Re the death earlier this week of David Allan Coe, a Fakeberg friend of mine posted this and I just had to swipe it.
As someone else said in the comments over at FB, you see this photo and you just KNOW some crazy shit’s getting ready to start. Heh. Indeed.
The perfect country song.
BACKSTORY: At NYC’s great old dive-bar, the Village Idiot (the original on 1st Ave, that would be, not the later incarnation over on W 14th), whenever the above tune came on the jukebox, whoever was tending bar would crank it waaaay up, every fist in the joint would be raised high in the air in gleeful defiance of…whatever, and every hoarse, cracked, alcohol-dehydrated voice would sing along with every last syllable. I tells ya, it was some of the most fun I ever did have in my life.
My old roomie Lisa bartended at the Idiot on Wednesday afternoons, and most of those days she’d call me at home around 5 or so demanding that I get down there right away because she was lonely and bored to tears by then. Afternoons tended to be kinda dull at the Idiot; the place didn’t really start to approach escape velocity until around ten or so, see.
Which request for company I was always quite happy to oblige. This reminiscence might convey some of the cheap-beer-sodden ambience of that truly magical place.
THE VILLAGE IDIOT
When I was 19 years old, I got a job working at a bar on the Lower East Side in New York City. You would’ve thought I had gotten into Harvard by how happy I was. The place, The Village Idiot, was a popular hole in the wall on 1st Avenue and 10th Street – far from Harvard.The owner, Tommy, was a giant Irish guy with an afro. Tommy was from Queens, and his success came from the authenticity of the bar he opened. Everyone loved him and his bar. There was nothing self-conscious about The Village Idiot, or Tommy, for that matter. He was a generous, kind man who loved to party and everybody loved him for it.
So that was Tommy – he was the brand and the bar was his product. Just like any great product, it was honest. It was honest because it was exactly the kind of place Tommy would have hung out had he not opened it himself. It was not a concept, and the people that came there intuitively knew that, so they came back, and they always brought a friend.
The Idiot, as it was lovingly referred to, was a narrow, dank “box car,” but not as big. There was a juke box up front that was on from the moment we opened at 10:00 am until the time we closed – sometimes 4:00 am, sometimes 2:00 am. This was dependent on how drunk Tommy got that night. One of his “tells” was if he came in licking his lips, hide the money. If his lips were dry, you were probably going to be okay.
The juke box was stocked with a collection of country music that was vast, impressive, and perfect. “The Box” had to be full blast at all times. Tommy lived above the bar – and he would call down, “Turn the box up! I can’t hear it.” We sold Pabst Blue Ribbon in a can for a dollar, and Tommy would occasionally bite the middle out of a can of beer to thrill his patrons if things seemed a little slow.
All of the bartenders were women, and were encouraged to drink with the customers. I started making fake pitchers of kamikaze shots because I would get so drunk I couldn’t do my job. Literally – I could not function. I’d pour you a real shot and I’d drink watered down kamikaze mix. No one ever caught me or cared. We were not allowed to wear hats behind the bar because Tommy said that was bad luck.
Another thing I well remember about the Idiot was something the girls working behind the stick called “the Idiot Virgin Ceremony,” a privilege reserved for those lucky souls who were experiencing their very first trip to the seedy, smelly little joint.
See, the unsuspecting newb was required to sit on a barstool with his back to the bar, bending his torso far enough back so that his head rested atop the bar. The on-duty bartendress would then tuck a rolled-up towel around the victim’s neck below his chin to cope with any potential overspill, grab a fifth of bourbon and one of tequila, clamber up onto the bar, straddle the victim’s head, squat down, and turn up both bottles into the guy’s mouth, inevitably splashing raw booze all over said victim’s face, neck, head, and shoulders. The vic had been sternly instructed beforehand that he was NOT to raise his head off the bar, scream for rescue, or in any way refuse the “service” he was being provided as an Idiot Virgin, on pain of punishment most dire.
I learned about the IVC when my friend Joe came up to visit from North Cackalacky, and Lisa did it to him. They ended up falling in love L-U-V, whereupon she moved out of our cramped shithole on Ave B and down to NC and in with him, staying together for several years before the formerly happy couple blew apart like an A-bomb.
