Monday, July 31, 2006

Mahalo, baby!


    A short time ago, a friend of mine stopped over to drop off a pineapple for me.  And, this isn't just ANY pineapple, mind you. This is a pineapple she dragged home after a two-month vacation in Hawaii, and right now it's hanging out in the kitchen making the whole house smell pretty damn nice. 

    Normally, much of the pineapple we get here in the Midwest comes from somewhere in South America that they grow when coffee and cocaine are out of season.  And, unfortunately, it tastes nothing like the fruit from Hawaii.  I think the Hawaiian variety has about three-billion times the sugar.  It's freakishly yummy, and a completely different beast from its South American cousin.

    Now, the only thing I need is some Kona coffee, a tuna to grill, a hammock, and a nice, cool, breezy trade-wind blowing. 

    Who am I kidding?  Ditch the coffee and make me a bucket of mai tais.  Now I've just got to see if I can remember how to dismantle the damn thing. 


Slow day...

    Man...  It must be the summer doldrums or whatnots, but it certainly is a slow news day.  Even Editor Joe has been reduced to writing about circus peanuts in order to, you know, stay current and stuff. 
    I'll blame the heat.  It makes people do funny things.  Kind of like this guy:  AOL News - Man Accused of Biting Off Pet Rooster's Head
    Yes, I can think of no other way to teach your unruly rooster a lesson than by chomping off its head because he was hassling your pet pigeons.  I wonder how the pigeons feel about capital punishment. 
    And then there's this guy whose story I nicked from Editor Jeff's journal:  ARTICLE: Police arrest naked man after he flails car with a stolen pigeon.
    I'm thinking those two should share a cell together.  They could have tons to talk about. 
    Finally, to prove that not all heat-stroked minds are bent on destroying the poultry population, and that there is actually some good to come of this blistering, brain-baking heatwave, here's a story about an Evangelical pastor who's in a heap of trouble for actually trying to teach what Jesus taught: AOL News - Disowning Conservative Politics Is Costly for PastorI'm thinking we need to get a betting pool going on how long it's going to take Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson to issue an Evangelical fatwa. 
     Anyway, I hope you're all staying cool in this heat.  Did everyone have a wild weekend? 

Sunday, July 30, 2006


    Awesome.  It seems the booger eating wackos people at AOL finally managed to figure out a way to let us play with incorporate the oft-needed strikethrough html in our journals.  

    Now I get to say things like "Britney Spears is knocked-up pregnant again."

   Yes.  It's the little things which make me happy.  

    Anyway, I've gotten some questions, so here's an explanation:

    It's actually very easy adding the strikethrough, though I don't know how much anyone would really use it.  But, it's mostly used in blogs these days for comedic purposes (kind of like above, but usually funnier).  Still, if you'd like to ever use it, all you have to do is switch from text to html when you're making an entry and type:  <strike>something</strike> then switch back to text and continue writing as normal.  And, voila!  You've just crossed something out. 



Saturday, July 29, 2006

More Proof That People Are Pigeons...


Las Vegas Makes It Illegal to Feed Homeless in Parks - New York Times

    This story kind of irks me.  I don't know if it's the rhetoric used in this article or what, but this argument reminds me exactly why I can't feed the ducks at the little pond here for fear of creating an "unnatural" food chain.  But, the whole issue just seems horribly dehumanizing to me.  I think it's important to remember that homeless people are, in fact, people. 

    Anyone else got some thoughts on this? 


Women & Armpits...


    Now, I'm a guy.  And, since I am a guy, it's pretty much written into my genetic-makeup that there is simply no way in hell that I could ever understand women.  Fortunately, a lot of women read this journal, and hopefully I can get a little insight into how your gender ticks. 

    I was watching TV this morning, and after an hour of commercials, I came to the conclusion that a great many women out there seem to have a really big problem with deodorant.  Apparently, you ladies are getting it everywhere except in your armpits.  You're getting it on your clothes, the things you carry, the furniture, pets, children, and who knows where else?  And, it's puzzling because, you know, I'm a guy, and I just don't have these sorts of troubles.        

    One commercial I saw showed an attractive woman putting on deodorant before she put her top on.  Then, after putting on said top and seeing the deodorant smears, she heaved a defeated, miserable sigh of utter frustration as a look crossed her face as if to say "I'm just not doing this right.  I've got deodorant all over my clothes again.  I'm a mess.  Help me!  Oh.  Look at this mess.  For the love of god, can somebody help me?  I'll never get a man looking like this.  Oh my god!  I'm going to die miserable and alone in a house full of deodorant-covered cats." 

    Now, I should probably point out the glaring flaw in this woman's dressing habits.  First, put the top on.  THEN, apply the deodorant.  After all, how many people above the age of two tie their shoes before slipping them on their feet? 

    Don't worry. I'm well aware that this poor, confused victim of gender-biased advertising is not representative of all --or any-- females.  I'd like to think that humanity is smarter than that, and we've evolved to the point where we can apply deodorant without spreading it all over the flippin' place.  So, honestly, does anyone really have this problem? 


Friday, July 28, 2006


AOL News - Nothing Is Rotten in the State of Denmark

    After a recent study, AOL is asking the question: Why are people in Denmark so happy?

    Now, I don't know if AOL realizes this or not, but Copenhagen, Denmark is where the citizens of Amsterdam go when THEY want to party like Euro-touring American college kids seeking to "find themselves."  They've got more than enough porn, herring and aqua vite to make even the surliest of people feel a slight, fuzzy warmth.  And, trust me, if you're ever unhappy in Denmark, chances are you're not going to remember it.  You'll just assume from the knots on your head and the pocketful of missing money that you must have had a damn good time.  In fact, I think the only legitimately unhappy people in Denmark are in jail, and I don't think they were polled in this survey. 


Just Don't Kill Me...

    Pretty huh? 

    That's a picture of my ex-girlfriend and her delightful daughter.  I think I posted this a while ago, but I'm currently too lazy to look.

    Anyway, beneath that façade of the wonderful, loving mother lurks a blood-thirsty, homicidal maniac.  

    Case in point:  Earlier today, I sent a harmless, friendly email to her to inquire about her day of office drudgery, and to perhaps see if she could, quite possibly, extrapolate on a business venture she touched upon in an earlier email.  I wasn't expecting the following response:  

    "Good thing I'm not sitting next to you, I'd have to smack you!"    

     Yes.  I'm beginning to think the reason she and I didn't work out is because my idea of a romantic evening does not include me curling up into a ball on the floor with my hands covering my head while she repeatedly kicks me in the kidneys. 


Wednesday, July 26, 2006

A New Sausage!

