Saturday, June 30, 2007


I just woke up, so this may be a tad muddled.

I had a dream that my house was overrun with all types of pests. Towards the end of the dream, I had been under the impression that the house had been cleared of the interlopers. Suddenly, I found myself in the basement, near my late grandfather's woodworking machines. The room was dark but there was enough light that I could see the shadowy legs of the bandsaw; I saw the polygonal angles of the vise swimming in the air above me.

I looked to my left and saw a smallish black shape inching across a brown paper bag. I looked closer and discovered it to be a slug of some sorts. It's antennae were comically-enlarged and I thought that I could see the black pool of its left eye as it slithered across the bag. "Shit," I thought to myself, "I thought I got all the mothers."

For some reason, I was sitting on the ground and I was unable to move as freely as I would have liked. As I watched, more slugs materialized. They patterned diagonally across the (now many) paper bags. I wanted to reach through the legs of the bandsaw to touch the slugs. I wanted to see if they were, indeed, slimey. I don't know why that was of such importance to me, but it was. I tried to reach through the gray metal legs of the bandsaw but I was not able to, seeing as how my ass was firmly glued to the cement floor, smacked down by paralysis.

As I watched, the slugs reached the floor and one turned into a large brown mouse. I didn't see any feet on the mouse; it seemed that it locomoted in the same way as the slugs: slimey slides. The mouse looked at me and it may have twitched its whiskers in my direction. I tried to reach for the mouse, but could not.

Then I awoke to the sound of my Superman alarm clock.

Odd dream. I think I might have been "inspired" by a picture that I took of a coffee bean. I remember looking at the picture, yesterday, and thinking to myself that it looked a lot like a beetle without legs. Or eyes, for that matter.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007


I went to my parents' house tonight for dinner. My Mom cooked Chinese chicken stir-fry, a dish at which she excels. The chicken is tender, the vegetables are always perfectly cooked and mixed with sesame oil and she also has a kick-ass chili-garlic hot sauce that some of her Chinese friends gave her.

It always nice to visit the beloved parents and also get a kick-ass free meal in the deal. I'm not much of a cook, so I'll take it when I can get it.

There is another advantage to going over to the 'rents house to stuff my face: they just got a new neighbor. She's a girl named S___, born in Indiana, who works for GM (I think) and who just got a puppy. The puppy is named Nina, and she's an 11-week-old American Bulldog.

I think S___ is single. I hope S___ is single. Though--in all honesty--I wouldn't be able to believe that she is single. She's cute as hell, very personable, has a really nice little body...what was I talking about again? Oh yeah. I was hoping that Miss S___ is as unattached as an island and is looking for love...or at least companionship.

The last couple times I have gone over to my parents', S___ has appeared magically at the privacy fence seperating the yards, with little Nina in her arms. I welcome the sight. She is always wearing athletic gear, which leads me to believe that she is into keeping fit. That's a good thing. I, too, like to keep fit! It's a match made in Heaven!

And we both have dogs! What are the odds?!

So, anyway, I was just about to head home after eating the blessed stir-fry and getting my ass kicked by my Mom in Trivial Pursuit (I'm a friggin' bad-ass, I know), when I--or rather Lou--noticed that Miss S___ and Nina were in their backyard, on the deck. Lou was whining, so I figured that they were outside and I opened the back door and Lou tore across the patio to the old brick fireplace which he scaled in a single bound and stood up against the privacy fence, his tail wagging madly.

I tucked my camera in my pocket (must always keep posterity in one's thoughts) and jammed my brown Detroit hat on my freshly-shaved head and sauntered outside, my face split with a grin. We shot the shit for a little bit and then S___ asked me if I thought Lou might want to play a little bit with Nina. Sure, I said, and reached up to the fence to take the proffered puppy.

