Push Your Clocks Back To-nite

All Americans are required by law to stay up until 2am, so that they can push their clocks back one hour, and then have breakfast an hour earlier than normal.

Please, for God's sake, please remember to do your civic duty and turn all your clocks back. You don't want to miss all of your favorite tv shows and burn your pies.

If you fall asleep before two, and haven't pulled the clock back, then I'll sic Tab Hunter and Richard Chamberlain on you.

Sleep well, my pretties, and on your back.

jp

STOP THE INTERNET!!! TAB HUNTER GAY!!!

Call out the boys...Oh wait a sec on that. Don't get your pants in a bunch or bowels in an uproar (I imagine Mr. Hunter would help you with that...If that's your thing) but Tab Hunter will soon release his memoirs, admitting he's gay.

I'm not shocked. Now if you could prove to me that Moms Mabley and Ethel Merman had a sexy love thing going on, then I would be shocked. And shaken. And retch and retch until I could retch no more. But Tab Hunter gay? C'mon, honey, every time he looked at Sal Mineo he crapped his pants. Everyone knew that Tab Hunter was gay. The thing is that Tab Hunter believed everyone thought him straight.

Now at the age of 74 he's "coming out". Maybe this is his way of meeting guys at his advanced age. It's a good hook. After you lose your fame, looks, wealth (I guess) and other gay things, what you must do is write a book on your wicked, wicked ways, (tip 'o' the hat to Mr. Flynn) and the boys will all love you again.

It is a little sad. I mean sad in a cool, I wanna also know everything about this man (sad there too). A small part of me died when Richard Chamberlain came out ( get your mind upright!).

So Tab Hunter is gay. Thank God Captain Kangaroo didn't live to see this.

Joe

Scooter Libber Is Indicted...Tra La La...Tra La La

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown

The lies that we all know about...The odor of it all that has emanated from the Bush White House since...Well, forever, is far more than needed to make one a Libertarian, one who loves his country, but may hate his government.

And now, that Scootie Libby, the VP's top boy for prevarication is headed for ruination, scandal, and maybe even jail (BONUS!) for crimes that are difficult to explain, we can only pray that Scoot has it in him to be the John Dean of his era and help bring down this wretched house and its murderous bunglers with him.

Harsh, hmmm? I say rather moderate considering 2000 dead boys and girls, and probably thousands more to die.

Back to what we all know. The endless lies about the reason to go to war, the continual and very tiresome defense of EVERYTHING that goes on in that whorehouse, and the smug looks on the faces of all; indicted and unindicted, makes inquiring minds wonder what other dirt sticks 'neath the desks in the executive's lair.

I won't comment on a 55 year old man named Scooter (I have renamed him Scootie...He reminds me a little of that reptilian Harold Ickes, Jr. from the Clinton days) but little Scoot has an opportunity to be a hero, even if he does go to the brig. Unless he's a pussy and wimps out of a trial (oh the misguided loyalties of statecraft) he can shine a light on this rats warren of criminality that wafts from the Black House.

Be a hero Scoot. Tell the truth.

Joe Postove

1MIN

I wana see what I can write in 1 min. it's not toomuch, but what the hell. I've got only 1 min and this is the best I can do with the little I have to work with. What do you want from me, this is a one time thing and, this is it, baby.

the minute is about up, and i've not said a thing., But it doesn't always take a minute for that.

jp

Over 2000 Served...Up

On this day in 2005
2000 of our finest are no longer alive

Killed by lies
Killed by deceit
Killed by indifference
Killed by hubris

Murdered by the black heart of our leaders
Who sit only and plan
To make the world free for democracy and butchery

Forgetting, entirely
That one by one
Our young men and women die
Just for the plans that the old men have for the world

Not their world
But fight they must so told
We are the Americans
And we will save the world

I know
What all the old men know, in their blackness,
That nothing more can be done

Except to shovel the dirt on the graves of those who never had a chance.

The liars. The muderers.

Joe Postove

Rosa Parks RIP

It is sometimes the simplest of acts that change the world.