And they're off... 
    Well...  Here in Milwaukee, there's going to be a new running sausage in town. 
    If any of you watch ESPN, you may be familiar with the Running Sausage mascots of the Milwaukee Brewers.  A while back, one baseball player, Randall Simon, even took to clubbing the Italian sausage in an attempt to fix the traditional seventh-inning sausage race.  Oh!  The humanity!
Since that little skirmish, those little links have achieved a certain cult status.  ESPN even did a spoof on the running with the bulls with these guys.  Hillarious!
    Anyway, tomorrow they're going to announce a NEW running sausage.  And, up until now, they've always been the fabulous four of Euro-trash sausages:  #1 is the Bratwurst; #2 is the Polish sausage; #3 is the Italian; #4 is the hot dog (Frank to his friends). 
    Tomorrow, during a scheduled press conference, Sausage #5 will be announced, and the word on the street is that it's going to be the sausage favored by trendy, latin-American foodies everywhere --The Chorizo.  I know..  It's actualy Portuguese, but I think we're giving it Mexican credentials because, you know, it's politically correct, and I can't think of the last time the Portuguese actually fielded a Major League Baseball player. 
    Now, I've got nothing against Chorizo.  I think it's quite a tasty sausage, and I always add some to my chili.  The problem I have is that this fifth wheel, so to speak, is seriously going to screw up our drinking plans when we go to a baseball game.  Normally, four of us go to the game, and aftersome profanity-laced arguing during our usual tailgating, we each put down twenty bucks, pick a sausage and the winner buys a round of beer for the losers.  Adding a fifth to this equation means we are going to need to add another friend or else there's a chance the money will go unclaimed, and we will wind up staring at each other wondering just who in the hell is going to buy us beer after the Sausage Race. 
    The neat thing is that I was thinking about having the Sausages as my groomsmen in my wedding should that tragic day ever come.  I mean, how cool would it be to do the "Chicken Dance" with a bunch of sausages?  That's like one food mocking another.  And those church photos would ROCK!  And just the notion of driving around in a limo with a big, smiling hot dog head sticking out fills my heart with more glee than I can handle. 
    Anyway, the Chorizo should be cool in spite of the complications to our drinking and gambling.  And well...  The only thing better than four sausages in my wedding party is five.  I hope he's got a tux.


    Hey all.  Sorry I've not been able to write a whole heck of a lot lately (I apologize if you've gotten too much work done).  Things here have been made difficult as a result of a nasty explosion of arthritis which has made things like typing, walking and pretty much anything else quite difficult and painful.

     My thumbs don't really work all that well, and though I like bananas, I really don't want to loose my opposable little gift which separates me from my banana-chomping primate brethren.  I need my thumbs.  And, the use of a couple of fingers, would be nice as well.  Not many. All I really need to survive are two thumbs, my index fingers and a semi-functional, pain-free middle finger for driving purposes. 

    Anyway, my doctor is leery to prescribe painkillers, and over the last couple of days, I've been reduced to begging like a strung-out junkie as I've called and said that the 10 to 12 Advil I take over the course of a day are just not cutting the mustard.  Ergo, I would like a new mustard cutter. 

    From what I understand, good, moral folks such as Rush Limbaugh have a whole medicine cabinet full of mustard-cutting narcotics which, ironically, he doesn't need.  Perhaps I will call his radio show and say "Hey!  I need to open a can of soup, so don't bogart the percosets you dumb, fat bastard."  



Monday, July 24, 2006

This is Neat...

Asshole :: Film Strip International

    This link comes courtesy of my always super-cool chum Cindy.  It's a spectacular little critique of our current presidential administration with pretty pictures and a nifty tune. 


Saturday, July 22, 2006

Sick Americans...

    What is it with Americans and the Tour de France?  Why do we seem to win this thing all the time?  Even crazier, why do those Americans who are less than 100% always win this grueling race? 

     This year, unless someone decides to be rude and challenge the yellow jersey on the last day of the race into Paris, American Floyd Landis will win the Tour de France.  For those of you not keeping score, that's an amazing eight years in a row that an American has won this thing.  And, even more amazing is that Floyd Landis seems to have won it on a bad hip which will have to be replaced as a result of osteonecrosis.  Last I checked, you need hips to ride a bike, don't you?

    The thing is, I'm thinking if you're an American and you show up in perfect health to this race, like George Hincapie, you don't stand a snowball's chance in hell of winning so long as we're able to field a sick American somewhere in the race.  Consider the following:

     Greg LaMond, was actually the only truly 100% healthy American to win the Tour when he did so in 1986.  However, after getting riddled with buckshot in a hunting accident, he came back to win in 1989 and 1990 despite being a little heavier as a result of the shrapnel still embedded inside him (including in the lining of his heart). 

    And then there's Lance Armstrong.  Do I really need to talk about Lance Armstrong?  If you're not familiar with his story, then welcome to Earth.  Sorry about the mess. 

    However, today we have Floyd Landis and his degenerative hips.  A friend of mine had a similar osteonecrosis, and he can barely walk much less think about riding a bike.  Can Floyd Landis come back to win the Tour de France after he has his hip replaced?  Your guess is as good as mine.  I wouldn't bet against it though.  The only other American apparently capable of winning would be the perfectly healthy George Hincapie or David Zebriske.  And, though I don't want to wish them any ill, it seems it may actually improve their odds. 


Tag: ,

Friday, July 21, 2006

Growlin' Out Loud...

    Zounds!  I'm in a genuine pisser of a mood today.  I suppose it has something to do with the fact that I've not slept a heck of a lot since my obnoxious neighbor decided to play basketball at 3:30 in the morning, last Wednesday.  

    I'm of the firm belief that the stupid people of this world should be blown up.  It wouldn't take much either.  I mean, all we'd really need to do is remove a few warning labels, and the world would be a much better place.  Take my neighbor, for example.  I really want to sneak into his house and peel off the label on his toaster oven that says "do not use in the bathtub."  And, while I'm there, I may even take a magic marker to some of the plastic bags in his house to make them read "This bag is [scribble] a toy." 

    Play with the bag, dear neighbor.  Play with the bag while you're taking a bath, and HEY!  Make yourself some Hot Pockets and pizza rolls while you're at it.  Yum! 

    Now, don't get me wrong.  I don't want to kill my neighbor.  I want him to kill himself.  And trust me, after some of the things he does, it's clear that it's only a matter of time before he does himself in, but I'd kind of like to get that ball rolling so I can get a good night's sleep. 


What the....?

Hi there!  I'm an idiot.    "Hi.  My name's George.  I'm a moron.  Please help me?"

    You know it's a tough week in Dubya's World when the least embarrasing thing you've done is utter a profanity for everyone to hear.  I mean, between sitting there prattling away like a two-year old with food falling out of his mouth, and the bizarre groping backrub of the German Chancelor, about all George Bush needs to do now in order land the trifecta of perfect political stupidity is to go and disconnect Ariel Sharon's feeding tube in an attempt to score a free lunch.   

    I know.  I'm a hypocrite.  I was one of those people who complained about this idiot taking too many vacations when there's lots of work to be done.  I was wrong, America.  I'm not afraid to admit that.  I would much rather have him playing in the mud in Crawford than spanning the globe making a complete fool of himself. 

    Please.  The G-8 Summit is not a Yale University kegger.  Bush doesn't need the protection of the Secret Service.  He needs supervision.  Surround him with single mothers.  After all, I think single mothers are the only people on the planet qualified to put up with his boorish antics without smacking him silly.  "No no, George.  Be a good boy, sit up straight and don't talk with your mouth full.  Now, go apologize to the nice lady, or I'm sending you to your time-out chair." 


Thursday, July 20, 2006

Number Five is Alive!

