Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Starbucks & Lawyers

I went into Starbucks tonight for a late night treat. Jeff said that the prices were going up, which could cause me a problem. As between petrol and mocha, I'm inclined to choose a mocha, which means that I might be low on gas more often. Yes, that does not bode well. Moreover, the workers at Starbucks treat me better than the workers at the gas station. I have yet to be yelled at by one Starbucks' employee for talking on a cell phone while filling up with mocha.

Here's my conversation tonight:

SB: You're in a much better mood than you were yesterday morning.

Me: I had a trial starting yesterday and wasn't in a good mood. Sorry.

SB: You're a lawyer?

Me: Yep.

SB: You don't act like a lawyer. I figured you were a teacher.

Me: Thanks for the compliment.

SB: Yeah, lawyers are ... ummm ...

Me: Assholes.

SB: Totally.

Yeah, like totally.

Invasion of the Snakefish

CNN reported the discovery of a monstrous snakefish in some lake in Maryland on CNN's "Science & Space" page; so, I can only assume, without reading the article (the president doesn't read his daily briefings, why should I read the whole article) that the snakefish is from outer space.

The other day, some guy with a pet shop was arrested for possession of snakefish, four of them. I'm thinking that the pet shop owner is most likely an alien. Why would anyone want one of these ... things ... around. It's not really a snake because it can breathe in the water. It's not really a fish because it can crawl around on land for two, three, four days and breathe air.

Further evidence that it is from outer space is the fact that the pesky scientists who caught the thing cannot tell if it is male or female. Or how it got into the lake. Or when it got into the lake. I submit that this is significant evidence of its origin from outer space. In fact, I am of the opinion that snakefish and all other fish are from outer space. The stares I get from the supposedly dead fish as I walk hurriedly by the fish stand at the West Side Market can only be part of some biological wireless surveillance system that beams images to aliens in outer space.

Of course, I could be wrong. The snakefish might have arisen from the ashes of a top secret nukuler blast four-and-a-half years ago just off the shore of the westernmost island, Attu, in the Aleutian archipelago. But only those lunatic conspiracy nuts would believe something like that.

THANK YOU, AMERICA!

bill and i have had this kind of snooty attitude about the reality tv shows. people would ask us if we watched [insert whatever show you want here], and we'd sniff and say "no - don't watch those shows. sniff. it's not like we don't watch a lot of tv. some people could act kind of snooty to us about that. some of our favorite tv shows (you know a bulleted list is coming, don't you?):

Objection Sustained!

I was in trial today. It's a civil -- or uncivil -- case, not a criminal case. The power was out all over town when I got to the court house. Court house was dark. The judge asked if I wanted coffee while it was still warm. Good start to the day.

The judge asked me if I knew what happened. I suspect that someone told her that I was responsible for the black-out last year. I told her that I hadn't done any electrical work recently. The power went back on at about 9:15; so, I was off the hook. We got started late, which isn't unusual. Justice is often delayed; we just had an excuse this time.

After the other side put on the first witness, my client leaned over to me and whispered, "We're doing real good. You made two objections, and she abstained them. He made one objection, and she overruled that. We're ahead."

Aaaaah, ahead on points -- just like in boxing.

We adjourned early. Why? A witness didn't show because of illness. Plus, it's a sunny afternoon.

NOT CRANKY

thanks for all your commiseration with my last post. my moods seem to have leveled off a bit -- but i'm keeping an eye on the situation. yuck. the nuclear melt-downs seem to be better, too.

