Little Happy Clouds

"Oh, that would make a nice place to fish. I like fishing, but I'm not a very good fisherman. I always throw the fish back into the water, just put a band-aid on his mouth, tap 'em on the patootie and let him on his way. And maybe some day, if I'm lucky, I'll get to catch him again."

-Bob Ross


...


To Bob,

There are people in life, who transcend what they do,
We watch in awe, and try to learn from these rare few.
Bob Ross was a man, who was more than he portrayed,
He asked so much of ourselves, told us life was to be played.

We soaked up his wisdom, we did as were told,
By enjoying our lives, and exploring our souls.
He gave us a window, to see what could be,
Whether we painted or not, he set our minds free.

Clouds and trees, flowers and bees,
Rivers and mountains, birds and streams.
The palette of Ross, it was just nature to some,
But to those of us who knew, it was balance and calm.

Bob had a vision for us, to him our futures were clear,
Just let go of ourselves, just let go of our fear.
It was never about painting, we just didn't know,
You took us to new places, just knowing we'd grow.

Inspired by love, to be something great,
Given the confidence, to imagine and create.
It takes bravery to paint, such happy little clouds,
And Bob you gave us, so many reasons to be proud.

Happy Birthday, Bob.


- Bones Bayou

El Corrido de Juan Antonio Rodriguez


Sientese mijo porque le voy a cantar de una leyenda,

Nació en la sierra,
No tuvo padres le dio vida la tierra.
Pero eventualmente dios del césped se hizo,
Jugaba su deporte como un niño, y por eso su cara nunca tendrá liso.

Cuando fue joven conquisto los corazones,
de todo los fanáticos los viejos y los jóvenes.

Con un palo en su mano,
Treinta a ganado,
Escuche porque lo que digo es verdad hermano.
Le llamaron el Chi Chi,
El mas chingon el pinché.

No es traficante pero tiene el respecto del Barbie y del Chapo,
Con conquisto los corazones de todo los gabachos.
De Augusta a Santo Andrés hizo amigo,
Los americanos e ingleses fueron testigos.
Mayores nunca a ganado pero casi tres veces,
El dios del sacate o si preferiré el césped…


-Oiga papa y porque un corrido?
Y porque no pequeño?
-Chi Chi no es Mexicano es Puertorriqueño
Ah que jodido!

...

The Ballad of Juan Antonio Rodriguez

Sit down my son because I'm going to sing to you about a legend,

A child born in the mountains,
He didn't have parents, his life sprang from the dirt fountains.
Eventually the God of the Lawn is what he would become,
He played golf like a child, his face without wrinkles, and always stayed young.

He conquered the hearts of fans, the young and the old,
With a stick in his hand, is what he would hold.
Thirty titles he won,
Listen to me, there is truth in this song.


They called him Chi Chi,
The baddest man we see!

He wasn't a drug dealer but had respect from The Barbie and El Chapo,
He conquered the hearts of the others, the white folk, the gringo.
From Augusta to St. Andrews he made all his friends,
The Americans and English were all witnesses.
Majors he never got, but almost three he won,
The god of the grass, or if you prefer, the lawn.


-Hey dad, why a corrido?
Why not, my son?
-Chi Chi isn't Mexican, he's Puerto Rican!
Ahh...shit!

(Special thanks to guest writer, Federico García Loco)

After a hard night's rain, the early autumn chill has settled over this corner of Appalachia, and the old barn with all of its many holes and cracks, is providing little resistance to the elements.  The boys are already hard at work, patching up the #51 car. Its in rough shape, for sure, but crew chief and stock car sage Harry Hogge is confident in his team. With the Winston Cup race heating up, he knows they are a long shot. But he's been working on stock cars for damn near thirty-five years, and he's got a trick up his sleeve this time. A new driver, fresh from California, is going to drive this fifty-one car to a championship. Or at least that's what this old country boy thinks. As the crew tinkers with some body work the barn door creaks as the chosen one, the hot shit, the new driver Cole Trickle comes inside the damp room.

"How we looking guys?" He says to the crew.

"Well," Hogge starts while wiping his greasy forehead with a rag, "She's coming along. Still needs a few things on the engine, but we'll get her hummin'."

Trickle walks around the car, running his index finger along the smooth, unpainted body.

"Not bad, not bad," he muses. "Still need to get my special move on it though."

"Your special what?" Hogge snidely chuckles, clearly annoyed by this suggestion.

Trickle, not budging, states his case. "My move. All the greats have one. Gotta have my move."

"Cole, you stupid sonofabitch. It 'aint like that anymore. This is NASCAR, there are rules. This 'aint that rodeo racing shit you've been doin'." Hogge, losing patience, bends down to return to work on the car.

"Harry," Cole says confidently, "Its perfect. I was playing Nintendo last night and those damn oil slicks kept messing me up. So I need you to install an oil drip, make it look like a leak, but I can control it from the dash."

