The Grass Is Always Greener

For the last couple of days, Spring has made an appearance in Chicago. Most people would rejoice over this fact, but not me. Spring ushers in another season of cut throat competitiveness in suburbia. The lawn season is upon us and I seem ill prepared for it.

The season actually started last Fall when my next door neighbor was running over his yard with what appeared to be a giant cheese grater. Chunks of dirt were everywhere, making the lawn look like a fast food worker's acne scarred face. Being the nice guy I am, I laughed and asked what the hell he was doing. "I'm aerating the lawn." He had a smirk on his face that I knew meant I was missing a major step in lawn maintenance. He claimed that if you did this in the Fall, your lawn would grow better in the Spring. I thought he had a head full of fertilizer, but I see that his grass is already greener than mine. Bastard!

We have already established that everything in suburbia is a blood sport. The guy I bought my house from took great pride in showing "Wife " how much greener his lawn was than the neighbor's. He claimed it had to do with the sprinkler system. I think it had a lot to do with being anal retentive, but who am I to judge. This morning at the bus stop (where all neighborhood issues are discussed) I was privy to a discussion on fertilizer. It seems that I'm a little behind in treating my lawn for the upcoming Spring growth. When I said that I hadn't done my lawn yet, I was greeted with giggles and a patronizing head shake. I know what these guys were thinking. "Ha! Noonan's lawn is gonna be brown and the target of a Summer of mockery." After the St. Patrick's Day decoration massacre, I'll be damned if I get bested in the lawn care category, so it was off to Home Depot, the homeowners friend/nemesis.

The mind boggles at the amount of effort that goes into creating a lush lawn. The number of fertilizers and types of spreaders had my head swimming. I enlisted the help of a member of the orange apron brigade. I always start these exchanges by stating my ignorance. I figure that way I'll get good information and be assured that I over pay for things I don't need. This guy actually made it very simple and gave me the rules of lawn fertilization. I'd share them with you, but I don't want your grass looking better than mine.

I asked a friend what kind of fertilizer he used. He laughed and said, "a service." I don't know whether to be envious or full of pity. Sure, he can have someone else do the dirty work while he sits on his patio and laughs at their toil. What fun is that? I will best my neighbors and then be able to gloat while basking in the glow of a job well done. See you in the yard. Have a great weekend. Later....Brian

Go F Yourself!

The Associated Press conducted a poll asking people if we live in an age of profanity. What a stupid f*****' poll. Who the f*** doesn't know that people are swearing like a** h**** all the f****** time. What kind of dumb motherf****** have to ask such half a**ed questions? Man this is fun!

The poll found that 74% of respondents said that they encountered profanity in public frequently or occasionally. That really narrows it down doesn't it? I can't believe that 100% haven't encountered profanity. Maybe the other 26% are so busy swearing at people that they can't hear cursing from others. F*** yeah! Over two thirds of the people polled said they used the "F word" at various times. The other third of the population being either dead or in a monastery.

I have to admit that swearing is an integral part of my lexicon. To quote the fine f*****' film "A Christmas Story", I work in profanity like other artists work in oils. I enjoy the challenge of stringing swear words together to create new strains of profanity. It's like jazz. I improvise and genius is revealed. I do make an effort to curtail my cursing in the company of women and children. "Wife" and "Daughter" have had the distinct pleasure of being in the proximity of some of my "solos", but I usually try to do that in the privacy of our home. There have been a few times that I let loose with some colorful language in public. I always think that I'm saying things under my breath, but "Wife" informs me that the world is listening. They should mind their own f*****' business, those busy body pr***s.

I do tend to feel bad after a public outburst which sets me apart from a lot of other folks. We were at an outdoor concert last summer. It was a family event and there were lots of children present. I had put on my shock collar and was on my best behavior. The drunks behind us had left their collars at home and were cursing up a blue streak. I'm not exactly sure what a blue streak is, but they were going at it pretty well. I try not to be a hypocrite, but I felt it was my duty to tell these people to be quiet. I calmly turned and reminded them that there were lots of kids around and maybe they could watch their language. I was very nice about it. The first time. One of the group decided that courtesy was not his forte and kept swearing in a loud voice. "Wife " looked over at me and gave me the nod, which meant that I was now collarless and all bets were off. I uncoiled my substantial frame from my seat and spun on the guy. "I asked you nicely once. If I ask you again, I won't be so nice." My threat worked.

My high school English teacher told us that "profanity is the linguistic crutch of the ignorant." What the f*** did he know? I'm smart enough to use other words, but sometimes you have to talk to people in a language they understand. I'll try to keep my swearing private, but if I can't you can kiss my a**, you piece of s***. Let out a few. It feels good. Later....Brian

Welcome Home

I missed yesterday's post. I could spend the first few sentences making excuses, but you don't care about that. You want results. I feel a little guilty, but we'll all have to get over it and move on. Look, I already have.

I got back to the house late Monday night. By the time I got here, it was about 1:30 am. That's only 11:30 Vegas time which is where my body clock was still set. Now most of us would think "wow, it's late, I better get some shut eye." Most of us aren't me however. I was still in Vegas mode. As Kenny Rodgers once sang in the Gambler, "I was much too tired to sleep." So instead of looking out the window at the darkness, I did a couple loads of laundry and tried to quiet the raging in my mind. Sleep wouldn't come, and as you know, the more you try to sleep, the more awake you are.

