Your pal Bone, a camel, the grim reaper, and Dr. Phil.

Well, fuck you too!!

I opened up my lunch consisting of sweet and sour chicken and noticed that one piece looked suspiciously like an obscene hand gesture. It was as if I was being flipped the bird by the bird that became the sweet and sour chicken.



And when the days of worry and weeks of work are intertwined, it's all over.

Thoughts for Bloggy Jr. on his 8th Birthday

Dear Bloggy Jr.,

Today is your 8th birthday dude!! Happy Birthday!!

I know, I know, I talked to you on the phone this morning at like 6:40am and told you then, and yeah, yeah, I know we already had the discussion where you pointed out, “Technically, Dad, it’s not until 5:12 this evening…when I was ACTUALLY born.” I defended myself, “Yeah, but it is THE day, isn’t it? Come on, you know how I love to say it early!! Happy birthday!!”

“Well, ok… … … Even though I wasn’t born until 5:12 P.M.”

“GAH!”

I heard the big sneaky smile in your voice, “Ok, Daddy, thank you Daddy!”

You’re such a funny guy. I love that you are so smart and quick-witted and can make me laugh. I love the long conversations we have about anything and everything. I love that the first thing you wanted to do when you woke up on the morning of your birthday party was to read. I love that while we were driving back to town, after having tons of birthday fun, that you were learning you how to use a Palm computer while you were in the back seat. I love it that you were able to take all of those detailed instructions I gave and just followed right along, while I drove.

You sir, are one cool dude. Could I be more proud of you? Nope. Could I love you any more than I do? Nope. Would I change a single thing about you if I had all the power in the Universe? Nope.

And as I get a bit teary as I type this, please know that I am the luckiest daddy in the world for having you as my son. It is a HUGE honor. (Thank you, God.)

In closing, I just wanna say, “Let the hugging, squishing, mashing, smooching begin!! And you better be SO glad I never built that Butt Whipping Machine!!”

Love ya son,
Daddy

Giddy up, Gideons!!

When I was much younger, I had a fucked up bird's nest of tattered hair--more bushy than long, but long enough to get the occasional "Get a haircut!" yelled from someone in a car who apparently did not have the spine to take up the conversation in a more direct manner. When you're 6'4"-ish, have a fucked up mass of hair, wear a lot of black clothing including obnoxious t-shirts, you tend to stand out in the crowd in this town, especially circa 1992.

This theory proved true when I re-crossed the path of my first college advisor five-ish years after the fact. The first phrase out of his mouth was some kind of variation of "Half Ass Monkey Boy", which is a song by the amazing Mother Love Bone and was lovingly slapped upon a t-shirt many moons ago. I find it rather odd and yet quite cool that he would remember the shirt and who wouldn't want to be associated with such a classy shirt? So at least one person took notice of some jackass wandering around aimlessly wearing a Mother Love Bone shirt. What is perhaps not so good is that this person is a psychology instructor whose teaching repertoire includes Abnormal Psychology. However, this psychology dude is definitely more observant than the Gideons, which is the whole point in this crapola. Yes, there is a point and yes, it is the Gideons.

There was a day long, long ago in a galaxy not so far away in the badlands of Kentucky, where I went about my day of piddling around in the TV studio*. On Gideon Day, it was business as usual as a much younger and not quite as bitter Bone Machine. With my appearance, either the Gideons thought I was in deep need of religious help (and they were probably right), they got paid by the book, or they got so into Bible distribution mode that they didn't notice that they were offering another Bible to the same dude as he went to the vending machines, went to spring a leak, went to wander aimlessly, etc. By the end of the day, I'd accumulated 8-10 Bibles. It could have escalated into competitive sport had it not been steeped in evil and equaled eternal damnation.

