Instant mashed potatoes and other foolhardy ideas

Seems like it's been a while, a few years have passed since my last post and still I have nothing to say but I am trying.

I receive several emails yearly from old blog pals inquiring about my status and wondering if I am currently daisy fodder or wearing stripes. The truth is that I stopped reading and writing completely. At the time of my past posts I was finishing a book per week and had a journal full of scribbles and writings filled.  Life, as it does for most changes and mine did back then. I will not bother you with the dreich or dribble of it, but please know that I thought of many of you often.

Recently after moving house, I found my old writing journal and was flooded with emotions of both pleasure and pain. The pleasure of discovering the old leather bound notebook, accompanied with the utter pain of knowing that it had been barren for years still filled with the throbbing contents of my head. Fast forward to now and yours truly is mired in busy. Running a business, raising two teenagers, taking care of an elderly live in family member and coaching multiple teams, etc...

Finding the old journal gave pause to a life most hectic, a life plugged in to societal demands that requires coin and membership. I turned to the last page to see what I had written and in July 2013 the last journal entry in the newly found leather bound journal was:

INSTANT MASHED POTATOES AND OTHER FOOLHARDY IDEAS

Folks, that is all for now.
Sausage Fingers.....

Say Jesus backwards

Hello, it's Sausage!

After a much needed break from all writing
 I feel the need to empty the noggin once again
and purge the system of the toxins within.
Like the terminator once said - I'll be back.
More to come, perhaps after the World Cup.
Cheers...

I don't hug trees but I might start

There's a wee town on Florida's west coast called Dunedin, it's rich in Scottish heritage and boasts a truly great highland games as well as many worthy pubs. Men walk around in kilts and even though it's 80 degrees you can feel the highlands in the air. Although never confirmed I imagine the name Dunedin is a mix of Dundee + Edinburgh two of Scotland's immortal cities one of which spawned yours truly.

I will get back to Dunedin shortly because I want to make a life point here: There are many things a man can do to prepare himself for the battle of life, a man will be challenged over and over and by the time he has reached thirty I suppose he will have had his share of scraps and tussles and bar fights and beatings, or maybe it's just me.
That being said by the age of 14 most lads will start building the body for the oncoming battle.

By the twenties your body is hard and and fast and if you keep it up through your thirties you are on a good path. By the time a man reaches forty, he most likely has a family, a 401-k, mortgage and other obligations that keep him on the clock until he reaches the ripe old age of 65.

My point? well in the beautiful wee town of Dunedin something happened that no matter how hard the body or sharp the mind or how well stocked the retirement cubby is, an event so cataclysmic no human defense would matter.





SINKHOLE!

                

Your P90X will not aid you during this biblical reconstruction of terra firma!
So go ahead and drink that extra pint or have another donut because when you feel that rumble under your feet even the fastest bolt on the planet can escape the sinkhole. My heart goes out to those affected by such a miserable tragedy, what on earth does one do to deserve this? Life on this little rock is fragile enough.
Hug your weans and kiss your spouse because at any time the earth can open up and swallow you whole - Literally!


Another sinkhole opened up in Orlando earlier this year close to the theme parks.

I don't hug trees but I might start.

 

The Gallant Wanderer

December 1979.
Travelling west to Glasgow to watch Scotland take on Belgium at Hampden Park.

It seems as if this trip with dad was a combination of two things.
1. Watch the glorious men in dark blue perform their majestic dance.
2. Collect the money owed from the man in hiding, apparently the juice was running.

Comfortably slouching in the passenger seat of the pillar box red XJ6 clad in jeans and black leather I pretended to be a gangster. Be careful what you wish for because a few years after that trip while living in South Florida I was in the employ of the "Greeks" and I do not mean the college fraternity lads and their paddling rituals but rather the type that promoted the exports of Columbia and Bolivia to the rich of South Beach.

Dad was suited as usual, a hardworking man from the docks of Dundee who rose to high levels as a business man due to an astringent work ethic and perhaps some nefarious dealings to which I was not privy to or would even understand as just a lad at the time.

The two ladies answered the blue wood door, their necks like giraffes stretching out and around inquiring as to who was interrupting their precious slumber.
Father requested the presence of the so called man of the house as it is he that owes a sum of money and today it is to be paid.

I was told to wait in the car but like most inquisitive lads I snuck out to hear what dad was requesting of the ladies.

As I stood behind my Father I was able to see their perplexed look as they began to spin their wordy excuse, I watched as the two ladies presented a tale worthy of a golden statue, all while only offering their long necks behind the blue wood door. I realised later in life that my Father could have easily smashed that door and entered their habitat in search of the debtor if only the lad was not present.
The giraffes finished their repose as to the whereabouts of the offender with the statement-
"He's a gallant wanderer."

He's a gallant wanderer...there it was, the words that stuck with me for years to come never leaving the memory and always bringing images of the giraffe ladies.