*****

i am so freaking excited. this is incredibly goofy, i know.

for the first 5 years of our marriage, i was the main breadwinner – college and law school, you know. i felt it was a good investment. it was – and the investment paid off when i was able to be a stay-at-home mom for almost 20 years.

when i went back to work 4 years ago, i threw money into every savings plan and life insurance plan my company had to offer. i didn’t care how painful it would be when i got my paycheck. and it was/is. a couple years ago, i took out a little bit from my savings plan and was able to pay for ONE semester of matt’s tuition. it feels good to be able to take care of some big things all on my own. really, really good.

i hadn’t thought about the cash accumulation fund where i was saving some money in my name AND bill’s in the life insurance program. i was paying more attention to the savings plan. a couple weeks agi, i received the statement in the mail. bill said, “what’s this?” yay! a surprise! HE hadn’t noticed either!

today i faxed the forms to the insurance company to take out all the money! i’ll have to pay taxes on it, i know; but *i* am going to buy a “new” (you know what i mean – it’s not new – just new to him) car to replace the “beast.” ME! mom’s a hero! and if there’s enough left over, maybe a tablet pc for bill. shhhh.

Litter

Porter Road is a residential street. It could be termed a main artery because it carries a lot of traffic between two main roads, but it is one lane wide in each direction and has businesses at only at its north terminus and the intersection to the south in a commercial district.

Why would anyone throw a McDonald's bag out the window of his silver Porsche 911 into someone's front yard? I can't understand doing something like that on the highway or in a commercial district, let alone someone's front yard. What is the back seat for, if not for trash? No back seat? What is the front passenger side floor for, if not for trash?

And it was a "his silver Porsche 911." How do I know? Because when I pulled up next to the car on Center Ridge Road at Crocker, I looked at him. And he looked at me. And I motioned for him to put his passenger window down as I rolled my window down. And he did. Very affable guy, probably willing to give me directions. He wore a multi-colored, striped polo shirt -- I hate multi-colored, striped polo shirts -- for his round of golf, I imagine. Smiling, obviously very proud of his new, shiny, silver Porsche 911, which has been bastardized, what with the styling that has made it into more of a small metallic lump than a distinctive motor car (but why get into a philosophical dispute with him on the de-evolution of the distinctive 911 when all I'm driving is a white VW Beetle with a black "The Who" sticker on the back bumper?), he asked, "What can I do for you?"

"Dude, can you please go back and pick up that McDonald's bag?"

"F-f-f-fuck you," he said nastily; and he sped off, which would have been much more impressive if he didn't have automatic traction control and would have burned rubber. Now that would have been totally awesome and made a better story.

Saturday Yard Work

I thought I'd do the list thing and really, really impress people who do lists, like Stacey, the queen of list-makers. Saturday, the J-Dogg cut the grass for the first time this Spring. I did other stuff:

1. Dug out bush by the garage which I have hated for the past 3 years.

2. Trimmed the evergreen tree/bush/plant on the other side of the garage.

3. Planted ornamental grass where the bush by the garage used to be.

4. Trimmed this spiky plant's dead stuff off and ended up with one skinny trunk thingy going up and branching out; so I ripped what remained out of the ground.

5. Trimmed the smelly evergreen in the front of the garage by the walk that the dogs run around and replaced the mulch around the base.

6. Planted ornamental grass by the mailbox.

7. Planted ornamental grass in the area by the tree in the front yard and weeded that mulched area.

8. Drank some tart cherry juice.

9. Forgot to put my leather gloves back on.

10. Trimmed two of the low bushes with the electric hedge trimmer.

11. Cut back a few branches of the plant next to the steps by the front door, of which I can't recall the name; but it blooms at the weirdest times -- like the middle of winter if it gets above 40 F.

12. Trimmed two bushes in front of the windows in the front of the house with the electric hedge trimmer.

13. Cut back the azalea.

14. Trimmed the tip of my left index finger with the electric hedge trimmer.

15. Cut down a pussy willow type leggy tree affair with my circular saw.

16. Taped the tip of my left index finger with duct tape so it wouldn't fall off.

17. Raked up all the branches and stuff, shoveled it into the wheel barrow, and made five trips to the back forty to dump it.

18. Let Scout lick the blood off my hand and duct tape.

19. Changed the light fixture above the front door -- you know, electrical stuff. Is there a warning sign on aluminum ladders about light fixtures and aluminum step ladders not being compatible?