I checked the Morehead City PD’s Fakeberg page and no shit, it’s for real.
As I said to a cpl friends of mine earlier: I would drive a hundred MPH right through the middle of Morehead City just to get pulled over by that thing, then resist arrest so’s I could get a look inside. The cop-shop Wienermobile is not merely cool as some cucumbers, it’s fucking GLORIOUS.
Once upon a time, there was a lovely old song went a little something like this:
Now, down the years since it was written there have been many versions of this particular song cut by many artists, many of them females. I just used this one because, I mean, come ON, man, it’s Nat King Cole—of COURSE I did!
Which is not germane to the central point of this post; no, this remarkable story of marketing superdupergenius is.
Los Angeles Rams Cheerleaders
The Los Angeles Rams Cheerleaders are the official National Football League cheerleading squad representing the Los Angeles Rams team.History
They were established in 1974 during the team’s original tenure in Los Angeles and were known as the Embraceable Ewes. The cheerleading organization became known as the “St. Louis Rams Cheerleaders” when the team moved to St. Louis, Missouri. Beginning with the 2016 NFL season, the organization changed its name to the “Los Angeles Rams Cheerleaders” to associate themselves with the recently relocated Los Angeles Rams football team. They also have their own television show by the name of LA Rams Cheerleaders: Making the Squad.
Heh. Bold mine, because I absolutely love it.
And now, ladies and germs, are you ready for…Batgirl?
Yep, that’s the one, the only Yvonne Craig, also seen below.
Tally friggin’ HO!!! (Special thanks to Dave Dietz for the supercalifragilistic YC photo up top)
Update! Well how ‘bout that: Turns out the smokin’ hot Miss Y was also on ST-TOS back in the day.
Updated update! As promised/threatened, for SteveF.
Julie Newmar. Also Julie Newmar:
YOWSA!!!
Update to the updated update! Now THIS is what I’m talking about, people.
I repeat: YOWSA!!!
Gird your loins, John Ronald Reuel lovers.
If ‘Lord of the Rings’ Isn’t Quite Dead, This Guy Can Finish It Off
The Fellowship of the Ring — the opening chapter of Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy, one of the greatest achievements in movie history — turns 25 this December, and since then, Hollywood has inflicted one indignity after another on Tolkien’s masterpiece. The worst may be yet to come.What’s it called when the greedy mining company takes the tailings from its strip mine and runs them through the smelter one more time with all the reckless abandon of Gollum diving after the One Ring into Mount Doom?
Ah, yes — it’s called The Lord of the Rings: Shadows of the Past, and lame-duck late-night host Stephen Colbert will co-write it with his son, screenwriter Peter McGee, for Jackson and Warner Bros, which now owns New Line. Variety reported late Tuesday that Colbert, “a vocal Tolkien fanatic,” and McGee will write a screenplay “from chapters of The Fellowship of the Ring that didn’t make it into Jackson’s 2001 adaptation.”
Or as the movie’s official logline put it, “Fourteen years after the passing of Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin set out to retrace the first steps of their adventure. Meanwhile, Sam’s daughter, Elanor, has discovered a long-buried secret and is determined to uncover why the War of the Ring was very nearly lost before it even began.”
So Shadows of the Past won’t really take us back to 2001 and fill in the missing parts of Fellowship. It will take aging versions of Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin and saddle them with an all-new girl-boss.
Fan reactions on X range from “I’d rather jump into the fires of Mount Doom” to “What is this need to mar great artistic works with slop fan fiction manglings?” Despite my best time-wasting efforts, I was unable to find a single positive response.
Maybe Colbert is a vocal enough Tolkien fan to make this work. Or maybe Jackson and his crew should do what Saruman couldn’t, and just leave the Shire alone.
A big, fat AAAAA-fargin’-MEN to that, Steve.
Update! Ace puts in his two cents:
Good heavens, what an absolute disaster.
We have the Hunt for Gollum coming up, directed by Andy Serkis, who just remade Animal Farm as a pro-socialism, anti-capitalism message movie.
