Jon Stewart

If you know me, you know how I feel about network media.

I couldn't pass sharing these two videos.

Language warning. They bleep it out, but still, you know what's being said.

Might have to copy and paste the links. Worth it, I promise. Still laughing.

http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/mon-october-12-2009/cnn-leaves-it-there

http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/wed-march-4-2009/cnbc-financial-advice

Thankful

As the year draws to a close, I thought a moment of reflection was in order.

The 2009 top ten things I'm most thankful for:

#10) Glad I didn't invite Kanye West to my son's football awards banquet.

#9) Never turned to John and Kate, Tiger Woods, and David Letterman for marital advice

#8) The words Sexting, Public Option, and Birther never entered my lexicon

#7) Jennifer Garner

#6) Refused to don a face mask or drink the swine flu cool-aide

#5) Co-writes

#4)Decided to forgo parenting advice from Octomom and the balloon-boy parents

#3) Did not get around to writing a check to Bernie Madoff

#2) Opted out of that weekend trip with Governor Sanford

#1) My family

Oops

Driving into the parking lot, I saw an old friend from work pumping gas. She had retired a few years ago, and I don't see her much anymore.

Never one to miss an opportunity to say hello, I rolled down the window and shouted, "Hey old lady, shouldn't you be at home quilting or something", an inside joke my friend would have found hilarious.

Turns out, this wasn't my old friend.

Nope. Complete stranger. She was looking me over like she was trying to decide if she needed throw down and kick my butt or run away.

Run away. That's the option I chose. I threw her a wave and offered up a "sorry, wrong person" as I drove right back out of the parking lot, never stopping. I needed gas badly, but I needed to escape her dread gaze of doom even worse.

My bad...

Ideas

"I got an idea." Four of the best words ever spoken.

Even when compared to "Jennifer Garner is here", "time for your meds", and "your giant burrito sir", it ranks among the top.

Ah, the idea.

Voiced only at the confluence of confidence and disregard, it emerges very infrequently, often times tentatively, furtively. Rare. Prized. Fragile, formed on substances that can quickly dissolve once exposed to light and oxygen vaporizing right before your eyes.

In a room, they are regarded like heirlooms, presented with reverence and care, white gloved. We desire them to be liked, even loved. Like parents, eager to show them off, yet deathly afraid of how they will be received. Giddy when selected. Hurt when rejected, certain the others just don't get it. You quickly pack it back away careful not to bruise it. After all, we're given only so many, never knowing when, or if, the next one will come. Given.

The good ones can't be cultivated. Like synthesized diamonds, they shine, but the people you care about knowing will do just that, know. More born then made, they are a currency to be traded, valuable only to a select few, worthless outside the smallest of circles.

Today I am an idea merchant, wares displayed in the store window for all to see. Dutifully, I will tend them. Browse all you want, hold them up to the light, flick the rind to check for ripeness. Buy or place them back on the shelf. It doesn't matter.

I have inventory. I feel rich. For now.

Fa La Blah

At the risk of sounding a little Scrooge like, I must confess to a deep seated dislike of Christmas carols.

I like spreading cheer as much as the next guy, but there's just something about a bunch of people on my porch singing off key in the freezing cold that gets me. I'm cold, they're cold, it's late, yet they feel compelled to sing. Not just the tunes everyone knows, but every line of every Carol, making sure to hit every verse, even the obscure ones that no one knows.

There are the mortified faces of the teenagers who never thought their parents would make good on the threat to head out and sing, who constantly swing their heads back and forth making sure their friends are nowhere near. There's the gray haired soprano that simply refuses, even for just one merciful second, to sing in unison. And there's always one dude in a top hat and scarf festooned with candy canes and tassels. Where do you even get a top hat? Seriously?

Please, all ye merry carolers, take your wasseling down the street or I'm going to get all kinds of King Winceslass on you.

When on my front lawn there arose such a clatter.
I threw open the door and said what blankety-blank is the matter?
There stood a rag tag mob grouped on my stoop
Singing at the their top of their lungs all sounding like poop
I said for the love of all things Saint Nick
Your crooning and mooing is making me quite sick
I give you a clap for your spirit and cheer
But ya'll got to get up on out of here
Here's an idea that would be really neat
Move on two houses further down the street
Once you guys are finally out of sight
I'll sigh Merry Christmas to all,
and to all a good night!!

As Seen On TV

Sit down for this, you're not going to believe it, but a TV commercial lied. Lied is harsh, I guess. Let's just say the commercial grossly overstated a product's ability to function in any way, shape, or form close to the manner in which it was demonstrated on an obviously rigged, made to look like a live action, commercial.

Yes, I'm referring to the Slap Chop. I got one for my birthday a few weeks ago. Only recently have I had a chance to get it out of the cabinet and take it for a test chop.

The overly-spiked, amped up blond guy on TV pulled a Sham-Wow on everyone with this worthless hunk of junk.

I slapped fast, slapped slow, slapped hard, slapped soft, slapped half-way, slapped it til it bottomed out. The frustrating device was slapped every way imaginable.

It doesn't chop, per se, mostly mashes and then conveniently leaves the pulpy results stuck to the blades for added enjoyment. Consequently, I have christened the device the "Stick and Pry".

The Stick and Pry was/is a big disappointment. It was a gift, which means I didn't have to pay separate shipping and handling at least.

Kids, let this be a lesson to you. Not everything shilled on television works as well as the Flowby. Buyer beware. Love the Flowby. Love it.

Where Art Though

Blog, oh Blog, where have I been
My trusty social media friend

Lately, in case you couldn't tell
I haven't been blogging so well

It's not you, your programs, or format
It's not your fonts, your themes, or any of that

No, I believe the fault lies with me
A bout of blogging laziness I believe

Really, where else can I rant
Or make fun of life's miscreants (That's right. It rhymes. Give it a minute)

There's absolutely no better place to prattle
about my son, my colon, or my treadmill battles

I've given many a friend a dogging
about their noticeable lack of blogging

Sad, but I now know
It's my time to eat some Blogspot crow

So to you my blog, I apologize
And vow to make you a bigger part of my life (It's a soft rhyme. Deal with it.)

To you, my dear friends of which I've made sport
Know I too have been found guilty in the non-blogging court

I will change my ways, this indictment is all it took
To remind me there's more to life then just Facebook

So here we go kids, let's find the funny
And laugh at the nonsense until our noses are runny

Thank you, gentle readers, that is all.

Done

There it was. On my credenza. Twenty three pages worth. I stared at it for a long time tonight.

Funny. The story came to me in a flash, laid out easy. I could see it clearly.

Writing it, however, not so easy. I have notes from as far back as November 2008.

