There's First Love, and There's Brian Love

Possibly the greatest time-waster in the history of humankind.

Engagement Party

"You look like the perfect couple. How you doin'?"

Yellow is a relaxing color, or maybe it's blue. I wasn't too sure. The maroon chairs offered a nice contrast. Plus, they were the most uncomfortable chairs I can remember sitting in for some time. And it's kind of ironic if you think about it. They want you to wait in these chairs. You're supposed to sit in them for a long time. Wouldn't it make more sense if they were easier on your posterior?

"Man, I was shouting 'Yaaaa! AAAAAH!' They had to hold me down."

Darryl was still talking. To us, to everyone around us. People were nodding, trying to be polite. I was trying to figure out exactly how we'd landed in Hell's Waiting Room. But, I realized, that was an inapt analogy. We weren't in Hell's Waiting Room -- we were in Hell itself.

He'd sat down across from us earlier, carrying what looked like a clear plastic cornucopia of gauze and pharmaceuticals. Out in the lobby, a weathered and angry looking old man kept doing laps in his wheelchair and barking at the receptionist from time to time.

"They took one of those sticks, you know - with the cotton on the end - and had it in my stomach. They was rooting around trying to find the pus."

Welcome to the ER Waiting Room on Thursday night.

Welcome to my engagement party.

The day began ordinarily enough - a sunny yet cool start to winter. I followed the routine to the letter: wake, shower, walk dog, eat and head to work. But this day wasn't going to be ordinary; it was going to be special. It was The Day.

Work passed in something of a fog. Basically, I was more useless than usual. Despite my best efforts, I may have actually accomplished something, but it's entirely possible I dreamed that part of it up. I was excited to get through the day. Ready to hit the kitchen to start cooking. I had an exciting menu lined up, great ingredients and new knives. Oh, and there was that whole ring thing too.

I left the office early, met a friend for lunch and hit the gym for a quick workout. Upon returning home, it was time to start cooking.

After a little goofing off, it was time to get my cook on. I started getting my mise into place - using my new chef's knife, I minced garlic, chopped apricots, sliced scallions, trimmed french beans and julienned carrots. It was fun having a really sharp knife to work with, and things were coming together nicely. Cooking relaxes me; I wasn't sweating bullets or fretting. Everything worked according to plan.

One hour out, I browned the lamb, spread the mustard, garlic and bread crumbs to it, and dropped it in the oven. The couscous was soaking up the chicken stock. The table was set, the wine chilled and the ring concealed somewhere handy. Darcy walked in from work as dinner hit the table.

After dinner, I swallowed hard, pulled the ring from it's hiding spot and asked the question.

OK - she said yes.

As Darcy was calling her friends and family, I decided to finish straightening up the kitchen. I scraped the plates, scrubbed the pans and picked up the knife and wiped it down with the sponge. And I was amazed when it cut through the sponge. Wow, I thought - be careful with this - it could hurt. A lot.

I was putting the knife in the dish drainer when it slipped out of my hand.

Darcy knew there was a problem when I shouted a few choice words. One of them starts with "M" and rhymes with otherfucker. We bandaged up the finger.

And bandaged it again after blood soaked through it.

And again.

Two hours and my finger was still bleeding. That's a bad sign. I may not be a doctor, but I hear that when blood seeps out of you for a couple of hours, you may have a problem. So we hit the emergency room -- just in time for their fast track service for minor injuries to close.

So we waited. And met Darryl, who I later saw passed out in the center of the quieter waiting room. Security was getting ready to remove him to somewhere.

We waited some more. And watched the impromptu family reunion as four generations of the James family gathered to find out more about their grandmother who had a stroke. Angry wheelchair man continued stalking the waiting room. I'd lost count, but I think he was nearing his 200th lap. Apparently, this rendered him effectively invisible to the hospital staff, because no matter what he said or did, they just looked past him and moved on to the next person.