Rosa Parks was not just an ordinary colored cleaning woman who would sit and take whatever whitie shoveled out, but rather a longstanding member of the Montgomery, Alabama NAACP and (as it turned out) a pivotal part of the nascent civil rights movement down there. She shot a broadside across the bow of whitie's arrogant superiority on that December 1st, 1955 afternoon and helped begin the end of unequal treatment, under the law, for blacks in the south (and north too).

She was sitting in the exclusive white section of a city bus (which blacks were allowed when it was not full) when after filling up, a white man "asked" her to get up and move to the colored section. The driver came back and suggested that if Mrs. Parks did not remove herself to the rear of the bus she would be arrested. Most whites in the south thought at the time that this was a perfectly reasonable part of the relationship between the two races, and it was certainly a curious thing that anyone would quibble with it. After all, this was a long established tradition between them, and besides, hadn't they always been good to their niggers?

Rosa Park's feet hurt that day, and goddamn it, let the white man take any number of seats available elsewhere on the bus (God forbid he should sit with colored...he might bring their smell home). But he wanted his rightful place in white society. And how dare this colored girl (she was 42 at the time) question the authority which allowed them their peaceful, second class citizenship.

Rosa Parks was hauled off of the bus, booked and fingerprinted and charged with breaking the law that made that one little seat she had, with her tired feet, and modest demeanor, a white seat, not available to colored when some old cracker fart wanted it.

From then on, nothing was the same. Through the years, Mrs. Parks was an icon and encouragement to others, black and white, who challenged the system of establishment hate. The south didn't really take care of their niggers so well. They were a nuisance.

They would soon find that they were a people too.

Rest well, Rosa Parks. Your work is done.

Joe Postove

Some Pakistanis See Quake as God's Reprimand

Well, duh. How many channels do they get in Pakistan anyway? And how long do they have to wait for the cable guy to get there? Besides, in Pakistan, they're never sure whether or not some guy rolling cable is a tv man, or a terrorist. Or a little of both. I hear you can make a living working both jobs, out there.

The Muslim clerics are concerned that the 300 or so people who actually have cable (And they don't get top of the line sexy channels like we do here, back home. The real nice porn is on the internet as we all know) are being so corrupted that when they hear the call for evening prayers, that they'll have that naughty look on their faces, like they just saw "Debbie Does Islamabad" and forgot to clean up.

They won't stand for this long. Back in the 50's when this region first got regular tv, the clerics banned "Howdy Doody". How they knew what Buffalo Bob was doing with his hand, I can't say.

So, this repressive country, that is our ally in the war on terrorism because our government perves can't distinguish between good and bad will probably quash what little cable tv there is.

And so, they'll go back to sock puppets. Which ain't so bad, once you're into it.

Joe Postove

Adrienne Albert Composer

I have added a link (look to your right) to a most marvelous woman and talented composer, who happens to be a cousin (somewhere up the line).

Take a trip to Adrienne Albert's website, and sample some of her wonderful compositions.

She is both skillful and soulful.

Joe

Yeah, I'm Not That Proud

Whenever someone asks me what I do for a living, and I can't think of a quick and fancy lie, I usually tell the truth and say I work for the newspaper. This brings a bright smile to most folks face, since they think that I'm in some lower grade of show business. What department do you write for? Uh...I'm not in the writing end. Photographer? Well, no. Can't say I do. What do you do then, the lousy interlopers in my life inquise me further.

I work in the circulation department. I am in charge of seven hotels, and am responsible for over 700 papers a day. This mollifies them for a tincture of a second and then they say "you mean you deliver newspapers"? Yeah, I'm nearly 49 and sling newspapers to hotel rooms in the middle of the night. "At least it's a job", say the dopes, who I am beginning to hate more by the minute. I trundle a garbage can full of newspapers down the hallways and sidewalks of hotels and slam those babies against the doors of the guests.

It ain't so bad then, because they usually walk away (but they always say bye) not wanting to pick up my failurestink. The snobs. The fucks. I hate what I do as much as they do, but they don't have to do it, so they get to feel superior to a 49 year old paperboy. I hope they're happy. The morons.

