Caption Contest

Be creative.


Thought starters:

1. The tie.
2. Male pattern baldness.
3. What's he looking at?

Leave a comment with your submission. The best one wins.

Nervous

For a few years, I've done voice overs for radio stations big and small, all around the world - but my audition this morning was for a TV station in Boston. If I get the job, I will be the voice that says:

"Tonight on CBS-4, an investigative report: why your tax dollars are being wasted on hookers and crack. Fern Knudsen reports at 11 on CBS-4."

It will be a big deal - my first television client. Obviously I was nervous and wishing for liquor.

The audition was to be conducted over a connection called an ISDN. It's a studio-quality phone line, and the decision-makers would be on the other end listening through a big set of speakers.

The day's beginning was coarse. The first thing I learned when I rose and opened my laptop was that my audition was an hour earlier than I thought. Which meant I would have to make it downtown in rush hour traffic in 25 minutes. No problem, with the help of the growling 325-horse engine in the 745Li, I accomplished the feat... only to learn the studio engineer - the guy who knows how to make the ISDN work - had overslept. It was up to me to set things up.

I don't need to tell you how ridiculous that concept is.

No matter which buttons I pushed, I could not determine why they could hear me but I couldn't hear them. With no hope of reaching audio nirvana without the help of hungover-sound-guy, we agreed to move the session back 45 minutes. What a GREAT first impression! Shit.

Finally the engineer guy arrived, he un-pushed the buttons I had pushed and we got things ready to go. The line connected, I exchanged pleasantries and apologies with the director in Boston and we were underway. I read a couple of fluff pieces for them, which were fine. I'm a real fluff kinda guy.

Then it was time to convince them. They wanted me to read the nightly news intro, the grandaddy of all voice over lines. It will be played over an official sounding news bed with drums, horns and strings, so I have to be good. I reached way down deep to muster up the serious, ominous tone it would require to accomplish my goal... and I let 'her rip.

"LIVE AT 11.. THIS IS YOUR LOCAL NEWSTATION... CBS 4 NEWS... WITH LISA HUGHES AND JOSH BINSWANGER."

A moment of silence, then they pop on. "Can you give us a little more umph, more authority. And be more serious, less friendly."

Gulp. Huh? Are they kidding?!? Nope, they wanted more. "Okay," I responded, "no problem!" My mind started changed gears. I had to go to a mental place I had never been before. I had to imagine I was someone else... somewhere else... in another time.

Yes, suddenly, I was Lord Fontleroy issuing a declaration of war over the huns of the valley.

Me: "LIVE AT 11.. (dramatic pause) THIS IS YOUR LOCAL NEWSTATION... CBS 4 NEWS... (dramatic pause) WITH LISA HUGHES AND JOSH BINSWANGER."

I should tell you how difficult it is to say "Binswanger" in a serious tone. Binswanger. BINZ-wang-er.

Another moment of silence. Their microphone clicks and I hear room noise, but nothing more.

Silence.

Then, a clap. Another clap. Someone else joins in. Suddenly, applause erupts throughout the room and the director says "that was PERFECT!"

Audio Nirvana.

So what could a guy like me possibly do at a moment like this - but spill his coffee.

All over the control board. All over my pants. Shorting out the microphone and sending a small whisp of smoke toward the ceiling.

And losing the connection with Boston.

I smiled. What more COULD I do? There are just some days you wish you could fast-forward through. I picked up my cell phone, dialed the television station, thanked them for their time and sunk back in my chair. It was time for a double Lagavulin on the rocks.

I'll let you know if I get the gig.

"If the coffin fits..."

He died rather young, age 67... I can only suppose he ran out of appeals.

Dear public school:

As a parent, I just wanted to thank you for doing your part in helping America claim the title of WORLD'S FATTEST NATION.

It's no easy feat, so we should be proud of our status. Eliminating the requirement of physical education classes was brilliant! Who needs physical activity in today's world? We're preparing our children for jobs that are mostly sedintary in nature, why waste time with PE? Let's get those guts and butts growing early!

And the school lunch program is a glowing example of your contribution to our world-wide distinction! Pizza, french fries, soda, snack pies, ice cream... such careful choosing of comestibles will ENSURE we retain our proud status. Bigger is better, that's what I say.

And when those inerudite, short-sighted parents complain to you periodically about the cafeteria fare, your answer is utterly ingenious... especially the part about teaching children good nourishment by giving them an opportunity to make choices on their own, even if they're the wrong choices. FANTASTIC!

With that basic concept in mind, I would encourage you to rethink your entire curriculum. Design every class around giving them both right AND wrong answers, and let THEM decide which is correct. After all, school is not an institution of LEARNING, it's an institution of GUESSING. Before long, we'll not only hold the title of fattest nation on earth, we'll also be the LEAST-EDUCATED.

Bravo! I am excited about the prospect... and hope you stay on course. CARRY ON, public schools... and remember our motto - NO CHILD LEFT (with a small) BEHIND!

Millions long for immortality...

... who do not know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Susan Ertz

Surprise 35-year belated gift

After reading the Easter story (below) my son Danny went out and spent his own money to buy me this Easter basket, complete with rubber duckies for the hottub.

It more than made up for any missing basket of candy... and reminded me of what a great son I have.

An Easter Story

He fidgeted with the Pez dispenser, knowing that by this time tomorrow it would be full again. Click. Click. Click. Donald Duck’s head nodded, controlled by a grimy thumb.

He would have refilled it but he'd already spent his dime on a Coke this morning. He earned money by picking up trash, helping check oil, and pumping gas at the Standard station in front of the apartment where he and his mother lived. He was mostly a good helper and Sam paid him well; 10 cents a day, and usually it went right back into the cash register for candy. But not today, he would need no Pez, no Milk Duds, no bubble gum. Those things would be coming tonight for free.

What was Easter about anyway? As far as he knew, it was about eggs, candy, and baskets. Wasn’t there something else though? He strained to remember, his forehead wrinkling from concentration. If there was, he would have to think of it later. Right now he was focused on candy.

Mom had told him the Easter bunny only came if you had followed the rules - gotten to bed on time, didn’t talk back, finished your supper - and as the big day drew closer, he had made sure his record was spotless. He smiled, then frowned. It was 9 o’clock. He was pretty smart for a 6-year old, he knew 9 o’clock meant bedtime on the weekend, but Mom wasn’t home yet.

There were rules with people like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, rules that must not be broken. A big one was the “can’t be awake” rule. He scrunched his nose, deliberating. He didn’t know where Mom was tonight, so he couldn’t call her.