And now Warner Bros. has hired this absolute assclown to write a draft of what is being called “The Shadow of the Past.” The concept of the movie is not terrible: A good part of Fellowship of the Ring was cut out of the Lord of the Rings movies because of time restrictions and also because it contains the character Tom Bombadil, who is just a big ball of plot questions. Like, given that he has godlike power that makes even Gandalf and Elrond envious, why doesn’t he just take the ring? (Tolkien’s lame answer: Because he’s flighty and would eventually just forget about the ring and let it go back to Sauron.)
The reason this section of the book is worth possibly making a movie about is the creepy, scary encounter with the Barrow Wights. If you know, you know.
So Colbert, I guess, pitched the idea of doing these four chapters of LOTR as a stand-alone mid-quel movie.
Couldn’t they just have said “Yes that’s an okay idea, here’s $20,000 as a finder’s fee, now fuck off”?
Sure they could’ve. But being shitlibs, they’d have never, ever, dreamed of doing such a thing, thereby offering tacit insult to one of their most iconic Trump-deranged heroes.
Our favorite Shamrock, Lakeside Joe Jackson, has a Saint Paddy’s Day post featuring a few old-school Irish pubs that’ll have ye pantin’ for a pint of stout, whether ye be a beer drinker or no. Yes, there are photos, and they’re awesome.
This Rock & Roar dude is a bona fide all-caps GENIUS.
That one’s gotta be my fave, but R&R has a crapton of these, including Judas Purrst, Slipkcat, Catallica, and this next one.
At last, something AI can do really, really well.
Update! ZOMG, just found this one. My new favorite.
Heh. Go, Angus!
The legendary Yogi Berra gives us all a demonstration of what greatness really is.
More than a decade after New York Yankees legend Yogi Berra passed away, his family has announced a deeply moving decision: fulfilling his last wish – auctioning off his entire Hall of Fame collection, estimated to be worth around $8 million, to raise money for charity.
This news immediately stunned the MLB community. Not because of the $8 million figure, but because of the meaning behind it. According to family representatives, Yogi Berra clearly instructed in his will that his awards, championship rings, Hall of Fame medals, and other memorabilia associated with his illustrious career should not be kept as family property, but should be used to “help those in need of opportunity.” A family member shared in a statement: “He always said that the rings and trophies didn’t belong to him alone. They belonged to his teammates, his fans, and his community. He wanted them to continue creating value.”
Initial estimates suggest the total auction value could reach or exceed $8 million. All proceeds will be distributed to various charities, including veterans’ support, youth education, and medical research.
As Lakeside Joe notes, in addition to the fame he earned on the baseball diamond during his illustrious career behind the plate as catcher for the gottdamned Yankees (gag), Yogi was perhaps even better known for his malapropisms, self-contradictory sayings, and random nonsensical gibberish. To wit:
Here is a sampling of some of the most famous sayings that have been attributed to the Yankees icon.
Perhaps his most famous of all: “It ain’t over ’til it’s over.”
“Baseball is 90 percent mental. The other half is physical.”
On posterity: “I always thought that record would stand until it was broken.”
“You can observe a lot by watching.”
“If the world were perfect, it wouldn’t be.”
About a St. Louis restaurant: “No one goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.”
About the effect of the sun in left field in the old Yankee Stadium during late-season games: “It gets late early out there.”
About Bill Dickey: “He learned me all his experience.”
“If people don’t want to come to the ballpark, how are you going to stop them?”
“We made too many wrong mistakes.”
“Pie a la mode, with ice cream.”
“I wish I had an answer to that, because I’m tired of answering that question.”
“You tell the stupidest questions.”
“Never answer an anonymous letter.”
On the great Sandy Koufax: “I can see how he won 25 games. What I don’t understand is how he lost five.”
On lining up for a Spring Training drill: “Pair ’em up in threes.”
On the 1973 Mets: “We were overwhelming underdogs.”
The recording heard on the Yogi Berra Museum and Learning Center’s phone: “This message won’t be over ’til it’s done.”
“In baseball, you don’t know nothing.”
“I’m not going to buy my kids an encyclopedia. Let them walk to school like I did.”
“All pitchers are liars or crybabies.”
On his hitting approach: “I can’t think and hit at the same time.”