I could lie and tell them about my chain of luxury pay toilets in northeastern North Carolina and extreme southeastern Virginia, that I fantasize about each night before prayers. But I don't tell them. They wouldn't understand.

The shits.

jp

Plotz Not Cream

I was slinging my papers this morning on the route, when I got to the Hilton (by the way, this is a classy hotel...Their stalls are 25 cents just for regular!). The night clerk told me some celebrities were staying in the hotel, and at first, I think, he was a little reluctant to tell me who they were, but finally he said that Drew Carey and his crew were staying there and were to make a personal appearance later today in Norfolk.

I plotzed. I'll leave it to you to figure out exactly what that Jewish word means, but I can say this; that it is better for a man to plotz for Drew Carey than it is to cream for him. That I did not! But as soon as the clerk told me that I could deliver his paper to him PERSONALLY (if I could figure out what room he was in), I thought for a minute I would cream. But I plotzed, and that was good enough.

I wanted to see if Drew was like most stars (Dorothy Kilgallen, many others) who sleep naked, except for that little night mask, like the one Miss Kilgallen wore on "What's My Line" and was killed in. I realize the bigger they are, the more rest they need , and that neat little mask keeps the light out real good.

I skedaddled upstairs, not sure what room Drew was in, but luckily I saw one of the old night watchmen, who likes me, and has a great deal of pity for me (thank God) and after I shook him a few times and offered him a bite of my candy bar, he gave up the room number. I shant reveal it here, on the internet, in order to honor Drew's privacy.

I knocked on Mr. Carey's door ever so nicely, with a gentle swing and sway of my arm, so as not to wake him. But then the night watchmen suggested that if I didn't knock loud enough to wake him up, that it would take a long time for him to get to the door, probably not until he woke up naturally.

I kicked on the door with my boot then, and it wasn't thirty seconds until the one and only Drew Carey was there in the flesh, indeed wearing only his Dorothy Kilgallen mask, otherwise totally unveiled. I was a little disappointed and started to cry.

Drew Carey, being one of the nicer people in Hollywood, took me in his arms and caressed me (as only two heterosexual men can) and explained that he was sorry that his body was not as buff as it could be, asked me why it mattered to me, then unhinged from my hold, closed the door and said goodnight.

When I got down to the van and left for my next hotel, I realized that it takes a pretty big man to sleep in the raw, except for the Kilgallen mask, open up your hotel door to greet the paper boy in the raw, and then cuddle him in a manly way when he starts to cry over your inadequacies.

And this is my famous person story.


Joe

More Aid Headed To Stricken Areas!

Normally when I commit an act of charity I prefer to adhere to the Jewish philosopher Maimonides' third highest level of giving in which the giver knows who the recipient is, but the getter does not know who helped him. Giving, for me, is a selfish act, done for sake of the satisfaction of making, if even in some small way, a person's life better, and thus more able to face the world. I do not want or need thanks. The thanks is in the knowledge of how another needy soul on this planet has benefited.

However, my partners and I are embarking on a major act of loving kindness, which I am now publishing for the whole world to see on my blog, via the internet hole I have created.

We have a chain of luxury pay toilets in the northeastern North Carolina and extreme southeastern Virgina areas that service up to a thousand onesies and twosies every day. Our exclusive pay toilets, at only ten cents per, are known throughout the east coast, and people and their entire families come to our port holes to pee and shit.

We are going to take one tenth of one percent of the total receipts from an entire days servicing, and put that money in a bag, send it over to the Trailway's Bus Station where they will put it on a bus and send it down to the Gulf area where the need is so great. The people there will have no idea that this great act of giving came from the bodily wastes of our customers. And that's the way I think our customers would like it too, I'd say.

If business does not slow down much during the fall and winter, and our folks continue to make with the wild abandon that they have so far this year (by the way, now that peeing in a Big Gulp cup is illegal while driving, we expect revenues to pick up!) we will send more 1/10th pennies down there. Perhaps this time putting them in a bigger sack, if there are more pennies.