I had been told that in her infinite wisdom, "Wife" had scheduled a meeting for us in the city at 9:00 am. Brilliant. As the hands of the clock spun like a meat slicer in the deli, I realized that I would have to stay awake. As soon as I came to that conclusion, boom, I was asleep. I got about an hour nap before "Wife" roused me from my slumber to battle rush hour traffic.

The homefront is disease ridden. "Wife" has a sinus and ear infection. She's hacking up stuff that has the consistency of oat meal and is the color of split pea soup. I know that's gross to read, but try to live it. I feel bad that she's sick, but not so bad that I didn't banish her to the guest bedroom last night. Hey, I don't want to be infected, and my haz-mat suit is at the cleaners. I was expecting a romantic welcome home and all I got was a ticket to the ICU. "Wife" is at home today trying to recuperate. I keep asking her how she feels. Mostly out of genuine concern, but a little because I'm still waiting for my welcome home.

Things should be back on schedule now, and I'll try not to miss another post. I can't guarantee anything, you know how I get. Later...Brian

Leaving Las Vegas

Man, I gotta get out of here. It has been quite a week. Vegas is a great place to visit, but after a few days, it starts to take it's toll. While I didn't drink nearly as much as Nicholas Cage or hook up with a hooker with a heart of gold like Elizabeth Shue, I am a little worse for wear. The shows were only a minor distraction from the action. I like the rhyme.

The shows were a great success. Because I was working, I didn't get to start my fun until midnight. At home I'm all tucked in and snoozing by then, but here in Vegas, good morning. I have been living like a vampire since Wednesday. I would play all night and then let out a blood curdling shriek when I saw the dawn breaking. Then it was back to my cave-like room. Thank God that the geniuses behind this sleepy desert town know about room darkening curtains. I keep the room dark and cold to better aid my daytime hibernation. I looked at myself last night and saw the bags under my eyes. I don't have the rebound abilities I had in my youth.

I gambled some the last few nights. I'll never be in danger of getting one of the free high roller suites that I see being lavished on the "whales" when I watch the Travel Channel. I did put in about four hours at the poker table Saturday night. I get to fulfill my World Series of Poker dreams on the low limit tables. I won some money after some initial bad beats, and got a number of free drinks. As "Wife" likes to say, "winner, winner chicken dinner." There was one very drunk Canadian at the table who I'd like to both thank and punch. Thanks for being so hammered that you donated all your cash to the Brian Noonan binge fund, but now I want to punch you and tell you to shut the hell up. This guy ran his mouth non stop. He tried buying everyone at the table shots until the wise men in the Flamingo Poker Room cut him off.

Well, it's off to the airport and my flight back to reality. While in theory it should take me some time to decompress and get used to the air at home, I'll be thrown right back in. I hope I don't get the bends. Later...Brian

There's The Rub

Man is this late. I almost blew it off, but my dedication to you knows no bounds. "Wife" told me yesterday that some of these recent posts have lacked some zip. Maybe, but you try writing with a hangover on two hours of sleep. While I may be approaching old man status, I'm not Hemingway, even though a rum drink sounds good right about now. I'll try to jazz it up a little today, but I was up again until the wee hours and then did a radio appearance this morning. It was this afternoon that was exciting.

Last April we were in Vegas around my birthday. "Wife", being the thoughtful sort, gave me a certificate for a massage at the hotel where we were staying. Me, being the jackass sort, lost my mind. "Why the hell would I want a massage and what kind of gift is that?" I bellowed. To understand this reaction, you would have to have an advanced degree in abnormal psychology and be willing to sit for long periods of time with a lunatic who detests his birthday. "Wife" is neither, but after an appropriate period of atonement she forgave me. I never used the gift on that visit. I brought it on this trip however, and promised "Wife" that I would use it.

I'm not comfortable with the idea of a massage. Maybe I have the same body issues as a young Karen Carpenter with the difference being that I refuse to starve myself. I don't like to think of a stranger rubbing me for a fee. Well I do, but I don't think that's the kind of massage "Wife" was treating me to. I put myself in the massuese's mind set and picture myself having to oil up my hairy back. Not a pretty picture. My friends told me not to worry, I couldn't possibly be the worst the therapist had ever seen. Wow, thanks, now I feel better. Time to strip down. I had the choice of a man or woman for the massage. I picked a woman. I figured if I was uncomfortable with an oily rubdown anyway, why crank up the weirdness by having some dude in rubber clogs kneading me like his own private bread dough.

It was great. There was no mention of a "happy ending", which I think is a trick at the off strip massageatoriums, but I left happy and that's what matters. Billie didn't seem disgusted at all by my grizzly bear back, and even braided some of it for me. I'm sure she needs some rubbing after pushing my meaty frame around for an hour. Now I'm so relaxed I just want to lie down, but the showroom is calling so it's off to make with the yuks. I hope this was jazzed up enough for "Wife". If not, wait till she reads the one about my next massage. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Good Morning Sunshine

Greetings and salutations good readers. It's 6AM in Las Vegas and your humble author is still not in bed from last night. To say I imbibed a bit would probably be an understatement, so let's leave it at I had a good time. When this started, I never thought that I would be posting in an altered state, but hell, it's Vegas and you have to cut loose once in awhile.