So yesterday was Gideon Day '06 and as an much older, much angrier, much more bitter and less aerodynamic Bone Machine, I found it somewhat disheartening to walk into the workplace and automatically be handed a Bible right out of the chute. I wanted to say "Shit, man, I mean shoot, is there something I should know here? Is the place so incredibly hostile today that the good book is suddenly necessary? If so, should I go home now? When I weathered a tornado warning here on Friday evening, where you guys then?"

But I stifled my inner bastard, accepted their gift (even though I still have one of the '92 models in my backpack), wished them well, walked into the office, re-gifted the gift to the student worker for no apparent reason, and walked into my office to withdraw from it all.

By the end of the day, my oddball sense of humor was flaring up and I was making up insane and largely immoral situations with the Gideons. I imagined walking down the sidewalk and seeing the glee in their eyes as some Hellbound jackass enters the radar, then totally wrecking their mood. "I thought you guys carried tambourines. What?!?!?!?! You mean you're not Hare Krishnas? Moonies?

At that point, I'd most likely be on the receiving end of a Gideon ass-kicking and having a Gideon Bible surgically removed from parts unknown. I'm guessing those guys can throw quite a punch and have most likely taken a fair amount of lip from much funnier folks than myself.

Then the ideas went farther off the rails. I wondered how long I would last on the sidewalk if I put on a fancy ass suit and passed out the Satanic Bible or the Koran. I'm guessing my ass would be carted off in a choke hold and a cloud of mace before I passed out book two. Not that I'm affiliated or particularly interested in those faiths (not that there's anything wrong with it), I just figure folks would be quite as receptive to those books on the same sidewalk here in Shit Town.

I decided that it was best to forgo the ass-kicking and play it cool. I snagged a replacement copy of the Gideon Bible from the couch outside the office figuring that it would reduce the early evening sales pitch to nihil seeing that I already had a copy. I gathered my stuff and clutched the book along with my stack of CD's and made my way to the car. They were about to pounce until I showed them my Bible and again wished them well and that is where we parted company.



===========Footnotes and shit==========
*--In the early 90s, I worked for the TV studio of the local community college. It was basically slave labor schlepping equipment to and fro or sitting in the studio throwing out psychotic ideas for TV viewing that had absolutely no chance of making it on the air. Although I was essentially a jackass of all trades, one of my main jobs was making incredibly basic animations on the Video Toaster. For instance, one of those not ready for Owensboro's puritanical airwaves was a generic station ID for the winter months, which featured a snowman. It sounds innocent enough until I mention that I also added a dog lifting its leg on said snowman. I guess basic biology is what got the pee-pee ID poo-pooed.

Muted Horn

So like we have a "transcriptionist here to do some work for" the boss's boss. While there is a nice office that is available just two doors down from the boss's boss, where the transcriptionist would be quite comfy...she's working at the front desk.

I'm not sure if her headphones don't work, or if she doesn't have any headphones. Either way, I can hear the recording she's listening to through the wall and a closet. It might not be so bad if I could understand the speaker, he might even be educational. But, she's got the speed reduced so that it sounds like a horn during a musical performance where the musician attempts to make the horn talk with a mute.

Wha, wha, wha wha wha wahhhhh.

I started go out there and dance around the subject and mention Linus and Lucy to her, but I was afraid she would think Torvalds and Lawless due to her young age.

I Love Bloggy, Jr.

The final product: The Rolling Pin Bakery can't be beat. Mmmmm!












A very excited boy: He's playing his new "Soaked!" expansion pack for Roller Coaster Tycoon 3 (from me) and sporting a mighty fine AC/DC shirt (from Bone) and a darn fine grin I might add.










Ready for bed: After a long day of celebration, here's my birthday boy (in his YPS!! nightshirt) showing off his Toys R' Us crown and balloon. We also managed to pick up a Bulls-eye Ball game while we were there.














It's tradition: Every visit to CEC requires a photo-op with the mouse.










All-in-all, I'd say it went very well.

Happy Birthday Bloggy Jr.!! YOU ROCK!!

