I'm so pissed!

Quite a while ago I purchased a pack of 8 eyeballs with sticky backs on 'em with the intent of putting some on my guitar. Through the molded plastic they were packaged in, they looked convincingly squishy and shit - although they were closer to marble size than human eye size. That didn't bother me though.. envisioning such enhancement on the Ink-O-Caster made me think Hells yeah, that would be awesome!

So while unpacking here at my lovely new abode, I ran across the package of eyeballs and cracked 'em open to have a looksie. Turns out that the eyeballs are not squishy at all. They are of a Styrofoam composite, and worse yet, the iris and pupil were printed on a cheap sticker and slapped onto the foam ball. And they were starting to peel off.

Fuck that! I'm not putting that garbage on my guitar. Styrofoam is for things like holding bait and keeping new televisions intact during transit to the places they're sold at. Styrofoam is not for making fake eyeballs, thank you.

Sheesh. Another hard-earned dolla 98, right down the drain. I could have spent that on chocolate milk or something. At least with that you know it's not gonna be Styrofoam when you open the bottle.

Orange Armless Monkey Therapy Session

I'm sitting here looking at an orange monkey squeaky toy on my desk and am a little perplexed, mainly because it has no arms.

When is the last time you saw an orange monkey with no arms? I ask because prior to seeing this squeaky toy, I'd never heard of such a thing. I ain't never heard of neither an orange monkey nor an armless monkey, much less a monkey that is simultaneously both bright orange and armless.

This orange monkey is also quite small. About 4" high to be exact. I know there's wee monkeys out there (spider monkeys, I think?), but not this small. So far the only things this here orange monkey has got going for it as far as resembling a monkey whatsoever is the monkey face and the fact that it squeaks. Yes, monkeys possess both of those traits.

Maybe this here monkey has no arms because they forgot to sew them on at the orange monkey factory. Maybe this here monkey has no arms because it was mangled in a farm accident. I don't know, but I'm starting to feel sorry for the lil' dude. I'm starting to realize that although he is bright, furry and orange on the outside that maybe he needs someone to talk to. Let the Orange Armless Monkey Therapy Session begin:

Me: Hey little orange monkey, why have you no arms?
Monkey: squeak!
Me: Hey little orange monkey, why are you little and orange?
Monkey: squeak!
Me: Would you like some water, or a biscuit?
Monkey: squeak!
Me: Okay little monkey, here you go.
Monkey: squeak!
Me: Is there anything you'd like to talk about, little monkey?
Monkey: squeak.
Me: What would you like to talk about?
Monkey: squeak squeak.
Me: Anything else?
Monkey: squeak!
Me: Do you ever get a little self conscious from the fact that I look at you on and off for roughly 8 hours a day?
Monkey: squeak!
Me: Well, I can certainly move you from the top of my monitor to a more secluded area if you'd like.
Monkey: squeak!
Me: Okay, will do. Well, it was certainly nice getting to know you. Don't be a stranger now!
Monkey: squeak!
Me: You too, monkey. If you ever need anything, unlike you I have fully functioning arms and hands, so I'd be glad to get you whatever you need. Just say the word - you know where to find me.
Monkey: squeak!

==

Well, that felt pretty good to get that awkward tension out of my system. I think little orange armless monkey and I are going to be pretty good friends.

Move-in day

I snapped some shots of me new abode all for your viewing pleasure here. Everyone's welcome to come over for Jesus Juice, Llama rides and sleep in my bed once everything's all unpacked!

A nice landlord?

I've had nice landlords in my day, as well as those that have proven to be the spawn of Satan. But this lady I'm working with now definitely takes home the cake in the "neat-o" department. I thought it was gonna be hard to find a landlord that would understand my foggy transient-esque living history for the past few years. But she took a real shinin' to me and my situation and was all for giving me a shot. I didn’t pull any sort of cowboy sob routine on her or anything, I just told her straight out that she might not be too enthusiastic when she got my rental app back from wherever they sent it to and why. An' she says "Lets not worry about that; I've been there before myself." Mrs. Brady was right: honesty is the best policy.

So today I embarked on my first official trip to my bitchin’ new place to take the first batch of stuff over and git my move-in checklist she said she'd leave me on the counter, and sitting with the checklist was a bit more than that. The checklist was nestled firmly into a big ol' basket full of dish soap, hand soap, a bag 'o' Chex mix, notepads, pens, a toofbrush, toofpaste, candy, bagels, little floor protector sticky things to put on what little furniture I have, along with a lot of other little practical trinkets.