The shows have been good so far. After last night's yuk fest, I was at the bar with two of the other comics. We enjoyed some adult sodas, and discussed important matters. After all the problems of the world had been solved, and half the GNP of Germany had been drunk, it was time for me to learn Craps.

I had always wanted to learn Craps. The Craps table always seems to be the epicenter of fun in a casino. Since I wasn't raised in back alleys, and have no relation to Nathan Detroit, I was ignorant to the ways of the dice. One of the fine gentleman I'm working with offered to teach me the finer points of the game. That's all well and good, but he was drunker than I was. We played at one casino for a little bit. I had a good run of the dice and we were up a little money. I stress little. He then informed me that the table was cold, and we should go next door to Circus Circus. We had been in there for a few minutes, used the restroom and then I found myself following him around while he told me that we needed to find another door. "Where do you want to go?" I asked. "We need to get to Circus Circus." "Dude we're in Circus Circus!" So much for my wise teacher.

The night has given way to morning. We had breakfast, I'm only down a few bucks and now it's time for bed. I hope I can get some sleep. My room is right over the loading dock, and I hear the trucks backing up with their beeping alarms going off. Hopefully I can drift off to sleep with visions of a hard eight and the pass line filling my mind. Good night, good morning, good bye. Later...Brian

Love For Sale

If Sodom and Gamorrah had an illegitimate half sister, it would be Las Vegas. This is a town founded by the mob and built on a foundation of vice. That all sounds pretty good to me, but sometimes even my very open mind is a tad shocked by what it takes in.

Sex is everywhere in this town. You can't look anywhere with out some image of eroticism slapping you square in the mug. I have spent hours hypnotised behind a cab advertising the firm round back ends of the "Crazy Girls". Again, this doesn't really bother me too much. I firmly believe that Vegas is a place for adults. Even though "Daughter" has come here a few times while we were living in LA, I was never really comfortable with it. It's hard to explain to a young girl why dirty, scary illegals are thrusting cards and pamphlets at you while you walk down the street. These flyers are all offering the services of "Hot Babes Right To Your Door." I have a door, but I'm not sure I need a hot babe coming to it. That sounds like an Ok idea at about four in the morning, but in the light of day it's a completely different story. For a town that says prostitution is illegal, it seems pretty out in the open. While there is a moral objection to it all, I just find all the litter from the pamphlets upsetting. These corporate pimps need to send another team of "undocumented workers" to pick up the mess.

The Riv has a few women of negotiable affection that hang out at the bar in the lobby. Befitting the elderly clientele, these are not Julia Roberts in "Pretty Woman" hookers. No , they're more like Doris Roberts from "Everybody Loves Raymond". I bet they even offer an early bird special.

People ask how you can tell if a woman is a hooker. I have this rule of thumb. If a woman is really hot, sitting alone at the bar, and she talks to me first, she's a hooker. That's why I hurry back to my room after the shows. I want to lead a monastic life. I may start gambling tonight. I'm off to explore the city. I just hope I don't turn into a pillar of salt. Later...Brian

Hotel Of The Living Dead

Rumor tells of a mythical elephant graveyard. A place where elder pachyderms go to die. I have found it's human equivalent, right here at the beautiful Riviera hotel and casino. Vegas as a whole is a magnet for the elderly, with it's 24 hour restaurants which make having dinner at 2pm an easy task, and the fact that no one cares if you wear your house dress and slippers at the slot machines.

The Riviera seems like a top destination for the over seventy crowd. While it is a nice hotel with all the services you'd expect from a Vegas property, it's not one of the brand new, high tech resorts that are a little further South on "The Strip." This makes the geezers feel right at home. They don't have to contend with the young wipper snappers and there party mentality. They can wander around at a snails pace and not be run over by marauding groups of euro-trash party boys, or squealing groups of young Asian women in "Hello Kitty" mini-skirts. No, they can set their own pace, and set it they do. I had the misfortune of getting behind a geezer blockade last night on my way to the club. I was trapped in a death gauntlet between the bar on one side and slots on the other. These two wide bodied old ladies were meandering along with frequent pauses to take in a little more oxygen. You could almost see the cloud of dust I left when I was finally able to pass them.

The elderly also seem to really enjoy the penny slots. I don't get this at all. If you don't have any money to gamble, should you even be in Vegas? I can't see the fun of sitting in front of a slot machine anyway. You just stare at a machine that makes horrible noises and you push a button. To quote "Daughter"..."Boring"! I guess they play the penny slots for the free drinks. I'm sure those waitresses make loads of dough off the grannies pumping in upwards of $1.57 into the one button bandits. There must be a good reason for the penny slots. Maybe it's because even if you're losing, you won't end up eating cat food when you get back to the home.

I saw one little old woman on the house phone last night. She was in full Vegas uniform, Grey hair sprayed stiff with Aqua-Net, nylon running suit for comfort, fanny pack and an unfiltered Camel hanging from her lips. She was yelling at someone to "get down here, I hit the jackpot." There was no joy in her voice, only the harsh rasp of an 80 year old smoker. I hope she made good use of her $10.98. Maybe she went across the street to Circus Circus for the $ prime rib dinner.

