A creative blog by Jim Kalin on The Whole 9

DIVE HIGH

I once chased a lunatic out of the bar with an ax handle that we kept beneath the cash register. He had wandered in, twitching, snarling, and then sat on a barstool and growled that he wanted a drink. I refused to serve him, and with lip-jerk and drool, he swore he’d kill me. By that point, everyone at the bar, and those sitting at the booths, had gone tornado quiet. The lunatic was frightening, not only because he was big, but because he probably was sincere in his threat.

What excitement!

Dive bars are like the Old West; lots and lots of downtime between moments of high drama. It wasn’t all gunfight and barroom brawl in the days of the cowboy and cattle drive, and with today’s dive bars, the general lack of drama is also the norm.

The constant that I find interesting at work are the patrons. Each is unique amongst the specific lounge that he frequents, yet his counterpart exists in every dive bar. Some are loveable, and some aren’t, but they all contribute to the rent and the location’s flavor.

The Nurse: This customer can make a drink last all night. They’ll nurse a cocktail for hours, and whenever it gets down past the halfway mark, will ask for more ice and mix. Sometimes they can’t afford another, and some just have a low tolerance to alcohol. If the Nurse is a woman, she might wait around for hours until someone rolls along to buy her another drink.

Mr. Mystery: This character reveals very little about himself because he believes that zero disclosure renders him exciting. He drops irrelevant clues that are meant to make him appear mysterious. He might allude to fellow spies that he knows, or ask if you’ve ever killed anyone. When you answer ‘no,’ then ask him the same question, he’ll just shrug and sip his beer. It usually turns out that he is a telemarketer.

Liar Liar: Like Mr. Mystery, this customer wants others to find him exciting and interesting. He just goes about it differently. He usually reveals way too much about himself, and his stories begin to contradict each other. Liar Liar drops names. He will insist that he flew with Neil Armstrong on an Apollo mission, then a week later tell how he won the Congressional Medal of Honor in Viet Nam by saving Chesty Puller’s life. Liar Liar and Mr. Mystery can not stand each other and will sit at opposite ends of the bar.

The Ex-bartender: He always offers to ‘help’ if you ever need it. He’ll clear dirty glasses from tables and offer to come behind the bar and wash them. He brags about crowds he drew wherever he tended bar. The Ex-bartender will criticize the way the present bartender works. He is absolutely someone you’d never want behind your bar because he’d drink the profits then steal whatever is in the cash register.

The Joker: This customer always has fresh jokes. He can go for an hour and tell new jokes the entire time. He likes an audience and usually buys a round for those listening to him. The Joker will tell racist jokes, but does not consider himself a racist. Many times he’s not. The problem here is that I can rarely remember any of the jokes he tells.

The Mixologist: This person requests obscure drinks. The cocktails have long, ridiculous names like Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea or Steven Tyler’s House Slippers, and when asked what the ingredients are, it usually is something simple, like a screwdriver with a lime garnish. These drinks are absolutely concocted at home by the Mixologist with the belief that if they go to enough bars throughout the country and request their own creation, the cocktail will eventually turn up in some bartenders’ guide. They don’t realize that nobody receives residuals or commissions on a drink they create.

Mr. Big Tip: He always leaves way too much money. Sometimes his intentions are good. He has worked in the business and just knows what a grind it is. But there is also the big tipper who feels that because he has laid out more gratuity than anyone else, he can hound the bartender regarding jukebox volume or what’s playing on the televisions. He is generally the loudest person in the bar. Big tip can sometimes mean big mouth.

Mr. No Tip: These characters are usually not regulars. They tend to fold their money so they can scoot away before the bartender unfolds it and sees that it is the exact amount. When they order a drink, they specify that they want a strong Jack and Coke, or a stiff gin and tonic. They don’t order a double because they don’t want to pay extra. When I hear ‘make it strong,’ you can be sure they’ll be plenty of mix in the drink.

So, these are just a few of the characters found in dive bars. Most patrons are very normal. Quiet. Friendly. Decent. I have one regular who tattooed our bar’s name on his bicep. When I saw it, I told him we were thinking of changing the bar’s name.

Tell me about the most interesting character you’ve ever come across while diving.