    I nicked this from Cindy.  It seemed like a fun thing to do.  And, since today was another busy-busy day, I figured it'd be nifty if someone else could give me something to scribble about.  So, here's my scribbling about five things in various parts of my house.
No disassemble...
Five Things
Five Things in My Refrigerator:
  1. Sülze (head-cheese).  It's a little hard to explain how this little Bavarian treat found its way into my refrigerator without sounding dirty.  The other day me and the girl****** went downtown to buy some sausage at Usinger's here in Milwaukee (my sausage at home just wasn't measuring up, I guess).  The place is awesome and usually infested with angry old German women shuffling around ALSO looking for sausage --German sausage.  We picked up some brats and some hot dogs so large they could make a porn star blush (the hot dogs were big sellers at the Olympics in Utah a while back), and on the way out, I saw the delightful jello mold of chunky little parts, and since it's been almost a decade, I needed me some. 
  2. Cheese.  I have lots of cheese.  In fact, I have more cheese than any normal person should ever have.  It's madness.  I've got three kinds of sharp cheddar, some Roquefort, Gorgonzola, a bunch of Swiss, Cambozola, two kinds of Parmesan, and something green that frightens me.  There's more, but I don't want you to think I'm strange or anything.
  3. Jams, jellies and marmalades.  Two words: Harry & David.  Go ahead...  Ask me what I'm getting for Christmas.  I dare ya. 
  4. Five things wrapped in aluminum foil.  I don't know.  I don't want to know.  Use your imagination if it's important to you. 
  5. Beer.  Hooray Beer! 

Five Things in My Closet:

  1. A box of old porn on Betamax.  I'm kidding.  It's on VHS.  I'm not stupid, ya know.
  2. I have a guitar in my closet.  It's an old, knuckle-busting classical that I picked up for a song (HA!).  It's still not worth much more than that.
  3. Some hiking boots.  They've got dirty scuffs and scratches from exotic places like Montana, Nevada, Utah, Kansas, and the roofs of some friends' houses.
  4. My favorite ugly Hawaiian shirt.  It's hideous.  If you saw me wearing it, you'd point and laugh at me until I started bawling like a three year old. 
  5. Several boxes containing the hard copies of things I've written. 

Five Things in My Purse:

    Now, since I'm a guy, I don't carry a purse.  I have no need for a purse.  But, if I DID carry a purse, inside you would probably find:

  1. A loaded 9mm handgun.
  2. A box of spare bullets.
  3. A pack of smokes.
  4. A big friggin' knife.
  5. A back-up handgun.

Five Things in My Vehicle:

  1. Currently, I have the Sarah Vowell audio-book Assassination Vacation.  It's going to take me a long time to listen to that since I don't drive so much anymore.  Friggin' gas prices. 
  2. Some duct tape.  I drive a Jeep, so, you just never know when you might need something like that, right?
  3. A pair of sunglasses. 
  4. A truckload of wet-naps. 
  5. Some lemon-scented Pledge-wipes for washing the plastic windows on my rag-top.

A Final Message...

Say Goodbye...   

    This little tidbit comes courtesy of John Scalzi.

    Somewhere out on "teh internets," he found a tombstone generator.  So, he wanted to see if people could come up with a good message for their headstones, and seeing as how I was throwing away a collection of miscellaneous junk from an exgirlfriend this morning, I found myself with no end of quirky inspiration.  Yes.  I am mean, huh?


Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Am I Wrong To Expect More?

Typical...  Going the wrong way.    What the hell is this all about?  You know how cool it is to have a hurricane pop up with your name?  It's kind of neat, ya know?  

   On the other hand, with that in mind, do you know how depressing it is to sit and watch your namesake just sort of do its own thing and head out to sea to go bother some insignificant fish?  There's nothing out there.  Nada!  Gilligan isn't even in that latitude for pete's sake.  

    Hey look up there!  There's Cabo!  Sammy Hagar's in Cabo, Daniel!  Let's go party?  

    Nope. This whole storm seems to be a metaphor for my entire life.  It's just going off into nowhere at the blistering speed of 8 mph.  It looks freakin' bored.  It's just heading due west into the Pacific in the hopes of finding a tiki bar to dismantle. 

     You're a pathetic excuse for a hurricane, Daniel.  You're even going the wrong damn way, you slow-moving piece of weather-trash.  Oooo...  One-Hundred mile-per-hour winds, huh?  Yeah, those fish out there are probably crapping themselves silly to see you coming.  Are there even fish out there that far?  Just stay out there you weak bastard, and don't come back until you're capable of breaking something.  What an embarrassment... 


This Should Go Well...

    AOL News - Bush to Address NAACP Meeting for First Time

    Religious leader, biologist extraordinaire, and all-around poor-mannered, boorish political numbskull, George Bush, will finally speak at the yearly NAACP convention on Thursday, and according to the White House spokes-parrot, Tony Snow, this is an attempt to mend a few fences:

"He has an important role to play, not only in making the case for civil rights, but maybe more importantly, the case for unity," Snow said.

    Civil Rights?  Unity?  What are these strange words I'm reading?  

    Personally, I can hardly read the above quote without giggling myself silly at the hypocrisy and desperation of it all.  Finally, the "Great Uniter" crawls out from beneath his moss covered rock!  

    Does anyone really take this guy seriously anymore? 

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition!

You haf vays of making me talk.    Alright...  alright...  I'll talk.  Just stop beating me silly.  What is that?  A bar of soap in a sweatsock? 

    Good choice for interrogations, actually.  Best to keep the blood on the inside rather than mop up the mess later, right?  Cleanliness is next to godliness, after all.

    Anyway, I asked you to ask me, and, though I wasn't expecting The Spanish Inquisition, ask you did.  I think it actually came out to twenty questions, ironically.  It was a lot of fun, and hopefully I've eased some of your curiosity.  So, here's the transcript of a not-too brutal or bloody interrogation:

Question from Jackie:
    Have you ever been married, or close to it?  Is Allison a serious lady friend...or just a casual dating experience?  

     I've never been married.  And, it's not that there's anything wrong with marriage.  I have many married friends.  It's just not a lifestyle that I'm all that keen to embrace currently.
    As for Allison, she's a great friend and a very special person to me.  I suppose if I ever was going to experiment with marriage, she'd probably be one of the first people I'd call.  As it stands though, I'm just not marriage-curious.    
Question from Pam:
    Do you have any kids or ever intend to have any?