My Father retreated from the blue wood door in a volatile state and the giraffes returned to their safe slumber never to be seen again but always remembered...always.

We now drive to a market where the hunted supposedly earns a bit if coin, on the way I keep saying over and over - A GALLANT WANDERER...A GALLANT WANDERER.
What did it mean? I did not understand the words spoken by the cautious longnecks all I knew is that those words had taken over my head and the joy of the weekend and the match had been replaced with the thought of a man on the run whose label was Gallant Wanderer and had nowhere to hide because every where he went he would be pointed at - There goes the gallant wanderer.



Back in those days the culinary simplicity of a good chip shop would usually satiate the needs of young sausage but on this day even the delight of a black pudding supper with two pickled onions could not offer recluse because the words kept playing over and over.

I don't know if my father ever collected the debt or if the debtor was ever found, we did however spend the day in Glasgow and being at Hampden surrounded by your people was an memorable honor.
A concrete and steel castle every little space filled with saltires of blue and white and Lions on the rampage and enough tartan to fill a book about tartans.

Still to this day I think about that trip with my Father and the two giraffes and their glorious words that embedded so deep into my cerebellum at such a young age. I often wonder if seeing my Father in his other business role led me to what I became after we switched continents a few years later.

The memory is usually triggered a few times a year when I imagine the XJ6 and the deep smell of her luxurious seats. The noble and daring giraffes in defense of their breadwinner so cautious yet callous in their lies. The black pudding supper and two pickled onions and how lacking they were for the first time. The utter joy of watching Scotland standing next to your Father in the national stadium while witnessing the glory of 22 men, one ball and a green silky carpet perform what most young Scots lads dream of. And of course the words so elegantly described to label the pursued...a man who may yet still be on the run, who knows the whereabouts of the one they call the...
GALLANT WANDERER

My wee corner in the Creggy



A piece of my childhood has just been evaporated from existence as I learn of the closing of the Taychreggan Pub in Dundee.

The Taychreggan was a revamped Victorian mansion turned pub in the 1970's, it was also the local of mum and dad which by default made it my second home.

The memories of this wee spot on the globe still linger in the noggin, many nights and weekends I gladly watched my ma and pa along with their gaggle of mates drown their sorrows at the Creggy apparentyl we were v.i.p.'s because I was always allowed in but had to stay in the corner with my coke - cola not Colombian flake! that was years later.

I witnessed my father broker many deals at that bar while nursing down pints along with generous amounts of whisky and my mother held court with her half pints and other mixed concoctions. I sat and watched it all.

I was fortunate enough to learn early on the promise of a good pint and the amber allure of a glass of the water of life while watching the good people at the Taychreggan Pub drown their sorrows and fill up their happiness with Scotland's finest liquors.

 I sometimes wonder if my time in the corner watching and listening, observing the drunk and down trodden people of Dundee saunter into this wee corner of the globe has formed me as a man.
Was it this place that taught me my take no prisoners persona as I remember grown men beaten and thrown curbside for their offenses only to return the following night for another round of liquid courage.

The closing of the Taychreggan pub is like a wee part of my soul dying, a remembrance of happy times when my father and mother were younger and held the world in their hands with such verve.
I can still smell the place when I walk into older establishments, that old wood and aged leather aroma the air thick with fermented hops and the clinking of many glasses.

The noise of loud conversation and the whispers of money and deals all while I sit and watch and learn the ways of men.
I still use the lessons I learned in that wee corner as I weave my way through life.

The memories of the Taychreggan will live in me forever.

The last owner of the Creggy

 

A History of Violence - no mas

The life of  Tommy McNaughton -
a Dundee lad in Miami.

Decades of violence, drugs and lies coupled with the nightmares that accompany the horrors and shame of a once poorly chosen lifestyle. A lifestyle chosen in youth when the flash of a car and the allure of a pistol hardened the body but softened the soul, as the song says
"It's the lure of easy money, it's got a very strong appeal."

I can't sleep lately, even though for the first time in a while I am in my own bed comfy yet troubled. The flashback of that night keeps me awake and the bitter taste of defeat rumbles in my belly like a healed wound punctured once more.

I can clearly see that night a long time ago in Miami a strong young man with quick and powerful hands and a temper built by the picts. I picture the walk to the ring, the well imbibed crowd spitting insults my way as I dodge cheap beer and peanuts listening to chants of gringo...gringo...gringo. It was a Friday fight night at Cooper's Gym and I was on the card versus a tough Cuban mauler named
Guillermo Cortez aka "El Toro."

Something was gnawing at me that night and as much as I tried I couldn't focus on the task at hand, my subconscious was going mental! I couldn't move as well as I usually did and it felt like running in a pool of honey while being pummeled by a man that on an any other night I could have easily put away in the second.