Nothing exciting for me yet, but it's early. I've got plenty of time for debauchery. I better go get a running suit and fanny pack. Later...Brian

Spring Time In Sin City

I know this is late, but I've been traveling since 5:00 am CST, so back off. Today is the first day of Spring, so what better way to celebrate than heading to fabulous Las Vegas. I'm appearing at the Riviera this week. It's always fun being in Vegas, and even if it sounds cheesy, seeing your name in lights on the Vegas strip is cool. I will make this pledge to you. I will try to leave all Vegas cliches out of this week's posts. If you're looking for a lot of "What happens in Vegas..." claptrap, sorry baby that's not how I swing. I'm sure there will be lots to report on, so be patient.

I don't even want to get into the horrors of air travel. We all know it sucks. Yes, I had to wait in long lines, have my bags and laptop dusted for traces of explosive residue and sit in a chair while some drone wiped my shoe with what looked to be a Tucks medicated pad. The worst part was, the flight was sold out and my petite frame was jammed into a middle seat. The attendant at the desk was actually pretty nice. She tried to see if there was a chance of changing my seat, but everyone showed up. She handed me my pass and said, "bad news." "Bad news for the other people in the row" I wittily retorted. To paraphrase my good friend and comic Mike Schmidt, unsuspecting traveler had no idea what was about to plop down next to him. I wedged into the middle and quickly went to sleep, not allowing unsuspecting window seat guy to get up. I think he was sleeping too, but I didn't really care. I was buckled in, and that's where I was staying.

So I'm here in Vegas and ready for a great week. It is a little boring being in Vegas by yourself. I"m sure I'll find something to do, but remember, what happens....Never mind, I promised. Later...Brian

A Wee Bit Of Blarney

Today is St. Patrick's Day. Being a true Irishman, I'm getting ready to celebrate and I welcome anyone who wants to revel with me. The Irish are a friendly lot, so we don't care who says they're Irish today. I'm going to keep this short. We're off to celebrate my mom's birthday, and the Black and tans are calling my name. I don't think you can get more Irish than being born on St. Patrick's Day.

I'll probably take it easy today. We're going to be with family and the thought of all the kids seeing old uncle Brian heaving green beer and corned beef doesn't make for grand holiday memories. I have mellowed over the years. St. Patrick's Day used to be my New Years Eve back in the day. I was known to put on my custom made leprechaun suit and cut a wide path through many a local tavern. Thank God "Wife" came into the picture, or who knows what would have happened to me. There's nothing more pathetic that an old man in green curly elf shoes lying in the gutter asking young lasses to kiss his Blarney stone.

I'm sure we'll be hearing a lot of Irish music this afternoon. If you listen to any, you'll see why the Irish drink. Most of the songs are very depressing. They're about death, loneliness and loss. It's kind of like country music with bagpipes. The other Irish songs are about rebels fighting and dying for the cause of independence. Who wouldn't want to tip a few after a rousing rendition of "Wild Colonial Boy"?

I'm going to be doing some thinking today about my grandparents. They all came over to this country for a better life. My maternal Grandmother came over when she was 16. I don't think I'll ever have those kind of guts. My paternal Grandfather had to flee his home to escape the British. I come from pretty tough stock and I'll be thinking of them today.

So enjoy the day, enjoy being or pretending to be Irish and remember..."In order for an Irishman to converse with an equal, he has to talk to God." May the road rise to meet you. Later...Brian

The Taxman Cometh

Yesterday afternoon I did what all law abiding Americans must do every Spring. No, not turn in their pick for the NCAA office pool. (I did that too, even though technically I have no office.) No I met with my accountant to do my taxes. Let's forget for a second that I just used the phrase "my accountant", and focus on the larger issue, whatever that turns out to be. I've had the same accountant for almost twenty years, and the fact that I'm not in jail or debtors prison is testament to her abilities. I like having at least one person on the payroll. It adds a little gravitas to my otherwise lightweight world.

I don't think I'm alone in my disdain for doing taxes. We've all looked at our paychecks and seen the government taking their cut. It's like dealing with the mob. You have no choice, you have to pay. Imagine some IRS auditor looking at you and quoting Ray Liotta in "Goodfellas", "F--- you, pay me." If you think I'm exaggerating, ask Willie Nelson. The red headed stranger had to make a special album and all it's proceeds went to pay the IRS.

I'm not one of these no tax kooks either. I know we need taxes to pay for all the services that our benevolent leaders give us, and to enable some ne'er do wells to continue feeding off the government teat. I just hate seeing a big chunks of my cash go to someone else.

I'm glad I used a "Tax Professional". My and "Wife's" return was about two inches thick. "Wife" had suggested that we try one of the new tax software programs to save a little cash. That's a great idea. I can barely add two columns of numbers as it is, I'm sure I can decipher the tax code and take all the right deductions. I bounced my Willie Nelson reference off her and then tried to explain to her that living in a box might not be the route she wanted to take. I've seen her crack under the pressure of delivering Girl Scout cookies, I can't imagine what an audit would do to her.