No, it's not the Magna Carta, nor is it bound to make women weep and men change religions.
Yet, I treated it as such.

Nervously, I handed the thing to my wife tonight, making her put down the book she was already reading, actually enjoying.

Twenty three pages, almost a year in the making, pouring over each edit like my life depended on it, and I got a polite "Eeh, it was...OK." when she finished.

I know there's a reason I write. I just wish I knew what the heck it was.

That Bites

We're on hour twelve of "Tooth Watch" at our house.

A stubborn incisor refuses to give up the ghost, dangling precariously from the last remaining shard of a pediatric root. It came loose this morning and remains still.

The tooth is so loose that he can push it completely out of his mouth and close his lips around it. He looks like Aunt Mildred's snaggle toothed chihuahua. Poor kid.

The tooth fairy has been put on Defcon 1 alert.

Mixed bag. Every time he smiles I'm hit with two feelings: overwhelming joy from seeing him grow and dread from the certain bloodletting the orthodontists will demand from me someday.

Good times gentle readers. Good times.

Patches

Talking with an old friend at the reunion this weekend. We were joking about all the band and choir classes we took in high school, marveling at how we actually managed to accumulate enough quality credits to graduate.

A comment was made that my friend didn't put all of his choir patches on his letter jacket, not one to tempt fate among the more devout of the athletic lot in high school. We got a good chuckle out of that.

Got me thinking. My old jacket is gathering dust in the back of the closet. So, out it came.

Apparently back in high school I subscribed to theory that more is not enough when it comes to music patches. It would appear that worries about a linebacker blitz on my musical nerd-dom were a secondary concern to finding enough uncovered material on the jacket.

I can just see me now, back in the day...

"Oh no, you don't want none of this pal. See this? Yeah, that's right, All-State choir alternate.
Don't be eye-balling me man. Don't make me go a capella on you. See this one? All District band, little something I picked up in 'nam fella. So, step off. I will drop a b-flat shock and awe on you that will rock your world. Better recognize!"

There was actually a patch on a patch. Ridiculous.

Parents Preogative

My wife was looking through some old pics we had on the computer. There was cute one of our little guy smooching his little girl friend when he was four.

He happened to breeze by when the pic was pulled up and got all sorts of embarrassed.

Isn't it our mission as parents to possess and employ multiple means by which to embarrass our children? I think so.

His parting shot as he quickly ran away from the image on the screen, "Can't you all see the shame in that?"

So awesome.

Ronald Rejected

On the way home from a meeting, I pulled off the highway for a little lunch. There was a homeless man at the bottom of the ramp. He was sitting on a nasty old bed roll and holding a sign that was too small to read.

This may sound bad, but I'm not normally much of a giver. Something struck me, for unknown reasons, so I picked up another value meal for my friend while in the drive through. Feeling good about myself, I pulled over before getting back on the highway and motioned him over. Told him that I couldn't offer a ride, but how about some lunch, holding the bag up for him to see.

My homeless friend, in torn jeans and an old shirt, smelling like, well I don't know what, curled up his nose, shook his head in mock disgust, and said to me "the grocery stores feed me, I don't have to eat that stuff." I sat there dumbstruck as he did an about face and went back to squatting on the corner without so much as even a "thanks anyway".

Those of you out there that are bigger than I am, a little more mature perhaps, will be quick to point out that it's not important that the transaction was or wasn't a success. What's important is that I was of the mind and spirit to be helpful. Full disclosure: after the vagrant declined my offer for lunch, gentle readers, I was of a mind and spirit alright. I was of the mind and spirit to exit my truck and make sure the cheeseburgers made it to his digestive system the hard way.

The sign the obviously choosy panhandler was carrying was too small to be seen clearly. Had I been able to see it, the message of "I am an epicurian currently eschewing traditional housing methods practicing a minimalist approach that will render my carbon footprint almost non-existent. Please do not offend my sensibilities by offering me foodstuffs served in a bag of any sort" I would have avoided the embarrassing encounter on the side of a busy highway. For you marketing students out there, the take-a-way here is clear: make your your advertising concise and your message unmistakable.

Lastly, how fat am I that I actually like eating at a place where the food is so miserable that not even the homeless will eat it?

Eye See What You're Doing

Ever call your optometrist to order contacts, only to be told you can't because you haven't been for a check up recently?

They will prattle on about the need to determine if your prescription has changed, but you know the real reasons. In short, they want you to come in to spend a bundle of cash before they will allow you to spend a little.

Can you tell me where else this logic is used and people are forced to go along with it?

Does the family doctor tell you that he can't treat your athlete's foot because you haven't had an MRI done of your entire body lately? Hey, before I check out your chronic halitosis, I'm going to be forced to subject you to a prostate exam, colonoscopy, and a series of blood tests to check for Bora-Bora and the clap. No.

Does the clerk at the grocery store tell you that you can't buy the T-Bone steak because, according to her records, you haven't bought a complete side of beef yet? You never know, your tastes may have changed over the last two years, you may be a rib-eye guy now, better check. No.

Does the gas station attendant tell you you can't have ten on pump two. Not until you purchase the contents of the 4,200 gallon tanker parked around back and a six-pack of Slim-Jims? No.

If you're going to hold up my contacts for ransom, at least have the decency to call it what it is.

Say to me, "Look it, you're gonna have to come in, we're going to shine a 7,000 candle power light in your eyes, after we dilate them to the size of a full moon, of course. After you stop howling in pain, we're going to ask you to read some letters projected on the wall while we purse our lips and look pensive. We're then going to ask you to look through a fancy gizmo while asking one or two, first or second, left or right, and so on. In the end, you're going to be right, your eyes will not have changed, but you're not insured for vision, so we've got you for the full $250, plus the $95 for the contacts. Alrighty then, we'll see you at 11:30."

Optometric piracy, plain and simple.

Ladies and Gentleman, the President of the United States

The brouhaha over President Obama's plan to address students across the country is bordering on ridiculous.

Conservatives everywhere have have dropped their guns and are brandishing moral indignation like it's after dark in downtown Detroit. Democrats, have stopped scribbling hammers and sickles on the margins of their socialist agendas, holding their collective breath in anticipation that the President will finally, finally prove he truly does lean left.

Remember the first time you had blood drawn? You girded yourself up like a linebacker smelling a sack, breathing quickened, heart rate soared, brow furrowed, and guttural noises from way deep in the abdomen came out in grunts. You reached the climax of this tense ritual, closed your eyes, and curtly nodded to the the nurse indicating it's go time, only to find out she was done three minutes ago, the cotton ball covered with a band-aid the only evidence she was ever there. Felt kind of silly didn't you? If you didn't, a quick glance at the nurse trying to suppress a laugh at your expenses would have done the trick.