Cortez put me down in the third round, the game plan went out the window in the second round when nothing was working and I opted for the quick knock out. Anyone that has studied the sweet science will tell you that if you go for the knockout too much you open yourself for the counter. I made a bad mistake, the game plan called for the jab and for me to keep this bull away, frustrate him and let him loose his cool then attack with much malice.
I dumped the game plan and swung away like a punch drunk amateur.
I was caught cold - Cortez wins.

When your nose is broken you can't smell anything but by some miracle I sat in the trainers room as the doctor flitted about me checking for the usual signs of trauma and I could smell the stench of piss and sweat and dirty underpants flung on the floor by hurried pugilists. It may have been a phantom reaction of being in that room, it might have been a side effect of having my head punched too many times. I can still smell that stench today, not even time and money could erase that from the cerebellum, it's in there deep.

I am joined by my two friends Sully and Alexandrous. Sully, an American lad who dreams of the Emerald Isle where his grandparents came from and Alexandrous the crown prince of the Zoufrakis family, the type of family that moves snow in South Florida and I don't mean meteorologists.
I called Alexendrous - Eck.
Sully bobs and weaves and shows me where I went wrong, Eck pulls out a fat wallet and tells me it was fatter before my loss. I want a beer and a couple of shots so badly to ease the pain but back then Cooper would not let us drink alcohol after a fight for at least 24 hours, Sully hands me his flask. Cooper is not aware. Relief.
 
Outside the Miami night is sweet and warm and is a blessing to be away from the rancid gym, the aroma of Eck's cigarette is nauseating and if not for the visual oasis of surrounding ladies I would have gladly vomited on his shoes.

Sully nods to Eck as a white Mercedes approaches, Eck flings his cigarette rapidly as if to conceal his shame from the approaching carriage. That feeling I had in the fight comes rushing back, that gnawing in the gut like being hurled on a roller coaster towards a pit of vipers. I now know why I lost my focus and my bonus money to Cortez.

Out of the Mercedes steps Mr. Zoufrakis smoking a cigarette, he walks over to Eck and slaps him in the back of the head. "Smoking kills" he says all while looking me dead in the eye with the steeliness of a high noon gunslinger.
"What happened?" he moans "I thought you had this fucking guy" I stumble out an answer like a wee lad on his first date. Even though Eck and I have been best mates for years and I have been in the company of the entire Zoufrakis family, the old man still scared the piss out me. He was and old school gangster personified and a new age drug dealer in Miami Beach and was about to be my new boss.

Mr. Zoufrakis trusted me with his family and his product and along with Sully I began running game with Eck. We were a three man crew delivering the snow to the upper crust scumbags of Miami Beach. Plastic surgeons, golf pros, television presenters and so on and son on. The types of assholes that lived in South Beach penthouses and had more money than sense.

I swapped my Everlast gloves for a Smith and Wesson .357 magnum and followed my mates down a dark yet lovely path.
 

 

 Just like any Hollywood movie there were always massive perks of being in that business, all suitable for 3 young lads without responsibility.  I look back on those times and I am glad to be alive but I often think of the people I have hurt both physically and emotionally, funny how I could sleep at night after bashing someones brain in the ring but the memory of a grown man crying when faced with the option of paying up now or having a Louisville Slugger to the knee caps haunts me like a dogged demon. Why? I lie to myself and say we were all guilty, the dealers, the heavy, the user...we were all players in the game.

I think of the fight with Cortez and the failure to stick with the game plan, I keep saying over and over "Move...move"
I can still picture that night in Miami Beach, I can still picture Mr. Zoufrakis getting out of the Mercedes smoking but most of all I still remember the last time I gently laid the barrel of my .357 on the top of someones head as Eck and Sully counted the money. There are no pharmaceuticals that can erase that.....

I am on the strait and narrow until they close the lid on that box.
Tam.


The sweet and exciting nights
in Miami Beach
So alluring yet so deadly.
I no longer live there.

Today the fish of Scotland are smiling

There is no "I" in team and there is no "E" in Whisky!

Get ready to pay more for the glorious liquid of life or as my American friends call it - Scotch. I found this story on the BBC Scotland site and I know two things.
1. Tonight after a hard week of work I will drink a sizeable amount of Whisky.
2. There are a couple of punters in Dumbarton looking for a job.
Enjoy your weekend...

More…

Full A-Z of BBC sites

• CBBC
• CBeebies
• Comedy

• Food
• Health
• History

• Learning
• Music
• Science

• Nature
• Local
• Travel News

Glasgow & West Scotland  

Thousands of litres of whisky flushed down drain in Dumbarton

The mistake happened at a Chivas Brothers bottling plant

Thousands of litres of whisky have been flushed down the drain by accident at a bottling plant in Dumbarton.

It is understood the mix-up happened at Chivas Brothers during the night shift on Tuesday while equipment was being cleaned.

Instead of draining away waste water, the workers on duty somehow flushed out thousands of litres of bulk whisky.

The smell was so strong that sewage workers reported it.

Chivas Brothers - which employs 600 workers at the plant and produces the world's second biggest-selling brand, Ballantine's - said it was investigating an accidental release of spirit.

