A hearty congratulations to nemov for scoring the latest point in the 2008 Death Pool.

Good bye Senator Helms. I can’t think of anything nice to say about Helms, so to honor Thumper’s mama, I won’t say anything at all.

Again, congratulations nemov for joining Cyan and me in the Deuce Death Club.

It must suck to be so negative. That’s what I thought tonight as we were on River Street, completing our annual ritual of watching a great fireworks show here in Savannah. The reason I had this thought is because of a very nasty old man who attempted (and failed) to ruin our fun.

As Mike and I were watching the Independence Day display on the Savannah River, an old(er) man and his fat wife were leaving during the height of festivities. He was obviously pissed off about something. Probably directed at his fat wife or his lame life. They were leaving just as the fireworks were getting underway. You immediately know something is wrong with a person if they are willing to leave when the fireworks are shooting off. When small children are involved, it is understandable. When it is an old dude and his fat wife, eh, my sympathies wane. Ok, become non-existent. Simply stated, there is no reason to leave during the middle of the show if there are no fussy kids involved. Old dude, however, had a chip on his shoulder and had to get out of there.

Old Dude, being the jerk that he was, stopped dead in front of Mike while he waited for his fat wife to huff, puff, and catch up to him. Mike politely said to him, “Excuse me. You stopped right in front of me. I can’t see.” Old Dude responds with a very nasty, “Chill out, child.”

First off, calling a man who is just months away from his 30th birthday as ‘child’ is a compliment more than anything. Trying to incorporate the ‘chill out’ just emphasized what an out-of-touch ass Old Dude was. Mike and I both chuckled at Old Dude, whose wife caught up and was poking him in the back to move on. A few steps on, Old Dude looks back as if to try and start something with Mike. I quickly interject with a sappy, cheesy, “Happy 4th of July!” He rolled his eyes at me and disappeared into the throng. I’m sure he heard us laughing at him as he moved on.

This incident both amuses and saddens me. What a sad, pathetic life one must lead that compels one to leave during one of the best fireworks displays in the nation. I can only imagine the self-induced stressful, upsetting lives that Old Dude and Fat Wife must lead. Sucks to be you two. If this was 230 years ago, we’d of probably tarred and feathered his type. We needn’t do that now. That he wallows in his own crapulence is enough vindication that my Independence Day was better than his.

Happy Independence Day, beachcombers!

Revlon is running new ads featuring Jessica Alba in which she has the nerve to ask, “You know what I want?”

Of course, my mind starts running the gamut - what DOES Jessica Alba want? World peace? A fair tax structure? Alternative energy solutions? My goodness, there is so much that one can want.

Then she tells us. She wants, “My foundation to match my skin.”

That’s it? Seriously? Of all that is wanted in this world, this waste of life wants her useless chemical face products to match what she was naturally born with? How about you just don’t wear any, Ms. Alba? That would solve your unnecessary matching-concern and maybe you could move on to more important issues. You know, like whether your underwear matches your mascara.

There is so much that should have been my first clue. The 1970’s paneling in the showroom. The dealer’s lack of website. The Hawaiian shirt sported by our salesman. His over-forty-white-dude gold bling. His straight-out-of-Key-West-circa-1983 mustache. His business card in which he called himself ‘the Sheriff.’ So many warning signs. All set aside. We needed a car and we weren’t willing to rule out any place based on looks alone.

Turns out this place had a car worth a second look. In fact, after the second look, the car was alright. For the right price, of course. After appropriate research, we decided to make an offer (because as we learned in our car search, if you’re at the dealer’s place YOU have to make an offer first. They won’t make one to you). Making this offer set forth one of the most surreal experiences of my life.

Blood was in the water and the sharks started to circle. Every grossly exaggerated stereotype about the used car salesman was about to manifest itself before our very eyes. The Salesman put on a beach music radio station. Mike asked for something to drink and they didn’t even have cups for water. The Salesman had to scrounge around and settled for some coffee mugs. Somewhere along the line, as we were getting ready to sit down, he made a ’soft’ racist remark - ‘that was mighty white of you’. Distant sirens are starting to going off in my head. We sat in torn, soiled chairs before his aluminum fabricated desk, with our coffee mugs of luke warm water. Let the fun begin.

