My greyhounds get skittish when I stand behind them at the top of the stairs, so I can’t imagine strapping one to my chest and making a jump from 30,100 feet:
You, sir (and your dog), are bad-ass.
(Photo courtesy of K9 Storm Inc.)
You, Sir, Are Badass: Ajax Cleans Up edition
This edition of hardcore badassery comes from Book 13 of The Iliad
But the two Aiantes in the fury of their fierce war strength,
as two lions catch up a goat from the guard of the rip-fanged
hounds, and carry it in to the density of the underbrush,
holding it high from the ground in the crook of their jaws, so the lordly
two Aiantes lifted Imbrios high and stripped him
of his armour, and the son of Oïleus [the larger Aias], in anger
for Amphimachos, hewed away Imbrios’ head from the soft neck
and threw it spinning like a ball through the throng of fighters
until it came to rest in the dust at the feet of Hektor.
Sure, the gods would later drive Aias batshit-crazy and lead him to suicide, but sawing the head off a Trojan and throwing it like a bowling ball at the enemy general? B-A-D-A-S-S.
You, Sir, Are Bad-Ass: Bizarro DB Cooper Edition
Steven Slater, a steward on a JetBlue flight, got into an argument with a passenger after landing and then did something I’d have paid good money to see: got on the PA system and cursed out all the passengers, then popped the exit door, set off the emergency slide, rode it to the tarmac, got in his car and drove away.
Sorta reminds me of my planned final From the Editor column . . .
You, Sir, Are Bad-Ass: Peshawar Edition
Gary Brooks Faulkner: the anti-John Walker Lindh.
You, Sir, Are Bad-Ass: 23 Hours A Day
For a nice Jewish boy (just kidding), Thomas Silverstein has done a ton of bad things in this world, warranting 27 years — and counting — of solitary confinement.
Maybe he’s rehabilitated himself, but when you can say, “They built the Supermax Prison because of me,” then you may as well accept the fact you, sir, are bad-ass.
You, Sir, Are Bad-Ass: Baby, I Don’t Care
Courtesy of The Impossible Cool, let’s end this week with a dose of Bad-Ass:
Robert Mitchum.
Whose biography, Baby, I Don’t Care
Every man should have at least one Robert Mitchum moment in his life. Here’s mine.
I was at a New Year’s party in NYC in 2003, a few sheets to the wind, kindasorta getting over some heartbreak, when I bumped into a cute, tall, redhead who’d drunkenly flirted with me at a party a few weeks earlier. We resumed our flirtation and got to smooching a little. Then she looked up into my eyes and drunktiredhorny said, “Take me home.”
And I looked at her, smiled, and said, “Baby, I ain’t got a home.”*
That’s my Robert Mitchum moment. She reconnected with her friends, who led her outside a little later. Two days after, I met the woman I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with.
* As far as that night went, it was true. I wasn’t driving back to NJ in that condition, and wasn’t gonna bring her back to my friends’ sofa with me.
You, Sir, Are Bad-Ass: With a Bullitt
Steve McQueen’s 80th birthday was this week. Go check out some pictures.
Photo courtesy Life Magazine.
You, Sir, Are Bad-Ass: The Newest X-Man
I ordered some takeout Chinese food for lunch today. Rather than wait in the “restaurant” for five minutes (I decided on the fly and didn’t call ahead), I walked a few doors over to the somewhat upscale / not significantly downscale liquor store to check out the gin selection. I’m working on a big gin project that I’ll be breaking out for your edification soon. Or “my big gin project” is just a euphemism for my alcoholism. You decide.
I found what I was looking for and headed to the register. On the way, I had to step aside for a guy walking in the other direction. He was a few inches taller than I am, white, bald-pated, late 40’s or early 50’s, and wearing a black Xavier sweatshirt. While I waited for the guys ahead of me to finish their purchase, the fella returned to the front of the store. He put his bottle on the counter with a thud. I looked over and noticed IT WAS A 40 OF KING COBRA.
At 12:30 p.m.
On a Monday.
Sure, I was buying two bottles of high-class gin (Citadelle and D.H. Krahn, if you must know), but no one was looking at me and thinking, “That guy’s gonna start drinking in 5 minutes.”
The X-Man on the other hand? From the Chinese restaurant, I saw him walk across the parking lot, keys in hand, and thought, “You, sir, are bad-ass.”
A minute later, I thought, “That’s a much better blog-series than ‘F*** you, you whining f***,'” so let this be the inaugural post in a new series on bad-assery! Happy Monday!