“He hits from both sides of the plate. He’s amphibious.”
“When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”
On economics: “A nickel ain’t worth a dime anymore.”
“Always go to other people’s funerals. Otherwise, they won’t come to yours.”
And last but certainly not least: “It’s deja vu all over again.”
Heh. THAT’S telling ’em, Yogi!
Just gotta append this great pic of Yogi from his Yankee days:
Taken during spring training in 1957, that one was. God bless you, Yogi Berra.
The reliably-superb Titiana McGrath (that’s how she used to spell it way back when, it seems to have changed recently) lays some of her unique insight and wisdom on us dumbass plebes.
Communism is the only guarantee of human happiness. It has always worked wherever it has been tried. One need only consider the progressive reforms of Joseph Stalin in Russia in the mid-20th century. Those who refused to sign up to Stalin’s ideas tended to die young, which just proves that Communism saves lives.
Now that we’ve reached 2026, surely it’s time to try this system again. Our new era has already begun, with Zohran Mamdani taking over as Mayor of New York. For those who don’t know, Mamdani is a devout Muslim who has promised to make New York a “sanctuary city” for the LGBT+ community. It’s what the Prophet Mohammed would have wanted.
If it’s a choice between being warm or frigid, I know which I’d prefer
Some bigots have argued that homosexuality is incompatible with the Islamic faith. But in fact, homophobia is extremely rare in Muslim-majority countries. This is why there isn’t a single LGBT+ community centre in the whole of Afghanistan. Everyone is so tolerant that there is simply no need for them.
Communism is the philosophy of the masses. Whilst careerist right-wing politicians have wasted years studying for degrees in PPE at Oxford, all of the greatest left-wing leaders of history have been out there working in the real world. Nicolás Maduro was a bus driver. Nicolae Ceaușescu was a shoemaker’s apprentice. Mao Zedong was an assistant librarian. Zohran Mamdani was a rapper whose lyrics promoted intersectional social justice activism.
Who among us could possibly quibble with analysis as penetrating, as incandescently brilliant, as this?
Okay, I gotta admit, this made me laugh.
Dunno if they’re supposed to resemble Zeros or not, but what they look more like to me is FW 190s, excepting the prop spinner. The accompanying textplanation:
Yes, it’s Bluto’s (John Belushi) now iconic gaffe in “Animal House” come true: “Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?” Those are German planes on the cover of Michael J. Clark’s history book for young readers about the sneak attack that brought the U.S. into World War II.
Just think about all of the careless, irresponsible boobs, including the author and the cover artist, who had to breach the ethical values of competence, diligence and respect for that book to be published and put on the market. How many must it have been? Then you can add to that List of Shame our pathetic, ruinous education system, which has produced such a nation of dolts that not even a humble secretary or passing clerk had the knowledge to point out, when they saw the book as it made its way through production, “Uh, aren’t those German planes?” Anyone who did, thus preventing this epic embarrassment, might have received a promotion or a bonus. Or at least someone would have bought him or her a nice lunch.
A history book? SRSLY?!? Just hilarity heaped upon hilarity, really, as far as the eye can see. I do believe this Clark feller’s cover artist probably needs to seek other employment for which he is better suited, lest all the pointing and laughing leave him disillusioned and depressed.
(Via Ed Driscoll)
God, I LOVE it!
Amelia is the Voice of the People, she is The One pic.twitter.com/pGf32ieoBV
— Amelia the Patriot (@AmeliaOnSolana)
Via here, with backstory.
Our friend MWC reminds us of a YUGELY important day of remembrance.
Today is J.R.R. Tolkien day. If you feel like it, raise a glass to The Professor at 9:00 pm your local time.
My boxed set of The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings is one of my treasured possessions. The daughter of a friend just told me she is re-reading the books and was halfway through The Return of the King.
Between Tolkien and C.S. Lewis (yes, two ends of the spectrum) I found new worlds and new ways of looking at the world. They led me into a lifetime of reading.
Ditto here, girlfriend. For years, I would re-read the LOTR trilogy every fall, because September was when both Bilbo and Frodo began their epic journeys.