Laughter erupts in the room. Hogge stands and walks over to stand nose to nose with Trickle.

"Yeah, Cole," he says dismissively. "Whatcha gonna call this brilliant move?"

Trickle doesn't move an inch, and stares into Hogge's eyes.

"The Trickle Down Effect," he says coldly. 

Super Bowl Shuffle Remix (ft. Mike Ditka)

Walter Payton

Sweetness the name, so don't forget,
Linebackers see me and they start to sweat.
I keep them guessing, I keep them scared,
When Sweetness totes the rock you best beware.
I juke to the left, I juke to the right,
Got cornerbacks staying up at night.
I can do it all, the best back there is,
Sweetness is the greatest in this business. 
We didn't come here to look for trouble,
We just came here to do The Super Bowl Shuffle.


Jim McMahon

I'm a rebel, I don't take no junk,
A stud QB and I aint no punk.
You know my name, call me Jimmy Mac,
I'm too fast for those Pats to sack.
Tossing TD's is my claim to fame,
The coolest quarterback, in the game.
I do it with style, I do it with ease,
I make big plays because I aim to please.
That's why you all got here on the double,
To catch me doin' the Super Bowl Shuffle. 


Refrigerator Perry

The Fridge is coming, so run and hide,
Take the women and children and go inside.
The biggest baddest man in the whole damn league,
Take a hit from the Fridge and your head will bleed.
Pancake your offense, bulldoze the line,
When I see the QB I know he's mine.
And don't forget, the ground and pound,
Give Fridge the ball close and its a touchdown.
I don't come here lookin' for trouble,
I just came here to do The Super Bowl Shuffle.


Mike Ditka

I'm the leader, the coach of this team,
They say I'm tough, they say I'm mean.
Check out my sweaters, how cool they are,
See me on the sidelines, with a cigar.
My mustache keeps the ladies, by my side,
They see my coach shorts and they want a ride.
Ditka is the name, and now you know,
Beat the Pats easy, god they blow.
I keep beer and condoms, in my duffel,
But we just came here to do The Super Bowl Shuffle.

 

We're off to see the Wizard,
The wonderful Wizard of Boz!
We hear he is, a whiz of a wiz,
If ever a wiz there was!

Another sack from the wizard,
The wonderful Wizard of Boz!
Forced fumbles his biz, just for the kids,
And he does it just because!

No tackle can block the Wizard,
The wonderful Wizard of Boz!
The guards they try, they pull they pry,
He leaves them grasping at straws!

He's so big and strong, the Wizard,
The wonderful Wizard of Boz!
So maybe he used, a steroid or two,
And maybe he broke some laws!

He will always be the Wizard,
The wonderful Wizard of Boz!
They can't take that away, oh those things that they say,
He's still the best there was!

If ever, oh ever, a Wiz there was,
The Wizard of Boz is one because,
Because, because, because, because, because,
Because of the wonderful things he does!
We're off to see the Wizard
The wonderful Wizard of Boz!

Study: White Men Cannot Jump

Los Angeles, CA -- A new study released today by The Institute of Sports Stereotypes has concluded that white men cannot jump, supporting the long held belief among those in the scientific community. This is startling news to the group of vocal supporters that insist on an alternative hypothesis that white men can and do jump, though for some as of yet unknown reason they mostly choose not to in public. This group, coined "Jumpers," has denounced the study as mere propaganda against the white basketball player.

"I'm still not buying it," says Pale Jumpers of America spokesman Chase Budinger. "We've seen time and time again these types of studies, and each time I go outside and perform a 360 dunk out of spite."

Despite the protests from Budinger's group and others just like it, the evidence in the report is damning. According to the study, an estimated 97% of white males cannot jump. That leaves deniers such as Budinger as outliers.

Reactions from the local players at Los Angeles' famous Venice courts finds mixed support for the findings.

"We've known for years that white dudes can't jump, " says Venice playground legend Sidney Deane. "The amount of money I've won off these cats trying to tell me they can dunk...man. Heck, I stopped even trying to throw alley-oops to my running mate Billy (Hoyle). Tired of watching that (expletive) sail over his stupid head."

We found Deane's two-on-two partner Hoyle, sitting on the bleachers with a colorful flippy ball cap on turned backwards.

"Yeah I heard about the study," says an incredulous Hoyle. "Don't mean nothing to me. I've dunked before, I'll dunk again. What, you don't believe me? I'll dunk it right now. Five hundred says I can dunk right now on this court."

Despite Hoyle's protests, the stigma will remain. The Institute says it will now move on to study the dunking ability of dogs first proposed by Air Bud, as well as ongoing research on young kids developing major league caliber pitching ability after breaking their arms.

Recently uncovered letters between onetime teammates Manute Bol and Mugsy Bogues show a contentious and fragile relationship.