Good luck to you all!

This Whole World

Sometimes I see the whole world as naked
And I am wearing a dickey

And the world has gone forward
And I remember every good thing and bad

So look out world
I ain't ready yet!

jp

Playboy Enterprises To Cut Magazine Rate Base 4.7% To 3M!

Playboy Enterprises Inc. (PLA) on Tuesday said it will cut its magazine's rate base down 4.7%, to 3 million. I do not know what this means. I read the article (see link, above) but all I could think of was that perhaps they're caving in to the G-string industry and thinking of covering up their girls a little bit.

Playboy, I beseech thee not to do this! Your naked girls (objectified by their parts to make a great sum, by the way!) are one of the few things worth living for. In my life at least.

Sure, I could go to the internet and get all of the free "human art" that I need, but Playboy is a tradition and any reduction in nudity would be a catastrophe comparable only with the failure of ladies to come out of their hotel rooms in their foo-foo's while I'm knocking out my papers every morning. It is still my dream that Dorothy Lyman will sneak out for ice, just as I get to her floor, and covered only with two ice buckets (inadequate for her, fine for me) sees me and screams with disgust. That fantasy gets me to sleep at night. But, alas, I wait still.

For now, it is important that Playboy keep all of the girls undressed (except for shoes, and the occasional hat) if for no other reason that a little bit of me will die inside otherwise.

Joe

Why Bush Picked Harriet Miers For the Court.

Harriet Miers has been a friend of the president's for many years, his confidant, personal lawyer and made s'mores for the family in her role as housekeeper.

She also polished off the president's dusty areas, was religious and smart, and dispite not having any judicial experience, the president considered her a prime candidate for the highest court in the nation. She was also 60 and had never been kissed (even as a teenager when she thought she may be a lesbo-heathen, as they were called in Texas at the time). She has dated, but that was in 1961 when a local boy took her to the post office to see the wanted posters. She has not had an exciting life.

The fact is Harriet Miers is a maiden-woman. When the president was informed of this fact, he believed it had something to do with her bra, but was disabused of this idea when he saw how flat she was, the one time he walked in on her naked (she, not him...God Forbid!) as she was sun bathing in the oval office. Condi Rice, also a virgin, explained to Mr. Bush that this meant that her hyman was intact and that she was pure.

Bush was unsure of all this, thinking that perhaps an intact hyman suggested a Jewish connection. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but if Miss Miers was a maiden lady jewess, with a fully intact hyman, he wanted to make as much political foo-faw with it as he could.

She doesn't have a lot else to offer up on the table when she is grilled next week by the Senate Judiciary Committee, so the plan is to offer up her "mitt" for examination by the senators, in the hope that her goodness in staying out of bed with a man until she's married will be enough to get her confirmed.

Good luck Miss Miers!

Joe Postove

Hi, Ho Steverino! No More. RIP Louis Nye

He could prance and and flit and nance the hell out of anyone, including Jack Benny (who wasn't really so fey, but he had the walk down pat). Louis B. Nye, who made his comedy bones with Steve Allen and in hundreds of films and television programs has gone to comedy heaven, where everyone is a Miss Priss, not that there's anything wrong with that.

Louis Nye was more than funny, he was fascinating. When he was on screen, you just could not look at anyone else. It wasn't a matter of upstaging anyone, but rather his fancy pants sissy took us by the scruff of the neck, whirled us around, and made us listen when he said "hey there big boy".

Nye was straight. If he wasn't we would have probably lost one of show business' most memorable characters. If he had really been gay, he wouldn't have been able to pull it off (you have a dirty mind). He would not (and could not) have even tried. Joe Besser, the last Stooge in the shorts, was probably more straightforwardly camp, but I don't believe his wrist was as limp as Nye's (Besser was also straight in real life).

Both were stalwarts in a vanishing show biz tradition, the so out there "fag" who was 100% sweet cream, mother love, but even so, could date women, romance them with their peculiar charms and have us believe every bit of it.