Well, all of you tin foil hat wearing republicans, and Lenin acolytes on the left side of the aisle, feel silly. Be embarrassed now. Go on.

Three things people: We still teach civics in this country. An address from the President from any party should be a great catalyst to get people discussing government, a usually boring subject no matter the age level.

Born from an inter-racial marriage, a divorce survivor, by his bootstraps ivy league educated lawyer, Senator, and now President, can you imagine how his story could resonate, inspire, and convict children and young adults of any creed or color that certainly anything is possible. If the Office of the Executive uses even 10 seconds of this time to stump for policy reform instead of hammering home the encouragement to stay in school and to reach for something, well, they are all fools. Parents, who cares about his politics? I intend to use him as an example of what could be if and when my son asks. I guarantee you our conversations will not be about domestic policy.

Lastly, what's the worry? If my son was to watch it, and I ask him tell me what happened at school that day, I'd get a report on what was for lunch, who he played kickball with at recess, and how many times his buddy threw up after eating the cricket they found behind the pencil sharpener. You think your teenager is going to run out and join the Peace Corps after the speech, or engage you in a dinner time conversation about the perils of corporate greed and the importance of looser immigration laws? Come on.

Republicans-Democrats. Democrats-Republicans. Blach. I'm tired of it. What's it all matter? Jen continues to live a lie with that hack Affleck, still not on the radio and 40 is screaming up my wazoo, I have hair growing on my back hair, and no one reads my pathetic drivel anymore because blogging is so, like, last year. Gentle readers, there are far more important things to think about than politics.

54 shopping days until my birthday, for example. Hey, I'm just saying...

Taking the Plunge

It's one thing to encourage your son to not be afraid, get out there and tube behind the boat in a hundred feet of water. It's another to see him take a spill off that tube, head first, at twenty five miles an hour.

You would be amazed at the breadth and scope and ferocity of internal dialog, debating the pros and cons of fostering a healthy respect for personal safety while simultaneously encouraging a wanderlust for trying something that might frighten you, that can take place within the three seconds it takes for a seven year old to bob to the surface.

The look that child's mother gave me, gentle readers. I'm still trying to salve the burns from the lasers.

Mother's fine. Dad, after tossing lunch and downing two Nexiums, is fine as well.

Little guy, well, he is ready to go again.

Some Days, Part Deux (Remix-Dance Version)

OK, Go! Shew! Move. Go, Bill, Go! Now! Why aren't you moving Bill? Today, man. Seriously? MOVE!!!!

Some Days

Some days, honestly, don't they feel just like this...

Things You Don't See Every Day

Remodeling the upstairs bathroom. Yes, it does suck, thanks for asking.

Today was trash/debris removal day. So I hauled the old toilet downstairs and out the front door. Asking yourself how much a toilet weighs, aren't you? Like everything else in this house, it was old. A one piecer, no separate tank. It was heavy.

Halfway across the front yard, struggling with the John in tow, a neighbor drove by. After the double take, the perplexed look of "was that a crapper" was unmistakable on his face. Guarantee you he had the what the heck was that look on his face all the way across town.

The toilet is safely stowed in the bed of my truck. Getting it in there was such a joy. There was much pulling, tugging, straining, grunting, and several short, forceful exhales from the diaphragm. Halfway up, almost to the tailgate, I realized the irony of it all. I was holding and needing a toilet all at the same time.

Not Right

Sorry, but unless you're her father, it is creepy to see a fully grown, beer gut hanging, ZZ Top beard flowing, knuckle tats ripping, dude wearing a Taylor Swift T-Shirt.

Not right...

Song Please

Periodically I think it prudent, and find it quite giggly, to eschew customary communication methods. In other words, gentle readers, it's Answer me-Lyrically-Mr. Please day here at Chez Bill (Second L is silent).

What does this mean, you ask? Easy. Anytime someone asks you a question, answer it with the name of an artist. When they look at you quizzically, and believe me they will, supply them with an appropriate lyric from a song by the aforementioned artist.

Let's play, shall we?

Gee Bill, how are you?
Pointer Sisters.
Huh?
I'm so excited and I just can't hide it...

What's that bit of toilet paper on your chin, cut yourself shaving?
Sheryl Crow.
Come again?
The first cut is the deepest...

Close the door or light a match. Someone die in there?
Johnny Cash.
What?
I fell in to a burnin' ring of fire...

After about 20 minutes of this, the following exchange will take place...

(Insert name here), if you don't knock if it off, I'm leaving?
Michael Jackson.
ah, what?
(Angry like) Beat it, beat it.....

Go to $#*@!
Peter Frampton.
aggggghhhhhhh, what now!!!!!?????
I want you to show me the way....

Then it's game over, you win. Sort of. Just in case, you could start working on your apology. Maybe write it out...just a thought.

Eight and I've Had Enough

I watched just a few minutes of the Ocotomom special last night. A few minutes was all I could stomach.

"Shocked" at all the paparazzi and at the mob scene near her home when she arrived with the first two of her eight little superstars, she was "shaken" by it all. So shocked, so shaken, that she took some time to primp and put on lip stick.

She called Kate Gosselin desperate for attention. Hi pot, I'm kettle.

She has applied for trademark protection on the Octomom moniker given to her.

I'd like to know how she afforded to move from her mom's house. Who's paying the nannies?

By the way, this single mother had six children to care for already prior to the eight new arrivals.

Disgusting and vile, and there are babies involved. Just gross.

Hair Affair

There are two places in town that you can get a haircut that doesn't cost you a ridiculous fortune.

Normally I go to Terry's. Old man Terry has been cutting hair longer than I've been alive. Man's cut. No bull. No product. You sit, he cuts. Simple. Just clippers and scissors. Problem is that Terry is slow. The problem is compounded when it's crowded, which Terry's often is.

There's another shop, more like a butcher shop, that I go to sometimes. I'll not mention the name here, let's just say it rhymes with Fantastic Sams. Oops. They're bad, but cheap.

Terry's busy today, lot's of cars in the parking lot, waiting room full. So, Fantastic Sams it is. I sit down while the lady, whom I've never met, starts peppering me with questions. Clippers? Clippers and scissors? Just scissors? What guard? How high do you want your neck line? Leave the sideburns, or square them under the ear? Good gracious. I've had final exams in college that weren't this rigorous.

Then this lady breaks every convention known to man-hair cutting laws of the universe. She has the unmitigated gall to ask me "do you want me to cut your bangs, or leave them?" Needle scratching off the record, car breaks screeching, angry cat caught in a fence, and a mournful baby cries in the distance-then crickets and silence. I'm sorry, did you just ask me how I want my bangs?