Cap\'n Vik\'s Tattoo

I grew up in a neighborhood where there were four bars on every corner except mine. The reason that there were only three on my corner, as the story was told, was the fact that the fourth one was burned to the ground by an angry mob with torches and farm implements. Seemed like the owner made a pass at a woman who came in regularly to drink and get some 2:00 AM lightning in her life. That was nothing new but it just so happened that the woman was the wife of the local jamoke with a family of thousands who took umbrage to the fact that it was the owner and not a customer who planted his wife that night. They said he had an unfair advantage because he poured the drinks!

So, the outraged hubby and about seventy-five cousins, uncles and a few aunts came around sometime between closing and opening, and let me tell you, in that neighborhood, that was a short window of opportunity, and torched the place.

I miss all the great people who used to hang out there like Shaky Bill who earned his name by his appearance before seven AM first drink. You never asked Shaky to light your cigarette before he had his first drink. He might’ve set you or himself on fire.

Then there was Off-the-Wall Paul. Now there was somebody you didn’t want to mess with. He always had a smile pasted to his face, especially when he was sitting stropping his razor. He always nodded his head to me when I came in the door, up and down, up and down. I wasn’t sure if he was being friendly or measuring me for a coffin.

Then there was “The Girls.” Well, that is an euphemism. These two were girls about the same time my Mother was – back before women got the right to vote. They talked trash to all the guys but would’ve required serious operating machinery to get out of their girdles. Everybody loved them but I don’t know anyone who would admit to having anything more private than a hug with them.

Finally there was Pop-Pop. He drank his liquor straight up and woe to the person who ordered one of those fussy drinks with fruit, flowers or even an olive in it. He’d call him things that would get me kicked out of Whole Nine if I repeated them. Pop-Pop stood about 5′5″ and weighed ninety-eight pounds if he had an anvil in his pocket but don’t get in his face if you wanted to walk out that night and whatever you do, don’t ask him what time it is. He has a thing about time and once I saw him turn a guy’s lights out with one punch because the guy dared to ask him the time. I learned that he wasn’t called Pop-Pop because he was a grandfather. He wasn’t even married. When he hit a guy, you could hear it: Pop Pop and it was over.

Back in the day … No wonder I became a writer. I can’t fight to save my life.

Lollipops and unicorns

this needs to be longer.

catherinedaly

Oh I enjoyed reading this…I can’t believe someone actually tattoed the bar’s name on his bicep…I’m dying..
We use to frequent a neighborhood bar called “Montys” in my hometown…My mother was constantly berating me, “Lolly ladies don’t go to bars”…and my reply was “GROUPS”…we would go there every night…and I always remember the lady behind the bar singing ever so lightly – Last Call For Alcohol…those were the days!

Holy Cow…awesome. Brought back some potent memories. The drunk guy who swore I was a cop, wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer so I played along. Or the Hungarian drag queen…or the sad, homeless Irish kid. The most intriguing had to be the little old lady (seriously) who could roll a joint faster than anyone I had ever seen. I can appreciate the talent though I’m not a smoker myself. MANY years ago…I wonder where she is now….hope not in jail.

HIGH DIVE


I tend bar. I’ve done this on and off for about thirty years. My first job as a bartender was in Columbus, Ohio at a punk bar called Mean Mr. Mustard’s, but I’ve also worked the wells in Florida, South Carolina, and California. Most of my jobs have been at dive bars.

I’ve made some money at writing. I have a published novel titled One Worm that Russian Hill Press in San Francisco put out. I paid for half of a new Honda with that money. I rewrote a kids’ movie about soccer called Home Team that was released in Canada. I had to sue the producers for my money, and I insisted they remove my name from the credits. Don’t ever rent it.

I took up banjo late in life and have made more money at that than at writing. My biggest payday came when the band I play in opened for the Bellamy Brothers this Fall in Aspen. The Bellamy Brothers had several chart-toppers in the eighties, and their mega-hit was Let Your Love Flow, which they opened and closed their show with.

I now have small percentages in two Los Angeles bars. The dividends from those places might put a new roof on our house. But I am a bartender. That’s what pays the bills. It’s given me an expertise, however, and I was interviewed recently by an online magazine that wanted to know what makes a great dive bar. Here are a few of the things I told them.