Right away, of course, Lou was frantically jumping at me, on me, through me, trying to get at Nina and commence Play-Time. I was staggering around with the puppy in my hands, trying to find a swatch of grass that wasn't brindled by Lou. It was difficult. Lou is an energetic dog when it comes to playing with other canines, so every step I took was matched ten-fold by El Luis. Finally I'd had enough of the manic circling and I kind of hip-checked Lou out of the way and put the puppy on the ground.

They call Boxers Boxers for a reason. Swat! Bat! Bonk! Lou was having his way with the baby dog. He wasn't hurting her, of course, but he was waaaaaaaay too quick and strong and motivated for her to keep up. I broke out the camera--set on high-speed shutter--and tried to get a few snaps of the hijinks. S___ and I were laughing and I was trying to get some pictures and keep the perros seperated a bit and, seeing how I am not an octopus, I was having some troubles. Nina ran behind me, using me as a shield, and I spun around, trying to get an overhead shot, when she raced through my legs and Lou tried to follow.

Lou--seventy pounds of motivated brindle-muscle--knocked my left leg slightly askew and, as I tried to compensate, knocked my right leg out from under me. I scrabbled at a bush with my left hand and strove to keep my camera safe with my right, all the while trying to regain my balance. It didn't work. I went down, with an impotent snatch of green bush in my hand. I landed on Lou and briefly thought that I might be able to use my dog as a tool to regain my balance, thus saving myself the embarrassment of falling on my kiester in front of a girl whom I would like to impress. Yeah. Didn't happen. Lou shifted and so my weight shifted and I ended up meeting terra firma, firsthand. Or, actually, ass-hand. Ass-first. Whatever.

Ass-over-applecart. Down goes Frai-sha! Down goes Frai-sha! Um. Down goes Adam! Miss S___ laughed. I can't say that I blamed her. Seeing people fall is funny, sometimes. Anyway, I got up, brushed of my ass, and ribbed her for laughing at me. "I could have been seriously hurt," I admonished, laughing. We chatted for a few more minutes and then she went inside.

I think I'm going to be sampling my Mom's cooking a little more, now. =o)

Tuesday, June 26, 2007


Next to my water spout. Up on the counter, in his web he pouts. Next to the ant trap that seems to work just fine. Welcome all the critters, it's more your place than mine.

Um. Sorry for the grating noise that you just heard/read that could, in other circles, be glossed "poetry."

This is a post about a stationary arachnid. I have not yet named him, but, seeing as how I have been blessed with his presence for about a week, now, I think it is only Christian that I christen him. So. What to name him, what to name him? Gonzalez? Kinda like Speedy Gonzalez...but not? Oddly enough (and there is never any oddity on this blog, is there?), I think it fits. Strictly Bizarro-speaking, of course. Allow me to give you the background story.

About a week ago, I was having an ant problem. First, I damn-near consumed two of their curled dead bodies. That, in a word, sucked. The two voyagers had taken up residence in my coffee and then bit it, kicked the proverbial bucket, once in my mug and another time in my travel coffee sippy cuppy. I determined to quash the rebellion sooner rather than later, so I ventured to the local cookie-cutter pharmacy and I purchased a four-pack of Raid ant-traps. The box read: "POISON THEM AND WATCH THEM CRAWL BACK TO THEIR NEST TO DIE!" Amaze your friends! Be the cool kid on the block! Yeah.

Well, to jump forward in time, the traps seem to be working. Oddly enough, another thing that seemed to have worked is that I took a washcloth and hot water to my Mr. Coffee and I scraped and dabbed away the sweet-smelling sugar residue that was on the underside of the magical coffee dispenser. No more ants! Who'da thunk it?!

And, now, to slam back to the fabled Day of the Ant-Trap Purchase, I read the instructions and placed the four traps at strategic locations: two on the countertop that houses the Nectar Machine, one in a cupboard and the last one on top of the toaster-oven. While I was placing the trap on the toaster-oven, I felt a sticky tug on my right index finger and that whisper-velcro sound that can only be the tearing of a spider's complex web. (I know, I know. Time to push away from the computer and clean my house. Wha?) Instictively, I jerked my hand back from the toaster-oven/cupboard junction and rubbed the back of my hand on the wall next to the sink. It had been, indeed, the web of a spider, and said spider was now lollygagging on his web, swaying in the breeze of my sharp exhalation of breath, his hammock stretched from the yellow-tiled wall to the ceramic countertop.