When Louis Nye played Sonny Drysdale for a season on the Beverly Hillbillies, his character was so out and open and free and swishy, it would have been almost, I think, unbelieveable for any other actor to play him. We believed when he set his cap for Elly Mae. And we would have liked him to win her over.

Nancy's, fagala's, lightfoots, or whatever the name you put on the swish actors, were not gay, but rather sexless (but not unromantic) pixie's who at first might be annoying, but became sympathetic, with one hand on hip, martini in the other and face that shouted out "I dare you".

Louis Nye dared us, and won us, and I loved him.

Joe Postove



Louis Nye

Now Is Not The Time To Panic!

We'll all have plenty of time to panic when Art Linkletter dies and they find out that he's really been dead the whole time.

The world does seem to have fallen down a well, like a little girl, and no one knows what to do. The last few weeks just look like one cataclysm after another. Earthquakes, hurricanes, extra stupid wars and warriors, not to mention the price of gasoline (that was not a mention, it was rather more a quick peek so's not to upset you more than necessary) makes the world look to aliens who get CNN that earth consists only of tragedy, misery and incompetents who try to fix all that.

This ain't so. Even though we who watch the tube too much have our face stuffed with the horrors that consume our attention like a boy seeing his first bra strap, we must remember this; that the world is and will continue to be a beautiful and awesome place, where peace among individuals interacting just regular like, is almost universal.

It is a place where those of us who are lucky enough to live in a free state are able to live lives of bountiful magnificence, almost totally unbridled. Especially us here, over in America. We get up in the morning to a world of our own filled with 300 channels of entertainment, private autos, food enough to make a Pakistani child faint in wonderment, a system of free and pay toilets, and a whole class of people who's living it is to make our lives easy, happy, lazy, and too often stupid. We have it so good, it's easy to forget just how great it is.

The man who invented the easy chair didn't name it that because his name was Easy. He didn't name it at all, since he had a stroke trying to move his bowels in one of his chairs, forgetting that it was not one of his chain of pay toilets. Thank God he gave us a place to sit and look at, and escape from, those rare places in the world where the folks have fucked up, or God has.

We sit in our overstuffed chairs, fat and happy (as it should be) and tut-tut the news. So tut-tut until you're happy. But do not forget that the world is our gorgeous girlfriend, and we should appreciate her great body and good personality, and forget that sometimes she needs a bath.

She'll take one, eventually.

Joe Postove

At 65

Yesterday
John Lennon Would Be Sixty Five
If He were Still Alive

Dead, He Lives In Sound And Memory And Essence
But Die He Did On That December Night 1980
Shot Dead By No One
Who Still Walks His Slim Corner

We're Still Trying To Just Get A Little Peace, John
Christ You Know It Ain't Easy
Wish You Would Come Back

But Mommy's Only Looking For A Hand In the Snow

Meat Tenderizering Company To Close!

Lloyd E. Rigler, an entrepreneur and philanthropist who made his fortune selling Adolph's Meat Tenderizer announced today that he would be closing the company saying "all meat has been tenderized, our work here is done".

Meat advocates around the world immediately protested this action, saying that there was much more tough meat out there, much more than even the folks at Adolph's Tenderizer Company knew about.

They say there is tough meat, mostly in the outlying areas, where cattle tend to drink too much. In fact, according to sources, meat is tougher than ever, especially for those with false teeth.

Mr.Rigler realized early on that meat would have to be tenderized. He invented a meat tenderizing system that pulled the meat through a house on choo choo trains filled with candy corn, ginger ale and pie hats, feeling that if these ingredients could not tenderize the meat, nothing could. Indeed, he was successful on this small level and then proceeded to spread the new "Adolph's Meat Tenderizer" throughout the nation (except Oklahoma where meat tenderizing is a crime) and soon became worth over $10,000.

Interestingly "Adolph's Meat Tenderizer" was originally call "Hitler's Meat Tenderizer", but this name was changed during World War Two.