First off, when I sit in the chair in Terry's, no verbal barrage is unleashed. He has three cuts: trim, medium, and summer scalp-it. He doesn't need to ask me, he knows by the time of year. He doesn't ask me about guards or side burns or anything. I sit. He cuts. Simple.

We may exchange three or four word sentences about vacations, football, or the weather. Maybe. Frankly, you can read your paper or magazine if you want to. You sit. He cuts. Simple.

There's no "would you like some gel" or can "I shampoo you" There would never be "You know you should try some volumizing spritz. More importantly, under no circumstances, not in a million years, not even under gun point and threat of death, would Terry utter "how would you like your bangs." Just putting Terry's name in the same sentence with bangs violates six or seven laws as it is.

My fundamental opposition to not paying more than $10 bucks for a haircut may have to be controverted in order to never, ever have to discuss the treatment of my bangs again. I will wait in the lobby in Terry's for an interminable length of time before I will ever, ever, subject myself to that.

Bangs. You've got to be kidding me.

Vick Pick

OK people, I'm back. Montreal this time. No poutine, but I did eat cheese curds. Yes, you heard me. I had curds.

Gentle readers, I'm pissed. Sorry mom, I said a bad word, but too bad. Pissed.

The Eagles signed Michael Vick. Have you seen the press coverage, the protests, the chanting?

He did wrong, he participated in something horrible and ugly. He showed that he was mean, violent, uncaring and abusive. He clearly showed he was a thug in every sense of the word. Subsequently, however, he went to prison. Not a country club minimum security prison, but an actual "hey man, you're my new girlfriend and I shall call you mine" prison, for almost two years. He's gone bankrupt for added measure.

Stop right now and think about all the other athletes and celebrities that have done bad things, stupid things, things of equal moral and social repugnance. It's easy for they are legion. O.J. anyone? Ray Lewis come to mind? Picture these folks in your mind, making their teary-eyed, apologetic press conferences, flanked by attorneys, PR professionals, and spin doctors, their contrived contrition as evident on their face as the shock an horror of coming to grips with the fact that they are not immortal and free to live above the laws of man as they have be led to believe all of their lives. Most hiring a dream team of legal all-stars earning suspended sentences, probation, anger management classes, and gaining street cred and page after page of coverage in all the daily, weekly, and monthly rags. Don't even get me started on the TV coverage.

Everyone came together en masse to make certain Michael Vick paid appropriately. The state authorities had little choice but to act swiftly and forcefully, what with the eyes of the nation on them from the category 5 winds of bad press from all the major networks, newspapers, sports writers, bloggers, PETA, and angry Chihuahua owners everywhere. Nothing short of a conviction and stiff sentence would have satisfied the blood lust of the angry villagers at the castle door with their pitchforks and torches. The federal authorities, making quite a show of the animal cruelty angle, brought their considerable weight to bear of course. We all know they were more concerned with the "organized" aspect of the dog fighting ring and cobbling on to an appropriate share of the illegal enterprise's profits. It was tax evasion that drove them, they could just wrap it up in the sexier animal angle. It's the money. It's always the money with them.

Michale Vick couldn't hide behind his attorneys, behind his poor upbringing, the sham of an education he received at Virginia Tech, his lack of an appropriate role model, the association with thugs from his posse. No, we, the public, simply would not allow it. We demanded, and received, our pound of flesh from this dog fighting, dog killing, tax evading blight on society. Now that he's paid his debt, served his time, complying with every state and federal requirement for his release, and trying to earn an income so he can begin to settle the score with Uncle Sam, we're still not satisfied. How dare the Eagles give this puppy murderer a second chance?

Dante Stallworth killed a man. He killed someone, yet no one holds a candlelight vigil in the slain victim's memory. There are no angry chants in protest, or the crafting of cleaver signs like the "hide your beagles Eagles" I saw on TV today. No torches, no pitchforks, no mobs on the courthouse steps. Nothing. Where's the outrage? Where's the 24/7 press coverage of a murderer still free and living his life of excess and luxury?

Morever, why aren't we climbing the revetments, scaling the sheer castle wall, and pouring over the top of the turrets like savages every time a sexual predator goes free in our courts? Why can't we mount an organized statewide protest when a murder occurs in our towns, in our neighborhood, in our homes?

A young woman in my small home town was murdered nine months ago. She was reportedly beaten, strangled, stabbed, and shot. The murder is unsolved. The family has managed to scrape together $22,000 as a reward, but the press coverage has stopped, the TV stations have all moved on, the leads have run cold, and the villagers far and wide have dropped their torches and moved on to worrying about Micheal Vick.

Somewhere a killer is munching on a bag of chips, watching pre-season football, shaking his head in disgust that anyone would give that dog killing bastard a second chance. Not far from where I live there is a family in ruin who will never, ever be the same. The two scenes above are being played out all across this country right at this very minute. The names and faces of the dead, both the buried and the walking dead of those cursed to live bearing the mental and physical scars of loss, are shortly forgotten.

This villager would like to remind all of you that Michael Vick paid his debt. Is he a sympathetic figure? Hardly. Is his remorse genuine? Only time will tell. But people, he paid his debt. You have exacted your pound of flesh. Now move on.

Move on to this: In the largest 27 cities in the U.S., there were 4,500 homicides. There has been a 42% increase in the number of domestic violence cases, and a 25% increase in rape and sexual assaults in the U.S. over the last two years. The state of Missouri ranked 16 in a drug related violent crime rate. In 2008, 258 Kgs of cocaine was seized in Missouri, along with over 900 Kgs of pot. During the year, there were over 1,400 meth busts. That's just my state. Want to look yours up?

You think I care about Michale Vick, a parolee who committed the financial crime of tax evasion and multiple heinous acts violence against animals? No. Sorry, but I'm a little busy worrying about acts of violence against my brothers and sisters you dolts. Most concerning, honestly, is that my fellow villagers can't be pulled from their iPhones, 401(k) accounts, and SUVs long enough to be bothered to visit, or write, an elected official making it clear that we will no longer tolerate drugs, murderers, and sexual deviates on our streets. We're not moved by the tragic loss of our children, mothers, fathers, and families to the point of activism of any kind. Yet, the during the time I have been writing this piece, the TV has has shown no fewer than 10 clips featuring Michael Vick and the subsequent protests that have erupted as a result.

From one villager to another, please drop your torches and pitchforks and slowly back away. I'm no longer scared of the criminals. No. It's you people who scare me to death.

Biker Mission

When you think Harley, you think biker. You think rough cut, bearded, denim loving miscreants with attitudes, burley dudes that would laugh at a fiberglass composite helmet. Lately, you might think of a middle aged guy with disposable income, the type that goes to the big rally every year, but trailers his bike until he’s 40 miles outside Sturgis. Tattoos, bandanas, cut off sleeves, big clunky boots, all things that may come to mind.