I stepped back and surveyed the sitch-ee-aye-shun. The spider hung, still. Is he dead? I wondered. I poked a tentative finger at the base of his web and--lickety-split--he scrabbled higher up. Okay. Decision-time. Do I kill him? I thought about that for about two seconds. "Kill him? Why?" I asked myself. "What the hell is he doing to me?" Another option--perhaps more popular--would be to lift him and his web, yea like the Hand of God, and take his eight-legged ass outside, let him take his chances in the wild jungles of Royal Oak, Michigan. In an altruistic burst of passion for all of God's creatures, I decided to let him stay where he was, a decision that, honestly, left me imagining myself as Saint Francis of Assisi.

Oh! Look at how kind Adam is! He doesn't even kill a nasty old spider! Oh! What a saint!

Anyway. Gonzalez, it is. I have never--never--seen a more inanimate arachnid. Every time I glance over at him, whether it be when I am brewin' up some ant-free java or washing the two-day-old dishes, my boy Gonzalez is just hanging out, statuesque (not Mansfieldian, unfortunately), apparently at peace with himself and his lot in life. If food comes his way, cool. If not, cool.

The Zen of Gonzalez.

It must be nice to be a spider.

Sunday, June 24, 2007


A good walk spoiled. So said Mark Twain of golf. You know, I tend to agree. I am completely inept at the game, it appears. I played 18 holes today with a couple of buddies--they were downing the brews and I was sipping my Sprite--and I ended up shooting a 121. Palendromically, that's a good score. Unfortunately, golf is not a sport that awards points for quirky linguistic patterns. "Madam I'm Adam" won't win me any tournaments, unfortunately.

We rented those electrical golf carts for the round and, though the cart had a "roof," I still ended up burning the shit out of the top of my head. Though it was entirely by design--I wanted color on my head--I think I'm going to have to avoid the razor on top of my head for a few days. Hey, taking showers will be painful enough! So...for the next few days, I may have to do my best to channel Pig Pen from the "Peanuts." I shall walk about town, my cartoon smell-waves preceding both me and my reputation.

One thing of note--beyond my horrendous score--took place during the round. My friend was driving the golf cart, a few beers in, and he shot across the green, trying to yank the pin out of the hole, before careening down the bumpy path towards the 18th tee, his buddy's cart his target. Wham! He hit it hard. Which is entirely understandable, considering he hadn't even attempted to brake.

A man on a nearby green decided to get all tough in front of his boy: "Hey, buddy," he said. "What the hell are you doing? That's my cart."

My friend turned around and looked at him. "Your cart? I thought it was Doug's cart."

The man advanced to about 25 yards from us. Even the birds had stopped chirping. The tension was greasy. "No, it's mine. This is my club. Those carts cost about $6000. Do it again," he warned, his chest puffing out like that of a blowfish. "Do it in front of me."

Tough Guy Alert!

My friend looked bemused. "Nothing happened to it. I didn't know that it was your course. It's fine," he said.

The man on the green wasn't placated. "Do it again and I'll have you kicked off this course."

"We're on the 18th hole," my friend mumbled.

The man stood and stared. "What's that?"

"Nothing. The cart's fine. Don't worry about it."

There had been a bit more bravado and bluster and then the man on the green had gathered up his mute son and they had gotten into their little cart and sputtered off, sparing a Look of Death towards my two friends and me. I distinctly felt a warm slide of poop puddle in my SockAndal. I was that terrified. What would have happened if the big tough guy had made good on his threat of --perhaps--a physical confrontation? One potbellied man in his late-40s against three men in their 30s? It would have been a disaster! We would have run home with our tails between our legs, I tell ya!