A statement said: "We are currently investigating an accidental loss on the 26th of February at our Dumbarton site, where some spirit was released to the local water treatment plant.

"There has been no release of spirit to the River Leven or any other local water course. We have informed Scottish Water and all other relevant authorities."
'Adverse impact'
A Scottish Water spokesman said: "Staff at our waste water treatment works were already aware of a problem and were working to identify the source when contacted by Chivas Brothers.

"Our trade effluent team have now visited the company to get an oversight into its failure investigation so that we can ensure all possible precautions are being taken to prevent a repeat.

"Discharging large volumes of alcohol into the sewer network can have an adverse impact on waste water treatment processes, particularly during dry, cold weather.

"We are continuing to closely monitor our Dumbarton waste water treatment works to ensure treatment has not been compromised."

The Humidor of Ramon Carbajal

A repost from 2012 While I nurse a hangover

 

Enter the premises and the immediate waft of Cuba wraps a warm blanket around your cold stiff shoulders, the Cuba of another generation when the taste of sweet spiced rum dripped from your lips and the uplifting sounds of merengue music slithered around colorful casas directly into your soul.

The scent of aged cedar ramparting through the nostrils sends signals to the brain to slow down and relax, as my rigid body softens and becomes one with the third generation leather sofa I forget about the outside world and its constant electronic demands, I can no longer hear the parade of vehicles or the drumbeat of stamping feet. I have peace with a side of quiet.

Ramon Carbajal has survived 2 wars and has the scars to prove it, his features are as aged as the leather in his cigar store, his visage is at the same time both cold and warm, it is this humidor that keeps him breathing, this humidor is his heart and his soul. No words were spoken or even necessary when I entered the humidor, Ramon lifted his head from behind the counter and nodded.

I am presented with a ceramic serving tray adorned with the flags of America and Cuba, on the ceramic tray is an velvet lined cigar box with a selection of cigars that would make the most cold hearted dictator smile from ear to ear like a boy on his birthday. Still no words have been uttered between Ramon and myself, just an automatic obligatory head nod and the wheels of communication between two men of different cultures are linked.

Ramon's humidor is a time portal back to yesteryear when men made decisions on politics and war and women brought trays sticky with clear glasses of golden liquid merrily to their aid. Children dodged large metal cars on cobbled steamy streets with open air markets and rich tourists wasted their money on straw hats and cheap jewelry. The aroma of Ropa Vieja cooking on an open grill surrounded by lush gardens and the merengue music constantly in the background to remind even the most downtrodden that music and dance were still free and belonged to the masses. I wish I knew Ramon back then.

My cigar is finished and my time on the leather has come to an end. I peel myself from the sofa like a patient from a therapists office and make my way to the door, I try to absorb every emotion as I open the door to the outside world - the cedar and the leather, the music and Ramon at his counter. I nod, he nods.

Sunlight, noise, voices, vehicles.....fuck. I contemplate going back inside for more therapy but decide that would dilute the grandeur of the next experience.
I walk away.

Ramon Carbajal 1930 - 2012

Rest In Peace Mi Amigo...

My fingers get stuck in the scissors

Blogger, Twitter, Facebook, standing in line at ABC Fine Liquors while juggling a multitude of colorful bottles because once again I angrily smirked at the baskets at the door. The almost daily question is now becoming as mundane as hanging out with Anthony Bourdain...wait a minute that wouldn't suck.
Why do they call you Sausage Fingers?

There it is the question of questions that haunts me back to the birth of this little project, which at the time was to quiet the voices in the noggin and to somehow get them on paper just in case the men with the straight jacket came to take me away or the Greeks finally realised that my last delivery way back then was a wee bit short and I was driving a new mustang! Do Greek gangsters offer statutes of limitations? I do hope so.

Anyway back to the point - Why do I call myself Sausage Fingers?


Am I a chef specializing in the artistry of the porcine?
Was I injured in some type of radioactive experiment and now have Sausage Fingers with the ability to shoot links at masked robbers running down the street with an old lady's handbag?
Maybe once as a bet I cut holes into the ends of large sausages and placed them on my fingers then paraded around the house before grilling them? (maybe)
NO.

I am just a big lad with big hands. In fact my hands are so big that the knife that cut me last week apologized in fear of retribution and violent retaliation.

It was my father that gave me the name while at the butchers and looking upon some rather plumpy links "Look ma these sausages look like our wee lad from Dundee."

There it is they call me Sausage Fingers because my fingers look like sausages. Big meaty appendages.

You know what the ladies say about men with large hands right?

 

Well nowadays it's "Can you please open this jar of pickles, crack these pecans then take out the trash." But there was a time when I could have been a hand replacement for a Mr. Ron Jeremy if such a replacement was needed.