More waiting. Darcy nodded off in the seat next to me as Jerry Seinfeld became Hank Hill became the news became Bernie Mac. And still we waited. Finally they took me in for treatment, and decided not to do anything with it other than put the finger in a gauze splint for a day or two - something we could have picked up at Walgreens.

Deep down, I think I was jealous that Darcy got to wear something on her finger but I didn't - well now we were even. While she got to bear a sparkling diamond on her ring finger, I got to wear a sheath of gauze over my middle finger. And I'll get a cool scar. Maybe.

So there you have it. Some people celebrate their engagement by spending time quietly with one another. Others surround themselves with friends and family. Me? I eschew such conventionalities. Give me posture-busting plastic chairs and human misery any day.

Welcome to the family Darcy. Wait 'til you see what I have planned for our wedding day . . .

Apparently, the Axe Handle Wasn't Available

Man attacks another man with antlers in a road rage incident.

I know of people who carry blackjacks, bats, heavy flashlights and even guns in their cars in case they meet some maniac some day. But carrying antlers? I'm all for self-defense, but antlers?

And how exactly does one deal with an antler-wielding attacker?

Pilgrimage

When I started dating Darcy, little did I know that every year, if we had the means, we were obligated to make a pilgrimage. So on a cold December morning, we piled into the car, faced east, and began our odyssey.

We crossed the river without incident, and as the strip malls gave away to farms, churches and intermittent houses, I finally broke down and asked, "Where the hell are we? I don't remember any of this from last year."

"We're almost there," she said. And, on cue, Millstadt loomed ahead of us. We made the appropriate turns and were soon at our destination -- the tree farm. Hundreds of acres of green, living trees, all eagerly awaiting some saw-wielding maniac to cut them down, drag them across town and into his living room - where the tree gets revenge by filling the air with enough pollen to make flowers quiver in anticipation.

Upon reflection, I realized why I didn't recognize where we were -- I was distracted last year. But this year, I was prepared. The night before, I borrowed my mother's minivan. If we were going to act like suburbanites, then by God, we were going to look the part!

The minivan fit in nicely with all the few pickup trucks and other vans that dotted the lot; we grabbed a saw from the counter and piled into a van with a family of four and off we went to the trees.

Climbing out of the van, the driver warned us: "Do all the cutting you want before you hand the tree off. We will not cut it for you back there. Y'all understand?" Satisfied with the nods and grunts, he released us into the wild.

The flashbacks started shortly thereafter. "How about this one?" "No." "That one?" "No. It has a bald spot."

"The needles are dying."

"It's not tall enough."

"It's not wide enough."

It became apparent to me that Darcy and my father would have been kindred spirits, and that's a wonderful thing. I now accept the fact that I shall never truly understand the mind of a tree aficionado. But next year, I'm bringing the hand and foot warmers.

Back at the front of the lot, after they wrapped the tree, one of the workers asked if we wanted help taking it out to our car. I bit back the "Where the fuck were you last year?" that almost sprung out of my mouth. It's good to see the filters still work.

I lugged the tree to the van and heaved it into the back. We were off to my house, where the tree would be residing this year.

Despite a small list to the left, the tree fit perfectly in the corner of the living room. I popped Superman Returns (re-review coming soon) into the DVD player - good Christmas-tree-decorating movies are vital to the operation, and got my decorate on.

Tree decorating is not something I come by naturally. Generally, I just look at a tree and say "Perfect! Just as God wanted it!" However, I freely admit that I could be a little hazy on God's plan, so I obeyed the decorating master and began putting ornaments on the tree. I began worrying that the tree was full, but my folly was pointed out to me; apparently, I am not yet ready to snatch the ornament from the master's hand.

And I'll be damned if we didn't hang that last box full of ornaments onto this (admittedly huge) tree.

So now the tree is decorated, and we're all ready for the holidays. I might complain about lugging the tree across town and into the house, but at night, when the twinkling lights cast a calming spell over the room, I'm willing to admit it's worth the effort.

But don't worry; I'm still going to complain about it next year.