Children are somewhat like potato chips, I think.  I currently don't have any, but I do like potato chips.  However, you have to be careful.  Sometimes when you stick your hand into the bag, it will rip open, and before you know it, your lap is filled with the greasy little bastards. 
Questionfrom Tee:
    The 1st time you had a wet dream, did you think you peed in bed? And do you have a nickname for your penis?
    Hmm...  I took horrible notes during puberty, so, fortunately, I really don't remember much.  And no.  I don't name body parts.  If I did, I'd probably name my penis David Hasselhoff.
Question from Terry:
    What do you do for a living exactly that pays the rent?
    As much as I'd like to say that I train circus-chimps to dance to the musical stylings of Scott Joplin, the fact is, I write freelance, and I occasionally edit other people's writings.  I used to play guitar and give lessons, but that fell apart when my fingers pretty much stopped working.  But, I have a dead aunt who left me a couple of bucks to keep me sane. 
Question from Brenda:
    What was your favorite toy as a child?
    I have a twin brother who was always much weaker than me, so whatever toy he was playing with at the time was instantly my favorite. 
Question from Jenn:
    Did you prefer Charlies Angels or Wonder Woman as a kid?
    Dude!  If I had a Wonder Woman lunchbox as a child, I'd have gotten my ass kicked. 
Question from Barry (his name's not Bob, ya know):
    I'd seriously like to know how you manage to get out of the straight jacket and write in your journal.
    Mmm...  Straight jackets...  It's like giving yourself a nice, warm hug.  And, toss in that strap on the bottom, and it's not entirely unlike a Catholic education reach-around. 
    Unfortunately, I've never been in a straight jacket.  I'm more of a strap me to the table and load me up with Thorazine type of crazy. 
Question from Barry:
    Okay, a real question. How would you describe yourself - in just five words?
    Absolutely, barking, bat-shit bonkers.
Question from Pam:
    I've got a question for ya.  Have you ever thought about writing a book...or a column....?
    I've already written a book.  Selling it is the difficult part.  If nothing else, where ever I set it down, it keeps the furniture from getting up and walking away.  But, I'm currently working on two other novels which are a little less serious than the unsellable tome. 
    As for a column, well...  I could handle that.  If anyone out there knows any alcoholic editors, get them good and liquored up and bring them here. 
Question from Cathy:
    You mention doctor's appointments.  Do you have a chronic medical condition?
    Yep.  I have severe psoriasis.  It's a genuine bitch, but it keeps me from being an overly arrogant bastard.  On the plus side, the UV-treatments give me a tan that would make George Hamilton look like Edgar Winter
Question from Delaine:
    Boxers or Briefs?
    On the odd occasion where I do wear underwear, it's always boxers.  Hasselhof needs his space.
Question from Dawn:
    Preferred bathroom reading material???
    Usually, I read either the back of a shampoo bottle or The International Herald Tribune
Question from Monaé: 
    Here's my question......Do you like doughnuts ????
    Mmmm...  Doughnuts rule the pastry world.  Doughnuts are my friends.  They love me.  They do not not judge me, and they are always there for me.  I love doughnuts.
Question from Paul:
    What do you say to people who get you confused with me? Also, what is your novel about?
    Identity theft's a real bitch, Paul.  Normally, it's pretty easy being you; however, when I am you, it's only a matter of time before people start speaking French or asking me about the damn Metric System. 
    As for the novel, it's currently about 70,000 words.  It's slow going, really.  
Question from Holly:
    Since you and I tend to get stuck conversing about food - what was the grossest thing you've ever eaten?  Why'd ya eat it? And would you eat it again?  This is fun!  Great game!  Oh - and If i can have one more - did YOU attend your ten year high school reunion?
    I know you're expecting me to say the face of a pig, but that's more disturbing than gross.  Probably the grossest thing I've ever eaten would either be the very large live mollusks along the Northern coastline of France (chewy, and not entirely unlike eating someone's squirming tongue.  Good with lemon, though) or deer penis soup in Singapore.  Hmmm...  I'll go with the soup. 
    I ate it because I am a dumb American, and I foolishly said "Hey!  Surprise me!"  And, about the only reason why I'd ever eat that again would be if I was a crystal-gripping hippy, driving around China with a car full of prostitutes, and I desperately needed a homeopathic cure for a terminal case of erectile dysfunction.
    And yes, I did go to my Ten-year reuinion.  However, I skipped the Twenty-Year reunion held this past weekend.  From what I gather, it was pretty lame and poorly planned as a result of our Senior Class President serving lots and lots of much deserved hard time for rape and child pornography and the fact that most of our graduating class is in rehab.  BUT, I'm told to expect good things for the Thirty Year reunion.
Question from odineye10:
    A "Distracted Mind" surely must have some extraordinary dreams.  I'm curious to know about your mind at rest.  Firstly, do you remember your dreams?  Do you dream in color?  What is one of the strangest dreams you can remember? (And,  can share)"
    Whoa...  Deep.  I remember some of my dreams, but not all.  I tend to wake up, the memory of my dream dissolves quickly into nothingness, and I'm pretty much just left with the highlights (kind of like Sportscenter). 
    Sometimes I dream in color.  They're not odd or out of place colors. 
    The strangest dream I've ever had was ages ago.  I was running around Chicago being chased by M&M's (this was long before the commercial came out with the spokes-candies).  There were millions of them, and they crunched like cockroaches beneath my feet.  When I woke up, I just remember thinking "What the hell was THAT all about?" 
Question from Dawn: 
    Describe the best date you ever went on....please.
    Ahhh...  It was spring.  We were young.  She wore a flower in her hair, and when she spoke, her voice was like a song...  Who am I kidding?  We went to a bar.  She was hot, we got drunk, and I got laid. 
Question from stormypassionzz:
    Does all that cheese you eat leave you constipated?  LOL    I just hadda' ask!    <grin>
    Cheese loses many of its binding properties when it's deep-fried.  However, I will say that the state motto of Wisconsin should be "Clank!" rather than the nebulous "Forward." 
Question from Robin:
    Wisdom of a Distracted Mind certainly implies that your mind is distractable -- do you have ADHD (whether or not diagnosed "officially" what do YOU believe), and would you change your inner-wirings if you could, or would you prefer to keep your own unique self (whether or not you have ADHD)?  :)  p.s. -- can I borrow this idea from you, who got it from Paul who got it from Lahoma?
    Of course my mind is distractable.  I am fascinated by small, shiny objects and things that go "beep," "bonk," and "ping."  I certainly don't think that qualifies me for any sort of "disorder."  I like not paying complete attention to things.  It helps me notice more of the world around me. 
    And yes.  You're definitely welcome to borrow this from me.  I don't think I'll be needing it back anytime soon.  Enjoy.
Question from Monaé:
    Hello's another question: What's your favorite color?
    Blue...  no.  Green... No.  Yelloooow!!!!  Please don't throw me off the bridge! 
Question from Barb: 
    Favorite movie. Favorite hoilday? Favorite smell.
    That's easy.  Favorite movie: The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension (1984)  " It's not my goddamn planet. Understand, monkey boy?"
     Favorite Holiday:  National Flashlight Day--December 21
    Favorite smell: BACON!  Deep-fried, yummy bacon!  (chocolate cake and rubber cement rank a close second).
Am I free to go now?

Monday, July 17, 2006

Scalzi's Photo Assignment.

Man...  That's creepy, huh?

    It's not often that I do one of these photo things for John Scalzi, but this week's seemed like a fun one.  He wanted us to take a picture and transform it into a negative by inverting the colors, so I managed to dig up a picture of my deaf, mostly blind cat that I took while snapping pictures of my Concrete Pig for a different assignment.  I tinkered with it, and, shortly after, I realized that my cat scares the living hell out of me.  She looks like a ghost-cat who's crawled back from the dead to eternally torment me for not changing her littlerbox after every single use. 

    However, in case you're curious, here's what she really looks like (but, I'm willing to assert that the negative-style picture captures her TRUE wicked-kitty essence):

Awww...  Cute.

    Her name is Acacia by the way.  And no.  I didn't name her. I think old ladies and gay men name their pets "Acacia," after all. 

    Nope.  I picked this lemon of a cat up at the Humane Society when I picked up my other odd beast, Harding

    Both of them were near death with kitty upper-respiratory infections, and, as Harding's release papers were being processed, I made the mistake of looking at some of the other cats in the kennel.  That's when I found Acacia.  I walked past her cage, she let out a high pitched "meep," and tapped my arm with her little mitten of a paw.  And, after they told me about the two-for-one deal at the Wisconsin Humane Society, her papers were processed, and before I knew it, I was carrying two cardboard boxes with sick cats inside home to nurse back to health. 

    Harding was an easy fix with antibiotics.   Acacia, on the other hand, required almost weekly trips to the vet, she developed an ear infection, she lost her hearing, her sense of balance and her vision, according to the vet "will be like she's looking through a fishtank."  Indeed, as was witness during the back yard air-show fiasco of this past weekend, on those odd occasions where a plane flew overhead, it's clear that she couldn't tell the difference between a canary and an F-16 (or whatever it is the Thunderbirds fly).  She was jumping in the air trying to swat our military aircraft out of the sky like a retarded, drunken terrorist.  Fortunately, she's declawed, otherwise I'd probably have to have her shipped off to Gitmo. 