Well damn! If that wasn't mighty kind. Huh! Not only did I get all that cool stuff that's never fun paying for, but I now also have a basket to leave out for when the Easter Bunny comes next Spring. I ain’t got shit from that heartless little rodent in about 20 years, so I don't want to hear any excuses this time around.

Goes to show, there are still genuinely nice, understanding landlords out there. Well.. maybe we should hold that thought until I devour my Chex Mix and find out whether or not she poisoned it.

This place is gonna rule. I’ll take before and after pictures and post ‘em here eventually – by the time me and my nesting instincts are done with it, it’s gonna be all Willy Wonka and shit. Anyone know where I can get an Oompa Loompa? Not one of the newer computer multiplied ones, but the old red white and green ones.

Gum for dogs

I just thought of something the other day when my Dad's dog was incessantly begging for treats. I bet she wouldn't be on such a frequent treat regimen if the treats were chewy like gum, 'cause she'd be too busy chewing away on it to drop it, come back and ask for more... Reason being most dogs don't possess hording instincts like humans and squirrels do. They're content when they get just one of what they ask for and don't ask for more until the last bit they were given is gone. Dogs do not plan ahead… it's just not their nature.

So, I reckon dog gum could very well keep a mutt occupied with an endorphin-releasing culinary experience for a good 5-10 minutes at the very least. I'd give a dog gum all the time if it worked. Do you know how awesome it would be watching a dog walk around the house chewing gum? There'd be the annoying dog chewing noise to put up with, but the amusement of watching it chewing gum would far outweigh the audible mess that would ensue.

I'm going to the library tonight to find a good gum recipe and then Cub Foods to get the ingredients. Hopefully Schilling makes Imitation Liver Extract, for I'm planning on dumping just enough of that in to make dogs think Hey, this was specifically engineered for dogs and I'm going to chew on and savor this treat for quite some time because it's quite delicious.

Dear Uptown: you have won a year's supply of Micycle

I am signing my life away this evening in a cool old apartment in Uptown. Now that my karmic debt has recently come full circle by catching me off guard and completely nabbing me in the ass, it's time to start anew with a clean slate. I get the keys tonight and move number 9 shall commence over the course of the week.

I've said it about 6 other times and I'll be damned if I have to say it one more time in the next 12 months: This is the last time I'm putting this fucking futon together. PERIOD.

Once I'm in and my things are in place, Pad Thai and Newcastle shall flow like an old man after a gallon of prune juice, and you're invited.

In the interim, now comes the fun part: hitting the Antique Mall and thrift stores for art, furnishings, and doo-dads. And picking out paint colors. And accidentally knocking a hole in my bedroom wall only to discover a secret treasure chest full of gold coins and pearls.

All American Heavy Metal Weekend

To those of you unfamiliar with my hometown of Cottage Grove, MN, it goes a little something like this: it is about 30 miles from the outskirts of the Twin Cities and it has a Perkins. It has an Applebees. It has a Target. It has a Kohls. And it is, mind you, a Minnesota Star City. It's your typical run-of-the-mill suburb, other than the fact that yours truly is from there, which is something I know you all realize holds a lot of water.

So yesterday I figured heck, I'm in the Grove for now so's I may as well make the best of things. I called up my homey Pete who lives 'round these parts and expressed the fact that I'd like to explore a Saturday night entertainment alternative to either 1) pacing to and fro on the dirt road that lies before my parent's abode, or 2) driving 30 miles into the city, likely knocking back a few too many barley pops, and well.. you can see where that would go.

We ended up hooking up with former high school buddy Matt and one of his friends and quickly hightailing it down to the local roller rink-turned-dive bar called The Rush. The Rush's faculty contains a few of my high school peeps that have been working there since graduation day. That building is like a time capsule. You walk into the place and your watch stops moving, seriously. Pete got some nachos and I warned him that the cheese could very well be from the same batch as when I was 10 and rollerskated there. I was tempted to look under the pinball machines for colored rabbit feet keychains.