Reasonable Doubt

Woman shoots husband over a warm beer.

After reading this I have to wonder: was it because the beer was warm, because it was Stag, or because it was warm Stag? It sounds to me like he was asking for trouble.

From the Ashes

Fascinating account, censored until now, of how the Pacific fleet was rebuilt after the attacks at Pearl Harbor.

Missouri DOR Can Lick My Balls

Copy of the e-mail I just sent to the state of Missouri:

I just spent more than 30 mintues in line only to be told that I could not renew my plates today. Why? Because apparently, I did not have my 2004 personal property tax receipts. That's funny -- and utter crap, because I did have it with me.

It seems that back in 2004 when I purchased my car, I was leasing a Honda Civic. As part of my lease, I had to pay the personal property taxes, which I did. My name is even on the property tax form as a c/o.

When I registered my car, they accepted it without any trouble. So EXACTLY WHY DID THEY NOT ACCEPT IT NOW?

Please answer this for me, because I really want to know. I don't understand how two years ago, they accepted this paperwork without any problems, but now it's a problem. The state didn't have any trouble cashing the check back in 2004, 2003, or 2002. I paid it. I have the receipts, which according to some arcane bureacratic rule, I can't use.

So now I have to go to another office to get a waiver, when in this golden year of 2006 AD, we have these things called computers that talk to one another via this magical invention known as the internet. In fact, I'm using it to communicate with you now! How hard is it to set the systems up so the ("extremely") helpful employee can go ahead and look the damned thing up, thereby taking care of the problem? I'm willing to be that an integrated system would save all sorts of time and money, which is probably why the state rejects that solution. Please explain this me, because I'm utterly confused about this.

But mostly, I'd like to know why is it that I can use a valid tax receipt showing I paid my property tax in 2004 is no longer valid. That doesn't make a lick of sense and right now, I'm so angry that my hands are still shaking. Because Monday, I now have to take time off of work, drive downtown and get a piece of paper (that they probably won't have - because I already paid my taxes) that merely repeats information that I already gave them. Please explain to me how this makes sense.

This state never ceases to amaze me. In the roughly 18 years that I've been driving, I have never had an easy time getting my plates renewed - no matter how many times I check the paperwork I have or how early I start, some new rule keeps springing up that keeps me from taking care of it without jumping through so many hoops that circus monkeys start shaking their heads in wonder.

Thank you for your time. I'm not really expecting to hear from you, since I know what a premium the state puts on its customer service.

Sincerely,

Brian McCown

Christ, I am pissed. My hands are still shaking. Needless to say, I plan giving my amigos over at the Missouri Dept. of Revenue a friendly call on Monday so that we may discuss my issues with them. I'm going to try not to use the word "fuck" as many times as I did when I sat down to write this, but I'm not promising anything. In fact, I was kind of proud that I only dropped one f-bomb when I was told I couldn't renew my plates.

TSUNAMI!

Earthquakes rocked the Kurii islands this morning, and the Japanese government issued warnings. People were told to flee the expected tsunami.

So I'm sure they were a little confused when the 16-inch wave pounded the coast.

A co-worker told me that CNN devoted several segments of breathless coverage, waiting for the destructive tidal wave to hit the Japanese coast -- apparently one that you can avoid by either timing your jump just right or taking a big step at the right moment. Apparently, the anchor was rather distressed that we weren't going to see Japan or Hawaii erased from the map. Nice.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm all for weather warnings; I don't want to ever see a repeat of the 2004 earthquake; however, I'm thinking that maybe - the folks over at CNN might want to reign in the journalistic zeal a little bit. At least the guy on NPR sounded a little amused when he read about the 16 inches of terror that washed ashore this morning.

Cursed? I Think Not!

My fingers are numb; my tongue, even more so.

Several years ago, I burned myself badly while cooking. As a joke, my mother purchased me a set of oven mitts. As an even bigger joke, they might be able to hold out the heat from an ice cube, but a cookie sheet? Forget it.