Even though "Adolph's Meat Tenderizer" has been pulled from the market (by numerous choo choo trains set up by Mr. Rigler to make sure that all the Meat Tenderizer was taken away with verve) most meat critics in New York and Chicago believe that it won't be long until another Meat Tenderizer comes along, as most people will never be satisfied with the tenderness of their own meat.

jp

The Bitch Had Two Mommies

Everyone knows that Lassie had several husbands (Jeff and Timmy being the most notable) but how many of you knew she had three mothers?Since (widow) Ellen Miller was her first mommie, starting with the premiere of the TV series, we'll assume that she was her natural mother. Her son was Jeff, who saw to it that Lassie was always in position to run for help whenever he and his friend Porky fucked up.

When "Gramps" died of a heart attack in Vegas in 1957 (well...maybe not in Vegas, but in the barn) Ellen and Jeff sold the farm as quickly as they could to a couple of rubes from out of town (they couldn't make a profit with rutabagas) and moved to Capital City where I'm sure Ellen became a waitress and Jeff met an early death, since as we now know they left Lassie on the farm with the rubes, and he probably got shot in a botched liquor store robbery.This is where the inspiring story of Lassie becomes a little confused. But follow along. I promise a powerful climax (or you can x out this blog).

Before "Gramps" died, the family adopted Timmy, who was an orphan. When Ellen and Jeff left for Capital City, there wasn't room in the truck for Timmy AND Lassie, so they left quickly before anyone noticed. Ellen left a nice spread for Timmy in the ice box and some dog food for Lassie. Luckily the Martins were to arrive the next day.

When Ruth and Paul Martin got there they took Timmy and Lassie in. But these two people were aliens. They must have been, because these two "Martins" were not June Lockhart and Hugh Reilly like they were supposed to be, but CLORIS LEACHMAN and JON SHEPODD! If Lassie hadn't been a family show, I could have sworn I heard the narrator say "what the f..." when these two impostors showed up.They moved in, ate the food, kept house, raised some crop that kept gas in the car and movie money in their pockets. They acted like they belonged there. I said to the TV, "no..no, watch out Lassie, these two are up to no good. They don't even look like country folk".Well, Mr. and Mrs. Martin stayed on the farm for a year; raising Lassie and Timmy as their own and then on the first show of the 1958 season they disappear and June and Hugh show up, as if nothing had happened and take over the farm.

They live there for several years until they get tired of Lassie and escape to Australia, and make up some story about "dog quarantine" that prevents them from taking her along. Timmy and the second Mr. and Mrs. Martin leave her with somebody who loses her and Lassie runs off and then and then...then, let's just say she saves the world and doesn't give a crap.That's the story of Lassie's three mommies. I hope your children enjoy it.

Joe Postove

Notes On New Orleans: They May Need Less Money??!!

The Congressional Budget Office said this week that the city of New Orleans may need far less than the 200 Billion dollar figure bandied about in the days and weeks after the nuclear eviseration, I mean, hurricane that hit the city in August. The director of the agency said that he doesn't think they'll need anywhere near that figure.

Isn't that just like our insensitive government, to shut down the golden spigot even before any of that tasty Federal swag can slush down to this devastated city.

We've all seen the pictures of what was wrought down there. And if that's not a two hundred billioner, then I need a new pair of government issue eye glasses to go with the hunks of cheese I get every month. This won't stand.

How can a government official of high standing (and up in Washington, too!) not understand that two hundred billion is probably just the beginning? That New Orleans is going to need to be refitted with all new doo-dads, gee-gaws, pip pips, and places for perverted sex before she's back to normal. And these things cost money! Dagnab it!

They need lotsa stuff. New public housing so we can bus back the slaves to serve Whitie, fur rimmed outhouses for the elite, gold teeth for those that lost their originals in the flood, and, shucks, what ever the hell they want, need, desire, crave, hanker, hunger, itch, and long for, plus lust, pine, thirst, yearn, and yen after (thank you Merriam-Webster).