1.    No mirrors in the bathrooms. We want customers who drink, not primp.
2.    A great jukebox with both accessible and underground cd’s. And no greatest hits! If the place doesn’t have either Let It Bleed or Get Yer YaYa’s Out, it ain’t divin’.
3.    No energy drinks. Whenever someone asks me if I carry energy dinks, I tell them I have the original one; Coke.
4.    No blenders, and we don’t make anything you can’t see through.
5.    Reasonable prices. If you can’t get two drinks for $10, you’re not in a dive bar.
6.    Year-round Christmas lights decorate the ceilings, either because the bartenders are too lazy to take them down, or they just need the light.
7.    No uniforms on the bartenders.
8.    Very few windows in the place. The sun is not a welcome customer.
9.    A limited beer selection, and if there are more than two beers on tap, go somewhere else.
10.    Offer chardonnay or cabernet sauvignon. If the customer requests a wine list, we tell them Napa Valley is only seven hours away by car.
11.    Have a great Bloody Mary mix. The regulars will depend upon it. This could save lives.
12.    No dress code.
13.    No flat screen televisions, and especially directly behind the bar. That ends customer conversation at the bar.
14.    Dive bars have their own matchbooks with great logos.
15.    No dishwasher behind the bar. Three sinks are sufficient, and like blenders, the noise a dishwasher makes is just plain disruptive.
16.    The bartenders must be friendly, but with a dose of surliness. They aren’t necessarily required to remember your name, but they absolutely must know what you drink.
17.    And remember, in a dive bar, the customer is always wrong!

What elements do you think make a great dive bar?

good tippers- i’ve worked the wells too, and know it makes the night better for everyone.

There’s got to be at least one guy slouched over the back corner of the bar, staring into his drink like it’s a magic 8 ball and it can help him ascertain his future.

A dark and semi private corner for heavy necking and moderate petting. A foot rail under the bar. A shuffleboard. Darts. Real darts, not that electronic stuff. Adequate ventilation – a dive doesn’t have to smell like a morgue. Large mirrors behind the bar are better than shelves of bottles: they facilitate down-the-bar eye-to-eye. Part of me likes the frames full of cut out pictures of favorite locals. A small part. A very small part. The rest of me hates them altogether. Enough barkeeps – nothing worse then a single slacker overwhelmed during the rush. I don’t care what kind of bar it is – have a working door on the crapper. Well placed speakers keeps sound even, not blasting from one location. And please, have a back door.

Having spent my misanthropic youth in dive bars in the river wards of Philly, I got a thrill and chill reading your list. I’d add to it a few additional elements.

* Sitting upon the furthest stool from the light is a guy of indeterminate age who is called “Yo!” He drinks shots and beers without ever uttering a word. When he needs service, he tips his head a few degrees north and the bartender refills his glasses. He wears a Baseball cap from a long-past era and a loose-fitting sweat shirt with raggedy sleeves. Don’t ask him the time. Those would most likely be your last words.

* There’s always a lady whose best days are far behind her but whom everybody loves and respects. She hasn’t paid for a drink since before prohibition.

* Three guys fresh from slinging cargo on the docks sit together and speak in a language that probably even they don’t understand but they are friendly to everyone and buy drinks for anyone who says “Hi!” to them.

Then there’s two guys or a guy and a gal at the booth in the back talking theater, politics and the decline of Western civilization. One of them is me.

Lollipops and uncorns.

Jim, I think everyone’s suggestions make for a good Part II of this blog, “All of the Colorful Barflies I’ve Met in my Day.” Some would be surprised at the famous names, some wouldn’t be the least surprised. Oh, if you’d only consider writing a tell-all book!

SEMPER FI

My godson Thomas joined the Marines several years ago. His father Tom, who happens to be a very close friend of mine, is a Republican, deep-fried in the lard of Rush Limbaugh and pickled in the bitter vinegar of Sean Hannity. I’m beyond Democrat and could be considered a Liberal with a pitchfork.

My godson has spent the past year in Hawaii. The base had a golf course that overlooked the Pacific Ocean, and he and his fellow Marines spent evenings drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon in town. He has been lucky with his assignments. Until now. Thomas will soon be heading to Afghanistan.