    She's a good cat though, and she's got a pretty spoiled, happy cat life so long as there are planes in the sky and I keep plastic grocery bags on the floor for her to attack.   


Stuck in Beirut...

"Vegetarians, and their Hezbollah-like splinter faction, the vegans, are a persistent irritant to any chef worth a damn. To me, life without veal stock, pork fat, sausage, organ meat, demiglace, or even stinky cheese is a life not worth living." From Kitchen Confidential

Anthony Bourdain

    I like Anthony Bourdain.  He's crazy, open to new adventures, and on more than one occasion, our seemingly reckless partying ways have been compared.  He drinks.  I drink.  He eats.  I eat.  He travels.  I travel.  He gets paid for it, and I get...  umm..  did I mention I drink?
    The thing is, simply because I can't find a more suitable location, I've been writing about Beirut a bunch lately to describe the hell that this Midwestern heatwave has turned my world into.  Trust me, I can easily understand how suffocating heat and opressive humidity can make tempers a little short.  Fortunately, I'm not in Beirut; however, Anthony Bourdain is.  And, he's trapped.  And, knowing him, he's probably not all that sober.  In fact, here's a quote from him on a message board devoted to his show No Reservations on The Travel Channel (Mondays, at 10:00 PM, EST):
"We are all of us (Diane, Jerry, Toddles, Tracey and me) in good health, good spirits and working ferociously on our tans and sipping blender drinks while watching the fireworks from a secure location. Our masters at Travel Channel have made sure we are being well looked after."
    Now, I think it's important to keep your wits about you in a situation such as finding yourself in the middle of a battlefield, and I have to applaud Mr. Bourdain for his positive outlook.  In fact I love it.  A person could easily loose their head like a chicken destined for a pot of coc au vin when they wake up in a war zone, but when the first concussive blast of heavy shelling rattled his hotel windows, I'm certain the travel-savy Tony Bourdain probably removed the matresses from his bed and wrapped them around the mini-bar to protect it's precious contents.  After all, sustenance is the second rule of survival. 
    So, enjoy the fireworks Tony.  I'm glad you're in good hands, and I hope the CIA yanks you out of there post-haste.  And, if the mini-bar rations start to dwindle and panic ensues, you can always start selling your crew to the Hezbollah for some fermented camel's milk, a few goat-kebobs and a heck of a lot of opium. 
    Nonetheless, Anthony Bourdain and his entire crew will certainly be in my thoughts during this whole irrational fiasco, and I do hope they find their way home safely.  And, I hope everyone reading this feels the same. 
P.S.  Tomorrow, I will answer your questions, so you've still got time to add more if you've got any.  So far, reading them has seriously made me smile, so it should be fun.   And, sorry about the lack of updates today.  It's been bonkers-busy on this end.  I hope you all are well, wild and wonderful.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Ask Anything...

Leave a question.
    I'm a thief.
    Of course, I swiped this idea from Paul.  But, he swiped it from Lahoma
    Anyway, The game is pretty simple.  You ask me a question --any question-- in the comment thread, and I will answer them in the next couple of days.  That's it.  Ask early and often!
    So, have fun, leave some questions, and play nice (kinda).  I can't promise you'll get a "serious" answer, but you're obviously welcome to try. 
P.S.  If you wish to remain anonymous, you can also email your question if you don't want to leave it in the comment thread.  Just send the mail to with the subject: QUESTION. 

Saturday, July 15, 2006

I've Gone Caveman...

    "Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun."  --Noel Coward
    Gadzooks!  It's 105 degrees in Hayward, WI?!?  That's going to seriously stress the tundra!
    Last night, I went to bed in Milwaukee, and I woke up in freakin' Beruit.  It's wicked hot.  And we even had fighter jets buzzing around since the Air Force Thunderbirds are in town for the Lakefront Air-Show --the lakefront where it was supposed to be cooler according to the "comforting" words of the local weather lady on the news this morning. 
    It didn't take much more than a walk down to the beach and across the sand, to stick a toe in the water and feel the hot breath of summer heaving down the back of my neck to realize that Miss Weatherlady is a damn, filthy liar. 
    "If it helps," she also said hopefully, "just remember that six months ago it was ten degrees." 
    I hate you weather lady.  I hate you, and I hope a badger gnaws your leg off. 
    Anyway, after a couple of waffles, my morning angst had passed, and I was somewhat cheerful when The Allison called.
    "Hey!"  She said.  "Let's grab a cooler and go check out the air show."
    "What?"  I said.  
    "The air show."  She said.  "C'mon?  It'll be fun."
    Honestly, the thought of mingling with thousands of sweaty, overheated, semi-sober Milwaukeeans seemed about as appealing as grinding Dorritos into my eyes with the palms of my hands. 
    "Hey!" I said hopefully.  "I live by the lake and the airport, and the planes always fly over here, and I have air-conditioning and a refrigerator with beer and...  and... air-conditioning."  
    "So, we can watch them from your yard?" She asked.
    "Did I mention the air-conditioning?"  I said, going for the hard-sell. 
    "Fine," she said, and I knew that tone.  I'm familiar with it.  I will pay. 
    She showed up in the afternoon, we tossed some beers and ice in a cooler, set out a couple of chairs in a reasonably shady spot, and proceeded to sit and wait for the occasional plane to buzz over.  And we waited.  And waited.  And, as it approached dinner time, we'd only caught a few glimpses of a few of the Thunderbirds as they flew overhead.  But, the few we saw were pretty neat and really noisy.  Still, I knew I was going to pay.  It was only a matter of time.
    And then it happened. 
    It started innocently enough.  We had a pleasant conversation all afternoon, and we were having a great time in spite of the blistering heat.  But, she'd been waiting to strike, and when the conversation turned to dinner, she lept.
    "You know what I'm craving?"  She asked sweetly. 
    "Ice cream?  Pizza?  A peanut butter and jelly sandwich?"  I asked hoping I wouldn't be required to pay for my insolence by slaving over a hot stove.
    "Shish-ka-bobs," she said.  "I've not had those in years."
    It should be noted at this point that, either as a result of heat-stroke or just the sheer lunacy of such a craving, my brain took a short leave and I sat gaping like a clubbed trout for several minutes.  There might have even been drool.  It's hard to tell.  The notion of standing before a blazing hot grill on a hundred degree day just seemed completely, barking mad to me. 
    However, as I sat there reduced to a primal stump of a man, my brain could only handle basic motor functions, and the only words I could grasp were fire, meat, and woman.  But, considering how I screwed her out of the air-show, I figured that the least I can do would be to use my mastery of fire along with my inhuman endurance during brain-scalding summer conditions, and cook this girl some kebobs. 
    So, I ran to the store, came home, lit some charcoal, chopped, tossed, marinated, skewered and prepared myself for my barbecue in Beruit.  I even bashed out a quick tzatziki sauce and threw some pitas on my blast furnace of a grill to make them all warm and soft and yummy.  Dammit!  Was I ever paying. 
    I think my suffering was worth it, though.  After all, the air show's also going on tomorrow, and Allison really wants to go.  And, according to the perky weather lady, it's supposed to be even hotter tomorrow, but supposedly "cooler near the lake."  I'm sure there's a lesson to be learned in all this, but right now, my brain feels an awful lot like jerky.     

Friday, July 14, 2006

The Toddler and The Exploding Cattle...