You don’t think of a scrawny bean pole wearing black slacks, a buttoned up long sleeve dress shirt, and tie. More importantly, you don’t think of two scrawny bean poles wearing black slacks, buttoned up long sleeve dress shirts, and ties. Nor do you fancy your Harley riders to be the type that would don name tags.

See when I was a kid, Mormons did drive around on bikes, but they had to peddle them.

Apparently rethinking marketing strategies doesn’t just occur in the boardrooms of the Fortune 500.

I’m assuming Mormon. They were sporting the uniform de rigueur. They didn’t stop on my street, so I can’t be certain.

Two adult males on a bike together is weird. Sorry, kids, but it is. Two adult males on a bike, dressed up like it’s Sunday-go-to-meeting time is weird and bizarre. Two adult males on a bike, dressed up like it’s Sunday-go-to-meeting time, with the guy in back wrapping both arms around the guy in front is weird, bizarre, and frankly, disturbing.

Vericella Zoster-Latin for "Bits of Itchy"

Developed some tender ribs a few days ago. No injury, no bruises, no marks. Just sore. It was getting worse, so I went to see my friendly nurse practitioner today.

She came in to the room, listened to me tell my tale, then asked me if I was under any stress lately. When I said “new job and home repairs”, she smiled and started typing in her little computer. She told me I have shingles. All of this, mind you, without checking under the hood, so to speak. She did look me over, afterwards, but shingles it is, gentle readers.

OK, first the gray in the beard, now this. I am 38 going on 83 apparently.

I made the mistake of looking shingles up on-line. Holy mother of scabs people. That’s nasty. Let’s hope I get the G rated version only. Please!

I should be careful to avoid children and adults who have not had the chicken pox. My wife: no. My son: No. So, it looks like an all expenses paid trip to Exile Island for me. I’ll be the one draped in ill-fitting strips of dirty white linen, lurching around waiting on hand-outs and cortisone from the charitable sisters at the Mission of Our Lady of Constant Itching.

The very thought that I may soon be forced to utter, “someone please rub ointment on me”, is repulsive and perversely exciting all at the same time.

A friend asked me if shingles were the same thing as rickets. That’s a no, there, Dr. Quinn, medicine woman. Bones are fine, thank you. That stuff will get around though. Before Wednesday my wife will get a call asking if there is anything they can do for us what with me being stricken with Cholera, Parvo, and hemorrhagic fever.

I wonder if I was at all contagious on my recent flight back from Chicago, you know, the one that had the kid with nuclear feet. Makes me smile thinking that menace to society might be both stinky and scratchy at the moment.

Stinky and Scratchy, sounds like a new prime time cartoon on Nickelodeon, Wednesdays at 8/7 central. I’ll have plenty of time to catch up on all the episodes while on Exile Island. Me, with my yuckiness and unapplied tube of ointment, knocking back prune juice-benefiber shots with the other itchy old farts.

Love it.

This is Flight 616 Declaring An Emergency, Over!

Chicago to KC is an hour flight. Flying is an interminable hell, as we all know. But anyone can last an hour, especially on the last leg of a return trip home. Right?

I was in the last row on a completely full flight. Didn't check in soon enough, so it's the window for me. A lovely family of non-English speakers piled in loudly next to me, junior in the middle, mom on the aisle. Relatives of every size and shape fill the row beside mine, the one in front, and the row in front of that one. Junior, probably nine at the most, falls asleep before we are wheels up.

Full flight, back of the bus, in the middle of what appeared to be a mass exodus from Islamabad. Good times.

The landing gear had barely retracted with a thump before the turbulence began. We herked, jerked, bounced, slid, bumped, and jumped the entire flight. The flight attendants never made it out of their seats. No breaks from it. We were all over the sky the full hour. Miserable.

Junior, still asleep, how I have no idea, got uncomfortable and decided to kick off his shoes. Oh dear Mother of Mildred, the smell. By then the entire clan was asleep. I looked around for anyone still awake who may have noticed the interior paint peeling off the fuselage from the stink, but to no avail. I was left alone to wallow in it. When this kid returns to his homeland, he will immediately have the register his feet as deadly weapons. He will be feared with dread loathing in middle school P.E. when he takes off his tennis shoes in the locker room. Nasty, nasty, nasty.

Couldn't get up and move, everyone was pinned to their seats by the bucking and heaving going on. I reached up and switched on all the air vents, but mom noticed that in about thirty seconds waking up just long enough to turn them off. Honestly, the thought of clawing my way through to the tail section for a seat on the rudder was looking like my only way out. I resorted to holding the in-flight magazine up to my face just to smell the ink.

Tired from travelling, unnerved by the turbulence, and sickened from the nostril melting assault on my poor, defenseless nose, it quickly turned from bad to worse. Junior, again uncomfortable, shifted so he could put his head in his mother's lap. Gentle readers, after he did that, he extended his legs and put his weapons of mass destruction right on me, on my lap. Game over. I, for the first time in my life, was about to create in international incident. Something from deep within me welled up. Honestly, it could have been dinner broken loose by the mile high rodeo currently taking place, but I'd like to think it was my survival instincts kicking in. The thought of stowing the kid, wheels up, handle in the back, in the overhead bin crossed my mind. After what I had endured so far, I'd be that guy. You know, the last one on the plane with a carry-on he should have checked. He jams, crams, and slams the lid twelve times latching it closed right before shattering the door cursing like a sailor the whole time. I so wanted to be that guy. Junior had it coming.

I knew in my heart that we would need to make an emergency landing somewhere in Iowa because a flight attendant would be soon be compelled to taze me. Frankly, 50,000 volts of low amp electricity would have been welcomed, so long as the aim was true and the barbed darts dug deep into my nose. Disgusting. So gross. I may have peed a little, actually.

That was it. I peeled the magazine off my face, not before taking a huge breath and holding it, of course. I turned to his mother and said loud enough to be heard over the teeth rattling jar of a thousand tons of steel shaking apart in the sky, "Excuse me Ma'am, would you mind....."

The look in the one good eye that hadn't retracted into my skull trying to survive the bio-chemical attack must have been enough. Junior not only woke up, he quickly got moved to the row beside mine, swallowed up by a protective clan. There were many apologies and smiling nods from the gaggle of relatives all around. It took two minutes before Junior's seat mates began to grow faint, wilting from the absolutely atrocious maelstrom that was this kid's feet, when I heard a flurry of Arabic. Moments later, Junior finally, mercifully, and under duress, was made to put on shoes. More aptly, he poured his putrid, rotting stumps back into a canvas containment vessel that I prayed was sufficient to the task lest we all perish.