The plan was that Mike would handle the talking portion of the negotiations. Despite my gender’s strides toward equality, I was not finding it in used cars sales haggling. It was best I kept my mouth shut and look annoyed.

Once our offer was out there (as has happened at every dealership ever) the Salesman took it to his ‘boss’. We sit and wait, likely being listened to on the speaker phone sitting on the desk. We learned later that this is actually a tactic some dealerships are willing to take to make a sale.

Side note - before the Salesman took the offer to the Bossman, he tried to get Mike to sign something. He claimed it was merely a formality (isn’t it all?) and that it said that he had set forth an offer. Mike wisely refused. Like the offer wasn’t going back to Bossman without it. Pleeeease.

The Salesman comes back with a four square form and, (as was to be expected) a significantly higher counter-offer. We refused and were ready to walk. He begged us to stay and called over the Bossman.

Bell rings. Start Round Two.

After my first glance, or more likely my first whiff, of the Bossman, my gut said, ‘this is NOT happening today. I hope this doesn’t take too long.’

Bossman was another white dude that looked like a throw back from Miami Vice. Older than the Salesman, but still in a Hawaiian shirt and gold bling. Bossman came complete with a diamond pinkie ring. The most overwhelming part was that he reeked of alcohol. In retrospect, I should have just said something about that and walked. In what can only be described as a semi-masochistic moment, I became painfully curious to see what would happen, and I knew without a doubt we would not be buying a car that day, so I kept quiet.

Bossman proceeds to explain to us that the type of car we wanted was a hot commodity right now and they were expensive to get at auction, yadda, yadda. Mind you, the entire time Bossman is talking he NEVER looks at me. He is looking and talking only to Mike. A third guy comes over, yes - also in Miami Vice attire, gold bling, and a shock of white hair in a gelled up hedgehog spike. He is introduced as their auction man. He is somehow supposed to convince us of the veracity of the ‘expensive auctions’ line Bossman is trying to feed us.

Either Hedgehog or Bossman produces some sort of auction receipt for a completely different car than the one over which we were negotiating. Mike calls BS immediately and says he wants to see the one for the car we were discussing. Salesman, who had disappeared from the desk but was still buzzing about the office, suddenly appears, clearly on queue, with the ‘auction receipt.’

Bossman lays the receipt down on the desk for Mike to inspect. I lean in to get a look. Loud sirens go off. If there is one thing in this world that I know, it’s contracts. Legally binding contracts, such as receipts. I knew without a doubt, without even closer inspection, that what I was looking at was a forgery. Some things are just. so. obvious. I sensed Mike knew too.

I’ve now moved from curiosity to true annoyance. Don’t lie to me. Or at least don’t let me catch you lying to me. The countenance of annoyance I had been artificially sporting had become real. Bossman picked up this and says to me in a very fatherly, patronizing voice, “I sure wish you would smile.”

In an instant, I stood up and roared, “F*&^ YOU!” …in my head. In reality, I tersely commented, “I don’t really have a reason to smile right now,” as I flashed him a sarcastic, condescending smile.

Bossman has the nerve to say in an even more fatherly, patronizing voice than before - seriously dripping with syrup and honey - “Is it because you don’t understand?”

Now instead of sirens, it’s those submarine warning blares going off in my head. BAIL! BAIL! Surreality has truly set in. He did not really say that did he? Yes. Yes, he did and I had to respond.

“Oh, I understand quite well what’s going on here.” I am really trying not to laugh now or show my shock. In my adult life, I’ve never been talked to like this before. This guy is completely underestimating me and his cluelessness is just that hilarious.

Somehow my comment pissed him off. He replied very sarcastically, very biting, “You do? What is it you understand?”

Now I do let loose a small chuckle, or at least a genuine smile, and reply, “I understand you got ripped off at auction if that really was your price.” He quickly changes course and tries to go with an emotion route. He starts whining about gas prices and government regulation. It didn’t go much farther after this.