LESS than 200 Billion? Are they insane? It's going to cost that much just to wash the shit off of Mayor Ray Nagin's face after they face him upwards after lying face down in the Orleans fruit-shit-oil-grease and gizz melange for the last month, trying to find more dead.

Look. The Chinese are grabbing up our toilet paper bonds as fast as the people of New Orleans can shit in a phone booth. Shouldn't we at least come up with the 200 Bil that we promised?

Well, No. But I'm a Libertarian. And they'd throw me in a re-education camp before letting one of us be proved right.

Joe Postove

I Shoot For High Mediocrity

I do not do anything exceptionally well. Sure, those of you who read my Bolg know that I can toodle that fucking trashcan full of newspapers and throw them against hotel doors with extreme prejudice, but I don't count that as a skill since I've been doing it so long. I think of it more as a mental illness, in which I am allowed to act out.

Except. Yes, except one thing. I do this thing so well that when I tell people about it, they are loathe to believe me unless I show them. No, it's not my numbers or letters, I can count pretty high and I know my ABC's. This is a skill that I have developed over the years into an art. More an art form, since I don't think many people take this form of artistry seriously.

What it is. What is it? I can PARALLEL PARK excellently! Give me a space just the size of my van, and I can fit that mother in as tight as Zsa Zsa Gabor wearing Eva Gabor's bra. And that's some tight fit. Zsa Zsa was a "c" cup (still is, except now she is all hunched over with age, and I am unable to take her measurements properly) and Eva is dead, so unless I dig her up and tape measure her, I can never be totally exact on this point).

I am a smooth gadabout when it comes to talking to women about my "power parking". I don't know if they are really that impressed though, or if it is that they spit in my face because I tape measure them too, just to compare with the Gabor sisters. One day, just for practice, I will show a nice girl how well I park. And I won't insist on tape measuring her breasts. I am a gentleman if nothing else. Except a wonderful parker. Or I could be nothing. I need to watch more television.

Someday I will invite you all who read me here (unless it's more than 3, then I'll have to cull the invitation list a little) to watch me parallel park.

And that will be your stone groove for the day. Thank you.

Joseph N Postove

Happy Birthday Chubby Checker!

Happy Birthday Chubby Checker!Today is Chubby Checker's 64th birthday, and according to the Academy of Rock and Roll Science, Chubby has twisted to the moon and back seven times, and expended enough twistenergy to light up Times Square for a week in 1961, when it was what it was, and was pretty dark.

I think most people believe Chubby to be just the keeper of the flame of a cool, but short lived craze from the early 60's, but he, and the Twist were so much more than that, and he does deserve the music industry's beatification from the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame.

Chubby was one of a small handful of rock and roller's that kept the music from totally degenerating into a hideous pile of Paul Ankas, Bobby Rydells, and a bunch of other white bread heartthrobs that were popular between the deaths of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, The Big Bopper, the imprisonment of Chuck Berry (Mann Act...fell in with a 14 year old girl), Elvis entering the army and THOSE movies, Little Richard taking off the cloak of Rock and holy rolling for Jesus, and the breakout of the Beatles and the British invasion of the mid-sixties.

Rock was sick in 1960. And Chubby Checker brought to music an excitement, and new style of dancing, where couples could dance apart and swing like never before. Chubby helped keep the music together between the end of the original rockers and the onrush of the real 60's music. And he could do a mean folk song (see below)

He is far, far more than an oldies act. He is a cultural icon and deserves membership in the Hall Of Fame. It is to their discredit that he has not been invited into the club.Check out Chubby sometime if he comes to a town near you. He is a fine entertainer and even at the age of 64 can twist most people up and down until they can twist no more.

Long live the champ! Chubby Checker!I go crazy for twisting. Send me to 1961, and I'll be happy.

Enjoy Hooka Tooka, one of Chubby's great folk songs!

Joey "Hey Let's Twist Around The Clock" Postove

Newspapers or Pies

Now that summer is over and the hotel business is falling off here at home, my newspaper route is taking a hit. Instead of the usual 700 or so papers I might deliver to the seven hotels that I serve, now I'm seeing 500 or so, and this of course means less money since I'm paid by the paper at the rate of 10 cents.

