I have an iPod with more than 700 songs on it (using a mere 20 percent of its capacity), a record collection with thousands more and probably half a dozen radios lying around the house. And yet, the song I can’t get out of my head today is on none of them, only the hard drive in my head: Dean Martin’s “You Can’t Love ’em All.”
The song starts with a long intro, with Dino and three different girls:
Hello, doll.
Hello, doll.
Eight?
Date.
Hello, doll.
Hello, doll.
Ten?
Amen.
Hello, doll.
Hello, doll.
Twelve?
Twelve-fifteen?
See ya then!”
The gist: So many ladies, so little time.
I never actually owned this record. My friend Paul did, and it was one of those that made me wonder why people waste their time on Weird Al Yankovic and Dr. Demento. Found humor is always more amusing.
Summer departed for a few days, then returned with the proverbial vengeance — back to the high 80s. I celebrated with a 90-minute jaunt up the Rivergreenway to Memorial Stadium and back. It was Amateur Sunday, with the usual crowds of meanderers, helmet-less goofs and others who just…got in my way as I made my Lance-like way along the stinking sewers of the St. Marys and St. Joseph rivers. How dare they slow the progress of the shrieking white-hot flash that is the Nance When Her iPod is Pumping Just the Right Tune? What is it about exercise that makes people aggressive? Is it the adrenaline, or is maybe a little testosterone mixed in there, too? Never in my life have I gotten runner’s high, but often I’ve thought that if anyone ever tried to mess with me while I was flying along, I would rip his heart out, show it to him, and then eat it raw.
There’s a cheery thought with breakfast, eh?
Two things:
Dong Resin was gone so long I took him off my bookmarks. Now he’s back with the usual genius: I would vote for Sharpton, however. In a heartbeat. We’d be the cool country again in about a week. Non-white countries would take us serious again, the others would at long last shut the f*** up. What would France have to say to us under the Sharpton regime? Nothing, that’s what. That should have been Al’s campaign button : “Let’s Scare The Tits Off Of Everyone Else.”
In the more responsible part of the commentary corral, read Slate on M. Night Shamalamading-dong, and impress all your friends.
Colleen said on August 1, 2004 at 11:00 pm
Heeyyyy…I’m a helmetless goof! I’m a total Dudley DoRight in the rest of my life, I go helmetless and wear headphones when I bike. I’m with ya on “get outta my way!” The total lack of awareness many have of their surroundings when they are out in the world can get….irritating. When you make your presence known on the greenway, do you find it’s a toss up as to whether you’ll get an “Oh, sorry” or “bitch” followed by a glare? Cuz I’ve been smarted off to more than once. (My usual salutation is “excuse me, on the left”, so it’s not like I’m firing the opening swear salvo)
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Linda said on August 2, 2004 at 1:16 am
The Hubby and I saw “The Village” this afternoon and it is not worthy of the hype. (Although any time I get to see Joaquin Phoenix on the big screen, I am happy) I won’t give anything away for those who have not seen it yet, but I saw THE BIG TWIST coming at the end before it came and that disappointed me. Dunno, maybe I was just slow on the uptake when it came to “The Sixth Sense”‘s little twist at the end, but I never saw that one coming and I think that was a much better movie. “The Village” is enjoyable, but not M.’s best work by any means.
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Mindy said on August 2, 2004 at 7:04 am
One of the gems in my record collection is an album cover sans album, but so funny that it’s worth keeping just to watch the jaw slacken on everyone who sees it. There he is on the cover, tie untied and shirt unbuttoned with a feigned sexy grin on his face to prove he’s more than what you thought. And the liner notes! “The man digs music,” it begins, then paints a picture of him in a darkened room, cigarette dangling, bobbing his head in time to the tunes. This groovy guy is none other than…Jack Webb.
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Bob said on August 2, 2004 at 11:00 pm
I’ve pretty much accepted that the bikeway isn’t a place to try to ride fast because of the diversity of users. I draw the line, though, at the people, usually families, who block the path with their parked bikes while they take a break to stand/sit around in the grass. Whenever possible, I’ll take a kick at the nearest bike as I go past; the domino effect usually sends the whole bunch over into a clattering heap. By the time they can get over the shock and then untangle the bikes, I’m well out of range.
This evening on my way home from from Headwaters Park, I encountered a pack of teenaged thugs coming the other way just north of the NS railroad bridge. There were four of them, maybe 15-16 years old, the type that will never again ride a bike once they get access to a car. I heard them before they were in sight. I was well on the right side of the path, and the leader, a shirtless burly jock-type with a backward ball cap, moved to my side of the path and kept coming straight at me. Looking right at him I held my course, and at the last minute he veered off and missed me by about two inches. I suppose the intent was to scare the old geezer and send him tumbling off the path and then have a good laugh. Am I gonna have to start carrying mace when I ride? Or should I just get a concealed-carry permit for my Smith & Wesson .38?
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dong resin said on August 3, 2004 at 8:54 am
What you need is to bike with Al Sharpton, Bob.
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