A Christmas story for the ages, one that exemplifies courage, character, and unswerving commitment to the non-negotiable demands of personal honor, patriotic duty, and obligation.
Late in Bing Crosby’s life, his nephew Howard asked him a casual question while they were out playing golf together.
“What was the single most difficult thing you ever had to do in your career?”
Howard expected Hollywood stories. Maybe gossip about a demanding director. Perhaps… pic.twitter.com/KGKfTgAVmu— Farm Girl Carrie 👩🌾 (@FarmGirlCarrie)
“Show more,” my saggy, baggy ass.
Late in Bing Crosby’s life, his nephew Howard asked him a casual question while they were out playing golf together.
“What was the single most difficult thing you ever had to do in your career?”
Howard expected Hollywood stories. Maybe gossip about a demanding director. Perhaps the pressure of a high-stakes film production or a struggle with studio executives.Bing didn’t have to think about it at all.
December 1944. Northern France. The war in Europe was grinding toward its bloody conclusion.Bing Crosby was on a USO tour, performing for American GIs and British soldiers far from home during the coldest, darkest days of winter.
That night, they set up an open-air stage in a field.Fifteen thousand soldiers gathered to watch. Bing was joined by Dinah Shore and the Andrews Sisters.
They sang, they joked, they made the men laugh and holler—a brief moment of joy in the middle of a war zone.
Then came the closing number.
“White Christmas.”The song had already become an anthem for homesick soldiers since its release in 1942. It played constantly on Armed Forces Radio. Men who hadn’t seen their families in years, who didn’t know if they ever would again, heard those opening notes and thought of snow-covered streets and Christmas trees and the homes they’d left behind.
As Bing began to sing, he looked out at the audience. Fifteen thousand men were crying. He had to finish the song. He had to maintain his composure and his vocal control while 15,000 soldiers wept in front of him. He told his nephew it was the toughest thing he ever had to do in his entire career.
What made Bing Crosby’s USO performances different from his Hollywood appearances were the small choices he made. He refused to wear his toupee. He hated the thing—called it a “scalp doily”-and wore it only when absolutely necessary for films.
But entertaining troops was different. “If I’m entertaining troops,” he said, “I’m not going to wear anything phony like a toupee. Forget it.”
He also insisted that officers and brass could not sit in the front rows. Those seats were reserved for enlisted men. The soldiers who would be on the front lines. The men who faced the greatest danger.
A few days after that performance in the field, those same soldiers were sent into combat. The Battle of the Bulge began on December 16, 1944. It was the largest and bloodiest battle fought by the United States in World War II.
The Germans launched a surprise offensive through the Ardennes Forest in a desperate attempt to split the Allied lines. Many of the men who had wept listening to “White Christmas” in that field in France never came home.
Bing Crosby tried to enlist when the war began. He was told he was too old. General George C. Marshall, the Army’s chief of staff, told him directly:
“Look, Bing, we don’t need you in the front lines. We need you raising money for the war effort.” He wasn’t just an entertainer to them. He was a piece of home. Bing never forgot it. 🙏♥️
Leftists who viscerally hate anything that reminds them of what America once was have smeared Bing Crosby as a nasty, hateful racist, bully, and two-bit tyrant who viciously ran roughshod over others and used his wife and children as punching bags—a distorted, unidimensional portrait which disgracefully omits the man’s finer qualities.
Is there anything in all the world as clever, creative, and devilishly ingenious as an old-school biker? I think NOT!
Heh. Saw something along similar lines years ago at the Myrtle Beach Spring R&ally, on a Big Twin parked up in a metered space across the street from the Pavilion. Difference being, on this one the trailer-hitch ball was mounted atop the back fender of a gorgeous Panhead bobjob, right behind the solo seat where the bitch-pad would usually be. Around the hitch-ball, in traditional tattoo-script lettering, were the words, “Ride THIS, bitch!” Too, too funny, I thought.
Brings to mind the time some drunk hooer followed me out to the bar parkig lot hoping to cadge a ride with me on my bare-knuckle 71 FLH. After a lot of the usual sniveling horseshit, the bint wanted to know where the sissy-bar was, as if I’d somehow contrivde to hide the stupid thing. Now, I‘d never had a fucking sissy-bar on my old Shovel and never would if I had anything to say about it. I always built my bikes to be lean, clean, mean, and fast. No frills, no flash, no BS.