Hey, Nanner!? – Or – A One-Sided Discussion With A Friend From The Past; A Companion Piece

Hey, Nanner, remember that time in Biology class in high school? That was the class we had “Stinky” for a teacher. You know, the guy that had B.O. like nobody’s bidness and none of us wanted to ask him a question because he’d come stand behind you and put a hand on your desk to the left of you, and a hand on your desk to the right of you, with his pits nose-level, until he felt you were clear on the subject of frog intestines? Yeah, that’s the one!

Remember how we always sat in the back, while you lightly objected, what with your Boy Scout ways and all? Yeah, and remember how that now NASCAR “Hero” sat back there with us? Ha! I’ll never forget the day he and the Former Furniture Maker Turned State Trooper glanced over at us with that “we’re gonna beat you scrawny boys into the ground as soon as we can figger which way is down!”

I didn’t want them to know that I was scared shitless, but I wanted to be left alone. Remember what I did next? While they were both looking me dead in the eye, I slowly leaned down and scraped my index finger along the corner (where the wall met the floor) and collected a nasty layer of school-filth. I then slowly rose up and sat straight in the seat. I first showed you the grime, and then slowly turned my finger back towards the Jackass Duo and showed them the grime. After I was reassured you three were thoroughly confused, I slowly, slowly stuck my tongue out. I then slowly turned my finger towards my mouth, and slowly wiped my biology-class-grit-covered-finger down the length of my tongue. I can still see the looks in the eyes of those two bastards as they sat straight up with shock, as I closed my mouth and swallowed. Quickly they turned around towards the board and I’m pretty sure they never bothered us again.

I’m also very certain I never licked floor filth again.

Oh! And remember that day in that same class when I had on my black JCPenney version of a London Fog jacket? Remember?! Oh you know, I had those two Chinese Death Stars in my pocket and that pair of brass knuckles. I mentioned to you I was going to sell the knuckles and you wanted to see them. Keeping an eye on professor funk, I reached into my inner pocket and pulled the two-fingered, highly polished, brass knuckles out of my pocket, and slid my hand down (while still inside my jacket) so no one would see what I was up to. Once under the table I produced the knuckles for your closer inspection. I could see it in your eyes, you were not only a classmate, you were a customer.

You nodded in agreement to the price and then slid them back to me, under the table. It was nice and quiet that day, we’d just finished a test or something and were waiting for everyone to finish up. (This did NOT mean we did well on the test, we were just done. Sorry, Swampy.) That’s when I reversed the process and moved my hand under the table, and across my lap, and in behind my keen jacket, out of view. Then simply enough, I dropped the knuckles back into their resting place in my inner jacket pocket.

It’s too bad I wasn’t more alert when being so sly. As it turned out, the hooked handle of the knuckles had grabbed the outer edge of the pocket. That sinking-into-place feeling I got, that made me think the brass weapon was safely in my pocket, was actually just the weight shift as it grabbed the lip of my pocket. The knuckles were actually hanging outside the pocket.

It’s amazing how many biologically-tested heads whip around as the sudden ringing and reverberating blast of brass on concrete and tile echoes in a classroom. Nanner, remember how badly we were not wanting to get caught? We both instinctively looked all around the room as if to find the rowdy lout that would dare disrupt the sanctity of test time! As we did so, I put my foot on the ground and lightly tapped around until I felt the knuckles. I covered them with my foot and then slid my foot, along with the knuckles, into a more natural posture. Doc Stinkman came back there and whispered his dead-sea breath at us with, “What was that?”

Like the Oscar winners we were, we shrugged.



Good talking to you Nanner. Oh, and hey! Whatever happened to that big ass German Shepherd you guys had that guarded that one corner of your kitchen? Damn that dog didn’t like me! What? Oh yeah, I guess you never did really like being called Nanner, did you? Sorry about that, Buh-Nanner, I mean, Tan-Blan, I mean Nan-new Nan-new, I mean…

You Can Toot Your Own Horn, But Your Packaging STILL Sucks!!