An hour is not a long time. However, try it holding your breath, knowing that if the smell didn't kill you, ripping apart in the sky just might.

Politeness long sense lost, the vacuum created by my running up the narrow center aisle in the plane to make my escape the moment of touchdown was sufficient enough to bring all seat backs and tray tables to the full upright positions, paper waste, left over service items, and loose fitting articles of clothing all fluttering chaotic in my wake. Didn't care. The second the cabin door opened, the red jacketed gate attendant got quite a shock as I wrapped my arms around him in bear hug, lifting him off the floor, as I sobbed thanking him for my deliverance. Stopping just long enough to poke my head into the cockpit to thank them for demonstrating the engineering limits for wing deflection and pitch-to-yaw ratios, and to commend them for hitting every thunderhead in the wide open expanse of sky between here and Chicago, I tore out at a full sprint up the jet-way rubbing my nose along the wall the entire distance.

Disoriented from the sixty minute roller coaster ride, and with my vision blurred from tears of joy, I stumbled to the baggage carousel. Clearly not well, I mistook an overly tanned retiree's Lhasa-Apso for a shaggy towel, snatching it off it's diamond crusted leash and profoundly violating it, as I attempted to scrub the the residual stench from my nose and face. After retrieving my bag, I found my car and drove home with my head out the window.

Two things:
-I may never fly again, and I mean it, and the stupid Lhasa Apso followed me home...

UN & Noodles

Toronto is probably the most diverse city I have ever visited.  Today at the office I had a little pow-wow with a Chinese, Indian, Pakistani, a French speaker from Montreal, and a Vietnamese. It was awesome.  I felt like Colin Powell heading up a UN security council meeting. Not sure I understood any of it, but it was a good time.  

Speaking of Vietnamese...went to a Vietnamese noodle shop today. The proprietor had a very, very poor grasp of English, or was a cheeky little genius. Not sure. You walk in and they greet you by saying "welcome to Pho King Noodle", the name of the restaurant. In your spare time, look up how "Pho" is pronounced in Vietnamese. Still laughing. 

Tears, gentle readers, streaming down my face.  He must have said it like 10 times when we were there.    

Rest assured, I had a big, heaping bowl of Pho King noodles.  You bet you Pho King UN Summit I did!

Sorry mom.  Tears...

M.I.A.

Whoa, gentle readers, my blog production  stinks the last several weeks.  My apologies.  It seems it takes so little to get out of the pocket, out of the routine.  

There's bunches to laugh at, make fun of.  Material shortages aren't the issue at all.  

I could write tombs on my recent foray into woodworking with my son.  It shouldn't be possible for someone to suck so bad at something.  My seven year old is forgiving.  I'm thankful for that.

Traveling has given me several ideas.  Some can be written.  Some, I'll just laugh about on the inside.  There's Punjabi radio stations here in Toronto, some restaurant fare, customs, and airlines, as always, that could make good fodder.  

There's the never ending fount of bad, or politically incorrect, song ideas that continually come to me when I'm desperately seeking viable commercial hooks.  People, I'm not kidding. Notebooks full of useless crap are witness to my strange ability to think of nothing useful.  I should make a weekly blog entry on those.  No, on second thought, maybe I shouldn't.

Just bear with me.  I'm going to find my rhythm again.  I'll be back to barely literate, completely inane, immature nonsense in no time...    

 

Look at "Tat" Little Scared Boy Run...

Had occasion to visit with a couple tattoo artists in a trendy little spot in downtown KC. Both boys had full sleeves on both arms, finger and neck tattoos, piercings, gauges, and rings of all manner protruding at all sorts of angles. Decked out in all black, driving hybrids, grinding their coffee beans, rolling their own, all-in types, they were living the life.

There we were, just the three of us, standing around co-existing, me whistling the "Which One of These Things Does Not Belong" song, when one of the "dudes" asked if I wanted to see a portfolio. Being polite, I thought why not. Gentle readers, I declare unto you I saw some things that will forever haunt me, come to me in dreams of ink, needles, and surgical grade stainless steel. If we're ever alone, remind me to tell you about a photo marked only "Rose, Seattle". Dear Mother of Mildred...

Near the back of the book, there's a picture of some guy, I think, lying on his back in a wide-eyed daze. A gaggle of black clad pin cushions were standing around the figure pouring what looked like wine all over him. Picture some sort of nasty hazing ritual at the only goth frat at the Fine Arts School of San Francisco. I start to laugh, commenting that "Wow, that fella had a bad night." Dude 1 looks over my shoulder and gets a very serious look, brow furrowed, the whole nine.

"No. That's The Hype. He was performing that night. It was a satirical look at corporate gluttony. He'd just finished a heavy set, cutting himself. Everyone was just showing appreciation. Remember that Dieter? That was an amazing show."

First off, Dude 2 is named Dieter. Yeah, it's like that people. Secondly, did he just say cutting himself? And in what society does pouring drinks on the perfumer mean appreciation? I thought wine. Maybe blood. That would be about right wouldn't it? It took all I had not to ask if they were the undead. The Hype? Seriously? No, seriously?

Pretty sure my brow furrowed because Dude 1 quickly retrieved his portfolio and tucked it away smartly before casting a knowing glance at Dieter. I fancy myself a creative kind of guy, got a little artist in me I think, but I was beginning to get uncomfortable. My carbon footprint was way too oppressive and I was wearing khaki slacks and a poly blend shirt in a bold color. I bet those boys talked about the community service project they took part in, spending time with the lost, funny dressed little man with the slightly hickish accent, when they were drinking green tea wheat grass smoothies with their coven, I mean friends, that night.

So many questions: Does Dieter's friend, Dude 1, have a name, what does The Hype do for an encore, and how much sedation did it require to attache the implant-rod-serrated knife edge-thingymabob in Rose, Seattle?

I'm not meant to know. Pretty sure.

Shaken and Stirred

Hello gentle readers. Miss me?

A little vacation was in order. Took the crew up to Omaha for a few days and then on to the Mall of America.

I'm so proud of my wife. Surrounded by 520 stores and 50 restaurants, she snuck away for less than 20 minutes for shopping.

Yes, the rest of our time was spent trying to hold down prolific yak as we were treated to ride after ride of mechanical spinning, falling, shaking, and sliding, followed by rapid direction changes and sudden stops. I find it interesting that they called this an amusement park. Personally, I find suppressing the need to vomit for an entire day anything but amusing.

Little guy loved it. Here's a little pic of dad and E riding the swings. Again.....

Good times.

From Canada with Love

I present to you, Poutine. French fries covered in brown gravy and cheese curds. No not shredded cheese, actual curds. It has curds. I just love saying that. Curds. You say it. Go on. Curds.