    I have a madman's obssession with Sarah Vowell

    It started today while I sat in my Jeep, in the rain, contemplating an accident on the expressway involving a dump-truck whose contents of gravel were scattered across the road.  Adding to the mess in front of me was a trailer lugging cattle to the slaughterhouse.  Their eyes peeked out through the holes in the trailer, and I felt kind of sorry for the poor animals.  However, with all the synchronization of a twenty-one gun salute, tails raised, and, as if following the dump truck's example, the cattle also emptied their contents upon the rain-soaked, gravel expressway. 

    So, there I crawled with gravel pinging off the skid plates of my Jeep and a light frosting of putrid cow shit being slowly applied for good measure.  Obviously, there was little to smile about. 

    Fortunately, before plowing through the traffic-jam with all the subtlety of a Grand Thef Auto video game, the voice of reason I found was that of the adorable, yet sardonic, lisping, little pixie, Sarah Vowell. 

    Ages ago, someone sent me a copy of her novel Assassination Vacation on audio book, and since I'm not one to drive all that much these days, it's taken me a while to get started on listening to it.  It's nice.  And, as the smell of cattle and the contents of their recently emptied insides wafted upon me, I heard her child-like voice chattering happily like a tiny toddler as she detailed her obssession with dead presidents.  I half-expected to turn around and see a three year old sitting there buckled into a car-seat going on and on about John Wilkes Booth, the flayed skin of Jesus Christ and the dessicated remains of St. Francis of Assisi --oblivious to the growing pungent mess speckling her window. 

    So, obviously, being the easily entertained imbicile that I am, I laughed myself silly at these thoughts.  And there we crawled: me and this disembodied voice of an extraordilarily articulate toddler babbling away in a Jeep ringing from the impact of flying gravel while being sprayed with a fresh coating of rain-soaked cow dung.  And, even better!  I've got six more CD's to listen to. 


A Quick Question.

    Hi all and sundry.  I'm just about to scamper out the door this morning on my way to a doctor's appointment, and an odd sort of question has been flopping around, banging off the insides of my skull, and generally causing a ruckus.

    I've been getting a lot of email lately from some pretty upset religious folks, and through our dicussions, I've seen the following phrase bandied about:

    "We love the sinner but hate the sin."

    Now, I'm just wondering if anyone would like to take a stab at explaining this seemingly contradictory phrase to me?  What are your thoughts? 


Thursday, July 13, 2006

Twin cakes and chili madness...

Mmmm...    Look!  Jackie sent me a picture of a couple of cakes.  I'm thinking there's no way I'm ever going to be able to stop drooling over these two beauties.  Soooo....  yummy...  must...  stop... licking...  my... monitor screen...

    On top of that, earlier today, I received a non-ticking box with no return address in the mail.  And, when I opened it up, I found out  that someone had sent me a can of Skyline Chili direct from Cincinnati.It's Skyline Time!

    What's that, you say?  You think it's strange that someone sent me a can of chili in the mail?  Well...  Maybe it's odd in YOUR world, but it seems like a perfectly normal thing to me. 

    Now, if only I could find a can opener.   I'm totally going all Five-Way on this little puppy once I figure out how to chew my way through this can. 


I'm Such a Hater...

Hi.  Pay attention to me.     With his new album, Justin Timberlake is claiming that he is going to "reinvent" pop music.

    Justin Timberlake is an idiot.
    I spent a bit of time listening to his latest single "SexyBack," and after a few minutes, I wanted to dunk my head in a bucket of lye, rip my ears from the sides of my head and smash them together like one of those smiling, wind-up, cymbal-playing monkeys.  Yeah..  I may even nod my head like one in total, blissful stupidity. 
    How do I know this song is going to be a total failure?  It's pretty easy.  He's already started blaming other people by saying his new song is like "David Bowie and David Byrne doing a cover of James Brown's 'Sex Machine.'" 
    Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't mind seeing Bowie and Byrne crank out a version of that song.  In fact, it might even help restore my opinion of David Bowie's musical sensibilities after that sexually-ambiguous, yet wildly terrifying and painful "Dancing in the Streets" duet he did with Mick Jagger.  However, Justin should just accept it as his own, and not drag these poor adults into his childish, backside madness.  After all, if you're going to "reinvent" something and be unique, it's usually not a good idea to say that you're ripping off other people.
    Honestly, I worry about the children.  I worry about James Brown.  This could be just the excuse he's looking for in order to embark on a year-long, crack-fueled, Waffle House-trashing rampage.  After all, his sanity is pretty sketchy as it is.  Poor James Brown is like a cat standing over a sprinkler --you want to turn it on to torture the poor animal for some easy laughs, but you know the second you do, he's going to turn your favorite pair of shoes into a litter box the first chance he gets.   
    Of course, I blame Britney for all of this, and I'm thinking that anyone who comes in contact with her feels some strange urge to write crappy songs about women's asses.  Her husband/pet/dependent child K-Fed dumped a steaming load of PopoZao on the music industry in which he clucked on and on about his fascination for back ends, so why wouldn't Justin, lacking the crazy-mad linguistic skillz to match K-fed's feeble grasp of Portuguese, write one too? 
    Personally, I think Justin should just get it over with and write a song titled, "Hey K-Fed!  I Deflowered Your Wife."  I think I'd listen to that.  I'd listen so long as he didn't drag any real musicians into his insecure madness. 

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Guess Who's Old Today...

26 mini-marshmallows.. Impressive.    Well, so much for that whole being cool like James Woods thing.  Amanda (aka: Miss Trickster) has turned twenty one today.  So, I hate to break it to you, guys, but if you get on her bad side now, you can no longer find safe refuge in a tavern.  She will track you down and beat you silly, and you've got nowhere to run and hide.  Your best bet is to rent a car and take the first fast road out of town.    

     Twenty-one years old, huh?  Gadzooks!  I barely remember my twenty-first birthday way back in 1989.  The funny thing is, I'd been going to bars long before I turned twenty-one, so it wasn't much of a big deal.  In fact, when I was ten, my first little league baseball coach was also the owner of the most popular bar in town --a place called Nearly Normal.  And, when other teams won their games, they'd go to Shakey's for pizza, but we'd all go hang out in an air-conditioned tavern to drink cokes, eat pizza, and play pool.  We were the envy of the league.

     As I was growing up, the drinking age was always eighteen-years old; however, shortly before turning eighteen, they upped it to nineteen.  I didn't particularly mind, but I had friends who had managed to make it to eighteen before they raised it, and suddenly, they just sort of disappeared. 

     The frustrating part came when I was zeroing in on the age of nineteen, and they decided to finally bump the drinking age up to 21. 

    On the other hand, there was simply so much confusion in Wisconsin in those days as a result of no one really knowing what the legal drinking age actually was that if you were anywhere between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one, you rarely had a problem. 

    Anyway, Happy Birthday Amanda!  I think you should go buy a six-pack (or a forty) for no other reason than the fact that you can.  Whip out that shiny new driver's license and say "Ha!"


Tuesday, July 11, 2006

I'm Gonna Be Rich!

    Saaaaah-weeeeet!  Sometimes it really pays to check the old spam folder, people.  Had I just let this go unopened and tumble into the abyss where unread emails go, I would never have known about this poor woman and this incredible opportunity to make a fat wad of sweaty dough!  I am going to be stinkin' rich!  Yeeeehaaa! 

I got your contact in my searching of a good reputation foreign partner to
assist me in my late husband properties (Good reputation?!?  Umm..  Yeah.  That's me). My late husband was former district leaders of the diamond city call KENNEMA and an executive member of the Diamond Mining Association in the Republic of Sierra-Leone (Sweet!  Conflict diamonds are as good as money in my world!  By the way, your English sucks, so this has GOT to be legit).