There are many downsides to the whole big hands thing, typing is one. Try to picture me texting, it isn't easy and often I am accused of sending rude and disgusting messages like - "I'll pee on you by hate." which in my fingery world means that I will be home by eight. I also break a lot of stuff, I tried taking up the hobby of building model airplanes but ended up smashing most of the pieces because piece B3 was so small that the meaty appendages king konged them into the next room.

I once met the great blues performer known as the Sauce Boss aka Bill Wharton. While backstage at a benefit I was able to have a picture taken with him. Boss stands about 6' and has what would be called normal functional size hands, he is an incredible musician and a tireless advocate for feeding the needy, it was an honor to meet him. I did not look at the photo until the next day but looking at his wee(Normal size) hands compared to my large(Freakish) hands should finally answer the question. "Why do they call you Sausage Fingers"
You decide.
Cheers...

Guess which one I am

There will be blood...usually mine

Hello again.
I have and addiction to knives.
It seems as if I also have an addiction to letting these knives tear my flesh.

It all started back in the 70's when I first saw that glorious and shiny object sitting pretty in the window of the paper shop in Lochee. Even at a the tender age of seven I knew I had to have it - my first knife, a double blade folder with a cream colored handle and a bit of jigged bone for grip. All that sexy metal for a mere 50 pence.

As the blood streamed down my face and my mother tended to the gaping hole in my forehead I wondered if I would ever see that little beauty again, sadly I did not.

Running at full speed at an imaginary enemy with both blades open, heart and soul determined to defend the homeland from such a treacherous invader....I tripped over a rock and planted the brand new blade into the noggin right between the eyes!
My first knife and my first scar.

The list of injuries from beloved blades could take up an entire page so I will offer up a few of the more memorable.

I have a nasty V shaped scar on my left thumb from trying to cut  a pipe while said thumb was still present.
I have a scar on my chin from a evil box cutter which housed a dirty razor blade...can you say tetanus!
I also have a reminder on my forearm of the time I was camping and decided to chop firewood with a very nice hatchet which had a beautiful cherry wood handle with ivory inlay and of course a bit of my blood.

One warm summer evening back in the 80's I was part of a convoy on its way to a gang brawl in the beach town of Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.  If any of you out there read Smugglers Blues part 1 you will remember the somewhat illegal ongoings of young Sausage and his best pal Ecky Z aka the Greek assassin.
On this particular warm summers eve the young Sausage and his trusty pal were out cruising for the gang known as  "The Jacks."

You see Ecky Z was currently giving Greek biology lessons to the ex-girlfriend of the leader of the Jacks and the leader of the Jacks did not like his ex-girlfriend receiving biology lessons from anyone other than himself. The unfortunate gang leader had his associates jump my friend as he left work, leaving Ecky Z with less blood and four flat tires.

Later that evening as I sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle my hands shook and my belly emptied itself several times.  As I looked down at my weapons of choice for the pending scrap I had in my lap the following:
1. A pair of brass knuckles with a hollow front that embedded a five inch folded blade.
2. A Rambo type survival knife that had a fixed seven inch blade in black titanium.
3. An Italian para military knife that was a single cut piece of steel with a leather handle

At the end of that warm summers evening the blades were not dampened with enemy blood as I wisely left them in the car but another scar was added to the list, it's the one where the club landed above my left eyebrow and reminded me just how warm and sticky the fluid of life was and made me think what would have happened If I brought the blades to the fight. I shudder to think of me bleeding coupled with my Scottish temper while chasing a bunch of punks down beachfront avenue at 1:15 in the a.m.

Luckily I survived the rambunctiousness and stupidity of youth and can tell the stories of my scars
(I have a post half written on them....coming soon.)

I have over the years added a few more scars not because of gang related violence but because of clumsiness which leads me to the point of this entire post.
While cutting open the plastic sheathing on a new mattress I sliced my finger and undoubtedly added to my collection of stories.

I still have over 100 knives, you see I have collected, bought and sold them over the decades, always looking for that one piece to finish the collection. That being said the knife I used to slice the finger was broken!
It was a carbon blade folder with a broken lock back but it was the first one I grabbed to do the job.

If you are squeamish leave now because the photos of the cut and the sutures are below. I don't know why I took the photos of the blood soaked rags and then decided to paint with it, if you are a shrink please advise.
Those of you out there that love the blades as much as I do...well you know the story.



















They almost called me 9.75 sausage fingers

 

 

Not great for nose picking!



The cluprit and the evidenvce of my failed field dressing


 



My attempt at Pollock - a Sausage original

Thank You

February 1987.
There I was, cold with a freshly shaved noggin ready to be broken down and rebuilt into a soldier. A red headed Scot in the service of Uncle Sam. What was I thinking?

Back in that day our biggest problem was the fear of the hammer and sickle and the bearded one down south, today the men and women of the armed forces face a more sinister enemy and sometimes ones that have been trained by themselves.

A moment of silence at a football match is the least we can offer for your service, as we play you fight. You fight in our name away from the ones you should be defending and you fight without being asked to do so.