He walked to the window and peered into the dark. In the distance, red lights began flashing on the train crossing arm. As he watched it lower into position, he wondered if Fairfield California was at the beginning of the Easter Bunny’s tour or near the end. He watched and waited for the train to finish, hoping the headlights he could see flickering between the boxcar wheels were Mom’s. They were not.

Worried, he turned from the window and paced the kitchen. The parrot stirred in his cage, so he offered his finger between the bars to calm the bird. He considered going to bed now, so if the Easter Bunny came before his Mom got home he would at least be asleep and ready. That made the most sense to him, so he put on his pajamas, brushed his teeth, washed the day’s dirt off his hands, and slipped into bed. He got back up quickly, having forgotten an important detail. The milk and carrot!

He poured the milk, but there were no carrots to be found. He looked around thoughtfully and decided a cookie would have to suffice. He placed the items carefully on the table and scurried back to bed.

________

He awoke to sunlight streaming through the window. He lingered in bed looking at the ceiling, trying to clear the fog.

His face lit up. It’s Easter!

He sat up and looked across the room. It was a small house with only one bedroom and Mom was sleeping soundly in her bed. A big smile crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by a frown. Did she make it to bed in time, or was she awake when the bunny arrived? He bounded out of bed and rushed toward the door, then remembered to tip-toe so mom wouldn't wake up. He imagined how silly he must look, trying to run and tip-toe at the same time, but he knew what waited for him beyond the door.

There would be eggs hidden around the house, a huge basket in the living room, and candy everywhere. It was something he especially enjoyed, the hunt for the eggs. Last year the bunny had taken extraordinary steps to make them hard to find.

He stepped gingerly around the corner and peered into the living room. The basket wasn’t in its usual place. He frowned. Surely the Bunny wouldn’t have hidden the entire basket but he must have. What a clever idea! This would just add to the fun.

He poked around behind the chair, checked under the table, in the bathroom. He slipped down onto his belly to see what might be under the couch. Nothing there - no basket, no eggs. In a flurry, he ran around the house looking everywhere - under, above, behind things. Nothing. He pursed his lips and folded his arms. Hmmm…

Under the sink! It was one of the last places he could think of, so surely it would be there. He ran into the kitchen and dropped to his knees, sliding the last few feet to the cabinet. He peeked in carefully, gingerly, wanting to prolong the excited surprise he would feel when he saw the basket.

Nothing. The frown returned as he stood up and walked to the living room. Surely there was something he had missed. Surely Mom had gone to bed in time. Surely he had been a good boy. Surely.

But then he thought about that day a few weeks ago when he was late walking home from school. He had stopped at a friend’s house to see his new bike, and Mom was waiting for him on the porch. She was very unhappy with him that day.

Another time a puppy had “followed” him home. Truth be told some coaxing was involved. Mom wasn’t too excited about that either.

Another time he had slipped an unwanted ham and cheese sandwich behind the refrigerator and told his mom he had finished it. He had planned to return later and toss it outside but the dog discovered it first and exposed his transgression.

Could it be he hadn't been good enough this year? He rubbed his chin and realized it was wet. He hadn't noticed the tears that were rolling down his face. He wanted to awaken Mom and ask her advice but it was still pretty early, so he curled up on the couch and turned on the television.

An hour later, his mother woke up and walked into the room in robe and slippers. She looked at the television and noticed it was an Easter church service. She looked at him and realized what had happened.

She struggled for answers as he questioned her. Sometimes, she said, the Easter Bunny just forgets. Sometimes he runs out of candy and has to finish the next night. It could be a hundred things, but she was sure it wasn’t because he was a bad boy.

He began considering her thoughts. He couldn’t imagine the Easter Bunny would forget him, and he’s never been known to run out of candy. Was she sure it wasn’t the sandwich or the puppy? All she could do was shrug her shoulders and hug him. The candy and eggs will probably come tonight, he thought.

He got dressed, brushed his teeth, and headed to the Standard station. Sam was probably needing his help! Today's dime would go toward refilling his Pez dispenser, just in case.

"The race is long...

... and in the end, it's only with yourself."

Mary Schmich

Drinking and blogging

Do you have any idea how great it is to finally sleep in? My eyelids fluttered at 9:30, I got up around 10, lounged in my robe until 1, then began drinking Bud Light and dirty Sapphire martinis at a furious pace.

I can only imagine what the evening holds in store. I think I'll go out and blow some money. That's always what I end up doing when drinking.

Well, that... and occasionally crapping my own pants.


UPDATE: I spent 10 bucks. I didn't crap my pants.

Is it warm in here, or is it just me?

With all due respect to those offended by comparing an asshole to a method of hygene...

Here is a douche bag.

And here's why:

Is there a "hysteria" over global warming? I wouldn't call it that, but there are members of the scientific community, who stand to profit nothing, saying man IS affecting the climate of the Earth.

The ozone IS disappearing, fact. The mean temperature of the Earth IS rising, fact. We are dumping MEGATONS of fossil fuel emmissions into the atmosphere, fact. Those emmissions DO chemically alter and eliminate ozone, fact. Earth IS delicately balanced and susceptible to mass-extinctions, fact. (just look back through history) These are things that cannot be ignored, regardless of how the economy is. They are facts.

Is it doomsday? No, we'll likely survive. Science is advancing faster than global warming, we'll find a way to adapt. But are we adversely affecting our environment? Of course we are. I can hardly imagine anyone arguing that, it's common sense. (oh, wait... maybe that's the reason)

Some people ignore information, however factual, that doesn't benefit their agenda. But there is a point at which we must weigh the price of a cleaner Earth against the impact on economy. I'm no tree hugger, but we must find cleaner, less environmentally impactful energy.

Even asshole-douche-bag should be able to see that.

-----------

UPDATE 3-26-05: Okay, I'm feeling a little embarrassed. Sometimes I get worked up when I write opinion pieces. Did you notice?

For fear of being categorized as a heathen, (or worse, someone who doesn't see both sides of a debate) I must scale back the name calling. Replace asshole with assHAT, and douche bag with goober.

But he's still a guy who ignores those things which are inconvenient.

Dave's Friday Photo

Must have been a damn good night. I wish I could remember it.

How safe IS Iraq?

Iraqi kids are smarter and more savvy than we might think. And probably safer than American kids!

If you click the picture, you can see why I say that. I had to share it, considering the trial is going on.

UPDATE: Fine, Quinn. It's a doctored picture. It's not real. Forgery. Photoshop masterpiece. Thanks man. Now tell me there's no easter bunny.
courtesy Probably Correct

Most of the time...

I feel like my blog is read-worthy. Mostly, I have lucid, intelligent, stupid, inconsistent, fascinating yet boring things on my mind.