Another crappy ass quote of the day.

"If shit were brains, you'd be considered a genius. However, until that occurs, you're just considered shit."

But They’ll Have Donuts...

We never know where a person comes from, what their experiences are, or what makes them who they are today. Many pieces are we that stem from the many lasting experiences that color and tinge.

Despite the shard of coolness that altered my DNA and attitude in my early years, I love my parents. When you’re young, it’s hard, no impossible, to appreciate everything they do for you. “Sacrifices” doesn’t seem to convey all they gave up emotionally & monetarily not to mention the other avenues of personal growth that get stunted once family grows beyond two.

There are lots of stories to tell, but this one stems the parent’s work ethic. Dad worked fulltime at the local natural gas company. He doesn’t like it when I say this, but if you didn’t pay your bill, he was the one that physically turned off the supply. It had to be done, and yet I’m sure it was an impossible chore to turn off the service the provided families’ warmth during the cold winter months. Each day Mom would close the family business, run across town and pick up lunch for two, and return to the store with it. Dad would take his lunch break with her and on a few occasions, they would get to eat it without the disruption of a paying customer. At the end of his shift at the gas company, Dad would return to “the shop” and help Mom close up. Dad did that for 33 years until his retirement with the gas company.

That was five days a week, non-stop, barring one of us snot-producers didn’t need to stay home from school. In comparison to my boy, I was sick a lot. It was a constant source of stress for a caring mother that also had her share of guilt for not minding the store. But those days also served as a bit of a relief as she could spend time with her boy.

But then came Saturdays, for rest. Well, not exactly. Many Saturdays a year were spent at “flea markets”, “gun shows” and “coin shows”. Being the youngest of four, especially during the college years of the older sibs, my Saturdays were spent behind the row of 3 or so long tables displaying our wares. Each type of “show” had its own distinct flavor.

Going to a flea market usually meant early morning drives out in the country to a 4-H Center in Boonville, Indiana. Many a frosted morning, as the sun rose, I would glare at the Bonneville and think Boonville and long to stay home and play. What was likely an hour drive seemed an eternity as Freddy Fender, Buck Owens and Eddie Rabbit sang and I squirmed between boxes and boxes and display cases of coins, coin supplies, coin books, gold jewelry, & toys. Sudden stops and an aluminum framed case with a large glass lid don’t make for smooth riding when you’re skull is in the way, especially if you were in the brown AMC hatchback. Up, over, bang.

The customers at the flea markets were usually friendly and older, with a sprinkling of young married couples with strollers. God the screaming strollers! The smells of old books with hints of mildew and wafts of vegetable soup and pork sandwiches lingered in the heat of that aluminum building like they had nothing better to do. It was really more of a barn, but it did have electricity, bathrooms, a concrete floor, a kitchen in the back and even a stage.

Gun shows and coin shows were along the same lines, but differed from the markets o’ flea. The food wasn’t as good and the people weren’t as friendly. While we went to plenty of gun shows at the 4-H Center, we also took in a fair amount of them at the Owensboro Sports Center. Here we had sweaty hotdogs and sat directly across the aisle from the AC vent. If you were busy, and we often were, the crowd would be between you and the vent, and you were ready to pass out from the heat. If it was slow, you were digging out your jacket. I spent a great deal of my time with my buddies Wes and Steve up in the seating section of this oval-shaped building. Well, until that time I saw the utter and sincere fear in Steve’s eyes as I took too big a step backwards and fell from the very top stop and slid about 4 steps down. I’m not sure if my heart was racing from the fall, or from his concern, but since then, I avoid that section. (Ever notice that the higher you go in a stadium, the fewer handrails you have available?)