We all owe every one of you a debt of gratitude no matter what our beliefs or political leanings it is comforting knowing that tonight I will lay my head on my pillow while you are in my defense.

All I can do is say "Thank you."

Drinking with an Irishman

A Scotsman and an Irishman walk into a bar..stop me if you've heard this one

The White Lion, a dark shit hole replica of a British pub here in the sunshine state. A place where London expats sit and sip and talk shite of glory days and all things about their beloved Chelsea. I do not like Chelsea nor does my drinking partner Mr. McCourt, who like me was born on the other side of the pond as the yanks like to remind us. Mr. McCourt born in Ireland moved to New York then back to Ireland then finally settled in Florida, again like me a full blooded Celtic man now living under the warm tender bosom of lady liberty and enjoying all of her frivolous benefits.  Over the years our accents and our tempers have watered down a bit just like the drinks they serve in suburban theme restaurants with deer heads and other stupid shite blatantly staring at you while you polish off your watery bud. Now back to the pub.

McCourt likes a pint, he also likes a dram, a shot, a nip, a chaser...whatever you call it Mr. McCourt will ram it down his gaping hole with fervor and joy. Yours truly is the same, my Dundonian family all liked a bevy and my father had a fully stocked working pub down in the basement where by the tender age of 11 I was lowering his inventory of Kestrel lager and Tennents heavy, and let's not forget the youthful joy of  Merrydown cider.
 
Mr. McCourt and I talk openly and loudly sans care about how shite Chelsea are (even though they are not) we are trying to provoke the batch of  third generation three lions that are sitting about us. They do not bite.
 
We are now on our third round, McCourt and his Guinness
and me and my Belhaven Wee Heavy
Round 4 - Same
Round 5 - Same
Round 6 - Same with a Jameson and a Glenlivet

We repeated this three more times, each time we ordered "Same again" The Englishman behind the bar smiled, knowing his take for the evening was growing while our wallets were shrinking. I wonder how many times throughout history this scene has taken place?

If anything originality is not one of our strongest assets based on the above choice of drink, Belhaven was all they had for Scottish beer which McCourt remarked "Because Scotland can't make Guinness!" To which I rebut  "We don't waste our Highland water on beer, we need it to offer the world the glorious golden liquid of life."  McCourt burps out "Jameson?"  My only response available is "I could murder a curry!"

McCourt can obviously handle his liquid and this could have gone on all night, since neither of us has the benefit of  lottery winnings and we both have to work for a living we decided to call it a night. We both pulled out cell phones and made the call, me struggling as usual with the little keys being molested by the hands of an ape. We paid the smiling Englishman and stumbled to the door. McCourt says something in gibberish, I am still thinking about where to get that curry.
 
A drunk Scotsman and a drunk Irishman walking the street singing songs and national anthems, happy and glorious, impervious to race, politics or bigotry. Just two happy drunk men waiting for their American wives to pick them up and drive them back to their wee houses in the middle of Florida.  PEACE...
 
McCourt can handle his liquid and so can I.

McCourt and I talked about opening our own wee pub, something like this.

For my wife of 18 years...

Our wee chapel in the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee

The anniversary of our union is here and the picturesque theme of that day remains a common denominator of which my love for you grows. We have grown from two lost souls searching for identity to a loving family with a bright future.
Our business has strengthened our marriage like steel.  The day we bought it the previous owner asked me "How will you be able to work with your wife everyday?"  My answer to him now would be different that the one I gave back then. 
Bright eyed and nervous I said "I don't know."
Fast forward thirteen years
That's 13 years of working together
685 weeks
115,200 hours
6,912,000 minutes
And every second we have worked together side by side in our wee shop you in the front and me in the back, just the two of us. Our lives have changed over the past 18 years, we have ridden the financial roller coaster of small business and survived in spite of it all. The joy we both receive from watching the weans perform is pure loving fuel and only fortifies our matrimonial heaven.

The day we married, October 29, 1994 is forged into my core.  As a man of certain heritage I thought that tears are for the weak. When the doors of our wee chapel opened and in came an angel, the sun draped behind you and you glowed like nothing man could make. That is when I knew that tears are not for the weak, my tears were of joy at the vision of true beauty before me.
18 years later
That's 18 years
939 weeks
157,824 hours
9,469,440 minutes
And every second feels like the doors of our wee chapel just opened an in walked an angel.

Happy anniversary to Kimberly, my true love.
May we continue to grow and be happy...
Love, Baj aka Sausage.



Smokey Mountains, Tennessee, 1994

Fallen Hero

Shame it is when the untalented and the inglorious walk the earth with such insipidness and indignance and men of honor are taken from us. Men of honor with such verve and talents that can help shape our future and keep us safe.

Men of honor with honest bravado and steely demeanour who sans question lay their lives on the line for the safety of the society who often applaud the merits of the untalented and the inglorious.