The hobby of having a blog fills a hole in my life somehow.

Of course, part of my blog is my profile... in which I state that I am a "hater of hypocrisy." Do I just say I hate hypocrisy because it sounds good and makes me feel noble? Of COURSE NOT. Do I only say it so I seem like a better person? ABSOLUTELY NOT!

Uh, okay well... maybe.

I didn't THINK so until I read the blog entry of LIGHTNING BUG'S BUTT. It really was an epiphany for me.

After careful self-examination, it seems I actually hate hypocrisy... IN OTHERS. Mine is okay, it's the next guy I really hate.

Wow, a new plateau of self-awareness! Drinks for everyone!

Let's be honest, the sort of hypocrisy I hate mostly deals with the big things. Politics, right to life... religion... frequent flyer miles. The small things pass through my hypocrisy strainer and drop neatly into the puzzle that is my life. Isn't that convenient?

Side note: when I first started blogging, I felt really good about the things I wrote. I found them insightful, fascinating, interesting and well written. Since then, I've found blogs that make mine seem mundane and pedestrian. Lightning Bug's Butt, among others, is a great example.

Yet, curiously, I continue blogging.

Why?

Why do the fries in the bottom of the bag taste so much better than the fries in the french fry box? Is it some sort of mysterious "spud sorcery?"

Also, I realize that with all the hubbub in baseball right now it will be tough to avoid the word, but I'm getting tired of the overuse of the phrase "on steroids."

"Disneyland is like Six Flags on steroids!"

"The new Ford Mustang is like the 1980 Ford Fiesta on steroids!"

"My new Harley is like a moped on steroids!"

Okay, a couple of those examples are bad. Anyway...

Worrisome search words...

Every day I scan through my site to see who has dropped by, and which search words through Google, Technorati, Yahoo and others, are bringing people to my little corner of the blogosphere.

Today, I find that someone arrived at my site by searching the phrase "divorced wife and sex with teenage son." This is mortifying. I gotta stop writing when I'm drunk.

Another interesting one. "goats gay single nude men." Uh. Moving on.

How about this one. "Nissan Maxima with cuban cigars." Had I known these were an option on the new Maxima, I would have never bought that used 80 Ford Fiesta.

Can you see me now? Good.

The newest manifestation of the blogosphere has surfaced, and like blogging, has a really stupid name. Vlogging. Say it with me. Vlogging. Vlogging. Yeah, I hate it too.

It's video blogging. You record yourself through a webcam, post it and people can watch your "show." It's the natural progression from ordinary blogging.

No it's not.

The world of web self-expression is a young one. First, there was owning your own website. Prohibitively* expensive for the common man for many years. Then came our opportunity, blogging, where anyone could blather mindlessly about anything they want. Then came the audio blog, where others could hear what a moron you sound like. Now we're seeing the advent of vlogging, where anyone and everyone can eyeball you and critique every mole, tic and hangin' booger. What is it that drives us to keep putting more of ourselves "out there?" And what will it take to convince Anna Kournikova to start hers?

And... what's next? The 3D blog? The textureblog so you can feel someone's ass? The fartblog (self explanatory)? The virtual reality "head-in-a-shark's-mouth-blog" maybe?

And what an unattractive word "blog" is. Why can't we all put our heads together as a community and come up with a better word.

Like nippling.

*yep, Dave used a FIVE SYLLABLE word.

SNL making waves... just wait 'til you see what they're waving

It looks like a Saturday Night Live skit featuring a fictitious roast of Clint Eastwood slipped by the censors. David Spade, playing the part of Owen Wilson, was given a wanger-whiffer, a prosthetic penis-proboscis. Fairly realistic set of NAD NOSTRILS, if you ask me.

I'm sure after this hits the mainstream media, there will be many complaints about the spooge-moose schnoz. Ironically, it probably would have been a more appropriate make-up job for a roast of "Spurt Reynolds."

Okay, enough of that... if there were ever a question about whether or not I'm going to hell, I think it's been answered.


Courtesy Boing Boing

What a great weekend

It was relaxing, although I probably worked more than usual. I did some gardening in the atrium, cleaned up dog shit from the yards and stocked the beer fridge. Grocery shopped, bought a new TIVO to replace the one in the family room that died... it was pretty busy. But I did a lot of relaxing too. Drank a little wine, had some good food.

Okay, a lot of wine.

Now it's back to work. I'm lucky, I do all my work from home... so now I head downstairs to the recording studio to read script and build some "theater of the mind." If you're ever interested, my job is very public. Click this link to my website and then click DEMO. The RADIO audio is the best example of what I do.

Not like you care, what the hell am I saying? Have a good Monday.

I thought George Bush was different

Silly me. According to MSNBC.com:

"President Bush rushed back from his Texas ranch for a chance to sign the measure that Republicans view as an opportunity to strengthen their support among religious conservatives ahead of next year’s congressional elections."

I seem to remember President Bush staying put at his Texas ranch when a Tsunami killed over 200,000 people. But a political opportunity arises in the Schiavo case, and he's on a plane to Washington DC to build his political capital among the ultra-right faster than you can say "Laura, get me my flight suit."

I am a 65/35 moderate conservative. George Bush was someone I thought might be different than the PAC.

It appears I was wrong.

None Of Our Business

Let me make this perfectly clear... my opinion on whether Terri Schiavo should remain on a feeding tube doesn't matter. I will not bother you with it.

The only people to whom it should matter are she and her husband. That's the way the law is written, it's the only fair way to have it, and the system has worked marvelously. The law states that in this situation, the next-of-kin decides the patient's fate. It's time to allow our laws to work. It's a family issue, a personal issue. NOT a political issue.

The arrogant, self-serving Tom DeLay of Texas and others should keep their big opinionated noses out of it. Government made the laws, they've been in place for a good long time, and they work. DeLay and his ilk are masters at changing laws that don't suit them, so it's not at all surprising they are trying to push their morals and dogma on the Schiavos and others in similar situations. Those who use this poor lady to forward their "cause" will be exposed through the lucid eye of public opinion for what they are... self-serving opportunists.

What if our opinions DID matter? (which they do not) I have yet to see a poll that favors leaving Terri's feeding tube in. According to a Fox News poll a huge majority of us would want to die if we were in Terri's place:

If you were in Terri Schiavo’s place, what would you want your guardian to do? Would you have your guardian:

1. Remove the feeding tube -- 74%
2. Keep the feeding tube inserted? -- 16%
3. (Not sure) -- 10%

If so many of us would choose NOT to endure such a horrible existence, why does congress believe she would feel any differently? Mr. Schiavo says he loves his wife and will do whatever it takes to end an existence that he believes she would not want to endure. He says she would want her feeding tube stopped and that she would wish to die rather than remain bed-bound in a nursing home in a permanent vegetative state, unable to speak, respond or care for herself for the rest of her days. And honestly, isn't he most likely the last person to have discussed it with her?