And no passenger seat or sissy-bar, neither. You wanna ride bitch behind me, babe, then go snag a cpl-three hand towels from the bartender, fold em up nice and tight, and tuck ‘em under your ass for a cushion. Alternatively, you could just ride the damn fender, latch onto something solid and secure, and hang on for dear life. Either way works for me, I already KNOW where I’ll be sitting.
So naturally, I turned to face the woozy, boozy broad and rasped, “Sorry, this bike ain’t for sissies.”
As the T-shirts used to have it: chrome don’t get ya home, loud pipes save lives, there’s no replacement for cubic-inch displacement, and horsepower is its own reward. Twist on the loud handle until that ornery old Milwaukee Mule cackles like a fat bitch, in Goose’s unforgettable words. Another thing he used to say after a bunch of us had been out TT (Tavern-to-Tavern, that is) racing and were ready to head on back to the shop: “These other mopes think they ride hard, but when me and you put a bike back in the barn after a good putt she’s breathing heavy, drenched with sweat., and her tongue is hanging out two or three feet.” Coming from Goose, I knew that was praise indeed.
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"America is at that awkward stage. It's too late to work within the system, but too early to shoot the bastards."
—Claire Wolfe, 101 Things to Do 'Til the Revolution
Claire's Cabal—The Freedom Forums
"There are men in all ages who mean to govern well, but they mean to govern. They promise to be good masters, but they mean to be masters."
—Daniel Webster
“When I was young I was depressed all the time. But suicide no longer seemed a possibility in my life. At my age there was very little left to kill.”
—Charles Bukowski
“A slave is one who waits for someone to come and free him.”
—Ezra Pound
“The illusion of freedom will continue as long as it’s profitable to continue the illusion. At the point where the illusion becomes too expensive to maintain, they will just take down the scenery, they will pull back the curtains, they will move the tables and chairs out of the way and you will see the brick wall at the back of the theater.”
—Frank Zappa
“The right of a nation to kill a tyrant in case of necessity can no more be doubted than to hang a robber, or kill a flea.”
—John Adams
"A society of sheep must in time beget a government of wolves."
—Bertrand de Jouvenel
"It is terrible to contemplate how few politicians are hanged."
—GK Chesterton
"I predict that the Bush administration will be seen by freedom-wishing Americans a generation or two hence as the hinge on the cell door locking up our freedom. When my children are my age, they will not be free in any recognizably traditional American meaning of the word. I’d tell them to emigrate, but there’s nowhere left to go. I am left with nauseating near-conviction that I am a member of the last generation in the history of the world that is minimally truly free."
—Donald Sensing
"The only way to live free is to live unobserved."
—Etienne de la Boiete
"History does not long entrust the care of freedom to the weak or the timid."
—Dwight D. Eisenhower
"To put it simply, the Left is the stupid and the insane, led by the evil. You can’t persuade the stupid or the insane and you had damn well better fight the evil."
—Skeptic
"There is no better way to stamp your power on people than through the dead hand of bureaucracy. You cannot reason with paperwork."
—David Black, from Turn Left For Gibraltar
"If the laws of God and men, are therefore of no effect, when the magistracy is left at liberty to break them; and if the lusts of those who are too strong for the tribunals of justice, cannot be otherwise restrained than by sedition, tumults and war, those seditions, tumults and wars, are justified by the laws of God and man."
—John Adams
"The limits of tyranny are prescribed by the endurance of those whom they oppress."
—Frederick Douglass
"Give me the media and I will make of any nation a herd of swine."
—Joseph Goebbels
“I hope we once again have reminded people that man is not free unless government is limited. There’s a clear cause and effect here that is as neat and predictable as a law of physics: As government expands, liberty contracts.”
—Ronald Reagan
"Ain't no misunderstanding this war. They want to rule us and aim to do it. We aim not to allow it. All there is to it."
—NC Reed, from Parno's Peril
"I just want a government that fits in the box it originally came in."
—Bill Whittle
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