The taxes are done. At one point my accountant had to go get the "special stapler" to fasten the reams of paper that we had accumulated. I think I paid extra for that, but I don't care. If the IRS is reading this, I was extremely honest. I have to be, I can't write an album that would cover my debts. Later...Brian

The War At Home

I live in the suburbs, on a tree lined street in a nice home. All the houses around us have manicured lawns and look quite lovely. This is all a cover for the evil that lurks beneath the Stepford exterior. This is not the paradise that the image conjures up. No my friends, this is a community that is feeding on itself. We are engaged in a life or death battle with some of our neighbors. It is a silent game of one-upsmanship that threatens to tear at the tenuous bonds that hold society together. What could be causing all this consternation you ask. The only thing that really seems to matter in the suburbs....Holiday decorations.

This Friday is St. Patrick's Day. This used to not be that big a deal outside of the Irish community and AA meetings, which come to think of it are usually one in the same. Now however, St. Patrick's (no, not Paddy's) Day is becoming a season unto itself. I am 100% Irish. I'm a proud American in case INS is reading this, but all of my family emigrated from the emerald isle. We're so Irish that my mom was born on St. Patrick's Day and my parents were married on March 17. I tell you this so you know I'm not some bandwagon jumper who wants you to kiss him because he's Irish only one day a year. Hell, you can plant one on me on Groundhog's Day or Oct 3rd for all I care.

One of our neighbors, who also claims Irish heritage hung a lighted shamrock somewhere around Valentine's Day. I had my decorations ready, but was unwilling to unveil them at such an early date. I had found a very cool (in suburban terms) inflatable leprechaun coming out of a pot of gold. This was going to be the crowning glory of my St. Patrick's display. On the appropriate day, I put up my St. Patrick's Snoopy flag, leprechaun wind sock, lighted shamrocks, (3) and the king of all decor, my inflatable. We had the best house on the block. In reality, we had the best of two, seeing as the rest of the neighborhood has the good sense not to get involved in a second tier holiday battle royale. Everything was golden until I got back from Iowa. To my dismay, my arch nemesis in the world of outdoor illumination had tried to best me. Not only had he gone out and bought an exact replica of my blow up leprechaun, he had also strung green Christmas lights in one of his trees. The Nerve!

Now I am at a crossroads. Do I do the mature thing and let this go, knowing full well that he is down the block rubbing his hands together in a sinister way and claiming victory, or do I do what I normally do and over- react. "Wife" and "Daughter" seem to be with me on this one. We will not be disgraced! "Daughter" recommended stringing green rope lights over all our trees and bushes. I think it would be better to make a huge banner that reads "We're More Irish Than The (name deleted because we still have to live here March 18th.)" Either that or I could slip down under cover of darkness and make a wee incision in their leprechaun. I won't do either of those things, but there's a good chance I may have a few pints and put green lights in TWO of my trees. Drunk decorating. That sounds like a great idea. Later...Brian

Damn Right You're Distracted!

One of the suburbs here in Chicago is trying to pass a distracted drivers law. This would allow police to ticket anyone caught using their cell phone, eating, drinking, tending to pets or other passengers, tuning the radio, or doing anything other than driving. At first glance, this sounds like a fantastic idea. I spend a lot of time in the car and have almost been wiped off the planet by people who's primary focus hasn't been piloting their 3000 pound death machine. I can almost guarantee that the SUV swerving into my lane is being helmed by a soccer mom blathering on to her best girlfriend about her busy schedule. I know you've seen the guys reading, or the ladies putting on makeup or the harried parent trying to jam a pacifier into the yap of a screaming toddler.

I guess that's why I can't be behind this law 100 percent. It would be a little hypocritical of me. I'm guilty of getting distracted once in awhile. I enjoy a beverage when I drive and have been known to look for a CD so that I can warble a tune during a long journey. Hell, I've even talked on the phone. The one thing I think I do a little better than the average motorist though, is pay attention. Yeah I'm talking to you. See, you weren't even paying attention then.

I'm just saying that we need to remember that we're driving. It's really one of the few things that any of us do that could kill us or others if we lose focus. Sure, those two Big Macs and the bottle of Makers Mark might not be helping me any, but if I were to seize up and go, I wouldn't take anyone with me. If you slam into me because you were enjoying a mochachino and gabbing to your pal while trying to insert your Yanni CD, we've all got problems. Most people think they're multi-taskers, but sadly they aren't. Focus people!

So were do I fall on this in the end? After giving it some thought and reading what I've already written, I've gotta say...make it a law. I wish we could police ourselves. If we could all be a little more responsible and considerate, this wouldn't be an issue. We could let nature weed out the stupid on it's own, but unfortunately, the stupid are weeding some of us out too. Drive carefully. Later...Brian

I'm Not Listening!

I'm home! I don't want to bad mouth Des Moines, but I'm glad to be gone. Most of the folks I met were great, but man, there were a few that tainted the whole experience. It's amazing how stupid and rude some people can get when they drink. It's probably not all the fault of the alcohol. I bet they're fairly stupid and rude sober too. Why would I bash alcohol, it's one of my only friends.

I drove home through one of the most spectacular lightening storms I have ever seen. Kiss' light show had nothing on this one. Bolts were cutting across the sky and I saw one lightening strike just to the right of my car. I probably should have been paying more attention to the fact that I was driving in nature's bug zapper, but it was cool.