Mike made a few final jabs to assure them that no sale would be made that night. We quickly wrapped things up and left. It was over. We went home and washed ourselves thoroughly.

It’s one week and almost two days later. The salesman is still calling us and leaving us messages. He’s still trying to offer us the car - the car that was such a hot commodity, mind you - for the same price we left on the shabby aluminum desk.

We now own a new car. I am very pleased with our purchase.

Good luck, Sheriff.

I write mostly for posterity’s sake and a slim bit for your sympathy. Yesterday Mike and I experienced something I hope none of you have - a head-on auto collision. Not our fault, of course. Mike’s a very safe driver. With the exception of a few bruises and sore muscles, we’re ok. It’s amazing. The cars involved looked like absolute hell. We’re lucky. Let’s hope this doesn’t happen ever again.

Mike just sent me this article, A Ben By Another Name: Dan. I empathize with Dan, er, Ben. I wouldn’t have 7 years ago, but now that I live in the south things have changed.

When I lived in the midwest and introduced myself to strangers, the biggest mixup they may have had, if any, is calling me Janie instead of Jaime. Not a big deal and I could certainly understand how they heard that. However, in the south the mix-up is no longer the logical Janie/Jaime error. It has become something far worse - they think my name is (shutter) Tammy.

Now I realize that every third woman down here is named Tammy, but puhleeze. Jaime is NOTHING like Tammy. Not. At. All. Close. Not even with my stuffed-up-honky-Chicago accent. How do people even hear that? It’s to the point where I now must exaggerate the pronunciation of my name upon introductions. “Hi, I’m Jjjjjjaaaaaaay(me)….” I try to make sure people hear it right the first time because, unlike Ben, I’ll correct you if you get my name wrong.

Do any of you beachcombers have this name problem like Ben and me?

It is with much sadness that I write of this update to the Death Pool. Score one for me, comedy legend Dick Martin has passed.

Martin’s death is a little sadder for me to report than the others so far this year. In my own way, I had a special connection to Mr. Martin. Well, Messrs. Martin and Rowan, and of course, their mark on our comedic memory - Laugh-In.

As a kid, I warmly recall my sister and I forcing ourselves to stay up late and sneak-watch TV in order to catch reruns of Laugh-In on Nick at Nite. It was obviously naughty and something we were forbidden to watch (or so we thought, not sure if my parents actually cared). That alone, made Laugh-In cool. But it was the sheer comedic genius that permeated throughout that show that made it so special.

Martin and Rowan were the quintessential Vegas-style comedians. Well-tailored suits, long cigarettes, slicked back hair, and well-mannered naughtiness. They bled suave. Their cosmopolitan banter complimented and even tied together the remaining mish-mash of hilarious sketches. It may seem silly, but that show made a strong influence on the kind of comedy I like today - political/fast/curt/brash - it all applies. Plus, women played an integral role in that show (yes, even Goldie Hawn), which was a bonus. I used to idolize Ruth Buzzi…which is probably fodder for a future blog post.

Thank you Mr. Martin for your contributions to the world. I’d rather laugh than do much else, and you certainly brought smiles to all of our faces. Hope you’re sockin-it-to-em where ever you are.

There’s a coffee shop downtown that is seeking summer help. They have a sign posted in their door to this effect. The sign reads:

Now Hiring For Summer Jobs

Maybe it’s because I’m out of contacts and back to glasses this week, maybe I’m just not paying enough attention these days - but I read the sign as:

Now Siring For Hummer Jobs

The H and the S somehow jumped places and hilarity ensued - well, in my mind anyway. I wonder what my facial expressions are like at moments like these? I probably don’t want to really know the answer to this. There’s a grammatical term for mix-ups like these, but I can’t place it. I thought it was malapropism, but I’m not certain malapropism applies to written word or just spoken, or if malapropism is right at all.

Anyway. Again. Because it’s just that funny:

Now Siring For Hummer Jobs

Albert Hofmann, granddaddy of synthesized hallucinogenics, passed away recently. Which means one point for Mike in the death pool. It was almost too obvious. The man was 102. 102. Not sure how the rest of us beachcombers missed this in our picks.

