I didn't know there was such a thing. The Swami of the Story Idea over at tv news grapevine juts hepped me to the fact that it's National Take a Photog to Lunch Week. I remember Randy Tatano when he was buying ice-cream for sweaty photogs in Mobile, Alabama. Tatano's joined the legion of suits that like to make a living telling others how to run their business, but unlike others, he hasn't forgotten what he learned on the steets. Namely, that the way to a photog's heart is through his gullet.
I'm gonna get Randy's post drafted into the form of a resolution and speed it over to the Senator's Forum post haste. Maybe we can make it official. Wonder if Hallmark has shit-brown cardstock.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Saturday, June 7, 2008
VACATION
Sorry to interrupt the expose on turd production so soon into series. With recent developments it would be easy to surmise that my big mouth has gotten me into trouble again. Thanks for your concern, but I was on vacation . . . a planned one.
Last Saturday, Team Polisher packed the turd-brown Taurus and headed to the land of hayseeds . . . No, not Lower Livingston. I'm talking real hillbillies . . . Gatlinburg, Tennessee where the only way to tell between a local and a tourist is to count teeth. We hooked up with the pretty side of the family for a week of good ole American consumerism.
The family spent weeks researching the best secluded cabin to stick 15 Coonasses, and settled on one far away from anyone else. The view was spactacular. The hike to the creek extreme. The drive to town long. Everything was perfect . . . until we tried to shower.
The water was less than fragrant. In fact, it smelled like it had been run through a sweaty photog's ass before hitting the shower head. When anyone in the 5-bedroom uber-house turned on a faucet, the resulting odor sent coonasses scattering for the doors like cockroaches at the apocalypse.
We were determined not to let a little ass-water funk up our entire vacation.
We hitched a ride with Smoky Mountain Outdoors.
Hiked Cade's Cove
up to Abram's Falls.
Jumped on an ATV or 5 to take in the back country.
We took in a couple shows,
Rode horses, raced go carts, bungee jumped, sling-shot a few cousins over the strip, sky dove in one of those wind tubes, and packed as much family action as possible into 5 days.
Yesterday, we returned to the Polisher ranch. After 11 hours on the road, unpacking, washing seven days worth of clothes for four, the STW and I snuggled into bed exhausted. The light-hearted days of Gatlinburg a distant past. The stresses of returning to work a looming reality. Mrs. Polisher even said so.
I cocked one leg and farted. Now our bedroom smells just like our cabin, and we can have a little vacation every time we have beans for supper.
Last Saturday, Team Polisher packed the turd-brown Taurus and headed to the land of hayseeds . . . No, not Lower Livingston. I'm talking real hillbillies . . . Gatlinburg, Tennessee where the only way to tell between a local and a tourist is to count teeth. We hooked up with the pretty side of the family for a week of good ole American consumerism.The family spent weeks researching the best secluded cabin to stick 15 Coonasses, and settled on one far away from anyone else. The view was spactacular. The hike to the creek extreme. The drive to town long. Everything was perfect . . . until we tried to shower.The water was less than fragrant. In fact, it smelled like it had been run through a sweaty photog's ass before hitting the shower head. When anyone in the 5-bedroom uber-house turned on a faucet, the resulting odor sent coonasses scattering for the doors like cockroaches at the apocalypse.
We were determined not to let a little ass-water funk up our entire vacation.
We hitched a ride with Smoky Mountain Outdoors.Hiked Cade's Coveup to Abram's Falls.Jumped on an ATV or 5 to take in the back country.We took in a couple shows,Rode horses, raced go carts, bungee jumped, sling-shot a few cousins over the strip, sky dove in one of those wind tubes, and packed as much family action as possible into 5 days.Yesterday, we returned to the Polisher ranch. After 11 hours on the road, unpacking, washing seven days worth of clothes for four, the STW and I snuggled into bed exhausted. The light-hearted days of Gatlinburg a distant past. The stresses of returning to work a looming reality. Mrs. Polisher even said so.
I cocked one leg and farted. Now our bedroom smells just like our cabin, and we can have a little vacation every time we have beans for supper.
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