A Nod Towards A.I. (Sorta)

I have a friend in Iraq who has a blog that I visit. He's a good guy, although we differ on a few things like eating bear is good (I think no) and eating livermush is good (he thinks no). I kind of wonder if maybe we should compromise and he should save up scraps of bear and we could whip up some bear mush. I am not experienced, to answer Jimi Hendrix's burning question a few decades after it is relevant,in bear grinding and bear cooking, but seems to me that any food that goes by the last name of mush can't be that difficult to make. I guess you just kinda, um, mush it.

But the point I was going to make about my friend was that now that he's away from home and work, and the distraction of easy access to the Wicked Weasel home page, his posts have gotten quite good. I've never been in the Middle East more than 10 days or so at a time, so I can't speak to that desert life. But I used to spend 2 to 3 months at a whack on a ship at sea and know the busy and boredom of military life in a crappy location. And back then, at sea, at 3 AM, I'd drain a big old urn of coffee sitting there chain smoking and writing some of the best stuff I ever wrote. My over caffeinated, hyperactive brain just stayed in overdrive. Warp speed, Mr. Sulu. I don't think my buddy has all (or maybe any) of my vices, so his stuff should continue to be entertaining. And coherent, a promise I could seldom make and never keep.

So today was my next to the last day at the Wackenhut Corporation. It was a day that was hot when the air was still and cool when it stirred. If there was an in between as the breeze transitioned, it was imperceptable. To me, it seemed, it was one or the other.

As the pleasant wind wafted through the windows, not blowing the curtians that were not there, I looked longingly at the grass beyond the fence in front of me. It was green and freshly mown, giving off a strong, sweet scent. It may be phermones that occur naturally when one has ones head lopped of at the shoulder with a weed whacker. I prefer to think of it as the soft smell of summer. The grass was lush and nestled invitingly between the cat tails on the one side and a stand of pine trees on the other. The pine trees cast a long lazy shadow across most of the lawn. If mother nature ever prepared a place for the perfect nap, this was probably it.
While I could not just leave the post to lie down and luxuriate in an impromptu nap, I could, it seems, engage in the drowsey drops head nods instead. Like a sympathy nap that was coming on and could not be stopped. Eyes close and head drops. Spittle forms and neck rolls. Brain disengages and then re-engages with a start when noggin goes free fall on it. Yep. The drowsey drops. And nothing, not even Steven Segal, in all his far eastern mystic mumbo-jumbo glory could stop it. Chuck Norris could, but that ship has sailed. Would Chuck Norris be nearly so fearsome if he were named Chick Norris? Would he fight like a girl? Holy bat baffle, Robin, I... don't... know.

(Before)

Jimmy Buffet is coming to town and nowadays I just don't care. He lost his edge and his relavance. Went all soft and feel good around the edges. Kinda like Harley somehow, some time turned into the ride of choice for white, fifty-something conservative veterans. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm just saying, look at H-D's customer base over the years and try to pinpoint when it turned middle aged and married. Oh, and I don't begrudge Jimmy Buffett his mellow contentment. "Barometer Soup" is no "Pirate Looks At Forty", but then we all lose some of the roughness as we wander through life. I did, too. But I never penned the song "I'm Growing Older But Not Up" either. You can't pin me down on that one.

(After)

I used to smoke Parliments, but I switched to Funkadelics, out
Ramblin' Ed