Clearly, Michael Schiavo could have taken the easy way out long ago. If he only cared for himself, he could have divorced Terri and walked away. The fact he didn't speaks a great deal to his character. It should also tell us she felt strongly about the subject.

Look... through her husband, Terri Schiavo has spoken. We can argue the case all we want, but none of us matter.

Only Terri.

Last Night

We had our mouths and minds set on the green beer, corned beef & cabbage and Irish music. Of course NONE of those things happened.

As we drove from Irish bar to Irish bar and saw the crowds and drunken debauchery (is anything more irritating than being around on-your-ass drunk people when you're stone sober?) we started thinking our desire for the Irish celebration had waned. As we pulled into our favorite corner bar, Frailey's, we decided it looked less crowded so we parked. Just as we did, a TOUR BUS pulled up on the sidewalk out front and... oh, a good hundred drunk leprechaun-hat-wearing, belching, stumbling, cabbage-puking, self-respect-lacking people came stumbling out - and into the front door of Frailey's. Again, normally these are just my kind of people. But not when I'm sober.

Shit.

So we did what any good 8-percent Irish person would do. Went to a seafood restaurant. Isn't that sad? Sad, I tell you. Not sad like Old Yeller, sad like "damn, we're getting old."

The highlight of the night was a bottle of wine. It was a Kim Crawford Marlborough Pinot Noir from New Zealand. Damn good wine, and it didn't even force Tawnya to do the "wine face" when she drank it. (frown, pursed lips, crinkled nose) We had found our new favorite wine.

If you're in the St. Louis area, you really should try this place... it's called "Wholly Mackerel." It's a neat seafood place with incredible food and a helluva wine list. With bottle of wine, last night's dinner set us back about 150, but it was really worth it. Great special-occasion place.

Ramble over. Weekend on!

Dave's Friday Photo

Bob hated the taste of fish, and had an almost uncontrollable fear of water. This is how he knew God hated him.

Jeezus

I just re-read the bromidic CRAP I posted this morning for St. Patrick's day. Afterward, I did the following things:

1 - Heaved up a partly digested omolette, 2 cups of coffee, a box-and-a-half of thin mints and some leftover buffalo wings.
2 - Made a promise to myself to have a friend pre-read everything I post in the future, to avoid the humiliation I just experienced by reading my own work.
3 - Deleted the post, to avoid causing others to deal with the taste of their own bile.

If you visited my blog this morning and were unfortunate enough to read the unimaginative absurdity I posted, please forgive me. Although I DID give it green font, there was absolutely nothing imaginative, compelling or cogent about it.

Just like most of the stuff I write, except worse. Although there was that one line about waxing the Shillelagh.

Rosie

Just the mention of that name sends even the bravest of men to their knees with their hands cupped over their ears. Bleeding from openings out of which blood was never intended to spring.

Rosie. Rosie.

I wish I were talking about Rosie who is my friends' dog. Or the Rosies at the end of my arms.

Rosie O'Donnell has a blog. I know, I know. Like you care. But I'll bet you click this link anyway, obviously out of morbid self-loathing.

Rosie's blog

Sideways

Last night, Tawnya and I went to a late dinner and caught the movie "Sideways." Showtime was 10:15 pm at a new theater on a Tuesday night, so there was only one other couple in the place with us, and they came in late.

Too bad, I had hoped to recreate the famous line from Alanis Morrissette's song "You Oughtta Know." If you aren't familiar, you're probably better off.

The movie was great. It had an independent film feel to it, although it is distributed by FoxSearchlight, or something like that. It's a story of two middle-aged men, former college roommates, who go on a tour of California wine country as a last hurrah before one of them gets married. All that guy wants to do is get laid one more time, and the other guy is mired in a depression from underperformance as an aspiring author, school teacher and husband. (he's been divorced two years, but still pines for his wife - who he discovers has remarried)

On the surface, it sounds like an exercise in extremes between two very different personality types. It is. But the author found a way to mix and mingle the parts in a VERY cool way. The guys are my age, so it was instantly relatable to me - but the magic of this film is, I believe everyone can find a part of them in it. Dark, but never too dark. Melancholy in parts, insanely funny in others. Shit, I'm starting to sound like Gene Siskel. If he were alive.

Tawnya didn't care for the way it ended, but I loved it. It left you to imagine your own ending, which is one of my favorite tactics in writing. And, as a wine lover, it gave me a new level of appreciation for the subtlties of the art of vino. One scene made me want to go straight home and open my best bottle.

Okay, the best I have comes in a box, but wine is wine, right?

Opposite Day

Childish, I am. So I'm thinking about "opposite day," an event (usually occurring once per week, except in the second week of each month when it's twice) that we always celebrate around the Morris compound.

But I was confounded earlier by a thought. If you announce that today is opposite day, (and that's really the only way we know when it is, there's no opposite day calendar) doesn't that really make it NOT opposite day? Therefore, does opposite day ever really occur at all?

(pausing to let the incredible depth of that concept sink in)

A sad thing it would be if there were no "opposite day." I would almost never be right, it would never ever be my turn... and I really WOULD be guilty of relations with sheep.

Oh come on, it's not like I do that every day.

Only about once a week. Second week twice.

Through the ears...

I'm not a NASCAR fan, but apparently the farmer who owns this cornfield is. Jeezus!

Or should I say Junior!

Click here to see a bigger version - and thanks to Chris Cope for bringing it to my attention.

UPDATE! – It appears this field was carved by an unknown being in the dark of night. Apparently aliens are Michael Waltrip fans.

FCC gets it right

I'm not sure why it was even a question. The FCC took up the issue of the Monday Night Football intro featuring Nicole Sheridan and Terrell Owens, and quickly announced there was no indecency involved in the skit.

Of course there was no indecency... at least not in the legal (but admittedly fuzzy) definition. Was it something we expected to see when we tuned in MNF? Probably not, and it may have required explaining something to your 10 year old. But it's nothing more than parents subject their children to watching soap operas, and it's far less impactful than Springer ever was.

I don't think the question should have ever been "was there indecency involved"... it's a moral issue only - and if you feel it's immoral, teach your children to be aghast. Sometimes a parent has to take time to explain a few things to children. Society cannot do that for you.

It was just a skit. On just another TV show. We should be used to it by now. If not, uh-oh.

If I were a cop...