20. Unlike after the stove affair, no black-out of the eastern half of the United States and Canada was reported.

MORE CRANKY SHIT

warning to men: you SHOULD read this, but you won’t want to.

i’ll be 50 in a couple of months. wtf? me? yup. and i know it’s true, cuz for the past month, the following (oh yeah a bulleted list is coming up) have been my constant companions:

fuckin’ shit.

i THINK i’m on a very slow upswing. if we – bill, jax, and i – are lucky, the good hours will happen when i’m home.

this might not be a good time to piss me off. it will pass. in a couple months, i’ll be back to my normal easy-going, rational, non-emotional, non-reactive sweet stacey.

i heard that.

Peeps

I spotted them on the close-out table -- Peep poseurs. Of course, the Frankford Candy & Chocolate Co., Philadelphia, PA, wants us to believe its "Marshmallow Chickies" is not a rip-off of the staple of the Easter candy onslaught, Peeps, particularly, the classic yellow Peep; so, Frankford puts its "Marshmallow Chickies" in a little-bitty bucket, a "Resealable Stay-Fresh Tub." Everyone in their right mind knows that the longer Peeps age, the better. There is no "stay-fresh" in the Peep lexicon. This cutesy bucket and stay-fresh scheme will never make it, even in this Atkins world.

These Peep impostors are supposed to be filled with a chocolate "creme."

Now, I couldn’t bring myself to commit sacrilege and eat one of the "Marshmallow Chickies," but Stacey, in the custom of eating l’ortolan, sans her head covering, held the chickie by the orange-colored beak and ate the yellow confection. Then she tossed the beak back in the bucket, just like the French, and as a warning to all the other chickies of the fate awaiting.

Later in the evening, she took a little chickie out of its tub. It was a mistake to grab it by the orange-colored beak; the beak came clean off, revealing the little channel, like a tiny esophagus, where the brown stuff is ingested injected. Just like l’ortolan, there is gunk in the little chickie.

Nothing can replace Peeps! Nothing!!!

Blog It Forward --> 500 Miles 2 Nowhere

I've told you about Keri and her charity run of 500 miles for the American Cancer Society. I figure she'll reach her goal the middle of next week. Our check is going in the mail to her.

Keri's husband told his story of his bout with a brain tumor. I know it doesn't scratch the surface in describing the Hell that he and his family went through. Many aren't as lucky. Many are more so.

This is your opportunity to make yourself feel good without working up a sweat ... and do something about a scourge that strikes every family in one way or another. If you haven't pledged or donated, please do so.

Contracts Stink

KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS that on the 19th day of April, 2004, Bill, hereinafter called the "party of the first part" and the human race, hereinafter called the "party of the second part," for and in consideration of the mutual promises set forth and contained herein and for other valuable consideration, the receipt of which is hereby acknowledged by both parties, hereby covenant and agree, as follows:

1. That the party of the first part will not gag while he is in line at the local Marc's discount store;

2. That the party of the second part shall bathe in fragrant bath waters or shower, washing with soap adequate to cleanse and purify the body of the party of the second part, including, but not limited to any and all orifices, so as to prevent foul vapors from emanating from the body;

3. That the party of the first part will not say to the teenaged girl at the check-out counter so that others can hear, to the embarassment of the party of the second part, "What is that smell;"

4. If not cleansed and purified so as to prevent foul vapors from emanating from the body, the party of the second part shall not stand next to the party of the first part and shall at all times keep the party of the second part's shopping cart between the party of the second part and the party of the first part.

5. The party of the second part hereby authorizes the party of the first part, or his designee or designees, to physically restrain, control and detain the party of the second part by the exercise of necessary restraints when deemed necessary by the party of the first part, for purposes, including, but not limited to escorting the party of the second part from the Marc's discount store, or preventing the party of the second part from jeopardizing the olfactory senses of others, including, but not limited to the party of the first part by any other reasonable action.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, the parties have executed this Agreement as of the date set forth above.