Every time I go there, the Rush's weathered ambiance has an effect on me not unlike the Dementors in the Harry Potter 3 film: when sucked into its mighty downtrodden wrath, it will feed off of and drain you of all and any pride you pack. A cover band was rocking out, led by a small hobbit woman that got wacky when they did a Kid Rock song - she put on a zany hat and strummed one of those bendy inflatable guitars you always see at the State Fair. She was pear shaped, and had on a nice pair o jeans from 1987 that were pulled up waaaay past her belly button. The bassist prowled the stage like a female Gene Simmons and I think it actually made me throw up in my mouth a little. Somebody mentioned that the band's energy matched that of our high school talent shows. Agreed!

We then headed to The Blue Moon, a local sports bar/restaurant which I was warned would be the "crash and burn" portion of the evening. "Bring it on!" says I, Ol Yeller needs to be shot at some point, and off we went. We arrived to a bevy of skanky hos.. I mean.. girls with a smattering of mullet men dancing on the same flo that by day is one of my dad's favorite Asian buffets. It was also once BONANZA, a place where I remember pounding down breaded shrimp by the dozens as a youngen. I saw Jenny, a girl who I used to work with at my first office job, and she was rather soused. It's hard to play the life update game when you're talking to somebody that's on the 7 second Gumby delay.

Last but not least today, lo and behold, Pete's sister, a.k.a. my longtime high school girlfriend Melissa (a.k.a. Pissy) stopped by for a surprise visit with her new son she made 4 years ago. She's yet another person I ain't seen for the better part of 10 years, and it twas fun and interesting to see her again. Seeing your ex's with their own chillens is very surreal - I heard lots of Twilight Zone music playing in my head. 'Cause she still looks and acts just like Pissy, but then you see her wipe spittle off of her kid's face and onto her jeans and realize Um... whoa, like.... weird, man... she's somebody's mom! I fed her kid a big ol' Hershey bar I happened to have stashed away and played him some Van Halen on the blue accordion. One thing I love about other people's kids: you can get 'em all cranked up on sugar and then give them back to their owners to deal with when they get all crabby and shit.

So, yes. It was an All American Heavy Metal Weekend. Good times were had by all, and gawd dammit, I'm tired.

St. Paul vs. Minneapplesauce

I've been looking at apartments lately and have come to a critical juncture of sorts in regards to where I want to setup shop for the next year. I'm a city rat at heart and have narrowed it down to the Grand/Highland area of St. Paul and Uptown. I'd live out in the suburbs in a heartbeat if I had the money to support the inevitable huffing habit I'd develop out of sheer boredom.

I've lived in both of our beloved Twin Shitties and have a special place deep down in the cockles of my heart for the Highland area of St. Paul. Driving through that town gives me warm fuzzies, perhaps because we've kinfolk in those parts whose homes I've been visiting ever since I was a youngen.

Yet I've always been drawn to the Uptown area for the sake of its convenience and my love of transient sightings under the Lyndale/I94 overpass. I still have my ol' transient-peeping beenoculars stashed away somewhere just in case. According to me sibling Chuck, earlier this year he was driving over to visit me when I lived in that area and he saw some hunyuck there with his schvontz hanging out of his trousers taking a leak as if that's what people do at a busy intersection.

Not to mention the occasional Doppler effect of passing by sirens in the Uptown area also makes for a nice, tranquil backdrop for one to fall asleep at night.

Minneapolis is closer to nearly everything I do. Also, I just opened a fresh new account with Roadrunner for hi-speed internet just two weeks ago at the place I used to live at and would like to stay with them - they only seem to offer their services in non-St. Paul areas. It's only Comcast or DSL in St. Paul, and I just don't like the way those names sound. Homey don't play "dsl" or cable internet access providers with the word "com" in it. "Com" is short for things like commercial.. commute... complain...

Hm. Let's do some math.

- Uptown, by far, has better won tons.

- St. Paul has my favorite Turkish restaurant and Carbones.

- Uptown is becoming increasingly lame. Lake and Hennepin in particular - rumor has it an AE Outfitters is going in where Pier One once lived. I will deduct 500 awesome points from Uptown when the grand opening happens.

- St. Paul is has always been increasingly lame. Have you seen the commercial cesspool that Grand Ave. is becoming?!

- Uptown is closer to all the fun dirty secondhand stores where I buy my basement-scented ugly shirts and other snappy duds (most, ironically, shirts with snaps on 'em).

- St. Paul's 25-35 demographic seems to be generally of a suburban, baseball-hat wearing variety.