I don’t want him to go. His father feels the same. Yet I believe that our young people in the armed forces are dying in the Middle East because of policies and issues supported by my friend Tom and his fellow Republicans. I don’t care what anyone says or how Conservative radio hosts spin it; wars are propagated and inflamed by the rich. The reasons are concoction, sold to and bought by the masses. The correct war would be a march down Wall Street, the middle class armed with torches and pitchforks, and the only choice given to the criminal fat cats being to jump out the window or get prodded out.

But politics don’t matter so much to me these days. I used to be angry about Tom’s Republican ways. Now I just feel sorry for everyone.

We’re in a world of trouble. All of us.

Be safe, Thomas.

I’m sending good thoughts to your godson, and all those sons and cousins and brothers just like him. If anything is to be gleaned from this last wave of blind “patriotism” perhaps there are more of his generation who understand that those who sent him to war (many who never served a day themselves, a la Cheney) did so without one single molecule of dignity and true love for their country…they did so for profit and personal gain. What were those “brave” words Buh uttered…oh yeah, “I’m a wartime President”..

May he (Thomas) return safely, soundly, more matured in a healthy way, and may he share his experiences without the toxic mind control matter that those above him would have him do so.

LUXURIOUS INTERIOR

I’m proud of my life
But don’t ask me why
-Lux Interior in ‘Primitive’

Lux Interior, vocalist of The Cramps, died at 4:30 am on February 4 of an existing heart condition. And it’s fitting that the Mad Daddy went precisely at a time that if anyone asked “what were you doing when Lux Interior died?” the answer would be a unanimous SLEEPING!

Lux was a creature of the night. He sang about it. Wallowed in it. Slathered the thing all over his body. He was corpse-twitch, a combination Bride of Frankenstein and Iggy Pop. When Lux sashayed, bolts clanked and worms moaned.

I snatched a strand of pearls from Lux Interior’s neck in the mid 1980’s in Cleveland while he was leaning from the stage far out over us devotees in the slam-pit. I turned it over to my sister for her birthday. She always claimed that they were cold as death when she put them on. That would seem right, being that they originally belonged to Lux.

Los Angeles writer and legend Jim Krusoe never saw The Cramps perform live, but upon hearing of Lux’s death, he logged onto YouTube and viewed the Napa Mental Hospital footage.  “That is one of the most transcendentally joyous and generous concerts I’ve ever witnessed,” wrote Krusoe.

Indeed.

The first time I ever saw The Cramps was in 1979 in Columbus, Ohio at a bar called Crazy Mama’s. They had just released their first recording and were touring small venues. Lux ended the show bleeding and naked.

If you never got to see The Cramps perform, you sure missed out. Nobody raged onstage like Lux. He gyrated nonstop and jerked like a man on the toxic end of a noose. His voice was cattle prod and his demeanor werewolf.

In The Human Fly, Lux sang “I have 96 tears and 96 eyes.” Unfortunately for us, he only had one heart.

EL CRY-OTE

My seven-month old son, Kyd, knows a kitchen staff at El Coyote Mexican restaurant that I have never seen. We always sit on the patio, and if our favorite waitress, Rosio, is working, she scoops Kyd up and zooms away on a tour of the place that always includes the bar, front desk, and ultimately the kitchen. He is always returned to my wife and me smiling.

Lately, El Coyote has been having some lean days. The staggered economy is part of the problem, but they have also been victim of a witch hunt.

Apparently, the owners’ niece is a Mormon, and a donation was made to that church by them on her behalf. It was an innocent and generous gesture with no intention of making a political or moral statement. But the gay community, stirred up by the passing of Proposition 8, has boycotted the restaurant because the Mormon Church was the main proponent of the issue.

I understand the gay community’s anger. I voted against the proposition and was disappointed when it passed. Anybody who believes that the institute of marriage will be ruined if gays are extended that privilege should have their heads examined. And if these dullards are so concerned with preserving marriage, make divorce illegal. I would think that by including homosexuals, the number of marriages increases, and if a membership flourishes, doesn’t that denote success?

But this boycotting of El Coyote disturbs me. It’s definitely a show of post-election anger and misunderstood protest. If you’ve ever been inside El Coyote, it’s obvious that the owners hire a healthy percentage of gay employees.