Once the dude had motored off, it seemed as though my friends found more of their tongues. They berated him and said things like they would have loved to see him try...things like that. Typical fightin' words.

Here's where I stood (and stand) on the situation: Golf is supposed to be a genteel game. It has been a rich-man's game and, though that is bad in its own right, there are certain things that are expected of a golfer. Things like repairing divots and ball-marks and raking the traps after one shoots from the sand. Also included in that list should be basics like not pissing on the fairway and not ramming, pell-mell, into the back of another golf cart.

My friend didn't seem to understand that. "Fucking gentlemen's game," he sneered. "I paid my forty bucks for this shitty golf course. Why does it matter what I do? People should mind their own business. This wasn't his cart, anyway. What the hell was he talking about? And who gives a shit if I take a leak in public? You don't like it, don't look!"

"Well," I said, "that one guy who told you that there was a bathroom right over there was playing with his woman. Maybe he didn't want her seeing that."

"Elitists," he reiterated.

He is my friend, sure. But sometimes he gets a thought in his head and it's like trying to pull Excalibur out of the motherfucking rock to get him to see another side of the situation. I was slightly--not too much, but slightly--embarrassed by his actions. I was always brought up to have respect for the sport. That's not too crazy, is it?

That being said, the guy who was acting like a tough mofo? Please. Save the words. Unless you're willing to back them up, don't advance on a situation like you're Rocky-fricking-Balboa.

Saturday, June 23, 2007


Who determines that a table should be a table?

Who was the first person to call a mug a mug? And why? How does mug mean something from which one can drink muddy java, yet also mean to waylay and assault with an intent to rob? Additionally, why does mug mean, informally, the human face or a grimace? Why is this thing upon which these little black "letters" march known to many as a monitor? At what point in time did someone say, "Let's not call this glass-thing a glass-thing. Let's, instead, call it a monitor." Don't you think that they would have originally gotten confused? For instance, don't you think that, in the early days of Monitordom, Sam in Accounting would ask, his brow furrowed, "Elliot, do you mean monitor as a verb or monitor as a noun?" And don't you think that Elliot (what the hell is the origin of that name, by the way) would snap back, somewhat heatedly, "Sam, you dumb poll-scratcher, haven't you ever heard of context?" And don't you think that Sam, through no fault of his own, of course, would answer, "Context? Is that the negative text? Or is that just a new automobile from that island near Asia?"

Salient questions, all. It makes you think, I think. It makes you think of just how much we, as human beans, take for granted.

We think, therefore it is.

For the most part (and I say this with a wink) I think that babies are bunched-up looking beets, all megalomaniacal and needy. They can't walk, they can't catch a Frisbee--hell, they can't even tie their shoes. To make matters worse, they don't even know what a fucking shoe is. For all they know, a shoe could be a tall building or something that you "climb into" and tell the "driver" to "take me to Fifth and Hench." But, yeah, guess I have a grudging respect for the "me"nions in that they soak up this shit like a Brawny paper towel soaking up a spill from a mug of java. Huh? How is that possible? What the hell did I just say? Did I just oh!pine! that little red beets absorb defecation as if they were multi-layered sheets of super-thin would absorbing a disaster from a grimace of an island of Indonesia seperated from Borneo by the Java Sea, an appendage of the Pacific? Passed, the Excedrin. It's morphine-drip thyme.

Can ewe imagine trying to learn this shit anew? Who knew? Exactly. Who knew is not anew, though they are the same amount of syllables and sound alike and are seperated by a mere four "letters." Who the hell determined that this--"k"--is a letter, surrounded by marx of quotation? Was it the Phoenicians? Were they the bastards? Was it the ancient Greeks, after they pulled out of a little boy long enough to get down to brass tax? Tax? Or tacks? Argh!