- Uptown's 25-35 demographic are a way more outspoken, craftsy, tattooed, ensemble of denizens and they've way more face jewelry per capita than those east of The River. I find this makes for a much more entertaining, or at least shiny atmosphere.

- St. Paul looks awesome in the winter and I'm not axsked for change or smokes by onion-scented creepy bearded people with dirty fingernails when I'm walking the streets.

Aye, I'm so indecisive. To hell with this decision making, Uptown it is. I'm moving into the mens room of the SA on 26th and Hennepin tomorrow.

Co-inky Dinkies!

Life seems to have dished out a buffet of bizarre but entertaining coincidences lately, most of which I should not go into at this time. But it's starting to make me wonder - are these coincidences by coincidence?

Regardless, it makes for a good ride.

Skin Weeds

This may sound a might bit nastaay, but oh well. It’s as much of my choice to write it as it is yours to read it, correct?!

I have a wee mole on my inner right arm that has been sprouting 2 hairs ever since I can remember. My Great Aunt June always referred to moles as "Angel Kisses". I muss say if being kissed by an angel leaves a brown dot on your skin that grows hair, no thanks, angels. Kiss somebody else, please (unless you're a very attractive angel).

Anyways.

I yank the teeny hairs out, forget about my fertile little mole, and a month or so later there are those two fuggin' hairs again. It's hardly noticeable unless I were to walk up to you exposing my inner arm and pointing it out yelling "SEE MY TWO WEE MOLE HAIRS? SEE 'EM?" It's just one of those little things in life that annoys me. Sort of like when I see a plate of brownies and then discover that there’s nuts on ‘em.

I don't mind dots on my arms like this, but if they're of the hair sprouting variety, it makes me feel like I'm turning into a cactus... or like a spider is trying to ex-scape from me or something.

Today a man with thinning hair walked past me as I was observing the aforementioned mole hairs which are just about at the pullout point, and something dawned on me: I believe I've found an answer to baldness. Remove moles such as these from those who don't want them and have them grafted onto the scalps of willing and able victims suffering from blurry hair or complete lack of hair altogether. Because if someone's living with the daily challenge of follicle retention of the scalp, and people like me have issues with follicles growing back no matter how many times they're yanked, do tha math and you'll see yourself that this makes perfect sense. Not to mention if the grafted moles for whatever reason stop producing hair, you'd still be left with a healthy looking solid brown scalp.

I will volunteer to be a guinea pig to test this out on if anyone knows any good plastic surgeons, although I'll prollee have it grafted onto my left pinky toe, as I already have a full head of hair. This would be totally awesome, because I'd simultaneously 1) get rid of my mole, as well as 2) finally have hair on my left pinky toe like I've always wanted.

Guns don't kill people... Doctors do.

Was chitty chattying with a friend today and the topic of guns was randomly thrown into the mix. A fact was provided to me that went something like this: More people are killed by doctors every year than guns (who knows where this fact is from or how legit it may or may not be - but hey, I'm getting a journal entry out of it, so just play along).

Says I: "Allow me to retort. So if you get shot [by a gun], who's the first person you're hussposed to go see to get that shot mended and prevent you from bleeding to death?"

"Um.. A doctor."

Yep. The only thing allegedly more lethal than being the recipient of a bullet is the very answer to removing the bullet. Sounds like if you git a cap in your ass, you're pretty fucked unless you happen to visit the small percentage of doctors that don't allegedly kill you more than guns do.

Lesson learned: If I get sick, I'm going to ask someone to shoot me - 'cause apparently that's safer than a visit to the doctor's office.

WOW - 1.55555 moves per month!

I recently came to realize an impressive fact about myself: in the next month, I will have moved 9 times over the last 14 months. NINE. TIMES. Not one.. not two.. but NINE. That's an average of 1.55555 moves per month.

Well, one of them (the one in late June a.k.a Move #6) was only a half move, but it involved me carrying my cat Frank and a few loads of other high-priority shit to a distant location and staying there with it for about a month, so I think that warrants it as a bona fide "move". I'm fuggin' sick of this traveling circus bollogg-na. Fed up. Had it. I hate to sound like such a pissy, moany whiney little bitch over moving so much, but hey, you do it Buddy! It's no cup of tea. After a while you start to wish everything you owned was made out of Legos so you could at least take it all apart and make it more portable... And then make different cool stuff when you moved into your new place.