I'm trying to lay low today. I didn't get a chance to watch the Sopranos last night and everyone is trying to tell me about it. I'm in a self imposed cone of silence. I'm afraid to listen to the radio, for fear that some wacky morning zooster will spill the beans. Two of my friends called to discuss the show. I dropped the phone and ran screaming into the next room with my hands over my ears. I know that's a bit of an over reaction, but I really want to be surprised. "Wife" and I will watch it tonight. That's what married couples do. We watch TV together. That way we're spending precious time with each other, but we don't really have to talk.

It's amazing how little time it takes for me to go from minor league celebrity on the road to regular guy again. Nothing glamorous today. I've got to do laundry, change the sheets and pick up dog doo. It still beats having to hammer on a drunk any day. Later...Brian

Some Random Rantings

There's a lot going through my mind today, so instead of limiting myself, I thought I might hit on a variety of topics. This may or may not become a regular thing. I try not to think that far ahead. Don't try to boss me around.

First off, I went in to KGGO again this morning. I love doing radio, and am very good if I do say so myself. Lou, the Round Guy and Heather had asked me to come in for another round of hilarity, and who am I to refuse such a gracious invitation? After the show I met some new country music group called Bombshell. These two women were gorgeous. I don't know if their music was easy on the ears, but they were definitely easy on the eyes. I asked one of the staff if they were getting such a big response because they were good, or if it was because they were so hot. He just smiled and said "Yeah." Style over substance, my favorite.

I'm getting a little wound up, so let me ask this. When did being a loud, drunk jackass become acceptable public behavior? Last night we had two groups at the club that made Springer audiences look like a Mensa meeting. These mouth breathers were drunk when they came in to the club and by the time my happy ass hit the stage, they were out of control. I know there has been a dumbing down of society in general but these people were dumb to the tenth power. I don't understand why people feel they have the right to get drunk and take out their inadequacies on the rest of us. They can't pay attention long enough to understand a sentence, and then get frustrated and start banging their heads like monkeys. I feel bad putting monkeys in the same class as these neanderthals. I actually think some monkeys could outwit these social mongoloids. There were a number of folks who came up after the show and told me to remember that not everyone here was a "retard". It's too bad that the people who behave the right way feel like the minority. The idiots who posses no ability for self awareness go on behaving like thugs without a second thought and continue leading their empty lives in ignorance.

I'm cooling a little on the MySpace thing. I'm up to 86 friends which is OK, but the site is getting a lot of bad press. It seems to be a haven for sexual predators. There's nothing I can make a joke out of there. I have enough problems with public perception, I don't want to throw my hat into that ring. I'm very careful about who I talk to and I won't pretend to be a 14 year old girl anymore.

The weather is great today in Des Moines. It's near 60 and I'm going out to take in a little well deserved sun. I read that men have a gland in their necks that is affected by sunlight and that's why guys get even hornier in the Spring. I'm going to fill up my gland now. "Wife " may be in trouble when I get home. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

I Did It And I'm Not Ashamed

I just woke up from a nap. You read it right. I'm not going to apologize, cause that's how I roll. I had to get up early again today. I had another radio appearance. It was fun. When I'm home, I'm used to getting up early. I'm up to get "Daughter" ready for school. After she leaves, I'm up for the day, doing whatever it is that I do. My day is filled with projects and errands just like the rest of you, the only difference is that I'm not a toady for the man. On the "road" however my life is a little different.

Other than doing my shows, I don't have a lot of responsibilities when I travel. When you give a guy like me no responsibility, I tend to slack off a little. I love staying up late. I always have. I don"t know if I'm afraid I'm missing something, or just like to live like a vampire. At home I force myself to go to bed early so that I can awake fresh and vibrant. It never works. The best TV is on at night. When I'm out of town, staying up late is easy.

Last night I went out for a couple of beers with the staff. I know I'm in Iowa, because it was dollar draft night. I was back at the hotel by 12:30. All things considered, still pretty early. I could have gone right to bed, but no. I stayed up for another couple of hours watching TV. Then the alarm went off to rouse me for radio. At home I would never think of taking a nap. Too may things are happening and I would feel guilty snoozing while "Wife" was toiling away for the afore mentioned man. Here at the Microtel however, it's a different story. The bed was calling me and I gave into it's siren song.

Remember when you were little and fought so hard against taking a nap? Those of us with kids know that sometimes the hardest thing is getting them to lay down for a little rest. I think we need to embrace the nap. It can be a long two hour sleep or a quick twenty minute power nap. Take some time, treat yourself! Right now! Rise up against your oppressors. Go take a nap, and feel good about it. Don't believe the propaganda, you're not some lay about or slacker. You're simply refilling your tank. Tell your boss you're sleepy and you'll see them in twenty. Of course if you get fired, don't come crying to me. It's your own fault you followed me into battle. What the hell do I know? I'm still groggy from my nap. Later...Brian

What A Morning

Things got jumping fast today. I did an appearance on the Lou and Round Guy Show on KGGO here in Des Moines. I hadn't seen these guys for a while and we had a good time on the air. Round Guy is a former comic who looks like his name would suggest. He and I were working together years ago in Indiana and I had the distinct displeasure of seeing him in his tighty whiteys. Not being a shy fellow, Roundy then spent the rest of the morning lounging in nothing more than his undies, to the complete discomfort of myself and the other comic in the condo. Thank God he kept his pants on this morning.