My friend Kevin Horkheimer aka Hork was that man, a man of steel with a malleable heart. The kind of man would gladly take the proverbial shirt from his back to wrap around one more needy. The type of man who would run like an olympian into a burning building or pull a lifeless body from a mangled pile of steel, all this while a family awaits his safe return.

The summers we spent in pursuit of the American dream while shedding blood and sweat are sublimated into my core, those summers were my introduction to manhood and you were the guide with your direction and iron will that allowed me to get there.

A man should be judged by not what he takes but by what he gives and my friend Hork has given more than most.

Those summers spent in pursuit of the American dream were filled with blood and sweat and now that you are gone I will shed a tear.

R.I.P Hork...

Ass Cheeks Firmly Clenched

For my friend Mapstew and his pending exercise dilema


 

The gym I belong to is not cool, it is definately not hip and it is far from awesome. It is a swim and racquet club usually inhabited with crusty old curmudgeons and the last time I saw a pair of tits that did not hang low was the day the guest swim instructor came to visit. That being said it is very affordable, in fact it is down right cheap. I have spent many years and dollars in the awesome nightclubish gyms with the ultra tanned Adonis dudes and the almost zero body fat thong up the ass spinning class chicas. The atmosphere in these gyms is tense like being at a bar where everyone else better looking, more fit and wealthier. Thankfully I no longer have the need or desire to appear "Cool" and my current gym albeit god's waiting room will suffice.

Last night I strolled in about 6:30 and noticed that all of the elliptical machines were occupied so I jumped on the treadmill and ploughed on. On my left was a young, fit, attractive lady about my age, strange I thought, who is this youngling in the midst of such aged wisdom? anyway I said hello and kept on. Five minutes into the workout here comes another young lady, very attractive about 38ish, brunette, non-saggies and everything else in the right place in the right proportions if you know what I mean. So there I was in the middle of two attractive ladies about my age enjoying a nice run on the treadmill. Being a happily married man and not following the Tiger Woods doctrine I had no intentions with these two ladies, it was just nice to be in the company of people my same age at the god's waiting room gym. The problem I had with this situation was that 15 minutes into the workout with blondie on my left and the brunette on my right - I HAD TO FART...........

Usually in the god's waiting room gym farting is no problem, old men and women fart at ease and out in the open. An old man lifting a dumbbell and blasting away is just another night at the god's waiting room gym, but why of all nights did I have to try to sneak a wee blaster out while sandwiched between a hot blond and a sexy brunette of my generation?

Have you ever tried to run on a treadmill while keeping you ass cheeks firmly clenched?

Have you ever wished that two young attractive women next to you were old and hard of hearing?

Have you ever wished that the god's waiting room gym offered free I-pods with the world's biggest headphones?

Nothing worked not the twisting from side to side, not the hopping on one foot routine, nothing.

Out it came in all its glory FAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTT.

I can only hope that tonight when I walk into the god's waiting room gym that the usual cast of characters is there, please no hot blondes or sexy brunettes of my generation, please........

Wasting away again in Margaritaville...

I know it's been a while folks but I have that urge to start writing things down again, must be that seasonal weather change we get down here in the sunshine state when the daily temperature changes from 91 degrees to 84 degrees or what I like to call: WINTER.

I can't explain why I stop blogging and writing but during times of excessive creativity I tend to shut down in the middle of it and have a strong desire to go away and hide.  During my seclusion I put away pen and paper and try to clear the noggin of any type of word worthy material that could be used for a laugh or two on this here blog. Why? No bloody idea but the thought of writing something funny every day makes my head hurt and I am talking about the big head which at my age is now the important one.

I found an old journal that had some of my thoughts from 2008 and came across the following piece, I have mellowed since then and much of my anger has dissipated with age but back in 2008 I might have left this person legless. So here goes...an old journal entry from April 2008 to get me back in the swing of writing.

Many thanks to my blogging friend The Unbearable Banishment for his e-mail as to my current whereabouts and state of mind, thank you again for the swift kick in the arse and for pulling me out if my margarita haze.
Cheers, Sausage...


THOUGHTS OF VIOLENCE
April 2008

Son of a bitch....was what I usually muttered under faded breath when in sight of the bastard. 

Daring and noble he is to annoy such a beast, I wonder if his courage is fueled by a similar disgust as is mine.
Smugness and arrogance blended to perfection then worn as a rancid perfume to tug at the patience of myself.
If alive in other times it would be him and me face to face, pistols at dawn or joust to joust. Two gladiators 1 death.

I hate this person, no wait I loath him. This man has been a thorn in my side for many years and has tested my patience on more than one occasion. I have never laid hands on him but every day is one day closer to my giant hands wringing his neck until he begs for mercy while his life drains from him.
 
I am not a violent man and I would never lay hands on another again unless of course it was in defense of offspring or betrothed but the mere sight of this person brings out an evil in me that is best suited for mask wearing machete wielding monsters. Why? I have no idea.

A pint with my father

The smoked meat strung up and hanging above the bar, I wonder if it is real or just a modern day pub prop?