Fact: Exactly 8 days ago, I just received a crispy fresh and new MN drivers license in der mail with what was my "new" address on it at that time. And now, 1 week later, I never would have guessed back then - but that is now suddenly my old address. When I get a new license from now on, I'll just save a step in the process by immediately cutting one of its corners off and carrying around a folded yellow piece of paper, no matter how confident I feel about where I'm living.

I've moved so much that when I go to renew my license, they know me on a first name basis and ask how my cat is. I've moved so much that I'm considering buying enough luggage to accommodate every belonging I have. I've moved so much that perhaps someday I will have my own zip code. I don't really get much mail these days as a result of all this moving, which I guess is one of the better side effects.

So. Recent events made me realize I ain't no dummy and am not about to be taken for one whether it's intentional or not, so onward and outward I had to go. Yesterday marked Move #8; all of my stuff back to Mom and Dad's (thank gawd for them) until I soon move into my own place which will = Move #9. This will be a good thing, because if things aren't going well with myself, I can't necessarily tell me that I need to move out. Well, I could, but then no one would be there and I'd be paying rent for no real reason at all.

My sister a.k.a. Lisa and my father a.k.a. Dad helped this time around. We went cavalcade-style to Move Location #7 and in transit we came to a point on I94 where the flow of traffic significantly decreased in speed. I heard this sound from behind us: SCREEEEEEEEEEEAK! Whose vehicle was it fishtailing and pert near rear-ending my pop's minivan? My lovely sister's. Yaaaay! Ironically, Dad's van already has a dent on the back of it from accidentally bumping into her car a while ago. What a silly coinky-dinky that would have been! I guess Leese was a little too preoccupied admiring the handiwork of a fucker... er, I mean guy who changed lanes as if he were blindfolded and wearing headphones. But I thank you, sister - that gave me the adrenaline charge of 2 cups of coffee and I didn't even have to leave anyone a tip. Not to mention the phone call I got seconds later from her was priceless: "OH MY GOD MICHAEL I JUST SHIT MY PANTS!" HA! That's what I'm talkin' about. When you pick up the phone and hear those words, you know that either a) something totally awesome just happened or b) somebody needs to cut back to just one bowl of Colon Blow cereal per day.

If you've ever wanted to know how many moves it takes until it simply becomes second nature, 8 is the answer, I reckon. I can move like mechanics can change tires in the Indy 500.

All things considered, although this move was emotionally one of the least fun of them all, it has unexpectedly empowered me - unlike Move #6, which did exactly the opposite. This is mainly because I know I'm not nuts (at least in the scary, bad way). Move #7 was a good one, as I was under the impression that it was to be my permenant residence. Moves #4 and 5 weren't too shabby either, but it's moving nonetheless. And nearly anything will drive you nuts if you do it enough. Well. Almost anything…

I have come to realize that there has been one giant enemy causing the bulk of these moves, and that enemy is Circumstance. With that in mind, allow me to say this: Dear Circumstance: Fuck you. You ain't getting the best of me no mo. It's time for me to pick up and get back to doing what I excel at: being a happy-go-lucky dude that plays weird geetar music and plays it well. Sheesh, listen to me sounding all Dr. Phil an' shit. But it's true though!

In closing, if you're reading this and planning on moving in the near future, sure - you can ask for my help. But you better either run really fast after you ask or make sure you're wearing protection, 'cause I might just very well up and knee you in your nether-regions so hard that you'll be eating your lunch in reverse, if ya know what I’m sayin’.

Peace out, bitchez. This is Micycle Dawg over and out. Literally.

On a completely unrelated note, Damn - I could really go for some cream cheese won tons right now. Anyone?

I'm alive... Where am I going?

I'm now a proud card carrying member of "Companions who have been purposefully cropped out of photos that are on the internet!" Yaaaaaay for me! *doing backflips*

That said, I'm going to be taking a break from writing these blawgs for now because I need to move out of where I currently live, again, put my stuff somewhere else again, and look for a new place where I can put that stuff, Frank, and myself for a longer period of time than I've managed to live anywhere in the past year and hopefully avoid having to use the word "again" in regards to shitty things.

I'll be back, darlings, don't you worry. Until then, remember to never fry bacon in the nude.

Expressing one's feelings via Photoshop

Today's journal entry is very special. Rather than putting my feelings and experiences into words, I took it upon myself to take them all and convert them into artwork. Isn't it pretty? Click on it to see a larger version, but I wouldn't necessarily recommend that. Unless you like feeling carsick.