Even in Iowa, my thoughts are never far from home. I read on line that a guy had managed to wander onto the runway at Midway airport and stroll around for a bit. He was finally corralled after a pilot on an approaching flight and a guy in the tower saw him taking his afternoon constitutional. When they questioned him, the happy wanderer said that he had been drinking and wasn't quite sure how he got onto the runway. That makes two of us.

I was under the impression that security was being tightened at airports. Maybe that's only if you try to come in through the doors. Apparently if you want access, you just have to walk up to the service gate, make truck sounds with your mouth and the minimum wage dropouts we've entrusted with our safety will wave you through. I bet if you put your arms out like wings, they'll load you up with food too.

This is in stark contrast to the law abiding passengers that try to gain access to their flight. Some drunk, mullet wearing hump can walk right onto a runway, but I end up in gynecologist stirrups while some dunder head in a minor's helmet conducts a cavity search on me because I wanted to give myself a manicure on the plane. Our focus seems a little off. I'm sick of taking off my shoes, removing my belt and bending over for these idiots. They don't know what they're looking for any more than I do. Just once, ask why you got picked out for a search. Captain America will look down at the floor, shuffle his feet and say something brilliant like, "I dunno, it's random." I'll sleep better tonight all secure in the knowledge that guys who failed the postal exam are keeping me safe. Later...Brian

So Much To Do, So Little Time

I am running late. I almost blew this off, but I didn't want to disappoint the six or seven loyal readers of these ramblings. Plus, if I miss one, my Cal Ripken like streak would be over, and I'd have to listen to my friend "Mike" give me a hard time. I don't think he understands my busy schedule. Sure he's got a full time job and new born twins at home, but my TiVo is backed up. I'm leaving in a minute for Des Moines. Go ahead and make your own Filed of Dreams reference, I don't have time.

"Daughter" had a hard time with me leaving again. She gets used to having me here, and when I hit a busy patch and go on the road for awhile, she doesn't like it. If I may get all maudlin for a second, nothing breaks your heart faster than seeing your kid sad. There...that's said and now we can get back to the reality of things. We miss each other when I'm gone, but by next Wednesday, she'll be praying for my next trip. I"m sure that's not true, but sometimes I exaggerate for the sake of humor. She seems to get older every time I'm gone and in all seriousness, it makes me a little sad to see her growing up so fast.

On a lighter note. How 'bout all the agents getting gassed on "24" last night? I can't say enough how much I love that show. OK, I'll say it one more time. I love that show. Jack is the man! I jumped out of my seat when he shot that woman in the leg. Then he made it OK by saying he had shot her above the knee so she'd still be able to walk. Jack is nothing if not thoughtful. I misted up a little when Edgar died. Don't mock me, Jack did too. If Jack can have a sensitive side, so can I.

I'm off to Iowa. If you're in the area, I'll be at the Funny Bone in Urbandale through Sunday. Later...Brian

My Governor's Ball

The Academy Awards were last night, so like everyone else in the world, I'll toss in my two cents. Since my take is always better, let's up the amount to three cents. I watched the first part of the show while dining out with "Wife". "Daughter" was at a sleep-over, so we were enjoying a rare night alone.

I think Jon Stewart did a fine job. This is not a great gig for a comedian. The producers hire you because of your sense of humor and unique point of view, and then want you to be as bland as possible. I thought the video clips were pretty funny this year. At least we weren't subjected to Billy Crystal trying to convince us that he's a song and dance man. Stewart seemed to be comfortable for the most part. I think he really shined when he just did jokes off the cuff. You could tell he liked that too. I've seen some criticism of his monologue. Critics are getting on him for making fun of some stars right out of the box. Who cares? It was funny. I think it's great that someone takes the air out of some of these pompous celebrities. He didn't say anything mean. What's wrong with poking fun at the fact that Angelina Jolie is adopting most of the audience, or that Spielberg is going for his third installment of horrible things that happened to the Jews? Lighten up! These are movie stars, not royalty, and come t think of it, mock royalty too.

As for the awards themselves, the only big surprise was that Crash won for best picture, and that Heath Ledger didn't win for his portrayal of a gay cowboy. I saw Crash. It was a great movie, and not just because I could picture myself running my hand up Thandie Newton's leg like a demented Flamingo Kid. I'm glad Brokeback Mountain didn't win, if for no other reason than it was cool to see Paul Haggis and the other producers of Crash be genuinely shocked when their names were called. The other stunner was Three 6 Mafia winning for best original song. How do you think Mickey Rooney and old Jack felt when three crazy rappers took over the stage? I'm sure security was on high alert. If you didn't already know that it was hard out there for a pimp, you ain't been workin' hard enough. Yo!

My man George Clooney won for Best Supporting Actor. Yeah! You've come a long way from your mullet days on Facts Of Life. I call him my man, but in fact I can only dream. George does have some of that Hollywood pomposity to him, but he cuts it with enough humor to make him seem real. I don't have a man crush on him or anything, but he seems like the kind of guy I'd like to hang with, and if he needed some cuddling, well it's not your place to judge. Later...Brian

Damnation For A Ham Sandwich?