Please, just endulge my fantasy for a moment.

What is the fine for littering, anyway? The first thing I'd do if I were a cop is stop every single person I caught throwing out their cigarette butts. Neither the road, nor the grill of my car, are your personal ashtrays. Those little butts have a half-life longer than a pair of my socks, so put it in your ashtray or your ass. I don't care. Just keep it off the road.

I'd stop every mini van. I'd find a reason. End of statement.

I'd stop every person I caught refusing to drive in the right lane. What is your problem, stud? Can't you see the left lane is for passing? Okay, so you sleep on the left side of the bed and masturbate with your left hand. Neither is a reason for what you're doing. Slide over. Let the faster drivers pass, so I can bust their ass down the road doing 80 in a 65.

I'd stop my fellow cops for speeding up through yellow lights, failing to use their turn signal and for double parking. Of course it would be just to laugh at my own bombastic gall, because of course I believe in doing all these things. I would just want my fellow officers to come to hate me. I really don't know why.

I would stop every single person who ever passed me. Even if they're only doing the speed limit. I would want them to meet the cop they just had the balls to pass. No tickets, of course, just to say hello. And, that you have balls.

I'd throw in jail EVERY person who believes they are more important than the next guy. Some of those people include:

• The guy who is in the middle of the intersection stuck behind other cars when the light turns red. He's blocking traffic going the other way. He's an asshole. He's going to jail.
• The person who blocks traffic because they forgot they need to turn left. So they sit there with their turn signal on, blocking traffic behind them, so THEY can cut into the left turn lane when the cars in that lane begin to move. God forbid you would be considerate of others' schedules, you're the important one, right? SCREW you buddy, go straight and turn around. Don't make others wait behind you because you were daydreaming. And by "others," of course I mean me.
• The jackass who thinks he knows when the light is ready to turn green, so he starts going at that time. Little does asshole know, he has no anticipatory prowess, because the left turn signal going the opposite direction turned green instead. So half his car is in the intersection. And I'm there to bust his poor-timing, in-a-hurry ass. Me. The cop.

I have a very healthy fantasy life.

Congrats...

To my son Danny for deciding to take up guitar.

I can't WAIT to get him an amp and let him play loud late into the night.

If you got it in ya...

I invite you to listen to a song.

After years of doing fund raisers for St. Jude Children's Hospital in Memphis I am total mush about kids with handicaps or diseases. There's nothing fair about it, end of story.

Martina McBride's song "God's Will" just kicks my butt. I have kids and it reminds me how fortunate I am. And it makes me want to do something for those not so lucky.

The song is on my server, click the link to listen:

God's Will

Groundhog Day

I'm getting sick of the euphemistic overuse of the term "groundhog day."

I wonder if Danny Rubin (the writer of the movie) or Bill Murray (the star) knew politicians, verbal vomitors and other various perveyors of verbosity would overuse the movie's concept as a euphemism for something that happens repetitiously.

More importantly, I wonder if Punxsutawney Phil feels his hogular privacy or his position as "predictor of spring" has been inappropriately exploited.

Poor hog.

More on this developing story later.

Vanity

I ran into a friend last week from my little hometown out west. (LA) He's the host of a very popular syndicated radio show that runs on hundreds of stations across the country during the overnight hours. Let's call him "Blair." Because that's his name.

I hadn't seen him for a year, and I barely recognized him. He has lost a TON of weight! Not literally, wise ass. I must say, I never considered Blair heavy - at least no more than I am - just a little on the beefy side. So I was really shocked to hear that his secret to weight loss was gastric bypass. Gastric bypass, the Al Roker surgery. (gosh, Roker surgery, Atkins diet, Gehrig's disease... how can I get something named after ME?)

Blair looks healthy, thin and happy... so obviously it was a positive move. I just thought gastric bypass was a measure taken by those considered obese, I was unaware it was available to anyone now. I was really shocked. Feel free to substitute the word "shocked" with "envious."

I'm now thinking about having the procedure done. I need to call Blair and find out more. I'm about 25 pounds overweight right now, but I need to lose it fast. I have a wager with a friend that says I'll either lose more weight than him by April 15 or pay him a ridiculous amount of money.

Oh yes, it all comes down to the almighty dollar. You didn't think I was actually concerned about my HEALTH, did you??

I should point out, I'm over 6'3", so an extra 25 pounds isn't the worst to look at. I just have a beer gut.

I prefer to think of it as a "shed for the horse." (cocky sniff)

It takes all kinds to make a blogosphere

The world of blogging is very diverse. Just click "next blog" at the top of this page and you'll find out just how diverse it is. And feel free to substitute the word "diverse" with "freakin' whacked out."

Here are a few examples... not actual content - I made all this shit up... of the types of blogs you might find.


Example #1 - the conservative blog:

Liberals are stupid! Let's lower taxes! Homeless people are a drain on society!

__________________________

Example #2 - the liberal blog:

Conservatives are stupid! Let's raise taxes! Rich people suck!

__________________________

Example #3 - the whacked out drug induced blog:


I felt a scratching at my feet. It wasn't unpleasant - sort of like the feel of a baby mountain lion with very small, new claws.

To make a long story short, it was a baby mountain lion that had climbed under the covers in the night.

I raised the blanket enough for him to escape, and boy did he fly out the door. I think the trapeze aparatus scared him.

___________________________

Example #4 - the advice blog:

My friend is having an affair with an old classmate who is bi-polar and bi-sexual. The friend is not happy in her marriage and is experiencing symptoms of dyslexia. I don't know what to tell her, as I am myself a paranormal schizophrenic with latent psychosomatic narcolepsy.

How would you handle the advice process as it pertains to laws of proximity? Please comment below.

___________________________

Example #5 - the marketing/search engine catch-all blog:

Travel to Mexico. Mexican travel. Mexican vacation. All inclusive Mexico beachfront. Beach resorts in Cancun. Senoritas and sand. Cabo taco get-away. Fiesta siesta beach fun. Margaritas sand and sun. Tequila induced sex with strangers in Mexico... (list goes on for like 75 pages)

___________________________

Example #6 - the foreign blog:

Venho hoje falar de uma coisa que é impensével não existir nos dias de hoje e dá grande sentido à minha vida..já devem ter percebido que estou a falar da revista maria!vou passar a transcrever umas linhas que me tocaram bastante...

___________________________

Example #7 - the "teen white kid who thinks he's black" blog:

I have a class wit this gizzirl, bitch is fine as a mafugga. I really like ho but I diznont know if she likes me. I want ta ask her if she likes me but I dizzay have tha nutz. If she said no I would be like "oh mah god I want ta buss a cap on mah own head." Im saggin' gameboy rizzight now while Im blogg'n but real niggaz don't give a fuck. I thiznink I will hizzy a snack.