I just wanna win something.

I've had this overwhelming urge lately to win a prize. I don't even care if said prize is something I want, I just want to win it.

For example. I was at Home Depot the other day and saw a display with a portable generator of some sort and a form where you could enter to win it. I was looking for a pen but didn't have one, and this kind of bummed me out because I wanted to enter and win. A few feet away was another contest in which you could win a screen door. I don't even care about screen doors, but it sure would be nice to win one!

Later that day I was cruising in the Pinto puttin' out the vibe maxin’ and relaxin’ on Cedar Lake road and an ad blared over its monoaural Philco AM radio for Gertens Greenhouse. Something like "Enter and win $1,000 in free plants and dirt!" Shit yeah, I'd be all over that. The thrill of winning such a great prize would simply make all others dull in comparison. I can already picture getting the call from Gertens:

“Hello Mr. Krenner, this is Gertens Greenhouse calling. I am proud to tell you that you have –“
“I want $1,000 of the best dirt you’ve got. Have the driver call me when he gets here and I’ll tell him where to dump it. And don’t short change me; I have a food scale and I’m gonna weigh it all to make sure it’s all there.”
$1,000 in free dirt would definitely make my day. Think of all the free worms I’d get out of that! More than enough to open a bait shop for a few weeks. Not sure what I’d do with it after picking all the worms out.. I guess I would level all the dirt out and make the yard taller.

I need to go to an Expo is what I need to do. Like the Whole Life Expo or a Women’s Expo. 98% of the booths at expos feature boxes where you can enter to win stuff. And with this kick I’m on, I’d be sure to enter every damn one, twice no less. But before I do that, I need to rent an apartment and use that address on my forms so I’ll have a place to store all of the junk mail I’ll get as a result.

Even if I didn’t win anything I’d still get all that junk mail, and that’s kind of like winning something because I filled out the entry forms and ended up with more stuff than I had before I filled them out.

Maybe I’ll try this: If anyone has anything they want to give away, please set up a sweepstakes and let only me enter. Just let me know when the drawing is so I know when to be by the phone.

Just Say No to Hurricane Montages

Let me first say that my heart goes out to the people without homes due to the tragic incidents down South. My money would go out to them as well, but I have none.. (Actually I am planning on sending a very small amount tomorrow - every lil' bit helps, right?) I was in N'Orlins a few years ago and had two or three days to walk the stinky, humid streets of the French Quarter and had a great time just walking around and looking at everything. I could have easily seen myself living there. Lots 'o' good music, foods, neat buildings to look at, manhole covers, weirdos, and all that kind of good stuff that tickles one's creative pickle.

Well, thankfully I didn't move there, for after the storm last week I would have found myself swimming in the streets with everybody else wishing that all of my belongings were buoyant. Actually I'd be wishing I was buoyant, ‘cause I am a bit of an aqua phobic and never learned how to swim. Mom had me take lessons as a kid, but I took to them like a wet piece of tape sticks to Jell-O. If it's anything more than a bathtub and I'm immersed in it, I get a little weirded out; exspecially in water that I can't see through.

After the storm I knew a storm of a different kind was imminent and I was right: The Hurricane Montages on news shows. You know what I'm talking about - some sappy patriotic song plays as a backdrop to various flood images and video clips that were slapped together. And what's the one staple that's in montages such as this? The Token American Flag shot. And it's usually at the end of the clips. I saw the first one over last weekend and said "Okay, I bet you anything the Token American Flag Shot is due any second now." Sure enough, an image of Old Glory propped up on a wrecked home popped up on the screen. An Aaron Neville tune about a N’Orlans flood was playing and I wanted to throw my bowl of cereal at the TV.

It snot because I don't care about what happened, it's just the aspect of the media milking it. I've heard that more often than not a photographer will see a photo op in situations like this, prop a nice clean shiny flag somewhere in there, and snap that photo hoping it will be the next cover of Time Magazine. Think about it: in times of peril, do you think that somebody who is half dead, burned, just lost their home, etc., happened to be carrying a flag to wrap around themselves like a warm, patriotic blanky?

Just tell us the dang news and get on with the show. Spend the oodles of money you pay the people to hunt down the money shots of misery and cut and paste them together on donations instead, please. No Aaron Neville-infested montage is needed to report news effectively.