I guess the main differences between gun shows and coin shows are these: Most people at a gun show wonder why in the fuck you’re taking up a good 3 tables of GUN AND KNIVES space with coins and jewelry. Most people at a coin show would freak out if you had a large display of Nazi memorabilia proudly on display, but it’s quite common place at a gun show.

As a young pup, I was eager to attend these gigs and “help”. I’m not sure when the fun ran out, but after so many wheeled dolly loads of cardboard 2x2 coin holders, cold crinkle fries, and miniature purple poodles straddling double-barreled shotguns, the excitement isn’t quite there. Your mind focuses less on reading comic books and more on spending the money you’ve just earned. Only so many trips to catch tadpoles at the pond can be used as excuse to stay away from the tables.

But of the many things I learned during those years, most forgotten I suppose, these I retain until this day:

1. Throwing lead fishing weights through the side of an aluminum building draws the type of attention from the owners that you do NOT want. But if you’re inclined to do so, it’s all in the force and angle of the throw. It’s not going to pierce that aluminum unless you do it just right.

2. Throwing Chinese death stars at an upturned picnic table in the city park next to the gun show will provide you with a heated discussion from the park manager and a follow-up visit from a cop that stands at a distance with his hand hovering above his revolver. It’s odd how metal pointed objects end up causing your bowels to come alive.

3. Rubbing a steel pull-tab from an RC can on the microphone outlet can make a racket that sounds EXACTLY like a hunk of ill-meaning bats, ready to swoop and devour a group of gun-buying God-fearing people. If you sit on the stage just right, your leg will cover your hand as you move the tab sporadically over the outlet and cause interference with the PA. If that’s not what a hunk of bats sounds like, then Hollywood has me all mixed up. Men with guns and the need to protect woman and child do not take kindly to hunks of bats.

4. The promise of donuts, even nut-covered long johns, cannot take the place of Saturday Morning cartoons at home.

5. Parents do what they have to, the way they know how, and try as they might, the message may not fully make it home until many years later. But it will make it. Be patient. And persistent.

Some 25 years after the son of a flea marketer surprised me with free comics, I had flashbacks taking me back to the day he dropped the small stack of them on top of what I was reading. I was helping Dad in the shop this past Saturday and a 12 year old girl (a regular customer of Dad’s in “the shop” that is still open to this day) walked in wearing an Elvis and Graceland t-shirt, and little guitar earrings. I talked to her about it for a minute and then snuck out to the car and grabbed my copy of the Hot Damn Tamale Mix CD with the best darn 20 Elvis tunes around. She was very excited when I stuck them in the stack of coins she was buying and told Dad to make sure he got it in her bag before she left.

Play me out, King, its déjà vu all over again.

The art critics have spoken.

Flashback Clickit.

Don't Think Twice, It's Alright (B. Dylan)

It ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
It don't matter, anyhow
An' it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
If you don't know by now
When your rooster crows at the break of dawn
Look out your window and I'll be gone
You're the reason I'm trav'lin' on
Don't think twice, it's all right

It ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
That light I never knowed
An' it ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
I'm on the dark side of the road
Still I wish there was somethin' you would do or say
To try and make me change my mind and stay
We never did too much talkin' anyway
So don't think twice, it's all right

It ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
Like you never did before
It ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
I can't hear you any more
I'm a-thinkin' and a-wond'rin' all the way down the road
I once loved a woman, a child I'm told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don't think twice, it's all right

I'm walkin' down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I'm bound, I can't tell
But goodbye's too good a word, gal
So I'll just say fare thee well
I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right

A Wolf-Whistle for the Cro-Magnon Man

Driving up the road, on my way back to work Friday at lunch, the windows were down, and the sun was shining bright. The breeze was great, the temp was perfect and I was high on poetic postings, a shrimp & pasta lunch and the musical magic of Jeff Lynn & Co. Cruising along, just over the speed limit, heading towards a school zone, I started to slow. Two lanes over, on the sidewalk, I notice hobbling creature. As I got closer, I realized this being wasn’t actually having difficulty walking at all. No, indeed he was strutting. Jeff Lynn explained, “Ooh - my hands were tired, Jokers and fools on either side.”