___________________________

Example #8 - the way-too-positive blog:

Seduction happens by tapping into your love's deepest desires and dreams. And because of this sensitivity, you can be the ideal lover for anyone you seek. Smile, you are a shapeshifter - bringing romance, adventure and spirituality to relationships. Go forth this day with a spring in your step and know that you're making a difference to someone!

___________________________

Aaarrrrghhh! I could go on all day. Why can't all blogs be just like mine... boring?

Hitch

Sometimes we're 3 or 4... or 72 weeks behind on seeing movies. Tonight was dinner and a movie for Mrs. Morris and me. We chose Hitch.

Don't get me wrong, I liked the flick, but I cannot recommend it for married couples. Guys might find it uncomfortable watching the expressions on their wives faces or hearing the heavy sighs that can only mean "I feel I've been cheated!"

A little background - it's about a dating coach (Will Smith) who works with clients to help them say the right things, make the right moves and get the girl to fall in love with them. The smoothness with which he operates is... well, inspirational.

Unfortunately, (and here's why married couples shouldn't see the movie... or maybe just married women... or maybe just my wife) most guys aren't that smooth. And of course when I say most guys, I mean only me.

Looking back on the early dates with Tawnya, I'm not really sure why it all worked out. I drove an old VW Passat, for chrissakes. I was a radio geek who carried headphones in my backseat. Our first encounter, not really a date, was lunch, where I told her I wasn't sure we would make a very good pair. Our first real date was at a sports bar, where we watched live coverage of the Columbine shootings. (yeah, COLUMBINE - such great timing) Our second date was dinner, and she was afraid to eat her corn-on-the-cob in front of me (fearing it would get in her teeth or she would look not-very-smooth doing it) yet I plowed through a plate of ribs as if I hadn't eaten for 17 days.

I should point out that by then I had traded the Passat in for a uber smooth Nissan Maxima.

But the bottom line is, I broke every rule in the Will Smith movie. I lumbered my way through our early dates with the debonaire of a crippled yak. The fact that I got the girl only means she was having a weak moment. Or weak week. Whatever.

Nope... if you can avoid it (God forbid you've already gone) avoid seeing Hitch with your wife. It will only make you look bad.

And of course, by "you," I mean me.

Weather & Java

Ain't nothing like me some home-ground coffee in the mo'nin'! But as I'm reading my friend Dr. Mike's blog, it made me think about how our expectations of coffee have been lowered by the automatic drip machines. As Mike was remembering HIS grandpa, it made me think of mine - and the taste of coffee from his perculator. The sound it made was loud, kind of a struggling sound like an old man lifting something heavy, but it had the Pavlov's dog effect that an alarm clock cannot duplicate. Coffee in a perculator took a long time to make... and occasionally you'd find some grounds in the bottom of your cup... but wow. It was MUCH better than what passes for coffee today from a drip machine. Neat memory.

I'd like to open a shop that sells coffee from a perculator. I'll bet I could make money.

The wind is howling outside right now, it sounds like freakin' Antarctica. I just looked at the forecast and it is still decidedly winter. Highs in the low 40s, cloudy. Chance of rain or snow. And to think I was considering opening my pool in 2 weeks. Something tells me I should wait a month. It's heated, but I'm not sure anyone would use it yet... a trip out there in this weather would produce shrinkage I'm not willing to experience.

I hate this shit. I need a backyard with a beach. And I won't find it in St. Louis.

I can't say too much yet, but...

I am excited for my friend.

We'll call him "Sam" because well, you know... it's his name - and "Sam" is partners with a guy who has invented something huge. Quick history:

"Sam" was a paper-man. Not the kind that weighs 350, drives the white van past your house at 3:30 am and litters your yard with plastic-wrapped garbage. He worked for a major paper company and, long story short, "Sam" was the developer of towels-in-a-box. He retired with his fortune, but was lured out of his life of leisure recently by an excited phone call. His buddy, a chemist, developed a formula that might completely revolutionize...

... the car wax industry.

Oh stop with the heavy sighs, I never promised a cure for cancer.

A few weeks ago I stopped to visit "Sam." When I pulled up, he came out of his garage with an Evian bottle which contained about one inch of yellow liquid. (I told him he needed to take that to his doctor) He said that was enough to do my car and truck. Put it on a cloth, wipe it across the finish... and that's it. No buffing, no wiping off. For lazy bastards like me, this is pure gold.

So I applied it to both my vehicles. It was easy to do and I've never seen a wax job so incredible. Both vehicles shine like a mirror. (or if you're an old timer, like a diamond in a goat's ass) One application lasts 6 months. The product will show up soon on QVC and in major stores.

And I will have a billionaire friend.

"The Return"

Post-CRS is always fun. Fun in the same way it would be if a friend asked to taste your 15 year old Grand Marnier and slammed it. Inside joke, and apologies to my buddy Dave Steele.

First let me say, I won't be attending another CRS without my wife. One reason is, she brings a whole new level of fun to the festivities. She's popular with my friends, she hangs with me and gives me something to smile about.

Another reason is "the return." Here's a dialogue from this morning:

She: So how many 20 year olds hit on you?

Me: Well, when there is an abundance of 20 year old MALES in the room, usually the 20 year old female will hit on them. Not some 40 year old.

She: good way of dodging the question.

(silence for a minute or two while we watched the dog shit in the yard)

She: so did (assumed name to protect the innocent) Susie Smith tell you what kind of underwear she was wearing?

Side note: a few years ago my wife intercepted a harmless email between "Susie" and me regarding underwear. "Susie" is known for her flirtatiousness and it's all harmless. I was merely engaging her in conversation, giving it back, as it were. In fact, I believe I had told her I was wearing "underoos."

Me: (silence for effect, only a smile)

She: another dodge.

Me: (hug) I love you. Next year, you're going WITH me.


The return is always interesting. By the way, she never asked me how many clients I had run into, or how many new clients I had developed.

Women.

Day four

I can't believe we're finished. A yearly event and always a good time, CRS now officially stands for "Can't Remember Shit." Last night I was a good boy, which of course means I didn't get arrested.

I must say, it was rather tame. Dinner was at Morton's Steak House, a favorite gathering of Nashvillians, record promoters, artist-wannabes and their ilk. In fact, I think half of the wait staff are looking for record deals. Two of them dropped off samples while we ate.

Another filet was in order, this one only 16 ounces. I'm ramping down to reduce further self-injury. After dinner I made one final trip through the bar and said goodbye to clients and friends. Then...