Recently, Cleveland Indians radio announcer Harry Doyle and his colorman Monty sat down with Indian’s manager Lou Brown to talk about the surprising 1989 season. Here is the interview.


Harry Doyle: Lou Brown, best damn skipper in the bigs. Let's talk about that magical ride in '89. The Cleveland Indians, assembled like shit thrown at the wall and left for dead, go on an absolute tear and catch the those Yankee bastards. What was the spark, Lou?

Lou Brown: Well Harry, it was a few things. The vets we had were solid. Taylor, Harris, even that blowhard Dorn. And I knew we had a little something with some of our young guys. Couple a future All Stars in there I tell ya. Hayes, goddamn was he fast. Talked a lot, but he really set the table for our bats like Serrano. And Vaughn of course. Man that sonofabitch can deal.

Doyle: Let’s talk about Wild Thing. Cultural phenomenon, a local icon really. Healthy rap sheet to match, mostly parking tickets I'm sure. Can you explain it?

Brown: You know Harry, I just can’t say. Vaughn comes in to that damn song and people lose their shit. 'Aint seen nothing like it in forty damn years. Hell of cannon on him. That’s the only advice I ever gave him. “Just give ‘em the heater, Ricky.”

Doyle: Throws a heater in a wife beater, right Monty? Anyway, Lou, how about the big fella Serrano? Big bat, scary motherfucker too.

Brown: You’re telling me. Came into my office after a game and asked for the next day off from practice. Asked him what for, tells me he needs to purify his bats in a tub of sheep’s blood or some horseshit. I said you learn to hit a curveball and I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do.

Doyle: Hope nobody brought the family dog to the clubhouse. He had a thing with Harris right?

Brown: Well, I try to stay out of the guys’ business. But those two really got after it and effed up my clubhouse. Jesus this. Jobu that. Just shut your holes and play some ball. But Harris was our rock. That old sack of shit was throwin’ the lord’s junk or something. Helped get us to the dance.

Doyle: What about Jake Taylor. You pulled him off the scrap heap, knees like jello, looked like it was time to put him out to pasture. But he stays in one piece and has an All Star season. What gives? He juicing?

Brown: (Laughing) Taylor? Juice? Only juice he takes has vodka in it. But Jake sure did come through for us. Team leader, tough S.O.B. too. Really helped Vaughn come along. He’ll be in my seat someday.

Doyle: Well Lou, thanks for chewing it with us. I don’t care what they say about ya, you’re one hell of a guy. Right, Monty?

Monty: …

Doyle: Exactly.

ACT I
SCENE I

The scene opens with Walter White driving his late model Pontiac Aztec frantically through the streets of Albuquerque, NM. His face is in an obvious state of distress, and he is sweating profusely. He violently swerves down a well manicured street, stopping suddenly as he pulls into the driveway of Jesse Pinkman's home. Rushing inside the house, he confronts Jesse who is napping on his futon.

A lady walks into a bar with her goose. The bartender comes up to her and says, ''Why did you have to bring the pig in with you?''

The lady answered, ''Excuse me, I think this is a goose.''

The bartender replies, ''Excuse me, I was talking to the goose.''

Another dazed patron forces the bar door open and slogs out into the blustery and unforgiving Buffalo freeze, a gust of air rushes in. Nobody blinks. The remaining crew at Upstate Jack's Tavern holds their heads in their beers, and their hearts in their fists.

Its another January evening, and another Super Bowl loss. That makes four in a row, but who's counting.

These men have gathered here for four season's running to rejoice and share in one of sport's great gifts. That rare championship bond that generations pass down, where tall tales become stories, and stories become legends. They have talked excitedly about what it will be like when it finally happens, because surely God has no sense of humor this cruel. This is their year, they say, this is the one.

Wide right, was a fluke, they claim, Norwood a martyr. The Redskins got lucky, the Cowboys the same. And yet again all the talk of overcoming this curse and healing this town has come crumbling down, now rusting away at what little hope remains for that triumphant moment.

Buffalo is a tough town, everyone knows that. But even tough guys have their limit. The remaining few at Upstate Jack's are reconciling their emotions over stunned silence, the alcohol only making it worse. Finally, another rises and puts on his coat to leave. He breaks the silence, his words a jarring interruption.

"Well," he says as he opens the door, "At least Thurman didn't lose his fucking helmet this time."

For never again will there be another like Sabo!

And with that I exited the bathroom and charged down the hallway, my pink skirt flailing as I ran. You see, children's kilts were awful hard to come by in our small little town.

Hope springs eternal of course, with Stafford and Calvin leading a new path. But the ghost of Scott Mitchell lurks from behind, waiting to pounce.

And on the ground a broken man, the one they call Harden.

Blauser stood up from is chair, limped over to Mickey and whispered gently in his ear. "You've seen the bulge," he said softly. "It's Beck's cup."


RIP Rod 1968-2007