We Have Moved!!!

Well it was bound to happen. We are leaving blogspot. Oh sure, we could point fingers...Liz forgot to pay the mortgage, Liz pissed off the neighbors with her loud drinking and frequent passing out nude on the front lawn, but I don't want to make this all about her faults.

I offered to let her write the exit post and she declined, so now she has to be happy with whatever I say.

Regardless of who's fault it is, we have gone on to greener pastures. With the help of the amazing web designers, Jester and Dan, we now have an all new and improved Killer Rants.


www.killerrants.com

Now, Don't cry, if you follow the link above, it will take you to our new home. Please update any links accordingly and come on over. Free Booze!

I know why they spit wine out

Liz's wine lesson 101:

I like to think that I can discern a good beer. Killer would disagree with my assessment. He likes them hearty, strong and dark. Although I like my men that way, I prefer my beer light and only hinting of hops.

Lately I've not had any beer in the fridge. I KNOW. I keep forgetting to stop and get some and when I've gone to the grocery it's always been before they can sell beer (Sundays at noon they wave a green flag and aisle is a free for all). Since I don't have any limes or fruit juice, I'm stuck drinking wine.

I say that like it's a chore. It's not. But I've grown a little weary of wine this month. I've probably finished off a total of 9 bottles by myself since July 1. And I've gone through all the good white wines. All that's left are these red ones. I pee maroon. I'm tired of it.

Red wine is beginning to taste like I imagine dirty feet to taste. It's not helping that I'll take a gulp and let it sit in my mouth for several seconds before I can swallow it. It's like 1,000 shoeless first graders having a dance off inside my mouth. That's just icky.

I have come up with an idea, though.

I have some Lemoncello in the freezer. I find Lemoncello to be too strong and overpowering. What I thought I'd do is make some lemonade ice cubes, blend those with the Lemoncello, and add a splash of Bourbon. A lemon-Bourbon daiquiri, sort of. It might not be worth a damn, but it's got to taste better than feet.

I'm also tired of people telling me that the Rieslings I prefer have no medicinal value. They keep pressuring me into buying this red shit for my health. Have people not yet figured out that "health" falls WAY below "buzz" on my priority list? It's like when strangers tell me that smoking is bad for me. I GOT THE MEMO FROM THE SURGEON GENERAL- every time I buy a pack of cigarettes. Jeez. Don't you have a child somewhere you can go beat?

Step Off, Mutha

Liz and Killer set the ground rules.

As you might imagine, Killer loves me. That's why I like it when he approaches me about a "sensitive" topic. He's gentle. He starts with hints. He pretends like it's really my decision. It's sweet.

But Killer and I are mismatched cobloggers. You see, he cares. A lot. He is the perfect blog administrator. He watches the numbers. He goes out and tries to solicit new readers. He tries to force, I mean, mentor me to use hyperlinks so that "we" can connect to your posts. He tells me that it's courteous. He strives to make us number 1 on certain Goggle searches like "MooseKnuckle". He makes sure we have at least 6 fresh posts per week. He brings a lot of love to the show.

I, on the other hand, only write. I am the humble talent that depends on my manager to tell me when it's time for me to take the stage and when it's time for me to leave. I show up drunk half the time. I'm often late. I can't always remember my lines. Thank god for Killer.

We were together on Sunday. He told me that he felt bad about "stepping" on my Catfish Jones post. It is a pretty good story, and I had noticed the lack of comments. He takes the blame saying that had he not stepped on my story, I certainly would have gotten more and better feedback. He knew I was dangerously close to something fatal. Talent can be so emotional!

But really, I don't think about such. I might post 3 entries in a row. When the muse is hot, you gotta oblige. He says I should save them and post them later. Give our readers a chance to absorb the post, reflect on the post, comment on the post. Don't shoot the wad.... hold it, hold it...

That requires exercising writer's patience.... something I just don't have. Hyperlinking requires knowing a code... something I would rather not use a perfectly good brain cell for. Soliciting readers from new places takes lurking and whoring yourself out... something I save for weekends.

So what you end up with is Killer Rants! A combination of a man who loves the technique of blogging, the competition of increasing readership, the beauty of the technology- and then there's this chick who likes to tell stories.

Killer, you are the Yang. Thanks for being the "ROCK" here at Killer Rants! That being said, I have to advise: if you step on this post before 4:00 Wednesday evening, IT'S ON! And the talent can be pretty nasty when it's called for. Nobody puts Baby in a corner. NO BODY!