It hasn't happened yet, but so help me Gawd, if I hear that f*&king Lee Greenwood song playing under yet another montage of misery and am sitting next to a hammer, whichever network I see it on will be receiving a bill to replace our TV shortly thereafter.

Lost In Love *insert dry heaves here*

I've been listening to Air Supply quite a bit today.

Now that I've made you all throw up in your mouths, let me explain. It's purely out of nostalgia - sort of like a smell that takes you back to being a little kid and walking into your neighbor's house (which for me would be cigarette exhaust, beer, and dried up dog piss).

When I pop in Air Supply and hear that choral crescendo consisting of about 30 overdubbed layers of that little short guy's voice in "Lost In Love", I am instantly transported back to 1982. I find myself sitting in the passenger side of my parent's gigantor poop brown Country Squire station wagon. Here... let me put my headphones on. Join me, why don't you?

*Intro guitar part for "Lost In Love" kicks in*

Welcome to the Country Squire.. it's pretty bitchin', ain't it?! Check out the radio - there's a little orange LED light on the display betwixt the huge silver dials. That light goes on when the radio receives an actual stereo signal. High tech stuff here. And you'll see it's shining proud and brilliantly right now. Solid orange LED light = 8 track is on and churning out a thick, creamy tidal wave of Air Supply. We got ABBA and Neil Sedaka in the house too.. if you want to hear any of those, crack the glove box open and have at it. Careful, though - it's a pretty big glove box door and may very well mash your kneecaps in if you aren't careful. You might find some chocolate stars or peanuts in there - eat at your own risk. Leave the tire gauge in there please; I like to play with it while Dad is in Knox Lumber.

The vehicle's aroma is quite pleasant, yes? That fragrance is a combination of vinyl seats, Dad's Old Spice afta-shave, and Score hair gel. It is particularly noticeable on a hot summer afternoon. Dad drives this bitch to work every day. Ooh if I could only get a nice white knuckle grip on the Squire's steering wheel and fire that engine up. I'd ram my foot on the gas and wait for the tires to squeal, although we all know that wouldn't happen. I would ram my foot on the gas and the engine would likely flood and kill.. but not without a few of those rattly sputters and revved up coughing sounds that cars in that day and age were known to make. The Pinto does this and I laugh every time.

If you'll look under the driver's side seat, you'll see an empty Sports Shake can. And if it's cold out, you may score big time and nab an unopened one.

The Country Squire was not a station wagon.. it was an Eco Community. It magically provided things like music, candy, and Sport Shakes. That along with its spacious interior make it the one safe place I'd want to be if giant robots that shot death rays out of their eyes ever came to overthrow the Earth and kill us all.

The Squire has power windows too. See that 3" chrome panel on your door with the toggle switch in the middle (similar to the one on the driver's door which is 4 times the size and has 5 toggles)? That provides you with an Air Supply of a different kind: the one you need running through your hair when you're cruising highway 61 at 45mph listening to the calming, androgynous voice of Russell Hitchcock. There's even a power window on the back door which might I mention also has defrosting capabilities. Only half of them work though, so you get a nice American Flag-looking pattern in the winter.

***

Ah, cripes. The CD is over. My Air Supply has been cut off. How symbolic of a statement that is: Here I am back in 2005 with $62 in my bank account.

Someday when I listen to Air Supply, I'm going to be magically carried off in that hot air balloon on their record cover and end up playing with the band. I'd totally pick up a keytar and jam with them.

We will be on a billowy pink cloud in a blue sky and everything will be glittery. A rainbow made out of taffy will unfurl like a red carpet and end on our cloud, and just as we break into the ending passage to "Lost In Love", a unicorn will come running over the rainbow leaving a comet trail of shimmery dust in its path. I will pick off a piece of the cloud which will be made of cotton candy and feed it to the unicorn. And then I will put a muffin on his horn, hop on it's back, and be taken off to La La Land. I will look back and see the 18 members of Air Supply gazing up at me and waving ever so gently.

I’m just trying to stay comfortably warm here.

I have been on a mission to find the ultimate winter coat for the past 5 or 6 years. I have been using two in the interim, and both are on complete opposite ends of the comfort spectrum. This defies the very meaning of owning a winter coat, which is to keep you comfortable in less desirable weather conditions and hopefully remain pleasing and fashionable to the eye. Let me break it down for you:

Coat #1: One of my grandpa’s old jean jackets. It is a nice piece, and a sentimental one to boot. However, if temperatures drop below 50 degrees and there’s even the slightest of breezes, it provides as about as much warmth as a paper towel.