Recommended by cardiologists everywhere for job security purposes, this concoction is widely available throughout Canada.

This may catch on in the U.S. Beats Canadian bacon. Canadian bacon really isn't bacon. It's ham, for the love of Mike. Right...

Lazy 4th

I'm lazy today. I'm taking the family to see the Royals lose again today. So, I'm running out of time. But, I came across this article and loved every word of it. This is what I would blogged today had I imagination and any modicum of literary skills. (Seriously, count the number of times "I" was used in the short paragraph above. Use it as exhibit A in my trial for impersonating a writer.)

Click the link and give it a read. Happy Independence Day, gentle readers.

http://www.tmsfeatures.com/columns/political/liberal/garrison-keillor/Garrison-Keillor.html?articleURL=http://rss.tmsfeatures.com/websvc-bin/rss_story_read.cgi?resid=200906301156TMS_____GKEILLOR_ctngk-a_20090630

Again...Again

Been a few days. Hope all is well with you out there in the blogosphere.

Well, gentle readers, four years ago it finally felt like settling down was settling in on me. It was about time actually.

Per the usual, when you begin to get comfortable, things get shaken up. Ain't that always the way.

The company I worked for sold. As a result, change soon followed.

So starting Monday, change follows change with a new job. Hated leaving, but I think it's best.

Wish me luck as I take my show on the road, literally. Pray for the heartland of this country as I begin to wreak havoc upon the upper Midwest. No one is safe.

Planned on staying put. Hows' the old joke go...what's the quickest way to hear God laugh? Start making plans...

Can You Hear Me Now?

Cell phone shot craps. Completely dead.

Took it to the Sprint store and they ordered a replacement. I gave them a number to contact me when the phone arrived.

Waited......waited.....waited.....

Finally called today to check on it.

"Oh, I've left you a couple of messages. It's been here since Friday."

"Really? Sorry about that. What number did you call?"

"555-555-5555"

"Interesting. Just an FYI for you ma'am...that's my cell number, you know, the one that doesn't work."

Seriously people.

The Verdict Is In

Bernie Madoff stole early retirements. He stole college educations. He stole confidence.

He stole money, lots of it. As a result, the 71 year old king of the Ponzi schemes was sentenced to 150 years in prison today. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison. If pressed for an opinion, I would agree that is where the guy belongs. He was brazen and stupidly greedy. He derseves it.

According the article on CNN.com, the judge indicated the sentence was just, citing the need for deterrence. That, gentle readers, is important. Those of you shaking your heads in agreement at the moment, thinking “yes indeed, we can’t have any more nonsense like that” are right, of course. However, that’s not what I mean by important.

I’ve blogged on this before. You commit a financial crime in this country, be prepared to be dealt with harshly. Rob a bank with a gun, see you in 20-30. Defraud the government out of taxes, get ready for the full force of a Federal fiscal colonoscopy without benefit of anesthesia.

Flip side: harm a child, sexually assault a woman, murder someone, and there’s judiciary procedural issues that demand review, prison over crowding to consider, possibility of mental illness that should be treated, mitigating socioeconomic factors to weigh, and so on. According to my untrained eye, there exists a disparity in regards to the severity of punishment and the way crimes are viewed in our society.

Did Madoff get assistance from the ACLU for his defense? Was the good Reverend Jackson making the morning talk show rounds decrying Bernie’s poor parenting and a broken system that makes it impossible for a man of his “persuasion” to succeed in life playing by the rules? Where was the doctor for hire indicating that Mr. Madoff’s case exemplifies a man incapable of determining right from wrong, a clear sign of mental illness, making it incumbent on society to forgive him and fix him immediately?

Where’s the outrage when a skank in Florida doesn’t report the disappearance of her child for days and then refuses to help investigators find the body? Where’s the passionate cry for revenge when a father in Corpus Christi sticks his infant daughter in the microwave and burns her? Where’s the concerned jurist citing a need for deterrence when a 22 year old night school student is shot dead while he works the cash register at the local Texaco in Detroit by a two time petty criminal already out on parole? Where is it?

You folks can kill, rape, and thin the heard as much as you like, but what ever you do, do not even think about taking a buck the till. We have to have order and confidence in the financial engines of the country. Otherwise, we threaten to interrupt the machine’s ability to earn and govern and maintain the peace just enough.... so they can earn and govern.

Until we care enough to stop letting this happen, until we crowd the courts and the offices of our elected officials demanding that this craziness stop, I’ll be able to tell my son that he can safely deposit his dollar in the bank and not worry about it being there tomorrow. However, I’ll also have to tell him he can’t walk down the street by himself, nor ever go at night, to make the withdrawal.

Doesn’t seem right.

I Can See Clearly Now

We went to see Disney's "Up" yesterday.

About three minutes in, my wife leans across our little guy and asks me, "Is everything kind of blurry to you?"

I look over at her, do a double take, and start to laugh.

"Take off your sunglasses, honey."

Her 3-D glasses were still in her purse.

I don't often get to laugh at her, but that was a good one. Always fashionable though. Dig that.

Snack Attack

I know you guys think I'm going to come out and dig at Michael Jackson. Well, I'm not. I'm wearing my red leather coat with the seventeen zippers and my one glove today. Everywhere I go, I'm moon walking in tribute.

No-no. There are larger issues that need addressing today gentle readers.

From Shelbyville Gazette:

Arguing couple does no damage with Cheetos
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
By Brian Mosely

A local couple arrested on domestic assault charges Sunday had an unusual choice of alleged weaponry -- Cheetos.

Warrants filed by Cpl. Kevin Roddy, of the Bedford County Sheriff's Department, stated he responded to a call at a home on Pass Road, where 40-year-old James Earl Taylor and Mary S. Childers, 44, were allegedly involved in an argument.

According to Roddy's report, the pair became "involved in a verbal altercation" with each other "at which time Cheetos potato chips were used in the assault."

"There was evidence of the assault," the report read, "however no physical marks on either party and the primary aggressor was unable to be determined."

Both Taylor and Childers were charged by Roddy with domestic assault. Both posted a bond of $2,500 and will appear in Bedford County General Sessions Court on July 15.

OK, first things first: The Bedford County Sheriff's department needs better training. Clearly, as anyone knows, Cheetos are not potato chips. Frankly, I want to be a defense attorney on this one because if the deputy has such bad judgement, and a clear lack of life experience, that he calls Cheetos a potato chip, his entire report on the event should be called into question.

Moreover, the sad thing here is that Bedford County must have a significant lack of law enforcement needs if the deputy felt compelled to run them both in for arguing with a snack food. "Well Sheriff, I felt like the situation was a one sticky, orange finger away from escalating. These guys had that Hostess Ding Dong look in their eyes. I couldn't have that on my conscious."