/s/ Bill
Bill

/s/ Smelly Guy
Smelly Guy, by and on behalf
of all Smelly Guys in Human Race

WILL THIS DAY NEVER END?

Four Guys Named Brown

I was stalling before going outside to do yardwork. I came across these four young guys with the last name of Brown. "Four Guys Named Brown." That would be a cool name for a musical group. Or a book.

If I had time, I could make it an interesting book. Maybe someone else will. The author could trace their lives, growing up, Nathan in South Glen Falls, New York, and Larry in Jackson, Mississippi, John from Troy, Alabama, and Henry, from Natchez, Mississippi.

Follow the paths they took. They were all born in 1981 or '82, just like one of my sons, the one who is lucky enough to be starting graduate school. Were their lives so different, three guys from the South, one from up North, two Black, two White. Where did they go to church? What were their interests? Were any of them married?

They have three things in common:

Nathan was killed this past week. Larry, John, and Henry were killed one year ago.

Same as it ever was.

Eyes

Our 30th anniversary is June 8th. This has been a struggle the last few years with brain lesions, depression, drug addiction, and complaints about vicious dogs taking their toll, but last night I looked over at this woman asleep beside me and it occurred to me, while I was studying her peaceful features, that her lips are the same as they looked all those years ago. And she still has that little cleft in her chin, the same as she did when I met her. And her nose, she's got this nice nose, not like me, which when you really study it, you notice a subtle round curve at the end; and I remember teasing her one time that she had a big ball on the end of her nose; and that is still there - not the ball, just this perfect curvature, like something that Da Vinci would draw, subtle and beautiful, yet not noticeable unless you are aware of it. I looked at her eyebrows - she doesn't pull them out or do anything to them. When we were in high school, I asked her why she did that -- plucked them or shaved them, whatever -- telling her she didn't have to; and I don't think she's done anything since. There is the hint of smile lines around her mouth now as she sleeps, which weren't there 30 years ago. They look good on her. I like them.

Her eyes are a mixture of gold and brown and green, but I couldn't see them because her eyes were closed - sleeping peacefully, comfortable in the bed I made for us. I put my hand on her cheek and caressed it softly. And when I opened up her eye to check the color, she woke up and asked me what the fuck I was doing. It was hard to explain at the time last night. I just hope this helps.

Blockbuster

I admit it! I owe 15 bucks to Blockbuster. I'll pay it!! Take down those big yellow and black signs!!

Fucking Tax Time

I should warn you ... it's April 15th. Those who have been reading this blog for a rather brief period of time have not experienced what I call my "blue" period, as in "cuss a blue streak." This post contains a little some a lot of a shitload of profanity, a sort of return-to-my-roots kind of post -- to clear the sinuses, so to speak. It's April 15th. So, you have been warned.

Driving to the Lakewood post office, which is open after hours on April 15th, has been a once-a-year celebration of American tradition -- I finished my Form 4868 much earlier than last year, at 11 a.m., and those who know me probably think I'm lying. I decided to wait until 7:30-ish to make the trip just for the experience of it, you know, renew acquaintances with old friends that I see once a year.

Form 4868 -- Automatic Extension -- I don't know why it took me so long to take advantage of this quarter page form invented by some maniacal genius at the IRS. Instead of agonizing and waiting until the 23rd hour on one day a year, now I can do it on two days a year, April 15 and October 15, which just happens to be my birthday. If I had only known this long ago, before the turn of the century, I could have ruined many more birthday celebrations.

So, my darling wife and I were driving to the Lakewood post office tonight. Some people just don't know the rules. "Newbie," Stacey said. The guy obviously didn't know where the hell he was going. Warren Road is two lanes in each direction -- well, those of us who know the road understand that it is wide enough for two lanes and drive accordingly and those who don't know the road can see that there are cars in two distinct lanes of travel -- and this dumbass is driving in the middle of the fucking northbound lane, obviously out of his element. This is not the day to be driving like Aunt Clara, looking at the green-haired chick holding hands with the black dude with the white fucking mohawk. This is Lakewood, man.