Needless to say, when I was pulling the cookie sheet with the bread on it out of the oven, I burned the bejeesus out of two fingers. Not fun. Fortunately, I have much experience with this, so I immediately immersed them in water. A few minutes later, I was functional again.

Until I decided to try the spaghetti sauce. The spaghetti sauce that had been simmering in the slow cooker for several hours.

Perhaps I was overwhelmed by hunger. Maybe I was distracted; who knows? All I know are blisters on the roof of the mouth aren't much fun.

This is not the first time I've burned myself while cooking. Nor is it the first time I've cut myself, crushed a finger, banged my head off of something. Maybe it's clumsiness. Aaron thinks it's because he cursed me many years ago. I don't buy it. And I still laugh at him!!!!!

No, I think it's mainly because I subscribe to the extreme school of cooking, where no knife is too sharp or no pan is too hot. Like all great composers, I suffer for my art.

I just pray I live to enjoy it.

Election Day Jitters

The butterflies in my stomach have been turning cartwheels all afternoon. At first, I thought I might be suffering from election-related nerves, but I believe I've stumbled on the real truth:

When re-heating leftover chicken, make damned sure it's hot enough. Because food poisoning? Not fun. At least my old friends el Kaopectate and el Pepto Bismol are here to to celebrate the election returns.

Now if I suffer a round of vomiting after a particularly odious election outcome, I'll have an excuse.

Karma is a Harsh Mistress

While technically not a Halloween story, this is a tale of monsters and spirits gone awry.

Once upon a time, I worked as a counselor at a summer day camp. For some reason, my employers decided it would be wise to put me in charge of a group of 12 six-year-old boys. Yes, I was ten years older than them, but I was just as mature as they were.

One of the keystones of being male is the utter inability to admit to fear. Fear is not an emotion we admit to. Sure, in the dark hours of the morning, after the fourth beer, we might sit and dwell upon mortality, but in front of a crowd fear is not an acceptable emotion.

I’m happy to report that one year, the kids in my group were the most utterly fearless six-year-olds to walk the Earth. No threat of violence (non-enforceable, of course), restriction of privileges or dire happenings could prod them into doing something they didn’t want to do, and God help you if they decided they wanted to keep playing on the playground – no force known to man could pry them from the sweet siren song of a sandbox.

And if they decided to run into the woods? You were in for a long period of yelling and searching, hoping they chose not to go home (many of them lived nearby).

Enter Mr. Moto. Mr. Moto was an escapee from an insane asylum. He lived in the woods, where he would tie the bad children to trees and would eventually eat them. Like the idea that I was actually in charge of these kids, Mr. Moto was pure fiction – the nuclear option we (the boy counselors) used if the kids were being especially uppity. The mere mention of Mr. Moto guaranteed instant compliance, as no child wants to be eaten while tied to a tree.

St. Louis in mid-July has all the ambiance of a steam room. Clear blue skies and the hot sun shines down as humidity blows up from the Gulf to guarantee that your clothes will stick to you by 9:00 AM, and finding a cool spot to relax is a treasure indeed. For me, excessive heat also makes me cranky. Add cranky to my general laziness, and you begin to see how chasing bratty kids around isn’t always a fun way to kill an afternoon.

One day, after a particularly long playground session, we had to move on, and the kids fought like crazy, not wanting to go. I invoked the spirit of Mr. Moto.

And was rebuked.

I tried again.

And they laughed at me.

Good Lord, I thought, we’ve gone nuclear one time too many. It no longer works. I could feel my control of these kids slipping away – soon, anarchy would reign, and my fellow counselors would shun me, because no one wanted to associate with someone who had no control over his group.

I then hit upon the solution. “If you all don’t get moving now, Moto’s coming out of the woods for you!” I said.

They laughed some more.

“Okay. Your funeral. I want no part of this.” And I ran off.