Who the hell says that a circle is a circle? And why the hell is a square a square? I can--almost--understand why a triangle is a triangle (it has three angles) but how, by the dosey-doe of a couple of "letters," can we go from Geometry to Metaphysics? Angles are angels and cherubs sound like spareribs. But! Have you ever heard pork ribs with most of the meat trimmed off talk? Not me. I haven't. Nor have I heard them sing, like cherubs might. While I'm discussing this, how--eggsactly--does Peugot sound?

Puck this. I'm off to drink a sprite. Mischeivously.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

My man-tits are disappearing. My gut is not feeling so, uh, in bloom. I have been making it a point to do something active every day, be it basketball, tennis, disc golf, walking el perro Luis, hitting the weights, or self-loving myself into a sweaty coma-like state. (That last part was a joke: I never pass out.) ;-)

I am also trying to eat better. Fuck the hamburgers from Wendy's or McDonald's or Burger Chef. I read somewhere, once, that there are around 200 cows in one Big Mac. Not the whole cow, you understand--that would be one huge motherfucking Big Mac!--but, rather, parts of around 200 bovines in una hamburguesa poquita. Um. Talk about over-processed! So, yeah, I've been trying to eat healthier. cream with chocolate syrup after a big-ass salad? There seems to be a conflict of interest, there. But...maybe not.

If you'll look to your right--my left--you'll notice that there is a snapshot of a salad. The salad is inundated with the yellowish-gray and bright white goodness of three hard-boiled eggs. Also included in the masterpiece are: a tomato, some slices of onion, some shreds of carrot, and an avocado. I topped the shebang with Gorgonzola salad dressing and a shitload of black pepper. All I can say is, "Mm-mm, good."

I'd like to say that I was spurred into action by the declining health of some of those close to me, but, unfortunately, I think it has more to do with me being as narcissistic as a mirror. But, whatever. If I get healthier, then motivations be damned!

[Here is an interesting--to me, at least--side note: I looked up "narcissistic" in my handy dictionary because I hate it when I mispell (LOLz! English major humor!) when I write. Hold on. That's not the interesting part. No, RATHER (that's for you, Meliss) the interesting part was what I found in the dictionary. There was no listing for "narcissistic," but there was a listing for the root of the word, "Narcissus." Here is where it gets interesting. He was a character in Greek mythology, of course, but what I found interesting was that when he "fell in love with his image in the pool of water," he didn't fall in and die, but RATHER (another bomb, Meliss) he was transformed into a flower. I guess I was way off-base. I'd always thought that he'd fallen in to the pond and drown. You learn something new everyday (one last shot, sis). Amazing.]

Sunday, June 17, 2007


How's this for disgusting? In my ever-love for all things coffee, I have just--three minutes ago--reached a new "low." While I was enjoying a fresh cup of java, I noticed that there was something in my mouth that wasn't quite right. I got up from my chair and strode purposefully to the bathroom, whereupon I released the liquid of my mouth into the yellow waters of the toilet bowl. The contents of the bowl and the contents of my mouth combined to make a nice, pleasing, golden-brown hue. And, in a display of curdled death that would have made Hank Mancini proud, I saw this: A dead ant.

Dead ant, dead ant, deadantdeadantdeadantdeadant...deaddeaddeaddead ANT.

I poured the rest of the coffee out and got myself a new cup. I will not be cowed! (However, in the future, if I see ripples in a cup of joe that really shouldn't be there, I'll do my best Sherlock Holmes, put on a tweed cap and a monocle, and do some investigating.) :-\

Saturday, June 16, 2007


I have been granted special privileges to blog, in case you were wondering where the hell I have been. Well, I'll tell you--if They'll let me. (They have a habit of censoring what I write, so I'm never really sure how much of what I write gets to the Outside.)
I am--and, for about 7 days, have been--in Blogging Purgatory. The walls here are industrial green--kind of a light yellowish-sea foam color--and there are no windows of which I am aware. The clock is fuzzy, for the lack of a better word. Every time I try to focus on it to see what time it is, to get a better grasp of the finality of my perdicament, the numbers shift. It could be three in the morning, it could be three in the afternoon...hell, it could be fifteen trillion o'clock in the Ne'er World, for all I know. That is the way They want it. They want to keep me confused and under Their thumb.

