now we could afford to buy that good St. Louis Bud (the bottles with the blue caps) and top them off with a shot of Windsor.
And people wonder why I went to college for 4 ½ years and never graduated.
Later,
obi
Monday, January 28, 2008
Thought For the Day
I don’t have many of these so pay careful attention and make sure that you incorporate these thoughts into your everyday lives.
A crowded elevator
is a whole different experience
for a midget.
Later,
obi
A crowded elevator
is a whole different experience
for a midget.
Later,
obi
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
The June Bug Incident
As noted in several earlier posts, we have 6 cats – each with their own distinct personalities and mental abilities. Of all the felines living with us, my personal favorite is the latest one who adopted us – LC. She’s been sharing our space for about three years and she’s smarter, by far, than most other cats I’ve known.
Case in point.
Last summer I was repainting our kitchen and, in the process, pulled the stove out to paint the wall behind it. You all know what happens when you move a major appliance – there’s so much shit under it that it takes longer to clean the floor than it does to paint the entire wall.
I got a broom and dustpan and proceeded to sweep up all the loose garbage that had accumulated over the past few months since it had been moved the last time. One of the “lumps” that I swept up happened to be a rather large, dead, beetle – one of those big June bug type critters.
I was being observed, as always, by LC. She’s our resident job supervisor, constantly checking that all our chores are done correctly and to her satisfaction. The June bug was duly noted by her and put in her report.
Bug and trash swept up and dumped, I left the dustpan on the floor and proceeded to paint the wall. When I finished, I pushed the stove back in, plugged it up and started to clean up my mess. As I stepped over to get the dustpan off the floor, I got a surprise.
LC had deposited one of her many toys in it. She has catnip mice, little fuzzy play-balls and a large, blue bug. It always reminds me of a smaller version of that big plastic bug that we had to assemble in the old kids game “Cootie.”
LC had seen me sweep up the June bug and assumed that all bugs needed to be put in the dustpan. I hadn’t seen that bug in days, but she apparently knew exactly where she had left it.
Sometimes I’m afraid to go to sleep at night. I fear LC’s going to get back at me for not giving her more cookies.
Later,
obi
Case in point.
Last summer I was repainting our kitchen and, in the process, pulled the stove out to paint the wall behind it. You all know what happens when you move a major appliance – there’s so much shit under it that it takes longer to clean the floor than it does to paint the entire wall.
I got a broom and dustpan and proceeded to sweep up all the loose garbage that had accumulated over the past few months since it had been moved the last time. One of the “lumps” that I swept up happened to be a rather large, dead, beetle – one of those big June bug type critters.
I was being observed, as always, by LC. She’s our resident job supervisor, constantly checking that all our chores are done correctly and to her satisfaction. The June bug was duly noted by her and put in her report.
Bug and trash swept up and dumped, I left the dustpan on the floor and proceeded to paint the wall. When I finished, I pushed the stove back in, plugged it up and started to clean up my mess. As I stepped over to get the dustpan off the floor, I got a surprise.
LC had deposited one of her many toys in it. She has catnip mice, little fuzzy play-balls and a large, blue bug. It always reminds me of a smaller version of that big plastic bug that we had to assemble in the old kids game “Cootie.”
LC had seen me sweep up the June bug and assumed that all bugs needed to be put in the dustpan. I hadn’t seen that bug in days, but she apparently knew exactly where she had left it.
Sometimes I’m afraid to go to sleep at night. I fear LC’s going to get back at me for not giving her more cookies.
Later,
obi
Monday, December 24, 2007
My New Knickname
Besides being Einstein, according to a personality test, I have also been assigned a “Unitarian Jihad” knickname.
Later,
obi
My Unitarian Jihad Name is:
Brother Gatling Gun of Love and Mercy.
But I'll still answer to Obiwan.
Later,
obi
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