Straight into the woods I ran, around the trails lining the park. One trail let out next to the playground. As I approached the opening, I pulled my shirt over my head and ran out, screaming “YYYYYEEEEAAAAHHHHH!”

I pulled my shirt down, chuckling. And realized my kids had scattered to the four winds. Uh-oh.

Fortunately, I found them before they ran into traffic or straight home. After much whining and crying, I finally calmed them down (and promised them lots and lots of ice cream the next day).

But when I was climbing into my car to go home that night, I realized my wallet was no longer in my pocket. Egad.

I slipped back into the woods, and found it. Two hours later. With no cash in it. The next day, I loaded up on treats and ice cream and made up to the kids. Oh, and I also got my ass chewed up one side of the park and down the other by my boss.

I’m a different person than I was back then. More mature, more confident. And if I’m ever in that situation again, I would do it differently.

I’ll keep my wallet in the car before going out to work with the kids.

Apparently, There WAS Something Left to Sell

If you thought major league baseball has sold out to ridiculous levels (AT&T Call to the bullpen, anyone?) and could go no further, you were wrong.

At this rate, it's only a matter of time before Jerry Reinsdorf sells that last shard of dignity on e-bay.

Getting My Nerd On

Last Friday night, Darcy babysat, and rather than use the time for self-improvement or making the world a better place, I opted to get my nerd on instead. I know, I know, you all see me as this really hip dude, but sometimes, I just have to let my inner nerd out.

Some thoughts about Friday’s Doctor Who and Battlestar Galactica episodes, some spoilers included.

Doctor Who – “Tooth and Claw”

• “May God forgive me.” This is my favorite opening teaser of all the new episodes; it’s perfect – kung fu monks taking over the castle, the women and servants fearfully looking on as the monks drag the mysterious cage down with them, the scream and cue the credits. Perfect timing.
• “You’re a punk.” Any doubts I had about the Doctor banging Rose were completely dispelled by the first scene.
• “Eighteen seventy-nine. Same difference.” Nice throwback to past continuity when the Doctor claiming to be James MacCrimmon – I’m glad the new show doesn’t disregard the long history – this especially comes up in the next episode.
• I want to like David Tennant as the Doctor; I think he was well-cast – in many ways, he’s taken to the role far better than Christopher Eccleston did, but I wish Russell Davies would have given him better episodes to work with. My favorites for this season: “Tooth and Claw”, “School Reunion”, “The Impossible Planet” and “Doomsday”.
• While I like Rose as a companion, she alternated between making me laugh and wanting to reach in the screen and smack her. I liked how she took charge in the basement, but the whole "We are not amused" thing was irritating.
  
• The big thing I’ve enjoyed about the new series is that Davies tries to explore the aftermath of a typical visit by the Doctor. Let’s face it – he leaves plenty of devastation and bodies behind him. The idea that Queen Victoria wants no further part of his “help” is a great one; unfortunately, I thought the execution throughout the season was poorly done.
• “Oh my god! They’re werewolves!” Overall, a fun episode. It works well because it, like all the better episodes of Doctor Who, doesn’t take itself too seriously, and really, how can you take a plot involving kung fu monks trying to infect Queen Victoria with lycanthropy in order to seize control of the crown too seriously?

Battlestar Galactica – “Occupation/Precipice”

• I didn’t think they’d be able to top last season’s finale – they did. Man, I can’t wait until Friday.
• Without Adama there to reign him in, Tigh has become a combination of Ahab, Ho Chi Minh, and Osama bin Laden. He’s going to make the Cylons pay for that eye, and pay dearly. Unfortunately, the cost will ultimately be his humanity. The scene where Roslin confronts him about the suicide bombings sums it up perfectly.
• Joining Tigh in the crazy section, Kara has also lost her mind, and I can’t say I blame her – you’re locked in a gilded cage with a loony Cylon who you murder regularly only to have him return a few hours later. Oh, then he produces a child that may or may not be your daughter? You and sanity would probably part ways a bit as well.
• Off the subject, but the people who came up with and approved the shit joke for the new Domino’s ads probably shouldn’t be in marketing. Just a thought.
• Lee has finally given into his inner whiner, something he’s long threatened to do. This disappoints me; I always enjoyed Lee’s character – it’s hard seeing him like this.
• “Have hope. We’re coming for you.” This simple message was the heart of the episodes - and the series itself - that no matter how dark things look, don't give up hope.
  