As I studied Hot Rod, and moved beyond his cadence, I realized this macho stud had shaved his head and was walking with his shirt…in his hand. Oh yes, he was HAWT and as pale as my ass cheeks. So I did the only think I could.

I whistled.

Yes, I whistled the best and loudest “ooh baby!” whistle I could squeak out of these puffy cheeks of mine. So what if he heard?! I wanted him to hear! Better yet, I wanted him to SEE. I wanted him to see that we DON’T want to see his nekkidness strutting around. Who needs a skin-head boy-band wannabe chicken scratchin’ down the sidewalk?

Not me.




Traveling Wilburys, “Heading For The Light”

I've wandered around with nothing more than time on my hands
I was lost in the night with no sight of you
And at times it was so blue and lonely
Heading for the light
Been close to the edge, hanging by my fingernails
I've rolled and I've tumbled through the roses and the thorns
And I couldn't see the sign that warned me, I'm
Heading for the light

(Bridge 1)
Ooh - I didn't see that big black cloud hanging over me
And when the rain came down I was nearly drowned
I didn't know the mess I was in
My shoes are wearing out from walking down this same highway
I don't see nothing new but I feel a lot of change
And I get the strangest feeling, as I'm
Heading for the light

(Bridge 2)
Ooh - my hands were tired
Jokers and fools on either side
But still I kept on till the worst had gone
Now I see the hole I was in
My shoes are wearing out from walking down this same highway
I don't see nothing new but I feel a lot of change
And I get the strangest feeling, as I'm
Heading for the light
I see the sun ahead, I ain't never looking back
All the dreams are coming true as I think of you
Now there's nothing in the way to stop me
Heading for the light
Now there's nothing in the way to stop me
Heading for the light



On the reverse: Friday morning, the entire trip to drop the boy off at school, was driven in DENSE fog. After dropping him off at school, I found myself at the corner of such-n-such where an old man was walking his tiny Yorkie. I barked and, I’m sure it was coincidental, but the man scratched his ear.

How Can You Dry the Glass?

How can you dry the glass
when you're hand is still drippin'?
How can you earn a paycheck
when you’re always up and quittin’?
How can you wipe your ass
when the hole it is still shittin'?

When you look her
right in the eye
It’s easy to see her folks
shoulda been sterilized
All the shame and misery
in that fucked-up paradise
She humps everything in site
even if it’s paralyzed

How can you use that accent
when you’ve never been to Britain?
How can you call it love
when it’s nothing more than hittin’?
How can you say you’re together
if one of you is splittin’?

Look at her standing there
pushing innocence through a stained life
How effortless she makes it seem
behind the back of your wife
She morphs to every circumstance
yet doesn’t give herself a chance
How can we appreciate someone
if we’ve never even met her?

It’s not about the judgment
or whether you’ve been prayin
It’s the quality of life
about which I’m sayin’
The people around you stand firm
despite your swayin’
To actually rely on them
doesn’t involve betrayin’

-Mr. Bloggerific Himself, 09142006

an incomplete list of random shit that pisses me off.

It's the time of year when the illuminated school zone lights indicating a reduced speed zone have completely worn out their welcome. I'm sure these bitches serve a purpose where children walk to, from, and around the area of the road leading to a school. However, the shit's changed and the world has evolved...some. It seems that most kiddies ride the school bus, are dropped off by their parental units (or pimp), or drive themselves to school, which makes the reduced speed bullshit a tad archaic. The majority of the school zones not only have stoplights, but also turn lanes and turn signals to make it easier for folks to get in and out of these shitholes of childhood incarceration. The thing that puts a burr in my saddle about the shit is that everyone seems to slow down and obey the sign that goes blinky-blinky, except for the people actually taking their cherubs to school. I would think those fuckers would be the ones more inclined to slow down and celebrate the precious cargo. Oh, hell no. Sure, there is another rant about this crap in the YPS!! archives and I'm not going to bother to find it for a CLICKIT. Hopefully, no one will remember and this bullshit will seem like new-ish material.