This is what I believe; the gay community is furious about Proposition 8, and El Coyote has been a victim of their witch-hunt. But they are too late. Why weren’t these major marches and protests done before the election? And if the gay community feels cheated and wants the results overturned in the courts, what happens when a vote goes their way?

Homosexuals have been victimized and ostracized forever. They know unfairness firsthand, and exclusion of basic rights is a relentless shadow. But they must be careful not to repeat the injustices that have been visited upon their community. They are better than their opponents. They must organize sooner the next time against them.

And El Coyote is not one of these opponents. 


You know, my partner and I were just discussing this not too long ago. The gay community didn’t “organize earlier” because we, like so many other Americans became fat, happy, complacent, self-absorbed, distracted, and/or disconnected … That’s right. I said it.

Why is it that more often than not, we are REactive as opposed to PROactive? Why is it that there is an organized connectivity within our community only AFTER something goes wrong OR in the name of annual tradition (i.e. PRIDE, Black History Month)? If this is the only time you come crawling off your couch and out into the streets to give back to the community, stand for something, speak on something, fight for something, define something, move something; then NEWSFLASH: You are part of the problem, not the solution!

Brooke, good point but I have to say, anyone who has seen the film “Milk” should be ready to organize and continue Harvey Milk’s PROactive activity! Wow, amazing man, loved the film, loved what he stood for.

I’ve heard raves about this movie! I am beginning to wonder whether or not it needs to go on the top 30 list of things I need to do within the first 30 days of my being home!

If I were El Coyote, I would make a public statement to the public letting them know that this was a donation on behalf of the owner’s niece who is Morman. I would would posit that the niece didn’t talk about what these repercussions would be in, in fact, the bill was passed. People tend to do negative things in a selfish way. That said, the restaurant should have understood that there are reprucussions concerning things of this sort.
Now that they are the recipient of all of this negativity, I feel the only way to fight this is to release a public statement condemning their own actions and to give the same amount of money to a gay community service group. While they may seem insane, things like this have proven track records of success.
If the El Coyote doesn’t want to admit that their actions were negative to their gay community and clientele then sadly they will remain in their self-made situation. This matched money will do more for the restaurant than anything else they could possibly do. Actions certainly do speak louder than words.
namaste

As far as I’m concerned, if you put your name on something, even if it’s a tiny little donation, you’d better be prepared to back your position and explain. El Coyote was an easy target – they were here whereas the Mormons and the Knights of Columbus feel more like throwing rocks in the dark.

I think I’d have a public statement and a strong showing in donations to things like the Pride Parade…perhaps a float with their staff waving and throwing out goodies. Errors in judgement can be costly.

RAMBLIN’ JACK

The three musicians I always wanted to meet were Lux Interior of The Cramps, Keith Richards, and Ramblin’ Jack Elliot. Waylon Jennings was the fourth, but unfortunately, he’s gone.

Until two weeks ago, the closest I ever got to any of them was at a punk rock show in the eighties in Cleveland, Ohio. The Cramps were performing, and at some point during the show, Lux – dressed in black spandex slacks (not pants) and tube-top – stepped to the stage edge and leaned out over the slam-pit. I was in the blender-mix of dancers, and reached up as he floated by and snatched his necklace. I gave it to my sister later at a local bar, and we were surprised to discover that it was a pearl necklace. The beads were individually strung, which meant Mr. Interior had spent some money on it. It’s one of my sister’s prized possessions.

Two weeks ago, I was at Guitar Center with my six-month old son Kyd. We crossed the front room where the electric guitars are displayed and test-driven. I refer to this room as ‘the moat.’ We headed downstairs to the acoustic area, and when the glass doors closed behind us, tranquility.

I strolled and strummed at the Martins and Gibsons mounted on the walls as we browsed. Kyd was amazed and quiet. Then we entered the very back area of the store where the rare and expensive instruments are kept. It was quiet as a cathedral, and a lone salesman was helping two women and an elderly gentleman who was trying his best to look like Ramblin’ Jack Elliot. He had the cowboy hat, the western shirt with pearl snaps, jeans, a leather belt with oversized buckle, and cowboy boots. I thought he was a very close likeness, then was flattened with the realization that it was indeed the singing cowboy himself.