It is what it is. But I yearn to be free of these Chains.

Their allowing me to press keyboard squares is actually pretty uncharacteristic, truth be told. They usually just make me watch the battered black-and-white Zenith in the living room--no writing is allowed. The TV plays scratchy versions of "The 700 Club" over and over and over again, all insincere white grins and polyester suits; They play it on a continuous loop.

Here, in Blogger's Purgatory, there are no stars. Out here, we is stoned, immaculate. See? That's all that I can do. I am bound by Chains of Uncreativity. All I am able to do is type nonsense, or rip off dead rock stars from the '60s, maaaaaannnn.

I have included a picture that I surreptitiously shot of one of the guards. He stands/sits at the top of the stairs and looks down upon me, emotionlessly, but his gaze scalds me, nonetheless. Every time that I think I might be devising a way to break the Chains of Banality, his gaze cuts through my skin, through my skull, and into my brain, whereupon it excises, laser-like, any and every germ of creative thought.

I stare, now, at these puke-green walls and I wish for days of yore. Days in which I could come up with a legitimate (or even not so legitimate) topic to post. A topic like "What I Did on My Summer Vacation" or "Why I named Lou, Lou" or "The Weather Here in Michigan Sure is Crazy, Huh?". I am in Blogger's Purgatory, otherwise known as Writers' Block 101.

Break out the plot-wheel. It's time to roll up the proverbial shirtsleeves and get to crackin'. Starting righ--Shit! I hear Them coming! Go on! Leave me! I will find you! And, if I don't, tell Peggy Sue tha

Monday, June 11, 2007


So. I was sitting in my work van, in an apartment building parking lot, enjoying the shade and reading a newspaper. My quota for the day more than filled, I determined to kick back--as they say--and put my feet up and wait for the end of the day. (Exciting, I know.) As I was reading about more deaths in Iraq, I heard a car pull up, sputtering, next to me. The driver killed the engine. I heard a door open and shut.

You ever get that feeling in which you know that someone is about to engage you conversation? Kind of like a pregnant pause, like a should-I-shouldn't-I-type of internal decision? Bingo. I sighed and turned the page to the Op-Ed section. I was staring blankly at a cartoon of Toyota executives throwing around Ford catchphrases when the person came to the side of my van.

"Do you live here?" a voice asked at my shoulder. It was a man's voice, roughened with cigarettes, and it seemed somewhat-confrontational.

I folded the newspaper and set it in my lap and I turned to the window. A 30s-ish guy in a black T-shirt and reflective sunglasses, stood there, his shoulders kind of bunched in an aggressive manner. "Huh?" I asked.

"I said do you live here," he said. He backed away momentarily and studied the side of the van which read, in big green and blue letters (accompanied with a green-blue swoosh) CONSUMERS ENERGY. He walked back to the window. "I haven't seen you around here, before."

"Um, no," I said, mirroring his animosity. "I don't live here." I forced a slanted smile. "Just, you know, sitting in the shade and reading the paper. Why? Should I not be sitting here?"

He seemed puzzled. "I mean, the van looks like one that is around here all the time. I think they live here. Why don't you just go to a park to sit in the shade and read a newspaper?"

Crickets chirped.

I sighed. I said, "If it's really that big of a problem, no big deal, I can push on."

He held his hands up. "Oh! No, don't worry about it. I guess I just thought that you might have lived here. A lot of kids hang out in the parking lot." He gestured over at his car, a late-model Buick Skylark, replete with quarter-panel rust and a Harley-Davidson sticker on the bumper. "I just don't want people messin' with my car."

I blinked.

"Go ahead and sit there," he said. "Take a break. Enjoy the paper."

Thank you, sir, I was thinking. 'Tis very gracious of you, sir, to allow me to relax for a minute or five in your parking lot, in the corner, under a tree, away from any and all cars--except for yours, which you chose to park two spaces away from my van. I am humbled by your magnanimity. You are a peach, a king, to grant me this special privilege of reading a newspaper in your apartment building parking lot.