He was massacred by the president TEJAN KABBAH force in their struggle to
reinstate him back to power (a one person massacre?), before his death he disclosed to me that he deposited two trunk boxes contain sum of US$18.2 Million in a Security
Company in Accra, Ghana (I love Ghana), in a neighboring country in West Africa, after all, I had gave the Security Company a call and was confirmed that the boxes are intact (It's nice to know the boxes are intact, sorry to hear your husband isn't, but what about the dough?).

I decide to solicit (please don't tarnish what we have) for your kind assistance to help me and my two children invest these funds on our behalf the sum of US$18.2 Million (and to deposit 20kg of Gold Alleviate in your Bank for us.) in your Business Venture for a long term and pay us monthly on an agreeable terms to be worked out later (I plan to invest it in DPF stocks.  Also known as Dan's Party Fund.  As for paying you monthly, umm..  yeah.  I'll do that.  Whatever's left after some serious binge-drinking and buying Britney's house and tossing her out on the street, consider it yours).    .

Our lives and future of my two children depends on these funds (Okay.  Now you're just sounding needy) and as such, I will be grateful if you can assist us (Well, if you wish to repay my kindness, you're certainly welcome to clean my house, do my dishes, and your two urchin.. err.. children can mow the lawn). I am seeking your assistance to invest this fund out of Africa for investment purpose (Trust me, it's already been invested).

I want you to come on board help clear this money from the deposit company, open an account on your name, and transfer the funds to your designated account in your country (Not a problem.  Are you writing the check right now?).

Why I also want you is that my husband specifically put it in his will and advice me that I must consult a foreign partner to assist me to move the funds out of Africa (Your husband was a smart man.  Sorry he was blown up), I think was to save as a check on my part so that I would not loose the money (Don't worry.  You'll know where your money is, so it won't really be lost), as this is the only money left for the success of my two children in this generation (trust me, I care deeply for all children.  How are they at sewing?  I'm thinking about starting my own shoe line, and I'm willing to let them be a part of it for fifteen cents a week).

What I demanded from you is to assure me the safety of this money when it finally gets to you (of course. I'll definitely send you a thank you note.  Maybe even a fruit basket?  Do you like fruit?).. Further information and arrangement will commence as soon as trust, confidence and good relationship is established (You need to stop watching Dr. Phil and start drinking more). I shall be most grateful if you could maintain this high level of confidentiality I repose on you concerning this matter (Honestly!  I won't tell a soul), .

My health is not in good shape now (Great.  You're a total lemon, aren't you?), because am hypertension patient and I need your help as quick as you can please (Well, then you definitely came to the right person.  I can cure your hypertension with copious amounts of chicken-fried bacon).

Please reply me through my email address.

Thanks for your personal consideration.

Yours Sincerely,

Mary Manto
    I am going to be so totally loaded. 

Sunday, July 9, 2006


    Hmmm....  I don't know a thing about Boston.  I've never been there, and on those rare occasions when I wandered into my college History class, I don't recall any of those few days discussing that city (I got an A in History, by the way).
    Anyway, in order to do John Scalzi's latest Weekend Assignment, I needed to make some calls.  Actually, I just needed to call my friend Julie.  She jets out there several times a month for work; plus, she's Irish, so if there's anyone to ask about Boston, it's her. 
    I flipped open my cellphone, paged through my phonebook and dialed her number.
    "Dan," she said.  "Where the hell have you been?"
    "Jules!" I replied, and not being one for small-talk, I got right to the point. "What can you tell me about Boston?"
    "You're in Boston?"  She asked.
    "No.  I'm in Milwaukee."  I said.  "I just need to know something about Boston."
    "Are you going there?"  She asked.
    "Not that I'm planning," I said.  It was clear that this conversation was going to drive me nuts, so I began to search for the right question which could get things moving in the right direction.  "But, if I do go, what's there for me?"
    "Oh," she said.  "You'd like all the bars."
    Why does everyone instantly think that the only thing I want to do when I go anywhere is drink?  I thought. 
    "You know that scar on Mike's forehead?"  She asked.
    "He got that in Boston?"  I asked as I thought about the small, misplaced wrinkle on her husband's noggin.  "Did he piss someone off, again?"
The Freedom Trail.
    "No."  She replied.  "He hit a car.  The dumb bastard stumbled out of a bar in Boston and dove head-first into a Hyundai on our anniversary." 
    "Nice," I laughed.  "What else is there?"
    "Oh!" She said.  "You'd LOVE the Freedom Trail."
    "Yeah?"  I asked.
    "Definitely."  She said.  "It's like a billion miles of walking, but they've got tons of historic places to check out, and if you get tired, there's more than a few bars along the way to sit down and grab a beer." 
    "Thanks, Jules!" I wrapped up the conversation. 
    So, after talking to her, I hopped online and found some information about the Freedom Trail, and it's only about 3 miles.  Of course, being from Wisconsin, any walk of more than one-hundred yards may as well be like walking to Mars.  Fortunately, there are apparently a lot of "rest stops" along the way in which to rehydrate and contemplate the history of this nation.  Boston seems like a town I could enjoy, and hopefully I can make it there before too long.  And, I seriously hope I don't wind up French-kissing a parked Hyundai.  It's simply not high on my list of things to do. 
Extra Credit:  Did I ever want to go to Harvard?
    Naaaah...  It seemed a little too pricey and intellectually demanding for me and my slacker mentality.  However, my cousin goes to Harvard, and she seems to like it. 

Saturday, July 8, 2006

A New Weight-Loss Plan...

    I have a new diet plan.  And no, I don't have a weight problem, really.  I figure it's fine and dandy to be 6'2" and weigh somewhere around 210 lbs.

    However, should the time come to lose a few pounds, I've decided the easiest way to do so would be to hang out with pregnant women.  And, not just ANY pregnant woman, mind you.  I want to hang out with my friend Jenn, who, through recent conversations, has detailed her cravings for smoked-chubs and apple-pie, or deviled eggs and chocolate sauce.  It's absolutely terrifying, really. 

King Kahn!

Oliver Kahn    Now, as a Yank, I don't know a whole heck of a lot about soccer; however, with this World Cup, I've found myself really enjoying it (plus, it beats watching reruns of Judging Amy while I'm getting work done).  In fact, I've seen bits and pieces of just about every game.  And, as the final match is played out tomorrow, I think I'll be looking forward ahead to the next World Cup in South Africa in 2010.  Hopefully, they can put together as good a contest as the German people gave us this year.  I'll definitely watch, and I might even take some time to learn a few of the rules so I know what's going on.  I really want to be able to scream and boo and howl when a foul is committed. 

    Anyway, one of the really great stories is that of the legendary German keeper, Oliver Kahn.  Before the World Cup, he was knocked down to Keeper #2, but he somehow became the elder-statesman of, not only his team, but the entire sport, and he took on his new gig happily as he did all he could to encourage his team --a team that no one expected to really do all that well-- to the third place match against Portugal.  And, for his efforts, the #1 Keeper, Lehman, bowed out of today's match saying that there was no way he was going to play, and he stepped aside to let Olie Kahn play in what will most likely be his very last game.  It's not a matter of winning or losing.  The country just wanted to see one man play one last time.  I love sports stories such as those. 