I woke up this morning feeling a little better. Thanks for asking. Now please mind your own business. I'm faced with an even bigger problem today. This is the first Friday of Lent. For the non-Catholics in the group, one of the "rules" of Lent is that you can't eat meat on Friday. This is hard for a dyed in the wool carnivore like myself. Every year, I find myself wondering if this is really an important part of my spiritual journey.

This doctrine came about centuries ago and is rumored to have been passed on by a pope that had interests in the fishing business. That doesn't seem hard to believe. People in power are always looking out for their friends and family. I'd do the same thing. Maybe if I become pope, president, or even just a special event at the clubs, I'll toss a bone to my cronies.

I don't see how giving up meat on Friday makes me appreciate Jesus' suffering in the desert. Fish is delicious, shrimp is succulent (you heard me) and even the Old Country Buffet has crab legs. I don't see the sacrifice part. Maybe I'm missing something. Does a PB&J bring me closer to God? If I do eat a Big Mac today, other than it being a poor choice of nutrition, does it really earn me eternal damnation? Doesn't the church have bigger fish to fry (pun intended)? I think a T-Bone on Friday comes way down the list behind priests abusing children, but maybe that's just me.

I believe God has better things to do than monitor my dietary intake. There's war, famine, the whole Nick and Jessica thing. I spent twelve years in Catholic schools, and struggle to make sense of all these crazy rules. Some of them just seem silly and like a way for guys in funny hats to control the masses. Now I feel guilty. That's one of the finest tools the Catholic church has. Maybe I'll console myself with a nice lobster dinner. That's some sacrifice. Have a great weekend! Later...Brian

Back Off, I'm Sick!

I feel awful today. I started feeling sick last night and this morning, despite medicating, I feel worse. I'm taking this opportunity to publicly whine for a minute, since it's the only place I can do it and not have people look at me, roll their eyes and call me a sissy.

I'm not a very good patient when I'm sick. I'm ripped into two distinct personas. The first is the mopey man-baby. I want someone to take care of me, put a cool towel on my head and make me chicken soup. This is the personality I despise. I'm not a fan of whiners, and it makes me feel even weaker than the sickness does. I give into the mopey man-baby side on rare occasions, usually when I'm on the road in a crummy hotel, on a sub par bed, like today. Then I call "Wife", tell her how sick I am, and she placates me with some mock sympathy, telling me to go back to bed. I'm sure she's making the jerking motion with her fist and secretly telling me to suck it up.

The other personality is the wild dog. I read somewhere that dogs can sense when they're dying and they go off by themselves so as not to weaken the pack. That's what I do. As much as mopey man-baby wants attention, dog man needs to be left alone. I'll let you know if I need help, other than that, leave me to my illness, but then I get mad because no one is offering to take care of me.

After reading yesterday's post and the one today, one thing is very clear. I need major psychological help. Probably not, but I do think I'm a little weird. Not in a shoot up a mall kind of way, just in the kind of way that allows me to do what I do. I may be rambling now, the cold medicine is kicking in. I don't know if my lap top qualifies as heavy machinery, but I should stop operating it now. I have to let mopey man-baby and dog man do battle. It's icy in Detroit so maybe I'll just go back to bed. Later....Brian

I Could Be Crazy, I Don't Know

It's Ash Wednesday, so I'm taking time out from prostrating myself and flogging my back with a tree branch to write this. I hope you appreciate my efforts. This is the beginning of forty days of sacrifice to commemorate Jesus' time in the desert. I'll get behind that, but I'll tell you, on Easter, I'm going wild. I've got your chocolate bunny right here.

I'm going on the road again today. I'm heading to the "Motor City" Detroit, Michigan. Hell yeah baby! Motown! Actually I'll be in Clinton Township, but that doesn't have the same ring to it. Imagine if Ted Nugent referred to himself as the Clinton Township Madman. Weak! It should be a fun week. I'm working with a guy I know, so that always makes the days go faster. Maybe I'll run into Kid Rock or Bob Seger. With my luck, I'll end up hanging with one of the Chi-Lites. I just hope that after all my wango tango, I don't get cat scratch fever. Have you noticed that I try to insert lyrics whenever possible. It could be my downfall.

I always go a little nuts before I leave town. I enjoy the work, but in all honesty, I hate leaving home. I would be very happy if I could beam my shows live from my basement. (No, all you hacks, I don't know who books it.) I drive myself nuts trying to get everything in the house done before my departure. I want to think that "Wife" and "Daughter" can't get anything done without me. I know that's not true, but in my warped mind, it's comforting. I also have everything in order in case I don't make it back. It's not like I'm going on a space expedition, or chasing hardened criminals who skipped their bail. I'm just going to Michigan. How dangerous can it be? I have this fear that if something were to happen to me, that people would talk about the chores I hadn't finished before I left. I know, it's crazy. Welcome to my world! I'm sure the issue foremost on "Wife's" mind if I were to meet an untimely end would be that I had left towels in the washing machine.

So I'm off. The water softener is filled, the dog poop is picked up and the laundry is done. The snake pit that is my mind is quieted and it's time to load up. If you're in the Detroit metro area, come out to Chaplin's. It's on Groesbeck Hwy. Damn, I forgot. I've got to go dust off the TV before I leave. Later....Brian