As I rocketed around with my trashcan full of papers this morning, it occurred to me that I may have to transition away from newspapers and incorporate some other type of service to money up my poor old pitiful wallet.

I ask you, the American people, what do you think about me rolling around a trashcan full of pies and hot coffee along with my regular newspapers and servicing the folks with a two-fer? That way they can get their early morning fix of information from the paper, and throat down a couple of my pies and coffee while they're at it?

I haven't worked out all of the particulars yet. Like where to bake the pies, who will bake them, how to pay for the ingredients, whether or not to make the coffee onsite or to percolate it in my van, using the cigarette lighter to heat everything up. I realize I haven't put as much thought into this as I should, and perhaps I should concentrate more on my idea to legalize prostitution in my apartment (ladies only...God Forbid!).

As we get closer to the Jewish Holidays (which this year I shall celebrate by standing up in Shul and proclaim Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior ....I like to fuck with my Jews) I want to come up with new ideas and schemes, to make money and retire early, so that I can watch more television in the middle of the night instead of delivering newspapers the rest of my life.

Or I could get a wife, and do that.

Joe

Ogunquit, Maine

Ogunquit, Maine, is a tiny hamlet by the sea that treasures its old fashioned ways, and tidy small town lifestyle. It may be filled with liberals, but it looks like a Norman Rockwell cover of the Saturday Evening Post.

It seems all American enough, with its Mayberrylike facade of barbershops, diners and public spaces that would look fine in any Frank Capra film. It is, unfortunately, presided over by totalitarians who believe in the power of government to control the people and the property of their lovely town in order to keep that small town look, by strict Stalinist-like standards, if necessary.

Ogunquit is the latest town nationwide to consider a law over so-called "formula" businesses. From Maine to California, more than a dozen municipalities now have laws that ban or restrict chain restaurants, motels, retailers and other establishments. In other words this town is a rotten apple. It looks just fine on the outside, with it's artists studios, genteel antique shops, bed and breakfasts and other goodies that would make any 1950's phile drool. On the inside, however, it has the heart of a Peyton Place, where any deviation from the accepted norm is verbotten.

No MacDonald's, K-Mart, Wendy's, or any of the other establishment that scream "America"! Instead, by force of law, Ogunquit wants to limit the right of the people to use their property as they see fit, unless it conforms with "small town Americanism". And that's funny. Because what Ogunquit proposes is the opposite of what small townism and that movement to retain or restore it, is all about.

There is more than one way to vote. And the wonder of capitalism (one of its wonders) is the ability of the people to vote with their feet, pocketbooks, loud voices and what not. And capitalism, unlike any other system, "remembers" that the right of the individual is not one speck smaller than the so-called rights of the majority.

So if Ogunquit wants to keep its lily white sheen of a small town intact by removing the rights of the people and their derivative rights of property, I guess they can.

Just rename it Ogunquit, North Korea. (That would have been Russia in the old days, but they're not many communist countries left these days).


Joe Postove

Google's Birthday

Google (the search engine, not the kosher butter) celebrated its 7th birthday this past week, and with all of my preparations for the Jewish New Year and Yom Kippur (I took a bath) I forgot to pay homage to this great icon of the internet.

My friend Alison, over on her blog gave a nice nod of the head to our masters of the net, but I feel the need to enlarge on that bit, just a tittle.

Perhaps in verse:

Google, thy name is mine.
For whenever I look me up there I am.
With the stars of the universe.
And the canners of ham.

Endless are the websites you serve.
For all, the Christian, Jew, and perve.

Naked ladies and Popes with Christ.
You make us proud to click on you.
And best of all,
You care not what we do.

So celebrate, this seventh year.
With the light of knowledge,
Just the push of a button,
I am web glutton.

Long may you live sweet search engine 'o mine.
With porn and blogs and filched music devine.
And when the day comes that thee goes astray,
We'll look in Yahoo, to see what they say.

Joe Postove