Living With The Bam Fam

Killer mooches like a pro

Being back in Mississippi has brought about some ugly truths. I am officially homeless. I have been a traveling nurse for so long, living in corporate, furnished apartments, I have had no need for furniture or a permanent home. I don't own a single object that will not fit inside my Jeep Wrangler; except my Jeep Wrangler, and attempting to place a Jeep Wrangler within itself creates all kinds of folds in the space-time continuum that I can not properly explain with my neanderthalic understanding of basic math.

I would normally sleep at my parent's house with my sister's house as a safety flop house, but my sister, brother-in-law, and their baby have temporarily sought refuge at my parent's house whilst they build a new, shiny, deluxe version of a house. Add my little brother, who is also residing in my parent's house, and I am suddenly, and unceremoniously without an abode.

Enter the Bam. I have mentioned Bam in the past. He is a frequent travel companion, and often I worm my way into his "family" vacations. Bam graciously offered up his spare bedroom, he actually offered up his half of his bed, but his lovely wife would notice if the lump sleeping next to her doubles in size, and body hair density.

I love the Bam family. They are quirky, funny and they never ask questions about all the strange animal noises that emit from my room during the night.

Upon entering the Bam Fam Pad I was quickly set upon by the Lady of the House. She wanted to make sure I knew the rules of my continued stay. I am given full run of the house with no limits or expectations, save two.

1. No blogging naked
2. No blogging about family secrets or idiosyncrasies.

The Bam Fam Matriarch apparently is a daily lurker here. She keeps close tabs on Killer Rants and does not wish to see the family wash portrayed for all the world to see. I assured her that I am a man of integrity and outstanding moral fiber.

As I sit here in the Bam Fam computer room, stunned by the frostiness of the shiny, pink plastic chair against my bare buttocks, I can not help but be tempted by the intense desire to retell the strange effects sleeping pills have on Mrs. Bam or the frequency of Bam getting his ass kicked by his 14 year old daughter; alas, I refrain.

The Mississippi nights can be temperamental and the roaming wild life is intimidating. Until I have another secure place to lay my weary head I will be forced to hold my tongue and keep the dirty little secrets to myself. Although, I must add...me NOT blog naked?!? NEVER!

Southern Glory

Killer is feeling good in the neighborhood

Well, I am back South again. The accents get oddly thicker as you drive across the country on I-20. It starts out as Latino tinged English to full blown Spanglish, back to Latino and then the Southern drawl makes a gradual appearance. Finally you will find yourself reaching over several half filled jars of pickled pigs feet, paying the toothless, mullet wearing woman behind the counter for your gas and RC Cola. "Ya'll gots Cal'forny license plates...is you in the movies? Is you a fruit?"

Welcome to Mississippi.

I have enjoyed my homecoming. I got to see my new born nephew, Kade. It is amazing how much a baby grows in six months. He is already drinking beer and shooting animals with a rifle. Go Southern Genetics! I also get to spend more time with my family, mostly watching Kade try and walk. He is six months old, so the beer makes it hard for him to keep his balance.

There has been a few moments spent with my friends. I love when you are away for a long spell and then can just plop back into a conversations with old friends, as if you never left. Life is good.

I have not even thought about work. I am going to be as lazy and as shiftless as possible for a few weeks leading up to my vacation. I find the best way to enjoy a vacation is to do nothing for a long time before hand. I don't want to waste any valuable time trying to unwind from a job. I try and maximize all my vacation time vacating. After four weeks of lounging about the beaches of the Philippines I will then take about a week or so to de-vacate before attempting to find a new job. I have seen many example of people pulling a muscle or having a nervous breakdown from trying to jump right back into working after an extended vacation. I am very much in support of preventative health care, so I will take it slow when it comes to getting back to work.

When, and If, I finally feel ready I will begin the process of finding a job. Luckily, in the nursing profession that means I walk into the first hospital I see, show my nursing license, they check for a pulse, and I am hired. No rush, no fuss, it doesn't take much fancy job interviewing to shove medicine up someone's ass.

I will keep you dutifully informed of any major changes or occurences. Or I might just get drunk and try to post in drag.

Mississippi-California Blogger Summit

Sorry it has taken so long to post my side of the story, but I have been enjoying the beach in San Diego and am now on the road towards Mississippi.

So, this past Friday I finally got to meet some more peeps off Ye Ole Blog Roll. I drove from Sacramento towards the Bay area to hang out with the following:
Jester
Othurme
UMB
I also got to meet Dan, the code-savant, and Celeste, who lives with Jester and UMB.
You can see pics of the first few moments of this adventure at here at Jester's site. I am not sure why I did not break out my camera, but Jester got plenty of pics, hopefully he will post more eventually.