I always understood Jack’s nickname to mean that he traveled much with a real aversion to ever settling down, and that suspicion was confirmed when I saw his daughter’s documentary The Ballad of Ramblin’ Jack. But after I approached him and introduced Kyd and myself, I discovered another meaning for the nickname. Jack talked and told stories and asked questions and rambled for fifteen minutes, and I hated the fact that I was late meeting my wife and had to go.

So Ramblin’ Jack plopped my baby boy onto his cowboy lap like a guitar and let me snap a photo with my cell phone of him and Kyd.

Jack Elliot is old, and he will ramble away from all of us one day. It would be great to meet Keith Richards or Lux Interior next, but its not really necessary anymore.

And please tell me if you’ve ever met your hero or idol.

Star Jones was every bit the bitch I expected her to be.
In terms of legends/idols/heroes, they seem to be around every corner or at the gym here in New York so you become a little jaded. I look forward to the next one that bowls me over and I’ll be sure to savor it. Glad you got the pic, Kyd will love it accompanying the story you will continue to tell so dont forget to get a print made before it’s gone for one reason or another.
Come to think of it, I do remember running into Larry Mullens Jr. (U2 drummer) at the gym and telling him “I got rid of about 100 CD’s today and I kept all of yours” to which he replied “Right on brother”…friends for life.

well mr. leighton, i actually peed in a urinal beside larry mullens once at u2’s movie premier, but not being a big fan of the band, i didn’t bother to shake his hand or anything.

In 2003, I had an audience with the Dalai Lama. He gave me a huge fresh sunflower and I began to cry. For the whole 20 minutes he laughed and joked of things. He held my hand between both of his. I cried.
I cried for three days.

THIRTEENTH GRADE

A proposal for the enhancement of the Republican Party.

To kick a man when he’s down is supposedly bad sportsmanship, but how else do you insure that he won’t return for revenge? And this makes me think of that great line in The Godfather where Michael says that you keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Now is not the time for Liberals and Democrats to relax.

Sarah Palin is still around. She’s been in Georgia, campaigning for the Republican gubernatorial candidate in that state, but you can bet that her intention is two-fold, with a 2012 presidential run first and foremost. Palin is like that car with the flat tire that goes driving by. She’s past, around the corner, yet we can still hear the flap flap flap. But what to do with her?

The Republicans are in disarray. They’re a mess. The Democrats need to step in and ‘help’ determine the future of The Republican Party.

Liberals control Hollywood. So why doesn’t someone give Palin a talk show and get her out of politics? The Republicans are stranded, and she’s their lifeboat. Snatch it from them and see how long they can tread water. They have nobody in the pipe with her appeal and star power.

The smart Republican move would be to have Palin attend a masters program at Harvard or Tufts during the election interim. Educate Alaska’s governor. Give her the extra oomph she was denied after twelfth grade. It would benefit her, and would be a great story. They could show her in class, at home studying while taking care of her children, or cutting it up with her professors. They need to make those who question her supposed intelligence reconsider.

And just possibly while she travels that path of higher learning, she may find some enlightenment and some compassion.

Isnt hollywood run by gay liberals? Not likely they would gift her a show, and though I like to think everyone is capable of finding enlightenment, I think you’re being too kind. Is fatherhood softening you Jim?

HOPE FLOATS

Ding Dong! The witch is dead. Which old witch? The wicked witch! Ding Dong! The wicked witch is dead.

In 1692, the fine citizens of Salem, Massachusetts bound those suspected of practicing witchcraft with rope, then tossed them into water. If the accused sank and drowned, it meant they were innocent. If they floated, they were deemed guilty and subsequently burned at the stake.

Something amazing happened after Barack Obama won last week’s presidential election. Several of the conservative and Republican radio talk show hosts who had attempted to vilify Obama during his campaign with accusations of being a socialist, a Communist, a terrorist, a Black Panther, a Muslim, a savior, a hater of plumbers, and just about everything short of flying on a broomstick, seemed to have a change of heart.