I went to bed. Before midnight. On the final night.

In my defense, most of the people I've been hanging with had also disappeared to their rooms, there's only so much you can do to your body before it starts telling you to screw yourself.

So now I'm packing, having breakfast with a friend, dropping in on Jim one more time to make sure he's still ticking, gassing up and heading north. The trip home is 4 1/2 hours, so I'd better stop for a chocolate milk and a jumbo bag of beef jerky.

Damn, more beef. Isn't that sad?

Random Previous Post #5

St. Louis Rams suck.

I was forced to rise at a ridiculously early hour this morning after staying up a little too late the night before. Tawnya worked into the wee hours, making dessert for the girls in her Bunko group... she's hosting a party tonight for twenty players... and I tried to keep her company, but I forced myself into bed prematurely to avoid the morning headache which accompanies lack of sleep.

My wife is serving homemade lasagna, salad, dinner rolls... and dream pie & fudge for dessert. And of course, I can't have any. "It's for the girls!"

So the boys and I will head to Frailey's to watch Monday night football and drink beers. And I won't bring her any.

Mom's here visiting for the week, so we're telling stories and catching up. I was just thinking about fears our parents instill in us, as I was handing her a particularly robust pair of scissors. I began thinking about how long she terrorized me by making me believe I could possibly fall on a pair, driving them deep into my own chest... even though I haven't fallen in that manner since I was - oh, 6. As if somehow my wrist would encounter a strange centrifugal force and turn at just the right moment (called the "shear instant") and become a deadly dagger of death. An inadvertent self-serve bayonet.

Remember Mom telling you how it is dangerous to lick the peanut butter knife? Again, as if you could find a way to fall face-first directly onto it, driving it deep into your skull via your PB&J hole... causing severe life-threatening esophageal lacerations.

Deadly, horrifying pseudo-SWORDS, those butter knives.

Talk about irrational mother-imposed fear.

Day three

Not a ton to talk about today. Mostly because my fingers hurt from the "clubbing" effect they undergo from too much intake of protein and intoxicant. The death grip I use for my handshake has the tendons stretched to the point that they are dangling similarly to the way a jumprope hangs between two girls on a playground.

You must be wondering about the source of the protein. Let me say what you are thinking is disgusting.

It was another night at the Palm Restaurant last night, and the side of beef I ordered was the approximate size of an official NFL regulation football. Minus the air - it wasn't a round steak. A USDA grade A 32 ounce filet, one sprout of asparagus (simply to say I had SOME sort of nutritious vegetable) and a baked spud that looked to be only a little larger than a Mini Cooper.

I ran into several friends later and ended up going to one of the suites to hear a band. Ryan (heart-attack victim Jim's wife) took a little time away from the hospital to give Jim some rest, so I fed her some liquor and walked her around the hotel. By the way, I told Jim about the well wishes and he's doing great. He will most likely recuperate 100 percent. Ironically, the fact he's in Nashville probably saved his life, if he were home in Traverse City, he wouldn't have had a good cardiac center at his disposal and may very well have circled the drain. (official paramedic lingo from my friend Dave who is a real geek)

Day four, the final day, is now underway. If I can keep Reba from rubbing my thigh, Martina McBride out of my hotel room and the entire group Shedaisy from trying to make me forget my wedding vows, it will, I'm sure, be the piece de resistance.

PS - Jim reads this blog, which I suspect was a contributing factor for his heart attack. I just know he would feel very encouraged if you would leave a well wish by clicking the "comments" link below this entry and just saying hello. He's really making remarkable progress. And he's a good man.

Random Previous Post #4

The new Bud Light bottle has spurred a debate these days. Many are already missing the old-school metallic silver and red labels that, for decades, have adorned the world's most popular brew. You know, the ones that hardly ever peel correctly without error. Sure, they're easy to get started, but then the gummy under-layer won't release smoothly, leaving a sticky white partial label, which can only speak to the integrity of the paper used.

So by now you know, for me it's not the design, style or logo. But how it peels.

I will tell you, peeling the new label is a far more bewildering task. Although it always comes off in one piece (haven't torn one yet) getting it started is a real challenge. You'll be tempted to cheat and use the twist-off top or a pocket knife -- don't insult me. Any label-peeling purist knows better. The persevering drinker will use legal methods such as a fingernail... or when nobody's looking, a tooth. (legal, but you look goofy as hell) Be diligent, the patient peeler will be rewarded for their assiduousness. You'll eventually snag a corner, and it's all downhill from there.

At this point, we must consider the possible uses for the freshly peeled label. Years ago, I would have been satisfied with USE NUMBER ONE... to stack them to the side in hopes that the old "sex coupon" line might work with an unwitting female passer-by.

Hmm, wonder why that never worked...

Well, anyway. Another favorite application, USE NUMBER TWO, for the peeled document is to invert it. This serves two purposes. One, you always know which beer is yours. Two, (and far more fun) it makes the bartender or waitress at least consider the possibility that the bottle actually came from the brewery that way, a victim of some freak assembly line capsizing accident.

My friend Gary always flips his label. I never asked him why.

Day two

It started not-so-unusually. Shower, coffee. I picked up my phone to call our friends Jim & Ryan to meet up for breakfast - when Ryan answered she was out of breath. "Jim's having a heart attack right now and the paramedics have just arrived. Get over here!"

I looked down and found I had shit down both legs.

I hopped in the car and headed toward the hospital. Jim had already been rushed into surgery for angioplasty and a stint. He had very little blockage, but a piece of plaque had broken loose. A few minutes longer and he might not be here. All's well that ends well, Jim was joking around with his nurse right after the surgery. He should soon be as good as new, and will be having sex with Ryan again before you can say "it's gross thinking about Jim and Ryan having sex."

By the time we finished with all that, it was 4 pm. We had a late lunch and headed to the lounge for a couple of cocktails. When I say a couple, of course I mean 47. After leaving a ceiling-high stack of glasses, we left for the Palm Restaurant for enough beef to feed a family of T-Rexes. A 28-ounce rib-eye was the order of business tonight, and it felt as if I had ingested an entire North American buffalo.

We found a great cigar bar after dinner and had a couple of Cohibas. Also about 23 more cocktails. We returned to the hotel at 2 am and hung around the lounge until 4. At this point I feel it's time for bed, but there is a sissy chick-flick on HBO and I feel like a good cry.

I would have posted pictures tonight, but my buddy Dave said I would appear too much a "fan" so I didn't take any today. We ran into Montgomery Gentry, Joe Nichols, Sawyer Brown, SheDaisy, Andy Griggs, Billy Dean, Mark Wills, Faith Hill and Phil Vassar. Thursday is a new day, but it's not likely to start prior to noon.