I had no idea that there were people out on April 15th who didn't know the rules for last-minute tax deadline filing.

If you're going to be participating in this annual rite of Spring, you have to know where you're going -- you need to be prepared. You need to know the location of the post office and cannot wait until you're on your way to look for the goddamn address or you risk being a victim of road rage.

If the idiot read the fucking newspaper, he'd know that scientific studies have shown that fully one-half of the last-minute filers have all the symptoms of being temporarily legally insane. Getting in their way could result in serious injury or death. The other half ... well, they're just plain every-day crazy, and the closer it gets to the midnight filing deadline, the crazier they become.

It gets very, very ugly at about 11:40 p.m. I've been in the lobby of the post office, a grown man with a comb-over groping for IRS forms, crawling on hands and knees on the form-littered floor, yelling, "Form SE, Form SE, where the fuck are you?" Just two years ago, a well-dressed woman, dark wool skirt, frosted silvery hair, white silk blouse, torn at the left-shoulder seam, and this, mind you, at just 9:25 in the evening, was in the classic stages of early panic, mascara running down her face crying, racing from car to car in the parking lot, clawing at windows rolling up as she whimpered, "Tax tables, I need tax tables ... someone, please, please, twenty dollars for your tax tables."

This leads to the next rule of thumb. Do not try to turn right into the post office parking lot from the left hand lane of Warren Road when a white VW Beetle with a black "The Who" sticker on the rear bumper has moved into the right hand lane. The mother-fucker thought that putting his fucking turn signal on gave him special papal dispensation to turn into the parking lot. "Fucking Newbie," I muttered. No way in hell that was going to happen. And my fellow asshole behind me, smile on his face, didn't let the mother-fucker in, either.

And don't ever bring a child with you to the post office after 5 o'clock. This fucking clown actually thought that two whining, snot-nosed brats would garner him some sympathy -- what the fuck was this guy thinking, subjecting these innocents to the sheer lunacy of last-minute tax filers. Those poor children, at a later hour, could have been kidnapped and ransomed for a Schedule C, at a minimum. Fucking Newbie.

And here's the thing about this dipshit with the two snivelling kids that he yanked out of the back seat of his car. He was driving a 2005 BMW, one of those BMW 835 i-j-k-l models -- the mother-fucker can afford to drive a fucking BMW -- obviously an east-side son-of-a-bitch, a displaced east-sider at that -- he can afford to buy a goddamned BMW when the exchange rate has just gone down the tubes with this numbskull in the White House and drive it when gas is a buck ninety five a gallon and the fucking asshole can't afford to go to an accountant?

If you drive a BMW, you go to an accountant. Dumbass -- and he wanted me to hold the fucking door for him while he carried his brat daughter out. God, give me strength.

HOLY COW!

bill just posted his cajun spice mix recipe over at the nbl kitchen! i'm not quite sure how i'm feeling about this. a little sad maybe that he shared this exquisite recipe. i don't usually feel proprietary about sharing recipes, but this one's special. we've been mixing this up and packaging as gifts for family and friends for years. the proper name on the labels we make is "wild bill's cajun spice tonic." give credit where credit is due.