• Head-Six still rocks. Forget the real thing – the scenes where she keeps Baltar afloat are always intense, and this one was especially so. Six might enjoy messing with Baltar, but she always has his best interests at heart.
  
• I need to listen to the podcast, but it looks like Moore is still going to keep screwing Sharon
• The end was straight out of The Great Escape, and it’s a shocking way to end the episode. I’m guessing that Roslin escapes, since they show her in upcoming teasers. However, I do hope that Zarek escapes as well, because I like how the two characters see right through one another, but they still grudgingly respect each other. And I never thought I would say this: it would be a shame to lose Richard Hatch from this show.

Wreckage

The car settled in the trees, gently rocking for a moment or two as if it wanted to get back up, then it settled into stillness. Steam hissed from the crumpled front end as I ran up to the car, briefly wondering if it was liable to burst into flames or explode (thank you, years of bad TV). The whole time, I dreaded what I would find.

Augusta is tucked away in the hills of Missouri, about 20 miles south of St. Charles. It’s a quiet, rural area of rolling hills and farms. It’s a stop along the Katy Trail, and it’s known for its wineries. Every October, a long caravan of cars full of wine-country pilgrims wind their way up and down the hills along the country roads.

Darcy and I were headed there Saturday afternoon, when we came to one of the steepest, most winding hills. A short line of cars had just started down the hill while we were starting our climb. The lead car in the downward procession suddenly tried jerking to a halt, juked right and left, spun out, sailed off the road, flipped twice and landed in the ditch not 30 feet from my car.

When you see an accident like this, time slows. It takes a second to register that lives – including your own – are potentially at risk. You feel like you’re watching something that’s going on somewhere else – thing like this don’t happen, they can’t. Something like this is too terrible to contemplate.

I told Darcy to call 911 as I jumped out – along with several others – to see what could be done. And really – there wasn’t much. Someone had already helped the sobbing seven-year-old off to the side. Two people were helping a forty-ish woman from the car as a girl climbed into the back seat to remove the baby from her car seat. I helped the woman from the car sit down on the embankment then started to go around to the other side to see about freeing the driver. With someone else’s help, he climbed out of the car and walked around to his family.

Glancing inside the car, I could see air bags limply hanging from the dashboard and steering wheel. Toys, pens, and all the assorted flotsam scattered throughout the passenger compartment. Had they not been wearing seatbelts, we’d have been carrying their bodies from the remains of the car.

Someone more knowledgeable in first aid than I started treating the victims, and the army of cell phoners finally reached emergency services. Help was on its way. Realizing that standing around and staring with ten other people would do little good, we returned to the road and headed onto our destination.

This summer and fall especially, it seems like tragedy and fear are lurking just a heartbeat away, ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Second chances are rare. Don’t let the piddling problems weigh you down – save that for the big ones. Hug your kids, kiss your wives (husbands, etc.), and revel in what you have instead of dreaming about what you don’t.

The Most Dangerous Place on Earth . . .

Is between Hugo Chavez and a camera. Honestly, I'm all for making waves and understand that keeping yourself in the public eye rarely hurts, but this dude is an attention whore. And of course, the media, when it senses sensationalism, immediately jumps and dances at his bidding. My advice? Ignore him. At some point, he'll see he's not drawing crowds or notice, and after a brief stint where he goes out in public wearing no pants and juggling chainsaws, he'll stop hogging headlines.

Out of the Frying Pan

On our nightly walks, we always pass by the rehab house. Whenever I walk by, these guys are constantly tinkering, painting, or refinishing something in the house. And thanks to the lovely weather here lately, they’ve started eschewing air conditioning.