Glenn Beck from 1260 am radio abruptly cut a female caller off and told her she was stupid when she suggested that another inquiry into the validity of the president-elect’s birth certificate should be instigated. Al Rantel of KABC radio complained about the large number of emails and faxes he was receiving daily that stank of racist doctrine or contained the word nigger. He called it shameful and suggested that listeners with those leanings turn off the radio and never listen to him again. Even Bill O’Reilly called for everyone — no matter what political affiliation — to support the president-elect.

This turnaround reminds me of those ghoulish Cossack-attired sentries in The Wizard of Oz who guard the witch’s castle. They have to put up a pro-witch front while she’s still alive, but once Dorothy melts her, the truth comes out that they prefer her gone.

My son is four and a half months old and is as white as typing paper. When he’s finally old enough to question us about things, Barack Obama will be the only President he’ll be able remember. How wonderful will it be when he asks if white people can also be President!

Hope does float. And remember; Wendy, Samantha, and Glinda were all witches, too.

Listening to Rush Limbaugh this morning. His new thing is that due to the large black vote to approve the Prop. 8 ban on gay marriage in CA, that liberal white bloggers have begun to call black voters “ignorant niggers”. Obviously, by Rush standards, this means that one guy may have done it. So in his mind, that’s all liberals. But I think it will be interesting to see how the arguments get twisted with the new racial dynamic in America.

I too am very heartened to hear the fair talk coming from the right after the ass-whooping they took. Whether it’s for show or not, it’s a sentiment I’d like to see become more infectious. However, my guard is still up knowing that wingnuts like Limbaugh and Coulter are still out there with an audience.

I can’t help but wonder what comments Glenn Beck, Al Rental and Billo would be making if , shudder, the Pailin/McCain ticket ( as she referred to it) had won…..I don’t trust ‘em one little bit. But then, I never listen to them except in sound bites on Olbermann, so I really have no perspective, I admit! Unlike you, Gunga Din….

I have been amazed at this turn of events. Right before the election I heard at least two very well known very conservatives finally stand up and say the Republican party had been headed in the wrong direction for a very long time. I only wish they’d had the courage to stand up and say the same thing earlier in the game!

WHITE POWER

My son is just four months old, but one of the first things we’ll teach him once he’s old enough to understand social graces is that it’s good to share. Incredibly, that’s a lesson many adults still don’t get, but come on, didn’t it always feel great to give the other kid a turn on the slide or swing set?

For those white voters who are having a difficult time making up their minds whether to vote for McCain or Obama, think about this; about 12% of the U.S. population is African-American, and with the other minorities, that percentage goes up past 20%. If fair representation truly existed, that would mean that one in every five U.S. Presidents would be a minority, yet in this country’s 230-year history, we’ve had nothing but white men.

Personally, I don’t understand the undecided black voter’s dilemma, but for those white Americans who truly believe that Obama and McCain are equally qualified to lead us, then why not go with someone who represents a significant part of our population that has been ignored regarding the Presidency?

John McCain is the same thing that we’ve had for 230 years, and especially the past eight years. He preaches change for America, so why not give him real change, something completely different. Let’s give someone else a turn.

Electing Obama would have positive repercussions that haven’t yet been addressed. I’m a white man, and have absolutely noticed a difference recently when talking politics with African-Americans, especially those who are strangers. Something stifled has been shaken loose, and the supposed equality that rings throughout our governing documents and beliefs seems to have moved closer. Electing Obama would be a huge step in easing racial tensions in this country, and there sure isn’t anything wrong with that.

Let’s show the rest of the world that white America is not afraid to change. Obama can not win without our support. And for that timid and hushed percentage that holds onto that fear of casting a vote for a minority, remember that Obama’s mother was white. Now wouldn’t that be groundbreaking and symbolic of America; finally, a President who mirrors our population’s physical make-up.

It’s time to share that Popsicle before it melts.

YEAH!!! this little brown girl is proud to call u my brother… big brother Jim!!! I absolutely love the power of your words!!! and bless u and your family!!! your son will be a great contribution to society…. I have no doubt about that!

ONE LOVE!!! :) ))

Thank god my parents were like you with regard to sharing and race relations. I remember the schools being redistricted when I was in kindergarten and my mom asking if the class seemed more racially mixed. I told her there were no black children in class and sure enough on open school night a rainbow of parents. She was proud to have instilled the ideal of not seeing color in people. I’m proud to be voting for a competent man on tuesday, even if he’s only half black.