NOT ABOUT JOCK STRAPS

the jackal’s in terre haute with mark this week. we let him drive the beetle. that means bill and i are driving around in “the beast” this week.

if ever there was a car that deserved that name, jax’s maroon chevy cavalier is it. i think it’s a 94. it looked pretty decent when we picked it up – until jax forgot it was parked in the driveway when pulling out another car. bam! straight back into the driver’s side. since then he’s torn up the inside – i mean torn up. he’s pulled out the center console and replaced PART of it. he’s pulled out the original speakers and left holes. he’s pulled off the “ceiling” covering after friends wrote little messages of endearment on it. the driver’s window doesn’t close all the way. wait. that’s not exactly right. i think you can work it closed, but it kind of falls down within a minute or two. i think that’s the only way it goes down. it’s a mess. and except for the fact that the acceleration is crappy, and you have to put air in the two front tires every other day, and it looks like shit, the thing runs like a DREAM. i’m not kidding. i don’t care how cold it is outside. starts right up. and smooth. the engine runs smoooooth. don’t misunderstand me. it doesn’t RIDE smooth. the ENGINE runs smooth.

bill TOLD me we’d rent a car for the couple days j was in t.h. but the only cars available were a volvo and a HUGE pick-up truck at the little enterprise rental place we go to, so nooooo, here we are driving the beast. fun. not.

**********************************

this morning when we went to starbucks – in the beast – the barrista (oooh – barrista) asked bill if we’d been watching american idol. bill: “yes. but if i have to watch that red-haired kid croon ONE MORE TIME, i’m gonna stab myself in the eye.”

Jock Straps

A reunion of sorts is being held at the college I attended commemorating the 30th thirtieth anniversary of the demise of the school baseball team in the Small College World Series. Back in the day, there were two divisions in NCAA baseball; so, our 2100-student college played the eventual national champion University of California at Irvine, with its 20,000+ student body. Thinking back on it, those guys had some kind of new-fangled metal baseball bats and looked like they were on steroids, whereas we had some taped-up wooden bats with guys on the team from places called Gomer, Elida, and Wapakoneta, who never saw a building taller than three stories and were surprised that the black guy on the team was dark brown all over, not just where he was supposed to be sun-tanned.

Stacey and I are going to the April 25th dinner and other planned events, having been convinced to do so by my old friend and teammate, DT, and his wife. It is a strange thing, but about half the players on that team were married or getting married that year and all but one are still married to the same woman.

I let my mind saunter back down the memory lane. And what strikes me on that stroll?

The smell of leather and the crack of bat on ball? No, not at all.

Boxer shorts come to mind.

I prefer boxer shorts over the other kinds. This preference is a proximate result of wearing an athletic "supporter" and "protective" cup for 25 years or so. The "protective" cup, made of hard plastic or steel, is advertised to offer some degree of security against foul tips off the hitter’s bat that might happen to smash into the area between a crouched catcher’s legs at ninety miles an hour. That term "protective" in the name is loosely applied because such a ballistic collision with the impact-resistant plastic or steel causes exquisite pain to run on some undiscovered nerve pathway from the area below the belt directly to the throat with a concomitant hollowness being reamed out and lasting anywhere from several hours to days.

The athletic "supporter" or jock strap, as it is known in the popular parlance, doesn't so much support as it does smash body parts together and pushes them back into the abdomen from where they came (I’ve read this sentence several times and I do not see any dangling participle). Add the hardened steel or impact-resistant, unbreakable plastic "protective" cup to the athletic "supporter" and they combine to produce a condition that doctors term claustrophobic genitalia.

After having suffered with this condition for many years, the thought of tight underwear just sends shivers up my spine.

Good morning, Americans! It's Friday!

When Stace and I used to drive to work together -- back in the day, as J-dogg says -- we could not wait until news commentator Paul Harvey made the big announcement at the beginning of his Friday newscast. The weekend just didn't start off right without it.

Now, whether any of this stuff is true, I don't know; but here's some news stories:

Climatologist Dr. Sarah Satch, of the prestigious World Climate Institute in New York, claims that the Statue of Liberty could begin to melt as early as December -- of this year -- due to global warming.

"The first thing to go will be the spikes on her crown, her torch, and the features on her face," Dr. Satch said.

No wonder nobody will be allowed inside the thing once it opens to the public again.