Normally, I would have no problem with this – for a long time, I’ve felt we’ve turned into a society of A/C wimps (I say as I feel the cool air from the window unit wash across my face). However, there’s one big problem with my neighbors’ position.

A roughly 100-pound problem that hangs out the screenless front window of the house and growls and snarls at us as we walk by. Normally, I'm not afraid of dogs, but this one disturbs me. A lot. Every night, his pitch-black body defies gravity as ¾ of it is suspended in space, following our every move. I can almost see the drool dripping from his jaws, and I feel the hackles rise every time, as my trusted watchdog gleefully ignores the fact that six feet of thin air separates us from becoming lunch.

Lately, I’ve taken to crossing the street. He hasn’t lunged at us yet, but I figure there’s little to be gained by tempting fate. Besides, this way I’ll at least have a few seconds to compose myself and face death as it charges me, rather than cry and scream hysterically as the dog jumps me from behind.

Or so the theory goes.

Sunday night, we cross the street, right into the path of Stan. I don’t think his name is Stan, but I have to call him something, don’t I? Stan is a little stocky, with a doughy, constantly smiling face, black hair with flecks of gray, a thin mustache, and glasses so thick that when he looks west, he can check the traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge.

Stan is also crazy; harmless, but nuts all the same.

We’ve crossed paths before; he usually tries to aggressively befriend Trudy, who slinks behind my legs while he tells me of some exploit. Normally I smile, talk to him for a minute or so then we move on.

But Sunday was a bit different. Rather than try to pat Trudy on the head, he walks straight up to me and says, “She saw me! She saw me!”

Not knowing if he was referring to Trudy, God or some other undefined she, I came back with the brilliant “Really?”

“She did! I ran away! I have penis-sized nut!”

What do you say to that? “Well that’s good!” I said, slowly edging away, hoping he wouldn’t show me his nut or anything else.

We crossed back to the other side of the street, free from other dogs and passers-by. I had to wonder if Stan was doing some peeping somewhere, or maybe I misheard him. I don’t think so. All I do know is that between vigilant guard dogs, guys walking their ironing boards, girl fights, and 12-year-old pimps, walking the dog is rarely boring.

Homeward

It's been a couple of weeks where I've dreaded hearing the phone ring; however, the ringing phone brought a little good news this morning: my brother is out of Iraq and should be home within a week or two.

Rub-a-Dub

Doing some housecleaning; figured I'd post something while updating the template. Why this? Cause it's so damned funny. Enjoy:

Fear Itself

Couldn't have said it better myself.

How Can We Miss You . . .

If you won't stay away?

I realize the lure of an easy buck is a hard one to avoid, but why must another dinosaur rock act come back for yet another tortured album where they turn themselves into a big joke?

Take the Rolling Stones -- the Stones circa 1965? Hell yes! The Stones circa 2005? No thanks. They stink now. Their shows aren't interesting, their albums suck, and basically they leech more money out of their few remaining true believers and those gullible enough to buy into the "hype".

So of course, the Eagles see this and think "why not us?" Jesus. Just retire. Keep popping out the occasional solo album. Act like you've grown professionally and personally since your band last split up; you know, after the last "farewell" tour. Keep some self-respect. I say these things as a longtime Eagles fan; one who would prefer not seeing one of his favorite old bands turn into a punchline.

"We decided we better get some new product out, some new songs. We could rest on our laurels and play our catalog forever, but we're not a nostalgia band," said Joe Walsh. Really? This from a guy in a band that hasn't put out any signifigant new material in 17 years? You know, Joe, I would respect you more if you just came out and said it: we want to get paid. Saying it's for the fans or all about the music is disingenuous at best.

But in the end, fans will line up to buy the album, realize it stinks, and clamor for the Eagles to play the old stuff on tour; meanwhile, the Eagles keep playing somnambulant concerts while counting the cash from the new album. Nice work if you can find it.