Coat #2: My black down-filled parka. It is the size of a small car and its weight makes my back hurt if I wear it for too long. 5 minutes into wearing that thing makes me so hot that I begin to hallucinate and feel claustrophobic. It attracts pet hair as if it were made out of lint brush material.

I guess it’s a pretty awesome parka, but cumbersome and way too hot. One time it lodged me into a storefront doorway and the fire department had to come in and unzip it for me so’s I could exscape. It wasn’t pretty. In the summertime it could double as a tent that might sleep two quite comfortably. The jacket’s hood unzips and would double as a twin sleeping bag, not to mention those inside pockets would be great for holding bug spray and energy bars whilst you’d sleep.

The problem here? There’s been no happy medium. I’m like Goldilocks minus all of the “just right” accommodations she discovered while ransacking the home of the 3 Bears. It’s either too hot or too cold.

Hence my quest for the ultimate winter jacket. I’ve been holding out for years, as when I find what I think is the perfect one, I look at the price tag and get the same feeling that I can get for free while wearing my parka for 6 minutes.

Yesterday I hit up Savers for some good deals, and ho boy I found some good deals alright. I found what I believe to be the coat I’ve been looking for all these years. It’s a nice rugged industry-grade coat that is of the perfect thickness and its material appears to be of a pet hair-resistant composite. Awesome.

Now although I went and done bought it, I’m not sure if this is the perfect coat just yet. It’s still too hot out to tell, so I’m gonna wear it to Cub Foods tonight and hop in the popsicle freezer for a while to see what this baby’s got. Keep your fingers crossed.

One other thing that worries me is that I reckon this coat was used in a warehouse environment - it has some big numbers on written it in yellow wax marker, and those numbers are slightly visible at times when I wear it. My first concern is that people are going to think I spilled mustard on my coat and will be pointing it out as if I didn’t notice that I spilled mustard on my coat. It’s the same sort of thing with the “safety lights” in my truck that stayed on for 20 seconds after I locked the doors. Nearly every other damn time I parked that thing in the dark someone would say “Left your lights on!” and it became a pain in the ass after a while to have to explain that no, I didn’t leave my lights on, and that those are there as my truck’s preventative measure to keep me from getting raped.

The second concern about these numbers is that whenever I wear that jacket, I’m going to feel like I’m being tracked. What if these are top secret government numbers, or what if this coat was stolen and somehow ended up in Saver’s inventory? I could very well get my ass kicked wearing this thing.

I could just color over those numbers with a blue marker. That would avoid the mustard stain concerns of others as well as me being wrongfully accused of wearing hot goods (no pun intended).

I’m just trying to stay comfortably warm here. That’s all. If I end up in jail for that, then sue me. But I’ve got that Saver’s receipt, and I’m going to do what the name of the store suggests and save it. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll have it laminated and put on one of those necklace badge thingies so if anyone ever gives me any shit like “hey man, that’s my coat!” I’ll proudly hold up my receipt badge and say “Umm, excuse me. No it isn’t.”

Lets keep the kiddies under control, shall we?

I'm at a coffee shop minding my own business trying to get some work done here.

Some lady's little shit... er, I mean little angelic toddler is running around pushing a stroller, bumping into me, opening up storage cabinets, taking things off of the shelf that he shouldn't be taking. And where's Mom? That question can be answered by turning my head 190 degrees and looking at her and her friends. Yak yak yak! Yak yak yak! Evan, come here honey! Don't do that now, baby. We'll leave soon. Yak yak yak! Yak yak yak yak!

I haven't even known Evan for 5 minutes and I already want to give him an Evan-sized plastic bag to go play with (I mean that in the most endearing way possible). I know, it's not his fault. It's his Mommy. She should know better. DUH - you're supposed to lock your kids in the closet if you want to go hang out with your soul sisters for coffee on a Saturday morning.

He just ran over my foot with that baby stroller. Evan: Come here by Uncle Micycle with that stroller again, please. I would like to play a game! Whoopie! It involves you, that stroller, some duct tape, and that set of stairs outside. It's fun! It's zany! It's a great time! It's called Evan's Extreme Roller Coaster Ride!