What happens when you bring together a slew of ingredients that are relatively disgusting when they stand on their own, but are divine when combined? You have a properly crafted reuben sandwich, a favorite at The Gull Reef Club.

I’ve had reubens at many restaurants and found that there are some significant differences in construction from place to place, much of it dependent on geography. It saddens me to report that I’ve not found a place in the south that makes a reuben the way I prefer them. Good thing Mike knows how to do them up properly.

A proper reuben consists of cooked, sliced corned beef, sauerkraut, swiss cheese, thousand island dressing, butter, and -the essential key - dark, pumpernickel rye. If the bread isn’t nearly black, throw it back. Fry your sauerkraut slightly before assembling it onto the sandwich to get out some of the moisture. Butter your pumpernickel like you were making grilled cheese. Assemble the sandwich, minus the thousand island. Fry the entire sandwich until crisp and the cheese is melty. Serve with the thousand island on the side for dipping. See? Lots of almost gross ingredients come together to make the world’s most splendid sandwich.

Guess what I had for dinner?

I’m here at the Inn watching David Gregory host MSNBC’s live coverage of the Pope’s visit to the States. Gregory went to introduce his guest, Dan Gilgoff, and said instead, ‘Now we go to our guest, Bob Geldolf.”

He quickly corrected himself. I could hardly hear the correction over my peals of laughter. My sides ache.

Word is that Charlton Heston has passed away. Points to nemov, nighttimer, and Cyan in the Death Pool.

Cyan - you’re leading now. I supposed some sort of morbid congratulations are in order. All hail, the lead Angel of Death Cyan!

While Mike is doing some hardcore home renovations, we don’t have much time to make dinner. We opted for Taco Bell tonight (ugh, I know, I know, spare me the lecture).

While there, they were playing a bizarre mix of fusion and easy listening jazz over the restaurant speakers. In the middle of the lame music lineup, the mix took an extra-bizarre turn and a klezmer song was played. Yep, that’s right - a real clarinet tootin, toe tappin, bottle dance style song. Really puts you in the mood for nachos - wouldn’t you agree, beachcombers?

Ay ay ay vey!

I’ve been watching waaaay too much Corner Gas lately. Earlier today, I found myself saying ‘holy hell’ and anyone (meaning everyone) who annoyed me was a ‘jackass’. Eeep.

Someone get these guys a clock -

Just east of Lincoln, just north of Broughton - I saw a dude in a white gorilla costume carrying a skateboard. Of course a skateboard. What else would a white gorilla carry?

bucket recently started a topic at America’s Debate called Food Myths. It inspired the following -

Here’s a food myth that drives me up the wall - that ‘undercooked’ beef will give you food poisoning.

You gotta admit, the phrase ‘undercooked’ beef certainly does sound scary, and just begs for nanny-governments to step in and regulate. However, the definition of ‘undercooked’ by some standards have become ridiculous and insults the palette.

For example, the great state of South Carolina, has made it a law (.pdf) that all beef served to restaurant patrons must be cooked to 155° “for your protection.” Thank you South Carolina, but let me decide what is for my protection.

Beef cooked to 155° is nearly burnt as far as I’m concerned. Mooing, bloody beef is just fine if the beef was good stock to begin with. Worried about getting bad beef? Then don’t get beef at a place that sacrifices quantity over quality (i.e. fast food). A restaurant concerned with quality is not in the business of poisoning its customers.

And don’t get me started on raw fish…

Ahoy-hoy Death Pool Players. Mike has made us a kick ass new tracking system for the 2008 Death Pool. You can view it here: 2008 Death Pool Stats. Nice huh? Thanks Mike!

The tracking system is quite timely as well. As you can see, your Angel of Death 2007 is already on her way to retaining her title for 2008. Former Indonesian President Suharto has died. I’m good, what else can I say?

Be afraid.

Hey beachcombers - your beloved Innkeeper has received a few requests to extend the deadline for the Death Pool submissions. This is no problem at all, and in fact, better for me.

The new deadline to submit your picks is Monday January 14, 2008, 10pm eastern. That should be enough time for all of you.