A 9-year-old girl was accused of stealing a rabbit from a neighbor's home. She was arrested, handcuffed and interrogated by a Pasco County, Florida, Sheriff's deputy until she broke down and cried, admitting to the theft of the rabbit, but denying she stole $10.

Don't worry. In Florida, the death penalty is imposed only upon those offenders over 12 years of age.

In 2002, Princess Anne was fined when her bull terrier, Dotty, attacked two boys in Windsor Great Park. Over the Christmas holidays, the canine's blood lust got the best of her and she savaged the Queen's Corgi, Pharos.

Now, the maniacal mutt has been implicated in the deaths of Princess Diana, boyfriend Dodi Fayed and their driver. In 1996, shortly before the royal divorce, Dotty lunged at Diana at a garden party and tried to bite her ankle. Theorists claim that the dog flew to Paris, somehow made it into the car, and went berserk on that fateful drive, causing the fatal wreck.

The Sheriff of Pasco County, Florida, is investigating. Oliver Stone has denied that he acquired the movie rights and has been secretly filming the live action feature.

Pesky French scientists at the National Museum of Natural History in Paris have laid claim to discovery of the earliest example of what was likely a domesticated cat. Found with the curled-up human skeleton in the 9,500-year-old grave on the island of Cyprus was the skeleton of an 8-month-old little kitty, the sex of which could not be determined.

"The burial of a complete cat without any signs of butchering reminds us of human burials and emphasizes the animal as an individual," said the scientists, only they said it in French.

The Sheriff of Pasco County, Florida, is investigating whether the cat can be implicated in the death of the individual. Apparently overlooked is the more important conclusion that this is the first example of neutering the family pet in the history of mankind.

Have a nice weekend.

In Court

The judge gave the guy five days in the can, but reconsidered when I told him that the guy would lose his job. I pointed out that he was trying to turn his life around and losing the job wouldn't help. The judge agreed, but told him he'd be spending 30 days in jail if he didn't work 30 hours a week and prove it by bringing in his pay stubs at the end of June.

Client: Man, he was in a bad mood.

Me: I told you to wear a turtleneck. Your barbed-wire tattoo sent the wrong message.

Client: He was in a bad mood.

Me: No, if he was in a bad mood, you wouldn't be standing here.

Dx: Stuck Truck

There's a sign at the railroad crossing that looks like this:

Of course, that sign should have been of some importance to the driver of a certain big, orange-colored, tractor-trailer moving van.

And I wondered why the driver thought that trying to negotiate the tracks in the middle of the road was going to be any easier than staying in his own lane. There's nothing like inconveniencing all the other drivers on the road instead of just half of them when you make a stupid choice and get stuck, just like in the picture on the sign.

I got to thinking, however, that maybe it wasn't the driver's fault. After all, the car I've been driving has run out of gasoline a couple a few several seven times; and not one time was it my fault. Then the whole picture came into focus. A guy wearing a red baseball hat jumped out of the passenger side of the cab, obviously the navigator. He surveyed the predicament into which he had gotten the driver.

As if he hadn't done enough already, he waved to the driver to back up, apparently hoping that the trailer would become unstuck. It worked. The trailer moved down the incline -- right at the white VW Beetle with a black "The Who" sticker on the rear bumper that I was driving.

The navigator with the red cap signaled me to back up. I noticed the grill of an carcareadontisauran SUV in my rear view mirror, which was a problem. I checked my gas gauge at that point. Why? I don't know. It's what I do. Half tank, in case you're wondering. The SUV grill receded in my mirror a little. I backed up.

The moving van cab backed over the tracks, the navigator directing the driver with his opening and closing left hand and pushing me back with his open right hand. He halted the driver and motioned to me to go around the orange rig. I pointed to the cars that flowed in the opposite direction over the tracks and down the grade.

The navigator quickly stuck his hand out to stop me. Whew! That was a close one!

I pointed to the sign to my right. His eyebrows scrunched down under the baseball cap, and he came toward me. He looked at the sign. He turned to me, smiling, and motioned for me to open my window. He leaned down and said, "He thought we could make it."