In the past, I've also gone on a rampage about flip-flops, the ultimate fashion faux pas (bellbottoms excluded). I really hate winter, but damned if I'm not looking forward to it just so I won't have to listen to shoes that sound like someone shoved their foot up a duck's ass. If the world needed to see your hooves, God wouldn't have invented socks and sensible shoes to cover that shit up. I'd damn near rather see Bea Arthur's dick than have to deal with a lot of nasty ass feet on perpetual display. Although I will say there are some are quite fetching foots out there, but most border on grotesque.

Is someone missing a truckload of primadonnas? If so, I may have found them for you and I hope like hell there's a reward for it. The past two weeks in the workplace have had more egos and attitude than the backstage primp-fest at the Emmys. One person insists that her classrooms be opened for her (when most folks simply use the office keys without pitching a bitch about it), even going as far as keeping a unlocked/locked ratio for her records. Out of the goodness of my blackened heart, I told her that I would do my absolute best to open the rooms for her but when you're being pulled in three or four different directions at the same time, being someone's doorman is low on the totem pole of priorities. Of course, it's fun to sashay over at a pace that in no way resembles a hurry just to make sure the golden child can be escorted into her room. One might think that this is where the bullshit ends, but one would be wrong. I would tend to think someone who fancies herself so much and has taught school for 27 years (which she apparently wears like a badge) would realize that her fax machine issues might be because someone unplugged the splitter box keeping the phone and fax lines at bay. When I suggested that it might be the problem, she insisted that it was a cell phone charger that someone left behind, because her children "do that all the time." All I will say is that the properly plugging the "cell phone charger" to the crap certainly made the fax machine work like a charm. Assuming that a charm operates in the same way as a fax machine. There are countless other stories of folks acting like douches but we just won't go there, because chances are good that old man Bone would be on that list.

Britney Spears. Why the world seems to rotate, gyrate, and gestate around the actions of this chick, her dude, and their offspring is a fuckin' mystery to me. My TV kicks on each morning to wake me up and the morning news folks are working themselves into a froth about some new baby in the Spears household. The last time I checked, there was still some kind of trouble going on in the Middle East, airplanes dropping out of the not-so-friendly skies, hurricanes slowly getting their freak on and a whole lot of bad shit going down. However, some over-exposed, talent-deprived individual popping out a child is big news? Countless folks conceive and deliver children every hour on the hour. Unless you're in the extended family unit, who gives a shit? Lest anyone think that my burning hatred is only directed at Britney (and Toby Keith), I will add that Jessica Simpson, Paris Hilton, and P. Diddy can piss up a rope, as well.

Just to prove that I'm not a completely negative bitch, I will add that I got to see the Supersuckers at the Phoenix Hill Tavern in lovely Louisville, Kentucky last Saturday and anyone with the opportunity to see them should certainly do so. They're bad ass and any show that opens with a cover of AC/DC's Rock & Roll Singer and includes Thin Lizzy's Cowboy Song is a good time for one and all.


"When I paint, the sea roars. The others splash about in the bath." --Salvador Dali

Another Helpful YPS!! Pub(l)ic Service Announcement

Greetings From Ill-A-Ka-Noize!!

Oh wait, this ain't Illinois! Sorry. But I'm glad CK sent this postcard. The few times I've been to Ill-A-Ka-Noize, I don't remember seeing those those huge ears of corn shooting up next to buildings like that in the photo. This will be a good reminder to us all.

Danger! Large corn ahead.

My advice to you.