It is always interesting meeting fellow bloggers. You are never really sure what to expect. Liz and I had discussed, in depth, what we thought Jester and Othurme would dress like. Liz had Jester nailed as a khaki pants and sandals kind of guy, but was way off on her belief that Othurme would be wearing at least one article of clothing that was stone washed. I will only admit to being mocked by Jester for thinking he would be more "metro-sexual". Apparently I just came across as stereotyping, and was informed that a homosexual can't really be called metro-sexual. I could only hope that they had secretly assumed I would arrive wearing over-alls with no shirt and driving the truck from the Beverly Hillbillies.

On top of meeting them for the first time, I was actually meeting them at Jester and UMB's house. There was going to be no hiding for these guys. I was going to see all their dirty secrets. I was immediately stunned by the amount of livestock that reside in that one house. There were several dogs, some birds, a couple of lizards, and maybe a cat (I can't remember). I kept waiting for an ostrich to go strutting by the back porch. Apparently they are animal lovers.

I arrived early to go over a web design project Jester and Dan are putting together for me. Hopefully it will be ready and operational by the end of the week, and the whole world will get to see the amazing work they can do. I'll keep everyone updated on that.

Shortly after the nerdy geek stuff was out of the way, Othurme showed up and the real party could begin.

We went to eat at a brewery, since it is known that I am a beer geek and they are good hosts.

Dinner was normal and fun. I could easily see myself hanging out with all these guys on a regular basis. Everyone was funny, but not overbearing. It felt very comfortable and no one was over the top or trying to dominate the evening.

The end of dinner discussion was, "what do we do now?" The options were to go back to Jester's animal kingdom and chill with a few more beers or go to a club that they usually frequent and do things up right.

Othurme quickly voted for the low key home plan and Jester was all about going out to the club. So, it fell to me, the "guest" to decide. Usually I am all about keeping it real at the house. I am not really a loud, dance club type person, but it is a special occasion and I was still on a night schedule. So, I opted for the club. You can acutually see Othurme's real time reaction here: at Jester's site.

The club turned out to be a gay club.

I have no problem with gay people or gay clubs. Hell some of my best friends are gay. By best friends, I mean I know a few. I don't mean "know" in the biblical sense. Seriously, I used to go to a few in Mississippi. It is a little known fact that a lot of hot straight chicks go to gay bars, and you can usually get a really good conversation going before they realize that you are not gay, and are trying to get into their pants.

The bar was about thirty minutes away from where Jester lived. I always thought that you could throw a rock any where in California and it would bounce off a dozen gay bars, but apparently, outside of San Francisco, you have to work for it.

After being at the bar for a few moments I was offended. Not by the abundance of gay people, but by the fact that no one seemed to be checking me out. I easily fall into the "bear" category and I have a self image of myself as irresistable to the gay community. Having lost a good bit of weight recently, I might have lost too much, but I think it was just really a straight bar and Jester was embarassed about hanging out with straight people, so he lied to us about it's gayness. I don't blame him. It must be embarassing to be seen out with a couple of straight guys.

Or atleast a couple of guys in total denial about their gayness.

Catfish Jones

Thinking about my dad's old pal, Catfish, got my mind rolling on some good Catfish stories. He was quite the character and, once his antics got totally out of control, was forbidden by my mother from coming over to our house. Luckily this didn't happen until I was in high school so I can still remember the mystic that is Catfish Jones.

First of all, I'm pretty sure his real name isn't Catfish but his brother's real name is Charlie Daniels. I also know they are from a small town in Mississippi and that if Bo and Luke Duke ever ran across themselves in Bizarro World, they would be staring straight into the eyes of Catfish and Charlie Daniels Jones. The Jones' are those kinds of boys that, had they not been friends of my father's, would have scared me as a kid. And rightfully so. They're the kind of guys that now, at 35, I would either LOVE to hang around with or I would loathe. Sometimes with this brand of good-ole-boy comedy comes stupidity and prejudice. But also, usually some pretty damn good stories.

For some reason, I feel like I may have written about this before. Oh well. If so, it's worth repeating.

One time Catfish and my dad had been out playing golf at some work/play day. They roll into the driveway and Catfish is HAMMERED. He called his girlfriend to come and pick him up. We lived on a fairly busy street, with plenty of houses on it. One of those long, straight streets, so there really weren't many landmarks before you got to our place. Catfish's woman was trying to get directions and his slurred speech in combination with his total lack of sense was making it difficult. He told her not to worry about it, just to get on Rainey and drive. She'd know it when she saw it. He then took his clubs out of his golf bag and made a giant arrow pointing to our house. It is some funny shit to watch your dad's friend running out into the street, stopping traffic, collecting his golf clubs, waving traffic by, carfully laying the clubs back on the asphalt and then repeating the process. Over and over and over again.

If I blog tomorrow, and if nothing else seems more pressing, I'll tell you about Catfish and his leg infection. It's my favorite of all the Catfish Jones stories.