Here's wishing Jim a speedy recovery. And that Shania could understand I'm MARRIED and not available to handle her "needs."

Random Previous Post #3

My post subject from this morning was space. It only makes sense that this one is about time.

Einstein once said, "time, no matter how persistent, is only an illusion." (he also once said "which way to the restroom?" but I digress)

I'm lying in bed with the laptop and... it seems like I just climbed OUT of it... yet it was 16 hours ago. I work from home, so I don't have a commute or a fixed workday. But recently, and for about 5 months, I took an outside job for 4 hours a day every afternoon. During that period, time really slowed down. My daily routine went as such:

Get up at about 7, throw on shorts/t-shirt, have breakfast and coffee, head into the recording studio, work until around 12:30, shower, dress AGAIN, drive through a fast-food place for lunch (which was eaten on the commute) get downtown at 1:55 for a 2 o'clock show. At 6, drive home.

It was actually TWO workdays in one. Get up, prepare for work, GO to work, finish... then prepare for work, GO to work, finish, drive home. I don't need to point out the negatives of that scenario, but the positive is that each day seemed like two. And considering how time flies as you get older, that was a good thing!

Now that I've come to my senses and ended my binary career configuration, time is FLYING by again. Part of the reason - I love my job. I'm a voice over artist and it's a blast... and as they say, time flies when you're having fun.

So how can I solve the problem and decelerate my day? My only recourse, as I see it, is to take regular breaks to do something I hate.

A short list of possibilities:

• Watch shopping channel for 1 hour
• Rake leaves and put them in my pants
• Scratch chalkboard with fingernails
• Mall shopping with Ernest Borgnine
• Pick up dog poop from yard with hands tied behind my back
• Assault my own skull with a blunt instrument until I lose consciousness, wake up, repeat

Maybe I could spend time watching water come to a boil or counting marbles in a jar. I do have a frustratingly large box of christmas lights to untangle, THAT should slow the day down a bit. Hmmm.

Okay, maybe I need to stop thinking about it and just accept life's brutally fast tempo. It was, after all, Einstein who said:"I never think of the future. It comes soon enough."

Random Previous Post #2

Subject: Forever

Went to a place called Robata's of Japan steak house and enjoyed dinner and drinks. It was a holiday party thrown by American Express investments, so we went and got the best chef in the place. I must say the restaurant has gone down hill since I first came to town. They need to clean, replace carpet and further upgrade, but we had a blast and the chef (Vince) was great! Went with our friends Rick & Robin. (Robin is Tawnya's real estate partner and Rick is our investment guy) We finished the night off with a tequila shot and felt like we could have partied later, but were home by 10:45 pm. Sat in the hottub for about an hour and now am thinking of hitting the bed.

So on to my subject. T and I had a long chat tonight about whether we believe in forever. Of course SHE does, women usually do. I'm more reticent regarding the concept. My take is, it's sort of like a job, a project, etc. If you just look at your long term goal (in this case being married forever) it will be harder to make it happen. If you take one day at a time and figure that today will be another successful married day, you'll be more likely to succeed. Before you know it, another week, a month, a year goes by and you haven't really thought about "forever," but you're on your way to it. I think long-term "expectations" can damage your chances of achievement.

Is this too clinical? Am I overthinking? I'm not a believer in fairy tales. But then, I've been involved in two marriages that did not work, and while both have taught me much... perhaps they have taken wind out of my sails.

So I hope that the fine breeze I've found continues.

First night

On the way to Nashville, I made record time. If you're a policeman, go somewhere else right now.

The guy in the "other" BMW didn't have a chance. On the highway north of town there's a long stretch of straight road... and it was there he decided he wanted to run.

He blew past me at about 100 the first time... he looked like an NFL player with a cap on backwards. Screw him. I waited until the moment, then dropped the hammer. I blew past him with a clear road ahead going 130. It was as if he were sitting still. He saw nothing of me the rest of the trip into town but my taillights, and even then it was from a distance. It was a good thing.

After my arrival, my first mission was to meet up with my friend Dave and get started. A single malt scotch seemed right, along with a bowl of mixed nuts. Dave showed up and we spent about an hour lying about all kinds of things, including how little we would drink tonight.

We decided a trip to Morton's Steak House was in order. Two cigars, two glasses of wine, a double filet mignon and half a bushel of asparagus later, we each dug into a big slice of new york cheese cake. I think that was our undoing.

We returned to the hotel and it wasn't the same. I attempted a go at another glass of scotch, but it wasn't to be. I hastened a path back toward the room and found myself in a rather ugly position... ready for bed before 1 am.

It sucks to be 40.

Live from Nash-Vegas!

During the next few days, I will be posting information on the goings-on and general debauchery of my trip to Music City, USA. During this time there will likely be pictures, a few inside pieces of info not intended for publication, and some giant lapses with no new entries because of extended hangovers. (did I say hangovers, of course I meant meetings)

During those lapses, and since I have new blog friends who have recently started dropping by, I will be re-posting some random previous entries from a few months back. Who has time to go through all those archives anyway?

Have a nice day, I'll tell Nashville hello for ya.

Random Previous Post #1

Learned earlier that the wife will be staying at her moms tonight - helping with cleaning and cooking to take some of the load off. Her mom's doing better, but not 100 percent yet. So I took the opportunity to soak in the hottub and crank up some old tunes. Had a really cold Bud Light and the remains of a particularly stout Cuban cigar... and watched the clouds race across the sky, there must be some pretty fast upper winds.

Then I dried off and hit the fridge. Ate about half a big jar of sliced grapefruit with a little sugar on it - and a peanut butter sandwich. Oh, and about two pints of ice cold milk. MMMM! The "Gods of the Frigidaire" must be smiling on me tonight, the whole thing was a near-religious experience! I'm sure it will trigger an immense chemical reaction later, just when I'm dozing off... but for now, I can't wipe the satisfied look off my face.

See, if Tawnya were home tonight she'd surely remind me how unhealthy it is to eat late at night and how much cholesterol peanut butter has... and how Wonder bread contains no real nutrients, and that all this eating SHOULD have waited until the morning... but hey. She's gone.

The good news, there's still some week-old meatloaf in there, some leftover breakfast potatoes, the rest of that jar of grapefruit and some spicy polish sausage. And there's still about a half-gallon of perfect-temperature ('bout 34 degrees) fresh milk left. Sounds to me like a plan for tomorrow night at around bedtime. In fact, I'm SURE of it. I wonder if I could talk my wife into one more night with her mom. Hmmmm...

I wish we had some spam.