Friday, July 7, 2006


    Earlier today, I had a doctor's appointment, and since the hospital has gone "paperless" since my last doctor's visit, I had to wander my way to registration to pick up --you guessed it-- a piece of paper (It doesn't make any sense to me either, so don't feel bad).      

    Anyway, while standing and waiting for the next --actually only-- available person to help me, I eavesdropped in on the following conversation of the customer..  umm...  patient before me:
    "I'm here to see Dr. Suchandsuch," the patient said. (I forgot the Dr.'s name.  I may have good hearing, but my memory is total garbage).  "She's in Internal Medicine."
    The registrar, a balding, nervous, little rabbit of a man tapped away on his keyboard, printed something out, handed it to the patient and told him the directions to Dr. Suchandsuch's office. 
    However, the patient wasn't happy with that and simply needed to know more.  I'm not sure.  Perhaps he doesn't like surprises? 
    "Is she a woman," Mr. Patient asked. 
    "No," the Registrar said.  "She's a man."
    "She's a man?"  Mr. Patient asked.
    "Yes she is."
    "Okay, thanks."
    "Anytime.  Don't forget to tell her what medications you're on.  She'll need to know that."
    Needless to say, after that little exchange, I was seriously wondering just what the heck was going on in this hospital.  And don't even get me started on the glacier they've got in the pharmacy who read my receipt as though it was an SAT question that he'd forgotten to study for. 

Why I Should Take Up Quilting.

    I was hungry, okay?
    Before you judge, you should know that I was starving.  I was ready to eat my own teeth just to ease my starvation.  Unfortunately, the only thing I found to eat on my drive home today was a poor, expired robin that had spent quite a bit of time roasting on the pavement being pressed like a panini from the passing trucks and busses, and the very thought that I could dress it up with a bit of parsley and some chives stolen from someone's nearby herb garden sent me into such a panic that I decidced then and there that the best thing for me would be to avoid the roadkill chicken and hit the Taco Bell drive-thru.  It's a step up, after all.  Not much of a step, but it's a move in the right direction. 
    So, I rolled up to the little speaker and told the happily warbling voice that I wanted to buritto supremes, and --what the heck?-- nachos.  I figure that should at least come close to covering all the major food groups (I have yet to embrace the food pyramid.  It's about as practical as the metric system in my world). 
    Anyway, I idled my way toward the window while doing some creative clutch, gas and brake-work while digging through my pockets looking for money. 
    And then it happened. 
    I got to the window, handed over my money, he gave me my change and then he asked me that manhood-shattering question: "would you like any mild, hot or fire sauce?"
    "Mild," I said without thinking.  Damn!  Why do I always say mild?
    "Mild?" He asked.
    "Yes, mild please."  I said.  Great!  Say "please."  No, he doesn't think you're a three-year old girl.  Why don't you put in an Air Supply CD and crank it up? 
    "You said you wanted hot sauce?"  He asked, tryng to save whatever manhood I may have had left at this point.  I wanted to bludgeon him with a challupa.
    "No," I said.  "I'd like mild."  
    If nothing else, I'm a man of strong convictions. 
    "Here you go," he said as he handed me my burritos. I felt as though it was Halloween, and I was standing at his door in a Hello Kitty costume, holding open a sack and begging for a handful of Sweet-Tarts. 
    "Have a nice day." he said.
    "Thank you," I said as I pulled away quickly, and ignored the speed-limit on my way home like the burly, fearless, manly man I am.  I revved the engine at every stoplight.  For a moment, I thought about hitting the video store and picking up some porn.  Unfortunately, I was hungry --starving.  I needed to eat.  And, I needed my mild sauce.   I know.  I'm weak. 

The New Guy...

    There's a new Editor in AOL's little slice of the blogosphere.  His name is Jeff Simmermon and his journal is Pixel Pusher

    If you'd like to know more about him, either go to his journal, or simply go to any Jamaican restaurant, poke your head into the kitchen and I'm pretty sure you'll hear "Simmermon" bandied about --as well as the more uncomplimentary "jerk chicken."   

    Of course, he seems like a really nice guy and definite plus to the AOL Journal Community, and, of course, I am only saying this because he chose me to deflower his innocent blog as his first Weekly Editor's Pick.  And, I'm certain that like most who have met me and made a similar decision, he'll probably wake up tomorrow sober, screaming and trembling with the cold sweat of panic and regret (but don't worry Jeff.  I hear it helps to drink a lot and sleep with the light on). 

    On top of that, you can also go to the Journals Main Page and see a new picture of my mug being broadcast around teh internets.  

    Anyway, go say hi to the new guy, and make it a point to visit all of the blogs on his list.  It's quite flattering being included among such wonderful reads.  


Another Headline...

    Sorry folks...  I'm so easily entertained.  Call me purile, but I don't write these headlines, and when the words "syndicate," "Ann Coulter," and "electronic tool," are used in the same sentence, it's really somewhat disturbing.   
    Then again, call me evil, but the thought of Ann Coulter getting nailed for plagiarism just gives me all sorts of warm, fuzzy feelings.  She's a bit of an intellectual hazard in that I think a great deal of her bloviating, self-important angst is simply an act she uses to feed her ego.  It's unfortunate that people give her works any more merit than just being the irrational rantings of an intolerant, hate-filled human being. 
    Anyway, kind of a sloppy entry here.  Sorry about that.  I'm a bit rushed, but life should slow down in time for the weekend ahead.  Does anyone have any nifty plans? 

Wednesday, July 5, 2006


"You said bad things about Kenny Boy and then HE DIED. I hope the guilt doesn't cause you to do something rash. Or break out in a rash.
Comment from tenyearnap - 7/5/06 10:02 AM"

    Well, I didn't say anything bad about him per se.  I just pointed out how screwed one becomes when George Bush gives you a nickname.  But, I do feel badly for the family of Kenneth Lay. 

     The thing is, in light of his death, I think we can be reasonably certain the conspiracy folks are going to have a field day with this news.   


Nothing Much, Today...

    Now, not to sound greedy or anything, but please come to South Milwaukee.  There's plenty to do here --great golfing, a wonderful park, and a whole lot of dumpy bars where cell-phone reception is terrible due to lead pipes and radon gas.

    Please come, leave your car on the street, and rack up those parking tickets like crazy because this city desperately needs the money to buy more fireworks. 

    I had a great time yesterday.  I spent six hours in the park with a former candidate for mayor, and he and I tried to keep enough alcohol in our systems to make the fifty-degree temperature tolerable.  Unfortunately, this task was made considerably more difficult by the thirsty swarm of mosquitoes who kept sucking out whatever antifreeze we put in.  A little bug spray, perhaps some long pants, and maybe a jacket, and I wouldn't have had to drink so much.  However, being the ridiculous genius that I am, I decided to wear shorts and a t-shirt.  It's summer, dammit.  I don't care if there is a glacier bearing down on me; if it's July, I'm wearing shorts. 

    Anyway, for six hours we battled the elements (around here, mosquitoes are considered an element), and, in the end, we were greeted with a fifteen minute fireworks show, capped off by a thirty-second grand finale. 

    Don't get me wrong, it was nice, but it brought up the following conversation between me and the loser of the last mayoral election:

    "Kind of a let-down," I said.  "Last year's were better."
    "That's why you should have voted for me," he said. 
    "I've known you for thirty years," I said.  "Trust me.  I did the city a favor by not voting for you."
    "Well, I would have made sure we had better fireworks."
    "I would have skimmed from the police fund," he said. 
    "I think that should be your next campaign platform," I told him.  "Less cops.  More explosives." 
    "Think they'd build me a statue?"  He laughed.