No one is considering the real losers here. No, not the children. Duh, it's the Cheetos. Cheetos are a snack food legend. Who treats an icon like that? Seriously. When did Cheetos become a WWTD, a weapon of white trash destruction? Shameful.

John & Kate-Can't Get Past The Hate!

Well, gentle readers, I guess it's official. John and Kate are filing for divorce.

Here's a quote from Ms. Kate: "How does the show go on?" said Kate. "The show MUST go on!"

Of course it must. There's tummy tucks, breast augmentations, face lifts, laser hair removal, hair plugs, wardrobe considerations, free promotional gifts they receive by the van load, free vacations to far off locales, busy, busy travel schedules promoting the books and TV show, and, last but most certainly not least, the nearly $30,000 per episode to consider.

It always been about the kids though, right?

Both John and Kate can kiss my foot!

Residential Realtor Realities

Eighteen months ago I called my mortgage holder to inquire about a refinance. At that time the mortgage consultant gave me the estimated value of my home. How they did this, I’m not exactly certain. However, at that time, I was excited about the number. So was the mortgage consultant who went to great lengths to try to encourage me to pull some cash out when I refinanced. I passed, not changing a thing.

My mortgage holder is Countrywide Mortgage, by the way. At that time, Countrywide was one of the largest mortgage lenders in the country. Not so much any more. Countrywide fell apart in the midst of the housing woes and mortgage backed securities crisis. Amid rumors of bankruptcy, they were finally acquired by Bank of America.

Judging from how easy it was to get an inflated home value, and how eager their mortgage consultants were to loan you up at 100% of the value of your home, it’s not hard to see why things went bad, and by extension, why the country has a significant problem today.

We met with a realtor over the weekend. Based on homes currently on the market, and the sale prices of homes that have sold within the last 12 months, the realtor recommended a selling price at almost 20% lower than Countrywide valued the home eighteen months ago. The amount she recommended selling the home for was equal to an official appraisal we had done back in 2002 when we added a garage on to the home.

Countrywide clearly overvalued the home to a figure that had no basis in common sense. The market conditions today mean that any appreciation in value since 2002 has been summarily wiped out. Somewhere between the two numbers lies the truth.

It’s tough out there. Really, really tough.

Dad's Day

Blueberry pie and a ball game for Father's Day.  Ahhhh, gentle readers.  It's a good day.

For all you dads out there, may you find an icy drink, a hot mama, a shady hammock, bright smiles from the little ones, a full slate of digital, high-def programming on cable, and an empty chore bucket.    

Peace.

Deaf is most Def yo, Know what I mean?

My seven year old, with his youthful, high pitched, fast paced speech pattern, and my 69 year old father, who would have trouble hearing a B-52 rumble through his living room, had a phone conversation today.  Some selected highlights:

E: "I'm going to the Royals game today"

Grandpa: "Nope, I'm staying home."

E: "I drove the Ranger last night at Chris' house."

Grandpa: "I thought they were playing the Cardinals?"

E: "Poppy, have you caught a catfish before?"

Grandpa: "Oh, I'll probably go to Wal-Mart today and just piddle around the house."

Both parties, not having a clue what each other was saying, somehow managed to have an enjoyable conversation and be perfectly understood by one another.

Hum...

Lord, when I'm speaking with my wife, my boss, anyone from the phone company, and the dude at Subway with the twelve piercings and tattoo of the word "pain" on the inside of his lip, let me have a young heart and old ears. 

Cat-Tastrophy

http://www.cnn.com/2009/CRIME/06/17/florida.cat.killings/index.html

OK, so this kid kills cats, 19 of them to be exact. Clearly he has issues.

Here’s the thing that stuck out from the article: “He could face a maximum of 158 years in state prison if convicted on all counts, Chavez said.”

158 years? What?

Listen, before you tabby loving cat people get your fur all in a bunch, I’m not indicating that his crimes aren't severe and worthy of punishment.

Did you see his mug shot? You can tell this kid needs some quality time at a facility where he can eat soft foods, lay on a couch, and talk about how mommy and daddy didn’t love him enough. He needs to spend a few months in a cell with a cross-eyed, 6’7”, 280 pound bruiser with “Here Kitty Kitty” tattooed on his bald head. He needs access to top shelf pharmaceuticals.

My guess is 158 years in the slammer is a bit excessive. Confirmed serial killers, rapists, and all around dregs of society don’t end up with terms of 158 years. I could smear my body with 15 pounds of coke, brandish three fully-auto machine guns, consort with known escapees from Guantanamo Bay, have the audacity to question President Obama’s healthcare plan, all the while dancing naked at the policeman’s ball and receive less time in jail than that.

Perspective. That’s all I’m asking for gentle readers.

Dinner's on Me

Gentle readers, I forgot to tell you. I received my first royalties check in the mail. Not a statement, mind you, but an actual check. So I took my family out to celebrate. I was able to pay for my entrée, well, most of it anyway.

Means we’ve got a song out there somewhere, being used by someone, for some thing. That’s kind of a neat. Hope they’re digging it as much as we dug the process of getting it out there.

Good times people. Good times.

Duuuude...Is that my skull?

We received a letter over 70 days ago telling us about mandatory drug screens. In the letter was a specific date range, a two week window, when the tests would occur.

Three people lost jobs today. Two of them used some sort of diluting agent, or masking agent, on the original test. When asked if they would be willing to re-test today, both declined. One young man had a wife and two kids, one with special needs.

I’ve stated this before: I make so many mistakes on a weekly basis, that I skipped writing the book and went straight to buying the company. But…but gentle readers, come on.

I’m not judging. However, I’m continually amazed at the number of people who would choose pot over pot roast.

An One More to Grow On

16th anniversary today.

According to the lists, this year it's either obsidian or silver holloware.

So...I'm supposed to get her a black volcanic rock or a silver gravy boat.

Yes. That will engender great affection and tender moments to be sure.

ITB

Spent last night with six old friends from college, fraternity brothers. A few I’d seen recently, others not in years.

Caught up on family, careers, and personal lives. There was a lot of “remember when” and “what ever happened to.”

Divorces, births, job changes, colonoscopies, vasectomies, receding hairlines, tight belts-it’s all good.

We thought about brothers that have passed away and tried to recall brothers that have fallen into obscurity.

Some yawns, looking at watches, and making the obligatory promises to do this again began much earlier than it would have had this been a party at the house 16 years ago.

Sixteen years, gentle readers. A good thing, I suppose. The statute of limitations applies to most things. So, we have that going for us.

We didn’t always get the stories right when we re-told them again and again last night. The years have dulled the faces and places. Mostly we just remembered that there was something special to remember, and that’s good enough.