Dad orders another round casually nodding to the bar man, a subtle move learned on the other continent. I gladly accept whatever beer he orders just to be propped up on this wicker stool in his company with a pint is nirvana.

We speak of life and football and children and football, Dad complains that nobody dribbles anymore and regales me of tales of the one they called "Jinky" and how he was able to dance among the tall pines of blue with ease.

I sit and sip with my mind clear and fresh, the fog of business, mortgage, economy and all other obstacles has been washed away by the blanket like sounds of my father's voice coupled with the fermentation of liquid joy.

Even a grown man needs the strong arm and the slap on the back from the one he calls Father.
Cheers...

Smuggler's Blues part 2

So I really fucked up. Apologies for the banal tone but what landed me inside was really daft and caused me to miss precious time with my beloved wife and bairns and witnessing how fast life goes by is criminal on my part.


I assaulted a police officer and I am damn lucky that his taser was we the only foreign object to penetrate my body because if that electric man dropper had been a .40 caliber bullet from his fully automatic pistol then this post might have been from the afterlife.
Lucky.


Smuggler's Blues part 1 described the situation next door with the world's dumbest drug dealers and their open air policy of business. Also as previously mentioned the FDLE website was awash with pictures and descriptions of their past discretions and this is what had me worried. The simple fact that they were convicted drug dealers and still dealing in public made for many a sleepless night especially when nocturnal thoughts drifted to how close this business was being ventured so close to my children.


Along with the entire neighborhood I planned and held covert meetings to alert the good citizens about the situation next door. The HOA held separate private meetings with officers from the local police department and patrols were stepped up then tripled once the names of the convicted were leaked to the office of the sheriff.
(It was me that leaked the names, shhhh...)
Game on.


Sunday morning, April 29th 7:11 A.M.  I walked to the driveway to grab the Sunday paper, my eyes still heavy from the early rise and the clink of glass from the night prior. Not sure if still in dream I lift the noggin to witness a barrage of blue and red lights not a mere 40 yards away, sirens were off. This blueberry cobbler wake up is further advanced by the made for TV sight of eight (8) fully armed members of the local sheriff's office making their way to my neighbor's step. I pick up the paper and step quietly back in the garage.


I am awake, I am more awake that I have ever been.


How many times have any of you witnessed this type of standoff on television? 50? 100?
Let me tell you something no matter how many times you have watched it whether is was Starsky and Hutch or CSI Miami, when you see it live and that close your realize two things.
I.  Glad I did not choose law enforcement as a career.
2. Glad I did not choose drug dealing as a career.


Problem.
My oldest son (14) was coming home from a sleepover from a friends house down the street, as usual he cuts through the back yards of the neighbors. His friend lives only four houses down and the locals are fine with him cutting through, I have told him time and time again not to cut through the drug house but he was supposed to be home by 7 and decided to take the dangerous shortcut.
Unbeknownst to the lad the raid was green lighted just as he was in the center of the drug house back yard when an unsuspecting officer saw a male running away from the scene. My child was tackled and with the officer's knee driven in my son's back he was cuffed ready to be taken to the van along with the scum that sold drugs in front of children.
Now I am awake, I am more awake than I have ever been. I react.


I plead, no beg that the cops have an innocent bystander but my front driveway courtroom pleas are falling on deaf ears as the protectors of the Innocent are hauling away my son, they will not stop just to listen to me they are assuming he is one of them and was trying to flee. My wife is inconsolable.


Big Problem.
I grabbed the arm of the arresting officer to argue my case and he and turns his attention to me, a shit storm of obvious and tired adjectives is hurled upon me as I offer my wrist in place of my child. My cries for help are completely ignored and I make my final case for the innocence of my 14 year old son.


Once again I am ignored and once again I place my hands on an officer of the law.
Bad idea but what is a father to do?


I don't remember the taser being fired but I do remember the strong overwhelming taste of metal in my mouth.
I am not a slight man and I have never taken a backwards step from a question but from what I have been told I went down like a torpedoed brick wall when I was tasered for laying hands on an officer of the law in the defense of the innocence of my son.
Innocent until proven guilty - not that day.


I did my time as quietly as possible, lucky to be in a county not a state facility. Once the realisation of the situation had clarified the charges were still not dropped, for the laying of hands on an officer of the law is a no-no even if that officer has ones innocent child cuffed and wrongly arrested. Apparently I swore death or justice, I can't remember saying that but the situation played out so quickly so who knows.

So here I am with two new holes in me, I got my left ear pierced in Broughty Ferry, Dundee in 1978 and I swore that would be the last time I would be pierced. Fast forward thirty four years and the latter two piercings are and always will be considered defensive parenting scars.


The world's dumbest drug dealers are gone and I found out later that one of them was released before me!

Sometimes karma kicks hard.

PS. Be nice to American cops.

What's this? we lost 5-1. Lock the bleedin' door.