Anatomy Of A Birthday Cake - Another Piece

Since his third birthday, I’ve been designing Bloggy Jr.’s birthday cake. I posted details last year of the cake design that keeps on growing year after year. This year I let the boy help for the first time. Not only did I ask him what he’d like on the cake this year, I even let him see it during the design process. In years past he had to wait to see the cake until I picked it up at the bakery.

This weekend we got the last of the design completed and I placed the order for the 5 x 7 photo that will be scanned at the bakery for the cake itself. The current cake image is 26 layers deep.

Bloggy Jr. wanted us both in a rocket this year. In the center you’ll see us in the rocket with a photo we took just this weekend. The lower left photo being projected into deep space contains the 3rd year cake, and the 4th year cake. The lower right satellite is projecting the 5th year cake. The upper right projecting is the 6th year, and the upper left is last year’s cake, year 7.

Since we start birthdays early around here, Happy Birthday Bloggy Jr.!! You are the bestest!! You’re eight years old now and I’m the luckiest daddy in the world!!





Prior bday cake posts:

Part I

Part II

Your Voice Mail Packaging Sucks!!

We have an executive assistant at the work place that sits out in the open. She has no door to close and her desk is right out in plain view. I could not work in this environment. (Hell, I struggle with any environment I’m in as it is.) She’s got no privacy. HOW can she possibly blog in peace being out in the open like that?

The other problem with this assistant is that she seems to not have the ability to recognize a moment of opportunity like some of us.

Each day I walk by her desk when I enter and exit the building. Oh sure, sometimes I mix it up and take an alternate route, but I’m trying to build a pattern here folks. (Something in, say, a floral print sundress.) As I pass, I usually do one of two things:

1. I badmouth country music in any way I can do so without crossing the line of being fired for it. See, not only does she have it playing on her little radio, she also fancies herself as a country (& western) music singer. (Truth be known, she ain’t bad.)
2. I also take the liberty of using a key, my sunglasses, or my finger to get a long and perfect tone from the crystal bowl that adorns her desk. One tiny wrappy-tap-tap and DIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNG! I often get a “thank you” for my efforts.

It’s not a large building we’re in by any means; a single story with maybe 25-30 offices in it. But it’s the central office and there’s a large flow of traffic and communications. This particular assistant gets all the incoming calls when people don’t know who they’re calling for. You know the “press zero” option. Apparently she doesn’t appreciate all those hang ups and unimportant voice mail messages giving her ear sweat because she always listens to her messages with the speakerphone. Have I mentioned how I hate speakerphones? I don’t want to hear MY messages, much less yours.

So today, I decided to act on a moment of opportunity. When I heard her going through the list of messages (and who couldn’t with her damn speakerphone blaring down the hall?) I ran into Office Type’s office and asked her for the extension of the assistant of which I speak. Office Type told me and I closed her door and called the extension from my cell phone.

I left a voice mail similar to the following:

“Uh, yeah. Since I can hear your voice mail ALL the way down the hall I thought I would take this opportunity to point out how evil country music is. So, yeah, uh, everyone? Country music is evil!! Evil, evil, evil!! Clint Black? He’s evil. Toby Keith? Oh man, HE’S eeeeevil. So yeah, Country Music? PLBT!”

new shit

The bastard son of YPS!! has some new shit for you to gyrate your optical orbs across and absorb.

CLICKIT!

Sqrrrl Look Away!! Part II

In no way did I edit this picture. This was sent to me by a good buddy of mine. This is her oldest of two.

Your Pizza Packaging Sucks Like The Man Of Steel When He's In The Mood for L.U.V. LOVE Baby!!

Howdy!!

YPS!! On The Wild Side - - Sqrrrl? Look Away!

This post not Sqrrrl Appropriate. Parental Guidance is suggested.

LTBS (slight return)

a subtle reminder.

The David Letterman show that was taped on Monday featuring Tommy Womack playing in Todd Snider's band will actually air tonight. Check local listings for time and station then kick back and enjoy the goodness.