"Just watch out for my hooptey," he said, gesturing towards the Skylark. He pasted a grin to his mug and ambled away.

"Oh," I said. "Don't worry about that, man."

Wednesday, June 06, 2007


I am going to the Tigers game on Sunday. They'll be playing the New York Metropolitans, otherwise known as the New York Mets. Em-Ee-Tee-Es! Mets! Mets! Mets! Or...something along those lines. I haven't checked the box-scores lately--haven't done that, actually, since I was 14 and was playing Strat-O-Matic, the baseball geek's Holy Grail--but, as far as I know, the Mets are doing pretty well, like, second or first in the National League. The Tigers are doing all right--3 1/2 back of Cleveland--and I believe that they'll have a rookie pitching: Andrew Miller. Hopefully, he pitches well and the Tigers win. Otherwise, I may have to go ballistic on their asses. I PAID GOOD MONEY FOR THIS TICKET AND YOU HAVE THE UNMITIGATED GALL TO LOSE?!
Naw. I'll play it cool. I'll simply mutter, in the general direction of the field, "I don't know you anymore. You're dead to me. Do you hear me?" At this point, I'll turn directly to the field and raise my arms, stretch 'em to the heavens: "DO. YOU. HEAR. ME?!"

On a related note, Pat Benetar was right: Love is a battlefield. But here are words written with the utmost sagacity: Hindsight is 20/20. Do you ever wish you could pull a Superman and spin the globe around, all opposite-like? Yeah, me either. Was just wondering, is all.

On a--slightly-more--related note, by the time you read this, I will have gone six months without drinking "real" beer [I had three O'Doul's--shoot me; my sponsor wanted to.]. Six months is equal to around 180 days, give or take a 24-hour-er. That factors to 432o hours and 259,200 minutes of stone-cold sobriety. This is heavily taxing--believe you, me. Thus, as celebration, any and all cases of Wild Irish Rose can be--and should be--forwarded to Louie in Royal Oak, care of Adam. Thanks, and keep reaching for those stars; eventually you may be lucky enough to vaporize.

Friday, June 01, 2007


The Sugary One, a woman who is just as comfortable hollering along to Tupac as she is changing a tire or battering an asshole-ish Little League coach, has tagged me to answer some questions. I feel it is my civic duty, here in CyberLand, to do just that. So.
1. What was I doing 10 years ago? In June, ten years ago, I would have been 24. I was working as a manager at a pizza place (Hungry Howie's, not to be confused with Hungry Hippos) and I was finishing up my college edumuhcation; my commencement ceremony happened to be on the same damned day that the Red Wings won the Stanley Cup, so I missed out on all the debauchery in downtown Royal Oak, said debauchery including alcohol being consumed in copious quantities and young women "popping" their tops. Friggin' higher education....

2. What was I doing 1 year ago? One year ago--if my math is correct--I would have been 33, and I was doing pretty much--save for one very salient variable--what I'm doing now: I was working at Consumers Energy, the gas company, and wondering how in the hell I ended up working at a place, with a college degree, that I could have been working at straight outta high school. A year ago, I was probably wondering just how the hell I had been born without an Ambition gene. The one major difference? Last year I was ingesting large amounts of the Devil's Piss, also known as beer, spirits, booze, liquor, wine--anything with alcohol in it. Today, June 1st, I am six days shy of six months sobriety, a fact of which I am pretty proud.

3. Five snacks I enjoy: I love Chocolate Moosetracks ice cream; I love it more with Magic Shell and Reddi Whip. I am a huge fan of roasted garlic hummous on toasted pita bread. Peanut butter toast kicks ass. Would you consider hard-boiled eggs a snack? I do, provided they are laden with black pepper and a squack of salt. Microwave popcorn with parmasean cheese is also a favorite of mine.