Extra! Extra!

And now, Americans, it's time for NEWS!

As promised, I am bringing you news from the grocery store check-out. The line wasn't long; so, I only got a glance at my all-time favorite "news"paper, Weekly World News, and my late grandmother's favorite, National Enquirer.

Inside Martha's Jail Hell Prison officials are apparently preparing a prison cell for Martha Stewart. The stainless steel toilet is standard nowadays, but the painting of Elvis on black velvet is an interesting touch.

I have seen a painting strikingly similar to that somewhere. Oh, yeah! My late mother-in-law had one just like it! I'm thinking that my sister-in-law, the one with the freeze-dried collie that she keeps in a cage at night, now has it hanging in her barber shop next to the seven-foot marlin she snagged that is mounted on the wall. She has this thing about taxidermy, I think.

She's Available! Elizabeth Taylor, 72 years old, is going to get married again, for the 9th time. She doesn't have any candidates, but she is on the prowl.

Is Mickey Rooney still out there? Maybe he's trolling the waters, also. Mr. Rooney, my sister-in-law, the one with the freeze-dried collie that she keeps in a cage at night and who also has an Elvis on velvet painting hanging in her barber shop next to the seven-foot marlin she snagged that is mounted on the wall, is available; and she has this thing about taxidermy, I think. Just so you know.

*WE* THOUGHT THIS WAS HILARIOUS

jax and buddy were working out at buddy's apartment work-out center. they were alone on the machines until an older woman comes in. in typical jackson and buddy fashion, they introduce themselves and begin a nice conversation with woman. she tells them that she's retired from her position as a drug counselor. jax and buddy: "WHAT A COINCIDENCE! WE'RE DRUG ADDICTS!"

she says, "i could tell because you're so friendly!"

moral of the story: recovering drug addicts are the FRIENDLIEST people.

500 Mile Run to Nowhere

I ask order urge you to go over to Keri's website and make a donation, if you haven't done so. She's running 500 miles for the American Cancer Society. She's passing 400 miles as I write this.

I've seen Paypal on sites where the writer asks for donations to pay for server space or whatever. Call her a Crazy Girl, but she is busting her ass for others and deserves your support.

Go.

MY KIND OF FAMILY VALUES

say whatever you want about the osbournes. look down your nose at them and their weirdness. say they’re crass. low class. whatever makes you feel like you’re better than they are. i respectfully disagree.

this is what family is. never give up. keep fighting the good fight.

we had friends tell us to cut jax loose. let him go as far as he wanted and deal with the consequences. even if it meant jail or death. oh well. his choice. whatever.

jax has been sober two years. jack osbourne has been sober one year. i’m rooting for kelly now and sending good thoughts and prayers the osbourne’s way. and virtual hugs to sharon.

TOTALLY UNRELATED: thanks for all your netflix comments. i feel i judged them too quickly, and we're trying again.

All the News

I am going to do an experiment for the next week. I will not read any of the regular news sites I normally visit. I will not watch any type of television news. I will turn off the radio in the car and listen only to The Who Live from Tinley Park, Illinois, and the House of Blues in Chicago. I will not read any daily newspapers. I will not watch any sports channel.

I'll get my news and information only from the magazine and tabloid racks at the grocery store check-out lines, and only from the covers of those publications. I'll update you on the news I read.

Britney Spears Cancels!!

My cell phone rang while I was pumping gas at the BP station (Yes, it did ring. I have it set on the old-fashioned ringer.) I answered it. New client. Traffic problem, as in "I have been accused of trafficking in marijuana."

I noticed a young, blond woman pumping gas into her brontosauran SUV, cell phone to her ear, yacking about the Britney Spears concert being canceled.

So, between the 50-year-old bald guy with a beard and the young, blond woman, who did the teenaged, goateed male attendant yell at over the intercom about endangering the other patrons and getting off the cell phone?