CHICKEN SHIT — cluckings along the Republican Campaign trail

Why did the chicken cross the road?
Because the bridge over it went nowhere.

Did you know that the octopus is supposedly the eighth smartest animal? That puts them just one back from your common Republican. And since octopi are invertebrates, meaning they have no spine or backbone, one wonders if maybe they and Republicans shared the same family tree not too far back. But this blog is not about insulting mollusks.

Liberals have been furious the past week about the lies and misconceptions regarding Barack Obama that have become standard audience shout-outs at McCain and Palin rallies. Republican supporters have blurted insults and racist comments, accusations about Obama being a terrorist, and even death threats aimed at the Illinois senator, and although its true (finally) that Senator McCain has defended his opponent, he didn’t react until some in his own party suggested that maybe it didn’t look so great for he and his running mate to stand idly by while things got out of hand.

I’m not too concerned with these lies. Nobody goes to a Palin rally other than a Palin supporter, and the problem with Palin supporters is that they are too numb with infatuation to realize that she’s not running for president. And McCain? He handed his microphone over to a woman at a rally recently who insisted she wouldn’t vote for Obama because he was an Arab.

These are not smart people.

No Liberal or undecided voter is going to decide that McCain is their man (or Palin their woman) because some halfwit hollers out that Obama’s middle name is Hussein. So be happy, you Democrats and Liberals. The ugliness at McCain and Palin rallies is just the final gasp of a stunted and cowardly party’s stranglehold on this country. The unsteady yammering from the Arizona Senator and that inelegant non-blinking gaze of Alaska’s governor are not long for this world.

Hopefully on November 5th it will be safe to say that the Republicans have left the building.

Never let it be said that you don’t speak your mind, Jim. Man, if I were a Republicacn, I’d hate you but fortunately, I’m not, so all I can say is “truth hurts.”

He He…you have so aptly pointed out what all of us are thinking. That red line down the center of our country is a scary strip to behold…but it’s exciting to think that come November 5, the people within that strip may have moved a little closer to the left.

I think all of us need to keep on pushing though, because this race is not over until the Fat Lady sings…and God knows, there’s more than a few fat ladies left in this country.

I think we also need to remind ourselves that once Obama becomes president, we all have to be involved in pulling this country up. It’s going to take a lot of work, but personally, I think we’re up for the task.

I’ll continue your chicken metaphor by advising that we count nary a chicken before those eggs are hatched. You’re a lot more optimistic that people are paying attention than I am. A dumb and lazy conservative will just go out and vote Republican. A dumb and lazy liberal won’t vote. That has historically been true, and that is exactly what we need to keep from happening this time around.

And yes, if Obama gets elected, he will have to wade through a huge pile of crap to get to some gold coins.

I disagree with you Jim…I believe SHE IS running for president. If McGrumpy gets elected he should definitely abstain from going on any celebratory hunting trips with her and Todd, a la Cheney. “You Betcha!” I joke of course…ahem.

“Hussein” is a very popular and respected name:
The boy’s name Hussein \hu(s)-sein\ is pronounced hoo-SAYN. It is of Arabic origin, and its meaning is “good; small handsome one”. The name of a prominent person in Shiite Islam and a royal name in Jordan.

“Barack” being a derivative of “Barak” is a very respected Hebrew name:
The boy’s name Barak \b(a)-rak\ is pronounced ba-RAHK, BARE-ek. It is of Hebrew origin, and its meaning is “flash of lightning”. Biblical: a valiant fighting man who cooperated with the prophetess Deborah to win victory in a battle against overwhelming odds.

Maybe, among other things, he will be a bridge to somewhere for the seemingly never-ending Arab/Israeli divide.

Tralfamadore has a point, and I’ll add to that. As “The Angry Left” we might be placated by good poll numbers and rest on our laurels and figure it’ll take care of itself. “The Clueless Right” always show up in droves and vote for their team, regardless of who or what it is…2000?…2004? We have to show up en masse and reclaim our country, tattered and exhausted as it is. Us angry lefties are it’s only hope.

… I love this blog … It just made my night … I couldn’t help but giggle liek crazy …