4. Five songs to which I know all the lyrics: I am sad to say that I really don't know--by heart--the lyrics to any songs. I reckon I could belt out "Frosty the Snowman" if I had to and "You're a Grand Old Flag." Other than that, I'm stumped. I am, however, quite skilled at kinda sorta maybe sounding like I might know the song's lyrics...but only if it's playing and only if I can hear it. So I guess that doesn't count.

5. Five things I would do if I were a millionaire: Well, a million dollars doesn't go as far as it used to. Just ask Doctor Evil. But if I had a million dollars, I wouldn't have to eat Kraft macaroni and cheese anymore. Wait a minute. What am I talking about? I'd still eat it; I'd just eat more of it. (I can't believe that I am quoting Barenaked Ladies. Somebody shoot me, please, before I start rambling about my old apartment.) But, to answer the question, I would pay off my fucking credit card bills--and give the banks a big middle finger when I did--and I'd buy a Rolls Royce and Youngston, Ohio. Just for the hell of it. Because I could. Two more things.... I would help my family with some of their bills and buy myself some new clothes. (The loincloths I wear...they're so 1950s.)

6. Five Bad Habits: I smoke, I don't get enough exercise, I watch too much porn, I don't follow through on my dreams and I tend to be pessimistic.

7. Five things I like doing: Smoking, lounging about, introducing the Monkey Bishop to Miss Michigan, procrastinating and wallowing in self-pity. =o)

8. Five things I would never wear again: I would never wear a jockstrap ever again--they chafe--I would never wear a condom twice, I would never roll my jean legs up and in like I used to do in eighth grade, back in 1987, I wouldn't be caught dead with a combover (does that count? yeah, people can wear a hairstyle--it says so in the MLA Handbook), and, if I were a woman, I would not wear a navel-baring half-shirt twice if I didn't have the navel to bare, once. Huh?

9. Five favorite toys: Do sex toys count? Because I don't have any. (Unless you count a studded cock ring. Ba-da-bing! Just joking. No, I'm not. Yes, I am?) Um, favorite toys.... I really enjoy my Playstation 2. Basketballs are pleasureable to me. I use my digital camera like a toy. That's three.... Rollerblades? Sure, Rollerblades. And a hockey stick. I've come to a conclusion: I don't play nearly enough. Playing keeps you young, don'tcha know.

I've come to another conclusion: I'm somewhat boring. Time to pull a Madonna and start sashaying about in a bullet bra. There's nothing boring about that! What about you, Sylvia, Missy, and Drea? What makes you kidz tick?


Dude. This is just unfair. Lebron James. Unfair. People should not be allowed to be empowered with Playstation abilities when the rest of the players have to slog about in the taffy of human mortality. There ought to be a law.

Double-overtime between the Pistons and the Cavs. Lebron played 51 minutes and scored 48 points and had his usual collection of rebounds and assists. To finish the game, he scored 29 out of Cleveland's 30 final points. Um. Yeah. Every time he threw up an off-balance jump shot, I was thinking to myself, Okay, this one isn't going in. He can't keep hitting these shots, can he? He could. He did.

I am truly amazed that this guy has been able to live up the hype that has surrounded him since he was a player at the small Catholic high school in Ohio. No one can live up to that kind of hype, can they? He can. He does.

Every time the Pistons threw something at him, he matched it. Every punch had a counterpunch. I hate the result but, I have to say, this is the best game I have ever seen and, assuredly, the best single player's performance I have ever seen, Michael Jordan's 63-point game notwithstanding.

Another thing that amazes me is that Lebron James has, for all intents and purposes, put his team on his shoulders and is poised to take them to the Promised Land. I know, I know: Cliche-City. But I write it because it is, metaphorically, true. Who else could lead this collection of schlubs to the heights to which they have climbed? The only other player--and this is blasphemous, so cover your eyes if you're easily offended--is M.J., Michael Jordan.

Simply amazing performance. My hat is, reluctantly, off to "King" James. The bastard.